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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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addressed to the commandant, he hastily opened and perused it.
The blood forsook his cheeks, as with a trembling hand he passed
the note to Gansevoort, and made a signal to the executioner to
forbear. As the eyes of the other ran rapidly down the page, mingled
rage and terror shook for a moment his manly frame. Recovering
himself with an effort, he directed the serjeant in command to
approach.
“Remand the prisoner to his cell,” he said, “the execution must be
deferred.”
Before explaining the cause of this sudden change in the aspect
of affairs at the fort, it will be necessary to travel back a short
period, and take up another clew of this singular history.

——
 CHAPTER IX.
Miss Gansevoort’s week of dreadful expectation had passed away,
and the day of her expected sacrifice arrived. Her father in the
meantime had used every means both to persuade and frighten her
into a peaceable compliance with his wishes. Fancying he perceived
an increased docility in her conduct, he relaxed a portion of his
severity, and tried the effect of kindness. Although closely watched,
she was no longer confined to her room. When the appointed day
arrived without bringing Sir Philip, she felt a temporary relief; but
she then had the additional agony of suspense to endure. Hope,
vague and indefinite, began to dawn in her breast; but its light was
scarcely more than sufficient to reveal the depth of her despair.
Every foot-fall alarmed her. Every voice quickened her pulsation.
In this state of mind, she was astonished and delighted by the
unexpected reception of a letter from her brother. It was delivered in
the evening to a servant at the door, by a man cloaked and muffled,
who immediately departed. It informed her that, having heard of her
situation, he had provided means for her immediate rescue; that at
the hour of nine in the ensuing evening, a carriage would be in
attendance at the corner of the street, displaying a single light in
front; and that if she could escape her father’s surveillance long
enough to reach the vehicle, she would be safe. A confidential friend
of her brother would there receive her, and convey her before
morning to the fort. Every thing, he said, was arranged to avoid
detection or arrest upon the route.
There were no bounds to the ecstasy of Miss Gansevoort on the
receipt of this letter. She resolved to brave every danger, for the
purpose of escaping the one which she dreaded most. Never did
time travel so slowly as on the ensuing day. Every moment was an
age of fear and suspense. Could she manage to make her escape?
Would not Sir Philip arrive? Would there be no failure or mistake on
the part of her brother’s friend? Who was that friend? These, and a
thousand similar questions, continually passed through her mind,
and kept it in a state of the most violent agitation. She was obliged
to confide her secret to one of her maids, who readily promised all
the aid in her power, and even consented to be the companion of
her flight. Through her agency, when the appointed hour arrived,
she was enabled to transfer a few indispensable articles to the
carriage; and when she herself tremblingly prepared to depart, it
was without an article of dress about her which could create a
suspicion of her design. As the clock struck nine, she rose from her
seat in the drawing-room, and with careless air approaching the
outer door, suddenly opened it, and darted, fawn-like, down the
street. She heard the alarm behind. She heard the clattering steps of
her pursuers; but she saw the signal-light at hand. The carriage-
door stood open, and a cloaked stranger at its side. Without a word
he lifted her in—followed—closed the door—and the cracking of the
coachman’s whip, and the rattling of the wheels, mingled with the
shouts and execrations of the pursuers.
“My maid! my maid!” exclaimed Ellen, “she is left!”
“Silence! it is too late!” was the answer in a low voice. The noise
made by the rapid motion of the coach, for some time effectually
debarred any further attempt at conversation; but thinking only of
her escape, Miss Gansevoort easily postponed her curiosity,
convinced that their present velocity would soon carry them beyond
the danger of pursuit, and admit of a more moderate speed. Worn
out with fatigue and anxiety, she fell into an uneasy sleep, but was
soon awakened by the stopping of the coach. Confused noises were
heard without. Angry questions and replies were followed by a
demand to open the door. Her companion suddenly let down a
window and looking out, uttered a few words in a low tone. “Oh, it’s
you, is it?” was the reply; and without further questions the carriage
was allowed to proceed. Ellen strove hard, but in vain, to catch a
glimpse of her mysterious companion’s face. She again sunk to
sleep, and was again awakened to witness a similar scene. Every
thing presented itself to her mind in a mystified and unnatural
manner. Darkness and drowsiness, commingled dreams and realities,
passing lights, strange voices, half understood sentences, beginning
close at hand, and dying away in the distance, all contributed to
complete her confusion, and prevent the obtaining of one distinct
idea. It is not surprising that she yielded herself again and again,
contentedly to sleep, for the one dominant hope of her waking
moments became a glorious certainty in her dreams, and she smiled
in security under the assured protection of him to whom, unawares,
she had long since yielded up the priceless treasure of her heart.
