Romances of early America

presented to the
UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
SAN DIEGO

by
Douglas Warren

ROMANCES OF EARLY
AMERICA

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ROMANCES OF
EARLY AMERICA

By Edward Robins

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4nno Domini MCMIl f
/ George W. Jacobs and \
Company. Philadelphia

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ROMANCES OF
EARLY AMERICA

Robins

Anno Domini MCMII

George W. Jacob a and

Company. Philadelphia

COPYRIGHT 1902 BY
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
PUBLISHED JULY, 1902

PREFACE

IT was once said of Americans, in terms of reproach,
that they had no past. But they were only in the
position of the lad who, when twitted about his
youth, answered that he would outgrow the fault, " if
given a little time." America is fast outgrowing this
fault of extreme youth. The country already has a past
of which it may be proud, and one that is full of pictur-
esqueness. The more it is written about the more inter-
esting it seems, and the greater is the wonder that the
New World offers so much pleasant romance to the
reader. The age in which we live may be prosaic, and
marked by the worship of Mammon, yet the public never
showed a livelier appreciation than it does now of the
dead-and-gone heroes and heroines who lived and loved,
lost or won, in the early days of our history. I trust,
therefore, that a place in the bookcase may be found for
these "Romances of Early America." The characters of
whom they treat faded into shadows many years ago,
but the theme of the volume — "the old, old story"— is
ever new, and worth the telling.
In addition to such original researches as I have made, it

PREFACE

has been my welcome duty to consult a variety of books
bearing, either directly or incidentally, upon the subjects
of the "Romances." This literature included Watson's
chatty Annals, Brown's Beneath Old Roof Trees, Glenn's
Colonial Mansions, Mrs. Van Rensselaer's Goede Vrouw
of Mana-ha-ta, the Memorial History of New York,
Mrs. Banning's biography of Miss Vining, a Revolution-
ary Belle, Mrs. Ellet's Women of the American Revolu-
tion, Alger's Life of Edwin Forrest, Elias Nason's Life
of Sir Charles Henry Franhland, Paul Leicester Ford's
The True George Washington, Jenkins's Historical Col-
lections Relating to Gwynedd, the Pennsylvania Magazine,
edited by John W. Jordan, Maud Wilder Goodwin's
Life of Dolly Madison, the American Historical Regis-
ter, and Miss Wharton's Colonial Days and Dames.

In the preparation of the following pages I have passed
many an agreeable hour. I have not written in vain if a
small part of my own enjoyment is shared by the reader.

EDWARD ROBINS.

Philadelphia,
June i, 1902.

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE-MAK-
ING: A STORY OF OLD PHILA-
DELPHIA - ii

II. PEASANT AND PATRICIAN: IN COLO-
NIAL BOSTON - 35

III. WAR AND FLIRTATION : MISS WISTER

AT PENLLYN - 55

IV. A BELLE OF DELAWARE : MISS VINING,

OF WILMINGTON AND DOVER - 85

V. A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE: LEG-

ENDS FROM VIRGINIA - 101

VI. CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID: NEW

YORK AND HER ROYAL GOV-
ERNORS - 119

VII. BORN TO BE A REBEL: A PRETTY

BOSTONIAN . 147

7

CONTENTS

PAGE

VIII. EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE : NEW

ORLEANS IN THE "TWENTIES" - 163

IX. AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY : NORTH

CAROLINA AND LOYALISM - 183

X. THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK : A

PENNSYLVANIA ROMANCE - - 201

XI. WASHINGTON AS A WOOER : SWEET-
HEARTS IN VIRGINIA AND NEW
YORK - - 219

XII. A QUAKER TRANSFORMED : THE LEAD-
ER OF WASHINGTON SOCIETY 239

ILLUSTRATIONS

MRS. BENEDICT ARNOLD (PEGGY SHIPPEN)
AND CHILD, FROM THE PORTRAIT BY SIR
THOMAS LAWRENCE IN THE COLLECTION
OF THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF PENN-
SYLVANIA - Frontispiece

THE FRANKLAND MANSION, BOSTON, RESI-
DENCE OF SIR CHARLES HENRY AND
LADY FRANKLAND, REDRAWN FROM AN
OLD PRINT Facing page 36

SIR CHARLES HENRY FRANKLAND, FROM AN
ETCHING IN THE POSSESSION OF THE
BOSTONIAN SOCIETY Facing page 50

THE FOULKE HOUSE AT PENLLYN, FROM AN
ETCHING BY BLANCHE DILLAYE MADE
FOR "HISTORICAL COLLECTIONS RELA-
TING TO GWYNEDD," BY HOWARD M.
JENKINS Facing page 56

MISS SALLY WISTER, FROM A SILHOUETTE
PORTRAIT IN THE POSSESSION OF MR.
CHARLES J. WISTER OF GERMAN-
TOWN - Facing page 68
9

ILLUSTRAT IONS

GENERAL ANTHONY WAYNE, FROM A PAINT-
ING AFTER THE PORTRAIT BY COLONEL
TRUMBULL, IN THE TRUMBULL GALLERY
AT NEW HAVEN - Facing page 86

THOMAS JEFFERSON AS A YOUNG MAN, FROM
AN OLD ENGRAVING - Facing page 102

THE WHITE HALL, NEW YORK, OFFICIAL RESI-
DENCE OF THE COLONIAL GOVERNORS
OF THE PROVINCE OF NEW YORK, RE-
DRAWN FROM AN OLD PRINT, Facing page 120

A CORNER OF BOSTON IN REVOLUTIONARY
DAYS, FROM AN OLD PRINT - Facing page 148

EDWIN FORREST AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-
ONE, FROM ONE OF THE EARLIEST POR-
TRAITS OF THE ACTOR - - Facing page 164

FLORA MACDONALD IN HIGHLAND DRESS,

FROM AN OLD ENGRAVING - Facing page 184

GRAEME PARK, THE RESIDENCE OF SIR
WILLIAM KEITH, FROM A PAINTING BY
I. L. WILLIAMS IN THE COLLECTION OF
THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF PENNSYL-
VANIA - - - Facing page 202

MISS MARY PHILIPSE (SISTER OF MRS. BEVER-
LCY ROBINSON, OF NEW YORK), FROM
AN OLD ENGRAVING - Facing page 220

MRS. JAMES MADISON (DOLLY PAYNE), FROM
A PAINTING BY GILBERT STUART IN THE
POSSESSION OF RICHARD CUTTS, M. D.,
WASHINGTON Facing pap 240

10

THE MESCHIANZA

AND LOVE-MAKING

THE MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE-MAKING

IT is a bright day of May, in the year of grace 1778,'
and in the year of American independence 2. Yet
no one who is abroad this sunny morning in the
tree-lined streets of Philadelphia sees much sign of an
independence which defies the power of Great Britain,
the former mistress and mother of all the thirteen colo-
nies. For the sober town, once the stronghold of the
drab-coated Quaker, is filled with gayly-dressed English
officers, resplendent in red cloth and gold lace, while
burly privates and lusty sailors, all wearing the uniforms
of His Majesty, King George, strut proudly here and
there, as they hail some passing tradesman or turn an
admiring glance upon a demure maiden who watches
them from the vantage of her father's door-step. Surely
there are no indications in this display of royal power
that America is free to govern herself.

Every one in Philadelphia knows, indeed, that Wash-
ington and his half-starved, half-naked troops have been
having a sorry winter of it twenty miles away at Valley
Forge, while General Sir William Howe and his own
men have enjoyed life safely and comfortably housed

13

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

in the Quaker City. The truth is that Sir William has
enjoyed life so well, and taken military matters so
placidly, that he has not yet conquered America. So his
resignation has been accepted by the disappointed British
government, and he is succeeded in command by Sir
Henry Clinton.

But what mean all the commotion, the glitter of gold
lace, the flashing of swords, the hurrying to and fro of
sailors and the excitement of the people of the city?
What means the bustle that prevails in the staunch brick
houses in the fashionable part of town, where the young
women of the first Tory families are indalging in those
wonderful mysteries of the toilet? Such a lacing of
bodices, mingled with the occasional snap of a stay, and
a cry of feminine despair! What a smoothing of gowns
and an arranging of headdresses, as fond mammas work
like slaves to get Miss Peggy or Miss Lavinia into "gen-
teel" condition, while younger sisters of the beauties
look on enviously. Dinah, the black cook, comes up-
stairs and holds up her ebony hands in mute admiration,
as she surveys the results of a month's millinery devising;
or perhaps dear papa drops in from his counting-room,
feels proud of his daughters, and wonders, poor man,
how much all this finery will cost him.

If we visit the Richard Penn mansion where Sir William
Howe has his headquarters, on the south side of Market
Street below Sixth, we find that tall, florid, good-natured
gentleman arraying himself in the full uniform of a Brit- /.

14

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

ish general. It is proper that he should so array himself,
for he is the cause of all the stir in the streets and of all
the dressing in the houses of the "quality." As a part-
ing compliment, ere he returns to England in the role of
a hero ? his officers are to give him a great entertainment
which is to go down to history as the Meschianza, or
medley. This is why the hearts of the Philadelphia
maidens are in such a flutter.

Several of those hearts may secretly beat true for the
American cause. Perhaps their possessors, if they were
quite logical and consistent, would refuse to take part in
the Meschianza. But one should not ask too much of
human nature, or of that part of it which loves the color
of a military coat, be its wearer friend or enemy. " The
British officers have been so polite, my dear." How
can any Tory's daughter who is less than superhuman
resist the allurements of the coming program, or the en-
treaties of the aforesaid officers ? And then, that dashing
John Andre, who writes such delightful poetry at a mo-
ment's notice, and who paints so divinely, is to be there!
Andre! Whenever his name is mentioned even the patri-
otic Philadelphia girls of Whig families forget, for the
nonce, that a Continental soldier ever existed. They
cannot help themselves, poor things. To them Captain
Andre typifies all the masculine graces. Nor is he the
less interesting because it is whispered that he is in love
with the attractive Miss Peggy Chew. They must be a
trifle envious of their Tory friends who have accepted

15

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

invitations to attend the Meschianza, and who flaunt be-
fore them the cards or tickets which have been sent for
the entertainment. These are impressive pasteboards on
which are engraved cannon, flags, a view of the ocean,
with the setting sun, the legend " Vive, Vale," and a fine
Latin motto: " Luceo discedens aucto splendore resur-
gam." Only a few, yea, a very few, of the fair recipi-
ents comprehend the motto, but all of them vow that it
must be something sublime. Unlike the Whigs, they
have no qualms about taking part in the coming fete.
They only hope that the charming British will never leave
Philadelphia, nor yield the town to the beggarly, bare-
footed Continentals. For let it not be forgotten that
among the good people of the place there are some, more
particularly those who nourish pretensions to aristocracy,
who look upon the Revolution as hopelessly foolish,
criminal, and — far worse — distinctly vulgar. They are
sorry, indeed, that so gentlemanly a Virginian as Mr.
George Washington should have seen fit to take com-
mand of a rabble. How much better would he appear
in a British uniform!

Morning changes into afternoon. The townspeople,
ranging in rank from baker's boy to pompous merchant,
hasten towards Knight's wharf, on the river Delaware, at
the northern end of the town.1 Moored out in the broad
river are all sorts of curious craft, manned by the sailors
from the British men-of-war, who are evidently prepar-

1 Knight's wharf was at the end of Green Street.
16

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

ing to receive distinguished visitors. Some of the more
adventurous of the Philadelphians clamber into row-
boats and push out into the stream, while the rest line
the bank. Bees swarming around a hive could not show
more animation.

It is now four o'clock. The warm May sun, which
has crawled over to the Philadelphia side of the Delaware,
is shining down on the many notables who have boarded
the craft in the river. There is a group of British officers,
laughing as merrily as if they were celebrating some
triumph over the Americans, and here is a bevy of
beauties from the town. The latter look pretty enough
to justify the boast, to be made in later days, that Phila-
delphia women are the loveliest in the world. All the
lacing and powdering and adornment have had a
dazzling effect. There is no thought, for the moment,
of tired, worried Washington. Gaiety reigns supreme.
Englishmen are bending amorously over the witty Jewess,
Rebecca Franks, and over Miss Chew, Miss Jane Craig,
the Misses Bond, and the rest.

There is to be a regatta as a preliminary to the fgte.
The fleet consists of three divisions. In the van is a
galley bearing some of the officers and ladies. Then
comes another galley, carrying on its deck Sir William
Howe, Admiral Lord Howe, Sir Henry Clinton, the new
commander-in-chief, their suites, and more fair women.
Another galley, with no less precious freight, brings up
the rear. Hovering near the galleys are five flat boats

17

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

lined with green cloth, which forms a striking back-
ground to the gorgeous clothes, both gowns and uni-
forms, of the occupants. Six barges make a sort of
cordon around these vessels, to keep off the recruits from
the vulgar herd, who are paddling about in their little row-
boats to catch a glimpse of so much aristocracy. In
front of the whole line are three batteaux filled with
musicians who play the airs of old England. All the
boats of the fleet are decorated with bunting, as are like-
wise the ships which are anchored in the river along the
whole water-front of the town. At the end of High and
other streets, all along the river, the wharves are crowded
with spectators, some of whom look on sympathetically,
whilst others mutter smothered curses at the sight of
so many red-coats fraternizing with the daughters of
Americans.

It is half-past four o'clock, or a little later. The gal-
leys, the barges, and the other boats move slowly down
the river to the accompaniment of the music. When
opposite High Street (now Market Street) wharf the many
oarsmen rest. The musicians play "God Save the
King," and the men on the ships at anchor burst forth
into three cheers. It is a brilliant spectacle. Who in
all this crowd surmises that in after years this same old
tune of " God Save the King " will be played in the town
to the words of "America!" Then, when "God Save
the King" is finished, the fleet moves down the river
until it reaches the Old Fort fronting the Wharton estate,

18

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

near what will, in later times, be called Washington
Avenue wharf. No thought of Washington now unless
it be as of one who may some day be hung as a traitor to
His Most Gracious Majesty, George III.

Here a landing is made, amid much laughter on the
part of the ladies, who are afraid of wetting their daintily
slippered feet; but gallant assistance from the officers
prevents such a catastrophe. H. M. S. Roebuck fires
a salute of seventeen guns; after the roar has died away
there comes a greeting from the cannon of another war-
ship. The party of merrymakers, now safe on land,
advance bravely up to a magnificent lawn through an
avenue formed by towering grenadiers and light-horse-
men. Before them march the musicians and the
"managers" of the Meschianza, the latter wearing
proudly upon their coats badges of white and blue
ribbons. The guests find the lawn edged with troops.
For the ladies are rows of benches from which they can
watch the tournament that is about to be given in their
honor. The Knights of the Blended Rose, representing the
cause of seven belles, are about to wage war to the death
with the Knights of the Burning Mountain, who will as-
sert the superior beauty and accomplishments of seven
other maidens. The ladies thus honored sit in the front
benches, wearing (let us hope becomingly) Turkish
costumes, capped by turbans in which the favors of their
respective champions are pinned conspicuously.

There is a wild blare of trumpets in the distance. The

19

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

next instant the Knights of the Blended Rose, headed by
the debonair Lord Cathcart (who has for his protegee
Miss Auchmuty, an English girl), come prancing into the
lists mounted on gray horses gorgeously caparisoned.
The cavaliers are attended by a band of squires, heralds
and trumpeters, and are dressed in wonderful garments
of red and white silk. One squire holds Lord Cathcart's
lance; another carries his shield; two negroes, grinning
beatifically in habits of white and blue, with silver
clasps upon their shining black necks and arms, hold the
champion's stirrups. It is a scene worthy of a mediaeval
romance. Can it be equaled by any London pageant ?

There is much reining-in of the gray horses, and
round after round of applause from the spectators.
Then, after more blare of trumpets, a herald steps for-
ward into the arena and throws down the gage of battle.
Three times does he cry that the ladies championed by
the Knights of the Blended Rose are fairer, wittier, and
more accomplished than the ladies of any other knights.
There is a pause. The young women in the Turkish
costumes try to look graceful; the others flirt their fans
to and fro and await developments.

Now there is a fresh flourish of trumpets, as the
Knights of the Burning Mountain, dressed in black and
orange, come riding into the lists. Their herald defies
the challengers, throws down the gauntlet, and loudly
sets forth the superiority of the ladies who are under the
protection of his masters. Captain Watson, the chieftain

20

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

of these brave knights, has for his lady Miss Rebecca
Franks. He flaunts upon his shield a heart; his motto,
worthy of some Cceur de Leon, is "Love and Glory."
The spectators hold their breath. They almost fancy
that the gentlemen of the Blended Rose and the gentle-
men of the Burning Mountain are about to fight one an-
other to the death. What a delightful tragedy !

Suddenly there is the crash of battle. Look! The two
bands of knights rush madly at each other. Such a clat-
tering of hoofs, neighing of horses, and clashing of
shields and lances! Such a tilting, and jousting, and par-
rying; such an apparent fierceness on the part of the
combatants, yet such a skilful avoidance of real danger!
It resembles some theatrical spectacle where the contend-
ing armies do their work with careful zest. The ladies,
particularly the pretty Turks, are enchanted. They seem
to be back in the times of the Chevalier Bayard. Quaker
Philadelphia has vanished.

There are four savage encounters, ending with much
shedding — not of blood, but rather of helmets, and rib-
bons, and ornaments. Then comes the piece de resist-
ance. Captain Watson and Lord Cathcart, spurring on
their horses, rush at each other unattended. There is a
collision ! The ladies clasp their hands in excitement.
Are the two chiefs wounded? Awful thought! No.
They have each drawn back, after the first shock, and
are at it again with their golden lances. At last, when

they look weary and dusty, the marshal of the field

21

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

rushes between them. "Hold! " he cries. "The ladies of
the Blended Rose and the ladies of the Burning Mountain
are well pleased with the proofs of valor and loyalty
which their respective knights have given so nobly, and
now, fully satisfied therewith, they command their
knights to desist from further combat! "

So the brave knights, thus passionately adjured, stop
the fight, bow low to the audience, and ride out of the
lists. The tournament is over; but the fete has hardly
begun. The dancing, the innocent love-making, the
vows of officers who protest all sorts of nonsense, and
the half-pleased, half-angry remonstrances of their part-
ners, are yet to come.

It is evening. The company are assembled in the ball-
room of a building on the Wharton property. " How
beautiful! " exclaim the women, as they are ushered in;
" what taste Captain Andre has, forsooth!" They speak
truly. The Captain is a clever painter and designer.
The room has been decorated in pale blue, paneled with
gold, with festoons of flowers; a dazzling array of
mirrors reflect the loveliness of Philadelphia in the light
of myriads of wax candles. The music begins. The
Knights of the Blended Rose and the Knights of the
Burning Mountain tread a minuet with their protegees.
Then the dancing becomes general. At ten o'clock the
windows are suddenly thrown open. A great bouquet
of rockets is lighting up the darkness, and the sparks, de-
scending like so many fireflies, fall into the placid ripples

22

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

of the Delaware. ' ' The Chinese fireworks have begun ! "
cry the guests. There is a sudden rush to see the dis-
play, with many expressions of admiration which cease
not until the last rocket has sputtered out its brief, golden
life.

The supper follows the display of fireworks. In a
large room, elaborately decorated for the occasion with
mirrors and candelabra, are tables laden with every-
thing that the Philadelphia markets can supply; not to
mention the wine which the well-fed British hosts have
brought from abroad for solace and consolation. What a
clatter of knives and forks now ensues; what popping of
corks and laughter; what tender looks are cast upon the
fair ones! How amiable and florid grow the officers, as
some of them predict, in their over-confident, British way,
that "this beastly war will soon be over," or that "the
wretched, ragged rebels will shortly be humbled."

Towards the end of the meal there is a stir. " Make
way! Make way ! " cry several voices. At this the her-
ald and trumpeters of the Blended Rose enter the room
and proclaim the "health of His Most Gracious Majesty,
King George, and of the members of the Royal Family."
At once chairs are pushed back, the merrymakers rise to
their feet, and many a glass is drained in honor of that
very obstinate gentleman who is trying to crush out
American independence.

What ? Can it be that Miss is raising her glass,

and drinking to the royal toast ? Yes ; there can be no

23

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

mistake. But let us not be uncharitable enough to ex-
pose the pretty traitor. In a short time, when the Conti-
nental army is once more in possession of Philadelphia,
she will be only too anxious to forget that she responded
to such a bumper. After the toast to Royalty come the
healths of the ladies. Then the party, radiant with pleas-
ure, return to the ballroom, where Sir William Howe,
looking as jolly as if he were going back to England as a
triumphant Caesar or a conquering Hannibal, is not above
joining heavily in the dancing. During an interval in the
figures the band plays "Britons, Strike Home!" Had
the general a keen imagination, which he has not, he
might construe the words, " Britons, Go Home! "

Who is the pretty young girl who tearfully leans out of
her window on this eventful evening, as she sees the fire-
works from afar, and rails at the unkind fate which has
prevented her from going to the Meschianza ? It is Miss
Peggy Shippen, a daughter of Edward Shippen, one of the
best known citizens of Philadelphia. Near her are her two
sisters, Miss Sarah and Miss Molly. They, too, are full
of woe. Miss Peggy, who is the leading belle of the
town, although hardly eighteen years old, was to have
had a champion at the tilting, who expected to bear the
device of a bay leaf, with "Unchangeable" for his
motto. She cannot see the irony of that motto, as ap-
plied to herself. She cannot look into the future, to find
that she will marry a man who is to prove anything but
"unchangeable" to his country. Nor can she look into

24

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

her horoscope to detect therein the form of Benedict
Arnold. Now, however, the young lady and her sisters
are not troubling themselves about the future; they are
only thinking of the present, with the dancing at the
Wharton place, the flirtations, the drinking of toasts, and
the merrymaking. All three were to have been there,
but at the last minute their cruel papa forbade them to
attend. Was there ever such an outrage in all the prov-
inces ? The Misses Shippen feel that for them there is no
more pleasure in life, as they picture the good times that
Becky Franks, Peggy Chew, Nancy White, Becky Bond
and all their friends are having, with the red-coated offi-
cers bending over them and plying them with the com-
pliments so grateful to the feminine soul! The very
thought of it is maddening! l

Mr. Shippen cannot be accused of being partial to the
Revolutionary cause, but he has decided, at the last mo-
ment, that his daughters must stay at home. Several of
his friends, prominent Quakers, have visited him on the
very day of the fete, and have convinced him that it
would not be "seemly" for his daughters to appear in
the "highly indelicate " Turkish dresses designed for the
occasion. Perhaps papa has inspected the costumes, but,

1 Although the names of the Misses Shippen often appear in the list of
guests at the Meschianza, it has been proved that the young ladies were
not present. The tradition in the Shippen family shows that their father
was the culprit who put an end, as narrated above, to all their brilliant
anticipations.

25

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

be that as it may, he has issued his horrible command.
No Meschianza for Peggy, or Sally, or Molly! How they
storm at those meddlesome Quakers. How beautiful
look the Turkish dresses that they must not wear — more
beautiful now than before, like so much forbidden fruit.
Well, well! This is what comes of having neighbors
who do not attend strictly to their own affairs.

But to return to the entertainment. There is a lady in
the ballroom to whom Captain Watson is paying assidu-
ous court. She has dark eyes and hair, with a frank,
almost audacious expression, and a mouth that denotes,
by a downward curve, a keen sense of humor. She is
Rebecca Franks, one of the daughters of David Franks,
a Jewish merchant. She has a merry wit, which she
never hesitates to use against friends or enemies. In
spite of her almost masculine mind she is by no means
impervious to British flattery, and she is an avowed Loy-
alist, or upholder of King George. After the British have
left Philadelphia a characteristic story will be related about
Miss Franks. Colonel Jack Steward, an American officer,
calls upon her, dressed in a suit of red. " I have adopted
your colors, my princess," he says, with a bow, "the
better to secure a courteous reception. Deign to smile on
a true knight." Rebecca flushes angrily at the speech,
which politely implies that only an English uniform can
win her heart. But she is quick to retort: " How the ass
glories in the lion's skin! "

We may be sure that Miss Franks is saying something

26

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

brilliant to Captain Watson. Near the two is a handsome
fellow of aristocratic bearing and fine physique, with a
face in which resolution and a certain artistic feeling are
attractively blended. The British officers are, for the
most part, obstinate and unsympathetic of face, without
much indication of brain. They are men who do not
seem able to get beyond the standard of a horse-race or a
wine-drinking bout. But here is an officer whose eyes
beam forth feeling, taste, even genius. You put him
down at once, although you do not know him, as a
graceful dilettante who has an eye for the fine arts, and
knows something more than the average narrow-minded
soldier. You are correct in this estimate of character.
The gentleman is Captain John Andre. He has a pretty
talent for drawing, he can pen dainty verses to the eye-
brows of Philadelphia maidens, and he understands how
to act in amateur theatricals with the ease, although
hardly with the power, of a David Garrick or a Spranger
Barry. Has he not, also, painted scenery for the theatre
on Cedar (South) Street, where he and his brother of-
ficers have acted for the edification of their feminine
adorers ? Furthermore, he is a brave man who will not
hesitate at any sacrifice for his country. No wonder
that Andr6 is a beau chevalier, or that nearly all the girls
in the Quaker City, patriots and loyalists alike, have had
their heads turned by his grace, his brilliancy of conver-
sation, and his half-courtly, half-easy manners.
This hero, who has had so much to do with making

27

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

the Meschianza a success, is looking into the high-bred,
winsome face of Miss Peggy Chew. All Philadelphia
has heard of Miss Chew, the daughter of Chief Justice
Benjamin Chew, of "Cliveden," in Germantown. She
has been one of the most admired young women at this
evening's entertainment, and many a companion has
envied her, in having for her knight in the tournament
none other than Andre himself. "No Rival" was his
motto, a most fitting and appropriate one. Nay, more
than that, is it not whispered, with bated breath, that
she is engaged to marry this British officer ? He has had
an unfortunate love affair over in England, where a cer-
tain lady has not smiled on his suit, but he seems to have
recovered from this heart-wound, and is gazing at Miss
Peggy as if America, not the mother country, claimed
his knightly allegiance. One thing, say the gossips, is
quite certain. The captain has written some beautiful
verses after having seen her charming face framed by a
spray of apple blossoms. The poetry is every whit as
pretty, they add, as the lines he dedicated to one of the
Misses Redman, another local belle, which began:

" Return, enraptured hours,

When Delia's heart was mine :

When she with wreaths of flowers

My temples would entwine."

"How romantic," sigh the gossips, who wish that
some Andr6 would write verses in their honor.
Thus passes the Meschianza, as night gives place to

28

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

early morning. In the ballroom the dancing and the
music continue; on the lawn, in front of the Wharton
house, several couples, weary of the heat and noise
within, are walking under the dim light of Chinese
lanterns, enjoying the light breeze from the Delaware,
and whispering all sorts of pretty nonsense. Among
the strollers are Andre and Miss Chew. Out on the
river the signal lights of the war-ships shine steadily. It
is just the setting for a performance of Romeo and Juliet,
with Andre, who can act so well, as Montague. No one
could ask for a fairer background for the play.

Morning has come. The sun is struggling up from the
Jersey horizon, and will soon be shimmering down upon
the Delaware. The Meschianza is a thing of the past: it
has gone into history, and will give the feminine par-
ticipants something to talk about until they are become
grandmothers, and even great-grandmothers. The
Misses Chew, Miss Auchmuty, the sharp tongued Miss
Franks, the Misses Redman, the Misses Bond and all the
other beauties are sleeping the sleep of worn-out dancers;
while many of the gentlemen of the King's Army are
toasting them at the coffee-house. These officers, see-
ing that the time for sleep is passing short, have resolved,
with due heroism, to keep up the festivities until duty
calls them to barracks or parade-ground. The grounds
of the Wharton place look as if they had been struck by a
whirlwind. The lanterns, the triumphal arches, the
decorations, seem forlorn, lonely, even ghastly.

29

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Let us move on, more than two years after the British
have evacuated Philadelphia, until we reach Tappan,
New York, on an October day in 1780. In an open field
is a baggage-wagon, surrounded by a guard of Conti-
nental troops. Around the guard stand other soldiers,
with sad faces and moistened eyes. The wagon is drawn
up directly under a tree-branch from which hangs an
ominous looking rope. From the midst of the soldiers a
handsome young man appears, and jumping nimbly upon
the wagon, he snatches one end of the rope from the
hands of the hangman, opens his shirt-collar, and adjusts
the noose about his neck. After all is ready for the
gruesome ceremony, the victim lifts the bandage from
his eyes. "Gentlemen," he says, in a clear, calm voice,
addressing the half-weeping officers who are near the
wagon, "I request that you will bear witness to the
world that I died like a brave man! " A minute or two
later he is beyond the reach of any earthly tribunal.
"It will be but a momentary pang!" are his last
words.

The dead body which is cut down from the tree is that
of the unfortunate John Andre. Although he has de-
served his death as a spy, because of his plotting with
Benedict Arnold under the shadow of an American
stronghold, yet the very enemies whom he has sought
to betray are grieved that so plucky a soldier must die
by the gibbet. Yonder, over at the house occupied
by General Washington, the blinds have been pulled

30

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

down. The General is as sorry as any one else, but he
has no right to grant a reprieve.

Poor Peggy Chew! There are tragic moments — tears
and cries — awaiting you when you learn the fate of
Andre! Treasure up his verses, and recall all that he has
said to you, for nothing but a memory is left of your old
romance.

Nearly seven years more elapse. The worthy people
of Germantown ask themselves if Miss Peggy intends to
become an old maid. At last she solves the riddle by
marrying General Howard, the hero of the Cowpens — as
staunch a patriot as ever faced cannon. The wedding
takes place at the Chews' city mansion in Third Street,
Philadelphia. General Washington is there, dignified
and stately, and makes no reference, naturally enough,
to the dead Andre. In after years Mistress Howard will
often speak to her husband of the many virtues and
fascinations of her old admirer. It will not be very tact-
ful on the lady's part, although such vanity is pardonable,
under the circumstances. Out in Germantown it will be
asserted, that there was an actual engagement of
marriage between Miss Chew and Andr6.

But General Howard will have no patience for this sort

of reminiscence. "He was only a spy!" he

will cry, brusquely; "nothing but a spy!" Can

we blame the husband ? Old-time flames are not
always agreeable to hear of, unless we have basked in their
warming light. To Howard Andr6 was a mere criminal.

31

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

What becomes of Miss Peggy Shippen, who was
so cruelly prevented from attending the Meschianza ?
Let us change the scene to London, in Westminster
Abbey, towards the close of the eighteenth century. An
American is viewing the monuments in this wonderful
old church. Among them is the new cenotaph erected,
by command of King George, to the memory of Andre.
As the visitor reads the inscription on it an elderly man,
and a woman of under forty, approach the cenotaph.
The man has a soured, disappointed expression on his
coarse features, although he betrays the air of an
aggressive, quarrelsome fellow who perpetually carries a
chip upon his shoulder. The woman has been beautiful
once upon a time — one glance at her face shows that —
but now she is old before she should be, wan, tired,
apathetic. She looks like one who expects no more
gifts from Fortune; she is resigned to a life of dreariness.
The American starts as he recognizes the pair, and then
turns away in a sort of horror. For the man with the
soured expression is none other than Benedict Arnold.
The lady is his wife, the once fascinating Peggy Shippen
of Philadelphia. Arnold has been inconstant, and a
traitor, but she, at least, has justified the motto of " Un-
changeable " which her knight was to have worn for her
in the pageant on the banks of the Delaware. She has
never faltered in her devotion to her husband. What a
change from those happy Philadelphia daysl There is
no pleasure for her, poor woman, in recalling them,

32

MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING

for their contrast with the present only brings sadness.
Does she ever picture the fateful hour when Washington,
more sorrowful than angry, saw her in her room at
West Point, after the discovery of her husband's treason ?
She cannot forget how, in her madness of despair, she
raved and accused the commander-in-chief of being in a
plot to murder her infant child. No; she forgets
nothing; but, whatever be her memories, she will be
faithful to a faithless soldier until the end.

There is another and more cheerful scene in England
which serves as one of the sequels to the Meschianza.
It is at Bath, that little world of fashion, in the year 1810
or thereabouts. At the table of a luxuriously furnished
dining-room sit a gray-haired military-looking gentle-
man, a young man (an American), and a stout, elderly
lady with fine black eyes and an air of almost youthful
animation. The lady, who is evidently the hostess,
seems to be a person of wealth and consequence. Looks
do not belie her, for she is the gifted and prosperous
wife of Sir Henry Johnson, a distinguished officer of the
British Army, who is sitting opposite to her at the table.
She is asking her visitor, the American, all manner of
lively questions about people in Philadelphia. "How
are the Chews?" "And the Willings?" "Is old Mr.
Pemberton still alive ? " " And what has become of Mrs.
Bache, the daughter of Dr. Franklin ? " There is some-
thing familiar about the flash of those eyes, and the al-
most sarcastic smile that hovers around the mouth. The

33

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

figure is plumper than of yore, but — yes, there can
be no doubt of it. Lady Johnson is our old friend,
Rebecca Franks, grown matronly, and very English. She
will always have a tender feeling for America, however,
and will take pleasure, during the War of 1812, in the
victories of her former countrymen. "I am sorry I was
a Tory during the Revolution," she will say. Yet she is
very proud of a son who has a commission in the British
Army, and who is destined to be killed at the battle of
Waterloo.

Thus marry and grow old most of the maidens who
have graced the Meschianza. Some, like Mistress Ar-
nold, find life dull tragedy; others turn it into comedy,
and keep on smiling until Death tries the latch-string of
the door. All vestige of the fete has long since vanished.
Upon the ground where stood the Wharton mansion, in
the vicinity of Fifth Street and Washington Avenue, the
city has relentlessly encroached. The once spacious
lawn is traversed by built-up thoroughfares. All the
beauty which reigned there that night has vanished as a
dream, and the Meschianza is but a memory of the past.

34

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

e STanfclanD /Mansion,

,noi*flfiA OnRJrtrtRi*

:;: ;;; ;•; ::
'.'-'- '-;\ §- .•"

I!
PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

TO the average reader it may seem incompre-
hensible that there should have been anything
of romance or pleasure, of the Old World
type, in the domestic history of colonial Boston. We are
too prone to look upon this Boston of earlier days as a
place filled with stern Puritans who had no passions or
human feeling. The town, so we think, must have been
as stiff as a newly starched ruff. There all the lights
were extinguished at a certain time; there the people
walked in one narrow path; there even love-making was
conducted on severe, forbidding principles. Yet if we
glance into the by-ways rather than into the highways of
Boston life we find more than one bit of history which
tells us that human nature had her sway even in that
stronghold of Puritanism, and that there, as well as in
more southern latitudes, the coming of spring sometimes
made a "young man's fancy" lightly turn to thoughts of
love. Let us take, for example, the novel-like yet true
story of Sir Charles Henry Frankland, Baronet, and Agnes
Surriage, the humble but lovely maid-of-all-work in a

Massachusetts inn. There is in the mere truthful

37

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

details of their devotion, with its crowning episode of
matrimony, enough material for twenty works of fiction.

When Charles Henry Frankland, a young man of
twenty-four or twenty-five, a lineal descendant of the
redoubtable Oliver Cromwell, (and later to inherit a
baronetcy) came over from England in 1741, to accept
the lucrative position of Collector of the Port of Boston,
he became at once a shining light in the aristocratic circle
composed of such families as the Hutchinsons, Apthorps,
and Bollans, who represented the influence of the Eng-
lish government in the Colony of Massachusetts Bay.
These patricians, who kept quite apart, as a rule, from
the hardy settlers who gave such a democratic tinge to
the budding life and prosperity of New England, sought
their inspiration from the fashionable air of London
rather than from the stern, frugal manners of the com-
mon people of the colony. With this official world, as a
biographer of Frankland has so well pointed out,1 the
chief question of the day was: " How is such and such
a thing done at Court ?" They preserved the dress and
customs of their relatives beyond the sea, affected a
knowledge of literature, by reading the Spectator and the
works of Jonathan Swift, and drove about in their hand-
some imported coaches, while the ancestors of certain
citizens of the town who now rank as aristocrats glanced
out upon them deferentially from neighboring shops.

