University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Let us turn for a while to consider the progress
of events in the metropolis of New-England. Unawed
by the demonstrations of popular feeling which had
been so violently awakened, Sir Edmund Andros
continued to exercise the same despotic sway over
the people of Massachusetts, who had heretofore
submitted so meekly to the arbitrary exactions of
government, that the latter began to imagine it had
a right to stretch its prerogative without limits. Such
has ever been the history of the growth of power.
That which is yielded to from necessity, or submitted

to with patience, is afterwards claimed as a right,
and enforced by authority; so that, in the course of
moral transference, the oppressor and the oppressed
change their relative position of obligor and obligee,
and are driven, on the one hand, to despotic assumption,
and on the other, to that last resort for the
recovery of natural and civil rights, which terminates
in a violent and sudden revolution.

The well-established principle, that whenever the
balance of power is lost between the executive and
the legislative branches of government, there is a tendency
to a complete absorption of power in the
scale where it already preponderates, is as true, when
predicated of the people, under representative forms,
as when affirmed of the legislature: so that the experience
of the past, (other things being equal,) is a
sure guide for the future. But in our day, the difficulties
that present themselves to the political philosopher,
arise from the failure of the ceteris paribus,
a condition which is too often overlooked in their
predictions. So true is this, that the most superficial
observer might remark the almost utter want of parallel
tendencies, between apparently similar acts of
executive or popular outrage in our times and in
those of antiquity; and it fully accounts for the failure
of the Burkes and Pitts, to say nothing as to
other eminent men of still later times, in those reaches
of political understanding, which, based on the
maxims of the past, proposed as their object the happiness

of the human family. The great evil of our
day is well-intending ignorance, and till there be a
scheme of public instruction, studied out, developed,
and matured, by which a true and comprehensive
cyclopedia of morals and politics may be taught, let
not the most sanguine expectant of human progress
anticipate any thing better, or more solid, than the
adoption of crude theories and monstrous principles.

When it is thought to be Machiavelian to deny
that a mere moral principle, apart from all other circumstances
or considerations, should be and is a
sound political one;—when we see the most puerile
dogmas asserted and maintained, by authoritative
persons whose productions spread far and wide, and
are taken up by millions as indisputable truth; it is
time for others, who stand on the watch-towers of
Liberty, to be awake and to sound the alarm through
the nation. It is ignorance, and nothing but ignorance,
that ruins nations; and the worst of it is, that
this same ignorance, which is so pestilential and subversive
of human happiness, is found among those
very men who are regarded as the lights and examples
of the land. It is not so much the ignorance of
the people, as that of their leaders, which is to be deprecated.
The people are generally well-informed,
but they cannot be expected, all of them, to be philosophers.
They have other work to do than to analyze
knotty questions, and untangle abstruse speculations;—but
it is a crying shame that they should

have no better teachers, than those who are but the
mere exudations of bloated universities, and who believe
that a mass of unavailable Greek, Latin, and
Hebrew learning, is enough to qualify a man to
judge of the greatest questions of government.
There is a better knowledge, a wider and more
grasping attainment than these, and that is a thorough
and well-digested understanding of Human
Relations.

The leading men of Boston had for a long time
comprehended the exact relation which the people
bore to the Sovereign and his deputy in Massachusetts;
they were fully conscious of having yielded
too readily in the outset, and of having continued to
yield too tamely to the unjust demands of power,
and to the insolence of office, and their brows burnt
with shame and indignation when they contrasted
their present condition with that it had been a few
years before, when they enjoyed untarnished, from
their fathers, the highest liberty of which a people
could boast. But they were men of moderation and
prudence, and though they knew well enough that
a revolution was inevitable, should the Sovereign see
fit to withhold that protection which his colonial subjects
demanded, they cherished the fond anticipation
that he would yet be brought to terms, and thus end
all difficulties which existed between them.

The last act of tyranny on the part of the government,
in attempting to impress the free citizens of

Boston, put a final stop to all forbearance among the
people. When the spirit of licentiousness is once
let loose, there is no prescribing limits to its progress.
The mob that wreaked its vengeance on Classon, it
is true, seemed satisfied for the time, but its indignation
on that memorable occasion, was but the smoke
of the volcano, preparatory to a dreadful eruption.
Frequent meetings were held, and public demonstrations
made, that indicated a determination, on the
part of the people, to put down, once and forever, the
high-handed usurpations of the government.

Resolutions were passed denouncing Sir Edmund
Andros and his coadjutors, as enemies to the country,
and as conspirators against the public peace; and the
effigy of the Governor was burnt on the Common
amidst the hisses and execrations of the multitude.
The effigy of the Pope was also fixed on a staging,
in company with a figure of the devil, horned and
tailed according to book, and after being dragged
round the town, was with his companion consigned
to the devouring element. Placards were pasted
up against the walls, threatening all persons with popular
resentment who gave any assistance to the
Governor in the execution of his illegal acts, and
warning certain individuals who were obnoxious to
the charge of being informers, to look out for their
personal safety.

Notwithstanding these portentous appearances, Sir
Edmund Andros, secure in the possession of a well-armed

troop, issued his edicts the same as ever, and
within a week after the affair of the Press-gang, ordered
a freeman to be publicly whipt for not paying,
as he declared, sufficient respect to his authority.
But the man was rescued from the ignominious punishment,
and that night the Governor had his windows
broken by the mob.

Nor were matters in a more tranquil condition in
the neighboring country-towns. The same spirit was
abroad in Braintree, Dedham, Roxbury, Dorchester,
Watertown, and generally throughout the colony;
but more particularly in those villages more immediately
bordering on Boston. Watertown was one of
the foremost places of patriotic opposition, and was
noted in those days for the semi-annual Fair which
was held in its precincts. On such occasions, the
country people from the surrounding towns, and
large numbers from Boston, and even Salem, assembled,
as well as many friendly Indians, where produce
of all sorts was exposed for sale or barter, cattle
offered for market, and such manufactured articles
as brooms, buckets, and farming utensils, were exhibited
for purchase. Nor was the better part of creation
behind-hand in contributing their quota of
hose, quilts, and baby-linen, to make up a complete
assortment of goods for the Fair.

Though the Committee of Safety, of which Mr.
Temple was the chairman, were contented to await
the natural course of events which they observed in

the way of development; trusting, in some degree, to
the awakened justice of the Sovereign, but by all means
confiding in the overruling hand of Providence,
which they knew would not leave them utterly, but in
its own good time bring them out of their Egyptian
bondage,—there were some more turbulent and restless
spirits, among whom were Randal and Bagnal,
who being cramped by the jealous watchfulness of
the Governor and his minions, and restricted in the
full swing of their resentment at the nefarious measures
of his administration, looked forward to the Fair
at Watertown, as a fitting opportunity for raising the
standard of rebellion, or at least for concerting measures
toward its accomplishment: for revels of all sorts
were indulged in at the Fair, which, within the last
eight years, had even become somewhat licentious;
and amidst the diversions and entertainments of one
kind and another, they expected to find a convenient
subterfuge for their schemes, and to rally around the
pine-tree banner a sufficient number of good men
and true, to wrest the sceptre from the hands of tyranny,
and trample its ensign in the dust.

The people in the country towns were quite as
restless under the galling sway of Sir Edmund Andros,
as those of Boston, though they did not feel all
its effects so immediately; but their sufferings were
positive and intolerable, and the exaggerated accounts
of what the metropolitans endured, excited their
warmest sympathy, and prepared them to co-operate

in any measure which they could set on foot, to bring
about a more desirable state of affairs. Hardly any
thing else was talked of but the latest news from Boston,
and public expectation was on tiptoe, whenever
a new-comer appeared from the metropolis, to learn
whether any fresh intelligence had been brought from
the mother country, or what new views were entertained
by the people of Boston.

