University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

The incidents of minor interest during the journey eastward,
the scenery in the mountains, which were still covered
with snow, the hunting adventures of Paddy, and the

hearty though rude entertainment afforded by the few scattering
cabins on the way, I cannot dwell upon in this place,
although the diary of Julia is lying before me in unfaded
calligraphy. Events of greater magnitude must occupy the
remaining pages of my narrative.

Once more Julia and Charles and Paddy were in the
ancient village of Burlington. And at that time it seemed
to have greater pretensions to rivalry in the race of cities
than at the present day. The idea that it would surpass
Philadelphia in population had not, perhaps, been entirely
relinquished; but the hope has faded since.

Julia, as soon as she was landed from the schooner at
the foot of Main Street, proceeded without delay, followed
by Paddy in the capacity of footman, to the residence of
her guardian, which she supposed would be still found remaining
in the occupancy of the old housekeeper. To her
surprise, if not satisfaction, the first person she met, when
passing the threshold, was Thomas Schooley himself.

“Why, Julia,” exclaimed he, “do I behold thee again?”

“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, “I'll swear to her
idintity, as they made me do wanst before the coroner,
when Mary McShane made 'way wid herself.”

“Swear not at all, Patrick,” said Thomas.

“Not I, sir; but, plase yer honour, you have confissed to
me, and called me be me own name.”

“And am I so much changed, Thomas?” asked Julia,
smiling. She had procured new apparel in Philadelphia,
and there was no perceptible alteration in her appearance
since their separation.

“No—Julia—no! Thee does not seem to have changed
in aspect or inclination to follow the fashions in the style
and colour of thy outward adornments. But I did not
expect to meet thee here. Sit thee at the fire, and a
breakfast shall be prepared for thee. How didst thou
come, and from whence?”

“We have just landed from the schooner we embarked
in at Wilmington. But, before leaving the fort in the
western wilderness, Skippie had delivered thy letters.”

“The letters!” said Thomas, with unwonted energy.
“Hast thou preserved them?”

“No, Thomas,” said the girl, with an angry look. “I
consigned both thine and Richard's letters—”

“To whom? Speak, Julia!” he said, hurriedly, and in
uncontrollable agitation.

“To the flames,” she continued.

“Flames! I thank thee!” he added, breathing freely.
“But it was not respectful; yet we will say nothing more
about it.”

“But we must have more to say in regard to those letters,”
said Julia. “Why didst thou write me in that
manner? And why wert thou so greatly excited just now,
Thomas?”

“Thee shall know all, Julia; only be patient. The
times are perilous, and the world is ever changing. The
offer was made by Richard in good faith. But since then
George Washington has performed miracles. He has surprised
and beaten the King's forces in several places, and
recovered the greater portion of this Colony. But the next
change will be in favour of the royal cause, and we who
are opposed to strife will have rest and peace.”

Julia listened attentively, without interrupting her circumspect
guardian; and, when he had finished discussing
the affairs of the Colony, she hastened to inform herself in
relation to matters in the Jenny Jump settlement; but
affairs there had experienced no material alteration since
her last advices from Kate. She was gratified, however, to
be informed that her guardian was only on a brief visit
in Burlington, and, having despatched his business, would
return immediately.

Charles and Skippie sat in the bar-room of the principal
hotel at the junction of Main and Broad Streets. During
the last year the establishment had experienced several
changes of proprietors. When the British were overrunning
the State, and Count Donop was encamped with
four hundred Hessians on the Wetherill lot in view of the
court-house, and the jail in the immediate vicinity was filled
with rebel prisoners, the premises were quietly leased to a
new landlord, who had, the next day, the sign of the British
lion swinging before the door. But after the battles of
Trenton and Princeton, the discharges of artillery on both
occasions being distinctly audible at Burlington, the frowning
lion lost his eyes, (the work of some boys in the night,)
and was made to succumb to the impromptu representation
of an eagle, and another transfer of the premises ensued.

The last landlord, whom we shall designate by the name
of John Brown, to avoid identification, was familiarly
known by the cognomen of Mr. Allright, John being peculiarly
adapted to all parties and exigencies. Mr. Allright
John Brown was a bustling, portly, talkative, accommodating
host.

When Charles and Skippie entered the bar-room a party
of Tories had just been drinking at the bar, and as they
withdrew from the house they paused at the corner and
cast curious glances back at the strangers.

“Don't notice 'em!” said the host. “They are idle
characters,” he added, in a low tone, “who do nothing but
drink and pry into matters which don't concern them. I
wonder they didn't question you as to which side you
are on.”

“And, pray, to which side do they belong?” asked
Charles.

“Oh, they are for the King,” said the host.

“And I am for the Congress!” said Charles.