It may be imagined how warmly Frankland was wel-

1 Elias Nason.
38

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

corned by this high-born coterie. Rich, good-looking,
debonair, with a taste for the arts and amenities of life,
and with manners as elegant as those of the famous Lord
Chesterfield, he quickly won his way into their hearts.
Fathers were glad to claim intimacy with him; fond
mammas rejoiced that he was a bachelor; daughters re-
garded him with a pretty display of maidenly bashful-
ness. The latter declared that his face was entrancingly
pensive, even melancholy, and that he was positively de-
lightful when he arrayed himself in a golden-laced coat,
flowered vest, ruffled sleeves and silken breeches, with a
three-cornered hat, powdered wig, and a sword to set
off the full effect of the costume. Their brothers, who
longed to be men about town, like the dandies who
paraded through the "Mall" in London, vowed that
Frankland could drink his wine as briskly as any subject
in the Kingdom, and yet never feel the least harm from
his potations. Little did they know that he used for a
drinking-cup a vessel so thickly lined inside that he only
consumed half as much Madeira or Canary as any one of
his boon companions.

In fine, the new Collector of the Port of Boston was
regarded as a veritable Prince Charming, and many were
the heart-burnings which he caused. Would he eventu-
ally return to England a confirmed bachelor, or would he
wed some fair maiden who rode proudly through the
crooked lanes of Boston ? That was the question which
nearly all the members of the official set constantly asked

39

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

of themselves. Meanwhile Frankland was living in
princely style. He would, in time, purchase an elaborate
brick mansion at what afterwards became the corner of
Garden Court and Prince Street (the very house which
James Fenimore Cooper has used for a description in one
of his novels) besides laying out for himself a costly
plantation at Hopkinton. That brick mansion, which has
long since gone the way of other historic dwellings,
would be considered handsome even in these latter days
of lavish architecture. It afforded generous entertain-
ment to a long list of distinguished guests whose names
are now forgotten.

At last the gay bachelor was to meet his fate, albeit in
a very lowly guise. He was called, one day, upon an
official visit to the town of Marblehead, and here put up,
no doubt in much pomp and state, at the village inn.
While sitting in the public room he noticed, only in a
vague way, as befitted so great a personage, that a girl,
scarcely more than a child, was engaged in the not over-
lofty occupation of scrubbing the floor. There was
nothing in the sight worthy of a second thought. But in
a moment the girl lifted her head, and what a change!
We can readily fancy Frankland giving vent to some old-
fashioned exclamation like "Zounds!" or "Oddsbod-
kins!" To look at that face was to forget all else.
Wavy black hair, great dark eyes, pretty features, a
superb complexion, and a sweet, refined expression!
These were not the customary charms of a scrub-girl.

40

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

The future baronet gasped in astonishment. Finally he
called the child to him, and she came, neither boldly nor
at all embarrassed. He saw that she was about sixteen
years old, but slight and delicately built. He spoke to
her, and she answered in a melodious, flute-like voice
that reminded him of the song of a bird. The Collector
grew more and more interested. When he addressed
some remark to her in a tone of badinage he found her
quite as witty as she was beautiful. Yet she was only
the daughter of two humble folk of Marblehead; her
dress was worn and scanty and she wore neither shoes
nor stockings.

" Here's a crown for a pair of shoes," he said at last,
handing her a coin. The girl, whose name was Agnes
Surriage, took it as any other scrubbing-wench might
have done, but with courteous thanks, and went away.
Frankland was soon back in Boston, where, we may be
sure, he told his friends of the wonderful creature he had
seen at the Marblehead inn. Then he straightway pro-
ceeded to forget her.

Later on Frankland chanced to make another visit to
Marblehead. There, in the inn once more, was Agnes
Surriage, still scrubbing away, and still as lovely as ever.
But she was barefooted as before.

" Have you not bought shoes with the crown I gave
you ? " asked the Collector.

"I have indeed, sir," replied the girl simply, "but I

keep the shoes to wear to meeting, may it please you."

41

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Never, thought Frankland, had a reply been made with
such charming grace. He was captivated, then and there,
by the girl. He vowed that one who possessed such a
face and bearing should never more waste her sweetness
on the desert air of Marblehead. So he sought her par-
ents, and obtained from them permission to send her to
Boston to be educated.

Agnes, nothing loath, was soon domiciled with a
family in Boston. There she received the best training
that the town could afford. As the aforesaid training in-
cluded, in addition to the " Three R's," such abstruse and
varied sciences as music, grammar, dancing and embroid-
ery, we may infer that the intellectual preeminence of
the city had already begun. Under the influence of
such an array of learning the girl blossomed into radiant
womanhood, with graces that would have done credit to
a duchess, and a half-dark, half-rosy beauty of which few
duchesses could boast. People marveled at the distinc-
tion of one who had been brought up to scrub the floors
of an inn. Perhaps, after all, there flowed blue blood in
the veins of Agnes Surriage. Could we take a genealog-
ical microscope, and examine far back into the family
tree of the Surriages, we might find some wicked Plan-
tagenet, a stray marquis, or a gay duke, concealed in the
trunk.

There was one person who watched the development
of this flower from Marblehead first with interest, then
with wonder, and at last, with deepest love. The proud

42

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

scion of one of the noblest families in the north of Eng-
land one day woke up to find that he had lost his heart
to the ex-servant. He quite forgot her former badge of
servitude when he looked into her great eyes, or watched
the piquant play of her features, or listened to the tones
of her thrush-like voice. He only knew that he loved
her as he had never loved any of the great belles of his
acquaintance. Then he told her so, quite as humbly as
if he had been paying court to a sovereign.

How felt Agnes Surriage ? She returned that love with
all the devotion of her ardent nature. She no longer
looked upon Charles Henry Frankland as a benefactor;
she now regarded him as her lover. And as her future
husband ? Who shall answer that question ? For a time
her romance suggests

" The old, old story — fair and young,
And fond — and not too wise, —
That matrons tell with sharpened tongue."

When Agnes went to church of a Sunday in King's
Chapel, looking a picture of loveliness in a gown lately
brought over from London, the ladies of the fashionable
set cast upon her curious glances, wherein scorn and
grudging admiration had equal combination. She, re-
gardless of the attention she was attracting, listened
patiently to the sermon of the English divine, or else
prayed earnestly. And, sinner though she might be, her
prayers were more heartfelt, perhaps, and more heeded,
than those of the virtuous ladies who could scarce stifle

43

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

their yawns until service should be over. Then, when
church was out, what a staring at Miss Surriage as she
passed out into the street!

Thus life went on as the two lovers read together
Steele, and Richardson, Swift, Addison and Pope, or
cultivated flowers, and enjoyed the music in which they
both were so proficient. At last we find that Sir Charles
Henry Frankland has resigned his position as Collector of
the Port of Boston, and returned to England. Through
the death of an uncle he has now become a baronet.
Next he is living in Lisbon, Portugal, which, notwith-
standing its churches and its fondness for ecclesiastical
pomp, is one of the most corrupt cities on the face of the
globe. There, too, is the constant Agnes. She is glad
to get away from England, where she was coldly re-
ceived.

It is the first day of November, 1755 — a date long to
be remembered in the annals of all that is horrible in his-
tory. But there is nothing ominous in the sun which is
shining this morning over the hills of the city, gilding
the spires, and domes and housetops, and touching softly
the sails of the boats on the lazy waters of the river
Tagus. The streets are filled with crowds of people on
their way to mass. For it is All Saints' Day, one of
the most elaborate festivals, as kept by the Portuguese,
in the calendar of the Roman Catholic Church. Already
the bells have ceased to ring; the hurrying worshipers

are kneeling in their respective temples; the priests are

44

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

reciting the Latin of the mass. Suddenly an awful sound
is heard. It is not exactly a roar, but a sickening, crack-
ing sound. People rush screaming out of the churches
only to find that the sun is darkened and that buildings
are tumbling down in every direction. The earth is
quaking, as if at any moment the whole city might be
swallowed up in her bowels; men are flying here, there,
anywhere, their faces blanched, their minds distraught,
crazed; and the streets are soon filled with the dead or
the dying who have been crushed beneath falling walls.
For twenty minutes the earth continues to tremble, as
"the waters of the Tagus roll into the sea, leaving ves-
sels on the naked ground, and then come foaming, rush-
ing back," and sweep a crowd of frantic people on the
new marble quay to swift destruction. The loss of life
and property is terrific. So violent are the shocks of
earthquake on that fatal Saturday that the splendid palace
of the King, the Custom House, India House, new opera
houses, as many as thirty churches, and almost all the
stores and dwelling-houses, are in ruins, and nearly thirty
thousand people are crushed and killed beneath them.
"As if to add to the horror of this dreadful scene the
prisoners are let loose, and then incendiary fires spring
up on every hand." Fortunately for the King of Portu-
gal and his court, they are at Belem, just without the city,
at the time when the catastrophe occurs.

On this very morning Frankland has driven out in com-
pany with a gay lady residing in the city. The two are

45

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

decked in their best, for they are on their way to the
Cathedral. As they bowl along they chat merrily ; life is
bright; the future seems secure. At the moment that
the terrific earthquake begins, about half-past ten o'clock,
the baronet is passing the house of one Francesco de
Ribeiro. Suddenly he feels as if he is the victim of a
hideous nightmare: the earth is heaving under him like
the waves of old ocean; walls begin to tremble and fall,
and people to shriek out in agony. Another minute, and
the house of Ribeiro has enveloped him, his driving com-
panion, the horses and the carriage in its ruins. The
lady, in her awful pain and fear, bites through the sleeve
of his broadcloth coat and tears a piece out of his arm.
The horses are soon dead; their almost human groans
are stifled forever. There lie the two occupants of the
carriage, who were so full of merriment but a second be-
fore. Will help never come? Frankland, lying there
prostrate, bleeding, prays to the Almighty for mercy, as
his sins, of which there are not a few, come crowding into
his memory like so many evil, haunting spirits. He
" makes a solemn vow to God, that if He will show him
pity, to lead henceforth a better life, and especially to
atone for wrongs done to Agnes Surriage." It is one of
those soul-stirring moments vouchsafed to few men who
live to tell the story.

And where is the faithful Agnes Surriage, whose honor
the stricken baronet has sworn to redeem in the eyes of
the world ? She, too, is in Lisbon, whither she has gone

46

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

out of love for the man who rescued her from the life of
a scrubbing wench in a mean New England inn. When
the city is convulsed by this upheaval her one thought is
for Frankland. Regardless of danger, oblivious of her
own safety, she runs through the ghastly streets, strewn
with dead or dying, and comes by sheer good fortune,
(or is it love that leads the way ?) in front of the fallen
house of Francesco de Ribeiro. Here she recognizes the
hoarse voice of her lover calling for help. Here, too, she
hears the fainter voice of his companion. Some Portu-
guese workmen, uninjured by the havoc around them,
are lingering in the neighborhood, with true Southern
aimlessness. "Save Sir Charles Frankland," Agnes cries
loudly in anguish, in a voice which for once has lost its
customary sweetness, " and a great reward in gold shall
be yours!"

The men, spurred on by the hope of reward, strain
every nerve to rescue the two from the debris. Agnes,
fearful, yet as calm as in the days when she first saw her
lover at Marblehead across the sea, encourages them by
word and gesture until, after an hour's work, they bring
forth the baronet and the lady. The two are alive, and not
seriously hurt, though covered with the stones and dusty
mortar of Ribeiro's stricken house. Never has Agnes,
pale though she is, looked handsomer than at this instant.
An artist might well paint the look which she fastens
upon Frankland, as the bleeding aristocrat is dragged into
the light of day. There is a look no less full of meaning on

47

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

his face also. For, in spite of all things, their love for each
other is as great as in the old days in Boston. When he
is taken away, that he may have his wounds dressed,
Frankland does not forget the vow he has made less
than two hours before.

A few days later he writes in his diary — a diary, be it
noted, that is still in existence — " I hope my providen-
tial escape will have a lasting good effect upon my
mind. We should endeavor to pacify the Divine
wrath by sorrow for past neglects, and a future
conscientious discharge of our duty to God and our
country." And, with that laudable ambition in view,
Sir Charles Henry is married to Agnes Surriage by a priest
of the Roman church. Then he embarks with his bride
for England, and to make the marriage bonds more bind-
ing if possible, he has the ceremony performed on board
ship by a clergyman of the Church of England. When he
arrives in his own country the members of his family and
the noble circle in which they move salute the new Lady
Frankland as the embodiment of all the graces. She
comes now as a wife, and they forget the past. The
Franklands, the Pelhams, the Pitts, the Walpoles and the
rest rave over the beauty and the accomplishments, the
sweet disposition and the wonderful voice of the ex-
domestic. If they do not condemn her spelling (which
was somewhat shaky until the last day of her life) it is
because even the greatest men of the eighteenth century
were not adepts in the genteel art of putting the right

48

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

letter in the right place. Spelling was, more or less, a mat-
ter of taste rather than of rule. As for Agnes — well, she
is now Lady Frankland, and happier than she ever was
before. One of the prayers which she was wont to offer
in the King's chapel, far away in Boston, has been
answered.

After another trip to Lisbon the Franklands find them-
selves once more in Boston. Agnes is no longer looked
upon with contemptuous eyes; the very women who
once treated her so scornfully now rush to pay her
their homage. But she, taking the world as it comes, goes
on being as attractive as of old without pride or ostenta-
tion, and proves quite as friendly to her humble relatives,
the Surriages, as she is to her guests in velvet and silken
attire. When her brother, Isaac Surriage, a plain sea-
man, stops in at the Franklands' magnificent residence in
Bell Alley, he is always sure of a hearty welcome. Per-
haps it is because he has the tact to time his visits so that
he will not annoy any of the official set. We may be
sure, however, that the dandies and fine ladies of Boston
are quite ready to stamp as "charming" any kinsman of
Lady Frankland. What might once have been accounted
want of breeding in Isaac Surriage is now nothing more
than the most delightful eccentricity. Thus can we
color our opinions of men and things to suit our mood,
or our interest.

The years roll on prosperously. The happy couple
pay another visit to Portugal; then they come back to

49

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Boston, and at last (1764) they settle in Bath, England.
Here Sir Charles Henry, who now considers himself old
and sedate, tries to bring back declining health by a
plentiful consumption of the celebrated waters of the
great spa. ' ' I endeavor to keep myself calm and sedate, "
reads an entry in his diary at this time. "I live modestly
and avoid ostentation, decently and not above my con-
dition, and do not entertain a number of parasites who
forget favors the moment they depart from my
table."

Nowadays a man who has not passed the fifty-year
post on time's turnpike usually considers himself to be
comparatively young; but in the eighteenth century men
lived harder, and abused their digestions more than they
do now, so that they often became prematurely old.
English prigs of twenty, who frequented Drury Lane
Theatre to ogle the occupants of the boxes, or to shout
out " Egad, I call this a bad play," were more blase than
the average modern Englishman of three times that age.
Frankland is hardly an example of such precocity. But
he had enjoyed life, not forgetting the good things of the
table, and was now receiving earthly punishment there-
for in the shape of the gout, that melancholy visitor who
always causes us to view the world through dull, blue
glasses. The gout conquered him in due time, for he
died early in the year 1768. Agnes, who had loved and
faithfully tended him so long as life lasted, buried him in
a village near Bath and placed upon his tombstone a

50

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

quaint inscription. Then she quietly went back to her
old home in New England, there to live in much mag-
nificence at Hopkinton, the country estate of the deceased
baronet. It was a home fit for the finest lady in England.
Upon the outbreak of the Revolution, in 1775, the
friends of American liberty began to look upon Lady
Frankland with suspicion. Though not an aristocrat by
birth, she was at least one by marriage; her friends were,
for the most part, staunch Tories, and her sympathies, no
doubt, were running in the same direction. It is certain
that she fast became unpopular, and that she determined
to seek a refuge in England, with the family of her dead
husband. So she applied to the Committee of Safety,
while she was still residing at Hopkinton, for permission
to enter Boston, now held by the British troops, that she
might sail from there for her future home. The request
was granted, with leave to pass into the beleaguered town
with six trunks, three beds, one "small keg of pickled
tongues," two pigs (why, oh why, should a heroine of
romance travel with two pigs?) a quantity of boxes,
and other " necessaries." But on her way from Hopkin-
ton her carriage was stopped by armed militiamen, and
she was held in custody as a suspicious character, dan-
gerous to the American cause! Her beauty, much of
which she still retained, was no avail against the stern
mandate of these patriots. The influence of Lady Frank-
land in the country of her birth had departed. Mars,
not Cupid, was now king. The Continental Congress,

51

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

however, more gallant and less suspicious than the mili-
tiamen, overruled the action of the latter, and sent the
lady into Boston, almost in triumph, under the protection
of a guard of six soldiers, in company with the six
trunks (no doubt crammed with London finery), the
three beds, the pickled tongues, the prosaic pigs, and the
other "necessaries." At once the British officers, among
them John Burgoyne, who was to prove to the world
that a successful playwright may make an incompetent
general, paid their court to the newcomer. In spite of
her fifty odd years, thought these gentlemen, Lady
Frankland was as fascinating as many an English woman
but half her age. Here was one fair American, at least,
whom they could admire and treat without that boorish-
ness which sometimes accompanied their manners, or
the want thereof, on this side of the water.

In the course of this pleasurable experience occurred
the battle of Bunker Hill, which first showed to the as-
tonished Britons that Americans were not a rabble of
cowards. Lady Frankland watched the engagement
from the roof of her old house in Bell Alley, and, when
all was over, assisted in caring for the wounded sol-
diers who were brought into the town. Surely that kind
heart of hers must have bled, even though she made no
sign, for her own countrymen who had fought so
stoutly against the well-trained British regulars. Soon
after the battle she took ship for England. She was

never more to see the New World.

63

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN

It might have been supposed that the widow would
put an appropriate close to the romance of her life by
dying with the name of Charles Henry Frankland upon
her lips. Perhaps she did, for she had loved him with a
love seldom seen outside of the old-fashioned three-
volume novel. But my Lady so far forgot the proprie-
ties and rules laid down by authors of fiction as to wed,
when she was on the verge of sixty, a certain wealthy
English banker, one John Drew. Her second season of
married life was short, however, for her death occurred
the following year (1783). But Lady Frankland's de-
voted love will never be forgotten. So long as Ameri-
cans take interest in pictures of the past — and let us hope
that such interest will only increase as the years roll on
— the memory of Agnes Surriage, Lady Frankland, will
endure. She will ever make a very human figure
against the prim background of New England colonial
life.

The manorial house at Hopkinton was destroyed by
fire many years ago, but as long as it stood, a mute il-
lustration of the story of the Franklands, visitors were
shown a certain room which was regarded in the neigh-
borhood with a particular reverence. Here, says the
legend, Sir Charles Henry shut himself up on more than
one All Saints' Day, the anniversary of the Lisbon earth-
quake, to spend the long hours behind closed shutters, in
prayer and penitential fasting. Then he returned to his
wife. To him she always continued as young as she

53

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

was on the morning when he first saw her scrubbing
floors in the Marblehead inn. A right noble gentleman
was Sir Charles Henry Frankland. We may forgive him
his sins for the good that was in the man.

WAR AND FLIRTATION

18 sauo* sdliio*

Ill

WAR AND FLIRTATION

IF the historian desires to get a graphic idea of the
lives of our ancestors, and would find out that
those worthies were quite like other human beings
who dwell in a more modern atmosphere, let him dip
into the diaries which some of them have left behind as
attractive relics of the past. It is from such unambitious
memorials that we obtain many a social fact, many a
picturesque incident, which we would look for in vain
in the pages of a Bancroft. It is the very unpretentious-
ness of these yellow-leaved records that charms us.

Nothing of this kind is better in its way than the diary
of Sally Wister, a Quaker maiden of Philadelphia, wherein
the Revolutionary characters she introduces seem to be
breathing, sentient creatures, and wherein, too, we have
a glimmer of romance which nowadays would be de-
scribed as flirtation. Miss Wister, who was the eldest
daughter of Daniel Wister, was a vivacious girl of six-
teen, sparkling with health and spirits, at the time that
this diary was begun. She had just moved with her fam-
ily from Philadelphia to Penllyn, Montgomery County,
when it became evident, after the battle of the Brandy-

57

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

wine, that the British would occupy the Quaker City.
At this interesting period Miss Sally resided on the
Foulke estate, a portion of which still remains on one
side of the North Pennsylvania Railroad, near Penllyn
station. The whole neighborhood is filled with memories
of the Revolution. If we wander along the old Morris
Road, or loiter on the banks of the upper Wissahickon
with Miss Sally's diary in hand, we almost expect to see
the writer herself appear until we hear the rumbling of a
train or the screech of a locomotive, when we realize that
we are living in the twentieth century.

Miss Wister was at a very naive, impressionable age,
and her heart was thrilled by the excitement into which
the whole country surrounding Philadelphia was thrown
by the manreuvring of British and American troops.
What better way to ease her feelings, therefore, than to
keep a journal ? Miss Sally had a dear friend, Deborah
Norris (afterwards the wife of Dr. George Logan, of
Stenton), and, as it was impossible for her to send a
letter to Miss Deborah, then in Philadelphia, Sally re-
solved to record the passing events of each day on paper,
with the hope that some time later her friend might derive
pleasure from their perusal. Under date of September
26, 1777, she writes:

"About twelve o'clock Cousin Jesse [Foulke] heard
that General Howe's army had moved down towards
Philadelphia. Then, my dear, our hopes and fears were
engaged for thee. However, my advice is, summon all

68

WAR AND FLIRTATION

thy resolution, call Fortitude to thy aid, don't suffer thy
spirits to sink, my dear; there's nothing like courage;
'tis what I stand in need of myself, but unfortunately
have little of it in my composition. I was standing in
the kitchen about twelve, when somebody came to me
in a hurry screaming, ' Sally, Sally, here are the light
horse!' This was by far the greatest fright I had en-
dured; fear tack'd wings to my feet; 1 was at the house
in a moment; at the porch I stopped, and it really was
the light horse. I ran immediately to the western door,
where the family were assembled, anxiously waiting for
the event. They rode up to the door and halted, and
enquired if we had horses to sell; but were answered
negatively. ' Have not you sir,' to my father, ' two black
horses?' 'Yes, but have no mind to dispose of them.'
My terror had by this time nearly subsided. The officer
and men behaved perfectly civil; the first drank two
glasses of wine, rode away, bidding his men to follow,
which, after adieus in number, they did."

Almost as Miss Sally was writing these lines the
British were taking possession of Philadelphia. From
now onward the Foulke mansion became a stopping-
place for American officers, many of whom were only
too glad to chat with the pretty chronicler and to admire
her coy ways and attractive little impertinences. The
young lady herself had a keen eye for the good points of
the soldiers. As she sits down in the evening, to make
an entry in the all important journal, we fancy that she

59

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

blushes over the thought of some compliment or tender
word of which she has been the object during the day.
When General Smallwood and the officers of his staff
took up quarters in the house there was great excitement,
and not a little fluttering of the heart, on the part both of
Miss Sally and her cousin, Lydia Foulke. To be under
the same roof with so many interesting men, some of
them eligible bachelors, was " prodigious good fun!"

"The General," wrote Sally, '• is tall, portly, well
made: a truly martial air, the behavior and manner of a
gentleman, a good understanding and great humanity of
disposition, constitute the character of Smallwood.
Colonel Wood, [subsequently Governor of Virginia] from
what we hear of him, and what we see is one of the
most amiable of men. . . . Colonel Line is not
married, so let me not be too warm in his praise, lest thee
suspect. He is monstrous tall and brown, but has a cer-
tain something in his face and conversation very agree-
able; he entertains the highest notions of honor, is
sensible and humane, and a brave officer. He is only
seven-and-twenty years old, but, by a long indisposition
and constant fatigue, looks vastly older, and almost worn
to a skeleton, but very lively and talkative. Captain
Furnival — 1 need not say more of him than that he has,
excepting one or two, the handsomest face I ever saw, a
very fine person ; fine light hair, and a great deal of it,
adds to the beauty of his face. Well, here comes the
glory, the Major, — [Major Stoddert, of Maryland, after-

60

WAR AND FLIRTATION

wards Secretary of the Navy] so bashful, so famous, etc. ;
he should come before the Captain, but never mind. I
at first thought the Major cross and proud, but I was
mistaken; he is about nineteen, nephew to the Gen-
eral. . . . Captain Finley is wretched ugly, but he
went away last night, so I shall not particularize
him. . . . Colonels Wood and Line and [Dr.] Gould
dined with us. I was dressed in my chintz, and looked
smarter than night before."

A true feminine touch, Miss Sally, is in that last
sentence. We can fancy you sitting up very straight at
the dinner-table, as you pretend to serene unconscious-
ness of the admiring glances that are being showered
upon you in that chintz dress.

It is not long before Major Stoddert recovers from his
bashfulness, and is getting on famously with the demure
young woman. It is plain, too, that she thinks him a
sort of paragon. "I must tell thee," she confides to
Miss Deborah Norris, under a date in October, "to-day
arrived Colonel Guest [probably Mordecai Gist], and
Major Leatherberry, the former a smart widower; the
latter a lawyer, a sensible young fellow, and will never
swing for want of tongue. Dr. Diggs came second day ;
a mighty disagreeable man. We were obliged to ask
him to tea. He must needs pop himself between the
Major and me, for which I did not thank him. After I
had drank tea, I jumped from the table, and seated my-
self at the fire. The Major followed my example, drew

61

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

his chair close to mine and entertained me very agree-
ably. Oh, Debby, I have a thousand things to tell thee.
I shall give thee so droll an account of my adventures
that thee will smile. ' No occasion of that, Sally,' me-
thinks I hear thee say, 'for thee tells me every trifle.'
But, child, thee is mistaken, for I have not told thee half
the civil things that are said of us sweet creatures at
' General Smallwood's quarters.' " l

Truly some of the girls of a century and a quarter ago
were not a whit more sanctimonious than the girls of
to-day. Again Miss Sally writes: " The Major and I had
a little chat to ourselves this eve. No harm, I assure
thee; he and I are friends. This eve came a parson be-
longing to the army. He is (how shall I describe him ?)
near seven foot high, thin, and meagre, not a single per-
sonal charm, and very few mental ones. He fell vio-
lently in love with Liddy [Foulke] at first sight; the first
discovered conquest that has been made since the arrival
of the General. . . . When will Sally's admirers ap-
pear? Ah! that indeed. Why, Sally has not charms
sufficient to pierce the heart of a soldier. But still I
won't despair. Who knows what mischief 1 yet may
do?

"A most charming day. I walked to the door and re-
ceived the salutation of the morn from Stoddert and

1 The reader who would know something of the neighborhood in which
Miss Sally lived at this time should consult the researches of Mr. Howard
M. Jenkins.

63

WAR AND FLIRTATION

other officers. As often as I go to the door, so often
have I seen the Major. We chat passingly, as 'A fine
day, Miss Sally.' 'Yes, very fine, Major.'

"Another very charming conversation with the young
Marylander. He seems possessed of very amiable man-
ners, sensible and agreeable. He has by his unexcep-
tional deportment engaged my esteem."

It begins to look, Miss Sally, as if the Major's bashful-
ness has disappeared entirely, and as if your "esteem,"
as you quaintly call it, meant something more than is
implied by that highly decorous word. But to continue
the diary :

"The General, Colonels Wood, Guest, Crawford and
Line, Majors Stoddert [Miss Sally always spells it Stodard,
by-the-way] and Leatherberry dined with us to-day.
After dinner, Liddy, Betsey [Wister], and thy smart
journalizer, put on their bonnets to take a walk. We
left the house. I naturally looked back; when, behold,
the two majors seemed debating whether to follow us or
not. Liddy said, 'We shall have their attendance,' but I
did not think so. They opened the gate and came fast
after us. They overtook us about ten poles from home,
and begged leave to attend us. No fear of a refusal.
They enquired if we were going to neighbor Ro-
berts's? . . . We altered the plan of our ramble,
left the road, and walked near two miles thro' the woods.
Mr. Leatherberry, observing my locket, repeated the
lines :

63

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

«• • On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
That Jews might kiss and infidels adore.'

"I replied my trinket bore no resemblance to a cross.
'Tis something better, madame.' Tis nonsense tore-
peat all that was said; my memory is not so obliging;
but it is sufficient that nothing happened during our
little excursion but what was very agreeable, and entirely
consistent with the strictest rules of politeness and de-
corum. I was vexed a little at tearing my muslin petti-
coat. I had on my white dress, quite as nice as a first-
day in town. We returned home safe. Smallwood,
Wood and Stoddert drank tea with us, and spent the
greater part of the evening. I declare this gentleman [no
need to interpose that Miss Sally means Stoddert] is very,
very entertaining, so good-natured, so good-humored, —
yes, so sensible; I wonder he is not married. Are there
no ladies formed to his taste ? "

Fie! Miss Sally! Do you not know of at least one lady
who is formed to the Major's taste ?

Well, all this game of flirtation is interrupted by the de-
parture of Smallwood and his staff from Penllyn early in
November. "The Major looks dull," plaintively chron-
icles Miss Sally, in announcing that the officers are about
to leave. Perhaps the Major is only a very good actor,
and thinks it more polite to go about with the air of a
distraught hero in bombastic tragedy. When he bids
the girl farewell he is much affected; he lowers his pleas-
ant voice almost to a whisper as he says: "Good-bye,

64

WAR AND FLIRTATION

Miss Sally." As for the latter, her heart is full. "Fare-
well, ladies, till I see you again ! " cries the Major, mount-
ing his horse and cantering off towards the Morris Road.
"Amiable Major!" "Clever fellow!" remark the Wis-
ters and Foulkes who watch regretfully the retreating
figure of the officer. " I wonder if we shall ever see him
again, "sighs Miss Sally, who feels rather dreary, poor thing.
When, several weeks after the Major has joined the
forces of Washington at White Marsh, there arrive at the
Foulke house two Virginia officers, Miss Sally is in no
mood to appreciate them. How can Lieutenants Lee
and Warring be compared with Major Stoddert ? " Lee,"
she records, "is not remarkable one way or the other;
Warring an insignificant piece enough. Lee sings pret-
tily, and talks a great deal ;— how good turkey hash and
fried hominy are (a pretty discourse to entertain the
ladies); extols Virginia, and execrates Maryland, which,
by-the-way, I provoked them to; for though I admire
both Virginia and Maryland, I laughed at the former, and
praised the latter, and I ridiculed their manner of speak-
ing. I took a great delight in teasing them. I believe I
did it sometimes ill-naturedly; but I don't care. They
were not, I am certain almost, first-rate gentlemen.
(How different from those other officers.) But they are
gone to Virginia, where they may sing, dance, and eat
fried hominy and turkey hash all day long, if they choose.
Nothing scarcely lowers a man, in my opinion, more
than talking of eating."

65

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

It is on the sixth of December that Major Stoddert re-
turns to Penllyn in a highly romantic and therefore, to
Miss Sally, a very interesting state. He has had a severe
fever, brought on by the fatigue of camp life and expo-
sure to the night air, and he can scarcely walk. How pale
he looks, yet how charming will it be for a certain
maiden to help him back to health!

The next day the Major announces that he is " quite
recovered." "Well," says Miss Sally, half-laughingly,
" I fancy this indisposition hath saved thy head this
time." "No, ma'am," replies the officer, who would not
be accused, even in the spirit of fun, of playing the in-
valid for the sake of his life; "for if I hear a firing I
shall soon be with the troops!" The girl is thrilled.
"That was heroic! " she says, and she signalizes the re-
turn of the wandering Major by decking herself out in a
new and very much " grown-up " gown of silk and cot-
ton. "I feel quite awkwardish, and prefer the girlish
dress," she explains; but we may be sure that she kept
one of her bright eyes pinned on the soldier's face, to
discover what he would think of the silk and cotton.

One evening following this incident, Miss Sally and
Miss Liddy Foulke are having a very delightful time in
the drawing-room, talking to the convalescent Major,
who seems in no hurry to eschew the sirens of Penllyn.
Perhaps Miss Sally wishes Miss Liddy would make it
convenient to leave the — but no matter! Suddenly the
former asks the Major if he will return to tell them

66

WAR AND FLIRTATION

about the next battle in which he will be engaged. "I
certainly will, ma'am," he says devotedly, "if I am
favored with my life." Sally must catch her breath at
the awful contingency, while the Major, the sly dog, is
doubtless anxious she should have a keen idea of the un-
certainty of human life, and of his life in particular.
Then Miss Liddy, who is either very tactless or a great
tease, blurts out that there is a man in the kitchen who
has just come from the army. Up jumps Stoddert. He
is only too anxious to hear news from his companions
in arms, who are soon to break camp at White Marsh and
march to Valley Forge. "Good-night to you, ladies," he
says, as his manly form disappears through the drawing-
room doorway.

"Liddy, thee hussy," angrily cries Miss Sally; "what
business had thee to mention a word of the army ? Thee
sees it sent him off. Thy evil genius prevailed, and we
all feel the effects of it."

"Lord bless me," pleads Liddy Foulke, "I had not a
thought of his going, or for ten thousand worlds I would
not have spoke."

The Major returns no more that night, and Miss Sally
becomes so "low-spirited " that she can "hardly speak."

Once, some days later, the Major hears the sound of
platoon firing. The occupants of the Foulke mansion
rush out excitedly into the road. The two armies, they
declare, must be engaging each other; perhaps General
Howe has come out from his cozy quarters in Philadel-

67

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

phia to attack General Washington. The Major, still an
invalid, says quietly to one of the Wister servants: "Will
you be kind enough to saddle my horse ? I shall go! "

"It is nothing but skirmishing with the flanking
parties," observes a gentleman. "Do not go, Major!"
"Oh, Major," cries Miss Sally, forgetting her prudence,
"thee is not going?" " Yes, I am, Miss Sally," says the
officer, bowing low, and doubtless relishing the heroic
light in which Sally is regarding him. He goes out into
the highway, bent on battle. She expects to see him
brought back a corpse. But the firing ceases, and the
Major is persuaded to return to the house. It has been
only a skirmish, after all. Sally is charmed. "Ill as he
was," she writes, "he would have gone. It showed his
bravery, of which we all believed him possessed of a
large share."

Next the Major goes off to join the troops encamped at
Valley Forge. "I don't think we shall see him again,"
Sally confides to Miss Deborah Norris. In the meantime
two more officers arrive on the scene. They are a Cap-
tain Lipscomb and a Mr. Tilly. The Captain is "tall,
genteel," with a "softness" in his countenance that is
"very pleasing," and with light, shining auburn hair
which delights all feminine beholders. Although he is
not a "lady's man," Miss Sally finds him "perfectly po-
lite." She thus sketches the appearance of Tilly: "He
seems a wild, noisy mortal, tho' I am not much ac-
quainted with him. He appears bashful when with girls.

68

Miss SALLY WISTER

WAR AND FLIRTATION

We dissipated the Major's bashfulness, but I doubt we
have not so good a subject now. He is above the com-
mon size, rather genteel, an extreme pretty, ruddy face,
hair brown, and a sufficiency of it, very great laughter,
and talks so excessively fast that he often begins a sen-
tence without finishing the last, which confuses him very
much, and then he blushes and laughs. . . . While
we sat at tea, the parlor door was opened; in came
Tilly; his appearance was elegant; he had been riding;
the wind had given the most beautiful glow to his cheeks.
Oh, my heart, thought I, be secure! The caution was
needless; I found it without a wish to stray."