The ferry to Lechmere Point was crowded with
passengers, who from the early dawn, were thronging
to go to Watertown, and join in the hilarities of
the Fair. A motley crowd had collected in one of
the boats which had just pushed off from the wharf,
at the west end of Boston, and were now crossing
Charles River on their way to Cambridge. Among
the passengers were Randal the anchor-smith, and
Bagnal the caulk-and-graver, besides four Catholic
priests, who never failed to be present where there
was a prospect of a gathering together, as their especial
commission was to spy out the disposition of the
people, and insinuate the principles of the monarch,
with all the zeal of Papal missionaries.

One of this same brotherhood, “a little, round, fat,
oily man,” as Thompson has it, “who had a roguish
twinkle in his eye,” particularly engaged the attention
of the anchor-smith, who, with his companion,
generally preserved a profound silence during the
passage, except to make some common-place remark
about the agreeable weather which they were so fortunate

to have for the Fair, or touching the pleasant
scenery which opened on all sides, as the boat receding
from the shores of the metropolis, made her
rapid course toward the opposite ones of Cambridge.

Father John, for this appeared to be the name of
the personage alluded to, was a man evidently about
forty years of age. He was rather short in stature,
but did not seem to be suffering at all under mortifications
of the flesh. His countenance was fresh and
ruddy, indications of health which would have been
unaccountable on any known principles of total abstinence.
The other priests were good-looking, intelligent
men, like himself; having every stamp
about them of well-informed citizens of the world.
They were all dressed alike, having on a close, black
scull-cap, a long, black frock of broad-cloth, and a
rosary, terminating with a cross suspended over the
neck.

“That's a goodly looking college enough, Father
John,” remarked one of the priests to the more conspicuous
man he addressed, “but its a pity that holy
mother church has n't the managing of it.”

“A thousand pities, truly;” replied Father John,
“but thanks to the blessed Virgin,” he continued,
crossing himself, “there is a fair prospect of its
being purged from its iniquities, before long.”

As they spoke, their eyes were turned in the direction
of Old Harvard, which even then made a
most respectable appearance at a distance.

“I pity the poor boys,” resumed Father John,
“who are obliged to submit to the fooleries of that
puritanical toy-shop. When the teachers are asses,
what can you expect of the taught?”

And the reverend gentleman chuckled till his dewlap
quivered with the convulsion.

“Did you ever attend one of their exhibitions?”
he further inquired, addressing himself to each of his
pious brethren, by turns.

But they all declared that they never had enjoyed
that extraordinary pleasure; whereupon their interrogater
proceeded.

“It would be worth your while to attend one of
them, then; for you never heard such a whining set
of puppies in your life. Why, their cant oratory is
proverbial throughout the land. You can point out
a graduate of that College as far as you can hear his
voice, to say the least of it. Jesu! what eloquence!
And then the Professor that presides over that department—you
ought to him read!—ha! ha! ha!”

And the jolly confessor commenced discoursing in
imitation of the man he ridiculed, till his companions
burst out into immoderate laughter at the exhibition.

Randal, though he had never had the disadvantage
of a college education, with the vain imagination
too often resulting therefrom, that he was all the
better for it, felt nevertheless extremely nettled, as
most Bostonians do, when any sarcasm is hurled

against the venerable University of their neighbor
Cambridge; and he accordingly buckled on his armor
in her defence.

“It may be very amusing to you,” said he, addressing
himself to the reverend brotherhood, “to be running
a tilt against Harvard College; but I fancy that
a little of her learning, after all, would n't do either
of you any harm.”

At this rebuke, Father John drew down the corners
of his mouth, suppressing the relaxation of his
muscles as well as he could, and replied:

“No doubt, friend, your Alma Mater, (for I suppose
you are a fair specimen of her nurslings,) has learning
enough cased up in the brick and mortar yonder;
but I must be permitted to say, that she has a
very strange way of showing it.”

As an endorsement of this sally, the brethren were
contented to laugh only with their eyes, while Randal's
wrath began to wax hot in the encounter. Bagnal,
however, who saw the storm brewing, took his friend
aside, and entreated him to have a care how he precipitated
a quarrel with those men on the very day
when it was most expedient to lull their suspicions
to sleep, and he succeeded at last in accomplishing
his object; Randal declaring, that by all that was
true and holy, he would punish the rascal yet for his
impertinence.

The boat at length arrived at the landing place in
Cambridge, and the passengers disembarking, proceeded

on their way to Watertown. Hundreds of
others on foot and in carts, were on the road travelling
to the same place of destination. After passing
Harvard College, the road to Watertown was found
to be thickly speckled with itinerants of both sexes,
and of all ages; among whom were a number of students
in their square caps, who having a holiday on
the occasion, were according to custom, preparing to
make the most of it in the promised revels of Watertown.

“A fine day this, for the Fair!” exclaimed Randal,
addressing himself to a student who was walking
alone, with an air of deep abstraction, apparently
unconscious of the bustling scene around him.

“Very!” was the laconic reply of the young man,
who paid no further attention to the salutation than
to lift his eyes for a moment on the speaker.

“You are going to the Fair, I suppose!” persevered
Randal, who was not wholly destitute of the characteristic
curiosity of his countrymen, and who was
particularly desirous of making some interest among
the students of Cambridge, for reasons best known to
himself.

“Yes!” returned the youth, with a sigh, as if he
were reluctantly forced into a colloquy, which he
would willingly have avoided; “Yes! I am going
to the Fair, as you rightly conjecture;—one might
as well follow the multitude—though not to do evil.”

“There is more danger of evil,” replied Randal,

whose political feelings were ever uppermost, “from
the few, than the many, in these troublesome times.”

The student looked at him earnestly for a few seconds,
and then casting his eyes on the earth, continued
to walk on in silence.

The anchor-smith, unwilling to obtrude himself too
much on the young man, made a few passing remarks
to his friend Bagnal, who was walking beside him,
and at the same time narrowly observed the stranger
who had engaged his attention.

He was a young man about twenty years old,
judging from appearance, remarkably tall and handsome,
like the finest specimen of the South Carolina
gentlemen. His eyes and hair were very black,
his nose was straight and beautifully moulded, his
mouth finely cut and filled with strong, regular, and
brilliantly white teeth. There was an expression of
deep thoughtfulness in his countenance, and there
were, young as he seemed to be, lines of marked
character clearly imprinted there.

After walking a minute or two in silence, only interrupted
by an occasional observation on the individuals
of the living panorama, Randal ventured to
resume the conversation.

“You will pardon me, I hope,” said he, “but like
every son of New England, I feel a deep interest in
the welfare of old Harvard College; have you heard
any tidings lately of the President?”

“You mean of the Rector,” replied the student.

“True; I had forgotten, the apellation President
did not sound agreeably in the ears of the Jesuits;
so they substituted Rector. Have you received any
intelligence from your Rector lately?”

The student gave a glance, at once penetrating
and inquiring, towards the anchor-smith, and then replied:

“From a remark you made, Sir, a few moments
since, I should take you for a patriot; and to do you
justice, your face and tone of voice confirm my judgment;
but there are so many false men abroad, that
it becomes us to be careful how we place too much
confidence in strangers. Will you do me the favor
to tell me your name?—and you yours, Sir, if you
please!” said he, turning his eyes on Bagnal; “my
name is Harding, and I am a tutor in the college.”

“My name is Randal, the anchor-smith of Boston.”

“And mine is Bagnal, the caulk-and-graver, of the
same place.”

