Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1847], The rose of Wissahikon, or, The fourth of July, 1776: a romance, embracing the secret history of the Declaration of Independence (G. B. Zieber & Co., Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf250].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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Title Page
THE
ROSE OF WISSAHIKON,
OR,
THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776.
A ROMANCE,
EMBRACING THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE DECLA-RATION
OF INDEPENDENCE.
BY GEORGE LIPPARD,
Author of “The Ladye Annabel,” “Adrian, the Neophyte,”
“The Quaker City,” “The Nazarene; or, Last of the
Washingtons,” “Blanche of Brandywine,” “Washington
and his Generals; or, Legends of the
Revolution,” etc. etc.
PHILADELPHIA:
G. B. ZIEBER & CO., 3 LEDGER BUILDING.
1847
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Acknowledgment
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[Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by
George B. Zieber, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.]
U. S. BOOK AND JOB PRINTING OFFICE, LEDGER BUILDING.
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PROLOGUE.
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Through the deep shadows into the gay sunlight—
through the trees, whose grand old trunks arise around us,
whose mingling leaves wave in light and perfume above
us—through the wild-wood paths, where the moss grows,
and the flowers bloom—through the rocks that darken on
either side, venerable with their ten thousand ages, beautiful
with the vines that float along their hoary brows—
through this dim old forest, where your foot falls without a
sound, where your soul feels the presence of its God, and
your whispered word is flung back by an hundred echoes—
we will wander, on this calm summer eve.
It is the Third of July, 1776.
It is that serene evening hour, when the moss beneath
your feet is varied with long belts of black and gold. It is
the time when the deep quiet of nature—the distant sound
of leaves and streams—the glow of the sun, shining his last,
over cloud and sky, melts the heart, and steals it away, by
gentle steps, to God.
Then if we have never prayed, we will fall down and
worship. Then if we have never felt the presence of God,
in the awful cathedral aisle, where the smoke of the incense
winds in snowy wreaths about the brow of the Blessed One,
or encircles, with a veil of misty loveliness, the sad, sweet
face of Mary our Mother, we will here feel our knees bend,
our voices falter in prayer, our hearts go up to Heaven, even
as the last ray of the setting sun melts gently up the sky.
For this wild wood is the cathedral of Nature, where
every tree that towers, every flower that bends to the sod,
as though sleepy with voluptuous perfume, every ripple of
the stream, every leaf of the bough, says, as it floats or
shines, or blooms, or waves, “There is a God, and he is
good, and all men are his children!”
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You may smile at this—cold hearts of the world—who
never rise from counting your pennies; you may sneer,
grave crities, who never felt a heart-throb, or owned one
thought of beauty, or suffered one word of feeling to flow
from your pen and make men's hearts beat quicker; but even
you, in the calm evening hour, would kneel and worship
God.
For it is the Wissahikon.
I will not bewilder your hearts with memories of the
past, nor tell you that every old tree has its story, every
foot of mossy earth its legend; nor point back into the brooding
shadows of a thousand years, when that huge rock was
an altar, that beautiful stream, winding in light and shadow,
the baptismal font of a forgotten religion, while here, among
these shadowy ravines, grouped the maidens, their bosoms
beating beneath vestments of snowy white, the priests, arrayed
in midnight hues, the sacrificial knife gleaming over
their heads; the warriors, whose strange costume, and dark
physiognomy, and weapons of battle, have long since passed
from the memory of man.
But I will ask you—
Did you ever; on a winter night, when the snow was on
the ground, and the light of the hearthside fire upon your
face, lean gently back in your cushioned chair, and, with
half-shut eyes, dream a voluptuous dream of a summer evening,
with the lazy sunshine bathing great masses of leaves,
while a supernatural stream wound softly along, among
rocks, and flowers, and trees?
Your dream is here!
Then, on that winter night, while the wind howled without,
half-closing your eyes, you saw a winding path, leading
far down the dell, with sunshine gushing from below, and
the boughs bending toward the ground until they touched the
cups of the wild flowers?
Your dream is here!
Or, did you behold a cool, shady place in the midst of
great forest trees, where the wild vines formed a circle of
undulating leaves, and every leaf was kissing a flower;—
where the moss, forming a carpet for your feet, seemed glad,
as the occasional sunbeams stole over its surface, while a
rugged limb, interlacing with slight branches, all woven
together with flowers, formed the roof of this perfumed
forest home?
Your dream is here!
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Or, did you, with your face still glowing in that hearthside
light, wish to escape the beams of the July sun, and
wandering from the beaten track, until the trees gathering
more thickly, made a shadow like night, come to a place
where the leaves, descending to the very ground, formed an
impenetrable barrier across your path—a wall of foliage and
perfume? Impenetrable, and yet you pushed that wall
aside, and stood in the shadow of an overhanging rock, from
whose dark surface trickled a thousand little streams, uniting
below, where the rock formed a basin, in a spring of cool,
clear water, that lay like a mirror at your feet? Then,
making a cup, with the broad leaf of the chesnut tree, you
bent down, and drank the wine of the living rocks, this clear,
cold water, fresh from the caverns of mother earth.
Still, your dream is here!
Or, wandering in the chambers of a mansion, that seemed
deserted for ages—the ceiling veiled in cobwebs, the floors
dark with dust, the tapestry eaten by moths—feel your heart
grow cold, as your solitary footfall came back in a thousand
echoes, and upstarting from some dark corner, a strange
woman stood before you, her beautiful form clad in black
velvet, her eyes darting their deep light into your soul?
Still, here in the Wissahikon, you will find your dream!
Or, once more,—you seemed loitering along the shades of
the forest-path; you heard a voice, of vivid melody, thrilling
like any forest-bird, its virgin song; and following the sweet
sound, you suddenly beheld an angel form, stepping from the
shelter of the trees, beautiful as Eve, before she fell, and
gliding inch by inch, into the clear waves, her long hair
floating over the ripples which dashed against her snow-white
arms?
Upon my word, your dream is here!
But suddenly, this vision of a winter night became wildly
changed. Blasts of organ-like music made by the winds
howling through caverns broke awfully on your soul. Then
the gust of a summer rain swept your cheek, every drop
fragrant with perfume. You beheld the angel form of the
young girl walk beside the dark woman, who led her to the
verge of an awful cliff, smiling all the while, as she pushed
the virgin toward the abyss. Flowers and skulls, perfumes
and horrors, blasts from the grave, and breezes of May, were
mingled in a strange—a grotesque panorama. And the last
thing that you beheld, was a fair young face, sinking slowly
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into the waters of a fathomless abyss, her mild eye upraised,
her soft voice whispering in prayer.
With a cry of horror, you awoke, wondering—as the
damps of fear started from your flesh—whether, in all the
world, there had ever happened any history, so full of strong
contrasts, so much light, so much blackness, as this, your
dream of a winter night?
Believe me, you will find the dream living bodily, and
throbbing tumultuously, here in the Wissahikon!
Come with me into its shadows?
Leaving the dusty road, we behold the dark grey walls of
an ancient mill, with a world of leaves behind it. Drowsily
turns the heavy wheel, scattering drops of light from its
gloomy timbers; sleepily trickles the water over beds of
rocks; beautifully upon the mill and the rocks, the waters
that are rushing there, and the leaves that accumulate yonder,
glows the last smile of the setting sun.
The mill is passed: behold a narrow path, leading away
into the trees, its brown sand contrasted with the grass on
either side. Yonder glooms a huge rock; we reach its foot,
we see the trees towering far above us, clusters of foliage
rising on clusters, until but a glimpse of the blue sky is
seen.
The walk is passed;—is it a dream that breaks upon us?
Far, far away, extends a track of golden light, that shines
until it fades. Look closer, and in that track of light, you
discover the Wissahikon, sunken deep, between two walls
of leaves and rocks that start upright from its very shores
into the sky. And it flows silently on, receiving on its
bosom that last gush of light, which pours above these
heights from the western sky.
Yonder, the leaves descend to its waters, and embrace it,
as though they would bury it from the light, in a veil of
foliage. The vines bend over it, and scatter their blossoms
upon its waves. The very path seems to love it, for descending
from these rugged steeps, it leads along the shore,
only separated by a line of sand and flowers from its waters.
The stream narrows, the trees almost meet from opposite
sides, when suddenly this wild enchantress, the Indian maid,
called Wissahikon, opens to us a prospect as strange as it
is wildly beautiful.
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Stand with me, on this clump of green and shrubs, and
behold it! Yonder, on the left, a wall of rocks rises, in
gloomy grandeur into the sky. The waters gush upon their
feet, the pines—see them far overhead—crown their brows.
Black and dismal, rocks heaped on rocks, cliff starting over
cliff, this wall towers above us, its dark surface, here and
there, relieved by vines, or shadowed by trees, that grow
between the clefts, their green branches shooting into light
from every pile of granite.
To the left, the woods ascend, in a rolling outline, like a
wave of the ocean; only for ripples, you have leaves; for
cheerless water, delicious foliage, wreathed with flowers.
Directly in front, the narrow path leads up a steep hill.
On the summit of that hill, a house of gray stone, encircled
by a garden, a spring of cold water, gushing into an oaken
trough, one solitary tree, bending over the steep roof, and
rising, alone—a pyramid of leaves—into the evening sky.
The last ray of the sun is trembling on the top of that
tree!
Between the hill covered by the house of dark stone, and
this gloomy wall of cliffs, comes the Wissahikon, chafed
into a rage by the rocks spread in her way, and writhing,
on every wave, into a white foam, that looks like spring
blossoms agitated by the wind.
She came leaping over the rocks, filling the wild dell with
voice of her agony; but the moment these rocks are past,
she is calm again—she subsides into a gentle lake—she
lovingly kisses the feet of the cliff, whispers in those
caverns, and ripples her blessing to the flowers on yonder
isle!
We ascend the hill, and lingering on its summit, taste the
waters of the spring, as we gaze for the last time upon the
setting sun.
Then, into the shadows, along the wood that darkens,
until we stand upon the rock, with the Wissahikon far beneath
our feet.
Look down!
Rushing from the north, her course is stayed by this dense
mass of earth and trees and rocks. With a sudden movement,
she wheels directly to the west, and hurries smilingly
on. Look down! How calm, how like the sinless sleep
of Eve in Paradise, that water smiles as it rests in the embrace
of its beloved trees!
Here the bank is steep and precipitous; yonder the woods
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shelve down into a level point of land, which projects into
the clear waves. So dense is the shade cast by the overhanging
trees upon the dark, rich earth, that but a few scattered
clumps of grass and flowers overspread its surface.—
Look down! Around that point, beneath the trees that
stretch out their arms as if they loved it, the Wissahikon
ripples, smiles, and glides on without a sound.
Look down, but do not let your gaze wander too long upon
the clear deep waters. For there is a strange fascination in
those waves that wiles you to their embrace, and makes you
wish to bury life and its troubles among their ripples.
To yonder rock, where the dark waters spread into a limpid
sheet, not deeper than your ankle, at dead of night, when
the moon shone out over the trees, there came a young girl,
who silently bared her form, and laid herself to rest, upon
the pebbled bed, with the cool waters dashing over her
bosom. The night passed, and she slept on. The morning
came, and they found her there, with her head rising and
falling with the gentle motion of the stream, her brown hair
floating in the ripples, her white bosom now covered by the
waves, now laid bare to the light. She slept well, upon the
pebbled bed, rocked by the waters. No stain was on her
name, no grief upon her heart. The aged man, her father,
who lifted the corse from its watery cradle, could not impute
to her one guilty thought.
Her attire was found upon yon rock; her Bible and prayer
book on the grass beside the stream.
She had toiled three weary miles to die upon the bosom
of the stream she loved so well.
And when the old man laid her on the bank, there was a
sad, sweet smile upon her face, as though some good angel had
kissed her in her closing hour, and left a blessing on her lips.
Along the northern path, with the stream roaring below
us, we will hurry on.
A beautiful picture! That cluster of old cottages and
barns, grouped beside the mill, with rocks frowning above,
and a sea of foliage, swelling into the sky. In that cottage,
Rittenhouse, the Philosopher was born; between yonder
rock and the buttonwood tree lies the space of earth which
witnessed one of the darkest tragedies that ever froze the
blood but to hear told again.[1] The blood of a father poured
forth by the son, moistened that grassy sod.
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Beside the mill, a mass of rocks chokes the course of Wissahikon.
Above the wall of rocks, extending from the
mill-wheel to the opposite shore, how calmly it glides on,
its bosom shadowed by the trees that meet above its waveless
waters! Below how it darkens, and boils, and foams,
filling the air with its shout!
Let us enter the light canoe, and while the oar makes low
music to the ripples, glide softly on! Behind us pass the
trees, still there are new groups ahead! Behind us bloom
the flowers, still new blossoms greet us as we go! Behind
us flashes the ripples, still before our canoe the stream extends,
with foliage rising to the sky on either side.
At last emerging from the thick shadow, we beheld a
mound-like hill, covered by a strange edifice, built of stone,
with steep roofs and many windows, and a garden blooming
far down into the glen.
That is the Monastery, in which the Monks of Wissahikon,
long ago, worshipped their God, without a creed.
In this space, between the mill which we have left and
the Monastery which rises before us, on the eastern banks
of Wissahikon, behold a quiet cottage, smiling from among
the forest trees. It is built in the space between two colossal
rocks; above it, far, far into the sky towers that wall of
leaves; from its narrow door to the water's edge, a plot of
level earth extends, green with moss and blooming with
flowers.
Even as an altar, on which the dearest hopes and fondest
memories blossom, so from the forest out upon the waters,
looks that Cottage Home of Wissahikon.
This was on the third of July, 1776.
Now, the rocks are clad with wild vines; the garden is a
waste. Yet, searching among those vines, you may still
discover the traces of a wall, the scattered stones and broken
roof tile of that forest home!
And the story of that home, the strange Legend of the
wild Rose that bloomed there, which leads us into scenes of
absorbing interest, now unveiling to our gaze, the Hall of Independence,
crowded with the shadows of the past, now
treading these shades and dells of Wissahikon, shall be inscribed
with a name worthy of the purest page that ever
kindled a generous emotion in the heart, or raised the soul
with words of holy truth—
TO
* * * *
THIS STORY OF THE PAST IS DEDICATED.
eaf250.n1[1] See the Legend of the Parricide, page 98, of “Washington
and his Generals,” by George Lippard.
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CHAPTER FIRST. OLD MICHAEL, THE HUNTER.
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A hale old man, leaning on his rifle, with an iron frame,
a bronzed visage, and snow-white hair!
It was in the midst of the forest, where a huge oak tree,
torn up by the roots, lay prostrate on the sward, the brown
earth yet fresh about its trunk, its leaves still blooming in
summer green.
He stands before us, that old man, an effective picture of
a bold backwoodsman; his broad chest and muscular arms
displayed in their firm outlines by the folds of his blue hunting
shirt, his limbs encased in buckskin leggings, moccasins
on his feet, and a fur cap, green with a solitary oaken sprig,
resting on his brow.
The rifle on which he leans, long and dark and marked
with scars, betrays the indications of thirty years' toil in the
woods, and danger on the mountain path.
Strung over his broad chest, a belt of dark leather sustains
his shot pouch and powder horn. In the broad girdle,—a
wampum belt, inscribed with the language of the red man—
which encircles his waist, gathering in its confines the loose
folds of his hunting shirt, a knife is placed, its handle of bone
contrasting with the long and glittering blade. His face impresses
you at once with a picture of green old age.
Bronzed by the winter wind and the summer sun, marked
with the traces of many a deadly conflict, the hair blanched
into snow by the touch of seventy years, it displays a prominent
nose, a broad chin, high cheek bones, and a firm
mouth, encircled by heavy wrinkles. Indeed, the whole
visage is traversed by wrinkles that resemble threads of
iron, in their strongly marked outlines.
From the shadow of his thick grey eyebrows, the gleam
of two clear eyes, undimmed by the frost of age, now blue,
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now grey in their liquid breaks gently on you. Gently, and
yet there are times when the light of those eyes remind
you of a panther at bay, his blazing orbs glaring from the
darkness of a cavern.
And the old man, this hermit of the woods, who speaks a
plainer speech with his rifles than with his tongue, stands
before us, on the sward; the leaves spreading a waving roof
above him, the evening solitude of the woods extending on
every side.
He lifts his cap—fashioned of the wild beasts' hide—and
that solitary ray of sunlight wandering through the foliage,
streams upon his white hair.
By his side, reclining on the trunk of the prostrate oak,
you behold a form whose every outline is strongly contrasted
with the figure of the old backwoodsman.
It is a young man in the vigor of early manhood. His
form, well-knit and muscular, yet delicate almost to womanly
beauty, in its graceful outline, is attired in a costume of dark
velvet—a coat reaching half-way to the knee, and girded to
the waist by a belt of leather—boots of the same hue encase
his limbs, and a white collar thrown open at the neck, displays
the chiselled outline of his throat.
Yet it is not upon the dark attire enveloping his agile
form that you gaze, nor upon his beautiful rifle, whose dark
tube is relieved by the mahogany stock, mounted in silver,
nor does the powder horn, inlaid with golden flowers, nor the
hunting knife, with its carved ivory handle attract your eye.