Evidently Miss Sally's heart had no idea of straying
when it gave room to the absent Major. " I am vexed at
Tilly," resumes ihe young lady. " He has a German flute,
but does nothing but play the fool. He begins a
tune, plays a note or so, and then stops. After a while
he begins again ; then stops again. ' Will that do ? ' he
asks, and bursts into an inane laugh. He has given
us but two regular tunes since he arrived. I am pas-
sionately fond of music. How boyish he behaves! "

While Tilly is making an idiot of himself on the Ger-
man flute the Major comes prancing back to the Foulke
house. He has seemingly not relished the idea of camp-
ing at Valley Forge, and has found some excuse to re-
turn to the sprightly presence of Miss Wister. The
latter is entranced. Stoddert takes quick measure of the
piping Tilly, and concludes that this gentleman will make

69

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

an excellent subject for a joke. While the girl is darning
an apron — for the ladies of quality in those days were
not above mending — the beau (he should have been
starving at Valley Forge, the rogue!) is complimenting
her upon her handiwork. "Well, Miss Sally," he asks,
"what would you do if the British were to come
here?"

"Do?" exclaims Miss Sally, with a pretty little shiver.
She knows the British are still in Philadelphia. "I
should be frightened just to death ! "

The Major laughs, and says that if the enemy comes
he will hide himself behind the figure of a British
grenadier which stands on the first landing of the stair-
way. It is unusually well executed, six feet high, and
makes a martial appearance.1 A< happy thought strikes
the waggish Major. "Of all things," he says, " I should
like to frighten Tilly with the figure." So a plan is soon
arranged, amid much whispering and giggling, to test
the courage of the unsuspecting Tilly. The British
grenadier is placed at a point of vantage in the hallway,
and Tilly, being brought face to face with it, and hearing
one of the conspirators cry, in a thundering voice, " Are
there any rebel officers here?" promptly turns to the
right about. "Not waiting for a second word, he darted
like lightning out of the front door, through the yard,
and bolted o'er the fence. Swamps, fences, thorn-

' This figure was afterwards removed to the house of Mr. Charles J.
Wister, in Germantown.

70

WAR AND FLIRTATION

hedges and ploughed fields in no way impeded
his retreat." The woods echoed with " Which
way did he go?" "Stop him!" "Surround the
house! "

"The amiable Lipscomb," writes Miss Sally, an hour
or two later, " had his hand on the latch of the door, in-
tending to make his escape; Stoddert, considering his
indisposition, acquainted him with the deceit. The
females ran down-stairs to join in the general laugh. I
walked into Jesse's [Jesse Foulke's] parlor. There sat
poor Stoddert (whose sore lips must have received no ad-
vantage from this), almost convulsed with laughing,
rolling in an armchair."

Poor Miss Sally Wister! She took such a profound in-
terest in the Major that she was even solicitous for his
sore lips.

" He said nothing; I believe he could not have spoke.
' Major Stoddert,' said I, 'go to call Tilly back. He will
lose himself, — indeed he will ' — every word interrupted
with a ' Ha! ha! ' At last he rose, and went to the door;
and what a loud voice could avail in bringing him back
he tried. Figure to thyself this Tilly, of a snowy even-
ing, no hat, shoes down at the heel, hair unty'd, flying
across meadows, creeks and mud-holes. Flying from
what ? Why, a bit of painted wood ! But he was
ignorant of what it was. The idea of being made a
prisoner wholly engrossed his mind, and his last resource
was to run. After a while, we being in more com-

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

posure, and our bursts of laughter less frequent, yet by
no means subsided — in full assembly of girls and officers,
— Tilly entered. The greatest part of my risibility
turned to pity. Inexpressible confusion had taken entire
possession of his countenance, his fine hair hanging
disheveled down his shoulders, all splashed with mud;
yet his bright confusion and race had not divested him of
his beauty. He smiled as he tripped up the steps; but
'twas vexation placed it on his features. Joy at that
moment was banished from his heart. He briskly
walked five or six steps, then stopped, and took a general
survey of us all. ' Where have you been, Mr. Tilly ? ' asked
one officer. We girls were silent. ' I really imagined,'
said Major Stoddert, 'that you were gone for your
pistols. I followed you to prevent danger,' — an excess-
ive laugh at each question, which it was impossible to
restrain. 'Pray, where were your pistols, Tilly?' He
broke his silence by the following expression: ' You may
all go to .' I never heard him utter an in-
decent expression before.

" At last his good nature gained a complete ascendence
over his anger, and he joined heartily in the laugh. I
will do him the justice to say that he bore it charmingly.
No cowardly threats, no vengeance pronounced. Stod-
dert caught hold of his coat. ' Come, look at what you
ran away from,' and dragged him to the door. He gave
it a look, said it was very natural, and by the singularity
of his expression gave fresh cause for diversion. We

72

WAR AND FLIRTATION

all retired to our different parlors, for the rest of our
faces, if I may say so."

The next day Miss Sally has quite forgotten the episode
of Tilly and the wooden grenadier. " Oh, Deborah,"
she writes plaintively, "the Major is going to leave us
entirely — just going. I will see him first." There is
pathos in that second sentence — "I will see him first."
Who knows what tender words were uttered in that last
interview ? A few hours later she says: " He has gone.
I saw him pass the bridge. The woods which thee enters
immediately after crossing it hindered us from following
him further. I seem to fancy he will return in the even-
ing." At night she jots down in her diary, perhaps to the
accompaniment of tears, the following: "Stoddert not
come back. We shall not, I fancy, see him again for
months, perhaps for years, unless he should visit Phila-
delphia."

And thus the entertaining major vanishes from the life
of Sally Wister, never to return. We hear of him, in
after years, as a statesman of reputation, but we never
hear of him, as we should like to, as the betrothed of this
charming Philadelphia maiden. It is hard to determine
how serious was this love-affair which unfolded its
quaint story amid the booming of cannon and the clink
of swords. Possibly the Major was a sad flirt, and never
spoke the word which Miss Sally half expected to hear
trembling on his lips. Let the girl keep her secret. Of
one thing, at least, we are assured. Until the day when

73

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

she dies, a staid old maid, Miss Sally will have a soft spot
in her heart for this departed hero.

A week after Stoddert's leave-taking the girl chronicles
that the other officers have gone away to their several
duties. "I feel sorry at this departure," she adds signifi-
cantly, "yet 'tis a different kind from what I felt some
time since." That tells the story better than a thousand
pages of lamentation. There is truth in simplicity.

Yet Miss Sally is too young to go into a decline, or to
think of "silent tombs," because her beau sabreur has
taken himself off. She still can write attractively of her
experiences in Montgomery County, and is by no means
blind to the attentions of a handsome man. When she
moves away from the Foulke mansion to join her family
at a farm in the North Wales district, several miles away,
she is thrilled by the appearance on the scene of a dis-
tinguished Virginian. It is now June of 1778. An ele-
gant officer rides up to the farm, and proceeds to quarter
five and twenty men in one of the adjacent fields. Miss
Sally is thrown into a state of pleasurable excitement.
"What is the name of this man ?" she demands of her
cousin, "Prissa" Foulke.
"Dyer, I believe," replies the cousin.
"Captain Dyer! Oh, the name! What does he say?"
"Why, that he will kiss me when he has dined!"
"Singular, on so short an acquaintance," roguishly ob-
serves Miss Sally.

" He came and fixed his arm on the chair I sat in," re-

74

WAR AND FLIRTATION

sumes Miss Prissa. " 'Pray ma'am,' he asked, 'is there
not a family from town with you?' 'Yes.' 'What's
their name ?' ' Wister.' 'There are two fine girls there.
I will go chat with them. Pray, did they leave their
effects in Philadelphia?' 'Yes, everything almost.'
'They shall have them again, that they shall.'

"Oh, Sally," cries Miss Prissa, as she mimics the offi-
cer's manner, "he's a Virginian; that's greatly in his
favor! I'm not sure Dyer's his name, but I understood
so."

By nightfall Miss Sally has met the mysterious " Dyer,"
and feels, forsooth, as if she had been through the most
sensational of adventures. For she writes thus to Deborah
Norris:

" Take a circumstantial account of this afternoon and
the person of this extraordinary man. His exterior
first. His name is not Dyer, but Alexander Spotswood
Dandridge, which certainly gives a genteel idea of the
man. I will be particular. His person is more elegantly
formed than any I ever saw; tall, and commanding.
[Perhaps Miss Sally makes a mental reservation in favor
of a certain absent major as she writes this.] His fore-
head is very white, though the lower part of his face is
much sunburned; his features are extremely pleasing;
an even, white set of teeth, dark hair and eyes. I can't
better describe him than by saying he's the handsomest
man I ever beheld. Betsey and Liddy coincide in this
opinion.

75

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

" After I had sat a while at home in came Dandridge.
[You are a trifle sly, Miss Sally ! Confess that you were
waiting for him.] He entered into chat immediately.
Asked if we knew Tacy Vanderen ? Said he courted her,
and that they were to be married soon. Observed
my sampler, which was in full view. Wished I would
teach the Virginians some of my needle wisdom; they
were the laziest girls in the world. Told his name.
Laughed and talked incessantly. At last ' May I ' (to
mamma) 'introduce my brother officer?' We assented;
so he called him. ' Mr. Watts, Mrs. Wister, young Miss
Wister. Mr. Watts, ladies, is one of our Virginia chil-
dren.' He sat down. Tea was ordered. Dandridge
never drank tea ; Watts had done, so we sat to the table
alone. 'Let's walk in the garden,' said the Captain
[Dandridge] ; so we called Liddy and went (not Watts).
We sat down in a sort of summer-house. ' Miss Sally,
are you a Quaker ? ' ' Yes.' ' Now, are you a Quaker ? '
'Yes, I am.' 'Then you are a Tory?' 'I am not, in-
deed.' Had we been acquainted seven years, we could
not have been more sociable."

Miss Sally has not forgotten the Major, and, evidently,
is not in love with Captain Dandridge, but she likes to
amuse herself, and the man in the pale moon looks down
upon them good-humoredly, with a smile on that twisted
face of his. As they sit together gazing at nature the
Captain (who, by the way, is a relation of General Wash-
ington's wife, who was born a Dandridge) tells the girl

76

WAR AND FLIRTATION

that he must be off the next morning before sunrise.
Miss Sally is duly impressed by the announcement, and
thinks how hard must be the life of a soldier. But be-
hold what she wrote down in the famous diary the next day :
"I was awakened this morning with a great racket of
the Captain's servant calling him, but the lazy fellow
never rose till about half an hour past eight. This his
daylight ride! I imagined they would be gone before
now, so I dressed in a green skirt and dark short gown.
Provoking. So down I came, this Captain (wild wretch)
standing at the- back door. He bowed and called me. I
only looked, and went to breakfast. About nine I took
my work and seated myself in the parlor. Not long had
I sat when in came Dandridge — the handsomest man in
existence, at least that I had ever seen. But stop here,
while I just say, the night before, chatting upon dress, he
said he had no patience with those officers who, every
morn before they went on detachments, would wait to
be dressed and powdered. 'I am,' said I, 'excessively
fond of powder and think it very becoming.' ' Are you ? '
he reply'd. ' I am very careless, as often wearing my
cap thus' (turning the back part before) 'as any way.'
I left off where he came in. He was powdered very
white, a (pretty colored) brown coat, lapelled with green,
and white waistcoat, etc., and his

"•Sword beside him negligently hung.'

He made a truly elegant figure. ' Good-morning, Miss

77

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Sally. You are very well, I hope ? ' ' Very well. Pray
sit down,' which he did close by me. 'Oh, dear,' said I,
' 1 see thee is powdered.' ' Yes, ma'am. I have dressed
myself off for you.' Will I be excused, Debby, if I look
upon his being powdered in the light of a compliment to
me ? ' Yes, Sally, as thee is a country maid, and don't
often meet with compliments.' Saucy Debby Norris! "

The dashing Dandridge rides away, but his duty, what-
ever it may have been, does not seem to fatigue or dis-
tress him, for he is back again before noon. "Oh, Miss
Sally," he cries merrily, catching the girl's hands, "I
have a beautiful sweetheart for you ! "

"Pooh! ridiculous!" simpers Miss Sally, with a pretty
pretense of indignation. " Loose my hands! "

" Well, but don't be so cross! "

"Who is he?" asks Miss Sally, with true feminine
curiosity.

" Major Clough."

"I have seen him."

"Is he not pretty?"

"To be sure! "

"I am going to headquarters. Have you any com-
mands there?"

"Yes, I have," replies the young lady, very severely.
" Pray, who is thy commanding officer?"

"Colonel Bland, ma'am," returns the Captain, in no
wise frightened.

"Please give my compliments to him," orders Miss

78

WAR AND FLIRTATION

Sally, "and say I should be glad if he would send thee
back with a little more manners."

Thereupon Dandridge becomes, we are told, "intoler-
ably saucy," and vows that Miss Sally has "a little spite-
ful heart." Then she protests, amid much laughter, that
the Captain is a wicked fellow.

"Sally," he asks, "if Tacy Vanderen won't have me,
will you?"

"No, really, none of her discarded lovers!"

" But, provided I prefer you to her, will you consent?"

"No, I won't," pouts the Quakeress.

" Very well, madame."

" And, after saying he would return to-morrow, among
a hundred other things," the diary continues, "he ele-
gantly walked out of the room. Soon he came back,
took up a volume of Homer's Iliad, and read aloud to us.
He reads very well, and with judgment. One remark he
made, that I will relate, on these lines: —

" « While Greece a heavy, thick retreat maintains,
Wedg'd in one body, like a flight of cranes.'

"' knows our army won't do so. I wish they

did.' He laughed, and went away."

The following day saw the last of the captivating
Dandridge. Perhaps he would have been quite willing to
throw over the absent Miss Tacy Vanderen, had Miss
Wister given him the needed encouragement. The
young chronicler thus tells of his departure:

79

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

"Major Clough, Captain Swan, and Mr. Moore, a lieu-
tenant of horse, dined with Dandridge. The latter, after
dinner, came in to bid us adieu. He sat down, and was
rather saucy. I looked very grave. ' Miss Betsey, you
have a very ill-natured sister. Observe how cross she
looks.' He prayed we might part friends, and offered
his hand. I gave him mine, which he kissed in a very
gallant manner; and so, with truly affectionate leave, he
walked to the parlor door. 'God bless you, ladies,' he
said, bowed, went into the road, mounted a very fine
horse, and rode away; leaving Watts and the troop
here to take care of us, as he said. 'Mr. Watts, Miss
Sally, is a very worthy man ; but, poor soul, he is so cap-
tivated with you, — the pain in his breast all owing to

you ' But he is gone, and I think, as I have escaped

thus far safe, I am quite a heroine, and need not be fear-
ful of any of the lords of creation for the future."

This is the last of Dandridge. Miss Sally, though
there is still an ache in her heart on account of Major
Stoddert, has been charmed by the Captain's flattery.
She thus sums up his character, which, she says, it
would take the genius of a Hogarth to describe properly.
"He is possessed of a good understanding, a very liberal
education, gay and volatile to excess. He is an Indian,
a gentleman, grave and gay, in the same hour. But what
signifies? I can't give thee a true idea of him; but he
assumes at pleasure a behavior the most courtly, the

most elegant of anything I ever saw. He is very enter-
so

WAR AND FLIRTATION

taining company, and very vain of his personal beauties;
yet nevertheless his character is exceptional."

Let us give the closing paragraphs of the diary, and we
have done:

"Sixth Day, Morn, June ipth, [1778].
"We have heard an astonishing piece of news! The
English have entirely left the city! [Philadelphia.] It is
almost impossible! Stay, I shall hear further.

" Sixth Day, Eve.

"A light horseman has just confirmed the above intel-
ligence! This is charmante! They decamped yester-
day. He (the horseman) was in Philadelphia. It is true.
They have gone. Past a doubt. I can't help exclaiming
to the girls, — ' Now are you sure the news is true ? Now
are you sure they have gone?' 'Yes, yes, yes!' they
all cry, 'and may they never, never return.' Dr. Gould
came here to-night. Our army are about six miles off,
on their march to the Jerseys.

"Seventh Day, Morn.

"O. F. [Owen Foulke] arrived just now, and related
as followeth : — The army began their march at six this
morning by their house. . . . Our brave, our heroic
GENERAL WASHINGTON was escorted by fifty of the Life
Guard, with drawn swords. Each day he acquires an ad-
dition to his goodness. We have been very anxious to
know how the inhabitants of Philadelphia have fared. I

understand that General Arnold, who bears a good char-

81

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

acter,1 has the command of the city, and that the soldiers
conducted themselves with great decorum. General
Smallwood says they had the strictest orders to behave
well; and I dare say they obeyed the order. I now think
of nothing but returning to Philadelphia. So I shall now
conclude this journal with humbly hoping that the Great
Disposer of events, who hath graciously vouchsafed to
protect us to this day through many dangers, will still be
pleased to continue His protection."

Would that the journal had not stopped here! Would
that Miss Sally had gone on for years detailing the life
around her, and giving us her graphic, incisive pen-
pictures of the people with whom she was brought in
contact! But she returned to Philadelphia in due course,
to meet her particular friend, Miss Debby Norris, and
that was the end, so far as the public knows, of her
journalistic efforts. Had she kept on in the good work
she might, with her undoubted literary talent, have de-
veloped into a new Madame de Sevigne, or a novelist of
power.

Instead of doing either of those things, however, Miss
Sally Wister "became quite serious after she grew to
womanhood," and died in the spring of 1804, unmarried.
Major Stoddert became Secretary of the Navy in 1798,
while of Captain Dandridge, who, let us hope, remained
constant to his "Tacy," we hear nothing more. One

1The same Benedict Arnold who afterwards bore anything but a
" good character."

82

WAR AND FLIRTATION

almost feels a sense of personal grievance that Stoddert
did not return after the war was over — if he were still
unmarried — to carry off Miss Sally to his native Mary-
land.

Little did Miss Sally know that her precious diary, with
all its confidences, would some day be public property.
Could she have foreseen such a result she might have
written less entertainingly. In one thing, at least, she
tried to be discreet. She never said that she loved Major
Stoddert. But there is an art called "reading between
the lines," and therein often lies the greatest truth.
Doubtless Miss Debby Norris, otherwise Mrs. Logan,
practiced that art as she read the diary. Curiously
enough she never had a chance to do this until years after
the death of her friend, when the faded pages were given
to her by Miss Sally's brother.

A BELLE OF DELAWARE

General Hntbong

IV

A BEL

OLD-FA
read!
in a

affair, and thei
an exit from
the Ultima 77
far more path<
expiring at the
outlives her be
many a montl
wrinkles. It
zling electric lij
wax candle whl
feebly flickers a

fe

^

K

K

.AWARE

d old-fashioned
'e wont to revel
infortunate love
t chapter. Such
fully regarded as
2. Yet there is
who, instead of
ramatic manner,
nd struggles for
e still, relentless
;tween the daz-
l and the dainty
ocket and then
ix-candle order
,0, of Delaware,

of romance is t -

that Revolutionary belle who quickened the heart beats
of many an American officer and brought to her pretty
feet, even in her middle age, that doughty widower and
gallant soldier, "Mad" Anthony Wayne. There was
nothing theatrical in the career of this eighteenth-century
lady, no hairbreadth escapes, no elopements, yet her life,
with its conquests, its triumphs and disappointment,
pleasantly suggests a tale of powdered hair and shoe-

87

IV
A BELLE OF DELAWARE

OLD-FASHIONED novelists and old-fashioned
readers of a certain type were wont to revel
in a heroine who had an unfortunate love
affair, and then died gracefully in the last chapter. Such
an exit from the mimic world was tearfully regarded as
the Ultima Thule of satisfying romance. Yet there is
far more pathos in the story of a heroine who, instead of
expiring at the right moment, and in a dramatic manner,
outlives her beauty, fame and fortune and struggles for
many a month with poverty, and worse still, relentless
wrinkles. It is exactly the difference between the daz-
zling electric light suddenly extinguished and the dainty
wax candle which burns down to the socket and then
feebly flickers and goes out. Of the wax-candle order
of romance is the story of Mary Vining, of Delaware,
that Revolutionary belle who quickened the heart beats
of many an American officer and brought to her pretty
feet, even in her middle age, that doughty widower and
gallant soldier, "Mad" Anthony Wayne. There was
nothing theatrical in the career of this eighteenth-century
lady, no hairbreadth escapes, no elopements, yet her life,
with its conquests, its triumphs and disappointment,
pleasantly suggests a tale of powdered hair and shoe-

87

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

buckles, of ceremonious flirtations between the move-
ments of the minuet, and of those stirring days when
King George III sent his regiments over to America with
the worthy object of either shooting or hanging all our
forefathers.

Mary Vining, born near Dover in 1756, and the daugh-
ter of Judge John Vining, had for her heritage beauty,
fortune and social position. And those three gifts were
as much prized in colonial Delaware a century and a half
ago as they are to-day in conservative, dignified Phila-
delphia or cosmopolitan New York. There was much
virtue, then as now, in dark, sparkling eyes, piquant
features, a comfortable account at the banker's, and a
family tree of respectable proportions. Thus Mistress
Molly became an important personage from the year of
her birth. As the seasons passed quickly onward, the
people of Dover began to predict that she would soon
blossom into a belle who would not long remain in a
state of single blessedness. Meanwhile the young lady
herself was receiving what was then considered a
finished feminine education, albeit hardly a curriculum
up to the sterner standards of Vassar and Bryn Mawr.
She took prodigiously to the French language, and, pos-
sibly, might be caught sitting up late at night en-
dangering her pretty black eyes by reading some for-
bidden novel, or a "modish" play. So far as novel-
reading by stealth is concerned, it is agreed that human
nature never changes. Girls of fifteen still have a liking

88

A BELLE OF DELAWARE

for some interdicted romance, although they no longer
weep over the woes of an Amelia or a Clarissa Harlowe.

At the age of fourteen Mary Vining lost her father,
and we find her writing a quaint, woe-begone letter to
one of her cousins. "How vain," she says, "is it to
place our affection upon anything in this world. One
moment, perhaps, happy in the best of parents; the next,
a poor, destitute orphan. Orphan! Let me recall that
word. I have yet one of the best of parents, and one
who is deserving of all my love and duty." She breaks
off for a second to give directions about some "very
good green tea" to be used "while Mr. Chew is down,"
and concludes with the "sincerest prayer to yon
Heaven " for her cousin's happiness — " if there is such a
thing on earth." l

The sentiment of the letter is so old-fashioned, so
characteristic of the period, that one can almost see the
child as she bedews the paper with her tears, then slowly
blots it with the inevitable sand, and wonders — if Mr.
Chew will like the green tea.

Mary Vining dries her dark eyes, as any other healthy,
buoyant girl would, and begins to wonder, as do many of
her elders, what will come of the fast-increasing quarrel
between Great Britain and her stiff-necked colonies.
She is growing prettier all the time; admirers are already

1 Vide an article on Miss Vining by Mrs. Henry G. Banning, in the
American Historical Register, July, 1895. Mr. George Hazlehurst hat
likewise written gracefully of our heroine.

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

in evidence; when they are not discussing the "detesta-
ble tyranny " of his Majesty, King George, they are laud-
ing the regularity of the young lady's nose, or the charm
of her smile. Next the Revolution, which has been
smouldering for so long, breaks out into fierce blaze; the
battle of Bunker Hill is fought, and bravely, too; events
follow quick and fast At last the delegates to the Con-
tinental Congress at Philadelphia risk their lives and for-
tunes by adopting the Declaration of Independence.
" Let us hang together," slyly observes Benjamin Frank-
lin, as they consider the document, " or else assuredly
we will hang separately."

One of these delegates, who enters importantly into
the life of Miss Vining, is Caesar Rodney, of Delaware.
Many of us have heard the story of how Rodney, when
hastily summoned to Philadelphia to cast his vote for the
Declaration, rode like mad to that city, partly in a driving
rain-storm, all the way from his country place near
Dover. Some of us have read Brooks's poem, wherein
that ride will no doubt be followed with interest by
many future generations :

" In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear
The North and South on the genial air,
Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state,
Rode Caesar Rodney, the delegate.

" Burly and big, and bold and bluff,
In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,
A foe to King George and the English state
Was Caesar Rodney, the delegate,
90

BELLE OF DELAWARE

" Into Dover village he rode apace,
And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face,
It was matter grave that brought him there,
To the counties three on the Delaware.

" Comes a rider swift on a panting bay ;
' Ho, Rodney, ho ! You must save the day,

For the Congress halts at a deed so great,

And your vote alone may decide its fate.'

" Answered Rodney, then : ' I will ride with speed ;
It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need.
When stands it ? ' « To-night ! Not a moment to spare,
But ride like the wind from the Delaware 1 '

" ' Ho, saddle the black ! I've but half a day,
And the Congress sits eighty miles away —
But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace,
To shake my fist in King George's face.'

" He is up, he is off, and the black horse flies
On the northward road ere the ' God-speed ' dies ;
It is gallop and spur as the leagues they clear,
And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.
******

" It is seven ; the horse-boat, broad of beam,
At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream —
And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,
He flings his rein to the tavern jock.

" The Congress is met ; the debate's begun,
And Liberty lags for the vote of one —
When into the hall, not a moment late,
Walks Caesar Rodney, the delegate.

" Not a moment late ! and that half-day's ride
Forwards the world with a mighty stride ;
For the act was passed : ere the midnight stroke
O'er the Quaker City its echoes woke."
91

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

It is pleasant to note, in this iconoclastic age, that the
old Rodney house, from which the delegate began his
famous ride, is still to be seen, several miles back of
Dover. It stands near the fine mansion once owned by
John Dickinson.

Caesar Rodney, as we find him at this critical time in
our history, is a genial bachelor with vast patriotism and
a pleasant wit. He has had, so goes the gossip, an un-
happy love affair with another Mary Vining, an aunt of
our heroine. The elder lady has given him the proverbial
mitten and married a clergyman. She survives this mar-
riage but a few months, and Caesar Rodney is left to
mourn her unto his life's end, as he will, and to die, as
he has lived, without a wife. " Molly, I love you from
my soul," he once wrote to her, before the clergyman
had appeared on the scene. He doubtless cherished this
fond sentiment long after his rival was left a widower.

The Mary Vining of our sketch was a cousin of Rod-
ney's, and he saw in her grace and beauty much to remind
him of the dead aunt. Thus, when the statesman was
elected governor of Delaware during the darkest days of
the war, he was glad to have his house in Wilmington
presided over by the fascinating niece. Into this house
(later known as No. 606 Market Street) came the Marquis
de Lafayette, who ever cherished for her a sort of fervent
but respectful admiration. He was a married man, was
the Marquis, and his attention was decorous. Many an-
other French officer there found, in the charm and the

93

A BELLE OF DELAWARE

conversational abilities of the young Delawarian, quali-
ties which he had not dreamed could exist in any woman
outside of the court of Queen Marie Antoinette. More
than one of the visitors laid his fortune — if he had any —
and his fluttering heart at the feet of Miss Vining; but
she laughed them off with a good-nature that took away
half the sting from the refusals. We can see her as she
replies gayly, when asked why she is so obdurate: "Ad-
miration of the world is spoiling me. I fear I could not
content myself with the admiration of one." We can
hear her, too, when she comes radiantly into Caesar Rod-
ney's dining-room as some officers, through with their
Madeira, have crowded to the eastern window to watch
the placid waters of Christiana Creek.

" Gentlemen," she cries, first in French and then in
English, "that lovely stream moving languidly amid its
green banks always reminds me of a beautiful coquette,
now coming here, now turning there, in playful wayward-
ness." She turns her head, gives a pretty swirl to her
fan, and smiles roguishly. The gentlemen are enchanted.
No need to ask them who is the real coquette ; it is not
the innocent Christiana. Again, she enters the drawing-
room where one of her cousins, a little boy, is studying
Latin by the open fire. She is dressed for a ball, and as
she goes up to a mirror, and looks approvingly at her re-
flection, the young student casts upon her a glance of in-
voluntary admiration. " Come here, you little rogue,"
she commands imperiously, "and you shall kiss my

93

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

hand." But the boy, overcome by a sudden bashfulness,
draws back. "You should be glad to do it," laughs the
girl, and she quotes a line from Antony and Cleopatra :

" A hand that kings have lipped."

The boy, in his confusion, says nothing. In after
years he regrets his want of gallantry, and recalls Mary
Vining as she stood before him as a "beautiful picture."
Had she lived in England, in the days of the Spectator,
Addison or Dick Steele would surely have enshrined her
in some immortal essay.

It was in the cellar of Rodney's house that Lafayette
stored some of the precious gold coin which he had
brought from France. Rodney's cousin was a woman,
but she never told the secret. When the Marquis re-
turned home to France he was not slow to speak of the
attractions of Miss Vining, and it is related that Marie
Antoinette, hearing of the American's beauty, sent her
word that there would always be a warm welcome for
her at the court of the Tuilleries, either as a visitor or as a
maid of honor.

But Mary Vining did more than turn the heads of the
French, the allies of her countrymen. She even won the
heart — who shall dare say intentionally ? — of a British of-
ficer who risked court-martial, dishonor, everything, to
get one look at her, many weeks after she had refused
him. It was in the spring of 1778, just before the army
of the invaders was to evacuate Philadelphia. The

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A BELLE OF DELAWARE

officer, who held a command therein, determined to
see Miss Vining once again. Perhaps, as he fondly
thought, she would not always hold out against him.
So he smuggled himself through the lines one after-
noon, mounted a horse, and rode off to Wilmington at
breakneck speed straight into the enemy's country. It
was a desperate thing to do. Discovery of his absence
by the British meant disgrace; discovery by the Ameri-
cans along his route meant arrest, and possibly execution
as a spy ; but young blood is not to be restrained by such
thoughts. So the officer sped on to Wilmington, in some
effective disguise, and reached the home of Caesar Rod-
ney, one of his own country's bitterest foes, late in the
evening. Who shall say what dangers he encountered
before he stood before Mary Vining ? One's imagination
can picture a scene worthy of a Revolutionary novel.
All we know is that the impetuous Briton got only a
stern refusal for his pains. After escaping from Wil-
mington, perhaps through the good-natured connivance
of the obstinate girl, he succeeded in getting back to
Philadelphia. Miss Vining never heard of any trouble
coming to him through this escapade, so it may be in-
ferred that his rashness met with no punishment. Let us
hope that he survived the war, to reach England in
safety.

The years glided on, as the Revolution triumphed and
the sturdy colonies, released from British aggression,
emerged proudly into the arena of the nations. Wash-

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

ington was now President of the United States of Amer-
ica. In the meantime Miss Vining retained her beauty
and no small part of her youthful bloom, and, although
she was getting dangerously near the middle-aged period
of forty, appeared to be as charming as ever. So, at
least, thought General Anthony Wayne, now a widower,
for he fell desperately in love with Mary Vining, in his
impetuous way, and was as successful with her, in fol-
lowing the tender passion, as he had been in the more
warlike pursuit of charging an enemy. It is even hinted
that before his first marriage he had sighed, as only an
eighteenth-century lover could sigh, for the Wilmington
belle, but that he had not then made any impression on
her adamantine heart. Be that as it may, his middle-
aged love-making was more fortunate, and Miss Vining,
who had refused many a French cavalier, said "yes" to
this daring American democrat.

"Can it be true," asked Mrs. Cadwalader, widow of
the Philadelphia General, "that Miss Vining is engaged
to General Wayne? Can one so refined marry this
coarse soldier? True, he is brave, wonderfully brave,
and ' none but the brave deserve the fair.' "

Yet Wayne was something more than a "coarse
soldier." Nor was he the "Mad" Anthony which some
chroniclers would have us believe. True, he had not the
manners of a courtier, but he had a stout heart and a
rough-diamond character which make him stand out as
one of the most picturesque figures in the annals of the

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A BELLE OF DELAWARE

olden time. It was to Miss Vining that the General cried,
as he jumped excitedly from his chair, after hearing her
speak of the crime of a traitor: "Madame, had I been
present I would have suicided him! " And we all know
the anecdote, which deserves to be true, even if it is not,
of how Wayne said to Washington: "I am not only

willing to storm Stony Point, General, but I'll storm

if you will only plan it." Washington is reported to
have answered, with just the suspicion of a twinkle in
his blue-gray eyes: "Hadn't we better try Stony Point
first?"

There is still in existence a rare old set of India china
which was to have been the wedding gift of General
Wayne to his intended bride, but he was not destined to
see it in use. For "Mad" Anthony died at Presque Isle,
on Lake Erie, in the middle of December, 1796, of the un-
romantic complaint of gout of the stomach. Mary Vining
put on mourning and gave up her old gay life, and all the
flattery which had been given her as an offering of
incense. Thus ended her last romance. A middle-aged
romance, says the cynic. Yes, but who of us with the
crow's-feet and whitening hair shall dare to say that there
is any age-limit to affairs of the heart ?

Had Miss Vining consulted the dramatic proprieties, as
observed by the old-fashioned novelists before alluded to,
she would have died then and there, in good orthodox
fashion. But she went on living for another quarter of a
century, as old friends passed from the world, beauty

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

fell away, and poverty came to her. Herein was the
real tragedy of her life. Look at a woman once rich,
courted, beautiful; now sadly aged, with few friends
left, and in such sore financial straits that she is obliged
to turn boarding-house keeper. Where is the romance
in serving tea to strangers, or showing Abigail or Dorcas
how to make the beds ?

Yet Mistress Vining was a gentlewoman to the end,
and there always remained about her a reflection of her
past glory. Lafayette corresponded with her until her
death, while no distinguished foreigner ever passed
through Delaware without leaving a card at this lady's
house — boarders or no boarders. We get more than
one pathetic glimpse of the declining days of Miss
Vining. They show us that something of her old spirit
(or shall we call it pardonable feminine vanity?) still
clung to her, like a phantom of the realities of the long-
ago. Her fine brown hair never whitened, nor did the
dark eyes lose their youthful sparkle, but Father Time un-
gallantly put his impress on her face, and the once
willowy form began to bend. So the poor lady was fain
to receive her friends in a darkened room, to put her
handkerchief before her mouth, hiding the now decrepit
teeth over which the beaux had once raved, and to
muffle her features in a great veil when she appeared
upon the street. It is only the " new woman " who can
stand the loss of beauty with equanimity — and the "new
woman " seldom has any to lose.

A BELLE OF DELAWARE

It was rarely, indeed, that the recluse left her home in
Wilmington and those prosaic boarders. One evening
the congregation of Old Swedes' Church was startled to
see her moving up the aisle, leaning gracefully on the
arm of a servant. There were many whispers and
nudges from the assembled worshipers. "There goes
Miss Vining," was the excited, half stifled comment
which passed among them like a ripple. She sat down
in a front pew, with the air of a dethroned queen, and
listened to the service. No one could see her face. Only
the back of her mourning gown 2: id a great black poke
bonnet were visible. " We shall get a look at her when
she comes down the aisle," thought the congregation, be-
tween the prayers. But Miss Vining had no intention
that people should say of her: "Poor thing! How
faded! " The service ended; the worshipers craned their
necks, as she came down the aisle with the servant, in
order to catch one glimpse of the once distinguished
beauty. But they were disappointed, for her face was
almost completely hidden by a cap with a wonderfully
wide ruffle. "A flash from dark eyes, and a view, in
deep shadow, of the tip of her nose and chin," were the
only things apparent. She walked quickly home to her
house on Kennet Pike, where is now the corner of Tenth
and Market Streets.