“I know you both,” resumed Harding, “you are
alike dear to the people and odious to the government.
Your servant, gentlemen, I am glad to meet you!”
and so saying, he gave them both a cordial shake of
the hand.

“And now,” said he, turning to Randal; “I can
answer your question freely and fully, without fear
of being entrapped by spies. We had a letter from
the Rector yesterday, by the way of New-York.”

“What news did it communicate from England?”

“The most melancholy, and yet the most cheering.”

“I can't conjecture,” said Bagnal, “how that can
be.”

“But I can,” joined Randal, who had a deeper insight
into the state of public affairs than his patriotic
friend. “The upshot of it is,—I'll lay my life on its
correctness,—the King has refused to restore the charter
to Massachusetts, and the people of England are
in rebellion.”

“You are right,” replied Harding, “you are almost
perfectly right in what you imagine to be the condition
of things. Dr. Mather writes, that the King has peremptorily
and finally refused to restore the charter,
which was so wrongfully taken from the people.
He says that there is not the shadow of a hope that
the petition, with which he was commissioned, will
ever be listened to while James the second is sitting
on the throne of England; but—”

“There is a hope,” interrupted Randal, whose
eagerness to hear the report of the Massachusetts
agent, made him anticipate its recital; “there is a
hope that William of Orange will dispossess the bigotted
Jesuit of his throne.”

“Ay;” resumed Harding, “not only a hope, but a
moral certainty of it. Dr. Mather tells us that nearly
all the nobility are for William of Orange, and

that the prince will, before long, most inevitably
make a descent on England, and liberate the people
from the degrading bondage that now enslaves
them.”

“God grant it may be consummated, and that
quickly!” replied Randal.

“Amen!” ejaculated the caulk-and-graver, “amen,
with all my heart!”

“In the meantime, Mr. Harding,” said Randal,
“there is work to be done in old Massachusetts.”

“The people have all suffered extremely,” added
Harding, “and you in Boston, more than others. Do
you apprehend any violent measures from them?”

“All I fear,” replied Randal, “is that we shall be
too late. There must be a revolution, and that immediately.”

“I know,” said Harding, “that the present state of
things cannot possibly last long; but when William
of Orange comes to the throne, if such a merciful
event ever happens, your charter will be surely restored,
and all your rights re-established on a more
permanent basis then they were before their invasion.”

“I have,” returned Randal, “as much confidence
in the Stadtholder, as most men—but I know as
well as others that he is only a man after all, and that
the temptations of power are not to be trusted. The
people of Massachusetts must anticipate his coronation,
and take the adjusting of their affairs into their

own hands. You may rely on it, this is the only
course that can be adopted, which can afford any
substantial hope of regaining our liberties. Let us
revolutionize the government ourselves, and then,
when William of Orange comes to the throne, he
will have nothing to do but to confirm what we
have done. He will not dare, while he has so many
conflicting interests to reconcile, as he must have for
a long time, I say he will not dare to undo what
the people of Massachusetts shall have achieved.
At all events, this is my view of the case, and, God
willing, I will do all in my power to see the thing
accomplished.”

“I agree with you fully,” added Bagnal, “we have
temporized long enough,—it is now time to be up
and doing.”

“But how can you bring it about?” inquired
Harding, who, though he in reality favored the design
of his new friends, exercised extraordinary circumspection
more from habit than premeditation.

“That was the very object of our visit to Watertown
this day,” replied Bagnal, “and it would seem
as if Providence had thrown you in our way, on purpose
to assist us by your counsel; for I cannot be
mistaken in believing that you are not only an uncompromising
friend of liberty, but that you would
readily and heartily lend your assistance in accomplishing
one of the noblest achievements that ever

presented themselves to the enthusiatic martyrs of
freedom.”

“I should be too happy,” rejoined Harding, “to
see a peaceful change in the aspect of public affairs.”

“And you would lend a helping hand, would you
not, in a quiet sort of revolution?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Enough!” said Randal, “there is a cavern in the
neigborhood of the lake—”.

“I know it very well.”

“Meet us there at one o'clock, and if you can bring
with you two or three others on whom you can depend—so
much the better. We are now approaching
the encampment, and as we cannot converse with
freedom any longer, perhaps we would better separate.”

“Very well,” replied the tutor, and making a passing
salutation, he turned to leave his travelling companion,
to jog on by themselves.

“Remember, at one precisely;” said Randal.

“Never doubt me,” returned the tutor—“farewell!”

So saying, the man of letters left his new acquaintances,
and was soon lost to their sight in the crowd.

“That's a noble-hearted fellow,” said Randal to
his friend, as Harding vanished from their observation;
“or else I am no judge of character.”

“He certainly seems to be all that,” replied Bagnal,

“and I for one don't like him any the less for
his cautiousness. I think we shall find in the
college tutor a firm friend and a true patriot.
I incline to believe that all the professors, as well
as students, are favorable to the great cause. Men
of letters are generally on the popular side, when
things go wrong among governments.”

“Ay;” added the other, “universities and colleges
are the nurseries of republicans; or rather the students
of those institutions are naturally freemen. I rather
think that college-governments have a tendency to
despotism.”

“And that is the very reason,” replied Bagnal,
“that those under their care manifest the republican
character. Hence, we so often see rebellion among
the students. Tyranny is odious in any form—and
extremes have a perpetual tendency to meet.
Wherever you find a thorough despotism, you may
be sure to discover the finest spirit of democracy;
even though it may be buried under the guise of submission.”

“There is no doubt of the truth of all that,” said
Randal; “I should like to see,” he continued, “a
university conducted on a plan honorable both to
the teachers and the taught; one where there might
be full confidence between the government and the
students; for when there is so little of it as at the
present day, it is impossible to breed men in these institutions.
What can be more degrading, for instance,

than for a college-government to have a
trained company of spies, who take advantage of
the frankness of the students to betray them to
their masters? I was assured by a gentleman,
who had been a tutor in Harvard College, that
if I only knew the number of spies employed, and
the ways they set about entrapping the scholars, I
should be absolutely astonished. Even the poor beneficiary
students are forced into this mean service,
and earn their pitiful education at the expense of
their honor and manhood. Now this is all wrong,
very wrong, and as much as I venerate the old walls
of Harvard, I cannot think of it without loathing. I
would not have a child of mine so contaminated for
all the Greek and Latin in the world. It is bad
enough for a young man to encounter the temptations
of profligacy and licentiousness;—yet there is
some hope for the most abandoned sensualist. But
once break down a young man's honor and self-respect,
and it's all over with him. The elastic principle
is then crushed out of him, and there is no rebound
to virtue.

“There is another lamentable abuse in college-governments,”
added Bagnal, “and I have seen
the bad effects of it in several instances. Boys of
sixteen or seventeen are too apt to be regarded by the
college as men whose moral and intellectual characters
are already formed, and who are therefore answerable,
to the full extent of the term, for every delinquency

and mal-practice of which they are guilty.
Now few men have any fixed principles before they
are five-and-twenty, and those characters which are
intended to expand the most largely, and endure the
longest, are the very ones which are the most backward
in their development. Professors in colleges
never think of discriminating among the varieties of
character beneath their charge. A good memory
and a due share of the spirit of dissimulation, will
carry off the honors any day against all the genius
and sincerity that can be arrayed in opposition to
them. I pity the young man, who for some early
indiscretion has been subjected to the tender mercies
of these tyrants. There is little hope for him. Perhaps
he has been grossly and maliciously slandered
by some evil-minded person, who has a grudge
against him, and then he is ground to the very dust,
perhaps turned out of college, or recommended `to
take up his connexion with it,' which amounts to an
expulsion;—and then by an agreement among all
the colleges, he is shut out forever from the privilege
of learning at any of these institutions. Is not
this tyranny of the worst kind?”