“I thought so!” exclaimed Brown, smiling, and enthusiastically
shaking the hand of his young guest. “I am
all right,” said he, with a significant wink. “But, my
young friend, be cautious how you express yourself before
strangers. One-half of 'em are rank Tories, and they
swear every rebel here shall swing on Gallows Hill. By
walking out into the middle of the street you can see the
hill, and the scaffolding erected last Christmas eve. But
that night Washington crossed the Delaware and played
the d—l with their calculations. Walk into the next room.
I smell the ham and eggs. And take my advice and hold
your tongue when curious ears are about.”

Charles and Skippie passed through the door to which
the landlord pointed, and sat down to the savoury repast.
And while they were appeasing their appetites, the door
communicating with the bar-room being left ajar, they
heard the following conversation between the host and a
new visitor:—

“Thee must still see after my house, John,” said the
visitor, “and supply the servant with food.”

“Certainly, friend Thomas,” said the host; “you may
depend on me. You have become my surety for the payment
of the rent. As I was saying last night when General

Cadwallader arrived and interrupted us, the `Sons of
Liberty' were once going to tear down your mansion, but I
prevented it by saying you were as good a Whig as old
Flint-face himself.”

“Thee should not have said that, John. We are not
permitted to lie. If they had torn down my house there
would have been a reimbursement out of the forfeiture of
their own estates.”

“But suppose the rebellion should never be put down,
friend Thomas: what then?”

“No matter; I tell thee I would not lie to save my
house.”

“I know thee wouldn't, friend Thomas; and thee didn't.
Your conscience had nothing to do with it; I lied for you.
I don't mind it.”

“Thee must not do such things, John! I tell thee it
will not answer. If thee don't mind lying, how am I to
judge when thou speakest the truth? Thee says thy business
is profitable. How am I to know it? Thee declares
I run no risk in being thy surety for the rent; perhaps I
shall have it to pay for thee! Besides,” contined he, willing
to change the subject, “I hear that thee professed great
attachment to those officers of the rebel army who put up
with thee when passing.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Of course I did! Would you not have
me be agreeable to my guests? And you'll hear the same
thing of Lord Cornwallis and General Howe, when they
come. I'm all right! You needn't fear.”

Just as he uttered these words, Charles, who had finished
eating, returned to the bar-room.

“Hem! I—just step into that room!” said the host to
his young guest, pointing to another door. “There is a
good hickory fire in it. Step in!”

“I have seen Julia,” said Mr. Schooley, advancing and
offering his hand, which Charles did not refuse, “and learned
thou hadst returned. Thee looks well; and I am glad to
see thee dressed after the habit of civilized men, albeit I
do not approve the colour and fashion of thy garments.”

“Hem! That's strange!” said Brown, aside. “Glad,
and don't approve! And they know each other. I'm thinking
friend Thomas knows more about lying than he pretends
to.”

“My garments suit myself,” said Charles, “as thine do
thee, friend Thomas. I do not object to thine.”

“We will not quarrel about our clothes,” said Mr.
Schooley, smiling faintly. “I am a man of peace, as I
would have all men to be; and I learn it is thy intention
to return to the upper settlement. I am glad of it. I do
not think thee will permit thy sergeant to annoy us any
more by exacting money from Richard.”

“Murphy must collect the fines prescribed by law,” said
Charles.

“Law! Well, thee may live to know what law is! But
no more. We must not quarrel. To-morrow we will
journey together. Farewell, till we meet again.” Thomas
withdrew, and hastened to collect the interest on various
sums loaned to the thrifty members of the Quaker society
composing a large proportion of the population of Burlington.

“Gad!” exclaimed Brown, approaching Charles, “you
know him? I'm all right! Schooley's an old rascal,—a
rank Tory! And he's going to cheat one of the prettiest
girls in America out of her fortun'. He's as rich as Crashes
now, but he wants more. It's a pity some handsome young
fellow like yourself don't marry the poor girl, and save her
fortun'. They say he had her taken off by the Indians, but
they wouldn't kill her.”

“That was a lie,” said Charles. “I know her, and I
know the tale is without foundation.”

“I'm glad to hear it. There are always a great many
lies in circulation. I hate a liar as I do a Tory. I'm all
right! And I'm glad friend Schooley isn't so bad as represented.
But he's as rich as Crashes, and you know such
men always have enemies.”

“Of course they do,” said Charles. “But can you tell
me what has become of Governor Franklin?”

“The governor? Certainly! He's in New York. The
British exchanged a general for him. He's at the bottom,
or rather at the head, of all the Tories in Jersey. He knows
who's who in these times, and he knows I'm all right!
Sometimes he is at Staten Island, and sometimes at Amboy;
and they do whisper he has even been here, in disguise,”
continued Brown, in a low voice, knowing that Franklin
was, at that moment, in his house!

“Who occupies his mansion on the bank?”

“None but one of the old women of the family. The
celebrated doctor who, you know, is the governor's father,
sent the woman up to see after his furniture and books, and
the people haven't disturbed the place at all, on the doctor's
account. But it's haunted!”

“Haunted?”

“Bless you, yes! I thought everybody knew that.
Why, the old sycamore, belonging to the witches, is just
before the door. They dance and sing and knock every
night. It is said they have bought young Ben Sheppard
from his father.”

