University of Virginia Library

1. THE
OLD CONTINENTAL;
OR,
THE PRICE OF LIBERTY.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF “THE DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE,” &c., &c.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

CHAPTER I.

The old sugar-house to which our hero and his companion
in misfortune were consigned, is still standing[1]
to remind us of the sufferings of our fathers, and the
price they paid for liberty. To those who have never
seen the building, it may not be amiss to state that it
is a large, massive, gloomy pile of red-stone, with narrow
grated windows, which gives it the air of a prison;

standing at the northeast corner of the yard of the
Dutch church fronting on Liberty street, which, during
the occupation of the city by the British, was used as
a riding-school. The aspect of the structure is forbidding,
corresponding with the recollections which will
long accompany its contemplation, by the descendants
and countrymen of many nameless and humble patriots
that here became the martyrs to the oppression of
a haughty parent, and a petty tyrant whose infamous
name is forever associated with the recollection of
their fate.

It may perhaps furnish an explanation, though not
an apology for the harsh treatment inflicted on these
unfortunate men, to state the probable causes which
led to such frequent violation of the usages of civilized
warfare. The people of the united colonies when they
took up arms to repel, if not actual despotism, at least
principles which, if silently acquiesced in, would have
inevitably led to that result, were looked upon by the
mother country as rebels resisting the just prerogatives
of their sovereign. They were not considered
in the light of foreign enemies engaged in authorized
and honourable warfare, but as traitors to their king,
ungrateful and rebellious children rising against the
sacred authority of the parent, and violating all the
long recognised obligations of nature and society.
Those great principles which are now gradually becoming
familiar to the contemplation of the masses of
Europe, and which have been not only successfully
vindicated, but exemplified by the people of the United
States, were at that time considered as heresies of the
most aggravated kind, equally at war with all good

government, and all true piety. Hence, when the
people of a great and growing country rose with one
heart and one mind to assert the rights of Englishmen,
they were viewed as no better than banditti, equally
beyond the protection of the laws, and the settled
usages of arms. When the abused and down-trodden
captives complained of their ill treatment, they
were sneeringly told that they might thank the clemency
of their captors that they escaped the gallows.
This barbarous policy was after a time arrested by the
firmness of Washington, who threatened retaliation;
but still, throughout the whole course of the struggle,
the treatment of American prisoners was, in most
cases, harsh and unfeeling.

To these general, were added special causes which
operated to increase the hardships of John and his
companion. They were strongly suspected of having
been engaged in some secret scheme for obtaining
and communicating information of a dangerous character,
and it was believed that a series of sufferings
and inflictions might at length overcome their obstinacy,
and produce a disclosure in the hope of being
relieved. They were accordingly confined in separate
cellars, little better than dungeons, underneath the
sugar-house, where they were kept on a scanty allowance
of food, in utter loneliness, where nothing but a
dim twilight reigned all the day, and nothing could be
seen but the grave-stones in the churchyard. The
cellars were without flooring, and strewed with rubbish,
producing an impression of utter neglect and
desolation.

Here he was left to enjoy the miserable luxury of

his own sad thoughts. Day after day, and night after
night, wore tediously away in one dead uniformity—
so irksome and intolerable, that when the unfeeling
instrument of old Cunningham, the provost-marshal,
came to bring his scanty allowance of unwholesome
food, and insult him with his ribaldry, it was rather a
relief than a hardship. It roused his feelings from the
dead level of hopeless despondency, and set his blood
once more coursing rapidly through his veins, with a
motion something like life and animation.

One day, this wretched and vulgar instrument of
oppression, taunted him more bitterly than usual, while
relating some new disaster that had befallen his suffering
country. He told him that Sir Henry Clinton
was chasing Mr. Washington, as he called him, the
rebel general, through New Jersey; that the people
were everywhere coming in to solicit pardon on their
knees for having dared to take arms against their lawful
sovereign; that all was over with the cause of rebellion;
and that their boasted hero and his abettors
would soon have a rope about their necks. He accompanied
all this with a tissue of gross personal reflections
on himself, his condition, and his prospects,
that roused him to desperation. He could command
himself no longer, but suddenly springing upon the reviler,
threw him to the ground, and placing his knee
upon his breast, began a course of discipline that
caused him to roar most lustily. His cries brought
the sentinel stationed without to his relief, who,
amazed at the sight of his prostrate comrade, made a
push with his bayonet, which might have proved fatal
to our hero, had he not dexterously put it aside, so that

it merely grazed his ribs, and damaged his linen to
a serious extent.