“It is, indeed,” replied Randal, “and I am very
sorry to add that it is, or was a very few years ago,
the truth told of old Harvard. I know an instance of
persecution within those walls, which is precisely
analogous to the one you suppose to be true. A
young man became hateful to one of the Professors,

for telling him the truth with too much boldness,
when positively required to do so. Without intending
any disrespect, the student had an air of impudence,
and he gained the deadly hatred of the Professor,
who told him, that if his class repeated the indignities
they had offered to him as Professor, (for the
man was odious to the class, and had met with repeated
indignity from them when assembled,) he,
the student, should suffer for it. The class repeated
their insults, but though that student was known to
be innocent, he was made the scape-goat of the whole,
and sent away.”

“That Professor,” exclaimed Bagnal, “must have
had the heart of a rattle-snake. He committed a
crime against the human soul, and cannot be forgiven.
Let the galled jade wince! His retribution
has not come yet; but it will come.”

The two friends had become so absorbed in the
topic that occupied their attention, that before they
were aware of it, they found themselves in the midst
of the preparations for the Fair. The spot selected
for the occasion was the rising ground on the border
of the beautiful lake, which is the brightest ornament
of Watertown, where, in more modern times,
Cambridge students were seduced away from their
books to enjoy the glories of nature, and the abominations
of milk-punch, amidst the water-lilies and the
fruit trees, and the thousand beautiful et-ceteras of
that romantic region.

The majestic trees that shaded the grounds on that
part of the borders of the lake, had been thinned away
to allow a prospect of the tranquil water through a
dozen little vistas, beyond which were seen, on the
other side of the broad, silvery sheet, “rich heaps of
foliage,” liveried in all the gorgeous robes of autumn,
that threw their deep, broad shadows over the intervening
waves.

A few rods from the lake, a large, commodious inn
had been many years erected, very nearly on the site
where the one now stands. It had several gables,
and on the side fronting the water, the roof, from a
high pitch, swept down in an angle of thirty degrees,
and was sustained by rough timbers of cedar, around
which the honey-suckle twined, and wooed the humming-bird
to hover in its golden plumage, and suck
delicious nectar from its flowers.

Beneath the rude piazza of the inn, and under the
shade of several large oaks and elms which sheltered
it, were settles and benches, on which a number of
persons of various character were sitting, and enjoying
the fine air of the season. The Indian-summer
had set in with all its gentle influences,—that sweet
brief season, when autumn borrows the worn out
garniture of his predecessor, with its tempered sun,
dim atmosphere, and gentle breezes, that he may enjoy
a few short hours of repose, before he yields the
sceptre to his hoary expectant.

Several of the tavern visiters were indulging

themselves with Dutch pipes and flip, talking politics,
scandal, and the infinite deal of nothingness that affords
the ordinary motive power to the tongue. For
half a mile around were erected tents and booths, in
some of which different articles of traffic were exposed
for sale, and in many others, liquor of all sorts and
colors tempted the thirsty customers to warm their
stomachs and scorch their brains.

These places were crowded with people who were
talking loudly, laughing, or singing as their fancy
moved them; and though it was not yet noon by two
hours, many gave unequivocal tokens of having taken
more frequent potations than became sober men even
at a festival.

On the open plain between the tavern and the lake,
which in the abominable nomenclature of modern
times is desecrated by the name of Fresh Pond,—a
name that, instead of suggesting and being appropriate
to the glorious beauty of the little inland sea, can
be associated with nothing but mud-turtles and bull-frogs,—were
erected fandangos, as they termed them,
and swings, of different kinds, for both sexes to amuse
themselves with, by tossing through the air at the
imminent peril of their necks. Besides these, there
were two nine-pin alleys, and several smooth planks
for dancing.

This latter diversion was effected in the following
manner. An ordinary broad plank was placed on
the green, around which were collected a motley

crowd of all who took pleasure in dancing, or in seeing
others join in the amusement. The fiddler
struck up a jig, when some one of the inexpressible
gender invited a favorite piece of muslin to dance
with him. If she accepted the offer, he led her to
one end of the plank, and immediately took his own
station at the opposite one. They now began to
shuffle at each other, and stamp their feet with all
their might, nearing and retreating alternately; and
by the shouts of applause on one side or the other, it
was decided which excelled in the poetry of motion.
The one who stamped the louder was generally admitted
to be the conqueror.

Randal, with his companion, was wandering
through the crowd, taking note of every thing he
saw, and conversing on the subject which so completely
had the ascendency in his thoughts, when
his attention was directed to a tent, where all the appointments
of intoxication were regularly prepared,
and several sorts of coarse viands arranged on temporary
shelves to tempt the passer-by to patronise
mine host within.

The persons inside seemed to be much excited by
drinking, and were, as indicated by the tones of their
voices, on the brink of a quarrel. As the newcomers
entered, Randal was surprised to recognise
Classon, who was engaged in a drunken debate with
Grummet, the man-o'-war's-man. They were both
highly excited, and it would have been difficult to

determine which was the more drunk of the two:
yet there was this difference between them. The excitement
of Grummet seemed to have more rationality
in it than the other's, for there were about Classon
evident signs of insanity. His eyes were glazed, and
they constantly looking askance as if he suspected
every body about him. His limbs twitched, as did
the muscles of his face, and he constantly rubbed
his hands, and sometimes gazed on them in a sort of
momentary abstraction. His legs seemed feeble, and
from a partial paralysis he appeared to be unable to
direct the movements of his body. These symptoms
are not the concomitants of common drunkenness.
There was a crisis approaching that had been accelerated
by the terrible sufferings to which he had
been subjected by the populace.

“Shiver my timbers!” exclaimed Grummet, “if I
had'nt rather be a hog in a long-boat than the cabin-boy
of such a d—d lubberly rascal as Sir Edmund
what's-you-call him? I know all about both o' you
—you no need to be clapping your dirty rags on my
cables to keep 'em from chafing;—it's no go. I
should'nt like to have such a swim in the tar-kettle
as you had the other day—nor toss about either to
the tune you danced to in the feather-bed.”

Classon's face glowed with rage, and from appearances
he would have struck the sailor had not Randal
and the caulk-and-graver entered as they did.

“How now, Classon,” said the anchor-smith, addressing

him, “what's all the fuss about now—hey,
man?”

Classon turned his fierce eyes upon him, and muttering
something unintelligible to those standing by,
stamped on the ground, and then threw himself on a
seat with his back turned to the one who had addressed
him.

The remains of the tar-and-feathering were still
visible about the man, who since that event had
wholly abandoned himself to drinking. Formerly,
he knew some sober moments, and was seldom drunk
before eleven o'clock. Now he made a business of
drinking. He kept the liquor at his bed-side, and
drank every half hour in the night. We said
that the remains of the tar-and-feathering were still
visible about him. His hair was in many places
knotted by the viscous substance, though it had been,
much of it, cut off; for wherever the tar touched the
hair, there it remained, in spite of all the detergents
that experience could suggest for its removal.

“Brandy!—bring me some brandy!” exclaimed
he, turning to the boy that dealt out the hot, manufactured
drink that passed under the name, “brandy,
I say; do you hear?”

The lad carried him a stiff glass of his favorite
drink, and handed it to him. Classon took it, with a
hand trembling like a withered bough in winter, and
turned away his head in silence and with loathing.
That which he believed to be necessary to his very

existence, was hateful to him as a scorpion. He no
longer drank for the pleasure it gave him: there was
no more intoxication for him than that of numbness
or insensibility, and this he would have, though it
was like swallowing the most disgusting medicine
every time the stimulant even approached his lips.