Once, on awakening, the gurgling, rippling sound of water
reached her ears. They were crossing the river at a ferry. The vehicle
being stationary, it was a favorable moment to address her
companion, which, with trembling voice, she hastened to do. The
long, hard breathing of a sleeper was her only reply. Abashed and
alarmed, she desisted from her inquiries, and in a few moments they
were again in rapid motion. Fully awakened now by her fears, she
slept no more.
Leaving the main route, the carriage at length entered a dark
and narrow defile of the mountains, and for more than an hour
slowly pursued its labarynthine course, amidst a gloom rendered
tenfold by the surrounding forests. Having stopped at last before a
small and obscure looking house, her companion alighted, and was
received by several individuals, who seemed to have been awaiting
his arrival. Laughter and congratulations ensued. Several of the
bystanders approached the carriage, and in no gentle terms
requested Ellen to alight. Hurried into the cottage, as soon as her
bewildered faculties were enabled to comprehend the answers to
her incoherent questions, she learned in substance that she was
among a band of Tories and savages, a prisoner, and a hostage for
the safety of Sir Philip Bender.

——
 CHAPTER X.
It is needless to say that the letter which had so suddenly
arrested the threatened tragedy at Fort Constitution, was from Ellen
Gansevoort. Her situation was perilous in the extreme. A prisoner
among the most lawless of men, she was held, as has been said, in
pledge for the safety of Bender, and was threatened, in the event of
his execution, with being carried into remote captivity. A detachment
of Indians, belonging to a western tribe, formed part of her captors,
and on the fourth ensuing day were to set out on their return to the
wilderness, with her, or without, as the fate of Bender should decide.
It is unnecessary to say that Wiley was the agent in this infernal
transaction. Horror-struck at the arrest of his patron, his terror had
given way only to the most vindictive anger toward his supposed
dupe, Gansevoort. He knew well the extraordinary affection which
that gentleman entertained for his sister, and had also some
intimation of Count De Zeng’s attachment to Ellen. With the
desperate hope of aiding Sir Philip, for whose arrest he considered
himself responsible, he had concocted, and, with unrelenting
barbarity, carried into effect, the plot which has been detailed; and
which his intimate connection with the Tories of Westchester county
had afforded him every facility for consummating. His hand had
forged the letter which had deceived Miss Gansevoort, and he had
been her companion in the carriage. In the further execution of his
plan, he had been compelled to disclose himself to his prisoner. But,
although it was his exorcism that had conjured up the storm which
now impended over the unfortunate Ellen, he had not the power to
control its fury. The savages, whose services had been engaged, had
been secured by the promise of a large reward from Major Bender, if
released, or the person of their prisoner, if the project failed. Wiley
had not the means, if he had had the disposition, to purchase her
release in the event of failure. It was therefore no idle threat which
had been made.
 The substance of these facts was briefly communicated in Ellen’s
letter to her brother, which was written at the request of Wiley, and
by him forwarded to Gansevoort. In this he proposed to send Ellen,
at once, in safety to the fort, upon receiving a written promise from
the commander-in-chief to pardon Sir Philip. Miss Gansevoort
expressed her belief that there was no reasonable hope of her
rescue, owing to the wild and almost inaccessible nature of the
fastnesses among which her captors were lurking. Her language
betrayed inadvertently the anguish of fear which overwhelmed her,
and which, in pity to her friends, she would fain have concealed. The
startling effect produced by this letter on Colonels Gansevoort and
De Zeng, will no longer be considered surprising; or that all other
considerations were immediately lost sight of in so engrossing a
subject. To them the safety of Ellen was a matter of paramount
moment; and had they possessed the power to procure her release
by the discharge of Bender, his shackles would have melted at a
breath. But, alas! such was not the case. An immediate sally was
earnestly urged by De Zeng, in pursuit of the brigand force; but this,
without a guide, without any clew to the hiding-places of the enemy,
who had their choice of a hundred impregnable positions among the
mountains, would have been but wasting time, and rendering the
situation of the captive still more perilous. The inflexible character of
the commander-in-chief, in matters pertaining to the welfare of the
country, left them but little hope that he would sacrifice its interests
to any private consideration. But there was no time to be lost in
deliberation; and De Zeng himself set out on the same evening, with
a small guard, for Washington’s quarters. His route lying exclusively
through a friendly region, he was enabled to obtain frequent relays
of horses, and, by dint of hard riding, arrived at the camp soon after
daylight on the ensuing morning. He did not hesitate to disturb the
slumbers of the commander with a message, begging an instant
audience. In the fewest words he had put General Washington in
possession of all the facts, and pale with fatigue, and trembling with
anxiety, stood watching the working of his countenance, to catch the
first glimpses of a decision which he knew would be final.