Resistance being unavailing, he was secured, ironed,
and treated with still more severity. Though blessed
with a fine constitution, and great vigour of body, he,
in the course of a few days, found himself declining into
weakness, languor, and weariness. No prospect of
release presented itself, even in dim perspective; for,
from what he had learned of his keeper, there appeared
little hope that any exchange of prisoners
would take place for a long while to come. The recollection
of his father's fate, of his home, and of one
yet dearer than all these, whom he should probably
never see more, all coming in aid of his fears for his
country, prostrated his firmness, and reduced him almost
to despair. He now scarcely stirred from his
bed of straw; and all the livelong, tedious day, was
spent in melancholy musing on the past, or bitter anticipations
of the future.

As thus, he one day sat, unconsciously scraping with
his bare foot, in the rubbish of the cellar, he felt it
pricked by something pointed and sharp. Without
any precise motive he sought what it was, and discovered
a rusty nail, which, it instantly occurred to him,
might be converted to some useful purpose. Groping
about further, he found various pieces of old iron,
which appeared to have lain there a long time unnoticed.
A sudden hope flashed upon his mind, and
hiding the new found treasures under his bed, he proceeded
to examine the grated window of his miserable
abode. The scrutiny afforded him little comfort.
The walls were thick, and firmly cemented. The iron

bars were strong, forming squares of not more than
four inches diameter, and appearing deeply incorporated
with the solid stone. None of the implements he
had discovered among the rubbish afforded the material
for a saw sufficiently hard to operate on these
bars, even if it were in his power to convert them into
such an instrument, and once more he sat down to
chew the bitter cud of despair.

But this was not his element. His natural spirit
was elastic and vigorous. There was a spice of foolhardiness
in his disposition, which, when it prompts to
successful daring, is lauded as the inspiration of courage
and genius, but when it leads to disaster and defeat,
dwindles into folly or desperation. Perhaps the
world is right in judging of men by the event of their
undertakings, since, however desperate they may
seem, they are justified by success. The chances
may, indeed, appear to be a hundred or a thousand to
one against them; but what is chance but a Jack of
both sides, one moment an enemy, the next a friend
smoothing the path, and working miracles greater
than those of witchcraft or magic. Be this as it may,
our hero was not a man to calculate chances when
the case was already desperate. He could not be
worse off than he was, in his own opinion; and the
result of his deliberations was a determination to go
to work at once, let what might be the consequences.
He remembered how the soft water wears away the
hard rock, and that a little every day makes a mickle
at the end of the year.

The visits of his keeper were so perfectly uniform,
that there was little danger of discovery; and the

gloomy solitude of the churchyard secured him from
observation in that quarter. Animated by these favourable
circumstances, he set himself to work with
the nail, the point of which he had sharpened against
the wall, and laboured until fatigue compelled him to
desist for a time. His design was to pick out the
mortar, by which a large stone on each side of the
window was cemented to the others, and thus, if possible,
detach them, so that they could be removed and
the iron bars withdrawn. When tired, he stood for a
while contemplating his work, but he could scarcely
see what he had done. The mortar was of the olden
time, such as we seldom see in these degenerate days.
It was as hard as flint.

Still something had been done. He had made a
beginning, and a beginning, if persevered in, must inevitably
come to an end. His progress was, indeed,
almost imperceptible, but though slow, it was sure,
and to hasten slowly is the shortest way to success in
the end. At all events, he had an object in view—an
excitement—something to employ his mind and exercise
his body. In short, he was inspired by a hope,
which, however distant and uncertain, was sufficient
to stimulate him to exertion, and arrest the progress
of that leaden apathy which is the invariable concomitant
of despair. He only remitted his exertions
when he expected a visit from his keeper, or when
wearied to absolute exhaustion, and passed a good
portion of the night in his laborious occupation.