It is that face, with the black hair falling back from its
brow along the neck, from under the wide shadow of a
slouching hat; it is that eye that seems to burn with light,
as it rests upon you; it is that olive cheek now reddening
with emotion, now pale as marble; it is that mouth, which
wreathes in a smile, or curves in scorn, which now speaks
in low tones, where music wins you, and again, utters its
deep voice, that indicates a soul conscious of power!
It is upon that face, moulded, not with the regularity of
an ancient statue, but with firm and characteristic outlines;
the face framed in the shadow of the hat of dark felt, with
low crown and drooping brim, that you gaze, in the quiet
evening hour.
One limb crossed over the other, the right arm resting on
the trunk of the fallen tree, the head downcast, and the dark
eyes fixed upon the sward, the young man seemed absorbed
in thought, while the old hunter stood erect by his side.
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After a pause that lasted some five minutes, the old man
turned and gazed upon his young comrade.
“It's queer—reg'lar queer!” he said, with a slight laugh,
and then paused as if waiting for an answer.
The young man was silent.
“I say it's queer—it's particular strange—I mought say
ridiculous! To think that you and I have been out in the
woods, time off and on, for six months back, and yet neither
of us knows where the tother lives, nor even his name!”
“What need of a name?” said the young man, without
raising his eyes from the ground—“we met last winter,
among the wilds of the Susquehanna. We hunted together,
shared the same rude meal, after our day's toil, and at night
slept side by side, on a bed of withered leaves. You called
me Walter—I called you Michael. What need of other
names? We met and were friends!”
Walter played listlessly with the handle of his knife, as
he spoke. Still his eyes were fixed upon the sod
“But Walter, don't you know yer voice betrays you?—
Yer speech is not the speech of the backwoodsman, but the
talk of the city and the village. Yer rifle and knife, aye yer
dress itself, don't speak much for yer poverty. Yer hands
are too white, yer skin too fair, to fancy for a minute that
you've lived long in the woods. But, howsomever it is, I
can't tell, but I like you, and have liked ye, since the day—”
“When, away yonder on the Susquehanna, my rifle
missed fire, and the panther sprang at my throat. Your aim
was good, your eye true, or I should have been a dead man.
Michael, you saved my life, and there's my hand!”
The old hunter extended his horny palm, and grasped the
delicate fingers of his young comrade, with an iron clutch.
“A month ago we parted at least an hundred miles from
this—to-day we meet again, here in the woods of Wissahikon—”
Walter raised his full dark eyes. A strange smile passed
over his face.
“It would be interesting for us to compare our history
for the past month,” he said. “This is a quiet hour. The
evening air is cool, delicious. These old woods make a
man feel on better terms with himself and the world. And
the sound of the waters, lulling gently on the ear, seem
like the voices of other days, telling of the joys, the sorrows,
that are past and gone. Come, Michael, begin—tell
us the history of your life for the past thirty days.”
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The young man started, as he witnessed the strange effect
of his words. Michael stood before him trembling, as
with an ague chill, his sunburnt face, writhing in every
chord, while his eyes blazed with that panther glare, which
made the heart beat quicker to behold.
“Tell you the history of the past month?” he said, in a
voice and with a manner entirely different from his usual
rough, backwoodsman way. “There are some things,
young man, that draw the knife from the belt, and raise the
rifle to the shoulder. Things that it wont do to talk about,
not even in a whisper! Deeds, aye, I say it, deeds that
make the blood run cold. But,” and he advanced a step,
while that light blazed more fiercely from his eye, “what
do you know of my history for the past month?”
The young man started to his feet. He extended his hands—
“Nothing, Michael—not a word, not even a whisper,”
he said, examining the face of the old man with a searching
glance. “I meant not to rouse one bitter memory in your
heart. Come, sit down by me; I will,” and that strange
smile passed over his face—“I will tell you the story of
my life for the past thirty days.”
The old man did not reply, but, taking the young man's
hand within his own, he led him for some few paces along
the woods.
“Look thar!” he said, in his usual rough voice, “thar
is my home!”
Far down the woods, through a vista that extended among
the trunks of massive trees, the young man looked and saw
a quiet cottage with a garden, blooming from its door to the
verge of a calm, unruffled glimpse of water.
The woods, through which he gazed, were wrapt in thick
shadow; but the roof of that cottage, resting between two
rocks, gleamed brightly in the setting sun. Above it
swelled the sea of forest leaves, below sparkled the still
Wissahikon—it was like a picture framed in waving leaves
and glancing waters.
“Thar 's my home!”
“Your home!” echoed Walter, hiding his face in his
hands, and turning away from the old man, while he shook
with emotion.
Michael gazed upon him with unfeigned surprise.
“And ain't it a purty home? Did you ever see a nicer
bit of happiness hid away in the woods than that? O, if
you could but see the angel that dwells thar with me, and
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keeps house when I am out among the woods, and puts her
soft hands on my forehead, when the—aye, I must speak it,—
when the dark hour comes on me; if you could but see
her and know her, you would worship her!”
Walter raised his face. All traces of emotion had
vanished, but he was very pale and his eyes shone with
peculiar lustre.
“That's your home!” he calmly said, “what a beautiful
home it!”
“Perhaps he has his memories, too!” the old hunter muttered,
“God knows!”
The young man took his hand, and whispered, “Michael,
look yonder!”
Michael gazed far down that vista, among the huge
forest trees, and with hushed breath beheld a sight as strange
as it was beautiful.
From the door of that cottage home came forth a young
girl clad in a peasant garb—a light boddice, fitting close to
her bosom, a dark skirt, flowing to her feet—with her brown
hair, blowing lightly about her face in the evening breeze.
She tripped along the garden, and stood by the water's edge.
Her eyes were cast down the stream, her bending form
assumed an attitude of anxious expectation.
Presently, gliding from the trees, a light canoe broke into
view, and in it stood erect the form of a woman, attired in
a dark robe, with her face glowing in the warm light of the
fading day.
She leapt lightly on the shore—the young girl seemed to
start with surprise, but this woman in the dark attire seized
her hands and urged her gently into the cottage.
They disappeared together, and the closing doors concealed
them from the view.
Had Michael and his young comrade beheld the scene,
which then transpired within the cottage home, they would
have felt their hearts beat quicker, their blood bound, like
liquid fire, through their veins!
But they did not witness that scene; they only saw the
young girl, and the dark-robed woman, go in the cottage
door together.
For a moment Michael and his comrade stood in silence,
gazing in each other's faces, as though spell-bound by that
sight.
“That's strange!” at last the old man said,—“Who the
lady in the dark dress can be is more than I can tell! I
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never knew before that the child was acquainted with anybody
in the world, save me! Ah, now I think of it, that
visiter is the rich widow who resides in the large mansion
on t'other side of Wissahikon! But how came she to know
my child?”
“She is your child?” cried Walter in a hurried tone—
“your daughter?”
“My Daughter? Hah! What do you mean? My
Daughter?”
You can see the old man's cheek assume the hue of ashes,
his lip is livid and his eyes are fixed upon the ground.
“Young man, you've touched the bitter chord agin!
Don't you know it's better to cut one's heart with your
knife, than to do it with a word?”
“Pardon, Michael, pardon! I have known you hitherto
but as a rough child of the forest. Now, that I behold in
you the owner of this beautiful home, the father of this—”
“Father?” hurriedly interrupted old Michael. “Who told
you I was father to that angel girl? Sixteen years ago I
brought her to that place, an innocent and smiling babe!
Sixteen years ago I built that home! For sixteen years she
has grown up in solitude, and every hour of those years
grown deeper into my heart! Yes, it is sixteen years and
one month, since that night.”
Again the old man paused, his countenance betraying the
traces of mental agony. While Walter, leaning his noble
form against yonder tree, with his head downcast, gazed
fixedly in the face of his comrade, you see that aged comrade
clutch his rifle with quivering fingers, dash the stock into
the earth, and then pace wildly to and fro.
Again he spoke in that tone so different from his rough
backwoodsman voice. He spoke not as much to Walter as
to his own soul, not so much with the consciousness of a
human eye, gazing upon his face, as the Eye of God reading
his soul.
“What—what have I not done to wash out the memory
of that night! O, it was pitiful,—it was horrible! Satan
himself could not have painted so dark a picture, nor
planned so accursed a deed! A home in flames—two dead
bodies thrown beside the hearth, a husband and his wife!
Both young—one noble in his manly vigor, the other beautiful
in her womanly purity! And beside the body of the
dead husband a little boy stood weeping; over the cold
bosom of the dead wife a baby crept, pressing its lips to
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that font which was dried forever! And the wretch who
led on the midnight assassins, who leagued with red savages
and white robbers, came, at dead of night, to lay this home
in ashes, came with his face blackened, the torch in one
hand, the knife in the other. Who was he? A fiend? No,
a Brother!”
He stood, with his outstretched hands, quivering in every
finger, his eyes glaring in the sod. The white foam frothed
about his livid lips.
Walter stood appalled by the violence of the old man's
emotion.
You may behold him, leaning against yonder tree, his face
manifesting in every outline surprise mingled with horror.
“That house, blackened and in ruins, lies two hundred
miles away in a green valley of the Alleghanies. It stands
there as it has stood for years, a black witness of unnatural
guilt. On its hearthstone the blood has never faded; from
the walls the ghosts of the dead have never gone—no, not
for an hour! And to that ruined house, once every year—
in June, when the trees are in blossom, in June, when the
murder was done—there comes the form of the murderer
to gaze upon the traces of his crimes. For one month, day
and night, he crouches down upon the hearthstone, gazing
upon that mark of blood, that hideous blotch of red that
glares in his face, as though it had a thousand eyes, all fired
by the same curse!
“For sixteen years, on the return of June, the murderer
has been dragged by invisible bands over mountain and
flood to that blasted house! For sixteen years he has been
forced by voices that speak from the air, and speak to his
heart, like the anathema of the archangel, to write a confession
of his crime, and place it in the dead woman's grave!
Sixteen confessions are there; sixteen records of that bloody
deed!”
His look was terrible, as towering erect, he shook his
clenched hands in the air, while his eyes rolled and his
mouth frothed around the writhing lips with scattered drops
of foam and blood.
“Who says that repentance can wash out crime? You
may forsake the world, bury yourself from human eyes,
throw wealth and rank to the winds, put on humble attire
and pray all day in the woods, and groan all night in the
desert where no eye but the eye of God can hear, and still
the faces of the murdered will never cease to glare at you,
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and move their lips as though they would speak but could
not! You may take the child from the breast of the mother,
bear it away from the scene of crime, rear it up to womanhood
in purity and virtue, and yet the child will one day
learn your crime—that child will live to curse the man
whom it has called father, and hiss in his ears the words:
`Thou didst it on a dark night! Thou didst it when all was
still! Thou didst it when husband and wife lay wrapt in
each other's arms! Then thou didst murder my Mother!”'
That frenzied voice sank into an accent of overwhelming
agony.
“To be cursed by her—to be cursed by—Rose!”
You may have seen a huge rock, suddenly precipitated
from an immense height upon the void below. Descending
in a straight line, it strikes a lofty tree, and ere you can
draw another breath, crushed it, from the top to the roots,
into one mass of ruins.
As though he had been that tree, as though the falling
rock had, in its dread career, taken life and plunged upon
his skull, the old man, Michael, rushed to the earth; so sudden
was his fall, so stiffened and lifeless upon the sod he
lay.
Walter knelt beside him. He gazed upon the pale features
and glassy eyeballs, in silence. The emotion which
had but a moment ago shaken the old man's frame, seemed
now to have passed into the veins of his comrade, for every
feature of his face was in motion; with his hand pressed
nervously against his forehead, he gazed into the countenance
of the insensible man.
The sun had gone down, and the shadows, cast by the
trees, in long columns of darkness, began to grow wider and
deeper. The forest was still as a deserted cathedral. Not
the sound of distant water, nor the rustling of the wind
among the trees, disturbed the brooding silence of the Wissahikon
woods.
And let me tell you, to be among those woods, when that
silence so awfully spiritual pervades the air, while the foliage,
spreading around, makes noonday seem like twilight, is to
feel your soul grow nearer to the other world. Then, your
heart feels sad, you know not why. Then, the memories of
your past life, rush upon you. Then, through the long arcades
and bowery glades, half-closing your eyes, you seem
to behold the forms of beloved ones, long since dead, gliding
slowly to and fro.
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Walter—this young man, whom we know by that name—
with an eye, always gleaming brighter in the presence of
danger; a heart, that throbbed tumultuously with passion,
or fired with a love of the beautiful and holy; a soul, ever
swayed by impulse, capable at once of the highest heroism
and the purest self-denial, felt the influence of this evening
hour.
His thoughts were dark to agony!
We dare not picture their nature; but, as he bent over the
insensible man, he seemed to behold two faces, gliding along
a twilight sky, with wreaths of mists about their clearly
defined outlines.
One, the face of a sinless girl, whose young face and tranquil
eyes seemed to woo him from the world and its cares
and fears, into these dear solitudes of Wissahikon. The
love of that maiden face was stainless; the passion of those
clear deep eyes undimned by the mists of sensual feeling.
The other, the face of matured loveliness, with ambition
gleaming from the dark eyes, the love of the world and the
world's feverish joys burning in the vermillion glow of each
olive cheek. That high brow, that dark hair, floating in
showers of glossy blackness over the half-bared bosom, that
red lip, curling with scorn, or parting with passion, completed
the picture of this strange, yes—the terrible face.
“One woos me to the shadows of the quiet woods, and
asks of me a love as virgin as these solitudes! The other
plunges me into the tumults of the world, bids me grapple
with the weapons of ambition, and share the throbbings of
a love that beats with the madness of fever and wine! His
daughter! She, so proud, so distant, whom I have only seen
afar off, and by glimpses; she seeks the presence of the peasant
maid! What can it portend?”
As he kneels there, absorbed in his thoughts, a singular
incident occurs.
Do you see that strange form, with long and matted hair
descending to the broad shoulders, and folds of crape veiling
the face, move noiselessly from tree to tree?
As you look, it crouches on the ground—and crawls,
snake-like, along the sod;—it reaches the fallen trunk,
against which the silver-mounted rifle leans. Beware,
Walter, for there is treachery in the soundless movements
of that uncouth shape! But he does not see it; no, he does
not behold his rifle grasped by those brawny hands, the pan
unclosed, and the priming blown from beneath the flint.
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In a moment the rifle is replaced, and the form of this
unknown enemy moves noiselessly away.
Still Walter knelt beside the insensible man; still the
vision of those two faces occupied his soul.
As his thoughts thus rose in singular confusion to his lips,
he was roused from his reverie by a distant sound, resembling
the cry of fear or agony. It rose, it swelled, it came
through the silence of the woods like the voice of a spirit.
Walter felt a shudder pervade his frame. There was something
almost supernatural in this sudden cry, breaking so
abruptly on the death-like silence of the woods.
He started to his feet, and grasped his rifle! Again that cry!
With a bound he hurried up the ascent of the steep, covered
by those huge old forest trees. That cry seemed ringing
like a knell of death in his ears. The trees, the rocks, a
long slope of level sward, flew behind him; and his course
was presently interrupted by the boughs of a beechen tree,
which, descending to the very sod, formed a wall of green
leaves across his path.
Again that cry! Not ten feet distant it was heard. Walter
plunged through the foliage of the beechen tree, and
started back, with a sudden bound, as he beheld a spectacle
that made his heart beat as with pulsations of flame.
A beautiful woman, kneeling on the sod, her bosom
bared, her long hair falling to her shoulders, with hands and
eyes upraised, in a trembling gesture of prayer!
Above her—standing with his back to the sun—you see
the figure of a thick-set and muscular man, who lifts a rifle
above the head of the kneeling woman. As he turns toward
the light, you see his face, covered with folds of crape,
while from beneath his rough cap of fur long locks of draggled
hair wave in the light. Altogether, as he stands there,
he looks the bravo and outcast, fitted by a dark experience
for any deed of crime.
“Your gold;—come, no delay! Them ear-rings, and
that jewel on yer bosom! Come, I say!”
The rifle, grasped by the barrel, like a huge club, rose
above the kneeling woman's head.
At this moment, Walter sprang from the foliage, and confronted
the ruffian.
“Back!” he cried, and levelled his rifle.
The Outcast only rested the stock of his rifle on the sod,
and a low laugh came from the folds of crape which enveloped
his face.
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“Fire!” he said, with that low, growling sound of
laughter.
From yon aperture among the trees, the last glow of the
western sky gives a purple light to the scene. You see
that craped face, framed in its bushy locks of hair, that
thick-set form, with the right arm wound around the barrel
of the rifle. Walter starting forward, his rifle raised to his
eye, his manly form disclosed in all its delicacy of outline
by the dress of dark velvet, relieved by the green of the
trees. Between these figures, the form of the kneeling
woman, her beautiful countenance pale with suspense, her
bared bosom throbbing with quivering emotion. In the
tranquil light of this still hour, her dark hair, showering so
freely over the white shoulders, assumed the purple tint of
the twilight.