So the world moved on prosaically for Mary Vining
until a day in the early spring of 1821, when she was
laid to rest in Old Swedes' churchyard. Six girls acted

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

as pallbearers, as if to show that May could pay one
final tribute to December. Not one of them had
ever looked upon her face. As the more elderly
mourners left the burying-ground, after hearing the
solemn "dust to dust" of the clergyman, they gossiped
softly of the days when the dead woman had seemed all
life, and youth, and hope. Before the service the six
pallbearers had giggled among themselves. They saw
not the tragedy of the life just closed. They did not un-
derstand, naturally enough, how old age, and wrinkles,
and disappointments, could be realities. To them the
service meant only another old lady being buried in the
churchyard; nothing more.

loo

A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

Sbomas Jefferson as a tj?oun0

R a*

V
A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

IT was in the year 1760 when Thomas Jefferson, a
stripling of seventeen, "tall, raw-boned, freckled
and sandy-haired," as Parton described him, came
from western Virginia to enter the College of William
and Mary, at Williamsburg. In spite of his large feet
and hands, thick wrists and prominent cheek-bones, he
was a bright, attractive youth, " as straight as a gun-
barrel sinewy and strong, with that alertness of move-
ment which comes of easy familiarity with saddle, gun,
canoe, minuet, and contra-dance, — that sure, elastic tread,
and ease of bearing, which we still observe in country-
bred lads who have been exempt from the ruder toils
of agriculture, while enjoying in full measure the free-
dom and the sports of the country." His teeth were
faultless, and his hazel-gray eyes indicated a gentle
character and a sympathetic yet keenly analytic mind.

"Tom" Jefferson, through the death of his father, had
already become the head of his family, and the virtual
owner of the "Shadwell Farm," in the mountains a
hundred and fifty miles to the northwest of quaint
Williamsburg. He was of that sturdy, honest yeoman
stock which has given so many fine specimens of man-

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

hood to the cause of American patriotism, and there was
a deal of shrewd, energetic Welsh blood coursing
through his veins. The young student at William and
Mary had, In fact, no pretensions to aristocracy, unless
it might be from his good mother's side of the house.
She was the daughter of Isham Randolph, an old-time
Virginia lord of the manor, who owned an immense
tobacco plantation on the River James, and who thought,
no doubt, that when he allowed his seventeen-year-old
daughter to marry Peter Jefferson, an humble land-
surveyor, he was acting with a fine show of condescen-
sion. Old Randolph lived in true manorial style in his
colonial mansion, keeping a hundred servants or more,
so that his daughter, Mistress Jefferson, never forgot the
wealth and the breeding of her father. Perhaps that is
why her son Thomas, play he the democrat as he did in
after life, could never quite convince people that his
studied carelessness of dress and an affectation. of equally
careless manners were altogether sincere. Man never for-
gets his genealogy.

At the time that young Jefferson reached Williamsburg
the town was nothing more than a straggling village of
one long street, with the Capitol of Virginia at one end,
the College at the other, and a ten-acre square, on which
were erected certain public buildings, in the middle. It
was not a very impressive town, according to our
modern ideas; yet it was considered in the old days,
when our ancestors paid their allegiance to King George

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A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

III, as a very gay resort. With its one thousand inhab-
itants, many of whom were persons of quality, it was said
to be the "centre of taste, fashion and refinement." In
the winter, when the Virginia Assembly was in session
there, Williamsburg was crowded with the gentry of the
colony, and frequent were the balls and routs at which
well-dressed cavaliers and richly habited ladies
(whose costumes had been imported from London)
joined in the country dance or the more stately minuet.
On a clear day the one street echoed with the sound of
wheels and the cracking of whips, as the families of the
planters dashed past in handsome coaches (likewise im-
ported from London), drawn by four or six stout horses.
The Capitol itself was a "light and airy structure" as
young Master Jefferson thought it; the "palace" of the
Governor of the Colony was large, comfortable, and ir-
retrievably ugly, and the College buildings presented a
plain but respectable appearance. If we add to these
public institutions a number of private houses, built of
wood and shingles, and the necessary accompaniment of
negro hovels, we have the fair Virginian capital for the
sight of which so many maidens of the Old Dominion
sighed. For to the provincial lass who chanced to live
South of Maryland, Williamsburg was the same sort of
social Paradise that New York or Paris now seems to the
girl who inhabits some prairie city far west of the Alle-
ghany Mountains.
William and Mary College was then anything but an

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

ideal fountain of learning. Its curriculum was poor, and
some of the professors led lives that would appear to us
utterly inconsistent with their intellectual work. They
were, for the most part, gentlemen of sporting pro-
clivity, who liked their dogs, their horses, and their wine
far better than they did their avowed mission of teaching.
If the master of Shadwell managed to receive learning
from this Alma Mater, despite the influence of so many
dissolute teachers, it was because of the presence in the
faculty of a certain Scotchman, the professor of mathe-
matics, who took a great fancy to Thomas and incited
him to study as few other students of the College troubled
themselves to do. And so the youth worked hard, drink-
ing in all sorts of education, from mathematics, which he
called "the passion of his life," to the irreligious disser-
tations of the French philosophers, Voltaire and the rest,
whose views were fast becoming fashionable in the
English-speaking world. He read law, too, and cast
many a glance at "Coke on Littleton," as he fondly
dreamed of a great future for himself as a distinguished
colonial jurist. No thought yet of a Declaration of In-
dependence.

But as we look at this lank, freckle-faced youth, who
pores over his figures and old Littleton, do we merely
see in him the interested student, with no more heart
than that possessed by a bookworm? Not a bit of it I
The heart that beats under Master Tom's waistcoat is going
at a furious rate of speed whenever he thinks— not of

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A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

Littleton, but of a certain lovely young lady! For the
hero who will live to write the immortal Declaration of
Independence, and view life and humanity with a phil-
osophical serenity is as hopelessly in love as ever was
any cavalier of old. It is the first time, too, that the
malady has afflicted him. It goes all the harder with him
in consequence.

And who is the young lady ? Why, Miss Rebecca
Burwell, a strikingly beautiful Virginian of good family
and fair expectations. But young Jefferson cares nothing
for her expectations. He only knows that he loves her
as man never loved woman before — of course — and that
she has the sweetest face he has ever gazed upon. Then
what exquisite grace! How charmingly does she tread
the minuet in the dancing room of the Raleigh Tavern.
Some of the Williamsburgers, base cynics that they are,
whisper that Miss Burwell's attractions are all in her face
and figure; that she is not mentally brilliant; that she
has not one thousandth part of the brain of Master Tom.
But what cares the latter for all that ? When a lover is
filled with visions of his first love he thinks of the glance
of her eye, the brightness of her smile, the curve of her
mouth — of anything, in fine, save the powers of her
mind. There is never any consideration of intellectuality
in our youthful experience with love. Young Cupid
does not go about searching for blue-stockings. The
bachelor of fifty may do that if he so desires, but the lad
of seventeen — never.

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

•We are not surprised that the time passes so pleasantly
for the student. No wonder that he ends by thinking
Williamsburg a bewitching spot. The longer he stays
there the more he can see of Rebecca. But at last (he
wonders how he can live afterwards) he must end his
college days at William and Mary, and return to his
home. It is the Christmas season of 1762, when, with a
sad heart, he departs from Williamsburg. When will he
see Rebecca again ? Does she love him ? Dare he ask
her ? These are some of the questions that torment him
with a sort of pleasant bitterness as he travels home-
ward. The landscape is bleak enough, but he feels
bleaker himself than all the snow-covered hills of
Virginia. He does his best, when visiting at the house of
a friend on his way to Shadwell, to cultivate a Christmas
joy, and to be a truly gay participant in the festivities of
the season. He tries to laugh and talk and plays his
violin while the young women dance some new minuet-
figures. Alas, the sweet creatures only remind him of the
absent Mistress Burwell and he can but sigh when he
should be merry. He is so dreary that he cannot even
read the once admired "Coke on Littleton." He actually
writes to John Page, a college friend, that Coke should be
consigned to the tender mercies of His Most Satanic
Majesty. Surely the lover, " sighing like furnace," can
have no affinity with the dry crotchets of prosaic law.

As if to increase his gloom at this season of cheer, a
"watch-paper," which Rebecca has cut and painted for

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A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

him, is ruined by the rain. While he sleeps at night,
dreaming, we may venture to fancy, of the absent one,
the rain comes in through window or crevice, and when
he awakes in the morning he finds his timepiece swim-
ming in a pool of water. As he writes pathetically to
John Page: "The subtle particles of the water with
which the case was filled, had, by their penetration, so
overcome the cohesion of the particles of the paper of
which my dear picture and watch-paper were composed,
that, in attempting to take them out to dry them — good
God ! Mens horret referre ! — my fingers gave them such
a rent as 1 fear / never shall get over." Had there been
an earthquake, in which half the world had crumbled
away, Thomas Jefferson could not have been more hor-
rified. What is the destruction of half the universe to
the destruction of a watch-paper suggesting the lovely
face of Rebecca Burwell? He continues: "And now,
although the picture may be defaced, there is so lively an
image of her imprinted in my mind, that I shall think of
her too often, I fear, for my peace of mind, and too often,
I am sure, to get through old Coke this winter." Old
Coke, forsooth.

Is Thomas Jefferson, future statesman and President of
the United States, actually love-sick ? Yes; there is no
denying the truth when the loss of a watch-paper will
cause a young fellow such exquisite agony. Has there
never been a time, gentle reader, when you were ill in the
same way ?

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

- We are not surprised that the time passes so pleasantly
for the student. No wonder that he ends by thinking
Williamsburg a bewitching spot. The longer he stays
there the more he can see of Rebecca. But at last (he
wonders how he can live afterwards) he must end his
college days at William and Mary, and return to his
home. It is the Christmas season of 1762, when, with a
sad heart, he departs from Williamsburg. When will he
see Rebecca again ? Does she love him ? Dare he ask
her ? These are some of the questions that torment him
with a sort of pleasant bitterness as he travels home-
ward. The landscape is bleak enough, but he feels
bleaker himself than all the snow-covered hills of
Virginia. He does his best, when visiting at the house of
a friend on his way to Shadwell, to cultivate a Christmas
joy, and to be a truly gay participant in the festivities of
the season. He tries to laugh and talk and plays his
violin while the young women dance some new minuet-
figures. Alas, the sweet creatures only remind him of the
absent Mistress Burwell and he can but sigh when he
should be merry. He is so dreary that he cannot even
read the once admired "Coke on Littleton." He actually
writes to John Page, a college friend, that Coke should be
consigned to the tender mercies of His Most Satanic
Majesty. Surely the lover, " sighing like furnace," can
have no affinity with the dry crotchets of prosaic law.

As if to increase his gloom at this season of cheer, a
"watch-paper," which Rebecca has cut and painted for

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A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

him, is ruined by the rain. While he sleeps at night,
dreaming, we may venture to fancy, of the absent one,
the rain comes in through window or crevice, and when
he awakes in the morning he finds his timepiece swim-
ming in a pool of water. As he writes pathetically to
John Page: "The subtle particles of the water with
which the case was filled, had, by their penetration, so
overcome the cohesion of the particles of the paper of
which my dear picture and watch-paper were composed,
that, in attempting to take them out to dry them— good
God! Mens horret referre ! — my fingers gave them such
a rent as I fear / never shall get over." Had there been
an earthquake, in which half the world had crumbled
away, Thomas Jefferson could not have been more hor-
rified. What is the destruction of half the universe to
the destruction of a watch-paper suggesting the lovely
face of Rebecca Burwell? He continues: "And now,
although the picture may be defaced, there is so lively an
image of her imprinted in my mind, that I shall think of
her too often, I fear, for my peace of mind, and too often,
I am sure, to get through old Coke this winter." Old
Coke, forsooth.

Is Thomas Jefferson, future statesman and President of
the United States, actually love-sick ? Yes; there is no
denying the truth when the loss of a watch-paper will
cause a young fellow such exquisite agony. Has there
never been a time, gentle reader, when you were ill in the
same way ?

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

before it does fall, but we may add to its force after it
has fallen." In short, he hopes to have a "pious and
unshaken resignation." These are good words for a
man who will, in later life, be branded as an infidel by
some of his contemporaries.

At last — joyous chance — there comes an opportunity
when Thomas Jefferson can once more see "Belinda"
face to face. How his poor heart throbs at the thought!
He has gone to Williamsburg to attend the sessions of
the General Court, like a dutiful law-student (possibly
also as an ardent lover). At a ball in the Raleigh Tavern
he meets the siren who, we may shrewdly suspect, has
been enjoying herself these many moons without giving
more than a passing thought to poor Tom. There are
all sorts of dances at the ball, and we can see the shy
glance of the lover as he touches the hand of pretty Re-
becca Burwell when the two glide through the stately
figures of a minuet. How the color must come and
go in that freckled, expressive face of his. How im-
passive is the look that comes from the beautiful eyes of
" Belinda." Will the dancing never stop, so that he may
take the girl into some convenient corner, there to pour
into her ears his hopes, fears, and all the sufferings of
the past months ? What a mockery, he must think, is
all this merrymaking when one man's heart is nigh to
breaking.

After a while there is a lull in the dancing. Happy

yet fearful moment! He leads Mistress Burwell to a

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A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

place away from the dancers. Now he will tell her all,
and ask her the one question that is worth the asking.
But what a ghastly failure he makes of it, to be sure.
He tries to say something eloquent, yet only manages to
stammer a few broken sentences, relieved by horrible
pauses, and he feels, as a sickening shudder runs up and
down his spine, that he is making a very great fool of
himself. "Belinda" looks at him helplessly. She can
neither accept nor refuse a man who has not the nerve
to put his proposal into plain English. He leads her
back, at last, to the dancers. Timidity has conquered
the man who, in a few years, will not hesitate to defy all
the might and power of tyrannical England.

In a few days he tries again. His courage will not
enable him to ask the lady outright whether she will be
his wife, but he circles around the subject, and hints that
at some future time he will ask for her hand. How can
the poor girl say "Yes "to such a hint, even if she is
anxious so to do? And if she wants to say "No,"
merely to put the boy out of his misery as soon as pos-
sible, she must also keep silent, in the face of so much
bashfulness and indirection. Yet there is that in her
manner which tells Jefferson that all his longing and
heart-sickness have been in vain. He finds, at last, that
he is too late; the heart of Rebecca Burwell has been
given to another. Fool that he was, thinks Tom to him-
self. Perhaps, had he hastened to Williamsburg before

this, he might have ousted the successful rival; but noth-

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

ing can prevent him now from considering himself the
most miserable man in all the wide world. He can
never again look into a woman's face with pleasure.
His future has nothing more in store for him. His life is
a hopeless, forlorn wreck. He is exactly what many
another young fellow before and since has considered
himself to be.

A few months after the ball at the Raleigh Tavern
Miss Rebecca Burwell is married to the more favored
suitor and Thomas is left heart-broken. John Page, who
has likewise had his own love affair, is jilted by another
cruel maiden. Mr. Page, like a true philosopher, at once
begins upon a new flirtation. Jefferson, however, can
not think of such inconstancy. He vows that his heart
is "dead to love forever." Williamsburg no longer has
for him the slightest charm. He hates the sight of it so
much that he calls it " Devilsburg."

Yet it remained for Jefferson, like thousands of other
hapless swains, to find out that first loves are by no
means fatal maladies. He went on studying law, and
woke up, one fine morning, to discover that the load
upon his bruised heart had quite gone. It was still hard
to think of "Belinda" without tender regret, yet the
world did not seem desolate any more, and the old high
ambitions, which had once surged so manfully in his
breast, began to reappear. This was the first sign of a
return to normal conditions. After a time he could even
think of the false one without a tremor. Then, a little

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A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

later, he began to dance at other people's weddings with
smiling face, and perhaps encountered among the guests,
and without a sigh of regret, the sweet features of
"Belinda."

It was not long ere Jefferson began to take pleasure in
assuming the simple duties of a country gentleman. He
became a justice of the peace and a vestryman of his
parish. These were positions which, had he still been a
romantic swain, he would have scorned to seek.
Furthermore, he settled down into a practical farmer
with as much zest as if he had never known anything
about Cupid, and he put his whole heart into the work.
He went on studying law, was finally admitted to the
bar, and took interest, also, in that profession. Then he
became a member of the Virginia Legislature. Still he
remained a bachelor. Had his experience with "Be-
linda " given him a distaste for matrimony ? No doubt
that question was often asked in the part of Virginia
where he was already so well known and so deeply re-
spected. He had, indeed, once said to John Page that if
Rebecca Burwell refused him he would never offer him-
self to another.

But the day came when Thomas Jefferson fell in love
for a second time, and more successfully. Perhaps it
was a quieter passion than the one he had had for " Be-
linda," and therefore perhaps deeper as well, for there
was no denying the sincerity of his love for Mistress
Martha Skelton, a beautiful widow of twenty-two, child-

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

less, and the daughter of his friend and fellow-lawyer,
John Wayles. She was fond of music; so was Jeffer-
son. She played delightfully on the spinet; he had a
pretty skill with the violin. They played together when
Jefferson would go over to visit her father on his planta-
tion, "The Forest," and played so well together that it
was finally agreed they might prove equally harmonious
in a lifelong duet. The young Virginian, who had now
developed into a good-looking man, and had lost the
rawness of his William and Mary days, proposed with
all necessary gallantry. He was duly accepted. On
New Year's Day of 1772, the two were married at "The
Forest," with the assistance of several clergymen and an
abundance of music. Soon afterwards they started out, by
way of a honeymoon, on a wintry trip to Monticello, the
new home of the groom. As they proceeded on their
journey towards the mountains the snow increased, until
their carriage could no longer move. Finally they had to
leave the coach in a drift, and mount the horses. When,
at last, they reached Monticello, it was late at night, cold
and dreary, and all the servants had gone to bed. The
fires were out; the inside of the new house was dismal
and freezing. But Love laughs at such trifles. They
burst open the door and rekindled the fires, and thus,
with great good humor, their housekeeping began.

Mrs. Jefferson is described as a radiant creature, with
pretty coloring and expressive features, a great mass of
auburn hair, and a graceful figure and deportment. She

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A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE

was a woman of mind, and, it must be confessed, far
more fit to be a constant companion for her husband than
would have been the elusive " Belinda." She was fond
of literature, which was something that most Virginia
ladies then cared little about, and her voice was pleasant
to listen to as she accompanied herself on the spinet or
harpsichord. The good lady lived until 1782, when she
died four months after giving birth to her sixth child.
As she was sinking she solemnly asked her husband
'never to marry again, for the sake of their children. He
gave her the promise, and kept it. He had loved her
well : when she was gone he was almost crazed. He
staggered from the room into his library, where he
fainted. For a time it was feared that he, too, had
passed away. The family placed his apparently in-
animate body on a cot. In a few minutes the stricken
man revived, only to go off the same night into a perfect
frenzy of grief. For three weeks he stayed in one room,
attended by his little daughter, Martha. Day and night
he would walk up and down, up and down, like a caged
lion. When, at last, he emerged from his room it was
to roam about the country, like some desolate spirit who
could never know happiness more. Time finally healed
the wound, and new attention to public duties brought
solace and gradual contentment. But the woman whose
death could cause such despair must have been worthy
the love of such a man.
Forgotten Rebecca Burwell ! You were, after all, only

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an example of the truth that a man's first love is an ill-
ness which may seem fatal but which often only turns
out to be a passing indisposition. Jefferson lived to look
back smilingly at his one-time passion. "Belinda"
became to him nothing save a shadow. Yet we wonder
if, when life was nearly spent and the old man sat by
the fire in his library at Monticello, he ever called to
mind the old days in Williamsburg. Perhaps in thought
he grew young once more and saw Rebecca's face
shining at him from the embers.

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wsff

VI
CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID

IT was in the early thirties of the eighteenth century
that there came to the good town of New York, to
rule in due state as Governor of the whole colony,
a certain Englishman by adoption and Irishman by birth,
one Colonel William Cosby. The townsmen were already
loyal to the English government, although many of them
had the blood of the sturdy Dutch in their veins, and it
might be supposed that they would be ready to extend a
cordial welcome to the new functionary. But as they
had undergone unpleasant experiences with at least two
of their Governors from England, the New Yorkers were
wary. They remembered, for instance, the meteoric
career of Edward Hyde, Lord Cornbury, who had come
over to their town in 1702, and of whom weird stories
were still told in tavern and drawing-room. Would
Colonel Cosby prove to be a second Cornbury ?

Lord Cornbury, who was a cousin of "good Queen
Anne," through his relationship to her mother, was a
worthless profligate, heavily burdened with debt. He
was sent over to America to retrieve his fortunes, at the
expense, of course, of the unfortunate people of Man-
hattan Island. His wife, who prided herself upon a

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beautiful ear (which had been fair enough, she said, to
make my Lord fall in love with her) had as lean a purse
and as expensive habits as her aristocratic husband.
Ostentation was her god, and while she may have affected
to look down upon the good Dutch families of New York
she was very anxious, notwithstanding, to impress them
with the proper idea of her grandeur. But how is one to
distil grandeur without the necessary ingredient of gold ?
She was neither the first, nor the last, to ask herself this
question.

After thinking deeply upon the matter Lady Cornbury,
who was never troubled in all her life by over-delicacy
or conscientious scruple, hit upon an ingenious expedient.
In the meantime, after her arrival in New York, she
charmed " society," as we would now term it, by the ex-
treme condescension of her manners. She and her noble
husband seemed to vie one with the other in doing all they
could to be gracious to their new subjects. In return for
this politeness the great ladies of the town, among them
Madame Van Courtlandt, treated them to a series of
dinners, at which the Governor drank unlimited wine and
professed himself greatly benefited and pleased by the
vintages that were spread out before him on the
hospitable boards. So far, so good. It began to look as
if the sojourn of the couple was to resolve itself into a
kind of political honeymoon, or a love-feast.

But watch the cunning scheme of my Lady Cornbury.
She soon announced that she was desirous, in order to

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give tclat to her position, to select from among the New
York maidens a number of "ladies of honor," who were
to reside with her in the Governor's mansion. Where-
upon the daughters of the first families were thrown into
a veritable flutter of pleasant anticipation. What joy!
They had heard of queens who had maids of honor, and
here was the relative of a queen who projected a minia-
ture court of her own! The thought was dazzling. So
the lucky girls who were invited, much to the envy of the
unlucky ones, to reside with Lady Cornbury went into
as great transports of delight as their somewhat phleg-
matic dispositions would permit. They hastened to the
gubernatorial residence to play their ornamental parts.

The parts, alas, were not to be ornamental. The
maids of honor soon found that their economical mistress
was too poor to keep regular servants, and that they
were expected to do all the menial work of the house,
even to acting, on occasion, as cooks and scullions.
Thus vanished all their visions of semi-regal splendor.
Their one idea now was— to get away from my Lady
Cornbury.

That, however, was not an easy thing to do. My
Lady, being a common, ill-bred shrew, was unwilling to
part with domestics to whom she had to pay no wages.
At the mere mention of departure she would sometimes
pounce, with all the ferocity of a virago, upon the poor
disappointed fraulems, and forbid them to leave the house.
This system of forcible detention went on until it became

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necessary for the parents of the maids of honor to take
them away in the very face of loud, vulgar protests from
the lady. Then, after calling the retiring maids all sorts
of hard names, she enticed other girls into her house.
The newcomers, however, fared no better, and Lady
Cornbury soon found that her ingenious scheme for
saving the hire of servants had come to naught. From
being the most popular woman in New York she quickly
became the most unpopular of them all.

The Governor, too, quickly descended from his high
estate, and made of himself a public scandal. Once,
after a drinking-bout, he dressed himself in his wife's
clothes and paraded up and down the then rustic Broad-
way. It was night, and the moon was out. So up-
roarious did he wax that the officer of the watch arrested
him as an intoxicated vagrant. The guard was "amazed
beyond description when he found that his prisoner was
none other than the Governor of the province, in a
highly hilarious condition; and the watchman could
scarcely be induced to release his Excellency, as he con-
sidered it the duty of the watch to carry all prisoners to
the guard-house, no matter what was their degree."1

No wonder that all the respectable people would have
nothing more to do with the Governor and his wife. But
Lady Cornbury, as shameless as she was impecunious,
hit upon another expedient for swindling. She would

i Vide Mrs. Van Rensselaer's attractive Goede Vrouw of Mana-ha-ta,
Smith's History of New York, etc.

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drive up in her handsome coach to some prosperous-
looking home, alight in great state, chat for a little time
with the occupants, and then, with the assistance of a
groom, carry away with her any ornament that she
thought a bit pretty. The consequence was that the
wives of the burghers began to fear the rattle of my
Lady's carriage as they feared the plague. When they
heard the familiar rolling of the wheels they would run
hither and thither through the house, hiding anything that
they thought might catch her fancy. It may be added
that this noble thief would generally pawn the things she
had thus secured from her loyal subjects.

There must have been no end of rejoicing when her
ladyship died several years later and was buried in the
graveyard of Trinity Church with much pomp and
pageantry. There must have been, too, many a cheerful
face in evidence at that funeral. No doubt the under-
taker looked melancholy. He had reason so to look; his
bill for the interment of the lady would never be paid
either by Lord Cornbury or by any one else. As for my
Lord he was finally recalled to England by his cousin,
Queen Anne, after having first been thrown into a New
York jail for debt.

There was another Royal Governor of whom the New
Yorkers had rather curious recollections. He was
Richard Coote, Earl of Bellomont, a dashing, but elderly
cavalier who brought with him to New York, much
against her will, a young and beautiful wife, of whom he

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

was insanely jealous. The Countess of Bellomont was
one of the greatest gamblers of her day, and extravagant,
not to say dissolute enough to put many a high-living
man of the early eighteenth century to the blush. She
was not prepared, therefore, to find Manhattan very ex-
citing under any circumstances. But what must have
been her feelings when Lord Bellomont, fearing lest some
of the young burghers of the island would fall in love
with her, shut her up in the Governor's mansion, where
she became little more than a prisoner within gilded bars.
Poor lady! Perhaps she may have employed her solitude
in atoning for all her past sins, but we are prone to be
skeptical on that point. It was her lordly husband, by-
the-way, who was a friend and patron of the notorious
Captain Kidd, and who was suspected (no human being
can now say whether justly or unjustly) of sharing some
of the rich plunder which that enterprising New Yorker
was wont to filch from the holds of unprotected English
merchantmen.

Is it any wonder, then, that when the long-suffering
New Yorkers heard of the coming of Colonel William
Cosby they should have wondered what manner of
gentleman this new ruler might be? They sought to
learn all that they could about him. The knowledge
thus obtained was not over-assuring. The Colonel was
a polished Anglo-Irish swindler, who had been recalled
from his Governorship of the Island of Minorca because
of his peculations! Stealing, however, on the part of

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CONSPIRACIES AND C U P I D

British officials was not considered much of a crime in
those easy days when rank or influence protected many a
rascal. It was the epoch of the great Robert Walpole,
who took so cynical a view of the honesty of his country-
men that he considered every Englishman "had his
price." The real crime, if one stole public funds or
government moneys, was in being found out. As that
happened to be the crime of which poor Cosby was
guilty, he was brought back to England — and soon
rewarded by an appointment to the richer Governor-
ship of New York. The townsmen shook their heads
when they heard these things, and asked themselves
if they were to be forced to undergo a second Lord
Cornbury.

After a time Colonel Cosby, accompanied by his wife
and daughter, reaches the port of New York. The new
Governor looks pompous, arrogant, self-important; there
is a glint in his eyes which suggests a fellow who is on
the search for gold. Madame Cosby, whose near rela-
tionship to an Earl has not apparently added to her breed-
ing, looks bored at the sight of the vulgar Americans
who have turned out to greet the Colonel. She makes a
mental resolution that she will have nothing to do with
the women of New York, and that her one ambition will
be the saving up of as much money as possible. Not a
whit, she thinks, shall be spent in entertaining any of
these stupid natives — and not one man among the lot

shall be introduced to her daughter. That daughter's

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

name is Eleanor. She is young and pretty: she will
soon be the heroine of a romance which will set the
whole town agog. She is not so stiff as her mother, and,
indeed, from her manner one might suppose that she
would be quite glad to meet some of the young burghers.
And when one regards her rosy cheeks and shining eyes
it is plain that the aforesaid young burghers would be
only too glad to respond.

Who is the courtly gentleman who is bowing cere-
moniously to the Governor, and making some very
formal announcement ? It is Chief Justice Lewis Morris,
who is informing Cosby that' the Assembly of New York
has voted to make him (for alleged services in London
connected with the Sugar Bill) a present of seven hundred
and fifty pounds sterling. It is a princely gift; but why
does our friend the Governor frown ? Surely one gener-
ally makes some sign of pleasure when one has seven
hundred and fifty pounds as a gratuity in prospect. There
must be something wrong, however, for the frown on
the Governor's face only deepens. Perhaps he has not
heard aright what the Chief Justice said. He may not
understand that this money is intended for his own pri-
vate purse. For —yes, ' ' Gad zooks ! " " Odds bodkins ! "
"Zounds!" The new Governor is swearing! Think of
it! There must be a grave mistake. Yet listen. The
Governor, after indulging in a few more choice expres-
sions, begins to abuse the New Yorkers in round, set
terms, because they have not made him a larger gift!

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Was ever such a piece of boorishness heard of this side
of the water? The Chief Justice regards the rude
swindler in veritable amazement. Colonel Morris is a
gentleman; he cannot fathom how this English specimen
of the porcine family can look decent men in the face
after such an exhibition. And this is the man that King
George II has sent over to govern some thousands of his
loyal subjects! No wonder that before another half cen-
tury has gone by the misruled Americans will have
severed their allegiance to the British crown.

The Governor himself is not a bit mortified by his exhi-
bition of temper. He is coarse to the backbone, and he
has, furthermore, the true British contempt for provin-
cials. What are these countrified, half Dutch New
Yorkers, that he should put on manners for them ? He
will only play the gentleman when there is something to
be gained by it. When he goes into a foreign country
he will take with him the inestimable privilege of abu-
sing the inhabitants. As for this paltry seven hundred
and fifty pounds — bah! it is an absurdly small amount.
The burghers are getting richer and richer day by day as
trade increases. Let them treble the gift, at least, or
multiply it as many times as possible.

But hush! Colonel Morris is answering the Governor.
Listen! Yes! He is telling Cosby what he thinks of
him, and saying that in future he will have no dealings
with the boor, saving on official business. At supper,
the same evening, hundreds of tongues are repeating the

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manly speech of the Chief Justice and condemning the
upstart Governor.

The weeks roll on, as Cosby and his wife make
themselves more and more obnoxious to the wisest peo-
ple of New York. The one idea of the husband is to
screw money out of the Americans: the one idea of the
wife is to be a snob. Yet, in spite of the supercilious-
ness of Madame Cosby, she has not half the refinement
of the good citizens of New York. They may be a trifle
provincial in their ideals (/. e.t they do not gamble, or
take delight in breaking several of the commandments),
but they can put on a pretty front at an assembly or
concert. They dress with neatness, and a fair amount
of taste; they are sprightly and good-humored, with ad-
mirable manners, albeit a trifle stilted, and they keep
plentifully laden tables for the comfort both of them-
selves and the welcome visitors within their hospitable
gates. They have, in fine, the habits and accomplishments
of colonial gentlefolk, and they are, unlike their Governor,
neither swindlers nor blacklegs. But what cares Madame
Cosby, sister of the puissant Earl of Halifax, for all this ?
She is an Englishwoman, and the wife of the Governor of
New York, and can afford to be proud and overbearing.

And what of Mistress Eleanor Cosby ? She is deeply
engaged in a serious flirtation with a very gay aristocrat
who is visiting New York. He is Lord Augustus Fitzroy,
son of the Duke of Grafton. Madame Cosby is de-
lighted when she sees, with those shrewd, lynx eyes of

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hers, that Fitzroy has fallen in love with the sweet face
of Mistress Eleanor. It is an alluring thought, that she,
Madame Cosby, may become the mother-in-law of a
Duke's child. She will do all she can to forward the
romance. No doubt she confides her hopes to her hus-
band, the Governor; but the Governor is afraid to con-
nive at the love affair. The Duke of Grafton is all pow-
erful in English politics, and his Grace may disapprove of
the match. Therefore will the wily Governor pretend to
know nothing about it. He determines to shut his eyes
to the doings of the pair, and he does shut them.

Madame Cosby, however, has no such conscientious
scruples. When she learns that Fitzroy has at last
thrown himself at the feet of Eleanor, who has accepted
him, she resolves to bring matters to a climax. It is im-
possible, owing to the caution and the blindness of the
Governor, to give the young couple the desired display
of a public wedding ceremony. There must be an
elopement, which will have the sequel of marriage, and
at the same time save Cosby any unpleasant reproaches
from the Duke of Grafton. Happy thought. Madame
Cosby begins to make the necessary preparations with
as much zest as if she, rather than her daughter, were to
be the bride. The daughter, be it added, is only too glad
to have so determined a match-maker in the family.

On a certain bright day there is an air of suppressed
excitement in the residence of the Governor. This build-
ing, known as "The White Hall," was at the corner of

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what are now Whitehall and State Streets. Miss Eleanor
goes about the house with a heightened color in her at-
tractive face, and Madame Cosby cultivates an air of
mysterious importance. A practiced eye may detect that
something startling is about to happen. The Governor
himself has an air of pristine innocence that might be al-
most too studied to deceive the Duke of Grafton, were
his Grace in New York. Lord Augustus Fitzroy is con-
spicuous by his absence. No one speaks his name.

Evening comes. Suddenly Madame Cosby, looking as
determined as only a harsh-visaged female can, runs hast-
ily up to the servants' quarters, and proceeds to turn the
keys in the doors of the surprised domestics. There is
to be something unusual, she thinks, and the servants
shall not spoil matters by raising an alarm. Then, hav-
ing taken this precaution, the lady creeps into the room
of Eleanor, who is, no doubt, pale and trembling, as befits
her romance. Madame throws a huge red cloak over the
girl's white dress. Next she leads her through the house
and down to the gateway of the garden. Here Fitzroy,
looking handsome and impatient, awaits her with some
of his boon companions. There awaits her, too, a clergy-
man of the Church of England. He is chaplain to the
Governor of the Province of New York, yet he has
climbed a fence to assist at this irregular function. The
Governor himself is absent. He has taken good care to play
his r61e well. The fact is that he is at his club, and getting
gloriously intoxicated into the bargain.

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CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID

No sooner is the wedding party — for such it is — duly
and secretly assembled than the chaplain proceeds to
make Eleanor Cosby and Lord Augustus Fitzroy man and
wife. The following day, when the Governor has re-
covered from the effects of his club, he is, of course,
dumbfounded at the news that his daughter has eloped.
How astonishing! Who was the presumptuous groom ?
The Lord Augustus Fitzroy. Well, well! How
strange ! The Governor is willing to take a hundred oaths
that he is the most surprised man in all the province, and
vows that never before has he been so fooled by a girl.

Yet while his Excellency is protesting that he is a most
startled father, there is one girl, not his daughter, who is
engaged, in very truth, in the business of fooling him.
She is Mistress Euphemia Morris, elder daughter of the
Chief Justice Morris who has such a contempt for Cosby,
and, as it so happens, she is engaged to marry a Captain
Norris, commander of an English man-of-war now an-
chored off New York. Miss Morris, like her father, de-
spises the rude Governor. Now her chance has come to
show his Excellency, with the incidental aid of her lover,
of what stuff American maidens are made.

The thing occurs in this wise. The Governor has
made himself so obnoxious to the most patriotic people
of New York, and has tried to lord it over them with so
high a hand, that they resolve in secret to send Chief
Justice Morris over to England to put their grievances be-
fore the government. Now this is exactly what the

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Governor would not want done, if he knew of the plan.
He already fears that some one of his enemies may sail
away from the port, bound on such a mission. Accord-
ingly he issues an order whereby no one is to be allowed
to sail unless the passenger bears a permit graciously
signed by the Governor. That is a bit of autocracy of
which even the King of England would be slow to avail
himself; but what of that? These wretched provincials
have no rights that a high and mighty Governor, the
brother-in-law to the Earl of Halifax, is bound to respect.

