University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

A dense fog hung over the placid surface of the Delaware
River, and enveloped in its folds many of the ancient
buildings of Burlington, then the capital of the colony of
New Jersey. The stately mansion of the British governor,
William Franklin, situated on the beautiful green bank so
much admired at the present day, was wrapped in the
vapour, and, as was often said of its occupant, seemed
lost in a mist. Even the haunted tree in front of the
governor's residence—the witches' sycamore—was reported
by fearful pedestrians to have vanished, or at least to have
become invisible.

Yet, notwithstanding the gloom which oppressed the
atmosphere, a most extraordinary sound of hilarity burst
from the hall of one of the dwellings on the principal
street running at right angles with the river. The house
from which the sound proceeded was the habitation of a
solemn Quaker. The hall-door was open, and within, erect
as a young man of thirty-five, stood Thomas Schooley, in
his sixtieth year, surrounded by several of his friends, of
about the same age and stature, all being tall and athletic,
and habited alike, as they were all Quakers.

Friend Schooley was receiving the parting adieus of the
last of his society brethren in Burlington, before departing
on what was then termed the long and perilous journey

to the northwestern counties of the colony. And the
mirthful sound, so unusual on such occasions, and so extraordinary
at any time among that class of people, had
been produced by the following remark:—“Thee will save
thy property, Thomas, and also thy neck, by fleeing to the
mountains.” The old men laughed quite heartily for a
brief interval; while a youthful auditor in the parlour
seemed to yield to uncontrollable merriment. She had
beheld the sudden relaxation of the countenances of the
aged men; and their long sharp noses, singularly alike,
reaching beyond their sunken lips almost down to their
peaked chins, had caused her cachinnation.

Beside the young lady sat the wife of Thomas, erect
and tall, and plainly habited in a costly hooded salmon-coloured
cloak and scooped bonnet. Her bloodless lips experienced
no contraction; but her pallid brow, with a quiver
slightly perceptible, was turned toward her youthful companion.

“Julia, thee dost not seem to be cast down at the moment
of departing.”

“Indeed, I could not help laughing, Mrs. Schooley, when
I saw the faces of the old men.”

“I fear they will suffer many agonies in the wrathful
storm soon to burst upon this devoted country,” said she,
with a deep sigh; “and I trust the Lord will so sustain
them that they may not find their laughter turned to groans
under affliction. But thee must call me Mary, Julia, and
not Mrs. Schooley, as is the wont of those with whom
Thomas, thy guardian, has permitted thee to dwell.”

“Pardon me, Mary; I will strive to obey thee in future.
And in truth it should be a very melancholy moment; for
from among the savages and the wild beasts of the wilderness,
whither we are going, there can be no certainty we
shall ever return. Thy son Richard, whom I see endeavouring
to wash away his tears at the pump, must be sorely
distressed at the idea of the hardships and dangers to be
encountered.”

“No, Julia. He merely grieves at the wickedness of
mankind and the abominations of rebellions. He is a
dutiful child, and strong, too. He is quite as tall as
his father, and can perform as much labour as the stoutest
slave we possess. He is industrious and careful, and will

not see diminished the estate he is to inherit. But here is
Thomas,” she continued, rising.

“Sit still, Mary,” said Thomas. “Let us tarry until I
can utter the words which I am prompted to speak to Julia,
my ward. Julia, dost thou think thy mind is quite decided
upon making this journey?”

“Oh, quite, Mr. Schooley—Thomas, I should have said.
I am delighted at the idea of dwelling in the wilderness,
and am very impatient to be gone.”

“Thee shall be gratified. But thee must be prepared
to endure a great many inconveniences:—rude and often
uncomfortable houses; but few companions of any sort,
and none of the like frivolity and gayety of thy friends in
East Jersey, or even here, in this once quiet and sedate
seat of piety; no shops where are vended the playthings
of silly fashion; no harpsichords and lutes, the instruments
of idle sounds—”

“Pray, Thomas, do not call them idle sounds! But are
there not birds? Will I not hear my precious woodrobins,
the thrushes, the bluebirds, and even the daring catbirds?”

“I do not know; but thee may expect to find them.”

“Oh, yes! And fie upon thee, Thomas, for deeming
idle the glorious songs the Creator puts in the throats of
those tiny beings for our enjoyment!”

“I would warn thee of the privations of a forest life, and
then, and for the last time, leave it optional with thee to
go or remain. I am thy guardian, and might exert my
authority; but bad motives would be attributed if any mischance
should follow. Thou art the sole descendant of one
of the proprietors under William Berkeley, who derived by
James—”

“James, Duke of York, brother of the King—Sir William
Berkeley, Earl of Stratton; and my ancestor was a
knight—Sir Thomas Lane. But pardon me—I did not intend
to interrupt thee.”