“Fire!” cried the Outcast; and again that laugh broke on
the air.
Walter applied his finger to the trigger—there was a
harsh, jarring sound, but no flash in the pan—no report from
the tube.
“Ha, ha, ha! That for your rifle!” And, with the
celerity of a lightning flash, he seized the jewelled chain
from the neck of the lady, and stood erect, calmly leaning
on his rifle.
Walter, at a moment's glance, saw that he must prepare
for a desperate conflict. Dashing his rifle on the sod, he
drew his hunting-knife, and advanced upon the bravo.
“Come,” he growled, “I'll tame your blood!” and, without
moving an inch from his position, seemed about to spring
on his antagonist, like a rattlesnake on the unsuspecting
victim.
He raised his arm to strike that unknown man, but the
kneeling woman bounded from the sod, flung her arms about
his neck. “Save me!” she cried, and lay fainting on his
breast. Her long hair streaming over his face, for a moment
blinded his vision; with a sudden movement, he swept aside
those silken tresses.
The bravo, the Outcast was gone!
But there, in the arms of Walter, the hunter, in this deep
evening hour, lay the form of a beautiful woman, whose
matured loveliness was enveloped in a close-fitting habit;
whose bosom, lately heaving with emotion, now lay white
and pulseless beneath his gaze; whose arms, round and full,
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were wound about his neck, while her dark hair streamed in
glossy masses over his shoulders.
A wildly beautiful woman; a voluptuous organization; a
face, rich olive in hue, with the lids closed and the lashes
resting on the cheek, displaying in its calm forehead, marked
brows, and firm lips, the traces of a bold and ambitious
nature!
“It is the vision which for a month past has, day after
day, flitted across my gaze, from the far distance!” he said,
and felt his temple burn, his veins swell as with liquid
flame.
Wishing to gaze yet more clearly on that beautiful face,
he turned toward the western sky.
As he turns—but no! it is a fancy, a dream!—the fainting
woman uncloses her eyes, while a smile of triumph wreaths
her proud lips. It is for a moment only. When Walter
looks again, the lips are smileless, the eyes closed as if in
death.
Walter gazed, for a few moments, upon that face motionless
as marble, while his very soul seemed lost in the vortex
of a whirlpool. His eyes swam, his temples throbbed, he
could feel his heart beat against his bosom.
At last a soft flush pervaded her olive cheek; her lids
were slowly raised, the full blaze of her dark eyes rested
upon Walter's face.
With a bound, she sprang from his arms; even in the dim
shadowy light of that hour, Walter beheld the rich blushes
ripen over her face and bosom.
`Thanks, good sir,—you have saved, perchance, my
life,” she said, in her musical voice, yet with a manner of
calm dignity.
Walter beheld her standing in the centre of that forest
bower, and as the light of her eyes, the expression of her
commanding face, dawned upon him, through the gathering
gloom, he started with surprise. For a month or more, this
strange woman, seen through the vistas of the forest from
afar, had filled him with a bewildering interest. Now
he beheld her face he felt the light of those eyes which
flashed with all the consciousness of intellectual and voluptuous
power.
“Lady Marion!” he exclaimed. “We have met before!
In the Court of St. James, surrounded by a circle of admirers,
glittering with stars and coronets, I last beheld you.
Now, in this lone forest—”
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“Ah! I remember well your face, though I never knew
you to converse with you. Your name was whispered
among the courtiers—indeed, the King himself stated that
wealth and chivalry had not often found a nobler representative
than Reginald—”
“No names, lady!” And Walter bowed low as he spoke.
“In the forest, ha, ha! we are but plain men and woman,
you will be pleased to remember!”
“Did you not first set the example? `Lady Marion,'
indeed! Doubtless you wonder to find me here, in this
wild place. I frankly confess that you are the last person
I should have expected to behold—shall I say hoped?—here
in the woods of the Wissahikon!”
She advanced, and, with that smile playing over her face—
oh! you should have seen its strange, mysterious fascination!—
she lightly laid her hand upon his arm. Walter
started, for her touch penetrated his veins like electric
fire.
“Would you know my mission, in these dark, wild
woods? Would you solve the mysteries, not only of a poor,
weak woman's life, but of government and war—would you
achieve the freedom of your native land—the deliverance of
the soil from the clouds which overshadow it? Come, then,
to-night, at the hour of ten, to yonder house, on the opposite
shore of Wissahikon!”
“I will!” said Walter, scarce knowing what he spoke.
There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and Michael—
whom we left insensible upon the sod—advanced from the
shelter of the leaves.
“Brave soldier, I have sought for you, through the woods,
and your home!” cried Lady Marion, confronting the aged
hunter, who stood surprised at her address, and yet impressed,
he scarce knew why, by the sound of that low musical
voice.
“You fought in Braddock's war, under Washington?
“I did!”
“You would serve Washington? Rescue him from the
perils that beset him; from the plots of his enemies?”
“With my life!”
And the old hunter brought his rifle down on the sod, by
way of emphasis.
“Come with me, then, to my mansion on yonder hill!—
These are strange times, when a woman must forget the
modesty of her sex, in the service of her country; when the
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old man must feel his withered arm grow strong again, to
defend that country! Come!”
Even the old hunter, whom we have lately seen writhing
in convulsions—the fierce struggle of bodily or mental disease—
felt the magic of that woman's look and voice.
“I'm with you!” he said; “Washington! Is he in danger?
I saw the bullets rattle against the blade of his sword,
on the day of Braddock's defeat—I'll try to keep them from
his heart, now that his enemies encompass him! But first,
young man”—he turned to Walter, and whispered in his ear—
“You saw me in that fit,—just now? Eh, comrade? Notice
anything particular? I'm apt to say queer things—you
overheard, we—”
He paused, while his eyes flashed deadly light; he paused,
hesitated, as though he wished Walter to complete the sentence.
“Pardon me, Michael, if I left you for an instant!” the
young man answered, in an even voice, and with a composed
manner—“This lady was in danger, or I would not have
forsaken you, in such a moment.”
“So you overheard nothing, eh? But come, Walter, I
like you, and have liked you, ever since the day when I
saved your life. I have a daughter—you understand an old
man's feelings. I may die suddenly, some day; be picked
off by a bullet, or fall from a cliff. This child must not be
left to the mercy of a heartless world! Join hands with
me, and swear before the God who sees and will judge—
swear to protect my child!”
Walter turned his face away from the faint glow of light
which shone from the western sky, and extended his hand.
“Your hand trembles!” whispered the old hunter.
“Still, I swear!”
“You swear to protect my child, even Rose, not only from
the touch of harm, but from the wiles of the seducer, the
arts of the libertine! Ah! why does your hand shrink from
my grasp? Why do you turn away? Can it be, that I
have been mistaken in you? Are you afraid to act the part
of a brother to the young and helpless girl?”
Walter stood in the shadows, his face buried in his hands.
Well for him that it was so dark, that forest bower! Well
for him that the keen eye of the old man could not read the
agony of his face!
But the woman who stands in the background, her bosom
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swelling beneath her robe, her finger to her lip, her eyes
glancing triumphant fire—what means her agitation?
“I have been mistaken—you are not a man of courage!”
said the old man, turning away.
Walter sprang forward and grasped his hand.
“Pardon me! It was but a bitter memory of a sad story
I once heard, that caused this apparent reluctance! Your
hand! I swear to protect your daughter—even Rose—from
the touch of harm, from the wiles of the seducer, the arts of
the libertine!”
And while the old man grasped the hand of this unknown
comrade, whom we have heard addressed by the names of
Walter and Reginald, there, half buried in the shadows,
stood the Lady Marion, her face overspread with smiles, the
light of a strange passion flashing from her eyes!
CHAPTER SECOND. ROSE.
The moon, rising over yonder precipitous ascent of woods,
shines down upon the cottage home of Michael, the hunter.
So, perchance, a thousand years ago she shone, when these
trees encircled mansions of marble; when the banners of a
strange and forgotten people fluttered in a summer air, as
bland as the breeze which now makes music among the
leaves; when, beside these waters, grouped the Priests and
the white-robed maidens, swelling into the deep vault of
heaven, their sacrificial song!
Walter advanced from the shadows of the trees, and stood
upon a rock that towers there at this hour; his dark attire
and pale face, disclosed in the light of the rising moon.—
You see his face upraised, its pale hue giving unnatural radiance
to his clear dark eye; you perceive the traces of
tears upon that bold cheek, and yet the resolve of a strong
will speaks in that firm mouth and rounded chin.
It was a very beautiful sight that he saw, by the pale
light of the moon. Not a palace of white marble, nor yet
one of those red brick mansions which freeze the soul out of
you, with their bright pink walls and green
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window-shutters; but a little structure of wood and stone, nestling between
two huge rocks. How the vines waved and the
flowers bloomed upon those gray old piles of granite! It
was but a little structure, with a single window, and a steep
roof, that sheltered from the sun and rain three little rooms;
but, for all that, it was a “home.”
A home, with trees on trees around, above it; a home,
with a still stream flowing gently by; a home, with a garden
spreading from its door down to the water's edge; a home,
with roof of boards and straw, hidden by leaves and fragrant
with honeysuckles; a home, containing a treasure more
precious than the gold of Mexico, or the diamonds of Hindoostan!
That treasure—an immortal soul—locked up within the
body of a beautiful and sinless girl!
Walter stood gazing upon it, wrapped in his thoughts,
when a footstep resounded by his side.
He turned, and beheld the form of a negro, his white eyeballs
and ivory teeth shining rfrom a face black as ink and
glossy as silk. He stood the e, six feet high in his boots,
his broad chest enveloped in a green coat, faced with gold;
his thick wool surmounted bya cap of dark fur; his limbs
encased in long boots, that shone like mirrors. Altogether,
he was as fine a specimen of the African, with his flat nose,
big lips, and protruding eyes, as you might see in any court
of justice, on the occasion of the trial of a fugitive slave. It
may also be remarked, that the muzzles of two silver-mounted
pistols protruded from the breast of his dark green
coat.
“I is here, Massa!” said the dark gentleman, with a bow
that would have done honor to a courtier of Versailles.
“Ah! is that you, Bram?”
“It am de rale nigga, Massa!”
“Is everything ready? You remember my orders? First,
the Purple Chamber, in my city mansion, was to be prepared
for my reception;—have you obeyed my commands?”
“Y-e-s, Massa!”
“At twelve o'clock to-night, the carriage is to be waiting,
in the narrow lane, beyond the Wissahikon, about half a
mile from this place.”
“It will be dar!”
“Bram, you must not express any surprise in case a young
gentleman, somewhat slender in form, and clad in a plain
dark dress, should appear at twelve to-night, and enter the
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carriage! The moment he enters, you will drive with all
speed to the city, and lead this young gentleman up stairs
into the Purple Chamber.”
“Dis nigga nebbaw fails to do dat which Massa commands.
No, he does not, dat he don't!”
“The young gentleman will be known to you, not so much
by his dress, as by the white scarf which binds his eyes—”
“De grashus goodness! Blinefold, eh? Bress a poor
darkey's stars! Dat reminds me of Paris. A berry fine
place is Paris, only dem folks do talk so pertiklar queer.
And den dey aint got no common sense! Laws! dey treats
a dark brown colored gemman just like a white person,
widout de 'propriate distinction ob color!”
“You have heard my commands. Remember, the happiness—
perchance, the life—of your master depends upon the
manner in which you follow them. Do!”
Without a word the liveried negro disappeared, and was
lost to view among the trees.
We will now watch the movements of Walter with peculiar
interest.
Descending from the rock, he draws forth from among
the bushes, which dip from the bank into the waves, an Indian
canoe, hewn by the hands of old Michael from the trunk
of a massive tree.
You see him enter the canoe; he stands erect, in the light
of the moon, his pale face betraying unequivocal signs of
emotion. One movement of the slender oar, and the fragile
barge glides noiselessly over the waters, and rests beside
the opposite shore.
Walter leaps upon the bank. He stands in the garden,
which blooms along the level space. He listens! All is
still; the clear moonlight falls upon the latticed window of
the cottage, but reveals no traces of the presence of any
human thing within its walls.
He advances toward the door, his heart beating quicker,
his strong frame trembling in every nerve. Still no sound!
His hand is upon the wooden latch—for a moment he
pauses in painful suspense—he crosses the threshold of that
home.
All is silent there. Through the small window, a belt of
moonlight falls along the outer floor All beside is dark.
Through that darkened room, Walter moves with noiseless
footsteps and extended hands.
A sob, low and gushing, as if arising from the heart,
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disturbs the silence. At the same moment, his hand touches a
woman's cheek, and feels her tears.
“Rose!”
All is dark; he cannot see her, yet a small hand is laid
within his own, and a face is pressed against his bosom.
“You are unhappy! You weep—”
There was no reply; none in words, yet the hand that was
pressed within his own—the young face, resting on his
bosom—spoke that universal language which Love first
learned in Paradise.
In a moment, Walter gently disengaged her arm from his
neck, hurried into the next chamber, and returned, bearing
a light in his hands.
Then it might be seen that the Rose of Wissahikon was
transcendantly beautiful!
She bloomed in one corner of the small room, her form
resting upon a huge old arm-chair, fashioned of solid oak.
Her cheek upon her hand; her eyes upraised, she shone
through the ehamber like an angel presence.
You would pardon this extravagance of speech, had you
but for a moment seen her in her virgin beauty.
True, the dress which enveloped her young form, was of
the plainest and coarsest material; true, her foot was encased
in a rude shoe, made of rough buckskin; true, her
bosom was veiled by a plain white kerchief, and yet, for
all her simple dress, her beauty shone out and lighted that
small chamber of the forest home.
That foot, seen below the coarse skirt, was so small; that
bosom, heaving beneath the white kerchief, so round and
full; those arms, bare from the shoulder, so like arms of
alabaster, rounded by the chisel of an inspired sculptor,
veined by delicate threads of azure, softened by a flush like
the first glow of a summer morn; that face, so fair in its
hue, so warm in the lips, so brilliant in the eyes, so beautifully
relieved by the rich mass of dark brown hair!
Her eyes were neither blue, nor hazel, nor black. Now
dark, now bright, now slowly lighting up with emotion;
now flashing into sudden radiance; now gleaming dimly
through the half-closed lips; now overspread with moisture,—
even as the stars look more beautiful through the tears of
an April shower; those eyes, always in every phase of expression,
sent their rays home to the heart!
The hair was brown, and yet, in one light, it was black
as the deep vault of a midnight sky; in another, purple as
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the last kiss of day upon the western horizon. The word
auburn, expressing that delicious combination of colors
which imparts such divine beauty to the hair of a lovely
woman, comes nearer the truth.
Her eyes full of clear, deep light; her skin white as
marble, with the young blood speaking out in each cheek;
her hair auburn in hue and plainly gathered back from her
face—just as the painters have pictured our Mother Mary,
so bloomed this young girl in that cottage chamber.
Her hair was bound in a coil at the back of her head, and
yet the band, which clasped it, once untied, it covered her—
the neck, the bosom and the form, which would have been
voluptuous, had not the eyes been so pure—it covered her
like a veil, that beautiful flowing hair.
Walter stood on the threshold, surveying in silent admiration
this lovely girl. The same light that reveals his
form, clad in a hunting garb of dark velvet, shines upon the
young maiden with the light kerchief around her neck, the
dark skirt upon her form.
Her eyes, dim with tears, encountered his earnest gaze.
Shall we translate the thought which gave such a deep
melancholy to his face?”
“A miracle! This young and beautiful girl reared alone
in these woods from her earliest infancy! her only companion
an old man, who is now rough as any forester in his
speech, and again in the very writhings of remorse betrays
the eloquence of the forum, the refinement of courtly life!
Reared alone—a beautiful flower blooming in the desert—
the light of genius shines from the eyes, the glow of education
warms her face. That hand can fill the canvass with
flowers and forms as beautiful as those seen in a midsummer
dream—or pour forth, on paper, thoughts that indicate at
once the tenderness of woman, the power of genius! And
yet she knows the world from books alone—its cares, its
customs are to her but the dim phantoms of a day-break
dream.”
So ran his thoughts, but before him ever rose one question
that poisoned the serenity of his soul:—“Is yours the hand
to tear from the vase, in which it blooms, this flower, so pure,
so virgin? Is your's the heart to plan the shame of that
chaste being, the dishonor of that maiden soul?”
“Rose,” he said aloud, advancing to the maiden, “to-night
you will leave your home. All is arranged. To-night you
will link your fate with mine! Why do you weep? Is it
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because you dread the coming of that hour, when gathering
you to my heart, I shall whisper: `Rose, you are
mine!”'
She slowly arose from the chair, and laid her hands upon
his arms.
“But a month since we met, and I am about to leave
father and home for you! Only a few short weeks ago I
beheld you, for the first time, standing at the banks of the
Wissahikon, and now, for you, Arthur—for you, I am about
to leave this dear home for ever!”
The language, which spoke from her upraised eyes, was
an hundred times more powerful than her words.
Walter, Reginald, Arthur! At all events, the young
hunter is rich in names.