Benevolence gleamed from the commander’s eye, but a stern
compression of his lips foreshadowed his reply. It was impossible, he
said, to compromise the interests of the whole country for a single
life, however precious. Bender’s guilt was unmitigated. The example
of his punishment must be made. Similar attempts at corruption on
the part of the British government had become frequent, and unless
checked by some signal act, might be productive of the most
disastrous consequences. In vain did the count, with all the
earnestness of impassioned feeling, plead the cause of poor Ellen
and her distracted brother. A calm rebuke from the commander
reminded him that he also possessed the feelings of benevolence
common to humanity, but that his decision, painful as it was, had
been well weighed, and could not be altered.
After a brief repose, De Zeng, with a heavy heart, prepared to
return; but, in the meantime, a second messenger had arrived from
the fort, bearing a dispatch for the count. It was from Sir Philip
Bender himself, and had been forwarded by permission of
Gansevoort. It enclosed a letter to Gen. Washington, in which the
prisoner proposed not only the release of Ellen, but also the
surrender of his coadjutor, Wiley, to procure his own pardon. He
boldly asserted that he had the means to bring about these results.
Wiley was well known at head-quarters as a desperate and daring
man, whose connection both with the British army at New York, and
with the Tories in the river counties, rendered him a formidable
adversary. His bitter hatred of the republicans, the frequency and
facility of his disguises, and his utter disregard of every principle of
honorable warfare, made him a valuable auxiliary to the enemy, and,
not infrequently, a real scourge to the patriots. To accomplish his
arrest, scarcely any sacrifice would have been considered inordinate.
His life was trebly forfeited even before the affair of Fort
Constitution, in which he had prostituted the sacred character of a
flag to the most vile and corrupt of purposes.
General Washington avowed his utter disbelief in Bender’s ability
to fulfill his engagement, which he considered probably a ruse to
gain time. He, however, to the great delight of Count De Zeng,
accepted the proposition; and the latter, with renewed hope, but
with many misgivings set out on his return.
——
 CHAPTER XI.
The messenger who had brought Miss Gansevoort’s letter to the
fort, was the same servant of Sir Philip who had accompanied him to
the house of Captain Wilton on the night of his arrest. It was
through his agency that the prisoner proposed to accomplish his
present designs. Base and perfidious to the last, he manifested not
the least repugnance to thus sacrificing one, who, whatever were his
other faults, had ever manifested the utmost fidelity to him. The
servant had come directly from the camp of the brigands, and being
fully in their confidence, could guide a detachment from the garrison
directly to the spot, and thus probably promote the destruction or
capture of the whole band. No time was lost in this enterprise. Count
De Zeng in the most earnest manner begged, and obtained,
command of the expedition. The outlaws were only about thirty in
number, and the count, anxious to make a rapid and secret march,
did not consider it necessary or prudent to take more than twice that
force. The distance to be accomplished was about thirty miles, and
at the hour of ten on the ensuing evening the little army set out.
Knowing the vigilant character of his enemy, De Zeng had observed
the greatest secrecy, and at the hour of starting not an individual of
the company, excepting himself and his guide, had the most remote
idea of the object of the expedition. Avoiding the village, which
might contain the lurking spies of Wiley, they took the nearest route
to the forest, and there, through its wild and unfrequented depths,
slowly pursued their way. We will not dwell upon the particulars of
this most toilsome march. The cold was intense, the snow lay deep
upon the ground, and the wind came moaning through the long
defiles of the mountains, among which their path must be pursued.
To the Count De Zeng, unaccustomed even to the sight of an
American wilderness, it was painful in the extreme. But no word or
look gave token of impatience. The deep anxiety that pervaded his
breast in relation to the result of his mission, on which the life of
Miss Gansevoort, and his own future happiness must depend,
diminished every smaller trial. Laughing at every obstacle, he
encouraged his followers by his own fortitude and fearlessness. At
the dawn of day they had accomplished but little more than half of
their journey. Allowing his men a single hour for refreshment and
repose, he again pressed forward. They beheld his endurance with
surprise, and were ashamed to complain.