“A lemon!” exclaimed the half-paralytic, “give
me a lemon, for God's sake!”

A lemon was brought to him as he desired.

Classon took the fruit and biting a piece from the
same, looked at his brandy for a moment,and then swallowed
it, as if it required a desperate purpose to do so.
He then partially sunk himself down, resting his hands
on his knees, gazing on the ground, and as it were waiting
for the feeling of nausea to pass away from him.
This same process he was obliged to go through every
day, till his stomach by repeated stimulants, about
noon became able to bear its poison without revolting.

“There! that's over!” exclaimed he, exultingly,
as if he had achieved a triumph; and as the alcohol
began again to stimulate, for a few brief minutes, his
prostrated system, he brightened up as a lamp will
do when the wick is nearly burnt out, and you shake
a little oil upon it.

“You'r are a putty fellow, aint you?” said Grummet,
looking upon him with unabated contempt,
“there's another nail in your coffin, I guess, no how.
If you had given the money to your wife—”

“Damn my wife!” vociferated Classon, “ye are
always talking about her;—can't ye let the old
woman rest in her grave, but ye must be everlastingly
gabbling about her, pray?” and then walking up
to the liquor-stand, he helped himself to another
draught of brandy, which he tossed off with more
ease to himself than attended his previous potation.

“Well! if you aint the greatest sand-bank I ever
saw, there are no whales at sea or sharks ashore—
why, you suck the monkey like all the West-Indies!”
exclaimed the big-whiskered sailor.

“And it's none of your business if I do,” replied
Classon, “can't a fellow drink a dram now and then,
without having a quaker preacher at his elbow, hey?
you are the first sailor parson I ever heard preach up
temperance.”

“Blast temperance!” exclaimed the man-o'-war's-man,
“who preaches temperance here? I don't care
how much a man drinks, if he don't follow it as we
do the seas, for a living. I don't like to see a hand
always heaving at the windlass, nor always blowing
like a grampus or a puffing-pig. Who in the devil
said any thing about temperance, I want to know?”

“What did ye call me a sand-bank for, then?” inquired
Classon.

“Because you are one—that's the reason. No you
aint, neither; you are a rum-hogshead, a tap-room
sponge that sucks up all the liquor that falls in its

way; sand-banks hold water, and that's more than
you could do, if you tried.”

“No more o' your slack!” replied Classon, “I'm
tired of it.” And the flare-up of something like
pleasurable feeling, generated by the alcohol, had
already passed away, and left him moody and irritable.

“Blazes!” exclaimed Grummet, winking to Randal,
whom he recognized as one who had been conspicuous
at the serving-up of Classon at the rope-walk;
“blazes! you are getting mighty nice for a
mud-scow. P'rhaps you are tireder o' tar-and-feathers,
than o' my slack—hey?”

“I'd slap your chops for a sixpence!” growled the
broken-down wretch with a hiccough.

“You'd try any thing for money, every body
knows; but if you were to bang your flipper against
my lumber-hole, you'd get served worse than corned-fish-and-dip,
I tell'e! P'rhaps you don't remember
the way I run into the wharf-rat of a truckman at
your old rum-hop below Tin-Pot. 'Cause, if you
don't, maybe I can put you in mind of it.”

And with this, the sailor threw himself into the
ungainly attitude of “a natural fighter,” swinging
his body about, and leaving his guard open for a
skilful antagonist to hit him where he liked.

Classon, who had some skill in pugilism, saw his
advantage immediately, and without seeming to prepare
himself for combat, helped himself to an enormous

slug of brandy; and then, in a swaggering
way, as if he were careless of what the other said,
took hold of the lapels of his own coat, on each side,
between his thumb and fore-finger, and thus without
appearing to do so, put himself in an excellent posture
of defence.

Unmindful of what the other intended, the sailor
continued to taunt Classon with the tar-and-feather
adventure, and finally concluded by saying:

“A putty fellow you! damn you, you ought
to have gone down head first, instead of letting
your tender founder for want of caulking. Your
wife—”

The last word was hardly out of the man-o'-war's-man's
mouth, before Classon hit him right above the
nose, a most powerful blow which he had rallied all
his force to inflict. The sailor went down like a
log, but he was on his legs again in an instant: yet
before he could reach his enemy, Classon hit away
left and right, and knocked him into the same predicament
as before.

Had the publican been a man unexhausted by the
excesses to which he was addicted, he could, with the
skill he possessed, have easily vanquished opponent;
but he had completely debilitated himself by
the effort already made, and he began to puff and
blow like a high-pressure steam-engine.

It was Grummet's turn now. The sailor was no
more short-sighted than the publican to discover any

advantadge that might be offered by the chances of
war, and while his antagonist hit short and with difficulty,
he levelled a tremendous blow at him with
his left hand, which Classon, instead of stopping with
his right arm, purposely stopped with his left, a manœuvre
that turned the sailor's body round so as to expose
his left side wholly unprotected to a deadly right
handed hit, which, had it come from a muscular man,
would have carried away the sailor's ribs like pipe-stems.
As it was, it did but little harm to the man,
who promptly closed with his adversary, and after a
slight struggle, threw him to the ground.

The two master mechanics had looked on during
the brief time the contest was going on, and felt rather
disposed than otherwise, to see the odious tool of the
Governor get a hammering from the enraged tar; but
now that the fellow was down and out of wind, they
promptly interposed to save him from the drubbing
that he would inevitably have received but for their
aid.

“Let the poor devil off, this time,” pleaded Randal,
“there's no use of beating him; he is n't worth the
time nor the trouble.”

“Just as you like,” replied Grummet, “but if there
was a stick o' sound timber about him, damn me if I
would'nt have bored a hole in it, that's all. Come,
let's splice the main-brace—will you suck the monkey
and tread up? it's grog time o' day, and I have n't
taken a horn since breakfast.”

“I don't generally do those kind of things,” answered
Randal, laughing, “but when I do it is just
about this time. Come, Bagnal, what say you to a
rummer? I don't think that Jack here has suggested
a bad thing, after all.”

“Well;” said Bagnal, appearing to take the matter
under consideration, while he clapped his hands,
and smacked his lips, “well,—if you will take a pipe
all round afterwards—and a walk in the woods, I
don't care if I do join you in a jorum of something
or other. Let's see, what shall it be?”

“I can't go your long walks,” exclaimed Grummet,
“but I will take a short trip with you for the
sake of the mess.”

“What shall it be,” interrupted Bagnal, who
seemed to be getting out of patience, now the idea of
wetting his whistle had been forced upon him, “what
shall it be?”

“Any thing for me,” replied Grummet, “I don't
care a splinter what it is, so long as it makes the
drunk come.”

The two mechanics could n't help laughing at the
accommodating humor of the sailor, and they all
agreed at last that a mug of punch would be the most
legitimate thing they could take, and so they gave
directions to have it got ready, and in the interim sat
down in the tent.

Classon had already skulked away, after silently

helping himself at his old fountain, and growling out
a few curses at the sailor.

The punch was made ready, and the trio began to
pay their respects to it, without any ceremony. Before
many minutes had passed, they finished a couple
of quarts, and lighting each a pipe, they sallied forth
from the tent to take a walk, as Bagnal had, for certain
reasons, a while before proposed.

“It's not a bad idea, friend Bagnal,” suggested the
anchor smith, as passing from the crowd they left,
they skirted the neighboring lake through the woods;
“I say, it's not a bad iden, to get out of old Boston
now and then, to unbend a little, not a bad idea; is
it?”