“But the Home, to which I will lead you, Rose—”
“A cottage like this, in a dear, secluded valley, Arthur,
with such green woods above us, such a quiet stream rippling
by the door! Say, is't not so, Arthur? You wish a home
like this? There we will dwell together, and after your
day's toil in the woods—for you are but a poor hunter, Arthur—
we will sit together by the fireside of home, our
faces glowing in the same hallowed light!”
Arthur smiled, perchance, at the earnestness of her eyes,
the simple pathos of her voice.
“The Purple Chamber!” he murmured, and bent his eyes
upoe her glowing face.
“But my father, Arthur! he will come and visit us. Ah,
why must we meet without his knowledge—why this secresy?
This mystery?”
She buried her face upon his breast, and as he looked down
upon her glossy tresses, a dark and ominous frown gathered
upon his brow. Ah, Walter, Reginald, Arthur, what
means that frown? Does the thought of your secret meetings,
for this month past—that history which you were
about to tell old Michael, the hunter,—cross your soul?
And now, old Michael, and the father of this girl are ONE,
and you dare not breathe the knowledge of this fact to the
maid, who throbs upon your bosom, her heart pulsating
with a holy, a virgin love?”
Remember your Oath!
“But why need we leave Wissahikon?” she cried with a
radiant smile upon her face; “Why leave this place, where
the dawn is so lovely, the noon-day so serene, the twilight
so holy? Not a path, in these dear woods, but we have trod
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together—I clad in the hunter's dress, which you brought
me—while you, with your rifle to your shoulder, pointed
out each beautiful view; here, a delightful glimpse of
water; there, a cool cascade dashing over grey rocks, or, far
away, the Wissahikon, shining light a golden track of light
in the setting sun! And those beautiful bowers in the forest,
Arthur, where there are vines blooming with honeysuckles,
and lilies wreathing their white cups with the leaves of the
rose, and the air breathe perfume, and the lull of the distant
stream comes on the ear like sweet music from Heaven!
O, I have passed such happy years in this dear solitude—
my father so kind, so good! Yes, kind, for all he leaves me
alone for a month, every year; good, for all that he mutters
to himself and writhes in agony in the long hours of the
nigt, and wanders out in the storm, his head and breast bared
to the blast! And we must leave it all, Arthur, to-night,
we must say to all that is beautiful here, Farewell!”
She stood in her blushing beauty before her lover, in that
plain room. The sanded floor; the white-washed walls,
adorned with the works of her pencil; the grotesquely
carved table, on which her books—her Bible among the
rest—were placed; the hearth, now wreathed with roses
and laurel; the low ceiling, supported by heavy rafters—
such were the details of the picture.
In the centre stood the tall form of the lover, his dark
dress imparting additional paleness to his face; his right
arm holding the light above his head, and before him her
eyes upraised, her heart beating warmly beneath her kerchief,
the young girl blushed like a rose, trembling on its
stem to a gentle breeze.
“Do you love me?” he said, bending upon her face the full
light of his eyes.
You should have seen her clear skin slowly ripening from
her bosom to the brow, from the shoulders to the fingers, in
all the crimson of her virgin blood! What woman ever
lived, who could hear without a quivering pulse those words
spoken by dark eyes, burning with light, at the same instant
that are spoken by a voice that trembles between a whisper
and a sigh, those words: Do you love me?
Poor Rose!
Just as you have seen a humming bird beat its rainbow
wings against the scarf, that lightly enveloped it, so her
heart beat in her bosom, imparting its fire to her cheek and
eyes!
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How it was she knew not, but she seemed to grow toward
her lover's form, her head sought his shoulder as a pillow,
the band that tied her hair parted, and down it fell, that
flowing hair, down it streamed, so glossy and so beautiful in
its hues, now brown, now black, now purple, that waving
auburn hair.
And then as the lids of her eyes half closed, her lips
parted until her white teeth were seen—a line of ivory, set
in vermilion!
Arthur bent gently down, and, for the first time, suffered
his breath to mingle with hers, as their lips throbbed together
and mingle in that signet of a deathless love!
The first kiss!
“To-night, at twelve, remember!” he said—not in a
calm, even voice, you may be sure. “To-night, in your
hunter's dress, at twelve, remember!” and hurried from
the room.
When she came to the door, she beheld him standing on
the opposite shore, the summer moon pouring its rays upon
his uncovered brow. Between them rippled the stream—
around and above fluttered the sea of leaves, and from afar
came the plaintive song of the whippoor-will. He stood on
the very rock, where she first beheld him a month gone by.
He flung a kiss to her as she stood in the cottage door; a
warm picture in a rude frame.
Again that word, “Remember!” and he was gone.
Rose looked upon the vacant rock for many minutes, and
then entered her home, closing the door.
In fifteen minutes there came from the cottage door a
young hunter, clad in a dress which was at once singularly
neat and picturesque. A gray frock, that fell open, disclosing
the buff waistcoat buttoned to the chin and descending below
the waist. Breeches of the same color, tied at the knee,
where a buckskin boot revealed the shape of the leg. Upon
his dark hair, which was very glossy and luxuriant, he wore
a delicate cap, topped with a dainty white plume.
It must be confessed that there were some objections to
the general harmony of the costume. For example, the
waistcoat was drawn tightly over the bust, while it fell in
wrinkles about the waist, and the boot, small as it was, was
too large for the hunter's foot, and the sleeves tightened
about the arms until they revealed a firm, round outline.
That hunter came stepping along the garden with a kind
of stealthy grace, and started back with a somewhat
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beautiful surprise, as he beheld his warm cheeks and light eyes
reflected in the calm mirror of Wissahikon.
Beautiful Rose of Wissahikon!
“The words of this strange woman, Lady Marion, bewilder
me! Ah, I have a secret—yes, there is one thing
which I have not told to Arthur! What a strange, dark
story seemed upon this lady's tongue, and yet she seemed
afraid to tell it! Yet, her parting words I remember well:—
`If you have a brother on this side of Eternity, come to
my house to-night and I will show you his image, and reveal
to you the very scene in which he is placed, at the moment
you look upon his image!' How could she guess this yearning
desire of my heart, to see that brother of whom my
father has often spoken in his moments of agony! I will
go to her home, I will dare worse perils than she described,
but to have one glance at MY Brother's form!”
Yes, she had a secret, which she kept locked within her
own bosom. Even from the lover, to whom she entrusted
her soul, she kept it, not from any impure motive, but—it
may be—that with all her purity and beauty, she was so far
a daughter of Eve, as to desire the possession of one secret,
only one. Then what a delightful surprise she meditated
for her lover, when pressing her new found brother in her
arms, she could say: Brother, this is Arthur!
Look upon her, as she enters the canoe and glides down
the stream. Gently, softly over the tide, the moon upon
her face, the boughs stretching out their arms to embrace her!
She goes to meet the Lady Marion.—In the summer time
I have seen a beautiful green snake, spotted with drops of
gold, coiling himself quietly under a rosebush, while a humming
bird, green and gold in his soft plumage, hovered
near, and near and nearer, until the snake disclosed his
fangs, and—
But why this dark presentiment?
Gently, softly over the tide the boat bore Rose along,
while the ripples broke in music on the shore.
The idea of a girl living for sixteen years in the solitude
of the Wissahikon, her only companion a rough old man,
who, with all his rudeness, teaches her those arts, which
develope genius and soften the life of a woman, even as the
last flash of a rainbow mellows the sky!
Very ridiculous, is it not, my dear lover of common
place, my dear matter of fact?
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And yet it is very beautiful; yes, even if a fiction, it is
worth all your hard-featured, stony-eyed Truth!
But it is Truth. Not Truth, shining with a bloody glare
over the scenes of a battle, or growing drowsy with the
miasma of a great city's crimes, but Truth as beautiful as
the Wissahikon, and as pure.
CHAPTER THIRD. WASHINGTON, THE KING.
The house of the Lady Marion stood alone on the heights
of Wissahikon.
It was a substantial structure of stone, facing toward the
south, its massive front presenting one imposing surface,
while on either side, a semi-circular wing increased its
picturesque effect. Its steep roof arose in many Gothic shapes,
crowned with fantastic chimneys and bordered by heavy
cornices along the eaves.
Above those roofs a grove of horse chestnut trees extended
their grateful shade; their broad green leaves, their substantial
trunks were contrasted with the bright verdure of the
sward, the rich brown of the gravelled walks, the dark gray
of the stone.
On the right of the mansion, from among a copse of hazel,
the roof of a small summer house, or pavilion, burnt into
light. This elegant structure contained but a single room,
furnished in a strange, antique style.
Two winding carriage roads led from the front of the
mansion, under the grove of horse chestnut trees, along a wide
lawn that extended for some three hundred yards, until it
was terminated by the green hedge-row of a shadowy lane.
Behind the mansion sank the wild declivity of Wissahikon,
trees and rocks, sweeps of sward, growths of underwood,
gentle elevations and green hollows, all mingled together.
The mansion contained many chambers, all furnished in
contrasted style; many passages, some hollowed from the
thick wall, some winding like a serpent's track, some
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extending broad and deep along the entire extent of the
edifice.
It is with three apartments in this mansion that our history
on the night of July the third, between the hours of ten
and twelve, is connected. The pavilion among the hazel
trees has also a deep interest for us. Almost at the same
time, in the east and in the west wing, in the pavilion and
in the banquetting room of Lady Marion's house, scenes of
vital interest are in progress.
Time had been, when gay equipages, bearing the forms of
gallant men and beautiful women, had rolled along the lawn,
when noble steeds stood champing the bit before the door,
when every window and crevice of the mansion poured out
its separate stream of light, and the entire grove blazed in
every leaf, with a radiance like day.
Then the sound of woman's laughter, the tread of woman's
foot bounding in the dance, mingled with the clatter
of goblets and the music of a full band. Until the morning
dawned, the Wissahikon rung with the sounds of revelry
and the old forest thrilled with the clamor of a mad festival.
The pavilion, too, shrouded in its copse of hazel, witnessed
many a coy meeting, many a scene in which the young
maiden, fluttering in satin and brilliant with diamonds,
her blood thrilling with the dance and wine, heard with
crimsoned cheek and panting bosom the tremulous story,
warm from the lips of passion.
But now all was dark. Dark the mansion in its many
chambers; dark the pavilion in its solitary room; dark the
woods in its tangled mazes and winding paths. Not a
gleam of light, from pavilion or mansion, illumined the midnight
shadows of the grove.
And yet, had you taken your position by the large tree,
that towers before the door, and watched from dark until
midnight, you might have seen many strange guests enter the
room. Let us, within the shadows of the grove, wait patiently
and behold them as they come.
The Lady Marion, with old Michael by her side! It is
but dusk; they come from the woods of Wissahikon, and
silently enter the hall door.
An hour passes—what have we here? A multitude of
forms, shrouded, although it is summer time, in cloaks, with
scabbards rattling underneath. They have left their horses
in yonder grove, hidden by the leaves. One by one they
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enter the mansion; twenty forms in all, treading with the
step of young manhood over the gravelled walks.
Another hour! A solitary figure, dressed in a dark habit,
appears, glances cautiously around and is gone into the
mansion. As he turns his face, we may almost recognize
the features of Arthur, Walter or Reginald, as you may
please to call him.
Silence again; an half hour passes, and an old man, whose
dark attire flashes with lace of gold, steps from the shadows
and enters the house of Lady Marion.
Then the form of a young hunter came hurriedly from the
wood in the rear of the house, and, without turning to right
or left, glided within the hazel copse which overshadowed
the pavilion.
Poor Rose of Wissahikon!
You will confess that these movements, this strangely
contrasted crowd of guests, all, save one, entering the house
of Lady Marion, the mystery which envelopes their actions,
the secresy with which they move—fills us with surprise,
with awe.
Between the hours of ten and twelve we will enter the
mansion and behold, in three separate chambers, scenes of
absorbing interest. Then our steps will wander to yonder
pavilion, and, with hushed breath and earnest gaze, we will
witness a scene that exceeds them all, not only in its deep
interest, but in its strange disclosures.
First, let the curtain roll back for the Banquetting Chamber.—
What do we see? No goblets of wine? No wreaths of
flowers? The light of six wax candles, placed in candlesticks
of silver, reveals the wainscotted walls of that wide
chamber, which traverses the mansion from north to south.
At the southern end a black curtain, drooping from the ceiling
to the floor, closes the view.
Around a long table, covered with a dark cloth, the strange
guests are assembled. No service of silver, nor goblets or
plates of gold, nor anything that betokens a festival, do we
behold.
A sword gleams from the dark cloth of that table; beside
it, letters, papers, parchments, bearing the signatures
of such men as Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, George
Washington and John Hancock, are placed.
Do you behold the scene? Those twenty men, all young,
with athletic forms and earnest brows, seated around the
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table—their forms brilliant with warrior costume, every
man with his sword unsheathed upon his knee, while his
eye is centered upon that erect figure at the head of the
board!
These are the chivalry of the state and continent; young
men with wealth at their beck, true hearts, who never yet
having shared in council or battle, beat with fiery impatience
to do some service to their native land.
And at the head of the table, his form attired in a uniform
of dark green, faced with gold, stood Walter, the hunter,
his pale, olive cheek, now glowing with strong emotion;
his dark eye, flashing a fire that sent its rays to every heart.
He stood erect, glancing with conscious pride upon these
brave men, who have hailed him Leader!
His eye glances along the board; he searchingly surveys
those faces. Not a brow but wears it faith, like a signet
upon its surface; not an eye but flashed with answering fire
to his own.
In that clear deep voice which warms the blood to hear,
he condenses the deliberations of hours in a few bold
words.
“The time has come for action. The country—the land
which bore us, and which God has given to the free—calls
to us for deliverance! Not deliverance merely from the
sceptre of George III., but from the wiles of faction—the
tricks of anarchists! For days the Congress, sitting in the
old Statehouse, has held its secret session! For days with
closed doors, and all the indications of mystery, it has pursued
its deliberations! To what purpose do these mysterious
councils tend? Witness the intercepted letters of its
leaders, now spread before you on the table—witness the
signatures of Hancock, and Jefferson, and Adams! They
would flood the land with blood, not to accomplish its freedom,
but to establish on the ruins of the British power the
miserable anarchy of a Venetian Senate. They would pour
armies forth on the battle field, not so much to crush King
George, as to crush George Washington!”
He paused, while his flashing eye ran round the throng,
as if eager to gather the purpose of men's hearts from their
faces.
No shout, but a deep murmur pervaded that banquet
chamber. From their muttered whispers, we may gain
some knowledge of the object of this council.
“Jefferson plans the overthrow of Washington!”
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“Hancock would restore us to the sway of the British
King!”
“The proofs are there—letters signed by them, and plotting
treason!”
“Even Washington writes to this patriotic lady—the
brave woman who has so mysteriously summoned us together—
writes from his camp, and reveals the treachery of
Congress!”
“We must surround their doors, and scatter their deliberations
to the winds!”
“Ay, sword in hand, my friends! For the sword is your
only cure for the tricks of traitors!”
And twenty extended hands held their good swords in the
light.
At the same moment, from opposite sides of the dark curtain,
a face was thrust into view, and as suddenly withdrawn
again. This, the scarred visage of Michael the Hunter; that,
the beautiful face of Lady Marion.
It must be confessed that as Walter stood erect in the
presence of his comrades, his marked countenance glaring
with the fire of his sworn resolve, he looked, in every inch
of his form, the soldier and the hero.
“For the assassin there is a gibbet; for the traitor, the
sword! To-night, brothers in the good cause—to-night, a
committee, appointed by Congress to put their mysterious
deliberations into shape, held their council in the city. Jefferson,
Adams, Sherman, and Livingston, are that committee,
selected to fulfill the dark work of Congress. Lured, either
by the hope of titles from the King, in case they betray the
country into his hands; or ambitious of positions of power
and trust, in case they establish an aristocratic anarchy, like
the Republic of Venice—these men have determined the
overthrow of Washington. We must trample their schemes
into dust! Desperate crimes require desperate remedies!
We must surround the house in which these traitors hold
their councils—encompass every avenue—encircle the room
in which they plan their treachery—and, at the points of our
swords, force from their grasp the proofs of their treachery!
Ay, we must do it! and before the clock strikes twelve!
Then, with the traitors in our power, we will unfurl our
flag to the morning light, call the generous spirits of the
camp and council to our aid, and, from the Statehouse hall,
proclaim the name under which we rally—the name under
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
which we will fight—the name which will conquer, with
us—Washington, the King!”
He paused, and a silence like the grave pervaded that hall.
From side to side, the comrades turned, seeking from each
other's faces some explanation of this bold movement. The
light of the wax candles flashed along the wainscotted walls,
and over the dark curtain. Still, that singular silence prevailed.
His brow flushed with emotion, Walter sank in his
chair, while only the sound of deep-drawn breath disturbed
the stillness of the scene.
Slowly—slowly the curtain rolled aside. From its folds,
in all her beauty, her voluptuous form attired in a dark
habit, stepped forth the Lady Marion, with the form of rough
Michael, armed with his rifle, by her side.
“Behold!” and she pointed to an object, disclosed by the
parting of the curtain.