At about noon, the guide having informed De Zeng that they
were drawing near to Wiley’s encampment, he made a brief halt, for
the purpose of explaining to his men the nature of the service on
which they were bound. He informed them that Wiley was to be
taken alive, if possible; but charged them particularly that the chief
object of the expedition was the safe recovery of Miss Gansevoort.
Having succeeded in animating them with a portion of his own
enthusiasm, by a few brief but forcible remarks, he resumed his
march.
The camp was situated on a summit which overlooked all the
adjacent region, and which, by reason of its steepness, was nearly
inaccessible, excepting at a point which was in full view of the
enemy. The denseness of the forest was, however, favorable to the
secret approach from another direction, and De Zeng resolved at
once to scale the height in the rear. With incredible toil this task was
performed. The summit having been attained, the panting soldiers
were immediately formed and led forward. Against any ordinary
approach of an enemy Wiley was sufficiently guarded; but he was
not prepared for treachery. He could not anticipate the approach of
an army by a way that even a chamois hunter would have hesitated
to climb. He was taken so entirely off his guard, that but few of his
company were even under arms, and the first intimation of his
enemy’s approach was a loud demand to surrender. The Tories and
savages flew hastily to their arms, but a single volley, and a rapid
charge with the bayonet proved decisive. Several were killed, and
the rest, excepting only their leader, instantaneously surrendered. He
alone, agile as a deer, fled into the forest, and descending the
dreadful declivity almost at a leap, once more seemed to bid
defiance to his foes. But the avenger was on his path. Nothing could
exceed the rage which had burned in the bosom of the young count
from the moment when he first caught sight of his enemy. Calling
now on a few of his men to follow, but distancing every competitor,
De Zeng rushed down the side of the mountain in pursuit, and
gaining momentarily upon the fugitive, once more called on him to
yield. Wiley turned, and stood for a moment at bay; but beholding
the flashing blade of his pursuer at his breast, and numbers of his
enemies hastening up, he quietly surrendered. Exulting in his
success, the count now returned hastily to the camp; but, alas! he
was yet destined to experience a bitter proof how difficult it is to
circumvent a vigilant adversary. Notwithstanding Wiley’s terror, his
countenance had worn a sardonic smile, which gave token of some
unknown calamity. Too soon did the fearful truth transpire. Miss
Gansevoort was not in the camp. No words can express the anguish
of Count De Zeng at this discovery. Wiley, who was immediately
sternly interrogated by his captor, stated that Ellen was a full day’s
journey in the wilderness, in custody of a band of Hurons. But a
moment’s reflection convinced the count of the improbability of this
story. The time had not yet arrived, when, according to the
statement in Ellen’s letter, the Indians were to start; and they would
not be likely thus to defeat their whole plan by a premature
movement. The other prisoners were severally questioned, but no
satisfactory information could be obtained. Rage mingled with the
grief of De Zeng, when he saw himself thus trifled with. He believed
that Miss Gansevoort had been conveyed to some other lurking-
place in the forest, by Wiley’s direction, and that the latter was fully
cognizant of her present position. This hypothesis alone affording
him any hope of rescuing her, he resolved to act upon it.
Summoning Wiley, therefore, to his presence, he addressed him as
follows:
“You alone are accountable for the present captivity and suffering
of Miss Gansevoort. Produce her here within two hours or those
forest trees shall afford a gallows for you, higher than Haman ever
hung. Select any three of your men whom you choose to send upon
this errand, and they shall immediately be set at liberty.”
Wiley smiled as he replied: “Count De Zeng forgets that he is
talking to a gentleman, and an officer of the British army. Such
threats may frighten children.”
“Decline the proposition,” said De Zeng sternly, “and the hours
shall be shortened into minutes.”
“I repeat,” answered Wiley, again smiling contemptuously, “that I
am not thus to be intimidated.”