“It's a confounded good one, I think,” replied the
caulk-and-graver; “for I must say, that we Boston
folks tie ourselves down rather too hard for our own
comfort. But the merchants who go to New-York to
unbend, as you call it; they unbend to some purpose.
They can do as they like in New-York. Every
man there attends to his own business, and is too
much occupied with what concerns himself, to meddle
with other people's concerns; but in old Boston,
I don't know how it is, we are always thrusting our
thumbs between other men's grinders. I should like to
be with you in New-York for a while; I think we
could rub the dust off a little—hey?”

“I am just that way of thinking,” rejoined the anchor-smith;
“you were speaking o the merchant's going

to New York. I see you understand a thing or
two on that subject. Is'nt it amusing to see the long,
pale faces on 'Chauge, who would no more think of
discounting a note for a fellow who takes a horn now
and then, than they would of taking a torch into a powder-magazine;—to
see those persons who sit by the
hour in Insurance Offices, tearing young men's characters
to pieces—who shave the very notes they have
refused to discount,—to see those grave personages
transferred for a while to New-York—hammers and
and tongs! it would amuse you to see how they
blow it out!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” exclaimed Bagnal, laughing, “if
their wives and ministers could only see them! Oh
the saints—what a precious set they are, to be sure!”

Chatting in this manner, they walked along together,
Grummet all the while taking long whiffs of
smoke from his pipe and capering to the music of the
fiddles that sent their tones from the distance. They
had arrived at a shady arbor on the borders of the
lake, and here it was proposed by Randal, to rest
themselves. So they threw their bodies on the short
grass in the abandonment of luxurious indolence,
while the latter personage, addressing the sailor, recommenced
the colloquy, as follows:

“You jack-tars are the most independent set of
fellows in the world. You roam about from one
place to another, and fix your affections nowhere.
You have a sweet-heart in every port, and a home

wherever you happen to lie at anchor. The devil a
bit do you care who's governor, and if one country's
turned upside down, why, you have nothing to do but
to clap on your tarpaulin and bear away for another.”

“You're about right there,” replied Grummet,
“we don't care a cat-head what port we come to;
for that ere matter, it's all one to us, so long's the
grog's good and plenty on it, and the gals are kind
and handsome.”

“And wherefrom did you square away last?” inquired
the caulk-and-graver.

“We cleared out of Portsmouth, last,” answered
the sailor, blowing a cloud between himself and
his companions like the smoke of a swivel on ship-board.

“If that's the case,” said Randal, “you have
jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire, so far as
escaping from any difficulties ashore, goes.”

“Who cares for difficulties ashore!” exclaimed
Grummet, “all I care about is what goes on aboard
ship; and yet, shiver my timbers, if I would'nt like to
see a little more tar-and-feathering going on in Boston,
that's all.”

The two patriots had discovered enough in the
sturdy sailor to encourage their hopes that he might
be made instrumental in their projected enterprise,
and it was with a view of sounding the very depths
of his disposition, that they had proposed the walk,
which had led to the present conversation. He had

now uttered a wish which gave them still greater
encouragement, for as he was inimical to Classon
the presumption seemed to be that he was inclined
towards the popular side of the two opposing political
parties, if parties they could be called which rallied
on one side the great mass of the community,
and was circumscribed on the other to the narrow
limits of executive patronage. The two friends were
therefore prompt to follow up the chain of association,
the first link of which had been suggested by referring
to the tar-and-feathering of Classon.

“Do tell us,” exclaimed Bagnal, “if you were
present at the Rope-walk, when the feathers flew
about so merrily, and when your friend Classon got
his winter clothes, without the help of the tailor?”

“Ay, ay; to be sure I was,” replied the sailor,
laughing, “and the fit wan't no purser's shirt on a
hand-spike neither. But I tell you what it is; though
old nosey got his clothes without the tailor, the goose
had a hand in it, if she didn't, damme!”

This witticism of the sailor's brought down all the
applause that could be expected from so small an assembly,
making a proper allowance for punch and
tobacco. Perhaps a worse joke would have been
well received from men who were predisposed for
the time to be entertained at all events.

“Do you think the fellow deserved all he got on
that occasion?” inquired Randal.

“Deserved all he got?” echoed the sailor. “blast

my eyes! yes, and as much more as was left out.
Thirty-nine lashes of the cat-o'-nine-tails would
have been an improvement, though.”

“But you said, just now, you wished there had
been more of that same dressing done. Now, whom
would you like to see fixed out from the tar-kettle,
hey?”

“Why, if you must know, that blackguard land-lubber
of a Governor. I don't know how it is, but
damme, if I don't hate him as I do the small-pox.
And yet some how I never saw him even hull-down
in my life.”

“What makes you hate him then?” asked Randal.

“Why, d'y see, every where I go, I hear some dirty
thing about him, and that's enough, is n't it?”

“You are one of the hands of the Rose frigate!”
said Randal, appearing hardly to heed the sailor's inquiry,
and as if a thought had suddenly flashed on
his mind which he wished to be satisfied.

“Ay, ay, Sir,” replied the sailor, “I'm jest that are,
and I'm sorry to say as much. I'd like to get a
chance to slip the running bow-line they hove over
my figure-head one day at Wapping: but I'm almost
affeared to desert.”

“Are you willing,” pursued Randal, “to bear
a hand in something that requires stout hands and
brave hearts, and which may and will better your fortune?”

“That I am!” exclaimed the sailor. “I should
like to see the man that could say Bill Grummet
ever lurched when it was his duty to go straight
ahead, or was ever affeared to go aloft in a gale. Show
us your chart, and blow me if I don't work your ship
for you like a nautilus.”

“We'll list you, then, my hearty,” said Randal,
and your bounty shall come out of the Rose frigate,
if you like.”

“And I do like,” replied Grummet; “ever since I
got the last flogging aboard her, I swore by the salt
water goddesses, that I would have my revenge if I
could: and I came within the turn of a marline-spike
of shipping with as fine a fellow as ever you set eyes
on for a sailor, and then the Rose might have drifted
to the devil for all I would have cared about it.”

“Who was the sailor you speak of?” inquired
Bagnal.

“Oh, I can't tell you who he was, but I met him
one day down at Classon's boarding-house, when a
parcel of us got into a row, and the way he copper-fastened
one chap of a truckman, would have done
your sight more good than eye-water. I met him
some time after, but he was busy about some other
matter and did n't say much to me, though I know
he wanted me to ship.”

“Did he say any thing about the government?”
eagerly demanded Randal.

“Why, I can't say exactly,” replied the sailor, “but

I recollect his saying over and over again that he
hated all tyranny both on sea and on land. I guess
he's no love for Sir Edmund Andros, from what he
said.”

“I'll bet a hundred pieces of eight, then,” exclaimed
Randal “that I know the very man you have been
talking about. He's a fine-looking, handsome fellow,
hardly thirty years old, with light, curling hair, and
blue eyes.”

“Ay, ay, that's the man,” replied Grummet.

“Very officer-like in his manner?”

“Exactly; but there's no cold tar about him—
there's nothing stiff in his manner. Why, bless ye, I
almost loved him, as soon as I set my eyes on him. I'd
give more to sail under such a man for nothing, than
to go to sea again in the Rose frigate at full wages.”

“Well!” said Randal, rising, “come along with
me; it's most time to be at the place of our appointment.
Come along with us, and we will let you
into a scheme, that will make your fortune and at the
same time gratify your revenge.”

So saying they moved onward to the place of rendezvous
which had been appointed, and arrived there
just at the minute named to Harding for their meeting.