“Thee knows I regard titles as merely frivolous appendages,
although I practise submission to those in authority.
Well! thou art the heiress of all the lands held by thy father
at his death, as I am the heir of my father, whose first ancestor
was landed in this town from the “Willing Mind”
in 1677, some twenty years before thy titled ancestor was
appointed governor.”

“Yes, he was governor; I forgot that.”

“He was a better officer and man than his successor
Edward, called Lord Cornbury, the presumptuous and dissipated
cousin of Ann, denominated the Queen. But, as I
was saying to thee, thou art the heiress of many large
tracts of which we know but little. Some are in Hunterdon
and Sussex counties, and some lie in East Jersey, in Bergen,
Morris, and Essex, which may be valuable at a future
period, if not confiscated.”

“Confiscated?”

“Listen, and thee will learn my meaning. As I was
saying to thee, I have likewise many tracts, of more or less
fertility, besides the mountain, which I have been told will
perpetuate my name—truly a useless distinction,—and all
of which might be lost if we were to become identified with
the people about to engage in this rebellion. George will
surely pour out his wrath upon his enemies; and many who
remain upon the scene of strife, although they may not
participate in its heinousness, may nevertheless be involved
in the doom of the guilty. Burlington is sadly demoralized
since our forefathers landed upon its soil; and there may
be those among us who would not hesitate to bear false-witness
against their neighbours.”

“Do you really think there will be war, Thomas?”

“Dost thee not hear the firing of that swivel at the
Ferry Tavern?”

“Richard told me those engaged in it were boys.”

“He told thee truly. But they are celebrating the
battle of Lexington, and the burning of a cargo of tea
from a ship in Cohansey Creek, about which I will inform
thee on our journey—if thee resolves to go. But, if thee
decides at the last moment to remain, William Franklin is
ready to receive thee.”

“I will go with thee. And, if I did not, I would not
stay at the governor's house.”

“Thee is positive, Julia,” said Mary.

“I mean, with my guardian's permission, I would prefer
to live at the house of—”

“William Livingston, thee would say,” added Thomas.

“True, and be with my old schoolmate, Kate.”

“William Livingston will join the rebels. And wouldst
thou prefer to dwell with him for that reason?”

“No, Thomas—that is—I know not what to say. But
do not frown upon me. Indeed, it was not on that account
I preferred to dwell in his mansion. But if the rebels
should succeed, and if I were to live with Governor Franklin,
might we not lose our lands?”

“Thee must not suppose the rebels can succeed. And
I hope thee has not formed an attachment for any one but
thy friend Kate at Elizabethtown?”

“Indeed, indeed, I have not!”

“Then do not blush, Julia,” said Mary, smiling.

“Nor at Princeton,” continued Thomas, while poor
Julia continued to blush, “where I learnt thy Elizabethtown
friends used to visit, and that thou hadst danced with
the young man who won the first honour in college.”

“If I do blush, Thomas, it is not the blush of shame.
You are my guardian, to whom I promised my dying
father to render all reasonable obedience. I danced with
Charles Cameron. Kate Livingston and myself danced
with him an equal number of times. But I deny having
formed any attachment such as you allude to.” As Julia
uttered these words, a sudden pallour chased away her
blushes.

“I believe thee, Julia. Thou didst never yet fear to
tell the truth, and I honour thy candour. This Charles, I
am told, is a young man of talent. He was taken, Mary,
when an infant, by the Indians, and lived among them
some fifteen years. When restored to his father, who had
long mourned his loss in solitude, living a hermit's life on
the Delaware, near the Gap—”

“Does he live there still?” asked Julia, quickly.

“He does, and on thy land, or on a tract adjoining
thine.”

“Poor child!” said Mary.

“Thee must not decide too hastily,” continued Thomas.
“It does not appear that he is poor, or an object of pity.
At all events, his father, it seems, had money to bestow
upon him an expensive education; and thee has heard the
young man achieved the first honour. Nevertheless, his
father was not present.”

“He was not? How strange!” said Julia, abstractedly.

“I have seen this youth at the governor's, and I assure
thee, Mary, he made a good appearance; seemed affable

and polished, and was treated with courtesy by William.
But let us not linger. The sun breaks forth through the
mist, and we shall have a fine day. The coach waits at
the door. Come, Richard. We leave an open house in
the keeping of thy old nurse. Thou wilt go, Julia?”

“Oh, yes, freely, eagerly,” said she, rising and taking
his arm.

“Thee will meet him, perhaps, at his father's house,” said
Richard, who had been listening, half archly and half
reproachfully.

“When didst thou see him at the governor's, Thomas?”
asked Julia, not heeding Richard.

“This very morning. He was William's guest last
night.”

“You see, Mary, and you too, Richard, that he did not
visit me,” said Julia.