As his progress became more apparent, he took the
precaution to fill up the crevice with mortar, prepared
by mixing some of his allowance of water with the

earth of his prison floor, in order to guard against a
discovery previous to the visits of his attendant. Thus
he went on from day to day, and week to week; but
his progress was so slow, that he calculated one night
after labouring till he became quite exhausted, that at
the rate he was going on, it would take at least two
years to complete his work. The conviction, extinguished
the hope by which he had hitherto been
sustained, and drove him to desperation. A fit
of sudden phrensy came over him, and he seized the
iron bars of the window as if to vent his rage on the
great obstacle to his escape. To his utter astonishment,
the bars yielded to his hand, and fell inwards to
the ground, coming nigh breaking his head. The cellar
had been occupied by a criminal, condemned to
death for some offence by a court-martial. While
here, he had been furnished by an accomplice or
friend, with the means of sawing the bars, and had
succeeded so far as to render his escape almost certain
the very next night, when his fate overtook him,
and he was executed the day before. This happened
but very recently preceding the capture of our hero,
and the state of the window remained undiscovered,
until he fortunately lost all his patience, and thus demonstrated
by the event that it is sometimes highly
judicious to fall into a passion. Fearing the noise of
the falling bars might have been heard by the sentinel
without, he hastily replaced them, and throwing
himself on his straw, pretended to be fast asleep,
though, as might be expected, his mind was busily
employed in pondering over his present situation and
prospects. One great obstacle to his escape was removed,
but there was another equally insuperable in
his way. His legs were ironed, and admitting he managed
to leave his cell, it was next to impossible to escape
speedy detection afterwards. His hopes died
away with this conviction, and once more he gave
himself up to the most gloomy anticipations.

From this state he was roused by the sentinel
whose duty it was to go the rounds of the night, and
who had heard the falling of the bars, although he
knew not whence the noise proceeded. He entered
with a light, and commenced a scrutiny which made
the heart of the prisoner throb with intense anxiety.
He searched the cell in every part, examined the bed,
and coming to the window, where he discovered the
vestiges of John's labours with the rusty nail, laughed
with insulting scorn at his fruitless efforts. Last of
all, he held his light up to the window, when, as fortune
would have it, a puff of wind extinguished it instantaneously,
leaving them in utter darkness. The
soldier muttered a malediction, and groping his way
out, locked the door after him.

“He will return again with a light, and then a discovery
is inevitable,” thought John, who waited his
coming with moody resignation, or rather indifference.
But he returned no more, and the prisoner was left
without further interruption to his own reflections.
These, at length, led him to the probability, that the
person who sawed the bars might have left behind
him the implement by which he performed his work.
The thought at once roused him to action, and he resolved
to institute a search next morning. If found,
it would enable him to free himself from his shackles,

and thus the great obstacle to his escape be removed.

Accordingly, soon as the day dawned in his gloomy
abode, he commenced a close scrutiny into every part
of his cell; but it was looking for a needle in a haystack,
and ever and anon he was on the point of abandoning
it as hopeless. The hour for bringing in his
breakfast, found him thus occupied, and he was somewhat
startled at seeing his keeper, accompanied by a
stranger he had never seen before, who bade the other
retire, lock the door, and wait outside.

“Well, young sir,” said he, abruptly, and in a harsh
tone, “are you not almost tired of your pleasant lodgings?”

John rallied his manhood, and answered in a careless,
bantering mood, “No; I should not much mind
spending all my days here. It is a quiet place, only a
little too dark.”

“The d—l you wouldn't! Come, come, young man,
none of your jokes—I came to talk seriously with
you.”

“Well, sir, talk to me seriously, and I will answer
you seriously.”

“Well then, seriously, would you not like to be permitted
to return to your friends?”

“Most certainly, sir. I am not in love with these
irons, nor this miserable abode under ground.”

“Well, you are at liberty to leave it at any time, on
one or two conditions.”

“Be good enough to name them,” said John, eagerly.

The stranger then advanced close to him, and addressed
John almost in a whisper: “You have been
employed by Mr. Washington to gain information.

You are in his confidence, then, and you have only to
do for Sir Henry what you were employed to do for
him, to entitle yourself not only to freedom, but to
honours and rewards.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered John.

“Thank you, sir—what do you mean by that?”

“I mean, sir, that I will not accept your conditions.”

“Your cause is ruined.”

“It is not the less a good cause.”

“Your boasted Washington is flying before Sir
Henry.”

“He will turn one of these days on his pursuers.”

“The rebels are coming in crowds to accept the
king's mercy.”

“The tories you should say. I will never believe
that one honest, true hearted whig will ever ask or
accept pardon for having had the courage to defend
his rights.”