It was situated near the borders of the lake, and
was accessible only by a narrow path through the
woods, which winding about, opened into several small

avenues, and thus formed a sort of natural labyrinth.
There are no traces of the cave, we believe, at the
present day, but it was then known to many; yet from
its difficulty of access, and uninviting gloom, it was
seldom visited. It was not more than twenty feet long
and ten broad, and was lighted by a fissure that extended
to the top, opening by a small orifice through
the earth.

As the three entered the cave, they discovered one
who had already arrived, but whom they could not at
first readily distinguish, on account of the comparative
darkness of the place. As soon, however, as they became
accustomed to the gloom that reigned there,
Randal and his companion recognised the features of
Harding, with whom they exchanged the heartiest
salutations.

“I was in hope,” said the former, addressing the
man of letters, “to have found some other trust-worthy
persons in your company, for we have need of
strong hands and willing hearts, to accomplish the
work that remains for us to do.”

“I am sorry,” replied Harding, “that I was unsuccessful
in my search for such characters—are there
to be no more of us at the meeting?”

“We are enough,” exclaimed Randal, “if we are
resolute in what we determine. We have brought
with us this man who is attached to the Rose frigate,
and I believe we may depend on him for signal services.”

“Ay;” replied Grummet, hitching up his clothes,
“I'm your boy for lending a lift if you have any thing
for me to do in the way of unloading a ship of tyranny.”

“The very thing we are after,” said Bagnal.—
“Now let us proceed to business.”

“Done!” exclaimed all at once.

“I move then,” exclaimed Randal, laughing, and
pointing to a large stone near the mouth of the cave,
“I move that Mr. Harding take the chair, since the object
of this meeting is well understood.”

It being forthwith agreed upon that the nominee
should preside over the meeting, Harding seated
himself upon the designated place of honor, and immediately
proceeded to recapitulate the substance of
their previous conversation. He then enlarged on
the present state of affairs, the public distress, and the
necessity of a change in the administration of the
government, and called on his friends to state with
perfect freedom their views in the emergency.

“I am of opinion,” said the anchor-smith, with
much warmth and animation, “that a revolution
ought to be effected at once. It should be done without
any delay.”

“And I agree with you entirely,” added Bagnal,
“the people are ripe for revolt, and it only requires
three or four of us to set them a-going, and the great
achievement is accomplished.”

“That's your sort, my hearties; I like the cut of

your jib, every one of you, if I don't blow me!” exclaimed
the sailor; “only name what you would
have me do, and I'm your boy to the death.”

“We'll assign you an honorable post by and by,”
said Harding, “at present let us decide what course
to take in setting the wheel a-going.”

“I would advise,” ventured Randal, “that the office
assigned to Grummet be on ship-board. Let
him speak to those of the crew on whom he can depend,
in order to gain them over to our object. We
shall want such aid, beyond doubt. For unless we
are disappointed in Captain Nix, there will not be
wanting an antagonist to the frigate, in case of an
outbreak among the people.”

“And who, pray, is Captain Nix?” inquired Harding.

“All that I can tell you of him,” answered Randal,
“is, that the Committee have secured the services of
such a man, who brought dispatches to them in his
armed schooner, from England. I have not seen
him, but he is regarded as a great acquisition to the
patriot ranks.”

“I'll bet a double-joe,” exclaimed Grummet, “that
the Captain you speak of is the same fine fellow we
saw at the tar-and-feathering—and the one I drank
flip with at the Sea-Gull.”

“Like enough—like enough,”—replied Randal,
musing,—“I should n't be at all surprised if it should

turn out to be the same. I hope it is he, for he is
just the kind of man we want.”

“Ay, that he is,” added the sailor, “and if he
brings his craft along side the Rose in the revolution,
I'll haul down the flag myself if I can. I'll train the
reefers for the fight. Leave me alone for that.”

“Mind now,” resumed Randal, “don't forget to
get things in readiness—if you could contrive to
spike a few guns in a quiet way, there would be no
harm done,—do you take?”

“Take! Yes, I take with a vengeance—let Bill
Grummet alone for any job of the kind,—he's no
marine in the business, I tell 'e.”

“But what's to be done in the metropolis?” inquired
Harding.

“I am of opinion,” answered Randal, “that it
would be well for Bagnal to superintend the south
end of the town, while I take care of the north. Do
you, Mr. Harding, have charge of Beacon Hill, and
get ready a tar-barrel, which being fired on an appointed
time, the north and south ends of the town
will rise at once and take possession of the fort, Governor
and all. What think you of this?”

All hands agreed that the plan was an excellent
one, and they were about to put a resolution to that
effect, when a shade passed over the orifice above the
cave, and a rustling was heard among the trees and
bushes that intertwined their leaves and branches
around it.

“Hark! what noise was that?” whispered Bagnal,
looking cautiously at his companions.

“It was overhead,” replied Harding, turning in
the direction whence the sound proceeded.

“A rat in the locker!” exclaimed the man-o'-war's-man,
“let's have a lick at him—what say
you?”

“Trap him if you can, by all means,” replied
Randal, “it's a spy on us, depend on it!”

“All hands on deck! heave a-hoy!” yodled the
sailor, jumping an octave on concluding his exclamation.
As he half cried and half sang the words,
he sprang from the cave as if he had been suddenly
called from the forecastle in a squall, and, followed
by the others, he was soon at the orifice where the
disturbance had been made.

“There he goes, the piratical scoundrel—there he
goes!” cried the mariner at the top of his voice, at
the same time pointing at an object he had discovered
gliding away through the trees,—“I see the rascal's
sky-scrapers, though he's hull-down;—heave to,
you lubberly rascal, heave to, or I'll give you a
broadside of cold iron, and the devil's blessing to
boot!—heave to, you black-flag'd, bloody-bones of a
pirate!”

And Grummet, suiting the action to the word,
made a speaking trumpet of his two hands, and bellowing
lustily after the trespasser, ran towards him

with all his might, varying the above exclamations,
and seasoning them plentifully with oaths.

As the sailor had been the first to discover the object
of the search, so he had got so far ahead of his
companions in the pursuit, dodging as he did among
the trees, that, for a time, they completely lost sight
of him, and could judge only of his whereabout by
the continued cry which he kept up during the
chase. Presently, from the following hurried dialogue,
they had reason to congratulate themselves on
the success of the pursuit, for Grummet, changing
his tone, cried out loudly enough to be distinctly
heard by them:

“Douse your flag, you rascal! out boat, and bring
your papers abord;—ah, you 're a putty fellow, aint
you?—ho! ho! its one of your craft, is it?”

“Do for the love of all that is holy and righteous,”
answered another voice from out the thick-entangled
wood in a tone of humble supplication, “do for the love
of all that is holy and righteous, let me go!—if you
are a christian and have a soul to be saved, let me
go!”

“And who in the devil's name are you?—tell me
that,” screamed Grummet in his ears, “show us your
papers, or we'll hang you up at the yard-arm for a
good-for-nothing pirate as you are—what sort of a
lugger are you, hey? can't you speak? take that,
then.”

“Mercy! mercy!” shouted the affrighted man,

“let me alone, and I will pay you well, and give you
the Holy Virgin's blessing into the bargain. For
mercy's sake, let me go!”

“You must be towed into port first, any how, and
stand trial for a prize, before we can let you slip your
cable and run out to sea in that manner.”

“Here are twenty pieces of eight,” said the man,
imploringly, “and a valuable gold watch,—take them
and save me from those ruffians.”

“Ruffians, pirate?” exclaimed Grummet, indignant
at the imputation cast upon his friends.

“Gentlemen, I mean,” replied the other, endeavoring
to amend what he found to be an unfortunate expression—“save
me from those gentlemen.”

