University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Mr. Schooley and his son Richard were plunged into
the depths of misery. The cause of King George was now
truly desperate, and no one really supposed the United
States could ever be conquered. Already the civil
authorities were confiscating the estates of those who had
given aid to the enemy. And, as friend Thomas was aware
that the fact of the sale of his droves of cattle to the
British could not remain unknown, he was endeavouring to
summon the fortitude to bear with Christian humility the
loss of all he held most dear in the world. His only hope
was in his ward. Her intellects were wandering, and, if
she remained non compos mentis, his legal guardianship
might be prolonged. Her estate could not be forfeited.
But then she was a guest at “Liberty Hall,” the residence
of the governor, and Thomas could have no controversy
with him.

Paddy remained on the farm, at the special request of
Julia, who charged him to watch the grave of her loved
one during her absence. And Peter Shaver was the overseer
when Mr. Schooley returned to Burlington. Peter
retained his ass till his death, which occurred some fifteen
years subsequently. The poor animal, which had been so
often shocked at the spilling of blood, was ever an object
of curiosity to the neighbours.

Mr. Van Wiggens, although he could never reconcile
“Vatch” to the black tomcat of his spouse, had the sagacity
to keep Mrs. Van Wiggens herself in a proper state of
conjugal subjection, by means of his pet bear, which he
chained to one of the posts of the porch of the inn.

Solo was the constant companion of his mistress, whose
restoration was despaired of by the best surgeons in the
army.

The commander-in-chief, dining one day with Governor
Livingston, and, having heard some of the particulars of

Julia's history, expressed a desire to see the poor demented
maiden. Kate led the benign general into the apartment
where Julia was wreathing flowers and forming crowns of
laurel. She looked up, and smiled sweetly, but sadly. Her
paleness remained, and the wild expression of her eyes
seemed not diminished.

Her thoughts were with the dead. Whatever reply she
made to the interrogatories of visitors, she invariably reverted
to the wild woods and to her departed lover. And
her responses were frequently snatches of improvised verses,
which, when one beheld her and listened to her mournful
but musical voice, seemed the appropriate language of
heartbroken maidens.

“I know what you would hear,” said she, as the pitying
Washington gently pressed her hand. “You would have
me repeat my ballad. Listen:—

They say, sir, or I've dreamt it, that wandering among
the wild roses by moonlight with him (you shall hear) injured
my intellect. But, pray, don't believe them.
But, sir, that may be a solemn secret, not to be divulged.
Mr. Schooley, my good guardian, says I ought not to sing
such things. He is a good man, but I don't think his heart
was ever broken. He must have fallen in love in the town,
and not in the wild woods. Please, sir, don't let them
injure my good guardian. He was very kind to me, and
permitted Charles to come whenever he wished.
I must stop there to breathe, and I'm sure you'll wait.
Whenever I come to that part I am seized with a suffocating
sensation, and that is the reason why I am panting.
They say, if I could weep — but why should I? I know
he's in heaven. And will I not go thither? You are a
good man, I know, by your face. Say, do you not think
I may meet him in heaven? Oh, pray, do not weep for
me! I cannot weep for him.
Mr. Schooley might chide me, if I recited the rest
And, oh! Julia cannot weep for him! Dear sir, I would
weep if I could! Won't you believe me?”

“Yes, my dear child,” said Washington, bending down
and kissing her ivory forehead.

“I thought so! Yes, you may kiss me if you will.
They call you the father of your country. I am an orphan.
We are good. The good meet in heaven. But do not
weep for me. I am not so unhappy as they think. I have
my dreams and my fancies, and I know his spirit attends
me. Farewell!”

Poor Julia, although undoubtedly impatient for death to
relieve her, survived all her youthful acquaintances except
Wilted Grass, the Delaware chief. She wandered from the
grave of Charles to that of his forest sister on the Kentucky
River, ever accompanied by Gentle Moonlight, the
Thrush's foster-mother. The faithful Solo was their only
protector, until age and infirmities rendered him incapable
of following them. Then Julia remained at her farm, sitting
daily beneath the weeping willow. And when her
gentle companion died, her body was placed beside the lost
boy she had nurtured. But Julia remained, probably unconscious
of the lapse of time, for many weary years,
a lonely dweller among successive generations; and, finally,
when she had attained her eightieth year, departed

without a groan or a disease, and joined her friends in
heaven.

The family of Schooley, tradition avers, removed to
England. It is said the politic landlord at Burlington,
whom Thomas had established in business, persuaded his
patron, after the confiscation of his lands, to seek indemnity
for Moody's spoliation, and to pursue William Franklin
for the £1000 he owed him. As for the amount due from
himself to the Quaker, he (Brown) was “all right,” and
would reimburse him some day or other.

Bonnel Moody was arrested within the American lines
near Morristown, and hung as a spy.

The Rev. David Jones survived to a good old age. And
when the second war was waged with Great Britain he
again left the pulpit for the field. Many particulars of
his life may be found in the “Field-Book of the Revolution.”

Kate Livingston, likewise, lived to an extreme old age,
and was blessed with a happy family. The only sad
moments of her life, after the fearful scenes she had witnessed
in the conflict for liberty, were when she visited
Julia at her abode near the Rock.

Wilted Grass died only a few years ago near the ocean,
in New Jersey, and was buried in the grave of his fathers.
The Legislature of the State, shortly before his decease,
bestowed a sum of money on the aged chief and the small
remnant of Delawares who dwelt with him, as compensation
for the destruction of their game. The original grants
from the Indians reserved the right of hunting.

Simon Kenton's subsequent career, and Girty's doom,
have been portrayed by a skilful limner of Kentucky, in
two volumes, one entitled “Simon Kenton,” and the other
“The Winter Lodge.”

Of Boone, the hero of so many legends and romances,
it is only necessary for us to say that he died in Missouri,
following the buffalo and Indians as they fled before the
tide of civilization. Some of the adventures of his old
age are described in the first series of “Wild Western
Scenes,” which may have fallen into the hands of the
reader of these pages.