Chief Justice Morris knows that if he is to get away to
England he must do so by stratagem. Cosby will never
grant an opponent a permit to leave the harbor of New
York. So he asks, demurely enough, for permission to
go to his home. This is a trifle wily on the part of
Colonel Morris, for the "home " intended happens to be
England, and not his place in the country. However, it
is supposed that he refers to the latter, and the necessary
permit is obtained from the unsuspecting Governor.

So far this is easy work for the Chief Justice. But it is
incumbent on him, as he has not yet departed, to be very
wary. He is now at his residence in Morrisania. Before
he sails he must secure from his friend James Alexander,
in New York, certain documents which are intended to
prove to the English government the worthlessness of
Governor Cosby. Accordingly he takes into his confi-
dence his daughter Euphemia, the fiancee of Captain
Norris. She is instructed to go to New York, apparently

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CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID

bent on paying an innocent visit to Mrs. Alexander, and
must surreptitiously obtain from the latter's husband the
incriminating papers. Miss Euphemia is only too glad
to assist in such an adventure: she is young, and ro-
mantic blood bubbles through her veins. So she dons
a becoming dress, puts a velvet riding mask over her
animated face, and is soon ready for the trip.

" The journey in those days was long and tiresome,"
says Mrs. Van Rensselaer, " the Harlem River having to
be crossed in a scow, poled by two negroes, from the
mainland to a point on Mana-ha-ta, where the horses and
coach were kept The latter was a heavy, cumbersome
affair, hung on great straps, with a hammer-cloth cov-
ering the coachman's seat; the doors were emblazoned
with the family coat-of-arms and the crest of a flaming
castle, with the motto, Tandem Vincetur. The horses
were the strong, ugly geldings of Holland blood that
were necessary in order to drag such a cumbersome
affair through the mire and over the stones. ... A ne-
gro coachman dressed in a livery of pale blue cloth with sil-
ver and wearing a triangular cocked hat trimmed with
broad silver lace, sat on the box and skilfully drove his
clumsy horses, and a negro boy hung by the tassels be-
hind, wearing the same livery, with the exception that a
jockey-cap of Turkish leather, with silver seams and
band, took the place of the coachman's cocked hat."

No sooner had Miss Morris reached the home of the
Alexanders than she had a private interview with Mr.

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Alexander, who gave her, with the utmost secrecy, the
needful documents. The two must have felt like the
conspirators in a play. There were many cautions and
whisperings between them : then the girl hurried away to
join her father, who had, in the meantime, journeyed on
alone to New York. The Chief Justice and his daughter
now began the return trip to Morrisania. On their way
they saw the frigate Tartar, commanded by Captain
Morris, passing through Hell Gate. Father and daughter
exchanged significant smiles. Well they might, for Nor-
ris was to give aid and due effect to their little plot.

Euphemia Morris was not a girl who would be content
with mere protestations of affection on the part of her
lover. She was ready to put his vows to the test (being
practical despite her romantic spirit), and had already
enlisted him in a plan to aid her father in his attempt to
steal off to England. It was a case of "Help my father,
and you have my hand." The Captain, at the risk of
throwing himself into hot water, had gallantly responded
to the invitation. It was arranged that the Tartar should
anchor off Morrisania that same evening, and then sail
away to England the very moment that Colonel Morris
boarded her. No doubt the lovely Euphemia wished
that she, too, were to take the voyage. Still, she could
comfort herself with the reflection that she had for her
fianct a man true as steel, who had already proved his
love in a manner from which many a carpet-knight
might have shrunk in dismay. One thing she knew, and

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CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID

it was, indeed, a pleasant thing to which to look for-
ward. There would be opportunity for her, amid the
bustle of departure, to have one farewell talk with Cap-
tain Norris.

That evening there was an unusual scene on the land-
ing at Morrisania. Euphemia Morris, in whose face
shone alternately joy and sorrow — joy at the conduct of
her lover, and sorrow at taking leave of him and her
father — was listening to a torrent of whispered words
from the Captain. We can all surmise the import of
those words. The Chief Justice was bidding farewell to
his other children and to Mrs. Morris. They were look-
ing tearful, as they might, for a journey across the ocean,
even in a man-of-war, was accounted a dangerous thing
more than a century and a half ago. Out in the deep
water was anchored the Tartar, from whose bulwarks
men peered curiously into the darkness. How Governor
Cosby would have ground his teeth, had he seen this little
episode; but the Governor was not there to see. In all
probability he was in his usual state of forgetfulness at
the club.

At last the lapse of time warned the Chief Justice that
he should be off. It might be supposed that this thought
should have occurred first to Captain Norris, but as the
latter was young, very human, and much in love, why
should we blame him for a delay that must have been so
tempting ? As he whispered soft nothings into the ears
of the clinging Euphemia, there was a cry from one of

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the party. It came from Colonel Morris, who shouted
that there was no time to be lost. A few more words, a
something that sounded suspiciously like a kiss, and then
the naval officer tore himself away. In another minute
sailors were rapidly rowing the gig of Captain Norris
over to the frigate. Another two or three minutes, and
the Captain, with Colonel Morris near him, was walking
the quarter-deck of his vessel. Soon the Tartar was
under sail, making directly for the ocean. Governor
Cosby was outwitted. In the pocket of the Chief Jus-
tice's coat were the papers which set forth the Governor's
treachery, greed and incompetency.

In this wise, through the connivance of a woman, did
Cosby wake up one fine morning to find that one of his
greatest enemies had given him the slip. It turned out,
however, as Colonel Morris learned upon his arrival in
England, that the Governor had such interest with the
government, through his connections with influential
people, that it was impossible to dislodge him from his
position. The English Lords of Trade cared very little
whether or not the New York "rustics " were dissatisfied
with their ruler. But we may be sure that Cosby and his
sour-visaged wife never forgave Miss Euphemia Morris
for her share in the conspiracy. That young lady after-
wards married the Captain who had risked his commis-
sion in her behalf, and we hear of her as one of the
married belles of a New York assembly.

There was another New York woman, this time a de-

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voted wife rather than a fiancee, who soon set her own
wit against the wit of the Governor, and came out of the
ordeal with flying colors. This was Mrs. Alexander,
wife of the before-mentioned Mr. James Alexander, and
one of the most beautiful young matrons in the colony.
She had more than beauty, fortunately enough ; she was
bright of mind and full of energy. Never, indeed,
did she show this brightness and energy more strikingly
than during the "Zenger" excitement. How the name
of Zenger did stir up the inhabitants of the town, to be
sure! The name is almost forgotten now, save by the
students of history, although the bearer of it did more
than any one else has done since to vindicate the liberty
of the press in America.

John Peter Zenger, a German by birth, was the pub-
lisher of the New York Weekly Journal — a new paper
that gave great comfort to the honest citizens by its at-
tacks on the sins, personal and official, of the Governor.
The articles were written, it was thought, by James
Alexander and William Smith, the great lawyer; but,
although the Governor had a shrewd suspicion that such
was the case, and offered a reward to any one who
would discover the authorship of the offending criticisms,
the mystery was not solved. At last the Governor had
Zenger imprisoned. It was a bold move; bold, indeed,
to the extent of absolutism, for it meant, if it were to
mean anything, that honest fault-finding against a public
official would be treated as treason.

139

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

No sooner had the printer been brought into court for
trial, with James Alexander and William Smith as his
counsel, than James DeLancey, then Chief Justice (him-
self a great toady to the Governor) did a strange, illegal
thing. Fearing that two such good lawyers as Alex-
ander and Smith would secure from the jury a verdict
in favor of the defendant, he promptly ordered that
their two names should be stricken from the roll of
attorneys-at-law in the province. No Czar of all
the Russias could have been more brazenly unjust and
despotic.

The people of New York were astounded, and, worse
yet, frightened. What was to be their fate under such a
tyrannical state of things? Mr. Alexander began to
think very seriously of the advisability of moving to
Philadelphia, where he might practice law, and enjoy a
greater measure of freedom. But Mrs. Alexander was
made of sterner stuff. " Why should we give in to our
enemies ? " was the substance of the question that she
asked her disgusted husband. "Instead of going away
to a new province, where we are unknown, and without
influence, let us stay here to fight the Governor and his
friends — and conquer them!" She hinted that if no
New York lawyer now dared to defend poor Zenger,
after the arbitrary action of DeLancey, help might be se-
cured from Philadelphia. There was Andrew Hamilton,
an attorney of rare power, who might snap his fingers at

the Chief Justice in New York. The latter could not pre-
140

CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID

vent Hamilton from carrying on his profession in Penn-
sylvania. Disbarment in the courts of New York would
offer no terrors for one who was wont to practice in
Philadelphia. "Let us secretly communicate with An-
drew Hamilton," urged Mrs. Alexander.

The suggestion seems to have met with approval; but
the problem now was how to see this Mr. Hamilton
without attracting the suspicion of the Governor's hench-
men, headed by DeLancey? For it was needful that
when the case of Zenger, which had been continued,
should again come up in court, the new counsel for the
printer should, as it were, take the Chief Justice un-
awares, without giving word or warning. Otherwise
DeLancey would have time to devise some plot against
him. Thereupon the woman's wit of pretty Mistress
Alexander came to the rescue. She would travel to
Philadelphia herself to ask Mr. Hamilton if he would
take charge of Zenger's case! It was a brilliant
stroke of genius. Her husband and Mr. Smith were
charmed at the idea. Mrs. Alexander should battle
for the freedom of the press, and the liberties of the
people.

The greatest caution, however, was necessary. If the
Governor got wind of her mission, Heaven alone knew
what would be the outcome. So the lady began to dis-
semble— and we all know how much better a woman
can dissemble than a man. She gave out, with a great
deal of ostentation, that she was going to Perth Amboy

141

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

on private business, and she sailed away from the wharf
in New York with as much publicity as possible. When,
however, the schooner reached Perth Amboy, Mrs. Alex-
ander suddenly found that her private business was not
very important. She stole away from the place in a
coach, and was soon rattling through the country to
Philadelphia. Sewed tightly within her silken petticoat
were the legal papers prepared by her husband for
the Zenger case. These she was to present to Mr.
Hamilton.

In due time Mrs. Alexander was back again in New
York. She told her friends that she had had a most suc-
cessful trip, in attending to that private business at Perth
Amboy. Later the trial of the printer was called up
again in court. All New York, not forgetting the Gov-
ernor, was asking the question: "What lawyer among
us will have the bravery to defend Zenger ? " Cosby was
quite sure that John Peter Zenger would find himself
without counsel. Was not the pliable tool of a DeLancey
ready to disbar any New York attorney who would dare
to brave the Governor's displeasure? What, therefore,
was the discomfiture of Cosby and DeLancey when the
distinguished Philadelphian, Andrew Hamilton, whom
they dared not serve as they would one of their own
lawyers, walked into court as the accredited representa-
tive of the prisoner.

How the Governor squirmed when he listened to the
brilliant speech in behalf of the defendant, whose only

142

CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID

crime was that he had published the truth. How the
jury craned their necks to hear every word of this Phila-
delphia eloquence. How the face of Chief Justice De-
Lancey grew gloomier and gloomier of expression. And
how the people in the court-room did cheer, to be sure,
when the jury brought in a verdict of "Not guilty!"
The verdict meant that the press was not to be enslaved,
and that the faults of a public official, even be he a Royal
Governor, were not to be regarded as sacred.

The cheers sent a flush of anger surging into the
cheeks of the Chief Justice, for they sounded like an
insult for himself. "The court will order any one who
huzzas sent to prison! " he cried, in a great passion, with
kindling eyes. There was, however, one in the audience
who was not to be overawed by this judicial bullying.
It was the dashing Captain Norris, our friend of the
frigate Tartar, who had just married Euphemia Morris,
on his return from England. "Huzzas," he cried, "are
common in Westminster Hall!" and he went on to
justify the custom with an eloquence that one might
hardly have expected from a naval officer. Then there
was renewed cheering in the court-room, which was
taken up by the crowd in the street. The day was won
for Zenger, and, better still, for liberty of opinion. It is
pleasant, as we look back on this scene, to reflect that
the man who put in so manly an appeal for American
freedom, although himself an Englishman, should have
been the husband of Euphemia Morris. Captain Norris

143

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

was, indeed, a gentleman. Had there been many Eng-
lishmen like him over in the colonies the Revolution
might have been postponed for years.

And what of that handsome schemer, pretty Mrs.
Alexander? She was the most pleased woman in all
New York, excepting possibly Mrs. Norris, when she
saw the complete success of her intrigue. Andrew
Hamilton was the hero of the hour, much to the chagrin
of the Governor and his underlings. He was obliged to
run the gauntlet of a public dinner given in his honor, a
ball, and a quantity of hand-shaking and congratulations.
When he began his return journey to Philadelphia he
went off with all the pomp due to a conquering
King.

Cosby had received a blow from which he never re-
covered. He was not a thin-skinned man, for rascals in
office seldom are, but to recall the triumph of Zenger and
the rejoicings of the populace made him gnash his teeth
with rage. One may be even worse than his Excellency,
and yet smart under public censure. So the Governor
"went into a consumption," and there was little to con-
sole him in his illness save, perhaps, the thought that his
pretty daughter Eleanor, Lady Augustus Fitzroy, had
given birth to a son who would become, in future years,
Duke of Grafton. Through these final days his wife
was constant to him, as if to show that she had, at least,
some good in her vulgar heart. He died late in the win-
ter of 1735-36, and few men were hypocritical enough to

144

CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID

pretend to any sorrow. The next year the Messrs.
James Alexander and William Smith were reinstated at
the bar. The administration of Cosby had not been alto-
gether wasted ; for it had shown that even at that early
day there were two women who were ready to aid in
preserving the liberties of America.

145

BORN TO BE A REBEL

Corner of JBoston in TRevoluticnarg Dav

n\

Jo

VII
BORN TO BE A REBEL

THERE was a mighty unrest in the province of
Massachusetts Bay for some time preceding
the historic effusion of blood at Lexington and
Concord where the embattled farmers fired the shot
"heard round the world," and thus somewhat unexpect-
edly put in motion the American Revolution. Gage and
his army of red-coats had possession of Boston, while
the patriots, as they saw but too clearly that England in-
tended to turn the colonies into helpless dependencies,
could only watch and pray— and do something more
practical. They could prepare. Old muskets were
brought from fireplace or closet and polished up; an
eye was kept on any powder and ball that might be con-
veniently near; leaden ware was secretly moulded into
bullets ; conferences were held at dead of night to dis-
cuss the future and devise ways and means for defense,
should there unfortunately arise any necessity for such
extremity. It was like living on the cone of Vesuvius,
with an eruption in prospect.

The weeks went on and the patriots became more de-
termined, as it was made plainer and plainer that Eng-
land looked upon all who opposed her blind arrogance as

149

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

rebellious upstarts. They dismantled the old battery at
Charleston and carried away the guns, to save them from
being turned upon themselves; they organized militia
companies in the towns outside of Boston; they col-
lected military stores. While they were doing this, the
red-coats were swaggering about Boston, treating the
citizens as they might treat inferior beings, and predict-
ing freely that the colonials would never have enough
pluck to stand up against half a company of well-armed
British regulars. Once a British colonel and some troops
marched to Salem to seize the cannon deposited there,
but the Salemites raised the draw of the Old North
Bridge, and the Colonel marched home again without the
ordnance. At another time soldiers were sent out from
Boston to overawe the inhabitants of a neighboring town.
These and other events roused the whole countryside to a
pitch of feverish excitement. More British troops were
on their way to America. It was known, too, that good
King George had made up his mind to crush the subjects
who had once cherished for him, while he deserved it, the
most unstinted loyalty and affection. All this mine of
disaffection, therefore, needed but a light to set it off into
explosion.

That light was soon to be applied. It was now the
spring of 1775. The Provincial Congress, at Concord,
was taking measures to raise an army and to resist
aggression. Its members appointed a day of prayer and
fasting, and calmly awaited what they wisely believed to

150

BORN TO BE A REBEL

be the inevitable. In Boston General Gage had turned
the Old South Church into a riding-school for his cavalry,
to show his truly English contempt for the feelings of an
honorable enemy. Every night the taverns of the town
resounded with the toasts of half-drunken British officers,
who drank " Confusion to the rebels! "

Now it happened that in one of the regiments which
domineered the Bostonians there was a certain Samuel
Lee, an Englishman of thirty or thereabouts. He was a
good-looking fellow, and though only a private, he came
of an old and respected family across the Atlantic. The
Lees were Tories, of the dyed-in-the-wool kind. They
looked upon the Americans as ungracious clowns who
should be punished for daring to think there was wrong
in anything that an august sovereign might desire to im-
pose upon them. The sum and substance of the philos-
ophy held by Samuel Lee's father was: "We are Eng-
lish, and, therefore, we cannot err. If the Americans
differ from us — why, then the rascally Americans are
wrong!" The old gentleman suggested very strongly
the complacent French lady who complained to Benja-
min Franklin that she had never come across any one
who was exactly right in all his or her views. So Lee
had said to his son, Samuel: " Go to the war, and don't
come back till the rebels in America are all conquered —
or dead! "

Young Lee had enlisted forthwith. He was now quar-
tered in Boston at the barracks of the Tenth Regiment.

151

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

No doubt his heart had been full of vengeance as he
sailed across the sea in a transport, and listened to the
boastful talk of his fellow-soldiers, who were loud in
their contempt for the "rebels." But there came a
change after he had been in Boston for a few weeks. He
saw that the despised colonials were staunch, honest
people, many of them possessed of refinement and
worldly substance, and all of them imbued with that love
of freedom which any Englishman should have been
proud to foster. He saw, too, that their grievances were
real, not imaginary. It began to dawn on him — for he
was without the average insular blindness — that he was
soon to fight against a much-wronged foe. But, alas,
was he not a soldier of the King, and did not honor re-
quire him to stick to his colors ? He was a brave man,
and true, but as winter passed into the spring of 1775 he
grew more and more unhappy.

Yet a man may fight for a wrong cause and feel no un-
easiness, as long as he is acting under orders. Why
should Samuel Lee take the misfortunes of the American
patriots so much to heart ? Was it merely that he had
thought the matter out, and had been brought to his
present frame of mind through the light of cold reason-
ing ? It was not that altogether. Truth compels us to
say that Lee had a very personal interest in the American
cause; he loved a fair rebel. Her name was Polly Piper.
It was euphonious enough to suggest the title of some
bouncing song — and its pretty bearer was the daughter

153

BORN TO BE

REBEL

of a Boston patriot. As she set forth the wrongs of the
colonists, her expressive, pensive face would flush with
an anger that greatly enhanced her charms (for she was
usually pale), and Samuel Lee, British soldier though he
was, could not, and would not say her nay. He was
fast becoming a friend to America, or something more
than a friend to a certain young American.

A man is not so skilful in concealing his feelings as is
a woman. Ere long Lee's fellow-soldiers found out that
Cupid had been busy with one of their number. They
began to tease the lover unmercifully. Had the latter
been in love with a Tory the teasing would have been
only of the good-natured kind; but it became more or
less malicious from the fact that the girl in the case
chanced to be a patriot. The soldiers jeered at him, and
they placarded the door of his barracks with a conspicu-
ous sign which read :

CAUGHT IN PROVINCIAL MESHES.

We may fancy, too, that Lee had to stand many a de-
claration to the effect that he was a " blawsted rebel," a

153

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

"chicken-hearted provincial " or something equally crim-
inal. Yet he went on serving his King, whilst the polit-
ical crisis drew nearer and nearer. After being detained
some days by extra duties in camp, Lee stole out from his
quarters, "and made haste to the street and door where
he had last seen the object of his growing affections. To
his surprise, all evidence of life had departed; the shutters
were closed, the doors barred, and no light flickered from
any window. His shrill whistle only brought an answer-
ing echo from the shed in the rear. He turned sorrow-
fully away, revolving in his mind the thought, could it
be that this family had been driven to such a state of des-
peration as to leave their home and go into a country
town, as so many had done ?" '

How Lee railed at unkind fate, as he looked at the de-
serted house, and regretted that he had never told Polly
of his love. In those discussions with her concerning
the rights and wrongs of the provincials, why had he
never revealed his heart to her ? Why had he not told
her that he sympathized with the Americans, British sol-
dier though he was ? It was too late now. Miss Lee
and her family had disappeared as completely as if they
had been transported to another planet, and it seemed as
if no amount of inquiries in their old neighborhood could
throw any light on their present whereabouts. When
some one told him that the Pipers had " gone to Con-
cord," Lee was made incredulous by the very promptness

1 Beneath Old Roof Trees, by Abram English Brown.
154

BORN TO BE A REBEL

of the reply. He believed that it was only designed to
deceive him. "They regard me as an enemy to their
country, these Americans," he thought bitterly, "and
would throw me off the track." So he stalked back to
his barracks, as disconsolate a lover as ever existed.
" Those bright eyes were before him wherever he went.
When on the duty of a guard at night he fancied their
tearful presence." In fine, our Samuel was frightfully
"love-sick"; the life of a soldier lost all charm for him.
How can a man thirst to fight the enemy when he has
already surrendered to the charms of a daughter of the
enemy ? And when he believes, as well, in the political
principles of the enemy ? This was why Lee groaned in
spirit, whilst his comrades continued to laugh at him and
to cry that Sam was held prisoner by a Boston maiden.

Thus winter passed into spring. Nature seemed in her
most genial mood; nothing about her presaged the com-
ing storm. But General Gage received information in
April that a quantity of powder and other ammunition
had been stored at Concord village by the desperate pro-
vincials. He determined to secure this ammunition; and
from this determination came the night march of the reg-
ulars from Boston and the engagements at Lexington and
Concord on April 19, 1775, when the curtain rose on the
first act of the drama of the Revolution.

Among the men who were ordered to march to Con-
cord was the forlorn Lee. He must have lacked the
enthusiasm of his companions, who, only too delighted

156

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

to get away from their stupid barracks, and quite sure
that there was no danger to apprehend from the country-
people, felt like boys about to be released from school.
When they heard that they were to seize the stores and
ammunition in the little Massachusetts village they joked,
in their ignorance, about the ease of their mission.
"The name of the place should be Conquered," they
laughed. To Lee the name of the place suggested
Polly Piper. Perhaps, after all, the person who
told him that the Pipers had gone to Concord might
have spoken truth. His heart bounded at the thought.
But it was not a pleasant thought. She might be there,
and he was marching to the village as an enemy.

Who has not heard the story of that memorable
march ? At Lexington there was some shedding of
patriot blood. Then and there began the Revolution.
Yet the regulars and their officers looked upon the
episode as the cupping of some over-blooded rustics —
and so marched on to Concord. It was about nine
o'clock in the morning that there came the clash at Old
North Bridge when the British received their first
repulse.

The first of the minutemen to be in readiness for the
coming of the British were those in the company of
Captain Isaac Davis, of Acton, that brave, god-fearing,
sedate Puritan. As his men were arranging their guns,
preparatory to marching, they laughed and talked, much
as the regulars had laughed and talked in Boston a few

156

BORN TO BE A REBEL

hours before. They were only too anxious for a brush
with the red-coats. But Davis, man of iron, rebuked them
for what he held to be their levity. " Tis a most eventful
crisis for the colonies," he said. "Blood will be spilled;
that's certain. Let every man gird himself for battle, and
be not afraid, for God is on our side! " So the company
became serious and silently marched away from the
Captain's house. Suddenly he called a halt. Then
he ran back to his home to take a last look at
his wife and four children. He had a presentiment
that he would be dead ere nightfall. He stood on
the threshold, tearless, but with a lump in his
throat. "Take good care of the children," he said, and
so turned away. In another minute he had rejoined his
men. With a mighty effort he forgot the father; again
he was the soldier. Later on Davis was bringing his
company into position on the highlands at North Bridge,
taking the extreme left of the line of provincials who had
been hastily summoned to resist the British. Then
Colonel Barrett held a council of war. There were, per-
haps, six hundred patriots assembled here under arms.
Not so far away, on yonder hills, could be seen the
gorgeously-clad forms of Colonel Smith and Major
Pitcairn, of the British regulars. While the American
officers were at their council, trying to determine what
to do, they saw smoke and flame rising from Concord.

"They have set the village on fire," cried one of the
patriots; "will you let them burn it down?" Colonel

157

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Barrett and his officers resolved to cross the bridge,
march into the town, and engage the regulars who
were now there. "I haven't a man that's afraid to go,"
cried Captain Davis. It was true; not one soul among all
those men of Middlesex was afraid to go.

Then Colonel Barrett gave the order to march to the
bridge, and the minutemen began to move, deliberately,
bravely. Some of the British were scattered about on
the west side of the bridge, along the Concord River.
Mingled with the music of "The White Cockade,"
played by young American fifers, came the booming of
British guns. Then there whistled by a volley from the
invaders, and Captain Davis fell, never to rise again. His
presentiment had been verified.

" Fire, fellow soldiers! For God's sake, fire! " shouted
one of the colonial officers, Major Buttrick, as he dis-
charged his own musket. The command echoed along
the line. The fire was returned. In the end the British,
after being joined by the regulars from Concord, had
broken ranks and started back to Boston in ignominious
retreat. The Revolution had begun.

" By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled fanners stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

" The foe long since in silence slept ;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps."
158

BORN TO BE A REBEL

But where was our friend, the love-lorn Samuel Lee,
throughout this trying time ? When the British regulars
first marched into Concord, and began their work of
destruction, he found himself without heart for the
task. He was so much without heart, indeed, that
one of his fellow-soldiers cried sharply: "Why, Sam,
there's no life in you! What's the matter?" Lee might
have replied that he found no joy in fighting on the
wrong side, but he wisely held his tongue. Had he been
fighting the French he would have proved, no doubt, as
brave as a lion; but to wage war against one's own
kinsmen, especially when one of those kinsmen might
be a relative of Polly Piper's, was quite another thing!
When he reached the historic bridge, as Mr. Brown
tells us, he "had no death-dealing shot for the yeo-
men." Neither did he fire on the return to Concord.
As he ran past the meeting-house, however, he was hit
by a bullet from an American's musket, and fell to the
ground badly wounded.

Some good Samaritans, in the shape of villagers,
tenderly came to the assistance of the stricken regular.
They lifted him from the roadway and bore him to the
house of Dr. Minot, the Concord surgeon. The room in
which he was placed presented an appearance of ghastly
activity. Other stricken men, with blood flowing from
their wounds, were stretched out upon the floor, while
the Doctor and his friends were rendering what services
they could. Among these friends was a pretty, pale-

159

faced but resolute girl who went about her ministrations
with the air of a heroine. She was of the stuff of which
many American maidens are made; patient, unflinching,
and ready for any emergency. At last she came to the
almost unconscious Lee. His eyes were closed; it
seemed as if he were about to die. Yet the girl leaned
over him, unshrinkingly, and began to dress his
wounds. Surely she must have started as she gazed
into his powder-grimed face. For she was Polly
Piper.

She went on, however, attending to the soldier. He
still had his eyes closed, as if he would never open them
again. Then Dr. Minot came to her. " Mary," he said,
giving her some directions. Lee opened his eyes. There,
before him, was Polly Piper! From that moment life,
which but a second before had seemed to be ebbing
away, struggled for the mastery. The lover resolved,
perhaps unconsciously, to get well; he had something to
live for.

The spring days passed on. Already the colonies
were aflame over the news from Concord, and King
George would soon be startled to hear that some un-
trained provincials had dared to fire on his troops. Na-
ture smiled more and more; the sun grew more genial;
the bluebirds chirped so merrily that it was hard to un-
derstand how war could stalk in the land. Lee was
lying under a colonial roof. The kind Doctor was
amazed that the soldier should be growing better instead

160

BORN TO BE A REBEL

of worse, for the wound had promised to be fatal.
"You'll live, Lee! " he said at last.

Lee looked at Minot with a curious expression on his
face. "I'll not live to go back to the British army, to
fight against such friends," he answered. During the
weary hours of his illness (if hours could be weary
whilst Miss Piper was attending him) he had made one
great decision. Never more would he bear arms against
a people whom he believed to be in the right. Far bet-
ter to stay with them, and to take up their burdens, if he
might. A few days later the Doctor said: "You must
have been in a very healthy condition when the Yankee
bullet struck you." For the continued improvement of
the soldier surprised him more and more. Then Lee
gave the key to the situation. " My mind has been more
fully at rest since I opened my eyes and saw Mary here,"
he said, "than for many weeks before we were ordered
to march out of Boston ! " Now the Doctor understood
all. He began to think that it was Cupid rather than
/Esculapius who had worked this wonderful cure. And
what of Mary ? She had found, as the days went on,
how very pleasant it was to know that Samuel Lee was
safe in Concord, as an invalid, rather than safe in Boston
as a well man. Her face lost its paleness; love had en-
tered her heart.

At last Lee was once more on his feet. Some one
came to him to say that, as an exchange of prisoners was
in order, he might return to the British troops in Boston,

161

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

if he so chose. But he did not so choose. Never again,
he vowed, would he serve George III. Thus spring
passed into summer, and summer into winter. Then
Lee asked Polly Piper the question of all questions, and
she said " Yes." Then they were quietly married — she
an American by birth, he one by conviction. Children
came to them, and the Lees were a happy family indeed.
It was in 1790 that Samuel Lee died. For him, at least,
the romance of life was over. He had lived long enough
to see the cause of America triumphant, and to show his
loyalty to such a cause. He lies buried in Concord town.
Some of his descendants still live in Massachusetts to tell
of the man who came to this country to fight the Amer-
icans and ended by marrying one of them. He died be-
fore his father, and never obtained the forgiveness of the
latter for his defection from the Royal standard. We
can imagine the old English squire fuming and bluster-
ing when he heard that Samuel had lost his heart among
the " rebels." To the worthy gentleman this was worse
than death. It was dishonor.

102

EDwin Jforrest at the Bac oC Cwentg*0nc

VIII
EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

CITIZENS of New Orleans who made a habit of
walking the quaint streets of that gay town,
with its suggestion of flowers and Creole life, as
far back as the spring of 1824, often must have seen,
sauntering along in earnest converse, a curiously con-
trasted pair. The elder of the two was a man of per-
haps thirty-five years of age, sinewy and not ill-featured,
but with the air of a genteel desperado who would not
hesitate to cut your throat if actually put to such an un-
pleasant necessity. The younger man was a mere boy,
not more than eighteen or nineteen, whose great shock
of black hair effectively set off a face which if not over-
refined or spiritual, or free from sensuality, was undeni-
ably handsome and engaging. The youth always re-
garded his friend with a look in which deference, com-
radeship and, withal, a certain air of independence had a
striking combination. It was plain that he was being
initiated by the elder man into the mysteries of New
Orleans life. And there were plenty of mysteries, too,
in a town which had so many elements, so many types
of mankind — French, American, Spanish, aristocratic,

165

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

plebeian, high and low. New Orleans was then, as it is
now, one of the most cosmopolitan places in the New
World.

The youth was an obscure actor by the name of Edwin
Forrest. He was born in Philadelphia, and had been en-
gaged, ever since he was old enough to know the value
of a dollar, in a rough-and-tumble struggle with poverty.
At thirteen he was working in a ship-chandler's shop in
the Quaker city, while his mother was keeping a tiny
millinery store on Cedar (now South) Street. But there
was more in him than the spirit of a ship-chandler. He
longed for the stage and its elusive honors. Once he ap-
peared as a girl at the old "South," (the theatre wherein
John Andre had acted), in a sensational melodrama en-
titled The Robbers of Calabria, but his dress was so short
that the heavy shoes and unfeminine woolen stockings
of the fair maiden were ludicrously in evidence. " Look
at the legs and feet!" cried a boy in the pit — and the
curtain was rung down amid an uproar of merriment.
Young Forrest was sent home in disgrace by the man-
ager of the theatre. He solaced himself by waylaying
in the street that critical boy from the pit, and treating
him to a good thrashing. Later he was traveling through
the West as a "barn-stormer," doing all sorts of thea-
trical work, from Richard III to a negro-minstrel part.
Then he joined a circus company, in which he displayed
a remarkable talent for turning somersaults. But he
soon hastened back to the boards of a theatre, and was

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EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

now, in this spring of 1824, playing " leading juveniles"
at the American Theatre, in Camp Street, near Gravier,
New Orleans. Such were the humble beginnings of one
who was to be known, ere long, as "The Great Ameri-
can Tragedian."

Master Forrest's friend, the man with the air of a
genteel desperado, happened to be the famous Colonel
James Bowie. His name has gone down to posterity as
the inventor of the effective " Bowie knife." Mr. Bowie,
whose father was a prosperous Louisiana planter of good
family, had been educated in a Jesuit college. But it
does not appear that he imbibed much religious impulse
from contact with the Jesuit fathers. On the contrary,
he developed into a fighter, at once reckless, fearless and
dashing, and became, as it were, the embodiment of
the wildest element of Southern life.

To the modern reader his career is scarcely known.
Yet it reads like an act from a border melodrama. Take,
for instance, his once-celebrated duel with Norris Wright.
The challenge came from Wright. Bowie resolved to
use a knife which he had caused to be made for just such
a contingency. He had taken a file fourteen inches long,
of the kind employed to sharpen saws; he had carefully
ground off the file marks, and reduced the small piece of
steel, by means of the grindstone, until it was about the
weight and thickness he desired. Then he took it to
"Pedro," a skilled Spanish cutler, who had learned to
forge sword blades in Toledo. " Pedro," after tempering

167

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

and finishing the knife, fitted it with a cross-piece and
haft. "Now," cried Bowie enthusiastically, as he sur-
veyed the result of his own ingenuity, and the Spaniard's
handicraft, " I have something fit to fight for a man's life
with! " It was, indeed, a formidable weapon. " Pedro "
had hollow-ground it like a razor, with a double, edge for
three or four inches from the point. It was fitted with a
wooden scabbard, covered with leather, and was "sharp
enough to shave the hair off the back of one's hand."
This constituted the original "Bowie knife," which af-
terwards underwent some modifications before it became
a plaything for the general public.

Colonel Bowie now felt secure. On the night pre-
ceding the duel he slept the sleep of a man who is at
peace with the world; in the morning he arose with the
gayety of the proverbial lark, and ate — as Louisiana his-
tory solemnly chronicles — a hearty breakfast. An hour
or two later Bowie and Norris Wright were confronting
each other, in the presence of some interested spectators,
on Natchez Island, in the Mississippi River. The island
was a favorite haunt for Southern gentlemen who had
little difficulties to settle without the interference of the
police authorities. The fight began, quite cheerfully,
with pistols. One of Bowie's weapons missed fire, but
both of Wright's bullets took effect upon his antagonist.
The Colonel was seriously wounded. Yet he kept his
ground with the courage of a lion. The spectators held
their breath, and stirred uneasily. "Would he be able to

168

EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

stand the ordeal much longer?" they asked themselves,
tremulously.

Wright, a formidable adversary, and lithe as a panther,
eyed the Colonel with the air of an animal who is about
to spring upon his prey. And spring he did upon the
wounded man, despite all the rules of fairest warfare.
" Bowie's done for now," thought the friends of Wright.

Bowie, however, was not "done for," by any means.
He took a step backward, pulled from a pocket his deadly
knife, and raised it on high, as its cruel blade flashed in
the warm morning sun. At once three of Wright's
friends drew their revolvers. Two of them fired — too
late, however, to save their own champion. Bowie had
made one ghastly cut at Wright's neck. The keen steel
did its work only too well. Norris Wright, already dead,
fell to the ground.