“And do the people believe such things?”

“Of course! And it's a good thing for the property.”

“I suppose they are afraid to enter the mansion.”

“They are, by gum!”

“Friend Charles,” said Thomas Schooley, re-entering,
his countenance betraying a mental struggle, “I have returned
to have a sober talk with thee. Come into the next
room. Now, my friend,” resumed he, when they were
seated in the snug chamber, since converted into a parlour,
“why should we not explain ourselves and have a clear
understanding of each other's purposes?”

“I do not know by what authority you may demand—”

“Tut! Pr'ythee, Charles, listen patiently to me. It may
be well for thee and for us both. An accommodation
may be effected, a compromise—”

“No, sir! I love Julia, and you are her guardian.
You can withhold your consent to our nuptials until she
arrives at a certain age, which, if the old Bible is to be
believed—”

“Thee hast seen Richard's letter! Well, the figures
are uncertain. Whether the date is 1755, or 1758, it
would be hard to decide.”

“No matter. I have no right to investigate the subject.
You can withhold your sanction, and we can wait, till your
authority ceases. That is all. I will not compromise my
own or Julia's character by any sort of agreement or bargain—”

“Thee misunderstands me, and will not listen. Will
thee answer one thing?”

“I don't know.”

“I will ask the question, and thee can answer or not as
thee pleases. Dost thou intend to wed my ward clandestinely,
or openly against my wishes?”

“I will answer that, because it is not impertinent. You
are her legal guardian—”

“I am glad thee acknowledges so much.”

“And I am her ardent adorer.”

“Thee speaks as if she were a divinity!”

“No matter. You do not comprehend such things. I
intend, friend Thomas, to see Dr. Odell, and if he will
marry us—Julia consenting—we will return man and wife
to the Jenny Jump.”

“Indeed! It is boldly spoken!”

“Yes, and—”

“Thee is disposed to swear. I will leave thee.”

“It is an inclination I will repress:—a habit in civilized
society, and particularly among the loyalists. I did not
contract it among the Indians. They never swear. But,
Thomas, I am quite sure—at least very fearful—that
Julia will not comply with my request without your concurrence.”

“I thank thee for thy frankness. Adieu, till we meet
again at—”

“But, Thomas, why be in such haste? A word from
thee will be sufficient to remove the obstacle, and then
Julia will consent. I have been candid.”

“Thee has, and I will be so too. Thee shall not wed
my ward with my consent!”

“Very well! I shall not beg you to relent, nor attempt
to entrap you into a compliance. But you may rely upon
it that Julia will never marry your industrious son. So,
if it be your expectation to obtain her fortune in that way,
you will be disappointed.”

“Thee may have learned, since our letters to our ward
seem to have been subjected to thy perusal—albeit she said
they were burned—”

“She said truly. She threw them contemptuously, as
they deserved, into the fire.”

“I am glad of the action, and care nothing for the contempt.
Thee has no doubt heard of the purpose of Richard
to marry Judith Carlisle. Thee has not heard of the misunderstanding
since then—but no matter! Charles, thee

thinks me a worshipper of mammon, an idolater of gold,
without honour or religion. Thee does not know me. Fortune
is desirable, and it is not sinful to seek it honestly.
It is not wrong to marry a wife with riches. But I have
a duty to perform. I made my friend, Julia's father, a
pledge which I must fulfil. Her fortune shall not be imperilled
while she continues under my control. That is the
promise I made. If I were to consent to her marriage with
thee, every thing would be lost when order is restored and
the king's authority re-established.”

“Oh, yes!—when the devil reigns, justice and virtue—
but no matter! It will be seen who are the losers. You
think the advices by the secret messengers from New York
are cheering. So be it. I have advices too. Let the game
be played. I win if you lose.”

“Thee talks like a gamester. Farewell!” And Thomas
withdrew.

Charles strolled out into the stret, and, passing the
Friends' burying-ground, where so many had been laid
without monument or inscription, approached the Episcopal
church, (St. Mary's.)

The door was partly open, and he thought he heard the
last notes of sacred music dying on the air. He paused
and looked in. The Rev. Dr. Odell stood before the altar,
with cup and plate before him, while about a dozen females
knelt around the chancel. On that unusual day, and at
that singular hour, he was administering the sacrament to
a small remnant of his flock. There was not a man among
them. We trust the same disparity of sex may not exist
in heaven!

Charles, yielding to the solemn impulse of the moment,
strode forward and knelt among them. He, too, although
so long a wanderer, belonged to the same flock. Tears
were on the cheeks of the pious minister, and several of the
women were sobbing.

When they arose, the eyes of Charles and Julia met.
They had been kneeling together; and, when the rest withdrew,
the lovers were beckoned aside by the priest.

“My dear children,” said he, when they were seated,
“God hath conducted thee to St. Mary's holy shrine on the
day of separation.”

“Separation!” said both Charles and Julia.