“For that I will fight!” cried old Michael, waving his
rifle toward the object.
At once a shout, like thunder, echoed along that banquet
chamber; at once twenty forms started to their feet, and
twenty swords described their circles in the air.
You see their faces, glowing with enthusiasm; you behold
Walter turn and echo their shout; while the Lady Marion
glides to his side, presses his hands within her own, pours
the passion of her heaving breast into her dark eyes, and
whispers—“Reginald, you have done well!”
And there, disclosed by the curtains, stood the portrait of
a warrior, whose tall form and majestic face seemed about
to start from the canvass, and glide among the guests, and
speak to them. A form, such as kings never owned—an
eye, that gleamed its soul from a chivalric face; a hand,
that grasped its own true sword.
There was a crown upon that noble brow.
And louder through the banquet chamber—while the Lady
Marion, her olive cheek blooming with passion and triumph,
glided closer to Walter's side—louder swelled the shout—
“Washington, the King!”
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CHAPTER FOURTH. LADY MARION'S KISS.
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
In the crescent-shaped room of the east wing, sat an aged
man, bending over a table overspread with manuscripts,
the light of a solitary candle upon his withered brow.
He sat in a capacious arm-chair, his slender form attired
in a dark coat, adorned by lace and buttons of gold; while
his cambric ruffles were relieved by a long waistcoat of
black velvet.
His hair, white with age, was plainly gathered back from
his face. His entire appearance denoted wealth and station;
his high and somewhat narrow forehead, deep gray eyes,
and mouth relaxing in a calm smile, betrayed the indications
of an enthusiastic nature, whose fire neither the touch of
sorrow nor the frosts of age could chill.
The semi-circular room was elegantly hung with tapestry
of dark purple; the carpet displayed a soft and rich combination
of colors; the ceiling rising in a dome, blushed with
the delicate tints of the dawn. Altogether, it was a perfect
gem of a chamber, worthy of the luxurious taste of Lady
Marion.
The old man was bent over the table, quietly reading by
the light of the lamp, while—as he passed from paper to
paper, from letter to letter—his withered face gradually
lighted up, and his eye began, by slow degrees, to burn with
the fire of youth.
For the letters that he read, were the letters of love—the
first warm breathings of a heart, now cold forever; written
by a hand that long ago was dust!
The tears fell from the old man's eyes. He placed the
letters in his bosom. Then, he unrolled a huge manuscript,
bearing on its cover the words—“Journal of John Landsdowne.”
Here, written in a fair, clear hand, there, blotted by tears,
again, stained with blood, the journal covered a space of
twenty years.
But what love and adventures, heroism and murder, were
comprised in that history of twenty years!
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The old man read with a flushed cheek, an eye all fire, a
heart that writhed within him.
At last as he came to the history of that AWFUL NIGHT,
written by the hand of the murderer himself, the bloody record
dropped from his hand, and he buried his face in his
hands.
“And yet he was a brother!” he gasped. “Two weeks
ago, standing within the shadow of the ruins of the blasted
house, I discovered the fearful history in her grave!
“It was the hand of God that guided me there; the same
hand leads me to the valley of the Wissahikon!”
A shadow fell along the floor, by his side. Do you see
that proud form, standing upon the threshold—that countenance
stamped with an expression that contracts the brows,
while it parts the red lips in a smile?
It is the Lady Marion; she advances and lays her hand
upon the old man's shoulder.
“Ah, is it you, Lady Marion?” he said, raising his eyes.
“Little did I think a year ago, when I encountered you, the
brightest among the beauties—nay, do not smile, 't is but an
old man's compliment!—the brightest among the beauties
who surround the throne of King George, that I should ever
find you here, living in retirement, among the woods of Wissahikon!
You was then known as the `American beauty,'
who had given her hand to Sir George Ferrers. Pardon! if
my words raise an unpleasant feeling. Sir George died
shortly after I saw you at Court. And then, with a heroism
worthy of a Spartan woman, you resolved to return to your
native land, eager to share the perils of freedom rather than
bask in the sunshine of a royal court. Much less did I then
imagine that, through your agency, I should one day recover
my lost daughter — ”
“Yesterday, in the city, you placed those papers in my
hands; and I told you where your child was hidden. You
were also in search of your nephew, Reginald Lansdowne,
of St. Leonard — ”
“I bear in my hand his credentials as Delegate from his
State, to the Continental Congress. He has been strange—
mysterious in his movements for the past year. Heir to an
immense estate—in fact, the actual possessor—with talents
and genius that fit him to shine, even in the Congress, where
so many great men are gathered, he has buried himself from
society for nearly a year. Eh! eccentric? your looks seem
to say.”
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“To-morrow you shall clasp your daughter to your arms;
to-morrow you shall present these credentials to Reginald
Landsdowne, of St. Leonard's — ”
“Why not to-night?” and the old man's countenance betrayed
an overwhelming anxiety.
“Do not ask my reasons!” Her smile was accompanied
with one of those glances of her full dark eyes, that flashed
but to conquer. “To-morrow, all will be right! To-morrow,
all my little plans—ha, ha! you see I have a true
woman's taste for mystery—will be fulfilled!”
Thus speaking, she left the room, while the old man bent
down to his papers again.
“All would be well,” he muttered, “if I could only find
my lost son! But it is asking too much of Heaven. And
yet my researches into his history, from the moment when,
but a child, he was torn from his dead mother's side —
Well, well! to-morrow will decide all!”
“To-morrow!” triumphantly echoed Lady Marion, as she
hurried along the corridor and down the stairs. “Ha, ha!
to-morrow!”
She stood in front of the old mansion, on the stone steps
leading to the hall door. In silence, twenty horsemen
awaited there—their steeds grouped round the walk—their
scabbards seen from beneath the folds of their cloaks.
A single horse wheeled from the throng, and his rider,
bending over the neck of the impatient steed, removed his
chapeau from his pale brow.
“Lady Marion, I go to serve my country!” he whispered.
She advanced, and standing on the steps of stone, extended
her hands! Ah! how that pressure fired the leader's blood!
Bending down over the neck of his steed, he—imperceptibly—
wound his arms about her neck, and felt her cheek against
his own, her heart throbbing through her voluptuous bosom.
“If I am successful — ” he whispered.
“Return successful,”—a soft voice breathed the words
upon his lips, and sealed them with a kiss—“and Reginald
Landsdowne, I am yours!”
The sounds rose in the light, and twenty horses darted
away, bearing their gallant and chivalrous riders toward the
city. Away, through the trees, and along the lawn, faint
and fainter, the sound of the hoofs, the clattering of scabbards,
died on the ear.
The figure of a man advanced from the grove, and stood
beside Lady Marion. So utterly absorbed was this woman
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in the emotion resulting from her dark schemes, that she
did not notice the presence of the stranger, until after the
lapse of a few moments.
“Ah! Michael, is it you?” she said, at last. “Take horse,
and away; do not lose a moment. While these gentlemen
surround the Committee, you must secure the person of
President Hancock! Do not return to your home; I will
take care that your daughter shall not wonder at your absence!
Away!”
“For Washington!” the bluff old hunter muttered, as he
hurried from the hall.
The Lady Marion stood wrapt in thought.
“He loves her, with a pure passion, and would dishonor
her! Me, he loves, with a passion born of madness;—I can
sway him as I will. For me, he will dishonor his name and
betray his country! Ha, ha!”
Bewitching Lady Marion!
CHAPTER FIFTH. LADY MARION'S TEAR.
It was the bower of a beautiful woman.
Three windows, curtained with folds of pale crimson silk,
mirrors between each window, reaching from the ceiling to the
floor, so that the lovely woman who occupied it, might see a
lovely woman like herself whichever way she turned; a luxurious
sofa, cushioned with velvet, and an arm-chair whose capacious
back her head might rest upon as a pillow—it was the
very Temple in which a proud and haughty woman might retire
to worship her own beauty.
And yet strange to say, the small lamp which hung from the
dome-like ceiling, did not reveal the form of a lovely woman.
No! Beside a small writing-desk, scattered all over with
papers, stood an uncouth figure, broad in the shoulders, attired
in a rugged dress, with heavy boots, and a mask of faded crape
over his face.
It was the Outcast who had attacked Lady Marion in the
woods; the robber who had despoiled her bosom of its chain and
jewel; the assassin who had prepared for his work of force by
tampering with the hunter's rifle.
Wo! to the proud woman, if in her most secret retreat she
encounters this outcast, with crape upon his face and pistols in
his belt!
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He bent over the table, reading with a low chuckle of delight
a letter which the hand of Lady Marion had traced. Looking
over his shoulder, we may discover words like these:
To the General commanding his Majesty's forces in America—
Ere you receive this, you will have learned that the prominent members
of the Rebel Congress have been seized and made prisoners, by
certain gentlemen who have proclaimed George Washington, the Rebel
General, King. At this hour, Hancock, Jefferson, Adams, with other
Delegates, are prisoners at my house, near Philadelphia. Thus have
we introduced dissension among the ranks of the rebels; while one
party prate about a republic, another talk of returning to their allegiance,
and a third—I know your excellency will smile—prate of King
Washington. How this has been accomplished, will be made known
at the proper time. Enough to say, that this Declaration, about which
they whispered so deeply, for a month back, this Proclamation of Independence,
is now crushed—quite forgotten in the public clamor. Permit
me to hope, that in announcing these facts to his Majesty, you will
neither forget the services, nor promised reward of
Marion.
The Fourth of July, 1776.
“Ha, ha! draft of a letter to be sent in cypher—” muttered
the Outcast—“The good lady anticipates—she may fail—”
“She cannot fail,” said a deep voice, and Lady Marion stands
beside him.
Does the Outcast dart upon her, with the upraised knife, and
menace her beauty with the violence, the outrage of a bravo
and ruffian?
No! He stands for a moment, as if contemplating the singular
beauty of her face, the eloquence of her eye, the passion of her
swelling bust, her majestic form. Then tearing the cap from
his brow, the crape from his face, the rough costume from his
form, he stands before us, a young gentleman, slender in figure,
clad in a gay British uniform, with light curls of golden hair
waving about his florid face!
“Tolerably well done: that robber scene! Eh—sis?” he exclaimed,
with that air of quiet composure—some call it impudence—
which alike distinguishes the fine city gentleman and
the supremely fine city blackguard—“The poor devil did not
imagine that we got up that little piece of tragedy for his benefit!
I've quite a good opinion of myself in private theatricals!”
He flung his delicate form upon the sofa, and turned towards
the light a face marked by the cold, dead eyes of satiety, the
unmeaning lip and vacant stare of dissolute indulgence.
“All is safe,” his sister exclaimed, pacing the room—“Confusion
in the camp of the Rebels—Reginald Landsdowne in my
power—”
“Sis, do you really love that man?”—you can see the sneer
upon the face of that finished man of the world—“Beyond your
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ambitious schemes—your title and your promised power, do
you care for him? pale-faced, melancholy Don Quixotte that
he is?”
The brother was frightened by his sister's look.
“Do I care for him? Why have I deserted the glare and
splendor of the British Court, for this dark path of treachery and
intrigue? Why coined my soul into desperate deeds, in order
to combine men of various interests into one great enterprise?
Why all this mystery, this craft, yes, I will say it, this crime?
Do I love him? One year ago, I beheld that pale, melancholy
face, standing out from among the shallow-visaged courtiers; I
felt the light of those deep, earnest eyes, and from that hour
loved Reginald Landsdowne! Yes, all my schemes shall—must
end, in placing a coronet upon his brow, the title of Earl before
his name! Love him? 'Tis of such men, kings are made!”
Pacing over the carpet, she clenched her hands upon her
bosom, while her eyes flashed that singular and peculiar light,
which made her look like a beautiful Demon.
“But you forget my part of the bargain, sis—” cried the
brother, assuming an easier position on the sofa—“I forged those
papers, bearing the signatures of Jefferson and the other rebels.
I aided your schemes. I have made myself shockingly disgusting
to look upon, for your sake. Now comes my reward. The
Rose of Wissahikon yesterday was but a poor peasant maid.
Now, she is the heiress of some sweet lands, and delicious stores
of gold. Your dear brother is in want of lands and gold, and is
willing to take a wife into the bargain. What need of a long
courtship, when—”
“Pshaw! Need you make me the partner of your schemes?”—
she paused before him, her eyes flashing scorn—“go! if you
have your plan arranged, go and execute it! Tell not to me
your schemes—for with all my ambition, Gerald—with all the
feverish thirst of power—I am a woman!”
For once she blushed. Yes, blushed, over the neck and
cheeks and brow, while her head fell slowly on her bosom.—
The youthful gentleman, whose dead eyes and colorless lips and
florid cheeks, betrayed a premature old age, surveyed his magnificent
sister with a glance of surprise. All that Heaven had
bestowed of the Man, upon this darling of vice, had long ago
dribbled out from his veins, leaving his heart as cold as his leaden
eye. He could not comprehend the remorse of his sister.
“Go!” she cried, as that pure impulse of her woman's nature
again bathed her cheek and brow with crimson. “The anguish
of the father, to-morrow, when he learns his daughter's fate—the
curse of Reginald when he learns her shame—these will be hard
to bear, aye more dangerous than the knife or rifle of old Michael,
the hunter.”
“I will arrange this little matter,” said Gerald Moynton, as
he pushed negligently aside his golden curls—“excuse me, sis,
for a young lady is anxiously waiting to `see her lost brother!' ”
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He lounged languidly from the room, leaving Lady Marion
alone, her arms clasped across her bosom, her head bowed low.
In vain that pressure of the clasped hands; it could not still the
volcano of contending passions, raging within the breast. In
vain that drooping of the head; it could not hide the shadow of
the face, the quivering of the lip, the eye gleaming with one,
only one drop of pity.
Blessed be Heaven for that solitary tear.
CHAPTER SIXTH. Wayaniko.
In the darkness of the summer house, Rose awaited the coming
of the Astrologer, who was to disclose her brother's fate.
The windows of the solitary room were closed, not the ray of
a star, or the gleam of a taper, found entrance there. From the
moment that she passed the threshold, closing the only door as
she entered, the darkness of the place had not been broken by a
ray, nor its death-like silence disturbed by a sound.
Yet the carpet which her footstep pressed was soft and luxurious;
the wall which her fingers touched, was shrouded in hangings
of satin; the chair in which she sank was cushioned in
softest velvet, that yielded like a pillow to her form.
Attired in that hunter's garb, she laid her head on one shoulder,
and resigned herself to her thoughts.
The strange story of Lady Marion, how in all its hues of sunshine
and cloud, in all its thrilling words of blood and tears, it
rose once more upon her soul!
“Within these wild solitudes, dwells an old man, who has
made the future his study for seventy years, and wrung supernatural
truth, even from the grasp of death. Go to the pavilion,
he will meet you there! Your lost brother shall be revealed to
you; you shall behold him, even as he is, whether in health or
sickness, poverty or wealth!”
How could she doubt words so kind, spoken with beaming
eyes and soft hands gently pressed with her own? Perchance,
in that moment, Lady Marion spoke but the sincere feèling of her
heart; perchance it was but a dear surprise that she intended;
perchance from the very shadow of that pavilion the brother
would start, and gather the sister to his breast, perchance—
But those words spoken to Gerald Moynton in her bower?
Rose was thinking of her lost brother, when she fell asleep.
Such a beautiful dream! A winding path, leading from a summer
valley, green with trees and beautiful with flowers along the
ascent of a hill among the trunks of centuried oaks. A garden
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so wild and deserted, its scanty flowers choked by weeds.
Then, through the tangled paths, she beheld a blackened wall,
with the blue sky gleaming through its desolate windows. Fearfully
across that threshold she passed—O, what sight of horror
was here! The half bared form of a beautiful woman lay extended
on the hearth, her bosom rent by a hideous gash, and a
little babe stretched out its tiny hands, and played with the long
dark hair, dabbled in its mother's blood.
As though a hand was at her throat, pressing the breath from
her bosom with its iron clutch, Rose struggled, and after a moment
like the agony of death, awoke. As she glanced around
the park pavilion, a voice unnaturally deep and hollow thrilled
on her soul.
“Maiden! would'st thou behold thy brother's form.”
Was it but a continuation of her dream? Scarce knowing
what she said, Rose gasped, “I would!”
From the darkness of that chamber, as from the vault of a
midnight sky, a faint light struggled into birth, and played upon
the maiden's face. Her form is dark, but do you see that face
bathed in a pale crimson glow, the eyes dilating, the lips slowly
parting, the hair waving back from the white brow! It stands
out from the gloom, like a cherub face, painted among misty
clouds.
“The brother comes!” said that voice, whose source was
invisible.
Rose bent forward with hushed breath, and beheld a mirror
glimmering in that pale crimson light. A mirror that now was
lost in clouds of light golden mist, and now seemed like a midnight
sky, gleaming with a single star. From its centre shone
that light, the solitary star!
“Ah! I hear his step—he comes through the wood—his foot
is on the threshold—he is here!”
As Rose gasped these words, her whole frame quivering with
an emotion almost supernatural, a sudden light flashed from the
darkness, bathed her face in darkness, and revealed the form of
a young man, who, with his arms folded, stood gazing upon her
with a sneering lip, and dull, leaden eyes.