Bowie himself was so badly riddled with bullets that
his life was despaired of for some weeks. But he re-
covered, and distinguished himself in another year by
dispatching from this world, by means of the same knife,
a certain General Grain. "My knife never misses fire! "
he remarked to one of his chums.

Of such mettle was James Bowie, and amid such
curious surroundings, at once luxurious yet semi-bar-
barous, did he live. His career had a tragic but charac-
teristic termination some years after his intimacy with
Edwin Forrest. In 1835 he sold his estates in Louisiana
and went to Texas. The "Lone Star" State was in a

169

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

condition of bloody revolution. The sturdy resistance of
the Texans against Mexican rule so exasperated General
Santa Ana, whose forces were trying to crush them, that
he vowed he would take no more prisoners, or give no
more quarter. Thereupon Bowie, only too glad to court
danger and adventure, offered his services to the young
Republic, and was at once made a Colonel of riflemen in
the Texan army. In January of 1836, he was ordered to
San Antonio de Bexar to assist in holding that place
against the troops of Santa Ana. When March came,
the half-starving garrison surrendered. Then ensued a
general massacre which must forever leave a dark stain
upon the memory of Santa Ana. Among those treacher-
ously murdered, after the Mexicans had entered the forti-
fications, were Colonels Bowie and Crockett. Bowie,
who had been badly wounded three times during the
siege, but who had bitterly opposed the surrender, was
lying on his bed when he heard the triumphant Mexicans
coming in. "We have surrendered!" he muttered. It
was the first hint he had been vouchsafed that San An-
tonio de Bexar had actually been delivered up to the
enemy. The tramp, tramp, tramp of the feet was to
him an ominous sound. He knew that his life was
ended; he knew that he, of all persons, would be al-
lowed no quarter. Already some of the Mexicans were
rushing into his room. In another minute they were
shooting at him, like cowards. But Bowie was not the
man to die without a struggle. Jumping from his bed,

170

EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

despite his wounds, he leaped among the invaders with
the glare of an enraged tiger, as he began to slash at
them with a knife. There was the old time skill in the
use of that "Bowie." When the firing ended "six of
the enemy had crossed the Styx with James Bowie, and
gone with him to the shades."

With such a man as Colonel Bowie for a boon com-
panion it was not to be wondered at that young Forrest
should look upon duels with a lenient, not to say admir-
ing eye. Furthermore, there was hot, rebellious blood
flowing through the veins of the stripling actor. His
father had been a Scotchman who once peddled through
the Northern states, afterwards becoming an humble
clerk in the Philadelphia bank of Stephen Girard; his
mother was a plucky woman of lower-class German
parentage, and he himself had been almost a gamin in the
streets of the Quaker city. Gifted with an independent
spirit, yet keenly feeling his social disadvantages, it is
not strange that Edwin soon cultivated a sort of jealousy
and an affectation of contempt for the conventionalities
of the polite world. He chose, foolishly enough, to call
those conventionalities "sham and hypocrisy." Thus it
happened that when he made a stir in New Orleans, by
the youthful fire of his acting, he refused the olive-branch
held out to him by the aristocratic Creoles of the town.
He would have nothing to do with the upper strata of
Southern society ; he rather decided to cast in his lot with
horse-racers, gamblers, and gentlemen of a sporting pro-

171

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

clivity. He even went so far in his desire to be uncon-
ventional as to become very intimate with Push-ma-ta-
ha, a Choctaw chieftain who occasionally graced New
Orleans with his manly presence. " What a contrast he
is," cried Forrest, speaking of the Indian, "to some
fashionable men, half made up of false teeth, false hair,
padding, gloves, and spectacles."

Yet much as Edwin Forrest might philosophize about
"fashion," and other things, he was no more a philoso-
pher than was Romeo, when it came to a love affair.
Perhaps, if he had possessed a little more of the despised
conventionality, it would have been better for his peace
of mind when he chanced to fall desperately in love with
Jane Placide. Miss Placide was the leading lady of the
American Theatre, where Forrest was acting. She was,
furthermore, one of the most beautiful actresses of her
day. She might be a year or two older than the budding
tragedian, but what mattered that to him ? We all know
that callow youths are prone to lose their hearts over
women who are slightly their elders. And Jane Placide
could well inspire even a younger swain with the tender
passion. Her face had in it not only the beauty which
comes from regularity of feature and a pure complexion;
but, far more than that, it possessed what the poet is apt
to describe by the indefinite term of "soulfulness." As
she was of Southern birth, so also had she that softness,
and refinement, and sentiment of expression which one
sees so often in the features of those who are born south

172

EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

of Mason and Dixon's line. There was something pleas-
antly emotional in her countenance; it suggested a feel-
ing which is not to be observed in the Junoesque type of
woman. When to all this attractiveness was added a
vivacity more characteristic of the Northern belle than of
the Southern damsel, it may be imagined that Jane
Placide was entitled to the high place which she soon oc-
cupied in the hearts of the New Orleans public, both
masculine and feminine. Her acting, too, was natural,
as befitted the granddaughter of an English artiste who
had been a favorite at Covent Garden and Drury Lane.
She had a talent for investing herself with the spirit of
any part assigned to her, were it grave or gay. She
could give dashing comedy sparkle to Violante in The
Wonder, or put fire into the turgid lines of some worn-
out, classic tragedy.

But it was not until Edwin Forrest had spent some
time in the Southern metropolis that he showed his love
for Miss Placide. In the rrteanwhile, the youth made
rapid strides in the esteem of local theatre-goers, kept to
his intimacy with Push-ma-ta-ha, and at last incurred the
professional jealousy of his manager, James H. Caldwell.
Now it happened that Caldwell, who considered himself
to be a very good actor, had not calculated on the sudden
success of his handsome protege from Philadelphia. He
was a man of the world, a bon viveur, and a shrewd
business gentleman; but he was no more able to resist
the "green-eyed monster "than were less adroit speci-

173

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

mens of mankind. When the gay play-lovers of New
Orleans began to rave about the fine looks, the grace and
the wonderful voice of young Forrest, the manager who
had engaged him, and had sounded the Philadelphian's
trumpet for him in advance, began to grow angry. "I
did not bring this Yankee down here to supersede me,"
he thought, not without the bitterness of one who sees
the pupil outdistancing the master. Thereupon, suiting
the action to his jealousy, he reserved all the heroic parts
in the plays for himself, and assigned to Forrest most of
the old men's roles. This was, of course, a covert in-
sult. To be refused the impersonation of romantic
characters, where good looks and fervor are desired, and
to be relegated to the parts of feeble septuagenarians, is
naturally a great shock to high ambition. But Forrest,
who had more self-control then than in later years, bore
the ordeal manfully. He played the old men, — played
them admirably too— and made no sign. He was even
discreet enough to accompany Caldwell on a trip to Vir-
ginia in the autumn of 1824, and play with him in Rich-
mond and other cities.

It was on this expedition that Forrest had an amusing
sight of that great yet simple-hearted man, John Mar-
shall, Chief Justice of the United States, and author of
the famous "Life of Washington." The Chief Justice
was stopping at the same country inn in which Forrest
chanced to be quartered for the day. The landlady, a
corpulent female who, like Hamlet, was "scant of

174

EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

breath," came out into the old-fashioned courtyard to
catch an unsuspecting hen to roast for the dinner of the
distinguished jurist. The hen, however, proved hardly
as unsuspecting as might have been imagined, for she
had the effrontery to run away from the landlady. The
latter's breath was soon spent; she waddled here, there,
everywhere, without succeeding in trapping the wary
fowl. The Thespian and the Chief Justice looked on the
scene with almost tragic interest. At last John Marshall
could stand the strain no longer. Running bareheaded
into the courtyard, his silver shoe-buckles shining in the
sun, and his close body-coat and tight breeches revealing
his almost scrawny form, he began to clap his hands and
cry " Shoo! Shoo! " as he chased the hen from one point
to another. It is gravely recorded that the fowl who
had eluded the fat landlady was no match against the
wiles, or the imprisoning-power of the lawyer. He and
Forrest dined on chicken that day.

When the young actor returned to New Orleans, to re-
appear at the AmericanjTheatre late in the winter of 1824-5,
Jane Placide was again there as leading lady. He
promptly "fell down and prostrated himself before her
shrine." Forrest was, indeed, at a most impressionable
age, and had already been taking an innocent fling at the
muse of Poetry, albeit in pretty bad verse. For when a
certain "Miss S" left town he promptly sat down and
wrote:

175

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

" Ah, go not hence, light of my saddened soul !

Nor leave me in thy absence to lament ;
Thy going sheds dark chaos o'er the whole,
A noonday night from heaven sent"

But the affections of Edwin for the "Miss S" who so
cruelly departed was only Platonic, after all. It is very
easy to write love verses without losing one's heart into
the bargain. There is a more passionate ring, although
hardly more scholarship, in some mysterious lines begin-
ning:

"To-

" Thy spell, O Love, is Elysium to my soul.
Freely I yield me to thy sweet control ;
For other joys let Folly's fools contend
Whether to pomp or luxury they tend."

We are quite safe in filling up the blank space after the
preposition " To " with the magic name of Jane Placide.
Once that Forrest was back again at the American The-
atre, acting in the same company with this charming
Southern girl, he forgot " Miss S," or any other passing
fancy as quickly as Romeo forgot Rosaline when he first
looked upon the face of Juliet.

Yet what misery there was in that boyish love of his!
Caldwell, the Envious, was himself in love with the lead-
ing woman. The youth set his teeth together as he
thought of the advantage which the manager enjoyed in
such a suit. He, Edwin, was but the employee of Cald-
well, and, worse than that, was often condemned to play

176

EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

old men's parts, while the manager could impersonate
any theatrical hero he chose, and make most tender
stage-love to the lady. It takes a stoic to look with
equanimity on a rival who possesses so favorable a field.

Now the stoicism of a young fellow who is worth any-
thing cannot go so far as to keep him cool under such an
ordeal. No wonder that Forrest clenched his hands
when he saw Caldwell come before the footlights in the
guise of an Orlando or a Don Felix and say pretty things
to a gentle Rosalind or a sprightly Violante. He began
to scowl angrily at his manager; he threw diplomacy to
the winds; he plainly showed Mr. Caldwell that he con-
sidered him to be a very impertinent fellow. The latter
only laughed, like the cynical man of the world that he
was, and regarded poor Forrest with contemptuous disdain.

What, it may be asked, was Jane Placide doing all this
time to encourage either of the swains ? Practically noth-
ing, unless it might be to look very bewitching both on
and off the stage, and to play heroines with a tenderness
and sweetness that made all the members of her audi-
ences, masculine and feminine alike, her warmest admir-
ers. She was more in love with her art than with any
man; she liked the romance of the boards better than the
romance of real life; yet none seemed better qualified
than she to grace the latter. One always felt a desire to
quote poetry when Miss Placide was mentioned; she sug-
gested to the imaginative spectator the dainty lines from
Twelfth Night:

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

" Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on :
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy."

Soon, despite the placidity of Jane Placide, Edwin For-
rest's wrath at his rival could no longer be kept in bounds.
From scowls and innuendoes, the young actor proceeded
to high words. But how provokingly cool Caldwell in-
sisted on remaining. How he took delight in treating Ed-
win as a foolish boy!

At last Forrest, stung to the quick by this exasperating
levity, sent a fiery challenge to Caldwell. The trouble
between them should be settled by a recourse to arms !
The energetic Colonel Bowie was, we may be quite sure,
taken into the confidence of the challenger, and we can
imagine how the fearless Louisianian gave his protegi
many valuable hints for the coming duel. The coming
duel, forsooth! There was to be no duel! That provok-
ing Caldwell actually was merry when he received the
challenge. He made some good-natured remarks to the
effect that Forrest was too young to fight, and then— yes,
he had the hardihood to laugh!

Forrest was thunderstruck. Was he always to be
treated like a silly schoolboy? The thought was un-
bearable. His vanity, of which he had a great deal, was
wounded to the quick. So he wrote off the following
card, in his nervous, legible hand:

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EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

" Whereas James H. Caldwell has wronged and insulted me, and
refused me the satisfaction of a gentleman, I hereby denounce him as a
scoundrel and post him as a coward.

"EDWIN FORREST."

This bellicose announcement the young man copied
several times, and posted the cards in public places. " At
last," he thought, "Caldwell will be angry." And
with that comfortable reflection he hurried off to the
country to spend a few weeks in the wigwams and hunt-
ing grounds of Push-ma-ta-ha, the Choctaw chieftain.
After all, thought the would-be duellist, what was civi-
lized life to the freedom of the woods — particularly when
the object of one's romantic affections remained so im-
passive ? So he watched the life of the Indians, learned
a few words of Choctaw, and admired the wild charms
of Push-ma-ta-ha. This superb savage should have been
preserved for posterity in the enthusiastic stories of a
Cooper, for he is described to us as "graceful and sinewy
as a stag, with eyes of piercing brilliancy, a voice of gut-
teral music like gurgling waters," and with movements
" as easy and darting as those of a squirrel." His skin,
"mantled with blood," was of the "color of ruddy
gold."1

When Caldwell read the grandiose placard written by
Forrest he was unfeeling enough to indulge in another
laugh. Some one told him that the actor had gone
away to visit Push-ma-ta-ha. "Humph!" said the

1 Alger's Life of Forrest.
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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

astute manager, "the boy is like the Parthian. He
wounds me as he flies." This shows that Caldwell knew
something of classic history, and, far more important,
that he also knew how to turn the whole episode into
ridicule. It was incumbent on him, as a man of honor,
to treat the stormings of Forrest either seriously, or as
the idle vaporings of a lad. He chose the latter course,
and perhaps thereby saved the young Philadelphian from
death at the point of a pistol. In after years Forrest
himself could look back to this early trouble with amuse-
ment, and thank the manager, in that rugged, gnarled
heart of his, that there had come no answer to the
challenge.

But who dare say that Edwin Forrest ever forgot Jane
Placide ? Indeed, he never did quite forget this, the first
love of his youth. After he had hunted for a time with
Push-ma-ta-ha, smoked many a pipe of peace, and duly
admired the charms which all the Choctaws possessed
over the more civilized whites, he traveled northward
and began slowly to climb the ladder at whose top round
he encountered fame and material prosperity. As
month succeeded month the "wound of unrequited
love" slowly healed. Yet, unto the very end of his
turbulent career, he recalled with regret the girl who
had made New Orleans seem to him a chosen-land of
youthful romance. If we follow that career in latter life,
and read of the dark days when he separated from
Catharine Sinclair, his beautiful English wife, we find it

180

EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE

pleasant to turn back, for a change of atmosphere, to this
earlier page in his history. Had Jane Placide smiled
upon him, and joined her fate to his, and had she lived
years longer than she did, he might have proved a finer
man. The rough corners of his character might have been
polished into roundness. As it was, however, Edwin
Forrest stands before us as one who, in spite of all his
talents and successes, went down to his grave a disap-
pointed spirit. Marriage with Catharine Sinclair was a
ghastly failure, both for him and for her. They even took
their woes into court, and the spectacle was a sad one
for all but scandal-mongers.

Jane Placide seems to have taken the trouble between
Caldwell and the actor with the calmness of a woman
who cared for neither of the rivals. She was always
thinking of her art; she wanted to achieve greatness, as
Anne Oldfield and Peg Woffington had achieved it in
other days. She recalled the early trials of Siddons. Ill-
health, however, unrelentingly dogged her footsteps.
She went on slaving at her profession, charming all
audiences by the sweetness which had entangled the heart
of Forrest, until death stepped in and claimed her. She
died in 1835, and is buried in a New Orleans graveyard.
On a stone above her grace is the inscription:

" There's not an hour

Of day or dreamy night but I am with thee ;
There's not a wind that whispers o'er thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon
But in its lines of fragrance tells a tale of thee."
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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Forrest was traveling through Europe when he heard
of her death. "And so Jane Placide is dead," he wrote
in his diary. " Her disposition was as lovely as her per-
son. Heaven lodge and rest her fair soul." It was a
tender, graceful entry; it showed that all the bitterness of
disappointed love had departed. Far better than such
bitterness was the sweet recollection of a woman who
had been all loveliness.

Jane Placide is forgotten, save by some stranger who
may stumble across her grave and read the legend thereon
in the light of the warm Southern sunshine. There is
pathetic irony in that inscription now. No one thinks of
her either by "day or dreamy night." Edwin Forrest,
the last of his family, sleeps in quaint St. Paul's church-
yard, in Third Street below Walnut, in the oldest quarter
of Philadelphia. To the present generation he is only a
name, a shadow. Thus have passed away two players
who once swayed the emotions of thousands of theatre-
goers.

182

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

.fflora dfcacDonalO in DigblanO Dress

CnuJdoKt m CJfinodDBdft. moll

IX

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

IF one would see how often the history of Great
Britain is strangely connected with that of Amer-
ica, let him turn to the career of that picturesque
heroine, Flora MacDonald. She proved to be a born
Tory, did this Scottish woman who fairly bristled with
belief in the "divine right" of Kings and other archaic
illusions. Furthermore, she looked upon the patriots of
the American Revolution as rebels who deserved hanging.
Yet, despite all her sins, we pardon her, as we always
pardon the possessors of bravery and beauty. Surely we
have so far forgotten the bitterness of the War for Inde-
pendence, in the lapse of a century and a quarter, that
we can look with kindness on one who risked much, and
gained little, in the cause of Royalty.

Flora MacDonald had a sense of chivalry which would
have done honor even to a man — and man is supposed to
have the monopoly of that dangerous quality. She felt
sorry for the distress of a fellow-being; she was loyal to
the ambitious prince whom so many of her countrymen
looked upon, not unnaturally, as their rightful King, and
(what is no less potent in the inner recesses of a woman's

185

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

heart) she was not insensible to the attractions of a young
and handsome adventurer.

Young, handsome, and likewise a reckless adventurer,
undeniably was Prince Charles Edward, grandson of
King James II, who came over from France in 1745 to
plant on Scotch soil the standard of the royal house
of Stuart. What a flood of romance, by the way, did
the name of Stuart suggest in the old days, and what a
host of enthusiasts did it attract to its hopeless cause!
Pedantic James I, the two Charleses and the bigotted,
narrow-minded James II, made four of the poorest Kings
that England ever groaned under, yet they had the saving
grace, if such it may be called, of always winning for
themselves and for their family legions of devoted, honest
adherents. It only goes to show that men may be de-
ceivers, inconstant, unscrupulous, yet if they represent a
popular principle they never lack friends, either in
prosperity or adversity. In this case the principle was
that the sovereigns of Great Britain and Ireland ruled by
"divine right," rather than by act of Parliament.

It was this "divine right" fetich that kept many a
Scotchman and not a few Englishmen staunch Jacobites
long after the house of Hanover had been firmly seated on
the British throne. William and Mary succeeded short-
sighted James II; then came Queen Anne, the last of
the Stuart sovereigns, to be followed by King George I
and King George II, of Hanover; yet, despite the lapse
of time, thousands of hearts still beat true to the Old

186

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

Chevalier (he who called himself James III), and to the
Young Pretender.

So when the latter, otherwise "Bonnie Prince Charlie,"
arrived in Scotland, to seize, if he could, the birthright of
his ancestors, there was a mighty uprising among the
Scottish clans. But we all know how, in the end, the
enthusiasm of the Highlanders and the plottings of the
English Jacobites, some of whom were intriguing under
the very nose of phlegmatic King George II, came to
naught. The battle of Culloden, in which the High-
landers were so disastrously defeated, put an end forever
to the Stuart dynasty.

Although the dream of victory had vanished, there yet
remained one reality. Charles Edward, the head and
front of the rebellion, was still at large in Scotland, while
the relentless English government was straining every
nerve to get hold of the young man, intending to send
him, after due process of law, to a place where he could
no longer trouble the peace or sleep of King George II.
When the government had crushed an enemy irre-
trievably it liked to complete the work by getting well
rid of him. If the Prince were captured his head would
surely pay the forfeit; it was the fortune of war.

During his struggles to elude the Hanoverian soldiers
Charles Edward became a desolate wanderer upon the
Long Island of the Hebrides. He lacked the actual neces-
sities of life, yet he was as cheerful as if he were sitting
on the throne of his ancestors. The net was being drawn

187

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

around him so closely that escape to France seemed al-
most impossible. At this critical moment Captain O'Neil,
his Irish companion and Fidus Achates, met Flora Mac-
Donald at the house of her kinsman, Lord Clanranald.
Flora was the young daughter of a deceased laird of the
island of South Uist, and had but recently returned to
the Hebrides from Edinburgh, where she had been com-
pleting her education. She was beautiful to look upon,
with her regular features, superb large eyes, waving
dark hair, and an expression that denoted both enthu-
siasm and resolution. Her voice was sweet and low,
and the harsher accents of the Scottish tongue were not
to be heard in her speech. Captain O'Neil explained to
her that the Prince must be gotten out of the Hebrides
secretly, and he first proposed that she should guide His
Royal Highness (who was to be disguised as a maid-
servant) to the island of Skye.

Miss MacDonald considered the idea "too fantastical"
to be practicable. "A MacDonald, a Macleod, and a
Campbell militia are in South Uist in quest of the
Prince," she said; "a guard is posted at every ferry; no
person can leave Long Island without a passport, and the
channel between Uist and Skye is covered with ships of
war." But when, later, she was taken to the Prince, her
heart was touched; her prudence vanished; she resolved
to save him if she could. "Charles was exhausted with
fatigue and misery; he had become thin and weak, and
his health was greatly affected by the hardships which he

188

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

had undergone. He and O'Neil had lost, indeed, the
means of personal comfort; they had but two shirts with
them, and every article of wearing apparel was worn
out. To a feeble mind the depressed state of Prince
Charles's affairs, his broken down aspect, and the dangers
which surrounded him, would have inspired reluctance
to serve one so desolate. These circumstances, how-
ever, only softened the resistance which Flora had at first
made to the scheme suggested for his escape, and renewed
her desire to aid him." 1

Thus it was that Flora set out from the island of Ben-
becula for Skye on an evening in June of 1746, having
with her in the open boat six oarsmen, a servant, and the
Prince, who was disguised as Betsey Burke, "an Irish
spinning maid." So read the passport which she had
cleverly obtained from her stepfather, Captain Hugh Mac-
Donald, who was in charge of the militia in the vicinity.
"Betsey's" clothes, which had been provided by Lady
Clanranald, comprised a flowered linen gown, a quilted
petticoat, and a mantle of clean camlet, made with a
hood, after the Irish fashion. No one had been merrier
than the Prince when he had put on the costume: he
could see humor even amid danger.

Hardly had the party pulled away from the island be-
fore a great storm broke over their unprotected heads.
It seemed as if Nature, like the God of War, was de-
termined to present a frowning face to poor Charles

1 Memoirs of Tht Jacobites.
189

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Edward. The thunder was deafening; the waves, re-
sembling liquid mountains, tossed the little boat about as
if it were a straw; the lightning flashed brilliantly, and
lighted up the pale but undaunted faces of the voyagers.
The more the thunder pealed and the lightning played
across the gloomy sky the more did Flora MacDonald cry
to the rowers to take courage, and keep at their work.
The firm tones of her voice, and the calm, undismayed
bearing of the Prince inspired them to stay at the oars, as
the tiny craft would sink down into the trough of the
waters to rise again, the next moment, on the crest of
another wave.

Suddenly a voice, resolute and melodious, burst into a
wild Highland chant. It was the Prince, who now be-
gan to sing the Scottish songs which he had learned dur-
ing his recent campaign, and who took this way of
infusing into the rowers his own fearlessness: Night,
seeming all the blacker by the contrast of the lightning,
now enveloped the scene. Still the pleasant voice of
Charles Edward could be heard, either singing Highland
music or telling stories and legends of the long-ago. He
was young, handsome, attractive, (characteristics which
his disguise could not conceal) nor was it hard to ex-
plain, from the presence of mind and the bravery which
he showed at this critical juncture, why he had found so
many idolaters among the clansmen of Scotland. And
then his courtly manners towards Flora! He might have
been sitting next to her in the Palace of Holyrood, for

190

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

not once did he relax his winning grace and air of breed-
ing. No wonder that she already felt for him the chiv-
alrous devotion of a subject for a beloved sovereign.

At last the dawn came. The weary mariners were
near the island of Skye. Here would be temporary
refuge. But wait! What is that? A band of men
upon the shore ? They are soldiers!

The boat is turned away from the land which looked
so inviting only a minute before. Just in time, too, for
a shower of bullets whizzes around the occupants. The
soldiers have fired from the shore. The rowers now
send their craft along in an easterly direction. In a few
hours they have made what they hope will prove a safer
landing. The Prince is concealed under a hollow rock
upon a dreary beach not far from the house of a certain
Sir Alexander MacDonald, Laird of Sleite. Yet the Laird
is a friend to the House of Hanover, and has no wish to
see Charles Edward on the throne of his ancestors.
How, therefore, will Flora MacDonald save the young
adventurer ?

Some women would not have saved him. But Flora
is made of different stuff from them. She has mother-
wit, and she understands human nature. Nor is she in
any wise daunted when she finds that the hall of Sir
Alexander's house is filled with British officers who are
hunting for the Prince as so many cats might seek some
elusive mouse. Luckily enough Sir Alexander himself is
not at home; but his wife, Lady MacDonald is there, and

191

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

to her the girl appeals for aid. Lady MacDonald is not
proof against the enthusiasm and the beauty of Flora;
she says nothing to the unsuspecting officers, and even
goes to the length of sending food to the fugitive on the
beach, by the hand of the Laird of Kingsburg. In truth,
Lady MacDonald is in secret sympathy with the Jacobites.
The sooner, she says, that the Prince gets away from
such close proximity to the officers the better for his
royal head, and for his aristocratic neck.

The Laird, Flora and the Prince hasten off towards
Kingsburg. They are met by some country-people, who
fail to recognize " Bonnie Charlie " in the person of the
lank Irish maiden, Betsey Burke. When the house of
the Laird is reached his wife kisses Flora and Betsey in
hospitable fashion, but she is amazed to find that the
latter has a suspiciously rough complexion. Can this
Betsey be a bearded woman ?

We are agreeably familiar with the end of the story.
Flora, more and more charmed by the manners and bear-
ing of the Prince, watches over his safety with unfailing
devotion until he leaves Portaree. Charles Edward
kisses her in farewell. "Gentle, faithful maiden," he
cries; "I hope we shall yet meet in the Palace Royal! "
That is the last Miss MacDonald will ever see of Charles
Edward. There will never again be a Palace Royal for
this descendant of the Stuarts. He will make good his
escape to France, only to degenerate, as the years glide

on, into a broken-down libertine. No Stuart will ever
• 192

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

again disturb the peace of the sovereigns of the House of
Hanover. Better for the fame of Charles Edward had he
died when leading a forlorn hope at the Battle of Cul-
loden.

Flora MacDonald will always think of him with pas-
sionate admiration, and perhaps with a more tender feel-
ing. Who shall penetrate the hidden, inscrutable recesses
of the feminine heart, which even a woman herself sel-
dom understands ? But Flora must soon have a care for
her own life. She is arrested, brought to London, and
shut up in the Tower, on the charge of high-treason in
aiding and encompassing the flight of the Prince. Her
future looks dark, but powerful friends, headed by
Frederick, Prince of Wales, secure her release, and she
becomes, for a short time, the spoiled darling of London's
aristocracy. Then she has an audience with King
George II, the very man whom Charles Edward tried to
hurl from the English throne.

" How dared you give assistance to an enemy of the
crown ?" quizzically asks the King.

" It was no more than I would have done for your
Majesty, had you been in a like situation," she answers
adroitly.

His Majesty can reproach her no further after such a
retort, wherein girlish simplicity and Scotch shrewdness
have so peculiar a combination. She goes back to her
home triumphantly, in a coach-and-four, and afterwards
marries Allan MacDonald, son of the Laird of Kingsburg.

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Two years before the breaking out of the American
Revolution that most interestingly crusty of philosophers
and hide-bound of American-haters, Dr. Samuel Johnson,
visited the very house at Kingsburg in which the Prince
had taken refuge under the guise of Betsey Burke. The
good Doctor even had the honor of sleeping in the same
bed wherein Charles Edward had rested, for one night,
his young but tired bones. Johnson was not ill-pleased
to enjoy the distinction. He was a bit of a snob at
heart; association with Royalty, however remote, always
charmed him. Perhaps that was why he had no sym-
pathy with our own country when it was struggling to
shake off the yoke of Royalty, as represented by the
House of Hanover. "The Americans," he growled,
"are a race of convicts, and should be thankful for any-
thing they get short of hanging! "

After the collapse of the Rebellion of 1745, and the es-
cape of the Prince to France, King George II pardoned a
large number of Jacobites with the understanding that
they should emigrate to the American colonies. This
clemency was the cause of the Highland settlement upon
the banks of Cape Fear River, North Carolina. It occu-
pied a great space of land of which Fayetteville is now
the centre. To this Scottish colony came Allan Mac-
Donald in the year 1775, accompanied by his wife, her
children, and a number of friends. The son of the old
Laird of Kingsburg had sailed across the Atlantic to bet-
ter his fortunes and find peace and contentment in the

194

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

New World. But there could be little of peace in a land
which was about to be convulsed by the throes of a
mighty struggle. The Revolution was impending; men
who would have preferred to till the ground, or engage
in the budding commerce of the infant nation, were often
obliged to range themselves on the side either of royalists
or patriots. There could be no alternative, save for
mean-spirited persons who tried to keep astride of the
political fence, and hoped to descend, at last, upon the
winning field.

There was nothing of the "trimmer" about either
Allan MacDonald or Flora. They were both staunch
Tories. Flora MacDonald had risked her life to save
from imprisonment and death the scion of the House of
Stuart, and now she was prepared to take almost as great
a chance in upholding King George III., the grandson of
Prince Charlie's rival.

It was not long before the chance came for the couple
to show their preference. General Donald MacDonald,
one of Flora's kinsmen, and a veteran who had fought
on the side of Charles Edward in the battle of Culloden,
was now a doughty adherent of King George. !n the
spring of 1776, when the delegates to the Continental
Congress were meditating the untying of the bonds
which held them to the mother country, Donald Mac-
Donald sent forth a proclamation calling upon the High-
landers of North Carolina to join him in opposing the
"rebels." Thereupon he erected the royal standard at

195

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Cross Creek, in that colony. How could Flora Mac-
Donald resist the call of one who had drawn a sword,
some thirty years before, in defense of Charles Edward ?
If her relative could hasten to the support of George III,
why should not she ? She saw not the wrongs under
which the American patriots suffered; she only saw that
Royalty, ever sacred in her eyes, was attacked.

In a twinkling the woman's heart swelled with all the
enthusiasm which had animated it on that day, so long
ago, when she had promised to save a princely outlaw.
In her still handsome face was the ardor of past youth;
in her breast was the old-time bravery. It was not
enough that Allan MacDonald should join the forces of
Donald MacDonald: she must go, too, and contribute her
all towards infusing loyalty into the hearts of her fellow-
Highlanders. Thus we have a spirited picture of the
Scotch mother as she moves among the troops with
words of cheer. It is a picture whose truth was once
contradicted, but there is every reason to disbelieve the
contradiction. Flora MacDonald could not have been
within a hundred miles of soldiers whom she thought to
be fighting for the right without going to them. The
only wonder is that she did not insist upon enlisting, like
some belligerent Amazon.

Yet all her enthusiasm was to come to naught. As she
had suffered for her devotion to a prince, so would she
suffer for her devotion to a king. At the battle of
Moore's Creek the Highlanders were badly defeated by

196

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

the Americans, and among those taken prisoners was
Allan MacDonald. General Donald MacDonald, who had
been too ill to take part in the engagement, was igno-
miniously captured; he was glad to wave in the air, and
surrender to some "rebel " officers, his army commission.
All his proclamations and fulminations against the
patriots had ended in this humiliating episode.

Things went badly for Flora MacDonald after the de-
feat at Moore's Creek. She was out of joint with the
times: the patriotic Carolinians looked upon her as a
traitor, and pillaged her plantation, while her husband
was a prisoner of war. Before Allan MacDonald was re-
leased she shook the dust of Democratic America from
her feet, and set sail in a sloop bound for the old country.
Her husband was to join her later in Scotland, as he did.
They wanted to end their lives quietly in the Isle of
Skye.

There was to be one more adventure for Flora Mac-
Donald, however, ere she might settle down into a com-
monplace personage; once more was she to play the
heroine. During the passage of the sloop across the At-
lantic a French war-vessel hove into sight and trained her
guns on the stranger bearing the British flag. There came
the booming of cannon, the sharp whistling of balls, the
crashing of timber, as shot and fire came vomiting from
the Frenchman. The crew of the little sloop were almost
paralyzed with fright at this sudden onslaught. Why
should they fight back in return, they cried, only to be

197

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

sent to the bottom of the ocean for their pains ? Were
they about to surrender to the enemy ? That seemed the
only chance, of saving themselves. Swish ! How the can-
nister went hissing over the vessel! A few more min-
utes of this sort of thing and the sloop must either strike
her colors or sink forever!

One person, and a woman at that, preserved her wits
and her courage. Upon the quarter-deck stood Flora
MacDonald with flashing eyes and dauntless air. One of
her arms was broken, and she was bleeding from a
wound, but her spirit was as firm as ever. Seeing that
her companions were about to yield, she cried out to
them to be brave, and that the enemy might still be
beaten. The crew, first surprised and then stimulated to
sudden action, now turned the guns of the sloop on the
Frenchman with such effect that the latter was at last
driven off. Through all the fierce engagement we can
hear the clear voice of Flora calling out "Courage! " or
giving some direction. Such a creature was better fitted
to play a royal part than were all the kings of the House
of Stuart.

Where was the Captain of the sloop during the heat of
the action? History does not tell us; to Flora alone
belongs the honor of this engagement.

On a bleak March day of 1790 an immense crowd of
Scotch people, some three thousand in all, could be seen
wending their way slowly and mournfully to the ceme-
tery of Kilmuir, in the Isle of Skye. A stranger might

198

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY

have supposed that a Royal personage was about to be
buried. But it was a friend of Royalty, rather than
Royalty itself, which reposed in the plain coffin in front
of the rustic cortege. Flora MacDonald was dead — and
her body had for a shroud the very sheets in which
Prince Charlie had slept on the night he had taken refuge
at Kingsburg. It had been Flora's own wish that this
should be her covering. She had lived to be an old
woman, but one vision never faded from her memory.
It was the vision of a handsome young fellow, the
picture of grace and chivalry, who had kissed her as he
cried: "I hope we shall yet meet in the Palace Royal."
It was well for the romantic quality of her enthusiasm
that she never met the Prince in after years. Old age,
intemperance, and profligacy, as combined in the person
of her one-time hero, would not have proved alluring.
Assuredly, had she obtained a latter-day view of this
sovereign who might have been, she would never have
been buried in that peculiar shroud.

In North Carolina the name of Flora MacDonald still
calls up picturesque suggestions. She tried hard to worst
us in our struggle for liberty, but she was a woman in a
thousand. Let us be gallant enough to forgive her, and
to hold her character in admiration.

"The town of Fayetteville, " writes Mrs. Ellet, "covers
the former metropolis of the Highland clans. It was
surrounded by a sandy, barren country, sprinkled with

199

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

lofty pines, and the American home of Flora MacDonald
stood in the midst of this waste. The place of her
residence has been destroyed by fire; but her memory is
still cherished in that locality, and the story of her ro-
mantic enthusiasm, intrepidity, and disinterested self-
devotion, has extended into lands where in life she was
unknown."