“Separation; and perhaps a final one,” said the minister.
“The earthly shepherd is driven away from his
flock; but the heavenly Shepherd remains. Be of comfort.
The spirits of the pious dead who lie around us are at
peace. We must join them in time. They will inscribe
our names on the marble over our dust, and we, too, will
have our rest. It matters not where they may place us, or
who chisels the monumental marble, or what inscription
there may be upon it, so our names are written in the Book
of Life. The faithful will meet again in heaven. Farewell,
my dear children! I must go!”

“Go! Whither?”

“Whithersoever they may drive me. I must practise
what I have preached. We are commanded to render unto
Cæsar the things which are Cæsar's, and unto God the
things which be God's:—to honour the king and obey his
statutes. And for doing this my enemies have decreed that
I must leave the Colonies. I will not attempt to pronounce
judgment in this unhappy controversy. Neither will I violate
my own conscience or shrink from my duty. It is the
last time I shall see the faithful remnant of my beloved
flock. Hence my tears. Farewell!”

“Doctor,” said Charles, “Julia and myself are affianced
lovers. Will you not unite us in lawful wedlock before
you go?”

Julia's veil dropped down over her blushing face; but
she trembled and withdrew her hand, which Charles had
seized.

“It may not be, my son,” said the minister. “I know
all. Julia has told me all, and obtained my advice, which
is disinterested. I could not sanction a violation of her
solemn pledge to her father, nor could I approve of her
linking her earthly destiny with one who might bring sorrow
upon her gentle spirit. I know you would be incapable
of inflicting pain upon the beloved of thy heart. Others
would inflict it. When, as it is not improbable, like other
mistaken enthusiasts, you shall be brought to the block for
rebellion against the king—”

“Doctor!” exclaimed Julia, “it is not rebellion! it is
revolution! And I am as staunch a patriot as Charles.
Were I a man, I would rush into the battle-field and fight
for liberty!”

“Poor thing!” said the doctor. “Well, my dear children,
you must excuse me. I cannot and will not violate
my sense of duty—”

“Forgive me, sir!” said Julia, quickly; “I do not desire
you to perform the ceremony which Charles is so anxious
to have consummated. But I do not condemn his patriotism,
and I do not fear the cause he espouses will entail
ruin on him. I will abide by my promise to my dying
parent—”

“God bless you both!” ejaculated the minister, holding
a hand of each. “Farewell! Postpone the solemnization
of your nuptials until this hurly-burly be done. If God so
wills it, the Colonies may be free—if separation be freedom;
and if not—but time will prove all things, and you
are both young enough to wait for the end. Adieu!
And may heaven's choicest blessings be showered upon
you!”

After lingering a few moments, Charles and Julia withdrew,
and, as they strolled together toward the mansion of
Thomas Schooley, they were met by that gentleman himself,
very pale and anxious.

“I hope thee will tell me truly and without delay,”
said he.

“Tell thee what?” demanded Charles.

“Whether John hath spoken truly.”

“What John? There are many of them.”

“John Brown, the hotel-keeper. He says you have been
married at the church.”

“Friend Thomas,” said Charles, “you know John has
acquired the accomplishment of lying. And I am very
sure you will be happy to learn he has been lying to thee
this time.”

“That may be very witty; but thou hast to learn that
principles are immutable things. I shall be glad to learn
thee has not been wedded, and regret that John lied
about it.”

“I am justly rebuked, Thomas, and ask thy pardon,”
said Charles.

“Thee has it. But thee has been to church?”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Odell believes, as you do, that we are
rebels—”

“I know that.”

“No doubt; but, unlike yourself, he intends to leave us.”

“He leaves no estate behind.”

“His treasure is above. He has been administering the
Holy Communion to a remnant of his flock, who have taken
a final leave of him at the altar.”

“Mummery! Theatrical pageantry!” said Thomas.

“Mr. Schooley,” said Charles, “if you discard the Holy
Scriptures, your religion is that of the heathen; but if you
be a Christian, how can you deride the commands of the
Saviour?”

“Rebuked in turn!” said Julia, as she sprang into the
hall of her guardian's house, which they had just reached.

“Charles,” said Thomas, as the young man paused and
was about to return to his hotel, “if thee will come and
sup with us I will explain the principles of our religion.”

“I will call during the evening,” said Charles, “and
listen to thee, provided, if we should be converted, thou
wilt sanction our—”

“Pooh! nonsense!” said Thomas, entering the hall and
closing the door behind him.

After tea, Charles strode out alone to see by the moonlight
the changes which had taken place in the principal
streets of the old village. Burlington had then been
founded more than a hundred years.

As he slowly walked along the margin of the river, between
Ben Shephard's tavern and the governor's house, he
was overtaken by Paddy.

“Be jabers! and it's meself is glad to mate wid ye, Misther
Charles,” said he.

“The compliments of the evening to you, Paddy. I suppose,
Paddy, you are a happy man, now; and nothing could
induce you to quit the town again. There is no danger
here.”