“Confound your impudence—do you mean to say
that subjects have a right to rebel against their lawful
sovereign?”

“Certainly, if their sovereign acts unlawfully, I do.”

“Very well—very good—very orthodox, Mr. Rebel.
I'll not dispute the point with you.”

“Why not, sir—you have the best of the argument.
You have the right of the strongest on your side, you
see,” said John, pointing to his irons.

“So, sir—you are sneering at me, are you? Do you
know who I am sir?”

“No sir—nor meaning no offence—do I wish to
know.”

“My name is Cunningham,” and the speaker paused,

drawing himself up to his full height, and waiting the
event of this formidable annunciation.

But the effect was by no means what he anticipated.
John had heard a hundred, nay hundreds of stories of
the petty tyranny, the base impositions, the unfeeling
insolence of this man towards his helpless countrymen,
and the mention of his name instead of cowing his
spirit to submission, only roused a spirit of indignation
which over-mastered all his prudence. To the question,
if he had ever heard that name before, he replied
with scorn and bitterness.

“Yes, I have heard it before, from many a poor
prisoner who coupled it with curses. It is the name
of one who uses an office none but cruel, sordid, low
minded men ever seek or accept, for the purpose of
oppressing his fellow creatures; filching from the
wretches whom the fortune of war has rescued from
death on the field of battle to endure a thousand deaths
afterwards, their scanty allowance of miserable food,
thus heaping up riches at the expense of their sufferings;
insulting their cause and their country; outraging
their feelings while he starves their bodies, and
adding to the miseries of confinement every ingenious
device of petty malignity. You perceive I know you,
sir.”

During this imprudent speech, Cunningham was
boiling with rage and mortification. Its truth added
to its severity, and he became for a few moments
speechless with passion. Then lifting his cane, he
advanced towards the prisoner, muttering unintelligible
oaths, and was about to give him a blow, when
John coolly and sternly said:

“That's right, sir—prove the truth of all I have said
by beating a prisoner in irons. Strike, sir, but take
care, for my arm is free, and I will smite you to the
earth, if I die for it the next minute.”

Whether it was that the provost marshal still retained
amidst the rubbish of his worthlessness, some
little remains of that soldierly feeling which forbids
offering violence to the defenceless, or was overawed
by the threat still ringing in his ears, is somewhat
doubtful, but certain it is, he lowered his cane and
answered John in a tone of suppressed bitterness:

“You are right, young man. I will not disgrace
myself by striking you. Though an insolent rebel,
you are a defenceless man. But mark me, sir, you
shall pay for this. I have the means, and the will to
try your mettle. You seem a brave lad,” added he in
a tone of significant irony, “and I like to experiment
on such materials. I'll put you to the proof before
many days are over, and perhaps give you reason to
curse me.”

Saying this he departed, leaving our hero to cogitate
on the extreme imprudence of his behaviour on
this trying occasion. The significant threat of the
petty tyrant, served, however, to rouse him to resume
the search which the entrance of Cunningham had
interrupted. But now, as before, the search was vain,
and he relinquished his labours with his hopes. Remaining
thus in the numbness of despondency, it suddenly
occurred to him that he had not searched the
bed, and his hopes revived a little. He commenced
playing his last stake, and on a close examination discovered
that one of the corners of the miserable, filthy

bed had been ripped open sufficiently to admit his
hand. Thrusting it eagerly in, and feeling amongst
the straw, he at length drew out something which,
on carrying to the window, he found was a little saw
made of a watch-spring. His heart leaped in his bosom,
and resolving not to lose a moment, lest his
purpose should be thwarted by the fulfilment of Cunningham's
threat, he eagerly commenced to operate
on his irons. While thus employed, he expected every
moment to see it put in execution; and at every noise
without, a cold chill thrilled to his heart. But not a
soul come near him, and strange to say, he rejoiced
at going without his dinner, though both hungry and
athirst. It once or twice, indeed, occurred to him, that
the tyrant of the prison intended to bring him to submission
by starvation; but he felt that the moment he
relieved himself from his irons, he might defy the old
sinner and all his works.