“What gentlemen do you mean, you rascal?” demanded
the sailor.

“Those who were with you in the cave;” returned
the man, so completely thrown off his guard by
the danger of his position as to be entrapped by his
own confessions.

“Ha! ha! that's it, is it?—so you was peeping
down the sky-light was you?—Guilty, by the blazes!
and before the clerk asked you whether you was or no.
Come along, master pirate, with your black hull and
canvass! give us a grip at your hawser—this way!
helm hard a-port—ship a-hoy—a-hoy; there, hip!”

And with this, Grummet emerged from the wood,
dragging after him a man who was soon presumed
to be a catholic priest by his habit. He was accompanying

the sailor very reluctantly, and was screening
his half-averted face with his left hand as they
drew nigh to the three individuals, who in the meanwhile
stood still for them to come up.

They looked at each other, exchanging a smile of
half-surprise, mingled with satisfaction, that Grummet
had succeeded in capturing a man, who, if he
really were guilty of eaves-dropping, would be a formidable
witness against them. It was enough that
he was a catholic, had he overheard one half their
discourse in the cave, and it appeared to them probable
that he had been dogging them since the morning,
and had become informed of all their intentions
and schemes.

“Let us take a peep, if your reverence pleases,”
said Randal, with an air of mock deference, “under
your five-fingered domino;—we would like to see to
which of the holy brotherhood we are indebted for
playing the blood-hound so dexterously—take away
your holy fingers, if you please!”

And accompanying this request, Randal endeavored
to remove the priest's hand from his face, which
he nevertheless pertinaciously continued to hold
there from evident shame at being detected.

“Douse your flipper, I say—do ye hear?” vociferated
Grummet; and while he spoke, he seized the
arm of the holy man at the elbow, and turned it
down, with a “heave-ho!” as if he were working at
the windlass. “By mother-Carey and all her chickens!”

continued he, “you're no weakling, any how;
I'd like to have you aboard ship to help weigh anchor.
You're a tough one for a chaplain; almost a match,
I guess, for our'n in the Rose!”

“Oh! ho! my saintly father John!” drawled Randal
as, taking a step backward, he gazed on the bewildered
priest, “it's you, is it? I did'nt expect to
have the honor of your reverence's company so soon
after parting with you this morning,—I'm glad I've
found you, though. What news have you to communicate
since we separated at the ferry, hey?”

As Randal said this, he smiled sarcastically on the
priest, who with downcast eyes was telling his
beads mechanically, utterly at a loss what excuse to
make for the predicament in which he had thrust
himself.

“Come,” exclaimed Harding in a tone of stern authority,
“can't you find your tongue?—What were
you prowling about yonder wood for?—speak, as
you value a whole skin; speak, Sir!”

“If you don't open that clam-shell of your'n and
warp,—d—n me,” cried Grummet, “if I won't
bring out your log-book any how.”

And he was about to inflict some terrible chastisement
on the priest, when the latter, breaking the silence
produced by his confusion, at length spoke as
follows.

“I am as innocent of what you think me guilty,
gentlemen, as a babe unborn is of the worst heresy in

the church. I could n't hear a word you said in the
cave, and had n't the slightest suspicion that you
could even imagine any treason—and may the holy
church refuse to shrieve me in my dying hour, if this
is not true.”

“Who said a word to you about the cave?” inquired
Harding, looking at the guilty priest full in the eyes,
that quailed before his scrutinizing gaze and the confounding
question that had been put to him.

“This mariner,” replied the priest, looking timidly
towards the man, as if he hoped that he would not
deny his assertion, false as he knew it to be.

“You lying rascal!” exclaimed Grummet, shaking
his double-jointed fist in the ecclesiastic's face,
“how dare you have the impudence to spin such a
villainous yarn as that, in the presence of honest
men?—I'll fix your rattling, for you, one of these
days, for this.”

And then turning to his coadjutors, he continued:

“I'll tell you the plain truth and uncoil the whole
cable in this ere matter. That rascal lies!—it was
he who first spoke of the cave to me—I never said a
word about it, till he did: and then I told him he
had pled guilty before the clerk of the admiralty asked
him. That's the whole truth, as sure as my
name's Bill Grummet.”

“We know that, Grummet,” exclaimed his companions,

“we heard all that passed between you,
from the first.”

“Bring the rogue down to the cave; let us see
how an Inquisition dungeon will agree with his
saintship,” cried Bagnal.

“Ay, ay,” added the sailor, “let's have him under
hatches in no time.—Come along, Mister Chaplain!
do you understand squeezing lemons, and making
punch and flip for a dry mess, hey?—Come along,
my hearty, this way, there!”

With this they forced the reverend spy into the
cavern, where they obliged him to confess that he
had been employed by the government, to keep a
watch on the movements of the people, and especially
on those of Randal, and that he had, as the latter
suspected, been dogging them ever since the morning,
and overhearing all their intended manœuvres;
but he promised them, by the truth which they
must recognise in this confession, that he would
hold their designs as secret as the grave, and not
even allow himself to think of them, provided they
would suffer him to go unpunished for his imprudence.

“Surely, you cannot blame me,” pleaded the cunning
Jesuit, self-possession being restored to him by
the leniency of his judges, “surely, you cannot blame
me so much, when you consider that I am a member
of holy mother church, and am bound, in virtue
of my priestly office, to serve her cause in all ways to

the best of my ability. We probably differ from each
other in our religious tenets, but as far as we act our
several parts with honesty and fidelity, we stand acquitted
before heaven and earth of hypocrisy. I
thought myself called on by my king, and by his holiness,
the head of the Church, to exert myself to prevent
the further spread of heresy, and to promulgate
the Catholic faith in the colonies: with this view, I
confess that I have heretofore opposed any rebellious
spirit among the people, but, from an accident which
I deeply deplore, I now find myself forced into a new
position, and on the good faith of a man and gentleman,
I swear to you that I will not betray your secrets
in the smallest iota. Will you trust me?”

“No! I'll be d—d if I do, for one;” exclaimed
Grummet, “for the longer I look at you, the more I
believe you are a piratical rascal sailing under
false colours. I say, messmates!” continued
the sailor, taking a formidable quid of pig-tail,
so as to give himself time to let out the whole of
his suspicions deliberately, and to dwell on his
imagined discovery with satisfaction, “I say messmates!
let's have a peep at this cruiser's papers;
p'rhaps we may find out by his clearance, a little
more about him than he cares to blow to the winds;
shall we make a search?”

“A good idea, Grummet!” said Harding, and
worthy of the King's attorney-general;—let us look

at your pocket-book, friend, if you have no objection
—come!”

“Out with it!” added the two mechanics.

At this requisition, the man turned pale as death,
and from his extreme agitation, made it evident to
the little band of patriots that they had taken possession
of a more formidable enemy than they had at
first imagined.

As this suspicion became confirmed, Bagnal and
Randal each seized an arm of the culprit, while
Grummet proceeded, without more ado, to search
the pockets of the seeming ecclesiastic. In doing
this, a leather wallet was drawn out, which on being
opened, exposed to the astonished gaze of his examiners,
among other papers, a number of letters,
all of which were directed to the arch enemy of
Massachusetts, a man who was, if possible, even
more hateful to the colonists than Sir Edmund Andros
himself.

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Randal, pointing to the
superscription of the letters, and looking the man full
in the face with an expression of intense surprise;
“is it possible that you are that man?”

The pretended priest bit his lip with vexation, but
soon rallying from his perturbation, looked around on
the company calmly and collectedly, and then drawing
himself up, replied:

“Yes! you see before you the best friend of

the King; and the worst enemy, if you will have
it so, of the colonists. I am Edward Randolph
!”