“And there ye're out of it! The bloody Bratish, if they
could catch me here, wud skin me alive, like an ail; and,
as for sperrits, and witches, and hobgoblins, this ould village
bates any of the round towers in Ireland. Misther Charles,
do you belave the Quakers are rale flesh-and-blood paple?”

“Certainly!”

“Thin I don't! Look at their faces,—all tallow and no
blood! If one dies, it don't disturb a tay-party in the
same house. They don't put stones over their graves, and

a husband dont go in mourning for his wife. I don't belave
they're rale flesh and blood. When one dies the rest
know he's not gone far off; and I belave they can't be kept
under ground. I've sane 'em set in the mating-house widout
opening their mouths only jist to hoot and stare like
owls. Sure they are convarsing with sperits when they're
silent. Look at their hats and coats, and tell me if mortal
men and women wud dress in that style?”

“They must be mortal, Paddy, for they love money.”

“And don't witches and sperits love the falthy lucre?
Why do the ghosts of murthered paple guard the puncheons
of goold at the ould tannery in Wood Strate, hid
under ground by the pirate Kadd? Why do the witches
daunce and sing ivery night under the sycamore by the
governor's house, if it ain't to watch the hidden treasure?
I belave the Quakers are witches and sperits, and that the
Yankees did right to burn 'em and drown 'em.”

“Nevertheless, you are in the service of one, Paddy;
but where are you going?”

“To the governor's house itself. Here's a paper
sayled up which Mr. Schooley bade me deliver to an ould
famale woman at the door.”

“Very well, I won't detain you; but I'm afraid we won't
have the pleasure of your society in the country.”

“But ye will! Be the powers! I wuddn't stay here
for—pause one moment, if ye plase, Misther Charles!
Surely ye wuddn't be after going in that direction, right
up Wood Strate, past the Pirates' Tra, when the stars and
the moon are blanking, and wanking, and shammering,
like the ghostly sunlight in one's drames!”

“Yes, I am. If dead men, or women either, walk the
earth again, I'm not afraid of them.”

“Thrue for you, Misther Charles; and Alexander, and
Saizer, and Charles the Twelfth, didn't fear man or baste;
but that didn't kape 'em out of danger. Let me go wid
ye. The sperits wont appear before two o' us.”

“I'm obliged for your offer of protection, Paddy; but
you have the packet to deliver farther down the bank.”

“And sure it's but a trifle of a little step, and you can
jist come wid me, and thin I'll go home wid ye.”

“Thank you, Paddy; but I'll take my chances and
brave the anger of the dead pirates. Good-night!”

“Och, Misther Charles! now couldn't ye oblige me?—
he's gone! And I'm in a cowld swate! And I'll have to
tak' howld of that haunted knocker! And they say if the
divil's the last one that entered, the brass'll scorch one's
fangers! Och, murther! and there's no use in running
from 'em! Onyhow, I'll pape round about first.”

Such were Paddy's words as he drew near the stately
mansion; while Charles paused at the tanyard in Wood
Street, and gazed at the tree under whose roots, it was said,
the pirates had buried their treasure.

“Who are you?” exclaimed our hero, his blood chilled,
and his heart palpitating in spite of himself, upon seeing
a figure rise up from one of the half-filled vats and approach
him.

“Skippie,” replied the other.

“And what are you doing here? acting the ghost? I
have heard there was such humour in you.”

“Knocker,” said Skippie.

“Knocker! the haunted Knocker, I suppose?”

Skippie nodded affirmatively.

“Then I am to understand you are the one who knocks?”

Skippie again nodded.

“You need not have taken the precaution to inform me,
Skippie.”

“Horse-hair.”

“Horse-hair? Now, you will have to make a speech of
more than two syllables if you would be understood.”

But he did no such thing, for the next instant he had
vanished; and Charles, after gazing round a moment, resumed
his brisk pace, and did not pause again until he was
admitted into the presence of Julia and her guardian.

Paddy, after a somewhat prolonged reconnoissance, and
during which he failed to discern the gliding form of Skippie,
softly approached the door of the governor's mansion,
and, raising the handle of the knocker, gave several timid
raps.

But no sooner had he relinquished the handle, and was
standing quite still, listening for a footstep within, than the
handle seemed to lift up itself before his face and make
three loud raps.

“Howly Vargin!” cried Paddy, sinking down on his
knees.

The door opened, and a tall, gaunt, white-haired woman
stood before him.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Howly St. Pater presarve us!”

“What do you want? Did you not knock?”

“Plase yer hon—yer riv—I mane yer worshipful patticoats—”

“Did you knock?” again demanded the woman.

“I did; and, as sure as the sperits walk the earth, the
divil rapped after me. I saw it wid me own eyes! And
it's a blessing I arrived first, or me hand wud be scorched
to the bone!”

“What do you want?”

“I'm sure I'm obliged to ye for thim words, or I shud
niver've bane reminded of it! Here's a sayled paper Mr.
Schooley has directed to somebody here, such as can rade
the inscription; but, for me own part, I can't saa a scratch
of writing on the back o' it.”