Fortunately, as he thought, the night set in with
a storm of thunder and lightning. The rain poured
down in torrents; bright, and almost incessant flashes,
followed by quick crashes, alone, from time to time,
changed the deep gloom into a sheet of living fire,
leaving the obscurity still deeper, as it passed away.
The streets became deserted, both man and beast
having sought their homes. With a view, if possible,
to escape from York Island before the day dawned,
John had decided to leave his prison as soon as the
hour for bringing in his evening meal had passed.
The hour came, but no supper, and it seemed now evident
that the intention of the provost was to put him
on short allowance, if not to starve him outright. He

now prepared himself for the crisis of his fate. Approaching
the window, he cautiously removed the
grating, and putting out his head listened and looked
with intense anxiety. Nothing was heard but the
concert of the elements; nothing seen but the swift
flashes of lightning, disclosing objects for an instant,
then leaving them in utter darkness. He passed himself
through the window, and stood forth in the open
air a free man once more.

His course led him across the churchyard, where
was stationed a sentinal, who like a discreet and
prudent man had sought refuge from the pelting storm,
by ensconcing himself within the recess of the south
door of the church, where he remained perfectly quiet.
It should have been noted before, that when John was
taken before Sir Henry Clinton, he was accommodated
with a suit of coarse white cotton, in order that he
might not offend his excellency with his beggar's rags,
and that he wore it still. It was a little soiled, to be
sure, but was in a fair way of being well washed on
this occasion. The darkness was profound, except at
momentary intervals, and our hero's first exploit was
to tumble into a new made grave, half filled with
water, a rather ominous accident. Whether a pause
in the storm just at that moment enabled the sentinel
to distinguish the splash our hero made in falling, or
accident drew his attention in that direction, is not
known; but certain it is, he happened to be looking
that way, just as a vivid flash of lightning disclosed
the whole figure of John emerging from the grave.
If there ever walked a ghost, the sentinel had a fair
excuse to conclude this was one. He acted from irresistible

impulse, fired his gun at random, fell flat on
his face on the stone steps, and roared out murder
with all his might.

Our hero, though he did not mistake the sentinel for
a ghost, was somewhat more alarmed than if he had
been a true believer, and, in common parlance, “made
tracks” across the churchyard without looking behind
him, or, if the truth must be told, before, either, for
there was little use for his eyes except when the
lightning flashed them blind. He trusted altogether
to Providence and his legs, and by great good fortune,
at length broke his nose against the fence fronting on
Nassau-street. Scrambling over it, without stopping
to grumble or swear, as some people do on such occasions,
he let himself down on the other side, and as he
bade adieu to the old sugar-house, could not help
laughing to hear the doughty sentinel roaring out
“Murder! fire! help! help!” in the midst of the uproar
of the elements. The discharge of the gun, and
subsequent outcries, roused the guard and brought
them to his rescue. He was found lying flat on his
face, kicking with all his might, and carried to quarters,
where, recovering his recollection by degrees, he
astounded his auditors with one of the best authenticated
ghost stories on record. Many believed him;
some laughed at him; and it was not until next morning,
that the worshipful Provost Cunningham, for the
purpose of ascertaining the effect of his experiment
on John, having paid him a second visit, discovered
the whole mystery. Immediate measures were taken
to secure him, the result of which will appear in the
sequel.

In the meantime, John pursued his way through the
storm and darkness, with all the speed in his power.
But his long absence from the city had rendered his
recollection somewhat indistinct, and this, aided by
the obscurity of a stormy night, greatly embarrassed
his progress. He continued to verify the old proverb,
“The more haste, the less speed,” and finally, becoming
fairly bewildered, lost his way, and wandered he
knew not where. Thus threading the mazes of the
dark, muddy streets, without rudder, compass, or landmark,
he at length saw a light at a distance, and having
no other alternative, made towards it with all
speed, in the hope of ascertaining at least where he
was by the aid of its glimmering. Cautiously approaching,
he discovered that it proceeded from a window,
the shutters of which were not closed, into which
he took the liberty of peeping, and saw, to his great
surprise, as well as gratification, the stranger who had
been captured with him at Spuyten Duyvel, and committed
to prison at the same time with himself. Hastily
drawing back, he paused a few moments for reflection.
There was now no hope of clearing the
lines on the island before daylight, and consequently
a place of concealment during the coming day was
absolutely necessary to his safety. He reflected, also,
that he had this man in his power, should he betray
him, and that a regard to his own safety would prevent
him from endangering that of his old companion.
His determination was soon made, and he cautiously
knocked at the door. After a brief silence, a voice,
which he recognised as that of the stranger, inquired,
“Who's there?” “A friend,” replied John, in a low

tone. The door was then cautiously opened by the
stranger, who had many reasons for dreading nightly
visiters, and his dismay was evident, as, recognising
who it was, he hastily exclaimed—

“My God! what brought you here?”