Gerald Moynton and his victim!
“Sister, I have come!” he said, and extended his arms. At
the same moment a mass of perfumed vapor, rolling in soft
clouds, fills the pavilion, and penetrates the veins of the unprotected
girl. She felt all power over her limbs or motions gliding
from her, while her mind shone out in renewed vigor. A
lulling sensation pervaded every nerve, a dreamy languor, the
result of the pungent vapor, which filled the place, possessed
her form; she had not power to move a hand or foot, while her
very soul shrank within her at the sight of this man, with the
pale face and leaden eyes.
“You! my brother! N-o-o-o! she faintly gasped.
Her form, thrown helplessly on the chair, one limb crossed over
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the other, her arms resting by her side, as though deprived of
all the power of motion; her head laid on the right shoulder;
the features perfectly calm and statue-like, while the cheek
glows with a faint flush, and her eyes emit a soft fire, diffused
like luminous moisture over their surface, between the half
closed lids.
She was very beautiful, the helpless Rose of Wissahikon!
But Gerald Moynton had no pity.
His jaded countenance faintly glowed, his lip was compressed,
but his cold, stony eyes—from which the lowest vice had
stolen forever the fire of youth—emitted no flashing light.
“I am your brother!” he said, and took her hand. She quivered
faintly, made a motion like one oppressed by a nightmare,
and moved her lips, but could not utter a sound. O, she shrank
from his polluted touch with all her soul, but the misty vapor
which filled the room, rendered her helpless as though she had
been chained with cords of iron.
“You see, my pretty one, and I am your brother, and I love
you!”
Bending languidly forward, he kissed her with his colorless
lips;—yes, pressed those lips which resembled a rose-bud torn
in twain—and at the same moment fell like a weight to the
floor. Fell, stunned by a sudden blow; fell, trampled by a firm
foot!
There, before the motionless maiden, towered a tall form,
clad in a many colored blanket, whose rich dyes swept from his
broad shoulders to the ground, while his bronzed forehead was
surmounted by a solitary plume. He stood there, like a king
upon his throne; the tiger's skin, which enveloped his form beneath
the blanket, relieved by the gleam of a hunting knife. In
one arm a rifle; his limbs cased in leggings of buckskin; moccassins
upon his feet, he stood before her, his neck rising proudly
from his broad shoulders, while his dark red face, with its
aquiline nose, firm mouth and prominent chin, was strangely
relieved by clear blue eyes.
An Indian of the forest, with clear blue eyes!
“Sister, I have come at last!” he said, that stern red man, and
stretched forth his arms.
“Brother!” she cried, and felt herself drawn toward his
breast.
“We parted many years ago”—said that voice, speaking
clearly with a strong Indian accent—“Beside the body of the
dead woman, our mother. Many suns, many moons, have
gone since then. Sixteen times since that hour, there have
been flowers and snows. We meet again! You the Rose of
the Valley, the flower of Wissahikon! I, the White Indian
Wayaniko!”
Rose heard the voice, and felt her senses glide from her like
the dew from the flower before the morning sun.
When she again unclosed her eyes, an old man bent over
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her—she felt his tears upon her face, his grey hairs touch her
cheek; she heard him whisper “Daughter!”
By her side, that tall Indian form gazing upon her, with those
clear blue eyes, shining from his dark red face.
Rose, still wrapt in a kind of half consciousness, hears them
converse together; hears with blood now burning like lava,
now freezing like death, the dark story, in which the names of
Walter, Arthur, Reginald are mingled with the name of Lady
Marion. She beholds the credentials in her father's hand; even
now her lover goes to do a work of treason, perchance murder.
It is a strange, a stormy history!
All she knows, all she feels, is that her lover is in danger.
Darting from the chair, she seizes those credentials, dashes
through the door, and clad as she is, in her hunter's garb, hurries
toward the lane where the carriage waits for her.
The father, the son, stand gazing in each other's face, as
though stricken dumb, by this sudden energy of the brave girl.
On, brave Rose, on! The glen is past, then the cliff is won,
and last of all, the wood of pines is threaded by your frenzied
steps.
In the shadiest nook of the sequestered lane, the faithful negro
in his gay livery, sitting on the box of the carriage, beholds a
slender form dart from the bushes, and in a moment glide within
the carriage door.
Away, mettled steeds, away! Through the shadows of the
night, you see the carriage ascend the steep of yonder distant
hill.
“Ask me not now, father, the cause of my sudden appearance!—
the explanation of these mysteries. Be it enough to
say, I know all! I must away to the city to save my sister—
save your brother, who now goes to do violence to the chief
of your nation's council—and save this Reginald, who wears
my sister's peace within his breast!”
And as the noble Indian form left the pavilion, Martin Landsdowne
sank on his knees, and thanked God for the recovery of
these children, whom he had never seen, since that moment
when they were torn by rude hands from the bosom of the dead
mother.
Tossed by contending passions, her brow disfigured by a
frown, her eyes glaring in her livid face, Lady Marion gazed on
her discomfitted brother, paced hurriedly along her chamber,
and with that muttering of low-toned words, scattered her dark
hair by the roots.
“Foiled, and now! Now, when the triumph was ours! Ah,
it is too much! Rise, Sir—do not crouch pale and thunderstricken
there, but saddle my horse, and get me some arms.
The night is but half spent!”
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CHAPTER SEVENTH. THE COUNCIL IN THE OLD STATEHOUSE.
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Through old Philadelphia, at dead of night, we will hasten,
with hushed breath and stealthy tread.
Not through the Philadelphia of our day, which extends for
miles on miles, a wilderness of red brick, a gorgeous panorama
of wealth and misery—reaching from the marble temple consecrated
with the name of Girard, to the ark-like structure of the
Navy-yard—from the Elm of Shakamaxon to that palace which
rises on the Schuylkill, a mansion for the poor—from river to
river—from green hills on the north, to the sloping meadows of
the Neck, on the south—a beautiful city, with such elegant
streets—such dark alleys—such white banks, and such picturesque
jails;—such magnificent churches—some rising in the
pride of their varied architecture, and some blackening in the
day, rearing the awful witness of their blasted walls to the blue
sky of God!
No! almost the only thing of the old Philadelphia that yet remains
is the Hall of the Declaration, and that speculation dare
not batter into ruins—the lust of money cannot gnaw into dust!
Even as the Hebrew people of old solemnly cursed the man who
removed the sacred landmark, or stoned to atoms the wretch
who spat upon his mother's gray hairs, so let him be treated who
removes a brick or pollutes an inch of glorious Independence
Hall!
Old Philadelphia, as it lay beneath the midnight sky, on the
3d of July, 1776, was altogether a different thing from the Philadelphia
of 1847.
Along the Delaware, two miles north and south; from the Delaware
to the west, but a mile at most:—such was its extent.
From where Broad street now extends—the most beautiful
avenue in the world for gay young gentlemen, ambitious of a
fast-trotting horse—to the waves of the Schuylkill, all was a
thick wood, as wild as the red men whom it sheltered, not a
hundred years ago.
From Bush Hill for a mile or two into the city, were green
fields, beautiful hills, and picturesque country-seats. In brief,
some four or five cities, like the old Philadelphia, could, with
ease, be laid to sleep in the lap of the modern “Brotherly-love.”
Through these streets, then let us hurry; in front of the Statehouse,
which arises from a green lawn, overspread with trees,
and encircled by a rude board fence, let us stay our steps, and
survey the scattered crowds who cluster there.
The clock whose face is seen near the top of the abutment
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projecting from the rear of the Statehouse, points to the hour of
twelve; the 3d of July is near its end, and, flashing on the world,
a beautiful thing of godlike hopes, the Fourth of July trembles
on the verge of birth.
What mean these crowds? Those voices, whispering low?
The mingled garb of merchant, mechanic, farmer and laborer,
scattered over the lawn? Listen! For days Congress has been
in secret session, and a strange rumor broods upon the air, that
they are planning some deed which will startle the world!
Only one window of the old Statehouse emits a ray of light.
Light, through carefully closed curtains, comes forth in trembling
rays, and dies on the darkness of the lawn.
While you immense cloud gathers over the Statehouse—so
black, so dense, so like a pall—let us hasten up these wide stairs,
along this dark hall, through the darker corridor, into this small
room, separated by partitions from the larger chambers of the
second-story, and hung with plain tapestry of a rich dark color.
It is a simply furnished room. A huge table of solid oak, on
which a shaded lamp is placed, a few heavy chairs, a curtain,
hanging across the ceiling, and marking a dark space of some
few feet between its folds and the narrow door. You behold this
Council Chamber of the old Statehouse.
Around that table are seated five men, whose various faces
and different attitudes strike you with a deep interest.
Alone, at the head of the table, bending over an unfolded
sheet, traced with the characters of a firm, round hand, you behold
a tall, athletic man, clad in a plain costume of iron gray,
such as a farmer who dwelt in the quiet of his fields might wear.
His hair is sandy—almost red; his complexion somewhat fair,
but marked with freckles; his features bold and prominent, but
his clear gray eyes light up his face, and warm each feature
with the fire of a determined soul.
As he bends over the paper, you see his long finger pass from
line to line, while his cheek, warming with a crimson flush, betrays
the presence of deep emotion. That is Thomas Jefferson,
a Delegate from Virginia, who has distinguished himself in
Congress, as a “Silent member, but prompt, frank, explicit,
and decisive; not so much renowned for great speeches, as for
his literary and scientific attainments.”[2]
On his right, leaning back in the wide arm-chair, sat a man
dressed in a rich suit of brown velvet, his hands folded calmly
over his chest. Not so tall, but somewhat larger in bulk than
his companion, his face ruddy in the cheeks, intricate with
wrinkles where the brows meet, piercing in the eyes, displays
at once the fever and irritability of genius.
That is John Adams, the Delegate from Boston, who thunders,
three times a day, in that voice that wakes up men's souls—
“Great Britain is the natural enemy of America!”
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Far back, in the shadows, you see a mild face, beaming with
a gentle smile about the lips, the eyes full of calm light, the
forehead relieved by brown hair, silvered with age, and falling
in heavy curls behind the ears, stamped with the outlines of a
giant intellect.
Benjamin Franklin, the printer boy, who has lured the lightnings
from the sky, and hurled them at thrones of kings.
On one side of Franklin, a man, whose short stout form is clad
in a dress of dark green—whose ruddy face, stamped with the
traces of an honest heart, is also marked by the lines of thought.
Roger Sherman, the shoemaker of Connecticut.
There a gentleman, who is attired in a rich garb of dark velvet,
while his face, somewhat jovial in its expression, sparkles
with the light of flashing black eyes, that glance to and fro,
with a restless expression.
That is Robert R. Livingston, of New York.
“I like that paper, Jefferson,” said Adams, drawing his chair
nearer to the table; “I am delighted with its high tone—its
flights of oratory; especially that concerning negro slavery,
which, however, I am afraid will touch our Southern brethren
who own slaves —”
One of those cold smiles which gave such a cutting sarcasm
to the face of Jefferson, now crossed his lips.
“Or, our Northern brethren, some of whom are carriers of
slaves,” he quietly said.
“There is one word, however, which I do not like,” exclaimed
Adams. “You call King George a “tyrant.” Now, I regard
his crimes as rather of an official than a private nature —”
“Yes, Claudius Nero was a gentleman of the most amiable
qualities, and yet he murdered a few thousand Christians every
day, and fiddled sometimes over burning Rome.”
Not a smile ruffled the severity of Franklin's face, as he uttered
this sentiment.
“To be sure,” said Livingston; “Lexington and Bunker
Hill were fine illustrations of the amiable, Christian character
of our good King.”
“It is indeed severe to call him a tyrant, when he values our
heads at such a reasonable price,” said Sherman, the shoe-maker.
The irritable blood of Adams began to glow.
“Well, have it as you will—I care not for the weak, misguided
man. My love for his government has been recorded in
my actions.” He grasped Jefferson by the hand—“That is a
noble document—such as they never dreamed of in Greece or
Rome. It does you eternal honor.”
A glow of pleasure pervaded Jefferson's face. To be praised
by stout-hearted John Adams, was worth fine gold.
Just fifty years and six hours from the moment when Jefferson
and Adams joined hands in that council room, they lay on
their death-beds, separated by a distance of four hundred miles,
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yet joined in one glory, their freezing ears filled with the
cannon-thunder and earthquake-shout of the Fourth of July.
“Read it again, Jefferson,” said Franklin.
As Jefferson prepared to read the paper once again, a noise—
like a stealthy footstep—was heard, behind yonder curtain.
They did not heed that sound of warning. Yet, behind the curtain
and in the corridor, without the chamber, twenty swords
gleamed through the darkness.
They did not hear that sound, nor the deep whisper of Reginald
Landsdowne of St. Leonard's—“A moment, and the conspirators
are ours!”
Thomas Jefferson read the Declaration once again.
How his eyes flashed—how his deep tones rung through the
chamber, as he uttered words like these:—
“These facts—(the long recital of galling wrongs)—have given
the last stab to agonizing affection, and manly spirit bids us renounce
forever these unfeeling brethren. We must endeavor to forget
our former love for them, and to hold them as we hold the rest
of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends. We might have
been a free and a great people together; but a communication of
grandeur and of freedom it seems is below their dignity. Be it so,
since they will have it. The road to happiness and to glory is
open to us too. We will tread it apart from them.”
Gloriously have we trod the path! Blazing in light, it led us
through the Revolution, through the horrors of the last war with
England, and now, traversing wastes of sand, and deserts of
chapparal, it conducts the hardy column of Democratic truth to
the palace of Montezuma. Even now,[3] perchance, the Banner
of the Stars, that waved so gallantly above the heights of Bunker
Hill, floats over the waters of Palenque, and crowns the last
stronghold of Azteca!
There was the strong fervor of enthusiasm upon the face of
Jefferson, as he uttered the last word of the Declaration.
“But this is not all!” he said—“When the war is over and
our freedom won, the People must make a new Declaration.—
They must declare the rights of man, the individual, sacred above
all craft in priesthood or government. They must, at one blow,
declare the end of all those trickeries of English Law, which,
garnered up from the charnels of age, bind the heart and will
with lies. They must perpetuate republican truth, by declaring
the homestead of every American, a holy thing, which no law
can touch, no juggle wrest, from his wife and children. Until
this is done, the Revolution will have been fought in vain.”
These words created strong emotions in the breasts of his
compatriots.
“This is true, but we must take care to preserve the balance
of power in our government.” exclaimed Adams; “with all its
faults, the English system seems the best—”
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“The king pulling one way, the house of lords tugging
another, while the commons is hauled about by both together!”
exclaimed Franklin, with one of his quiet smiles.
Sherman and Livingston exchanged meaning glances, and
joined in his smile.
Again that sound behind the curtain!
But Jefferson rose to his feet, his angular form displayed in
the shaded light. In a tone of deep conviction, he spoke. Oh,
that I could write his words of holy truth in every American
heart!
“Our People must take care that the labor, the blood of the
Revolution, is not spent in vain. There is one evil, above all
others, which I fear—the government of this Confederacy centralized
at the Capitol, surrounded by innumerable hordes of officeholders,
dependent on its will, and backed by a Judiciary independent
of the People. You may talk, gentlemen, of an age not
being prepared for their progress into perfect freedom, you may
whisper `It is not yet time!' but the word of God, the history of
centuries, attests the fact, that for a people determined to be
wholly free, it is always Time; that for an age resolved to work
out its destiny, it is always Day!”
When the heart of Jefferson was in his words, his freckled
cheek glowed with crimson, and his eye flashed the fire of a soul
conscious of its powers. So now, rising above his compatriots,
he thrilled in every nerve, while his words shot like electric fire,
to every heart.
“We must make the Declaration unanimous,” he said, resuming
his seat. “For days the debate has been fierce and tumultuous.
But now we have nerved the timorous, frowned the
wavering from our councils, and combined the forces of freedom
in one solid front. That was a noble deed, the Declaration
made by Pennsylvania, on the 28th of June!—We have tested
our men, and know them! Yet there is one man absent, whose
presence I especially desire—the lately elected Delegate from
the State of — who has not yet taken his seat. I mean—”
The State House clock striking the hour of twelve, interrupted
his words.
The Fourth of July was born.
“I mean Reginald Landsdowne of Landsdowne!”
“He is here!” said a deep voice.
At the word, the curtain was dashed aside, and the gleam of
swords shone through the Council Room. Silently around that
council table, circled twenty gallant forms, surrounding Jefferson
and his compatriots with a wall of glittering steel.
Silently a solitary form advanced; stood before Jefferson; his
tall form heaving with emotion, his pale face traced with the
fiery resolve of that hour.
“Reginald Landsdowne!” said Jefferson, rising with calm
dignity.
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“I am here! Conspirators, you are our prisoners!” cried
Reginald, placing his sword before the heart of Jefferson.
“Prisoners?” echoed Adams, starting to his feet.