The woman took the paper from his hand, and re-entered,
closing the door behind her. Paddy, who had risen, stared
after her, and then at the mysterious knocker; and, while
he gazed, the handle was lifted up again, and three distinct
raps sounded in his ears.

“That's another divil!” said he. “There's a whist club
of 'em mateing here to-night. And they'll drink melted
lead over their cards. Howly Vargin and St. Pater! kape
Paddy Pence out of their stakes!”

The knocker was sounded again.

“Another divil! There's at layst a dizen in the club!
Och, Patrick Pence! if there's ony sprangs in yer legs,
let 'em do good sarvice now, or they'll niver be of any vally
to ye aftherwards!” And, saying this, he sprang away,
and ran with great speed up the river toward the Ferry-House.
When he reached the corner of Main Street, he
was met by young Ben Shephard, who accosted him.

“Are the witches after you, Paddy?” asked the youth.

“A whole club of divils! They're mating at the governor's
house.”

“If that's it, they can't be chasing you. Come in and
take a glass of cideroil, and that will raise your spirits.”

“Sperits, Misther Ben! Don't mintion 'em. But if you
can let me have a glass of brandy or rum, I'll pay ye to-morrow

afthernoon.” Paddy drank the liquor, and then
hastened back to his master's house, panting, but not so
pale as he had been.

When he presented himself in the apartment where Julia,
Charles, and Mr. Schooley were sitting, words rolled rapidly
from his tongue. He said he had not only heard the
devils, but he had seen them. The tips of their fingers
were like the points of red-hot pokers, and their breath
against the door made a black mark like burnt gunpowder.

“Thee has been drinking, I fear, Paddy,” said Mr.
Schooley.

“Bless yer honour's sowl, I've not tasted a dhrop the
howl day, and I'll take me Bible-oath on it!”

“No oaths in my presence, Patrick, or thee must leave
my service without a character. Answer me truly. Thee
says thee has drunk nothing during the day. Has thee
not been drinking to-night?”

“Only a dhrop I tasted to-night at owld Ben Shephard's
—and that was afther I saw the divils and the witches.
Your honour may belave me—it's thrue, ivery word!”

Just then a rapping was heard at the door.

“Go, now, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, “and see who
comes hither at this hour.”

“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, his knees knocking together,
“it's one of the divils! I know his knock. And
he's afther me for promising to pay Ben Shephard for the
dhrink to-morrow afthernoon, whin I will be on the road to
Jenny Jump! Misther Charles! Miss Julia! Wud ye not,
one o' ye, oblage me wid the loan of a thrippence to pay it?”

“Yes, Paddy,” said Charles, holding forth the coin.

“And wud ye not bind me to yerself foriver by paying
it to him for me?”

“Who?”

“The divil.”

“Nonsense, Patrick!” said Mr. Schooley. “Go to the
door! Does thee not hear the rapping?”

“Hear it? It sounds like the last thrump which is to
waken the dead! Howly Vargin presarve us!”

“Go to the door, I tell thee!”

Paddy spasmodically rushed into the hall, and, throwing
open the street-door, concealed himself behind it. He stood
there some moments, but no one entered. Presently Mr.

Schooley came into the hall with a light, and, seeing no
one, endeavoured to close the door, which, however, was
held back by Paddy.

“What is thee doing behind there?” asked the old gentleman.
“And who knocked?”

“Who knocked? Sure it was the divil!”

“Pooh! Close the door. But some one did knock; and
I suppose he got tired waiting for thee.”

“And, plase yer honour, I hope he'll niver return,” replied
Paddy, shutting the door and bolting it. But this
had hardly been completed before three distinct raps were
heard again.

“Now open it,” said Mr. Schooley.

“It's the divil, yer honour; and he don't git tired waiting;
but he niver forgits to remember who he's afther!”

“Do thou hold the light, and I will open the door,” said
Mr. Schooley. It was done; but, no one appearing in
view, up or down the pavement, or across the street, Mr.
Schooley seemed very much surprised.

“Plase yer honour, he's vanished into thin air, and ye
naadn't look for him.” Mr. Schooley made no reply, and
was proceeding to close the door, when three more knocks,
the vibrations of which could be distinctly felt, were
sounded while he still held the knob in his hand.

“The divil agin!” said Paddy. “The club's adjourned
to our house!”

Mr. Schooley, adjusting his spectacles, peered once more
into the street; and, stepping out to the curb, stood some
moments in silence. And when he turned to re-enter, the
handle of the knocker was lifted, by some invisible means,
before his face, and rapped quite as startlingly as ever!

“Murther! I felt his breath on me chake!” cried Paddy,
letting the candle fall, and rushing back into the room
where Charles and Julia were sitting.

He was followed by Thomas, whose face was paler than
usual, and whose eyes stared wildly through the glasses of
his spectacles.

“No one is there,” said he. “I don't understand it.
Thee may go to bed, Patrick.”