De Zeng did not reply, but hastily detailing a dozen men, made
known to them his wishes. The preparations went rapidly forward,
but still the prisoner laughed. Not for effect, not with affectation, but
with real incredulity and scorn, he laughed. He laughed while his
hands were being tied. He laughed while the rope was fastened
around his neck. A sapling had been bent slightly toward the ground,
and secured in that position by a rope, readily formed of twisted
bark, and tied around the summit and base of the tree, while
another rope of the same material, suspended from the top,
received the prisoner’s neck. The severance of the first-named cord
would allow the tree to return to its upright position, thus simply
effecting the design.
When all things were ready, Count De Zeng took out his watch,
and solemnly informed the prisoner that he had only five minutes of
life remaining, if he continued to refuse the proposed terms.
“You shall yet answer for this foolery,” was the only reply. “The
law will redress me.”
“Outlaw! brigand! kidnapper!” returned the count; “do you talk to
me of law?”
Wiley knew that his life was forfeited, and that if carried a
prisoner to the American camp, his only chance of escape from
death would consist in his being exchanged for Miss Gansevoort,
which he entertained sanguine hopes of effecting. He was also
infatuated to the last with entire incredulity in regard to De Zeng’s
threats, having himself before witnessed, and even been a party to
similar transactions, where nothing more was intended than to
extort some valuable information. He therefore continued
unrelenting.
An awful silence for a few minutes prevailed, during which De
Zeng’s eyes were riveted upon his watch, and an attendant with
drawn sword stood ready to sever the cord at the base of the tree.
The prisoner again smiled, as he remarked, “The time must be past,
Count De Zeng: I suppose the play is now over.”
A signal from the count, and a flash of the executioner’s blade,
was the only reply. The released tree sprang upwards, and,
suspended, struggling from its lofty top, Edward Wiley passed into
eternity.
Appalled at the awful spectacle, the little company remained for
some time silent, but at length one of the prisoners, who seemed in
some authority, and who had ventured to remonstrate against the
proceedings, remarked that the “tragedy was ended.”
“Ended!” exclaimed De Zeng, in a voice of startling tone; “it is but
just begun. Your whole number, man by man, shall dangle at those
tree-tops, if you still persist in withholding your captive. Who stands
next in authority?”
Of course none were anxious to lay claim to so dangerous a
dignity; but the majority of the prisoners being Indians, one, who
bore the insignia of a chief, was selected and brought forward.
Glancing with a slight tremor upward at the suspended body of his
leader, he turned to the count, and said,
“The white chief carried a forked tongue; Wind-Wing will bring
back the Pale Flower.”
A brief parley ensued, during which it appeared that the chief
had a son among the prisoners, who agreed to be responsible for
the fulfillment of his promise. The compact was duly made. By the
time that the shadow of an adjacent maple should fall across the
corner of the encampment, Wind-Wing was to return with the
maiden, or his son was to die. The time specified was about an hour.
It was a period of intense interest to all. The short winter day was
fast wasting away, and Count De Zeng felt that if it passed without
the rescue of Miss Gansevoort, but little hope would remain of
effecting that object. He hardly dared to believe either in the fidelity
of the savage, or in his ability to accomplish his task. If Ellen was in
reality in the vicinity, she was doubtless in the custody of Tories,
over whom the Indian would have no control. More especially, if the
latter should be indiscreet enough to divulge the death of Wiley,
would that circumstance operate against poor Ellen. The more De
Zeng reflected the more he despaired. He even began to anticipate
an attack of the camp, as Wind-Wing might make use of his
fleetness only to arouse the neighboring Tories to the rescue of their
friends. Double vigilance was therefore enjoined upon the sentinels.
In the meantime the hour dragged slowly along, and the shadow
gradually approached the designated line. It was with real pain that
De Zeng gave orders to make ready the fatal tree. Wiley’s death he
had witnessed without the slightest compunction, but the Indian was
comparatively innocent. His resolution, however, was fixed. If the
chief failed of his promise, there would be nothing further to rely
upon, excepting a thorough intimidation of the remaining prisoners.
But the Indian who stood in jeopardy manifested no fear. While
others watched the creeping shadow of the maple, his gaze was
fixed upon the distant hills. The rope was adjusted, but he did not
quail. The executioner took his stand, but still his bright eye,
bespeaking an unfaltering faith in his sire’s fidelity, rested on the
distant forests. Choked with emotion, his whole frame moved by the
violent pulsations of his heart, Count De Zeng stood silently by. At
this moment a sudden ejaculation from the Indian caused all eyes to
take the direction of his own, when, bounding down the side of a
distant mountain, Wind-Wing, bearing a white burthen in his arms,
was perceived. Long, loud, and tumultuous were the cheers that
burst from that assembled throng, and awakened the distant echoes
of the silent forest. Darting from the midst of his companions, De
Zeng once more dashed down the hill, and seeming to surpass all
human speed in his flight, in a short time had met and received from
the nearly exhausted chieftain, the terrified but yet conscious Ellen.