200

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

<3taeme fcarfc, Cbc "KestDence of Sir TKUHiam fJcitb

lie Jo

X

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

GO out to the bustling village of Ambler, in Mont-
gomery County, Pennsylvania, drive back into
the country, in an almost easterly direction, for
a distance of three or four miles, turn on an old-fashioned
pike road, ask a great many questions from the natives,
and circle around still to the eastward for a couple more
miles — and then, if you are very brilliant, and have a
largely developed bump of locality, you may find your-
self looking at Graeme Park, the old home of Sir William
Keith, one of the early Colonial Governors of Pennsyl-
vania. The house, which now seems neither large nor
imposing, is nothing more than an old-fashioned, plain
brick structure. It suggests, for a human prototype,
a once respectable gentleman who is slowly sinking to
his grave in a state of fast-increasing shabbiness. You
wonder whether you have not taken a deal of trouble and
traveled a long distance, only to be disappointed.
"Relics," you think, "are not always what they are
thought to be!" You begin to feel a sense of injury.
You have been taken advantage of by some one.

But if you enter the residence, and peer into its nooks
and corners, you are soon in the best of humors, if you

203

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

possess any power of imagination or any spirit of ro-
mance. The rooms are bare, to be sure, and there are
few signs remaining of former luxury, yet the whole in-
terior has an air of the past that proves delightfully at-
tractive in that melancholy, pensive way that will be ap-
preciated by all who love to roam through a deserted
home. In yonder dining-room, with the curious fire-
place, plump Benjamin Franklin has more than once
grown pleasant over a glass of Madeira. In the wain-
scoted drawing-room some of Philadelphia's greatest
belles have laughed and chatted with elegant beaux
habited in rich velvet suits and silken stockings. In the
great bedroom on the second floor Sir William Keith has
slept uneasily as he saw, in his dreams, some bailiff
breaking into the place to arrest him for debt. During
a period of many years the now time-worn roof gave
shelter, and the several hosts dispensed hospitality, to
what was best in the social and political life of old
Philadelphia. When we wander through the second-
story, now used for a granary, and look out of the anti-
quated windows, we can fancy that we see that wonder-
ful glass coach-and-four of Sir William's, which afforded
such food for gossip to the farmers of the neighborhood.
It rattles up to the front door, the proprietor alights, and
comes stalking into the house. We can even imagine
that there steals forth from the shelter of a neighboring
sycamore-tree a seedy-looking individual who holds in
his hand an unpaid bill, and who wonders whether he

204

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

had better not wait to present it until the distinguished
debtor has been put into mellow mood by a copious din-
ner. Surely, we say to ourselves, so interesting a house
as this should contain a few well-regulated ghosts who
walk through its deserted rooms at the mystic hour of
midnight. Midnight is the accepted time for the prom-
enade of spirits.

We ask the present owners of the property if they
have ever detected any of these spirits making merry in
the place. They smile and shake their heads in the
negative. They, and their ancestors, the Penroses, have
lived within a stone's throw of the old mansion for a
hundred years, but never have any of them come across
the faintest suggestion of a departed denizen of Graeme
Park. So we must bring our own imagination into play
to people the house with ghosts. Nor is it a difficult task.
If Sir William Keith himself does not nightly revisit the
place and flit from room to room in a weird endeavor to
escape his creditors, then never let us put trust again in
the respectable belief that any house of more than a cen-
tury in age must be haunted.

Sir William was a fine example of the eighteenth cen-
tury British aristocrat who drank his two quarts of wine
at dinner, lived on the fat of the land — always greatly in
excess of his income — and then, after there was no more
money in the exchequer, died in poverty and obscurity.
There were not a few such gentlemen who came to
Pennsylvania in the old days and greatly shocked the

205

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

staid Quaker element by the lavishness of their house-
holds and the recklessness of their behavior. For while
many a Friend in Philadelphia had a fondness for the
good things of the table, and was not above sipping his
Madeira on occasion, he could never forgive any one
who spent money foolishly. The Quaker was the last
man on earth to run up bills which he could not pay: he
never trained for the almshouse. When he could not
afford turtle, he did without it.

Sir William Keith was a Scotch baronet of noble
lineage. While he was not at all successful in that im-
portant art of making "both ends meet," he possessed
another art which stood him in good stead — that of win-
ning friends to his side by courtly manners and the pleas-
ant, if not altogether high-minded faculty of being "all
things to all men." He had a certain magnetic power,
as we would say in these days, and he could put at ease
any one who came into his company, from the patrician
to the meanest laborer. After having held some impor-
tant position in the American colonies under the British
Government, from which he was removed on the acces-
sion of George I, he drifted from Virginia to Phila-
delphia, and then secured the appointment of Deputy
Governor of Pennsylvania. He brought his family over
from England to the Quaker City, in 1717, after borrow-
ing money for the expenses of the voyage, and soon
built for himself a residence (the house of which we
have already spoken) in Horsham Township, Mont-

206

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

gomery County. From that time Sir William dispensed
a lavish hospitality at his new country seat. Many were
the Philadelphians who were glad to accept of it, and to
admire, in return, his beautiful stepdaughter, Mistress
Ann Diggs.

Ann Diggs was the daughter of Sir William's wife by
a former marriage. She was soon married to Dr.
Thomas Graeme, a kinsman of her stepfather's, and con-
tinued to live under the step-paternal roof. As the years
sped onward, Sir William fell sadly into debt; his hospi-
tality cost him dear; he returned to England and finished
his once brilliant career by dying, in 1749, an imprisoned
debtor in the Old Bailey. The fawning and cringing
gentlemen who had so often feasted at his board had, ere
this, quite forgotten him, unless it might be to refer in
tones of contempt to a man who had spent money not
wisely, but too well. We eat a spendthrift's dinners,
and pat him on the back for his champagne and terrapin,
but when the bailiff stands upon his door-step we turn
our faces the other way. Poor Sir William must have
often philosophized upon this sad fact as he looked at
the iron gratings of the Old Bailey, and thought with
bitterness of the Philadelphians who had been only too
glad to doff their hats to him in the era of his prosperity.
Little marvel, then, if his spirit returned to his old country-
place in Montgomery County, to tread lightly through
the scenes of his former grandeur.

After the death of Sir William we find Dr. Thomas

207

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Graeme and his wife in possession of the Keith home-
stead, which has now been christened Graeme Park,
where they give charitable shelter to Lady Keith, the
widow of the unfortunate baronet. Dr. Graeme was a
canny Scotch physician, who contrived to build up a
large practice for himself in Philadelphia. As he grew
old and health failed, he lived more and more at Graeme
Park, and devoted himself to the care of Elizabeth, his
youngest and favorite daughter. Fragile, pale, reflect-
ive, and at the same time comely to behold, the girl was
just the one to have a romantic career. And she had it;
her whole life was romantic from the time that she fell
in love with an unnamed Philadelphian until she died,
an old woman, in the house of a friend in the neigh-
borhood of the Graeme Park which she had loved so
well.

Of Elizabeth's unfortunate love affair we know little or
nothing except that we are led to believe that the swain
proved unworthy. Perhaps he jilted her. Who can say ?
She was attractive and talented, but women of attractions
and talents had been jilted before that time. Be that as
it may, we are informed that Miss Graeme went to Scot-
land to try, if possible, to forget the lover; and that to
relieve her mind of its burden of grief she translated the
whole of Telemachus into English verse. That was a
solace in which the modern belle, who never sickens in
the good old fashion from disappointed affection, would
hardly be likely to indulge, despite the fact that the

208

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

"new woman" is supposed to be far more intellectual
than her sisters of past generations.

Elizabeth, however, was but human, after all. On her
return from abroad she took the place of her mother,
now dead, as the mistress of Graeme Park, and aided her
father to attract to that seat all who had any pretensions
to literary proficiency or fashion. At the table of father
and daughter oftentimes sat such guests as the lovable
and Reverend Mr. White, afterwards Bishop of Pennsyl-
vania, Elias Boudinot, Dr. Witherspoon, Richard Stock-
ton, and a host of others whose names were to go down
into history. Then the girl — now a woman of thirty-
three — so far forgot her first love as to yield her heart to
a young Scottish adventurer of three and twenty, who
affected a very strong sympathy with the intellectual
pursuits of the hostess of Graeme Park. The youth
was one Hugh Henry Ferguson; and despite his want
of years he had a keen appreciation of the money bags
and the landed property of Dr. Graeme.

So the two were married, albeit in strict secrecy. As
it was a forgone conclusion that Dr. Graeme would not
approve, the plan of young Ferguson was " marriage
first, confession afterwards." But when Ferguson pro-
posed that the confession should come from his wife,
who continued to live at Graeme Park, that poor lady
shuddered at the thought. Although Dr. Graeme had
been a fond father, there was no telling how the old gen-
tleman might take this news. The bride in very fear

209

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

refused to say a word. "Then if you tell not your
father yourself," cried the groom, who was anxious to
make peace with the good Doctor and his banker's
account as soon as possible, " /shall tell him! "

Thus adjured, there was nothing left for Mrs. Ferguson
to do save to make the confession. Upon a cool autumn
morning of 1772, as the father was taking his daily walk
through the Park about an hour before breakfast, the
poor woman (for poor is any woman who must tell how
she has thrown herself away on a worthless fortune-
hunter) crawled down-stairs and waited for Graeme's
return.

"I sat on the bench at the window," she afterwards
wrote, "and watched him coming up the avenue. It
was a terrible task to perform. I was in agony; at every
step he was approaching nearer!"

Then a strange, uncanny thing happened. As the
frightened daughter sat near the window, trembling at
the thought that another minute would bring her face to
face with the Doctor, he suddenly reeled, stretched out
his hands, as if for aid, and then fell dead upon the path.
When his daughter reached him, the old man was beyond
the hearing of any confession she might have made. It
was well, perhaps, that he should die at this tragic
moment. It almost seemed as if Providence had inter-
posed to prevent a wretched scene between parent and
child.

Mrs. Ferguson was plunged in grief at the Doctor's

210

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

death, though her husband was, no doubt, more recon-
ciled. Did not the worthy Graeme have some gold and
silver to leave behind ? And had not Mr. Ferguson the
true old-world scent for a legacy ? After the father
had been buried with much honor, the daughter and
her young husband settled down to dwell at Graeme
Park, as if they were about to imitate the " once upon a
time" lovers of a fairy tale, who always end by "living
happily forever after." But the breaking out of the
Revolution put an end to all the dreams which Elizabeth
Ferguson had enjoyed. They were dreams of books,
conjugal love, Arcadian pleasures, and elegant idleness.
The peace of many an American home was destroyed by
this bitter struggle, and Graeme Park was to prove no
exception.

Ferguson was not slow in declaring himself a Tory,
notwithstanding that he had an American wife and was
being supported by American money. To him the
patriots were merely misguided "rebels," only worthy
of execution, and he saw no reason why the "insurrec-
tion " should not be quelled in a few months. He en-
gaged in the British service, therefore, and gradually
drifted away from his wife, to die, at last, fighting in the
Flemish wars. Thus Mrs. Ferguson lost her young hus-
band, and never learned to see that she had gained by
the deprivation.

Poor woman! She had a great abundance of what

old-fashioned authors called "sentiment." She dearly

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

loved her own country, but she quailed before the horrors
of war. While many a fair American was urging her
relatives to resist the aggressions and the arms of Britain,
be the cost and the flow of blood what they might,
Elizabeth Ferguson's one idea was to stop the carnage,
and bring peace between the colonies and the mother-
country. No wonder, then, that she did some very
foolish things, out of mistaken zeal, and brought down
upon herself the wrongful suspicion of being a traitor.

She loved animals of all kinds, were they birds, or
dogs, or the beasts of the field. Why then, she reasoned,
should man, the highest of all the animals, be subjected
to the calamities of sword, fire, powder and bullets ?

When the Rev. Mr. Duch6, a faint-hearted Philadelphia
clergyman, wrote to Washington suggesting that the
cause of Independence was hopeless, and asking him
to compromise with the British, Mrs. Ferguson under-
took to be the bearer of the letter. Here, she thought,
was a chance for her to bring this wretched conflict to a
close. But Washington became as angry as it was
possible for a man of so well-governed a temperament to
be: he openly rebuked Duche, and plainly showed that
he was nettled at the unseemly activity of the lady.

Under a date in October of 1777 Washington wrote to
the President of Congress: "I yesterday, through the
hands of Mrs. Ferguson, of Graham [sic] Park, received a
letter of a very curious and extraordinary nature from
Mr. Duche, which I have thought proper to transmit to

212

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

Congress. To this ridiculous, illiberal performance, I
made a short reply by desiring the bearer of it, if she
should hereafter by any accident meet with Mr. Duche,
to tell him I should have returned it unopened, if I had
had any idea of the contents; observing at the same time
that I highly disapproved the intercourse she seemed to
have been carrying on, and expected it would be dis-
continued. Notwithstanding the author's assertion, I
cannot but suspect that the measure did not originate
with him; and that he was induced to it by the hope of
establishing his interest and peace more effectually with
the enemy."

Duche afterwards went to England. More than five
years later, in seeking to pave a way for his return to
America, the clergyman said, in an apologetic letter to
Washington: " I cannot say a word in vindication of my
conduct but this, that I had been for months before
distressed with continual apprehensions for you and all
my friends without the British lines. I looked upon all
as gone; or that nothing could save you, but rescinding
the Declaration of Independence. Upon this ground
alone I presumed to speak; not to advise an act of base
treachery; my soul would have recoiled from the thought;
not to surrender your army, or betray the righteous cause
of your country, but, at the head of that army, support-
ing and supported by them, to negotiate with Britain for
our constitutional rights."

Duche returned to Philadelphia in 1792, and paid a

813

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

visit to President Washington, who " manifested gener-
ous sensibility " on perceiving that the poor gentleman
had suffered from a slight stroke of paralysis.

Nothing daunted by her failure with the Duche letter,
and still intent upon her ambition to end the war, Mrs.
Ferguson was sentimental enough to enter into the
schemes of Governor George Johnstone, one of the com-
missioners deputed by authority of Parliament to settle,
if he could, the differences between America and Great
Britain. "I should like," said Johnstone, in his uninten-
tionally arrogant way, "to secure the influence of
General Reed. If you should see him I should like you
to convey the idea that if he could, conformably to his
conscience and views of things, exert his influence to
settle this dispute, he might command ten thousand
guineas, and the best post under the English Govern-
ment."

"I question," answered Mrs. Ferguson, "whether
General Reed would not look upon such a mode of
obtaining his influence as a bribe."

"No bribe, my dear Madame," said Johnstone, confi-
dently. "Such a mode of proceeding is common in all
such negotiations, and one may honorably make it a man's
interest to step forth in Britain's cause."

In fine, Governor Johnstone was offering a bait which
he himself, as a man of honor, would not have consid-
ered for one second. Mrs. Ferguson was at last induced,
rather against her will, to ask for an interview with Reed.

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THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

This she readily secured. When she had repeated to the
General the proposition of Johnstone, the American re-
plied: "I am not worth purchasing; but, such as I am,
the King of Great Britain is not rich enough to do it!"
The remark passed into history; from that moment any
attempt at compromise proved unpopular, and was re-
garded as treason.

It soon leaked out that Mrs. Ferguson was the woman
who had sought to "tamper" with General Reed, and the
patriotic newspapers were quick to hold her up to public
scorn. Congress took notice of the matter; the unfor-
tunate mediator was reduced to tears. "I own I find it
hard," she said plaintively, "knowing the uncorruptness
of my own heart to be held out to the public as a tool to
the [British] commissioners. But the impression is now
made, and it is too late to recall it." Worse than all, it
was even hinted that she had played her thankless part
in order that her husband — whom she still loved with an
ardor which he hardly deserved — might gain promotion
in the British service. Then Johnstone, to cap the climax,
tried to wriggle out of the whole matter by proclaiming
on his return to England that he had been misquoted and
misunderstood. It is but an example of the way in
which many of the British treated the Americans, men
and women alike, through the continuance of the whole
struggle.

"Among the many mortifying insinuations that have
been hinted on the subject," wailed the distracted Mrs.

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

Ferguson, "none has so sensibly affected me as an inti-
mation that some thought I acted a part, in consequence
of certain expectations of a post, or some preferment
from Mr. Johnstone, to be conferred on the person
dearest to me on earth. On that head I shall say no
more, but leave it to any person of common sense to de-
termine, if I had any views of that kind, whether I should,
in so full and solemn a manner, call in question what
Mr. Johnstone has asserted in the House of Commons."

All of which shows that a woman, particularly one
who knows more of books than of men, should never
attempt to play the politician. Yet Mrs. Ferguson, who
was looked upon with suspicion by many of her coun-
trymen, had spun with her own hands a quantity of
linen which she directed to be made into shirts for the
American prisoners who had been brought into Philadel-
phia after the battle of Germantown.

There is something sad and pathetic in the end of the
poor lady. She lost a great part of her fortune; and lost,
too, the privilege of a home amid the trees and fields of
Graeme Park. The two romances of her life — her love,
first for an unworthy lover, and then for an unworthy
husband — were sad indeed, and she was not sorry when
the end came. She died in the house of a charitable
friend near Graeme Park, in February of 1801. Surely
her gentle spirit must pay an occasional visit to the home
of her father.

Of the history of Graeme Park since its occupancy by

216

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK

Elizabeth Ferguson there is nothing that needs the retell-
ing. The old mansion itself, now sinking into decay,
furnishes a chronicle and moral of the rise and fall of
family grandeur. If we look at the unfurnished rooms
we realize how quickly human glory may fade away.
The place is a sermon in stone more strikingly illustrative
than the discourses of a hundred ecclesiastics. But it is
pleasant to reflect, if we are fond of the uncanny, that
ghosts must frequent the house, gliding in and out the
silent chambers and peering gloomily at one another.
What a shadowy group to encounter! The elegantly-
dressed Sir William Keith, his dainty wife, shrewd-eyed
Dr. Graeme (if anything so ethereal as a spirit can look
shrewd of eye), dignified Madame Graeme, unhappy
Elizabeth Ferguson and her scheming Tory husband.
"Scarcely any house in the colonies," observes Thomas
Allen Glenn in his Colonial Mansions, "had a career
more eventful, or sheltered at various times a greater
number of distinguished persons, some of whom died
rich and great, whilst others, equally talented, but less
favored by that fickle jade, fortune, perished in obscurity
and wretched poverty."

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

pbilipse

XI

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

TO the generality of Americans George Washing-
ton— yes, let us be frank enough to confess it —
seems to have been a highly virtuous but utterly
passionless figure in history, resourceful, great, even
superhuman, but cold as the statue of some classic hero.
We are prone to forget that the " Pater Patriae," as our
great-grandfathers were fond of calling him, had his
affections and emotions, like humbler persons. We often
forget, too, that he had a youth, much as all others have
had a youth, with its fancies, its illusions and its little
romances. It is a pity to put him on too high a pedestal,
for thereby we are only turning one of the most interest-
ing men in the annals of the Anglo-Saxon world into an
unnatural, stupid automaton who always did the right
thing in the right place simply because he could not help
himself. The more human we find George Washington
to be, the more strongly do his self-control and honesty
of purpose stand out before us in a clear, powerful
light.

Yet it is only when we study the early life of Wash-
ington that we get satisfactory glimpses of this humanity.

Then we detect the inner character of the man before he

221

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

has enveloped himself in a mask of impenetrable will-
power. Later on we may catch a brief glance of his
impetuosity, so often curbed or hidden altogether, when
he is swearing like a trooper at General Lee on the field
of Monmouth, or angrily striking a blundering artillery-
man with the flat of his sword in a marsh near Gulf
Mills. But these are only occasional flashes of fire. If
we would see George Washington in a truly romantic
guise we must take him at the susceptible age when he
was wont to sigh, like any other swain, for pretty maid-
ens who frowned upon his love.

For the matter of that, as the late Paul Leicester Ford
has truly pointed out, "during the whole of his life
Washington had a soft heart for women, and especially
for good-looking ones," and was more at ease with
them than in his relations with his own sex. But as
time went on he placed a break, as it were, upon his
sensations, so that he could calmly write, not so very
long before his death: "Love may and therefore ought
to be under the guidance of reason, for although we
cannot avoid first impressions we may assuredly place
them under guard."

This copy-book maxim was one that the future " Pater
Patriae " did not always follow out in the days of his
youth, when he was ready to offer his hand and heart to
the first pretty girl who chanced to cross his path. Per-
haps more than one of those girls lived to reproach her-
self, in after years, that she had not smiled on the man

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

who was to occupy one of the proudest positions in
history.

One day, when still a schoolboy in Virginia, young
George was caught " romping" with "one of the largest
girls " in the class, while at the mature age of sixteen he
was "hopelessly" in love with a "Lowland Beauty," as
he called her, whose name has never been authoritatively
learned. " My place of residence," he wrote to a corres-
pondent from the plantation of his patron, Lord Fairfax,
" is at present at His Lordship's, where I might, was my
heart disengaged, pass my time very pleasantly, as there's
a very agreeable young lady lives in the same house
(Colonel George Fairfax's wife's sister), but as that's
only adding fuel to fire it makes me the more uneasy,
for by often and unavoidably being in company with
her revives my former Passion for your Low Land Beauty,
whereas was I to live retired from young women I might
in some measure deviate [sic\ my sorrows by burying
that chast [sic] and troublesome Passion in the grave of
oblivion or eternal forgetfulness, for as I am very well as-
sured that's the only antidote or remedy that I shall be
releivd [relieved] by or only recess that can administer
any cure or help to me, as I am well convinced was I
ever to attempt anything I should only get a denial which
would be only adding grief to uneasiness."

How charmingly quaint and old-fashioned is this wail
from the heart; how like is it to the budding love-sick-
ness of any other healthy lad, and therefore how attract-

223

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

ive it seems. Yet through it all shines, albeit faintly,
that prudent spirit which in after years would help to
make Washington one of the most careful men of a not
too careful age. If he can only get away from feminine
society, he thinks, he might forget the "Lowland Beauty."
But as he is not yet much of a philosopher he goes on
loving the "Beauty" until some other belle usurps her
place in his roving affections. He even takes to reading
and writing poetry and pens in a book these heated,
unpunctuated lines:

" O ye gods, why should my Poor Resistless Heart

Stand to oppose thy might and Power
At last surrender to Cupid's feathered Dart

And now Lays Bleeding every Hour
For her that's Pityless of my grief and Woes

And will not on me Pity take
He sleep amongst my most inveterate Foes

And with gladness never wish to wake
In deluding sleepings let my Eyelids close

That in an enraptured Dream I may
In a soft lulling sleep and gentle repose

Possess those joys denied by Day."

At the same fervid period he inscribes an acrostic upon
the fair name of Frances Alexander, the daughter of a
planter living in the neighborhood of Mount Vernon. It
starts off impetuously:

«' From your bright, sparkling eyes I was undone ;
Rays, you have ; more transparent than the sun."

Fancy the august President Washington, and try to

224

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

compare him to the ardent Romeo who sighs and talks
about "transparent rays" or "bright, sparkling eyes"!
It is only by such glimpses as these that we learn to
know the true Washington, and to admire him all the
more because of his undercurrent of strong, fibrous
humanity.

At the age of nineteen our hero had so far forgotten
several of his earlier loves as to cultivate another " hope-
less" and equally unrequited passion for Miss Betsey
Fauntleroy, a young Virginian of undoubted charm. Miss
Betsey, indeed, was so cruel as to present the poor fellow
with the proverbial mitten, and to accompany the un-
welcome gift, no doubt, with kindly remarks of a sis-
terly but wholly unamorous nature. Yet Washington,
who had even then the quality of obstinacy, determined
not to be discouraged. He resolved to try Mistress
Fauntleroy again, and to shake, if possible, that obduracy
which would make him miserable for life if she perse-
vered in it. So he wrote a letter to one of her family,
explaining that he had been suffering from pleurisy, but
promising himself the pleasure of once more storming
the Fauntleroy fortress. " I propose, as soon as 1 recover
my strength," he said, " to wait on Miss Betsey in hopes
of a revocation of the former cruel sentence, and see if I
can meet with any alteration in my favor."

Miss Betsey was not, however, to be won over. She
refused George Washington, and he was left to console
himself by gazing on some other pretty face. This he

226

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

did, in short order, and soon found that he contrived to
keep quite cheerful in spite of the hard-heartedness of
the young lady. It is even said that he went so far in
his amours as to fall desperately in love with the wife of
his friend, George William Fairfax. It is probable, how-
ever, that his intimacy with Mistress Fairfax was per-
fectly innocent, and went no further than the respectful
homage which he always paid, even after his marriage,
to a handsome woman.1

The most earnest of all Washington's love affairs,
saving the one which made him the husband of Martha
Custis, was that of which the elegant Mary Philipse, the
sister of Mrs. Beverley Robinson, was the unresponsive
heroine. It was in 1756, when he was twenty-four years
old, and rejoicing in a new-made military glory, that he
fell a victim — so, at least, says Dame Tradition — to the
charms of this lady. He had first electrified Virginia by
his now famous expedition against the French, and his
defense of Fort Necessity ; afterwards the young officer
had behaved with the greatest bravery during the terrible
defeat of General Braddock near Fort Duquesne. All the
colonies had rung with accounts of his gallantry, which
seemed all the more conspicuous because it showed out
to the astonished world in strange contrast to the
cowardice of many of the English regular troops. Poor
Braddock, like the narrow-minded general that he was,
had affected to despise the provincial soldiers, and to

« Vide The True George Washington.
226

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

boast of what his Englishmen would do when the time
came for action against the French and Indians. But
when that time did come, it was the provincials who had
the most nerve; the English ran "like sheep pursued by
dogs." Washington himself rode here, there, and every-
where trying to help the officers in bringing order out of
panic, as the bullets whistled merrily around him. When
he returned unhurt to Virginia his friends declared that he
must lead a charmed life, in thus escaping from the
dangers of the wilderness, while an eloquent clergyman
predicted that God, in having preserved the hero, was
intending him for greater service to his country in the
future. Many a story was told of the youth, during the
winter after the massacre near Fort Duquesne, as the
planters sat smoking near their blazing fires, and the
wind, sounding like the cries of the Indians who had
fallen upon the soldiers, came screaming down the great
chimneys. Children listened as their fathers related how
Washington had often warned Braddock to beware of
ambuscades; how the General had scouted the very
thought that his precious English regulars would be
frightened by "rascally" Indians; how he had sneered,
too, when wily Benjamin Franklin had ventured to say
that it was no safe thing for a long, thin, unprotected
column of soldiers to wind through pathless forests, with
hostile redskins hovering near. Then the planters would
lower their voices, and the children would shudder with

a sort of painful pleasure, while the melancholy sequel to

327

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

all this warning had recital in dramatic tones. As the
troops marched bravely through the woods to capture
Duquesne they were fallen upon by Indians and French
hidden in dangerous ravines, and many of the English
were slaughtered as if they had been rats in a trap. Then
the story-tellers, stirring up the flaming logs, would
describe the wounding of Braddock, his pathetic
despair as he saw, when too late, that the day was lost
by his own rashness — and then his death, followed by a
forest burial with Washington reading the service of the
Church of England. It made a fine tale. Many a
little chap took his candle, and went up to his cold room
in fear, trembling as he fancied that the wind without
was nothing less than an army of Indians waiting to
break into the house, to tomahawk the whole family.

It was the prestige resulting from this bravery under
Braddock that caused Washington to be treated with
welcome civilities during a trip he made to Boston on
horseback in 1756. The young Colonel was now com-
mander-in-chief of the provincial troops of Virginia, and
he journeyed to Boston to interview General Shirley on
some military business. On his way he tarried in New
York, where he was lavishly entertained by Beverley
Robinson, one of his friends who was to develop into
a Tory after the breaking out of the Revolution because
he would disapprove of independence.

No one now had a thought of Revolution or independ-
ence. All Americans were good loyalists, and Colonel

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

Washington drank daily to the health of old King George
II, as fervently as did the most hide-bound Briton.
And when Mr. Robinson lifted his glass at dinner, with
the accompanying sentiment of "To His Majesty/'
Washington could not foretell that in less than twenty
years he would himself be engaged in a life-and-death
struggle with the grandson of this self-same "Majesty."

One thing, however, the Colonel did see, and that very
plainly. There sat at the Robinson table Miss Mary
Philipse, the sister of the hostess, and as she was both
young and handsome, with a fascinating manner wherein
dignity and cordiality had peculiar mixture, the Virginian
found an occasional look at her face, and a gallant remark
dropped in her ear now and then, a very pleasant occu-
pation. Miss Philipse, in turn, admired the fine martial
bearing of this tall militia officer. She was quite willing
that he should say complimentary things to her, particu-
larly when he reinforced them by bows of the most
scrupulous good breeding. She appreciated breeding,
for she was the daughter of Frederick Philipse, lord of
the manor of Philipseborough, and had been brought up
in a manner befitting a girl who seemed destined to play
a brilliant social part in the colonies.

For the— was it the tenth or the twentieth— time in
his life Washington was completely, "hopelessly" in
love. The charms of Mary Philipse were too much for
his equanimity. He was obliged to push on at once to
Boston, but he resolved that he would pay a visit under

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

the hospitable roof-tree of the Robinsons on his return
journey to Virginia. He was soon back in New York,
and there is a legend which says that on a certain after-
noon he sat in deep converse with the charmer long after
it was time for the Robinson servants to light the candles.
Did he propose to her in the twilight ? Was he refused ?
To these questions the legend answers "Yes." At last
the Colonel rode away, and never saw Miss Philipse
again until she had become the wife of Captain Roger
Morris, of the British Army. After Washington had
reached Virginia a friend wrote to him that if he wished
to win Miss Philipse he should hurry North as there was
"a rival in the field." But he did not ride back to New
York. Probably he knew the exertion would be useless.
The after years of Mary Morris were in almost tragic
contrast to those of the man whom she was believed to
have refused. Roger Morris remained loyal to the
British Army during the Revolution, and his wife, who
clung to his fortunes, or rather his misfortunes, was
attainted for treason. She died in England when ninety-
six years old, many years after the remains of Washing-
ton had been consigned to the tomb. It is interesting, if
somewhat idle, to speculate as to what would have hap-
pened had Mary Philipse married George Washington.
She was a Tory by birth and instinct, and she was like-
wise a woman who exerted a strong influence over those
with whom she was brought into association. It has
been hinted that had she been the wife of the Virginian

230

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

she might have turned him into a Royalist, and thus
changed the pages of history. Yet to have altered the
convictions of such a man, and swerved him from what
he thought the path of duty, would have required a
power which, in all probability, no woman in the colo-
nies possessed. For, as any student of masculine human
nature will admit, it is one thing for a strong man to fall
in love with a pretty face, and quite another thing for
the same man to live under the dominion of the same
pretty face. "Washington could not have been a traitor
\i. e., a patriot] with such a wife as Aunt Morris," said
one of her nephews, more than half a century ago. But
we beg leave to disagree with this uncompromising
Tory.

After having been refused by more than one American,
it is a pleasure to find Washington in the role of a suc-
cessful lover with the Widow Custis. The only wonder
is that a young fellow who possessed so keen an admi-
ration for the fair sex should not have been accepted pre-
viously by a " Lowland Beauty," a Betsey Fauntleroy or
a Mary Philipse. However, we know that the gallant
Colonel had plain sailing into the heart of Martha Custis.
Perhaps experience had made him wiser.

Martha Washington began life as Martha Dandridge,
the daughter of a good family which long before her
birth had emigrated into the colony of Virginia. At the
early age of sixteen she was one of the belles of Will-
iamsburg, the capital of the colony ; at seventeen she had

231

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

married Colonel Daniel Parke Custis, a prosperous planter
on the banks of the Pamunkey River. She was soon left
a widow with a fine fortune for consolation. This for-
tune she managed with great business skill, considering
that she lived in an age when women were supposed to
know nothing about business. Her other worldly pos-
sessions included two fine children and unmistakable
good looks. She now had what the old-fashioned
chronicler poetically terms "the full bloom of beauty."
Her neighbors soon began to ask themselves, with much
wise nodding of heads, whether the chatelaine of the
"White House" would not soon look around for an-
other helpmate who would be glad to manage her
estate.

The months rolled on, and still Madame Custis re-
mained single. At last, in 1758, a tall, imposing officer,
attired in military undress, and accompanied by a body-
servant, crossed Williams's Ferry, over the Pamunkey
River, on his way from Winchester to Williamsburg on
official business. When the ferry-boat touched the
Southern or New Kent side of the stream the gentleman,
who was none other than Colonel Washington, was ac-
costed by a Mr. Chamberlayne, a hospitable person living
in the neighborhood, who is described as the beau ideal
of the Virginian of the old regime— "the very soul of
kindness and hospitality."

"You must stop at my house for the night, Mr. Wash-
ington," insisted Mr. Chamberlayne.

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WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

" It is impossible," answered the Colonel, bowing po-
litely. " I have important business at Williamsburg."

"Ah," protested Chamberlayne; "you must dine with
me at the very least." And the would-be host added, with
a merry twinkle in his eye, that he would introduce the
Colonel to a "young and charming widow" who hap-
pened to be paying a visit to his family. So the Colonel,
overwhelmed by the insistent kindness of the Virginian,
accepted the invitation to dine, although he announced
that he must continue his journey before nightfall. When
the two reached the Chamberlayne house, Washington
was presented to its occupants, including Martha Custis,
the " young and charming widow."

The afternoon which the Colonel passed with the
widow has become historic. He forgot sweet Mary
Philipse, with whom he had tarried so long in much the
same way that he was now delaying with the pretty
widow. He made up his mind that Mrs. Custis was
delightful; while she in turn smiled graciously upon one
of whose prodigious valor she had heard many flattering
stories. The sun went down, and the Colonel so far
forgot his good resolutions to continue his ride as to con-
sent to spend the night at Mr. Chamberlayne's house.
"No guest," said the host, who began to see which way
Cupid was shooting his arrows, "ever leaves my man-
sion after sunset." This particular guest made no demur.
Williamsburg could not melt away; the town would still
be in existence if he arrived there a trifle behind time.

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

The next day, we are told, was far advanced when
"the enamored soldier was on the road to Williams-
burg." As soon as he could get away from the Virginian
capital he hastened back to see the widow, and with
what results all the world knows. It soon began to be
whispered around in New Kent County that Madame
Custis was to marry the young officer, who was now the
sole owner of the Mount Vernon estate. More than one
colonist vowed that George Washington was a "shrewd
fellow." So the couple were married and " lived happily
forever after." Washington sighed no more for "Low-
land Beauties," or for beauties of any other kind, and
although he never lost his keen relish for a pretty face,
he made a loyal, chivalrous husband. There is no doubt,
despite certain sneers, that he had, from the first, a
warm affection for his wife. It was nothing to his dis-
credit if the lady chanced to have a comfortable fortune,
which he was able to manage skilfully and with prudence.

Mrs. Washington shines out through the vanishing
twilight of the past as a worthy, matronly woman, who
proved to be just the wife a man like Washington needed.
She was a capital housewife and a well-bred hostess.
Although she had a little temper of her own, and was
very human, she yet had vast tact and sagacity. A wife
who talked too much might have ruined the influence of
the General, while a bluestocking who tried to meddle
in statecraft would surely have quarreled with him.
But Martha Washington was energetic without being

234

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

gossipy, and housewifely without being dull. It is well
for America, therefore, that the "Pater Patriae" did not
win a sprightly Fauntleroy or an implacable Mary
Philipse. "Mrs. Washington appeared to me one of the
best women in the world," wrote the Marquis de Chas-
tellux, and no better epitaph than that can be found for
the loyal wife who helped America by helping her hus-
band.

Shortly before passing away, Mrs. Washington de-
stroyed all but one of her collection of letters written to
herself by the General. The one that she spared, which
refers to his appointment as Commander-in-Chief of the
Revolutionary Army, contains a sincere tribute of affec-
tion. " You may believe me, my dear Patsy," he says,
" when I assure you in the most solemn manner, that, so
far from seeking this appointment, I have used every
endeavor in my power to avoid it, not only from my un-
willingness to part from you and the family, but from a
consciousness of its being a trust too great for my capac-
ity, and that I should enjoy more real happiness in one
month with you at home than I have the most distant
prospect of finding abroad, if my stay were to be seven
times seven years. ... I shall feel no pain from
the toil or the danger of the campaign; my unhappiness
will flow from the uneasiness I know you will feel from
being left alone. I therefore beg, that you will summon
your whole fortitude and pass your time as agreeably as
possible. Nothing will give me so much sincere satis-

235

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

faction as to hear this, and to hear it from your own
pen."