“Plase yer honour, I'm afraid,” said Paddy.

Charles and Julia were quite composed, for they knew
Skippie was the author of the contrivance.

“Thee may satisfy thyself,” said Mr. Schooley to
Charles, hearing the rapping again.

Charles went to the door, and, hearing a rustling among
the branches of the large tree that stood at the curb,
looked up and recognised Skippie.

“Ask him now!” whispered Skippie.

“Ask for what?” demanded Charles.

“Julia. Consent!”

“Come down, and go to your room at the hotel,” said
Charles. “No more of this nonsense. I want none of
your aid.” Then, after a brief examination of the knocker,
he discovered a line of white hairs, from a horse's tail,
reaching from the handle of the knocker to the tree. This
he snapped asunder, and re-entered.

“It was an idle boy's trick,” said he, in answer to the
inquiring eyes of Mr. Schooley. “Adieu, Julia,” he continued;
“we will start early in the morning, and should be
at rest now.”

“Howld! Misther Charles, if ye plase!” said Paddy,
following the young man through the hall, and endeavouring
to detain him.

“Go to bed, Paddy,” said Charles, “and be up early
in the morning. There will be no more knocking to-night.”

“And did ye saa him, and have ye his word for it?”

“No matter; you will not be troubled again. Go to
bed, and think no more about it.”

“But me drames, Misther Charles!—they'll come back
in me drames, and—” Charles was gone.

About the same hour that Charles retired to rest, a muffled
individual emerged from the tavern, and, turning westward,
proceeded along what is now Broad Street; but at
that time there were no houses west of Main Street excepting
the church and parsonage. The solitary nocturnal pedestrian,
passing the Quaker graveyard, entered Wood
Street and directed his steps toward the river. When he
reached the gate in the rear of the governor's mansion, he
paused and reconnoitred the avenues in the vicinity.

Taking a key from his vest-pocket, Mr. Franklin—for it
was the late royal governor, a fair, fat man of forty—entered
the garden. Breathing freely, for he deemed himself
now in a place of security, he lingered a moment gazing at

the loveliness of the scene, which it was quite impossible for
him to abandon without regret.

By means of another key he entered the rear-door of the
mansion, and was embraced by the tall gray-haired woman
in charge of the premises.

“My mother!”

“My son!”

These were the words uttered.

“You must go with me to New York, mother,” said he.

“No, I shall remain. Such is the will of your father.”

“But if his will be done, mother, what will become of
me? However, it won't be done! The cause he is embarked
in is a hopeless one, and, as your affection for him
can never be eradicated, it might be in your power to serve
him if you resided near the head-quarters of the royal
army. Depend upon it, he will require our interposition to
save him from destruction.”

“No more of that, William,” said she, with a sigh.
“Your father knows best, and it is my duty to be governed
by his direction.”

“Then be it so, good mother! But the papers! the
letters!” he continued, following his parent into the
library.

“Here they are,” said she, taking a large packet from a
table on which a small lamp was dimly burning.

“Are all of them here? I have not time to examine
them.”

“All. But why not destroy your father's letters?”

“I shall have use for them, perhaps, in my efforts to
save him. If not, mother, they shall never be used to his
injury.”

“I hope not, my son! And, if they be properly interpreted,
they could not be. Whatever Lord Bute may
allege to the contrary, I have the best reason to know he
was always true to the cause of liberty.”

“Liberty! Mother, do I not enjoy as much liberty as
my father?”

“I think not. He never skulked about in the night to
avoid identification.”

“But if he were to venture within our lines he would do
the same thing.”

“He will never go to the British—

“Enough, mother. Time is precious, and I must be on
the road before morning. Has Mr. Schooley come?”

“No; I hear the signal now. That is the low rap.”

She glided, feeling her way, through the dark hall, and
a moment after returned, leading in Friend Thomas, who
was greeted in a very friendly manner by the ex-governor.

“I am glad to see thee looking so well, William, and in
such high spirits. I trust thee is cheered by the prospects
ahead.”

“Certainly. During the year both Philadelphia and
New York will be in possession of his Majesty's troops, and
it will go hard if I am not restored to my office, New Jersey
lying between those cities.”

“It would seem so, indeed, friend William. But thee
must rely upon the royal troops; thee cannot count upon
efficient aid from the citizens.”

“Then the citizens, as you call them, will have no special
claims on me when I am restored.”

“Dost thou mean, William, that thy restoration will be a
cancellation of thy debts?”

“No. Ha! ha! ha! I owe thee a thousand pounds,
Thomas, borrowed money, which I will repay.”

“I never could doubt thy honesty, William; and I hope
thee intends to pay me to-night.”

“Not a stiver! I have no money, and will not have any
until the war is over.”

“What? Does thee say thee has no money? Why didst
thou, then, write me to meet thee here?” Thomas was much
surprised, and deeply disappointed.

“I desired information and assistance.”

“Thee gets no more assistance from me!”

“I mean assistance for the king. I hope you will not
deny his authority.”