“He arrived late in the night,” resumed Thomas, while
Julia seemed to lean somewhat heavily on his arm. “He
had been sent for by William, who has perhaps employed
him in the service of George, since he is familiar with the
dialects of the Indians.”

“I am sure he would not assume any such—that is—I
mean—I am quite certain he would not use his influence to
incite the Indians to hostility—to make war upon the innocent
inhabitants—”

“No, child, thee need not fear it. But it would be no
trifling service to ascertain, through the instrumentality of
this young man, the sentiments of the various chiefs in
regard to the unhappy quarrel with the mother country,
and to persuade them to remain neutral during the contest.
I know not whether the lad agreed to the proposals of the
governor; but I saw him set out in company with another
college-bred Indian youth, named Bartholomew Calvin—in
the Delaware language Shawuskukhkung, meaning Wilted
Grass. They were mounted on fine horses, and quickly
disappeared on the road we will soon be traversing.”

By the time the last speech was ended, the party of four
were seated in the carriage; and Paddy Pence, the Irish
coachman, flourished his long whip over the horses' ears as
they bounded forward on the Trenton Road.

Julia Lane, who had not smiled at Mr. Schooley's expression
of “another college-bred Indian youth,” now sat

silently and thoughtfully beside her female companion,
seemingly unconscious of the subject of the conversation
maintained between her guardian and his son Richard, who
occupied the front seat of the vehicle.

Julia was just in her blissful seventeenth year. Though
slight and fragile, her stature was sufficiently tall, and her
form of beautiful proportions. She had an exquisite complexion,
wavering between the fair and the dark, sometimes
the one and sometimes the other; and features not susceptible
of classification, but ever varying with her emotions
and fully expressing them

Julia sat in silence, leaning her delicate chin upon her
small hand, listlessly oblivious of the appraisements of the
farms and tenements they passed uttered by her guardian
and his son Richard. She was not even startled by the
remark that a certain broad domain in view belonged to a
handsome young widow.

Her thoughts were divided between the past and the unknown
future. Hitherto her life had been an unbroken
dream of pleasure, with the exception of the agony of the
loss of her beloved father. But, death being one of the
inevitable incidents of nature, nature itself provides a solace
for the pang. It is natural to die, and it is natural to
mourn the departed; but nature enables us to bear the
loss, and provides other objects to occupy our affection,
so that in turn we shall be loved and lost, mourned and
forgotten.

Julia's guardian had been the agent and then the partner
of her father; and many vast tracts of land were held in
common between them, and remained undivided at the demise
of Mr. Lane. The estate of Mr. Lane was left to the
sole use of the heiress upon attaining a certain age. She
was to be permitted to attend the church of her fathers,
having been baptized by the Rev. Dr. Jonathan Odell, rector
of St. Mary's, Burlington; but she was not to marry during
her minority without the permission of her guardian.
Nevertheless, relying upon the rectitude of the Quakers,
among whom he had dwelt the greater portion of his life,
the dying parent had besought his daughter to heed the
counsels of his friend, and be governed by his advice in
matters wherein her own mind might need instruction or be
involved in doubt; and she had promised to conform to

his injunction. Having completed her education, Julia
supposed that but few exigencies could arise wherein her
action would require the guidance of an adviser. She was
permitted to associate with the acquaintances she had
formed before her father's death, and, among the rest, Kate
Livingston—the daughter of an able lawyer living at Elizabethtown,
near Staten Island Sound, with whom Mr. Lane
had much legal business, and who was destined subsequently
to act an important part in the affairs of his
country.

It was at the mansion of Mr. Livingston, where Julia
sojourned the greater portion of her time, that she became
acquainted with Charles Cameron and Bartholomew S.
Calvin,—the latter being the nephew and heir of the king
of that portion of the Delaware nation which remained
upon the seaboard; a lad of mournful spirit and great
meekness, upon whom Dr. Witherspoon, of the College at
Princeton, had resolved to bestow a classical education.
These youths had attracted the notice of Mr. Livingston;
and, foreseeing the benefits which might be derived from
their knowledge of Indian character during the approaching
struggle with the mother country, he had prevailed on
them to spend their vacations at his house, and from whom
both himself and his daughter Kate, as well as Julia,
learned many of the remarkable characteristics of the
tribes of the forest. And Kate and Julia listened to accounts
of—

And doubtless they thought the tale was
But, unlike the Venetian beauty, they did not dream of
love. It was merely friendship and romance.

So much for the past. We have said that Julia, in her
obliviousness of the present, only strove to penetrate the
future. For hours she mused in silence. Would she see
the young graduates upon the margin of one of the bright
lakes embowered in the wilderness? Would they lead her
to the wild summit of the mountain, whence the eye might
distinguish objects dimly in the distance? Would they not

resume their savage dispositions in the solitudes of the
forest? Would she see Charles's father? Who could he
be? Such were some of the conjectures of the tender
maiden as she journeyed toward the wilderness.