“Yes, your plans are known, your schemes are revealed!”
spoke Reginald, his breast heaving with deep indignation.—
“Ah! shame, eternal shame upon your heads! You, the Prophets
of Freedom, to become her executioners! You, Jefferson,
to plan the overthrow of Washington—you, Franklin, to fling
the sceptre of the Continent once more at the feet of the English
king,—you, Sherman, Livingston, stern republicans as you are,
to join in this work—and Adams, first and bravest of the heroes
of the council, you who nominated Washington, to plot his
downfall!”
An indignant murmur pervaded the council chamber, while
the band drew closer round their prisoners.
“Surely, this is some dream!” cried Jefferson, very calmly,
but with a flash of anger rising on his face.
“Say rather, a plot to assassinate us!” cried Adams, all his
tumultuous passion flushing to his face.
Franklin quietly folded his arms, and whispered with Livingston
and Sherman. They heard the murmurs of the men, who
gathered at their backs, and saw those swords gleam through the
darkness, but were calm.
“You are our prisoners!” The form of Reginald rose to its
full stature, as he spoke the words. “To crush your schemes,
we are forced to control your liberty, until the People know
your crime. To meet the forces of the enemy, traitors within
and foes without, we are resolved to stand in one solid phalanx,
our leader, Washington the King.
And through that dim council chamber, with the lights burning
in the centre, and glittering on the blades of twenty swords, rose
the deep chorus—“Washington the King!”
At that word, which in a breath revealed the canker-worm
always gnawing at the root of republican freedom—the elevation
of one man to supreme power — Jefferson stood
aghast.
“Reginald, you are mad! Read this, aye read, and then hurl
charges like these at our heads!”
He pointed to the Declaration, but with his head erect, his
sword circling through the darkened air, Reginald started
proudly back.
“Read! Have I not read the proofs of your treachery? Comrades,
what say ye all? Have we not seen the names of these
men attached to letters as base as they are decisive? Gentlemen,
there is no need of further words. We are resolved to crush
your cabal with our lives!”
Now came the crisis of the scene.
Jefferson and Adams stood side by side, while at the other end
of the table, Franklin, Sherman, and Livingston formed a group.
The face of Jefferson was pale, Adams crimson; Sherman stood
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with his lip fixedly clenched, while the hand of Livingston
sought the hilt of the small dress-sword which he wore.
Franklin alone was calm.
“Advance! You are prisoners, gentlemen!”
Jefferson quietly removed his chair, retreated a step, and confronted
Landsdowne, with his unquailing eye.
“Do not lay your hand on me,” said he, in that calm tone.
There was danger in his look.
Reginald advanced, his sword clenched in his good right hand,
his soul resolved when a circumstance occurred that deepened
the tumultuous emotions of the scene.
A hand was laid upon the arm of Reginald. He turns, all the
blood in his body rushing to his face, he clutches his sword resolved
to revenge the touch of violence, and holds its glittering
blade above the head of—Rose!
In the hunter's dress, her knees bending beneath her with fatigue,
her arms extended, her head drooping on her bosom, she
lifts her eyes to his face.
“Read!” she gasps, and forces the packet in his hand “It
is a plot—a scheme, to lure you on to ruin. Behold these forgeries!
Ah! I have foiled this dark and scheming woman.
Thank God! It is not yet too late!”
You may imagine that scene!
Every eye centred upon the disguised woman, who, like a
flower shaken by the storm, trembled before Reginald, as he
stood with sword sunk into the floor, his eyes fixed upon his
eredentials as Delegate to the Continental Congress.
For a moment he stood as one bewildered in a dream.
The swords of his comrades fell; Jefferson gazed upon him
in sincere pity, Franklin and the other patriots awaited in silence
the issue of the scene.
“O, Arthur,” cried the brave girl, her bosom beating against
the vest, until it burst the fastenings—“Do not wonder, do not
pause. I cannot explain it—I know not how it is! But believe
it is all a scheme contrived for your ruin. O, my heart beats
and I am so faint—I would fain tell you all, but my father—my
brother—”
The storm of feeling shook the Rose, at last.
Spreading out her arms, while her hair, falling from beneath
her cap, waved over her form, she fell.
But Franklin caught her in his arms, exclaiming as he gazed
upon the young cheek, gleaming so white, through the intervals
of her flowing hair—. “Upon my life, it is a woman!”
Franklin was a Philosopher.
Meanwhile Jefferson and Adams examined the papers, which
Rose had scattered on the tables.
“Forgeries, whispered the former. “Another trick of his
Majesty's minions, and by no means the weakest. Those forgeries
are excellently done.”
Reginald's sword clattered on the floor.
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That sound jarred through the council chamber like a knell.
Ere it had died away, a louder sound, crashed like thunder on
the air. Twenty swords fell to the floor.
Reginald stood as if in a dream, pressing the paper with the
same hand that clasped his burning brow.
“Speak, Landsdowne!” cried his comrades, their voices
mingling in chorus—“Is it a trick—have we been duped!
Speak—are these good men and true?”
It was now Jefferson's turn to prove his magnanimity.
“Reginald, read this,” he quietly said, and led young Landsdowne
to the table.
Reginald bent down. You behold that pale face, with lips
working, the eyes rolling, as it hurries over the immortal lines
you perceive the clenched hands laid on the table.
“O, shame!” he gasped, beating his brow against those hands
which rested on the table—“To be made the tool of this ambitious
woman.” They could see the blushes glow beneath his
hands. “But there is a remedy for it all! I can yet atone for my
fault! To-morrow, Jefferson, I will sign it, and, then if need be,
spend my life to maintain its truth!”
He raised the draft of the Declaration above his head, while
his comrades gathered round him, and Jefferson shook him by
the hand.
At the same moment, Rose nestling in the arms of Franklin,
unclosed her eyes, while a smile like heaven blushed over her
face. Parting the long hair from her cheeks, she gazed with
dim eyes—shining through their tears—upon her lover, and
whispered,
“Arthur! I was not too late!”
eaf250.n2[2] Words of John Adams.
eaf250.n3[3] May the 11th, 1817.
CHAPTER EIGHTH. THE PURPLE CHAMBER.
The Purple Chamber in the city mansion of Reginald, combined
in one view all that is gorgeous in luxury, delicate in
taste, or beautiful in art.
Separated by a wide saloon from the street, its four windows
looked out upon the trees and flowers of an extensive garden.
Soft carpets beneath the feet, a wide ceiling, warmed with the
richest creations of the painter above your head—wherever
you turned, a white statue gleaming in beauty on you—its dark
rich purple tapestry, whether bathed in moonlight, or gilded by
the sun, imparted a luxurious tone to the chamber of Reginald
Landsdowne.
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It was now three o'clock on the morning of the Fourth of
July.
A small lamp stood on yonder marble table, placed in front of
the mirror, which reached from the ceiling to the floor.
By its light you behold the bed in yonder recess, with the
white counterpane, seen between the intervals of the silken canopy.
Those curtains agitated by the slight breeze that finds
entrance, wave in luxurious folds from the dome of the canopy
to the floor.
It is three o'clock, and across the threshold of the Purple
Chamber, there glided two youthful forms, one reclining on the
other's breast and arm.
As they approach the light we will stand here in the shadow
and behold them.
One, a young man, whose dark hair falls aside from a countenance
marked with the traces of much suffering, yet glowing
with a calm joy on the bold cheek, and shining with deep happiness,
in the large full eyes. It is Arthur, Walter, Reginald,
attired still in that uniform of green faced with gold.
Leaning on his arm, her head upon his breast, the Rose of
Wissahikon raises her eye to his face, and her beautiful hair
flowing over the hands which gather her to his heart, hides in
its glossy veil her hunter's dress.
It was said by a shrewd Philosopher, perhaps Dr Franklin;
certainly one who had given much attention to the subject, that
the most beautiful thing of all that is beautiful, in this lower
world, was a—beautiful woman.
I am disposed to improve upon this thought. Standing in the
shadow of this Purple Chamber, I am induced to confess that of
all beautiful women, the most bewitching is a pure girl attired
in a picturesque hunter's costume, which in its turn is only seen
by glimpses through the intervals of her flowing auburn hair.
That hair looks brown, and black, and purple by turn, and
reaches to her knees.
The word that passed Reginald's lips, as treading softly over
the threshold, he bore the maiden along the chamber, was remarkable.
“This is our bridal chamber!”
Strange words these, when you remember that Reginald is
yet ignorant of the relationship of this poor peasant maid to a
wealthy planter, unconscious of the dear tie which binds her to
the heart of Martin Landsdowne. He only knows that she has
saved him; saved more than his life, his honor.
“This is our bridal chamber, Rose!”
She should have made some eloquent reply, expressed surprise
at the change in her lover's appearance, or suffered an
exclamation of wonder to pass her peasant lips, she should,
indeed—
But she did not.
Nestling on his breast, in the most natural manner in the
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world, the Rose of Wissahikon bloomed beneath his gaze, and
felt her lips mingle with his.
And then the air that shook the curtains of the window, also
shook her long hair, until it waved and shone again.
At this moment, as bending over his bride, he pressed his kiss
upon her lips, the hangings of yonder couch, rustled to and fro.
Is it with the wind?
Gaze upon that form emerging from the curtains, that face,
dark with conflicting passions, its eyes dazzling with almost
fiendish light, and answer me!
The Lady Marion stood a silent witness of this scene of love.
Her dark hair, which was gathered back from her brow in one
rich mass, made her pale face seem more pale; her livid lip
and breath that came and went in gasps; her small foot pressed
against the carpet, quivering as it peeped from her dark dress,
all told the story of her passion and her agony.
Yet the pistol in her extended hand, speaks a language plainer
still. She raises it, and in terrible silence takes deliberate aim,
and fires!
The jarring report crashes through the chamber, but cannot
drown the sound of that form, plunging heavily on the carpet.
The smoke clouds the sight, but cannot conceal that face with
the ghastly wound between the brows.
O, it is not Reginald, in his young manhood, nor Rose, in the
dewey freshness of her beauty —. The heart grows cold to
think it.
As the smoke clears away we behold that form.
There, tossing in the carpet, clutching its surface with cramped
fingers, pouring blood upon its flowers from the hideous
wound, between the brows; now writhing until the heels touch
the back of the head; now stiffening out like a thing of marble,
an old man struggles with death.
On one side, pale, aghast, at her own work, looking if possible
more livid, the Lady Marion stands with her hands dropped
by her side.
Opposite, Rose clings to Reginald's neck, glancing over her
shoulder, at the hideous struggles of the dying man.
One word burts from every lip—
“Michael!”
Yes, it is the old hermit of the woods; he stood upon the
threshold; he saw the levelled pistol; he saved the life of Rose,
the child of the murdered woman, whom he once so madly loved.
You may be sure that his struggles were horrible but brief.
That wound had went straight to the altar of life, and dashed its
light into darkness.
He raised himself upon his knees, clasped his cramped hands,
and with the blood pouring over his glassy eyes, gasped two
brief words with his last breath:
Your oath!”
Yes, even in that moment he cared for the honor of Rose.
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Yes, Reginald, your oath, uttered in the deep woods in the evening
hour! Now answer with a true heart, or shrink, a cringing
perjurer, before the last look of the dying man.
“She is my wife!” he said, and the old man sank slowly
down, and moved no more.
He died without knowing that his brother lived. And yet
that brother stole across the threshold, and bent over his still
bleeding form, until his white hairs mingled with the blood,
flowing from the fatal wound.
He died ignorant of the existence of that brother's son. And
yet he was there, there beside his sister Rose. He had followed
the old hunter to the house of President Hancock, and on the
very threshold, whispered a word which directed his steps at
once to Reginald's house. Following them, joined at the door
by his father, he had heard the sound of the pistol, and now beheld
the sad result.
He towered there, the White Indian, gazing with impenetrable
features on the scene, while his very heart was torn within him.
From his broad shoulder drooped the war blanket; in his tunic
of tiger-skin gleamed the hunting knife. He gazed upon the
mangled form, and did not weep.
“I must to my tribe again!” he said—“Too much blood here!”
The emotion of Reginald and Rose, need not be told. Read
it in his downcast head, in her eyes, turned wildly over her
shoulder.
And far back in the Bridal Chamber, leaning against the
Bridal Bed, which she never might adorn, a pallid, gibbering
thing, her finger on her lip, and her unloosened hair falling
wildly over her face, the Lady Marion rent the air with peals
of horrible laughter.
She was an Idiot.
CHAPTER NINTH. THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776.
The mild clear light of a summer day was upon the roof and
steeple of the old State House.
Beautifully in the beams of that calm hour, glowed every
point of the massive structure, its windows glittering like living
gold, its roofs with heavy ornaments along the eaves, bathed in
light, while the steeple stood clearly out, against the blue sky.
It was toward the close of day, when the trees in the lawn
shook their leaves in the rays of the setting sun, while over the
city from the forest on the west, to the waves of the Delaware,
the mild golden radiance invested the roofs in a veil of sunbeams.
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The zenith of the sky, calm as an infant's sleep, extended
above the scene, a dome of clear deep azure, and on the west,
over the wide sweep of woods, huge masses of white clouds,
piled up in the horizon—their forms of snow, contrasted with
the green of the foliage, the blue of the heaven—slowly rolling
apart, disclosed the full glory of the setting sun.
Such a sun had never set for eighteeh hundred years.
Not that its glorious beams arrest our attention alone, nor the
many dyes which it flung in parting, over roof and tree and sky,
alone attract our gaze, but because the Day, which its setting
closed, marked an Era in the history of Man.
On that day a Continent in fierce travail for its rights, struggled
into birth and became a People.
As evening came on, the crowd which had all day long
thronged the arena of the State House, and darkened in the open
space along its front, or gathered in a dense mass, under the old
trees of the lawn, was swelled by new accessions.
It seemed as if the city had poured its people from their firesides,
and sent them thronging into the scene. Nor was the
crowd merelv composed of the rich, in their soft apparel, nor of
the poor in their work-day attire; but the men whose hearts beat
for their country, were there, and among their ranks, with sidelong
looks and ominous scowls, glided the creatures of the king.
The women too, were there, some with their young faces
glowing more beautiful with love of country, some with their
warm lips curling in sneers, as the word “Freedom” whispered
on the air, and some, with anxious faces, holding in their arms
those babes, whose fathers were absent fighting the battles of
their native land. They came in silken attire, they came in
their coarse linsey peasant garb, they came in matronly apparel,
with a mild light playing over their matured brows; the women
of the city and the field, forgetting the severe modesty of their
sex, in the interest of the day, were there.
For all day long—from the moment when the first beam of
light played upon the State House steeple, until now, when its
last kiss lingers there—a rumor had crept through the city, and
deepened and spread until it filled every heart.
And all day long, without a moment's interval, the Congress
had been holding their secret session in the large hall, on the
east of the main avenue, while the people awaited in quivering
anxiety the result of their deliberations.
As the day wore on, that rumor deepened, and now, from lip
to lip a word thrills like electric fire—“Independence!”
Let us wander through the crowd, in front of the State House,
and see the varying passions painted on each face, and listen to
the whispers until we feel our hearts swell with the same interest
that fills every bosom. Oh, the eloquence of those women's
faces, the stern anxiety of those patriot looks!
Hark! A murmur swells through the crowd, you see it surging
far from the walls of the State House, away to the trees, that rise
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on either hand. There is a sound in yonder avenue, the tread
of many feet—listen! that murmur, “Congress has closed its
session, and the work is done!”
Then from that door, with massive pillars, come forth one by
one, the members of the solemn council. How the smile upon
their faces flashes through the crowd!
First, while other Delegates mingle with the crowd and answer
their hurried questions, a gentleman of mild appearance,
yet with a bold brow and keen eye, comes to the verge of the
steps, and stretches forth his hands.
Every eye in the crowd beholds his dark attire, relieved by
cambric ruffles and lace of gold, for the gentleman is one of
Boston's stout-hearted merchant princes. From lip to lip, the
murmur runs, “John Hancock, the President!”
And as he stretched forth his left hand, holding a parchment
in his right, you see Franklin standing with uncovered brow,
the foremost of the group at his back, with the sunlight playing
on his animated face. That form, tall and angular, leaning with
one hand behind the back, the other raised to the heart, against
the pillar on the right side of the door, while the face, with the
eyes sunken beneath the downdrawn brows, the nether lip compressed,
the nerves quivering with an emotion, not the less deep
because it is scarce perceptible.
It is Thomas Jefferson. Never king upon his throne, never
conqueror on the battle-field felt a deeper joy than thrilled his
bosom then! Glorious Prophet of the Rights of Man, how my
heart beats, as through the mists of seventy-one years, I survey
you, standing there, against the right pillar of the State House
door, with the sunshine streaming over your glowing face!
Stout-hearted John Adams stands between him and Franklin,
his face beaming as he rests his hand on Jefferson's arm, and
converses with him, repeating the word which swells every
heart—Independence!
Between the heads of Jefferson and Adams, you see the face
of Livingston, while leaning against the left pillar, Roger Sherman
gazes on the scene.
Hancock stretches forth his hand—
An old soldier, battered with cuts and scars, hobbles up to the
foot of the steps, and with the marks of the Indian wars and
Bunker Hill upon his face, gasps the words, “Well, President,
is it all right?”
There is silence in that breathless crowd.