“Thee knows I am loyal; but I will not fight. I can do
nothing for or against either party. All I desire is to be
permitted to rest in peace.”

“You can tell me how the influential men are affected,
and what is the sentiment of the other classes.”

“Thee knows as much as I do. The people are divided,
and are required at home to keep each other in order.”

“Good news that, Thomas! The rebels have no money,
and cannot long maintain an army if the people are equally

divided. But we must be fed. We want another hundred
head of cattle. Can you fill the contract?”

“I shall have some beef-steers and fatted dry-cows for
sale. They will be driven to the Hudson in the night to
avoid the robbers roving by day. I shall ask so much per
head in gold, and I will not inquire whether the purchaser be
Whig or Tory.”

“And you can add fifty per cent. to their value and consider
one-half of my indebtedness liquidated.”

“I must do no such thing, William. If my price is too
much, no one is bound to make the purchase. But thee has
something else to say.”

“Yes. When we are again in possession of the Jerseys,
you must come back and reside in the civilized portion of
the State. All the settlements near the head-waters of the
Delaware will be destroyed by the Indians. Brandt and
the Butlers have been charged with that service. The
Sachem is furious. He has learned that his sister was
murdered by the men under the command of the young
rebel who levies contributions from thee and other true
loyalists near the Gap, and who, it is said, is to wed thy
rich ward.”

“William, it is all untrue — untrue from beginning to
end, as I verily believe. My ward says it was a Seneca
Indian, obeying the command of the old woman called
Queen Esther, who fired the fatal shot. And Julia never
lies.”

“But we must not discredit the other story. We must
say nothing on the subject. We are at war, you know.”

“I am at peace with all men.”

“Nonsense! If you be at peace with his Majesty's enemies,
you make yourself his enemy. You will need his
clemency and protection to retain your estates, after this
ward of thine has married the young rebel officer:—and he,
too, the son of Lochiel! Why has not Bonnel Moody
seized him? Why have you, as a magistrate, not had him
arrested? Thomas, these things will be against thee when
peace is restored.”

“I have resigned my commission, William.”

“And that was right!” said the old lady.

“It was not accepted!” said her son.

“But that man has more friends than the King in our

neighbourhood. I don't know where they come from,” continued
Thomas, “but I tell thee the truth. He cannot be
taken. Whenever he is assaulted, the Scots come from
every quarter to defend him.”

“Well, get thee out of the neighbourhood before the
savages arrive! They will overwhelm every thing, like the
lava from a volcano!”

“Thee knows our people have nothing to fear from the
Indians,” said Thomas, “and I shall remain in the country
till peace be restored.”

“That is right!” said the old lady. “And I don't
think King George will ever reign over this people again.”

“You don't know any thing about it, mother!” said her
son, evincing the impatience and displeasure he felt.

“But thy father does. He was never mistaken in his
predictions.”

“I am sorry to hear thee say so,” said Thomas, musing,
for he attached great importance to the opinions of the
elder Franklin, with whom he was well acquainted, and
with whom he had held several discussions on the subject
of negro emancipation, Thomas being the owner of valuable
slaves.

“He says France will assist the Colonies, and advises all
persons who have estates not to imperil them by joining a
doomed party.”

“Mother,” cried her son, “no more of this! I am the
President of the Associated Loyalists, and have better
means of judging than my father in France. One-half the
people in Jersey are loyal.”

“They were, William, until you set Fenton and other
freebooters to robbing and burning!”

“They merely retaliate on the rebels who have ravaged
my farm on the Rancocas.”

“That was after you had Richard Stockton seized and
thrown into prison.”

“All the enemies of the King should be seized. We'll
have Stevens and Livingston next! But I must away!
Friend Thomas, if you would partake of the fruits of our
victory, you must contribute something to produce it.
Confer with your people—”

“We can do nothing, William.”

“Enough! The sword will decide every thing. Then

there will be a day of reckoning! But learn that within
a month the royal armies in the Colonies will number at
least forty thousand men. Washington has not ten thousand!
Choose ye between them!”

“No! Thee cannot make me choose either. I prefer
the reaping-hook to the sword. But, William, canst thou
not pay me in part—”

“Not a stiver, now! I have not money enough to pay
for a dinner, as your man at the hotel can bear witness.”

“But has thee not some plate—”

“Yes, on Staten Island! If you will call there, you
may take it.”

“Ah, William! I fear—”

“Yes, fear and tremble, and thus work out your salvation.”

“Farewell, William! When we next meet, I hope thee
will be in a better humour.”

“And in a better condition to pay the debt. Farewell;
but do not desert the royal cause!”

“Thee need not fear that, even if I lose the thousand
pounds.”

“The hope of regaining the thousand pounds will, I
think, contribute to keep you faithful to his Majesty.”

“Thee may think what thee pleases! But I will not
rebuke thee. Farewell.”

And Thomas departed, while Franklin hummed the
verses from Shakspeare's Macbeth, beginning, “When
shall we three meet again?”