“Let me come in, and I'll tell you.”

With evident unwillingness, the stranger complied,
and closing the shutters, again anxiously asked an explanation,
which was given in as few words as possible.
After reflecting a while, the stranger observed—

“Your situation is exceedingly critical, not to say
desperate. It is now impossible for you to leave the
city to-night, and old Cunningham will move heaven
and earth to find you. You must remain here till tomorrow
night.”

“But the boat—could I not escape in your boat?”
eagerly asked John.

“What, in such a night as this? Besides, I have no
boat. I sold it to avoid further suspicion, just as I
keep my window open to let them see I am quietly at
home. No, you must remain here to-morrow, though
it will be at the risk of my life, perhaps.”

“Then I will not remain,” replied John; “if I am
retaken, they can only put me back where I was.
Only allow me to rest myself, and give me something
to eat, for I am half starved, and I will leave you before
daylight and take my chance.”

“When I said it would be at the risk of my life.”
answered the other, “I did not mean that would deter
me from receiving and secreting you. I risk it every
day for our cause and our country, and I have seen
enough of you to know you for one of their bravest

defenders. Stay where you are, while I get you
something to eat.” Saying this, he left the room, and
soon returned with food and drink, of which, as may
be presumed, his guest partook most heartily. After
he had satisfied his hunger, he addressed his host—

“But how did you manage to get out of prison?”

“I have friends in the royalist ranks, who interceded
for me, and I have money to make more, if necessary.
But I am still suspected, and, I believe,
watched. You must, therefore, consent to take the
lodging I shall provide for you. It is under ground,
to be sure, but you are used to that, you know. You
are lucky in finding me alone, to-night. My wife is
on a visit to Long Island, for a few days, and our only
attendant is with her; so, you see, I keep bachelor's
hall for the present. But it is time to prepare for
your accommodation, for the night is far spent. Follow
me, and lend a helping hand.” John assisted him
in removing a bed and other necessaries into a back
cellar, all which he was directed to hide in an empty
hogshead, and turn it upside down in the morning.
He then showed him a concealed trap-door, which
opened into a lower cellar, where he might hide himself
in case of an alarm. “I must not see you again.
I am not to know you are here; and as you will have
rather a lonely time of it, here is something to amuse
you to-morrow, if you can find light enough to read.”
He then handed him a file of Rivington's Royal Gazette,
and after cautioning John to be quiet, and not
go near the cellar-windows, shook hands and departed,
leaving our hero to his repose.

But sleep visited not his lids, which, like quarrelsome
neighbours, refused to come together, and he lay

awake for hours, tortured with solicitude as to his future
fate. The idea of being again brought within
the toils of old Cunningham, was inexpressibly revolting,
and he resolved, if possible, never to be again
taken alive. Then came the vision of a fair and gentle
maid, whom he fancied he saw mourning his absence,
or, perhaps, distorting his sudden and mysterious
disappearance into a desertion of the cause of
liberty. The picture was cruelly affecting to his love
and his pride, and brought bitterness to his heart. At
length, however, wearied and worn down by his previous
struggles and long confinement, he sunk to rest
under the weight of his sorrows.

But there was no rest for him here. The moment
he closed his eyes, what seemed an army of rats, sallied
forth, and assaulted him in divers ways; at one
time, scampering athwart his face, and peradventure
assaulting his nose; at another, nibbling at his toe;
while, at times, they would appear to muster all their
forces and gallop over his body, squealing and squeaking
defiance, as it were, of the insolent intruder upon
their hitherto undisputed domain. Then they made
assaults on his stock of provisions, which he was finally
obliged to take into bed with him, and defend tooth
and nail. In short, they gave him no peace; and
such is the virtue of petty vexations, that, from the
moment the plague of the rats commenced, he never
once thought of old Cunningham, the vision of the
fair maid mourning his absence, or the dark future
before him. It was not until the opening dawn scared
away his persecutors, that he fell into a deep sleep,
that lasted till the sun shone into his cellar-window,
and long after his usual hour of rising.