Every ear in the throng hears his reply, spoken in calm, conversational
tones.
“It is! This day we have signed our Declaration of Independence!
To-morrow it will be published in the Gazette, and
on the eighth day of July, proclaimed from the State House
steps. From this day there are no Colonies, but States. From
this day there is no British dominion, but the Republic of the
United States of America!”
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Did you ever see a bolt of lightning stream in one red mass
from the zenith, and then scatter in a thousand rays of fire, over
the tree-tops of an undulating wood?
So these words rush into every heart, and burst upon the
crowd, scattering their rays in every heart.
The crowd is terribly still for a moment, and then the murmur
swells into a shout.
At this moment, a little boy, whose golden hair tosses about
his rosy cheeks, steals up the steps and clutches the President
by the knee, and whispers—“The old man in the steeple sent
me down, to ask you whether he should ring the bell? Shall I
say ring?”
Hancock pressed his hands upon the head of the child, and
said—“You will live to see the day, my child, when the voice
of that bell will have been heard by all the world! Tell the old
man to ring!”
Through the crowd brave boy! Out into the street, and clap
your tiny hands until the old man in yonder steeple hears you.
Look! with his bronzed face and snow white hair, he bends from
the steeple, he sees that child, with flushed cheeks and golden
hair, clap his hands, he hears that boyish shout—“Ring!”
Then the old man bared his arm, and the bell on which was
written—“Proclaim liberty to the land, and all the inhabitants
thereof,” spoke to the city, to the People, to a
world in chains.
As the tones of that bell go swinging over the city, let us look
upon the strange tumultuous panorama in front of the State
House, now known forever as Independence Hall.
It is a picture, or rather a combination of pictures, worthy of
the artist's pencil, but which requires the pen of Jefferson or the
voice of Patrick Henry to describe.
It resolves itself into three prominent points of view.
First, the group on the left of the hall door.
An Indian stands with his back towards us, in the act of stepping
toward a group whom he surveys, his rich blanket, revealing
the bold outline of his right shoulder, and drooping in rainbow
hues to the ground. His face — but partly seen in its
marked profile, is turned slightly to the left, while over his brow
waves the plume of snowy feathers, and down to his shoulders
streams that mass of straight black hair.
The group on which he gazes!
Do you see that young man, attired in a rich dark dress, bending
with uncovered brow, before a beautiful girl, who clings to
the arm of an aged man? Her young face blooming with the
fullness of life and love, is surmounted by a slight bonnet that
crowns her flowing hair; her beautiful neck and white shoulders,
and a glimpse of her virgin bosom, glow in the light of the fading
day. Her form is clad in a flowing dress of plain white, that
waves from the bosom to the feet, while the arm, around whose
half-bared outlines flutters a silken shawl, points to the Presi
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dent's form, as it rises above the crowd, in front of those massive
pillars.
The light which blazes from the young man's eye is reflected
in the joyous sunshine of her face.
That look, flashing from face to face, tells the whole story.
“This is better”—exclaimed the Rose of Wissahikon—
“much better than last night!”
“To you,” cried Reginald, with the blood rising to his face;
To you, I owe the share which I have taken in the glorious
deed of this day. If the name of Reginald Landsdowne, of St.
Leonard's, goes down to posterity as a `Signer of the Declaration,
' the merit of his fame belongs to the—Rose of Wissahikon!”
And while the noble Indian contemplates with calm satisfaction
this group—his sister, his father, and the husband of that
sister—look yonder, over the shoulder of Reginald, and see that
face, lowering with malignant passions, livid with crushed
hopes, the clenched hand raised to the chin, the cold, dead eye
turning from these glowing faces with hatred and fury.
It is Gerald Moynton, the sister of the Idiot Woman, Lady
Marion; the minion of the King.
The second forms of interest, in fact the centre of the picture,
directly in front of the Statehouse door —
Three figures, standing in a group, and talking earnestly of
the great Declaration. One, with his back to the Indian, his
bold profile turned towards us, his hand pressed to his side,
grasping a paper, with a book beneath his arm. A long brown
coat reaches to his knees. You see, in the outlines of his face,
the stamp of a strong genius. The dark eye flashes a fire which
kings have felt, and trembled for their thrones. There is a
mocking scorn upon his lip, which has made the tools of power
writhe more than once. Altogether, his attitude, his face, impress
us with a deep interest in this man.
Thomas Paine, the author-hero of the Revolution!
That book beneath his arm, “Common Sense,” produced the
“Declaration,” a rude draft of which he grasps in his hand.[4]
With that full, large eye flashing with the consciousness of
genius, he surveys the form of Robert Morris, who stands opposite,
holding hat and cane in one hand, while he extends the
other to Benjamin Rush, and congratules him on the fulfilment
of the great work.
“This is a great day!” he said—this patriot without a stain,—
this banker without a fault.
“Yes, a glorious day!” You see Rush, in the earnestness of
his thoughts, raise the left hand, grasping his cane, while his
calm face glows, and his eyes fixed on the air, seem glancing
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into the future. “The children of unborn time will behold its
perfect work. It is to you, Paine, we owe it! The book,
which you first suggested to me—which I besought you to write—
which you wrote and scattered to the world, startled the
country into thought, and wrote `Independence' in every honest
heart!”
As we survey these three men, their faces warmed by the
same glow, let us remember the manner in which they died.
Paine—having forsaken that Bible, from which he gleaned the
truths of “Common Sense”—died a miserable and heart-broken
man. Morris, whose financial genius saved his country in her
darkest hour, died in a common jail, to which the holy law of
“imprisonment for debt”—which yet obtains in some savage
communities—consigned him. Rush alone, calm and serene,
rich in the fame of science and humanity, died in his home.
Passing this group, we come to the third form of interest. A
confused crowd, stretching away under the shade of these trees,
moving to and fro, gesticulating earnestly, as they conversed
on the great topic of the hour. Here, a fiery patriot raises his
arm, as if to strike a calm-faced Tory, who doubts the expediency
of the means.
“It is not yet time, thee sees, my friend.”
“Time! Zounds, sir, it never will be time, so long as we
permit traitors like you to prowl the streets!”
Thus strolling through the crowd, we may see every variety
of expression—every change of countenance; the hearts of men
glow in their faces—speak not only in their words, but in the
upraised arm and significant finger.
And, all the while, that group upon the steps rises above the
crowd, the object of every eye, their faces revealed by the light
which flashes from the west; Hancock, the President, foremost
in the group, while Jefferson leans against the pillar, and the
compatriots cluster round.
And all the while, with a peal and a clang, the bell spoke out,
saying to the kings on their thrones—and, of all kings, to the
weak and wicked George of England—“Doom! doom! doom!”
Then changing its peal, it spoke to man, whether in workshop
or the mine—whether toil in the field or bleeding in the
battle, and the word, that it said, as the sun went down, was
still—“Dawn! dawn! dawn!”
Doom to kings—the night of death! Dawn to man—the day-break
of freedom!
Thus, as the sun went down, the glorious Liberty-bell rang at
once a curse and blessing on the solemn close of the Fourth of
July.
President Hancock advanced through the crowd, and confronted
the White Indian, as he towered in the pride of his forest
stature.
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“I have heard your story. How, stolen when a child from
the ruined home of your father, you were reared at once by the
Indians, an Indian like themselves; and, by an American colonist
who had forsaken society for the turmoil of savage life, in
all the knowledge of the white race. I know your heart! You
would serve your country—serve Washington?”
“Mayaniko lives but to serve the great chief!” said the White
Indian, as he stood in the presence of his father, Reginald, and
the Rose of Wissahikon. “Speak the word, and it is done!”
“Will you ride an hundred miles or more to-night? Take
this parchment,” and he drew near the Indian, and whispered a
few words—“The horse stands ready for you across the river,
in Cooper's woods. To-night,” he said aloud, “you must seek
the camp of Washington!”
At once gathering his blanket about his form, the Indian turned,
and, with the parchment to his breast, without a word of
farewell to father or sister, hurried to the river side.
“Now,” said Reginald, as he took Rose, in all her beauty,
from her father's arm—“Now, we must away to the home
that wooes us with its smile, the Cottage Home of Wissahikon!”
eaf250.n4[4] By the united testimony of Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Ramsay,
Rush, and Barlow, the vital agency of Paine, in this great work,
is affirmed.
THE LAST. THE MESSENGER OF FREEDOM.
Upon the river a boat glided like an arrow toward the eastern
shore, while the last flush of day is in the sky—the last smile of
light on the waters.
In that boat, you see the form of Mayaniko, wielding the oar
that hisses through the waves, as he fixes his eye on the distant
woods. Away, away—the sunlight's last gleam upon your face,
brave Indian! Away, away—with the sacred parchment near
your heart! Away, away—for you have a hundred miles to
ride, ere the rising of the morrow's sun.
“To the Camp—to the Camp of Washington!”
The boat glides into that quiet cove, overhung with boughs
and flowers. Not a moment passes ere his foot is on the shore.
He leaves the boat, and hurries into the wood. There a magnificent
white horse, arrayed in splendid caparisons, awaits him.
At once the Indian unbuckles the splendid saddle, dashes it on
the ground, and, with his blanket waving all around him, leaps
on the bare back of the steed.
He threads the mazes of the wood, and, just as the night comes
down, emerges on the public road. Some farmers, returning
from their daily toil, behold that white horse and his Indian
rider dashing toward them, and shrink back amazed.
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“The Camp of Washington?” cried the Indian, bending over
the neck of his horse.
They point the way, and he is gone.
The night comes down—the stars flash out—and still be hurries
on. The steed seems to feel its precious burden—seems to
know that it bears a warrior form and a sacred parchment, and,
with its eye gleaming through the night, thunders away.
One hundred miles before the rising of the sun—ten miles an
hour, with scarce a moment's rest—a second's delay! A brave
thing to do, gallant war-horse; and a deed that will cost you
your life.
Now, in the shadows of a glen—now on the ascent of a hill—
now in sight of the broad river, with its opposite bank lined with
gardens and flowers.
Still the Indian hurries on!
The only word that he speaks, as he rushes into the view of
the belated wayfarer is—The Camp, the Camp of Washington!
The only way in which his dark eye gazes, is to the north, for
there they say it lies, there miles on miles away, the Camp of
Washington!
At last, in the old town of Trenton—which six months afterward
became the scene of Washington's last hope—he reins the
white steed, surrounded by a crowd who hurry from their doors
with torches in their hands. They gaze in wonder upon the
panting horse; this tall rider, with his straight dark hair, lined
with a coronal of snow-white feathers, and the blanket of many
colors floating from his shoulders.
You may see them stand in the street, circling round Wayaniko,
the lights above their head, the dark town all around.
“The way,” he cries—“the way to the camp of Washington!”
He sees their extended hands; that space in the street is vacant;
far through the night clatters the sound of hoofs, and gleams the
vision of the white steed and his Indian rider.
The moon rises, the hours glide, Princeton and Brunswick are
passed. The Raritan gleams far behind in the light of the moon.
The road rises over rocks and hills, then the Indian messenger
is lost in the bosom of thick woods. Still the brave horse,
urged to his utmost speed, bathed all over with foam, bounds
from the earth and skims along.
The moon rises! Slowly up yonder hill, rugged with crags,
dark with pines, the white horse toils along, his master's blanket
fluttering down his flanks. Not once is that Indian's face
turned back; still his dark eye to the north, still he looks for the
camp of Washington.
The moon rises! A flying cloud overspreads it with a veil.
Down into the hollow where the brook boils beneath the trembling
bridge; down into the stream with the cool water flowing
round the limbs of the panting steed. For a moment he pauses,
suffers the horse to wet his nostrils and his mouth in the
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grateful current, and then presses his flanks with his knee and bids
him on!
As the cloud rolls from the moon, do you see that wide meadow,
its sea of grass waving in the clear light, with the white
horse dashing over its surface, while the Indian towers erect
on his back, the war blanket fluttering far behind him!
The moon sinks from her throne in the zenith. Down through
the clouds that float about her, down through the blue vault
until her horizental rays tremble faintly over the wide expanse
of hills and valleys.
Along the dark wood where log huts rise among the pines,
the white horse thunders now. Panting, foaming, his mane
waving in the cool breeze, he glides along, while the blood begins
to mingle with the froth around his nostrils.
Look! A crowd of dark forms overspread the road; you see
their rifles rise, their knives gleam. Tories, in the garb of soldiers;
their challenge rings out upon the night.
“Who goes there?”
But the White Indian does not reply. Hark! the crack of
rifles; a cloud of smoke rolls round his form. He does not
look behind, nor turn to either side; the bullet grazes the tiger
skin about his breast, but the sacred parchment is safe. He
dashes on, while the Tories, gazing upon his retreating form,
hear the deep words—“The Camp of Washington!”
The moon goes down. Pale and dim, her disc, half seen,
trembles over the distant woods, before it sinks to darkness.
The night grows dark. We have lost sight of Mayaniko; ah,
the horse has fallen, the rider pants exhausted by the roadside!
Is it so?
Look yonder through this gloom that gathers so dark before
the break of day, and fix your eyes upon the summit of that
steep hill. On one side a wood—you see it extend, a darkening
mass. On the other a level field, overspread with waving
wheat. A rude hut built among the trees, gives forth from its
window a glare of light. The plain cottager has risen; he is
about to begin his day's toil. He comes forth and stands before
his home, a brawny man, with a coarse dress on his broad
chest, the marks of toil upon his face.
But what sight is this that meets his eyes in the dimness of
the daybreak hour?
Writhing in the roadside bank, his nostrils flooding the dust
with blood, a noble white horse stretches out his limbs, raises
his head, quivers along his flanks, and then is still.
Over him stands a form, which fills the rough laborer with
awe. Into the hut he passes, returns with a light, shading its
rays with the palm of his hand, he approaches, and beholds an
Indian standing with folded arms beside the dying horse. The
heart of the noble beast has burst—look! how its warm blood
pours in a torrent over the road.
The Indian stands with folded arms, his head sunken and his
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eyes fixed upon the steed. As the cottager surveys that form,
with the war blanket drooping from the shoulders, the coronal
of feathers waving over the dark hair, he starts back with awe.
For the last time the dying horse lifts his head and fixes his
eye upon his master's form. Then all is over; he lays there,
dead.
The Indian turns—
“The Camp of Washington?” he cries with a voice that
makes the cottager start.
“Look yonder!” exclaims the laborer, as the wind extinguishes
his light.
There, from the summit of the hill, the Indian looks and sees,
a wide expanse of waters heaving in the dim light of the day-break
sky—a black mass, like a wall of ebony, extending along
the distant horizon.
That expanse of waters, the waves of Manhattan Bay—that
wall of ebony the City of New York.
“A boat? A canoe?”
“There aint none within three miles”—hesitates the cottager.
At once the resolution of the Indian is taken; at once he flings
the blanket from his shoulders, the tiger-skin from his breast,
and stands there naked to the waist, disclosing a form, magnificent
in its broad chest and boldly defined muscles. He winds
the parchment in the locks of his long straight hair; secures it
with a cord; and while the plume waves over his brow, hurries
to the river.
A footstep on the sand, a sudden plunge—
Long before the threshold of his home, stood the cottager,
watching that white plume gleaming from the blackness of the
waves.
Through the shadows of a spacious chamber, struggled the
rays of a taper, its waning light imparting a deeper gloom to
the massive furniture, the cumbrous hangings and the curtained
bed.
A man of some forty-five years, whose muscular limbs were
clad in a long dark dressing gown, had sunk to sleep in an arm-chair,
after many weary hours of labor. His hand resting on
the table, still grasped the pen, which marked the unfinished
sentence of his letter. By that hand a sheathed sword; over
that table a mass of papers, bearing the name of great men, and
involving the fate of a nation.
And as this tired soldier slept, the light flickered lower in the
socket and the first gleam of day came through the parted curtains.
Suddenly a cry was heard, the tramp of a footstep! At the
very instant the soldier awoke from his sleep, started to his feet,
and listened. That footstep grew nearer, the door was flung
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open, a strange form stood on the threshold, bared to the waist,
and dripping from the dark hair to the moccasined feet with
spray.
Yes it was a noble form, with bold features, and large eyes,
that now rolled wildly in their sockets. Over the brow of this
strange apparition, waved a coronal of snow-white plumes.
The soldier started with surprise, and pressed his hands over
his eyes, as though he beheld the vision of a dream.
But the figure tottered forward, tore a parchment from the
locks of his dark hair, and as he held it aloft, fell like a dead
man to the floor.
The soldier bent down and grasped the parchment, and hurrying
to the window, unclosed it before the first beam of the
rising day.
By that beam of morning light, George Washington, with a
quickening pulse and kindling eye, perused the Declaration
of Independence.
— And the same dawn that shone on his brow, shone
through the cottage home by the still waters, on the sleeping
form of the bride, whose lips parted in a smile, as in a dream,
she saw the dangers that had passed, the trials that had once
darkened her life—
The Rose of Wissahikon.
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1847], The rose of Wissahikon, or, The fourth of July, 1776: a romance, embracing the secret history of the Declaration of Independence (G. B. Zieber & Co., Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf250].
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