Perhaps Washington was not so anxious to avoid the
command of the army as he hints in this letter; but of
his regret at being obliged to leave his wife there can be
no possible shadow of doubt. The good lady, however,
saw not a little of her lord and master during the long
war. She accompanied the General to the lines before
Boston, and witnessed its siege and evacuation, before
returning to Mount Vernon. At the close of each cam-
paign thereafter an aid- de-camp repaired to her home
to conduct the mistress to her husband's headquarters.
The arrival of the aid-de-camp at headquarters, " escort-
ing the plain chariot with the neat postilions in their
scarlet and white liveries was deemed an epoch in the
army, and served to diffuse a cheering influence amid
the gloom which hung over our destinies." Lady
Washington always remained at the headquarters till
the opening of the campaign, and often remarked,
in after life, that it had been her fortune to hear
the first cannon at the opening, and the last at the
closing of all the campaigns of the Revolutionary
War.

Think of the letters which Mrs. Washington destroyed.
"What fine reading they would have made!" exclaims
the modern biographer in tones of regret. Is it always
"fine reading "to have matrimonial confidences exhib-
ited for public inspection ? The modern biographer per-

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER

haps would not hesitate to publish the secrets of his own
mother, if they had any commercial value. The vener-
able mistress of Mount Vernon was wise in her gen-
eration.

237

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

flbre. 3ames /foafrison (5>olls pa^ne)

XII
A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

THE Quaker, or, to use a more technical term, the
Friend, has great powers of adaptability. Put
him into a situation, where polish or even ele-
gance is called for, and he is seldom if ever found want-
ing. That is because the Quaker has a worldly side as
well as a spiritual side, and possesses a keen knowledge
of how to behave under the most trying and the most
unusual circumstances.

Let us take, for example, the career of Dolly Madison,
otherwise Dolly Todd, or Dorothy Payne. This attract-
ive American, who lived to win the hearts of two hus-
bands, and to become the "First Lady of the Land," as
mistress of the White House, was born in the then far-
away province of North Carolina, in the year 1768. She
bid fair, at that time, to develop into nothing more
startling than a country maiden who would know how
to spin, to make curds and whey, and sew industriously
at the garments of some yeoman spouse. "In truth,"
says Maud Wilder Goodwin, in her blithesome biography
of Mistress Madison, "no one could have looked less
frivolous than this demure schoolgirl with the sober
gown reaching to the toes of her shoes, the long gloves

241

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

covering her dimpled elbows, and the linen mask and
broad-brimmed bonnet hiding her rosy face. Yet an eye
trained to fortune-telling might perchance have caught a
glimpse of a glittering chain about the white neck under
the close-pinned kerchief, and guessed the guilty secret
of hidden finery which it held, and which gave the lie
to the profession of a renounced vanity which her garb
suggested."

From the first, indeed, Miss Dolly Payne was fond of
dress — one of those welcome sins from which the best of
women are by no means exempt — and she showed this
amiable weakness to her life's end. She was named
Dorothea in honor of Dorothea Spotswood Dandridge,
granddaughter of Governor Alexander Spotswood, who
afterwards became the second wife of the silver-tongued
Patrick Henry. Dolly Payne's father, John Payne, junior,
was a gentleman born, of English and Scotch extraction,
and had married the daughter of an Irishman. Conse-
quently the little girl had the blood of the three ancient
kingdoms coursing through her veins, while the Celtic
strain, with Its vivacity, was well accentuated, despite
her Quaker training and traditions. Her eyes were
merry, her hair black and curling, her complexion bril-
liant, and her facile tongue suggested an ancestry "not
unacquainted with the groves and the magic stone of
Blarney."

Dolly was the eldest daughter of a large family living
in Hanover County, Virginia, whither her father had

242

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

gone, to superintend his plantation, shortly after her birth.
Here she learned the mysterious arts of housewifery, and
such intellectual accomplishments— not many, it must be
confessed — as it was the custom to impart to feminine
minds in those colonial days. In the meantime John
Payne, her father, found that the Quaker faith was not
duly appreciated in old Virginia, and he longed passion-
ately for the more congenial surroundings of Philadel-
phia; in Pennsylvania a Friend was not looked upon as
an anomaly in religion. At last he determined to take up
his habitation on the banks of the peaceful Delaware, and
he began his preparations for removal by setting at
liberty all his slaves. To do this was to deprive himself
of a very substantial portion of his property. But John
Payne had the conscience of an Abolitionist of later
years, though, unlike some of the latter, he had a great
deal to lose by yielding to that conscience. It is one
thing to demand freedom for slaves when you have none
of your own, and quite another thing to cry for the same
freedom when negroes form a goodly part of your
worldly possessions.

It was in 1783, after the successful close of the Revo-
lution, that the Payne family arrived in Philadelphia.
Miss Dolly was then a sprightly young lady of about the
same age that Miss Sally Wister was when she penned
her famous diary for Miss Deborah Norris. Philadelphia
was then a prosperous town of more than thirty thou-
sand souls, with the Quaker element much more in

243

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

prominence than it became in after years. Although
there was a bit of Old World luxury and a good deal of
fine dressing among the aristocrats of the town, including
the Chews, the Willings, the Binghams, the McKeans,
and the Cadwaladers, broad-brimmed hats and poke-
bonnets were still in the ascendency. It is not surpris-
ing, therefore, that John Payne found the place quite to
his liking, or that he soon became prominent as a " Public
Friend," or lay preacher. If one will take the trouble,
when in Philadelphia, to walk to the southwest corner of
Fifth and Arch Streets he will there see the old Free
Quaker Meeting House (afterwards used for the Ap-
prentices' Free Library and now devoted to the prosaic
purposes of trade) wherein the Paynes worshiped on
many a First Day after their own impressively simple
fashion. Who shall assert that during the exhortations
of her father, or of some equally eloquent preacher, the
mind of Miss Dolly did not stray from the things of the
next world to the good times which she hoped to have
in this one ? For she was already as much of a belle as
any demure Quaker girl was allowed to be, and many
were the young Philadelphia swains who gazed, not
altogether unblushingly, upon her violet eyes and wealth
of black curls. She was truly a most charming Qua-
keress, whose religion seemed to be more of an accident
of birth or the result of training than a matter of con-
scientious conviction. Indeed, had it not been that many
Quaker maidens were quite as human and as full of life

244

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

as their sisters of the Church of England or of other
faiths, her vivacity and impulsiveness might have been
regarded as an anomaly. But youth is youth all the
world over; one cannot make winter out of spring; a
girlish heart beats as spryly under a sedate waist of drab
or gray as it does beneath the jeweled bodice of a Court
beauty.

Any one who cared to study Dolly Payne's character at
this formative period must have wondered whether the
child, who was now developing into womanhood, would
be content with the quiet life of a Friend, or whether she
would some day draft for herself a declaration of social
independence, and plunge headlong into the gay world
which revolved about her so swiftly, so temptingly. It
seemed for a time as if she were fated to pursue the even
tenor of her ways, and settle down, at last, into the
placid, God-fearing life of a Quaker matron. For, before
she reached her twenty-second year, there appeared upon
her domestic horizon the drab-coated figure of a certain
Mr. John Todd, junior, who sought her hand in solemn,
ceremonious fashion. After some delay he was as sol-
emnly and ceremoniously accepted. The delay was oc-
casioned, as the story goes, by Miss Dolly's announcing
pertly that she never meant to marry; nor is it likely that
she saw anything romantic in uniting herself to this, her
first wooer. Mr. Todd was a Friend, like herself, and a
young fellow of unimpeachable worth, yet unimpeach-
able worth does not always prove the best road to a

245

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

woman's heart. A little more dash, even with a little less
worth, might have made the suitor far more attractive in
the eyes of the young lady. However, she relented, in
due course, and was married to John Todd (1790) with
as much 6clat as the Quaker ceremony would permit.
This Mat was, of course, not overpowering. For her
there could be, as an after entertainment, neither dancing,
nor romping, nor the drinking of innumerable toasts to
bride and groom.

It was naturally to be supposed that a match inaugu-
rated in such a commonplace, unemotional way would
result in a long, commonplace but tranquil married life
about which there would be nothing striking, or pictur-
esque, or tragical. But it is folly to prophesy regarding
so uncertain a thing as matrimony. The married life of
the Todds was to have a finale at once pathetic and
heroic enough to do duty for the ending of a novel.

It is a day in the summer of 1793, and a mother lies in
the room of a house on South Fourth Street, near Chest-
nut, in Philadelphia. With her is a mite of a boy, her
second born. The mother is Mrs. John Todd. The man
who bends over her, to look into the plump face of the
child, is her husband. He is prospering, as a lawyer, be-
yond his expectations, and all the signs promise a bril-
liant career. But what words are on the trembling lips
of some men who are passing on the street outside?
"Yellow Fever!" "Yellow Fever?" Yes! Several
Philadelphians have died of the dreaded disease, and the

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

one fearful question now is: " Will it spread ? " And it
is a question, too, that John Todd has already begun to
ask himself, even though he has not dared breathe it to
his wife.

As the days go on the dreaded thing fastens its grip
upon the city. Hundreds of citizens are stricken down,
to die in a few hours like dogs, and a dull fear, to be fol-
lowed by a ghastly panic, hangs pall-like over the town
once so serene and healthy. Neighbors fear to look
upon one another, lest they catch the fever; funerals in-
crease; bells toll; business is suspended; King Death
reigns supreme. Soon there is a mad rush to get away
from the polluted place. Any man who has a wagon,
or who can beg, borrow or buy one, drives his family
out into the country, as far away as possible from the
awful Visitor. John Todd cannot allow his wife and
children to perish. So he takes them, his wife on a
litter, to the then sylvan spot known as Gray's Ferry,
and he himself bravely returns to Philadelphia to do what
he can for the stricken city. Here he is met by the death
of his mother and father, who fall victims to the relent-
less plague. Dolly Todd sends tearful messages to him,
begging him to join her at Gray's Ferry, and to save his
own life. He must stay long enough in Philadelphia, he
says, to help his friends and clients — then, and not until
then, will he leave the town.

At last John Todd, having faithfully done his duty to
his neighbor, returns to Gray's Ferry, but with the seeds

847

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

of the fever lurking in his system. The brave man
sickens and dies, after but a few days' illness; Dolly
Todd, who has been reckless enough to throw herself
into her husband's arms upon his arrival, also takes the
fever. For three weeks her life is despaired of; the
physician shakes his head; he has no hope. Perhaps, in
her delirium, the poor woman cries out for Death to re-
lease her, for now her new-born child has followed his
father across the dark river.

After a time the plague, satisfied with so ample a har-
vest, released its clutch upon suffering Philadelphia.
People began to return to town. Among them came
Mrs. Todd, who looked, and felt indeed, quite heart-
broken. It hardly seemed as if she could ever again
"take notice," as old time gossips were wont to say of
so many youthful widows. John Todd had bequeathed
his meagre estate to Dolly, whom he called in his will
" the dear wife of my bosom, and first and only woman
upon whom my all and only affections were placed."
So, with little or no worldly means, there was but one
thing left for the widow to do. That she did pluckily,
and thus, unconsciously paved the way for all her future
splendor. She took her first-born boy, and went to help
her mother keep a little Philadelphia boarding-house.
Old Mr. Payne, Dolly's father, had died a ruined man,
financially speaking, so that the other members of the
Payne family, who had learned the rules of hospitality in
open-hearted Virginia, were now obliged to exercise the

248

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

same hospitality at so much per head. And it must be
admitted that in the exercise of this virtue the stricken
Dolly aided materially, for she began to "take notice"
with a suddenness that must have surprised some of her
friends. Yet it would have required half a hundred tons
of iron to crush a woman whom Nature had endowed
with such a perpetual flow of animal spirits.

Now it chanced that in 1794 there was living under
Mrs. Payne's roof a gentleman who was later to play a
prominent and discreditable part in the history of his
country. This was Aaron Burr, a future Vice-President
of the United States and the future slayer of the noble
Alexander Hamilton. At present, however, Colonel
Burr was a shrewd statesman, who took part in the
deliberations of Congress, now sitting in Philadelphia,
and who was distinguished for his charming manners, as
well as for the silly way in which he was worshiped by
some emotional females. Dolly Todd, however, was not
one of those emotional females. Mistress Todd was al-
ready something of a woman of the world, so it is safe
to infer that she had a fairly good understanding of the
character of this slippery patriot. Nor does it appear
that Burr lost his heart, if he ever had such a piece of
anatomy, over the attractions of the sparkling widow.
On the contrary, he was trying to make a match between
her and a friend of his, and doing it with as much zest
in the work as if he had been some designing mamma.

This friend was, of course, James Madison, of Virginia,

249

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

who had already done much to serve his country, and
who was destined to do still more by becoming one of
her Presidents. He was a staid, ungraceful little
bachelor of over forty, who had experienced one unsuc-
cessful love affair a few years before, when a Long Is-
land maiden followed up her first acceptance of his ad-
dresses by jilting him in the most ignominious way for a
musically-inclined parson. The parson was a clever
fellow, for he hung around the young lady whenever she
played the harpsichord — a bit of gallantry of which the
solemn Madison would have been quite incapable — and
wheedled his way so effectively into her heart that she
soon sent the statesman to the right-about.

But Time, the great consoler of hapless lovers, gradu-
ally effaced from James Madison's mind the image of this
cruel damsel. The consequence was that when he came
to Philadelphia, and saw from a distance the sweet com-
plexion and lovely eyes of Dolly Todd, he was seized
with a sudden desire to be " presented " to the lady. He
confided his wish to Colonel Burr, who promptly, and,
no doubt, with a degree of pleasant roguishness, informed
Mistress Todd that she had made a conquest. Where-
upon the latter wrote to a friend that "the great little
Madison has asked to be brought to see me this evening."
Come he did. that very night, accompanied by Colonel
Burr, for introducer. Before he left the parlor of Mrs.
Payne's modest boarding-house the great Virginian had
forgotten the Long Island flirt so completely that she

260

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

might never have existed. He was undeniably, if per-
haps awkwardly, in love with blooming Dolly Todd.
No one was more alive to the fact than the volatile
widow herself. "The two men who bowed before her
in the candle-lighted parlor of her mother's house on that
night were singularly unlike in appearance as in char-
acter. . . . Burr was full of grace, of charm, of
vivacity, with mobile, expressive features, and an eye
potent to sway men against their will, and women to
their undoing. Madison was slow, unimpassioned, and
unmagnetic, yet with a twinkle in his mild eye which
bespoke a dry humor. . . . Burr was a Senator,
while Madison was in the lower house, having been de-
feated in the contest for the seat of Senator from Virginia.
In this case, as in so many others, however, the race was
not destined to be to the swift, and the man who was to
be at the head of the nation in the future days was not
the brilliant, versatile, unscrupulous Burr, but the slow
and steadfast Madison."1

It was not long ere Mistress Washington, wife of our
first President, who then held high social sway in the
official residence on the south side of Market Street below
Sixth,2 sent for Mistress Todd to enquire if it were surety
that the widow was engaged to marry Mr. Madison.
Mistress Todd blushingly acknowledged the soft im-
peachment, whereat Martha Washington, followed by

1 Dolly Madison, by Maud Wilder Goodwin.
8 A tablet marks the building covering the site of the mansion.

251

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

the President, was graciously pleased to offer most sincere
congratulations. " He will make you a good husband,"
said the First Lady of the Land. She spoke as a true
prophetess. The social world of Philadelphia soon knew
that Dolly, the one-time wife of the industrious John
Todd, was to marry James Madison.

It was arranged, after mature deliberation, that the
wedding ceremony should take place at Harewood, Vir-
ginia, the home of Dolly's sister, Mrs. George Steptoe
Washington. Mr. Madison, accompanied by the future
bride and her little son, with her child-sister, Anna Payne,
(who was to act as a sort of infantile chaperon), spent a
pleasant week in reaching Harewood. Here the middle-
aged bachelor and the young widow were quietly mar-
ried on a day in September, of 1794. Madison shone
resplendent in a gorgeous suit well set off by ruffles of
Mechlin lace, while the costume of the bride was any-
thing but Quaker-like. The ceremony was performed
by a clergyman of the Episcopal Church, and was fol-
lowed by a merry dance. How shocked Dolly's staid
father would have been! Thus ended Dolly Payne's
Quaker life, which had sat but lightly on her from the
beginning.

The honeymoon, as had been determined, was to be
spent at Montpellier, one of Madison's plantations, in
Orange County, Virginia, and to this lovely portion of
country the newly married couple started in a substantial
coach-and-four. Here they passed a few happy weeks;

252

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

but we soon find them back again in Philadelphia. It
was a gay life that certain upper-class Philadelphians led
in those days. It was almost as gay, proportionately, as
the life of many Philadelphians of to-day, despite the
enormous increase in wealth and luxury which the years
have brought. For be it remembered that the Quaker
City was the temporary capital of the infant nation, and
therefore attracted to it many gilt-laced foreign diplomats
and other persons of distinction who appeared quite out
of harmony with the old-time simplicity of the town.
They would have appeared strangely out of harmony
with it, too, had it not been that this old-time simplicity
was fast vanishing. The Quaker element was slowly
losing its power and prestige, as it gradually gave way to
more worldly, or at least more elaborate, ideas and man-
ners. Dancing, as practised at the " Assemblies," was
now looked upon as an innocent pastime rather than as
an invention of the Evil One; the picturesque Quaker
costume was rapidly becoming the exception rather than
the rule. In short, Philadelphia had acquired a certain
cosmopolitan air and attractiveness which unfortunately
it lost, when the national capital was removed to the then
desert District of Columbia. Into this new society of the
Quaker City came Monsieur de Talleyrand, the Duke de
la Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, of the high-sounding title,
the Spanish Marquis D'Yrujo, and other illustrious
gentlemen who enjoyed themselves very much in sipping
the Madeira and eating the provender of their hosts, even

253

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

though they, in their foreign hearts, may have considered
the aforesaid hosts a trifle provincial. They were polite
enough, however, to these old-time Philadelphians, both
before their faces and behind their backs, and in this they
form a delightful contrast to some other foreigners who 1
have visited this country in more recent times.

It was into this pleasant Philadelphia society that Dolly
Madison plunged, after her honeymoon, with the energy
of a child who is at last let loose in a much-coveted
playground. She became popular at once, not because
she had any wonderful brilliancy of conversation, but
rather because of her great tact, her skill in placing all
those about her at their ease, her gentle flattery, which
made her friends feel the more important in her presence,
and a certain quality which may be set down, for want
of a better name, as personal magnetism. Her contem-
poraries never pretended that Dolly Madison was a
genius or a "woman of mind," but they instinctively
admired and praised her engaging manner, her tact and
resourcefulness. These traits account for her remarkable
social success, and for the beneficial influence which she
exerted in behalf of her truly devoted husband. Perhaps,
in her own way, Mistress Madison was as wise as any of
her friends. She knew her limitations, and was shrewd
enough to win applause without trying to go beyond
them, or to make undue pretenses.

Washington was succeeded in the Presidency by testy,
honest John Adams; next in the autumn of 1800, the

964

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

seat of government was removed to Washington; the
following spring witnessed the inauguration of Thomas
Jefferson as third President of the United States. How
the heart of Dolly Madison thrilled, to be sure, when the
bitter contest for the Chief Magistracy between Aaron
Burr and Jefferson at last resulted in the installation of the
latter; for Madison became Secretary of State, while
Dolly was not only the wife of the secretary but, further-
more, a lady who was oftentimes called upon to play
the principal role in the entertainments at the new White
House. Jefferson was a widower, his daughters were not
living in Washington, and he sadly needed some one to do
the honors for him.

Although he was a man of breeding and a thorough
gentleman, he ever affected a democratic bearing — "Jef-
fersonian simplicity " it was called — that seemed at times
strained to the verge of absurdity. Political expediency
was at the bottom of it all.

We hear amusing stories about some of this "sim-
plicity," in one of which Mistress Madison was an im-
portant, albeit unwilling factor. There was in Washing-
ton, as Minister from the Court of Saint James, a certain
Anthony Merry, a pompous, punctilious Englishman
who was a great stickler about the breeding of others,
but who had little of that important quality himself.
This diplomat had already taken offense at what he chose
to consider the insulting way in which the President had
received him at the White House. Mr. Jefferson's shoes,

255

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

as it appears, were not buckled with enough care to suit
Minister Merry's fastidious taste, and it was complained
that the clothes of the President were arranged with
"studied negligence " — in short, that the whole scene was
gotten up for the purpose of slighting Great Britain in the
person of her august representative. Accordingly Mr.
Merry insisted that the President was all sorts of things
except a gentleman, and the tongues of the people of
Washington wagged like bell-clappers.

The ill-feeling, however, did not stop here. Mrs.
Merry was soon embroiled in the matter. By invitation
of Mr. Jefferson she accompanied her husband to the
White House one afternoon, to dine with all the other
foreign ministers and their wives. When the guests were
assembled in one of the parlors, and the servants had
announced dinner, Mr. Jefferson rose and looked around
him. "Of course," thought Mrs. Merry, who considered
herself the most distinguished woman present because
her husband represented Great Britain, " the President
will take me into the dining-room." The President,
however, did nothing of the kind. Men twisted their
necks; ladies stared and then exchanged meaning
glances with one another. Mrs. Merry looked like a
thunder-cloud; Mr. Merry was furious, and not polite
enough to hide the fact. The President had offered his
arm to Mrs. Madison, and was escorting her out to the
dining-room, despite the signs and motions which she
was making; for the latter was trying to induce Mr.

256

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

Jefferson to give his arm to Mrs. Merry. He was, how-
ever, purposely blind to the hint; Mrs. Merry had to
yield the honor to the charming Dolly. Perhaps the
President might have been a little more gracious to these
foreigners had the Merrys not been so extremely and
annoyingly anxious that every possible attention should
be shown to them.

During all her social success in Washington, Mrs.
Madison went on strengthening the hands of her hus-
band, politically speaking, by making hundreds of friends
for herself, and, therefore, for Madison. Through it all
she still retained that lack of ostentation which character-
ized her early social life. Being a lady born, she bore
her honors more simply than did certain other women
who afterwards found themselves, temporarily, very
great personages at the infant capital. One anecdote
pleasantly serves to show how, although no longer a
Friend, she still preserved a saving bit of Quaker humility.
On a visit to Philadelphia she chanced to see an old lady,
a shopkeeper, whom she had known when she was
the girl, Dolly Payne. The wife of the Secretary of
State insisted upon going up-stairs, to a room just above
the shop, to drink a cup of tea with the old lady, and
there the two sat for many a delightful minute, as they
talked so volubly about old times in Philadelphia that
there was no chance for any one else to get in a single
word.

But greater honors awaited this unassuming lady. In

257

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

March of 1809, James Madison became President of the
United States, in succession to Jefferson. Mrs. Madison
was now the centre of all the gayety of Washington.
We get a glimpse of her first reception at the White
House, and see there the tall, ungraceful figure of Jeffer-
son, who has determined to lend such tclat as an ex-
President can to this entertainment. He glides here,
there, everywhere, with his expressive face shining
with the spirit of good humor. The women crowd
around him, to see the last of the hero who is about to
vanish from public life. "You see, they will follow
you ! " laughs a companion. "That is as it should be,"
says the ex-President gaily, "since I am too old to follow
them. I remember when Dr. Franklin's friends were
taking leave of him in France, the ladies almost
smothered him with embraces. On his introducing me
to them as his successor, I told them that among the rest
of his privileges I wished he would transfer this one to
me; but he answered: 'No, no; you are too young a
man!"

Meanwhile, Mrs. Madison welcomes her guests with
the cordiality that has made her famous. But she keeps
one eye on her husband, who looks careworn, as if
loaded down by the sense of his coming responsibilities.
For, however prosaic may have been the affection of this
bright little woman for James Madison when she first
married him, her love for him now is nothing short of
middle-aged romance. Much as she cares for the world

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A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

of dinners and bright clothes, her fondness for them is
as nothing compared with her love for the new Presi-
dent,

During the second term of Madison we have a far
different and quite a melodramatic glimpse of the " First
Lady of the Land." It is in the summer of 1814, when
the war between England and the United States is in
progress, and the British are threatening the very capital
itself. The American force which must defend the city
is ridiculously small. The excitement in Washington is
intense. It is said that the British officers have sworn
that they will dine at the White House and make their
bows in the drawing-room of Mistress Madison. What
is to be done ? There is panic in the air. Money, valu-
ables, important documents are hurried in wagons across
the Potomac to Virginia; the more timid Washing-
tonians make hasty preparations to leave the place, if it
comes to the worst, and confusion reigns supreme.

President Madison is at Bladensburg, a short distance
from Washington, where the Americans are trying, un-
successfully, to stem the tide of British invasion. While
there he spends most of his time in writing notes to his
wife, whom he has left in the White House, and seems
more exercised for her safety than for the safety of all
the rest of the Capital's inhabitants. "He enquired
anxiously," writes Mrs. Madison to her sister, under date
of August 2^d, " whether I had courage and firmness to
remain in the Presidential house till his return, and on

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

my assurance that I had no fear but for him and the suc-
cess of our army, he left me, beseeching me to take care
of myself and of the Cabinet papers, public and private. I
have since received two dispatches from him, written
with a pencil. The last is alarming, because he desires I
should be ready at a moment's warning to enter my car-
riage and leave the city; that the enemy seemed stronger
than had been reported, and that it might happen that
they would reach the city with intention to destroy
it. ... I am accordingly ready. . . . French
John [a servant], with his usual activity and resolution,
offers to spike the cannon at the gate, and to lay a train
of powder which would blow up the British should they
enter the house. To the last proposition I positively
object, without being able, however, to make him
understand why all advantages in war may not be
taken."

The next day the loyal-hearted lady thus writes:
"Will you believe it, my sister, we have had a battle or
skirmish near Bladensburg, and I am still here within
sound of the cannon! Mr. Madison comes not. May
God protect him! Two messengers, covered with dust,
come to bid me fly; but I wait for him. . . . Our
kind friend, Mr. Carroll, has come to hasten my depar-
ture, and is in a very bad humor with me because I in-
sist on waiting until the large picture of General Wash-
ington is secured, and it requires to be unscrewed from
the wall. This process was found too tedious for these

280

A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

perilous moments; I have ordered the frame to be broken
and the canvas taken out. It is done, and the precious
portrait is placed in the hands of two gentlemen of New
York for safe-keeping.1 And now, dear sister, I must
leave this house, or the retreating army will make me a
prisoner in it, by filling up the road I am directed to take.
When I shall again write to you, or where I shall be to-
morrow, I cannot tell."

On this very morning the steward of the White House
has planned a dinner for three o'clock the same afternoon.
The wine has been placed in the coolers, for members of
the Cabinet are expected to grace the Presidential board.
Great men must eat and drink sometimes, in spite of
panics. It is just about dinner-time when a negro who
has accompanied Madison to Bladensburg gallops madly
up to the White House, as he waves his hat and cries
out: "Clear out! Clear out! General Armstrong [Secre-
tary of War] has ordered a retreat! "

At once all is confusion. Mrs. Madison orders her car-
riage, and as she passes through the dining-room, grasps
what she can crowd into her reticule. Then, when the
chariot is brought up to the door, she quickly jumps in,
accompanied by a maid and one other companion, and is
rapidly driven over to the Georgetown Heights. "Mrs.
Madison," relates a contemporary, "slept that night at
Mrs. Love's, two or three miles over the river. After

1 The portrait of Washington was safely hidden in a house near
Georgetown.

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

leaving that place, she called in at a house and went up-
stairs. The lady of the house, learning who she was,
became furious, and went to the stairs and screamed out:
'Mrs. Madison, if that's you, come down, and go out!

Your husband has got mine out fighting, and d you,

you shan't stay in my house. So get out! ' '

Thus Dolly Madison learned, for once, how adversity
can change the warmth of one's reception. A week
before the swearing virago would have groveled at the
feet of the President's wife. But Mrs. Madison, taking
the lesson with both philosophy and good breeding, left
the house at once and lodged elsewhere.

It was not long after her hasty exit from the White
House that the enemy's troops entered Washington.
They behaved in a way that must always leave a blot on
the record of British arms. When the Capital had been
set on fire, some of the officers proceeded to the White
House, where, after doing full justice to the dinner
awaiting the absent Cabinet, they stole a vast quantity of
wine from the cellars, and then lighted a bonfire of fur-
niture in one of the parlors. But there is no need to re-
peat further the story of vandalism. War is not always
conducted upon chivalrous lines.

The wanderings of the Madisons during the compara-
tively few hours that the British held carnival in Wash-
ington have become a part of American history. How
Mrs. Madison had literally to beg for shelter in an inn;
how her husband, looking more like a fugutive from

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A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

justice than the President of these great United States,
turned up at this same inn; how she forgot all her
troubles in having him near her; how Madison at length
fled out into the raging storm, because the British were
supposed to be hunting him as hounds might hunt a
criminal; how he spent the night in a miserable hut in
the forest;— all these things we recall as we review the
history of the War of 1812. It must be confessed that
the worthy President does not make a heroic figure amid
this excitement. The statesman cannot always play the
bold commander.

In a short time Washington was evacuated by the
British. The Madisons hurried back to the White House,
to find it in charred ruins. Ere long the tide of victory
turned in favor of the Americans. Then came peace,
with the ringing of church bells, the booming of cannon,
and much brilliancy of illumination. A great many per-
sons on both sides of the ocean were glad that the war
was over. Thus life went on until Madison finished his
second term as President, and with his wife retired to the
peaceful shades of Montpellier. Here, for many a pleas-
ant year, they led the placid life of a high-bred Virginia
couple. Here Madison studied, read and thought of the
stirring events of the past; here Mrs. Madison tended her
wonderful garden and dispensed a hospitality at once
lavish and gracious. When the two used to talk over
the fall of Aaron Burr — his killing of Alexander Hamilton,
and his treason against his own country— they must have

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

had at least one grateful thought for the one-time friend
who had made them known to each other in the parlor
of Mrs. Payne's boarding-house. Over the front door of
the Montpellier mansion might have been inscribed:
"Love grows with the years."

One might have supposed, indeed, that the Madisons
were youthful lovers, to judge from the letters they
wrote one to the other during the occasional trips which
the husband took to Charlottesville. One letter reads
as though old Mrs. Madison — it is hard to think of Dolly
as old, is it not ? — had but just been wedded. It runs :

"Monday, Nine O'clock.

"My Beloved, — I trust in God that you are well again,
as your letters assure me you are. How bitterly I regret
not going with you! Yours of Friday midday did not
reach me till last evening. I felt so full of fear that you
might relapse that I hastened to pack a few cloaths and
give orders for the carriage to be ready and the post
waited for. This morning, happily the messenger has
returned with your letter of yesterday, which revives my
heart and leads me to hope you will be up at home on
Wednesday night with your own affectionate nurse. If
business should detain you longer — or you should feel
unwell again, let me come for you. . . . I hope you
received my last of Thursday containing letters and
papers. My mind is so anxiously occupied about you
that I cannot write. May angels guard thee, my dear
best friend! D ."

It was in the summer of 1836 that Madison, who had
become a helpless, rheumatic invalid, died with a harm-
less jest upon his lips. A servant had brought him his

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A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

breakfast, but he could not swallow it. "What is the
matter, Uncle James ? " asked a niece who was with
him. " Nothing more, my dear, than a change of mind,"
he answered. Then his head dropped upon his chest,
and he ceased to breathe "as quietly as the snuff of a
candle goes out."

No need to tell of the sorrow which came into the
widow's life. It was to her as if the sun had ceased to
shine. But she was a brave woman, and the world could
never quite lose its charm for one endowed with such a
healthy, normal mind.

During the last eleven or twelve years of Mrs. Madi-
son's life we see her living with a niece once more in
Washington, not far from the White House, and as if by
right — becoming once more a distinct queen of society!
She is now a woman of over seventy; but, though she
may dress in rather an antique costume, she attends a
ball as gayly as if she were a girl of eighteen. " What
a difference twenty years makes in society," she says
once, as she peers at the Washingtonians who are dan-
cing around her. " Here are young men and women not
born when I left the capital, whose names are familiar,
but whose faces are unknown to me." And all the
while the youngest-spirited person in the room is Mis-
tress Dolly Madison! Indeed, she never cares to look
upon herself as an old woman; years do not count where
the heart is kept young. Yet with all her cheerfulness
she has had troubles which would have killed any less

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

volatile creature; for that worthless child of hers, Payne
Todd, spendthrift and gambler, has forced her to sell
Montpellier, and is always making demands on her
purse that almost reduce her to the ranks of a pauper.

Through it all the dear old lady holds levees, to which
all the great people flock, much as if she were still the
wife of the President. We see her at one of these en-
tertainments, erect and dignified, with the impressiveness
of a true Virginia grande dame of olden time. She is
dressed in purple velvet, with plain straight skirt amply
gathered to a tight waist, cut low and filled in with soft
tulle. Her throat, still white and unwrinkled, is encircled
by a lace cravatte, fastened with an amethyst pin. On
her head is a wonderful turban, made of some silky ma-
terial; over her shoulders is thrown a little lace shawl or
cape. There are two bunches of very black curls on
either side of the smooth brow, which seems almost like
that of a young girl. The violet-blue eyes are full of
sparkle, and mirror laughter; the mouth is smiling; the
complexion is as soft and pretty as might be the com-
plexion of a girl. Such is the venerable Mistress Madi-
son, enjoying this world until the last, yet never forget-
ting her husband, who has gone to that other world of
which we know so little. She is a true philosopher, if
ever woman was, enjoying all that her life offers; she
can take pleasure in a levee, crowded with American no-
tabilities and foreign dignitaries, and she can take pleas-
ure, too, in the memory of James Madison. Even that

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A QUAKER TRANSFORMED

worthless son, who will soon descend to a dishonored,
unmourned grave, cannot crush the marvelous spirit.

With all her love of existence Dolly Madison has
within her a certain spiritual quality which tells her that
the things of this earth are not, after all, so very impor-
tant. Perhaps that quality has been inherited from the
Society of Friends. She becomes more interested in re-
ligion as old age increases: at last the Episcopalian
Bishop of Maryland baptizes and then confirms her, ac-
cording to the beautiful ritual of his church. ' ' There is
nothing in this world really worth caring for," she says
gently, towards the end.

It is a day in July, of 1849. Mrs. Madison is ill, but lis-
tening to a chapter from the New Testament. As she lies
there, drinking in the words whose spirit seems so far
away from all the worldliness of the past, she falls into
a peaceful sleep. It is her last sleep on this troublous
planet. In two more days she is dead. When the people
of Washington hear of her passing away, they can do
nothing but speak her praise. She who had kind thoughts
for many has, in return, many a kind thought bestowed
upon her. She is given a public funeral, as befits the
wife of a patriot, and to it come the President, members
of the Cabinet, the Diplomatic Corps, Senators, Repre-
sentatives, officers of the Army and Navy, and many
more, of high and low degree. On her grave in a local
cemetery flowers are strewn as emblems of that bloom
of life which had never left her. A few years later

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ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA

the body of Dolly Madison is placed by the side of her
husband at Montpellier.

It is fitting that the wife should lie so near the well-
loved husband. The courtship between the two may
have lacked picturesqueness, but their married life proved
to be a true romance which only deepened in intensity
as the twilight of old age crept gently over them. Would
that all other romances might end as serenely!