Let us not undertake so idle a task as that of depicting the delight
either of the liberated captive, or her generous rescuer.
The conjectures of Count De Zeng had been nearly correct.
Anticipating a possible attack, Wiley had taken the precaution to
send his prisoner, in custody of a small detachment of Indians, to a
secure hiding-place a few miles distant from the encampment. There
were, however, no Tories among her guard, and the influence of the
chief over his fellow savages was, of course, sufficient to enable him
to obtain the maiden without difficulty. They had even accompanied
him the greater part of the way, and assisted to transport his gentle
burthen.
With a light heart the count now gave orders for his homeward
march. A litter was readily formed, in which Ellen was carried; the
soldiers, who had begun to idolize their leader for his bold and
successful conduct in the late enterprise, vieing with each other in
alacrity to perform this duty. With brief intervals of repose, their
march was continued through the night, and before noon of the
ensuing day they arrived in safety at the fort. The commandant, to
whom the period of De Zeng’s absence had been one of the most
painful suspense, now gave way to the most unbounded delight,
which soon, with a contagious influence diffused itself throughout
the garrison. He gave orders to celebrate the event by a general
salute from the guns of the fort, which were immediately carried into
effect, amidst the heartiest and most tumultuous cheering that ever
awakened the echoes of Tappaan Zee.
Bender, within a few days, was pardoned and released.
Thoroughly humbled, yet sufficiently happy in saving his life, he
quietly departed.
One result of the remarkable events which have been recorded
will be so easily conjectured by the reader, as scarcely to require its
relation. Born at remote points of the globe, singularly united in their
recent destinies, and long really wedded in affection, Louis De Zeng
and Ellen Gansevoort were not henceforth to be separated. But the
day which witnessed their union was equally auspicious to another
pair of generous and gentle hearts. Colonel Gansevoort had, by
some accident, at length discovered his own attachment to the
beautiful Alice. By her seemingly slight agency what momentous
results had been effected. A lifetime of devotion could not have
repaid the service, which, under the impulse of a generous feeling,
she had freely rendered. But a sense of obligation was not necessary
to inspire affection for Alice. Her gentle heart elicited a voluntary and
perpetual homage, which no sentiment of duty was needed to
confirm.
Little remains to be told. The subsequent military career of
Colonels Gansevoort and De Zeng were distinguished by the same
integrity, sagacity, and courage, which had marked their
commencement. If they did not rise to eminence in station, it was
less from want of ability than want of ambition. They had drunk of
that charmed cup of bliss which renders tasteless and insipid all the
inferior joys of life.
Colonel Edmund Gansevoort lived to read the proclamation by
which his royal master acknowledged the sovereignty and
independence of the United States of America, and to behold his
own boasted possessions saved from confiscation only by the
interest of his once disinherited son.
 LINES
ON VISITING BROAD STREET HOTEL,

HEAD-QUARTERS OF WASHINGTON, WHEN NEW YORK WAS

EVACUATED BY CLINTON.

———
BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.
———

It is a structure of the olden time,

Built to endure, not dazzle for a day;
A stain is on the venerable roof,
Telling of conflict with the King of Storms,
And clings to casement-worn, and hanging eaves,
With thread-like roots, the moss.
Grey shutters swing
On rusted hinges, but the beams of day
Dart with a softening radiance through the bars.
Colossal domes of chiseled marble made,
Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires,
And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls,
Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight,
But a cold glance they win from me alone.
Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works,
To look on pile more humble? Why in thought
Linger around this ancient edifice?
The place is hallowed—Washington once trod,
Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors.
Within yon chamber did he bend the knee,
Calling on God to aid the patriot’s cause,
At morn, and in the solemn hour of night,
His mandate, pregnant with a Nation’s fate,
Went forth from these plain, unpretending walls.
Here towered, in war-like garb, his stately form,
While marshaled thousands in the dusty street,
Gave ear to his harangue, and inly vowed
To die or conquer with their matchless chief.
Methinks at yon old window I behold
His calm, majestic features—while the sound
Of blessing rises from the throng below.
Have not the scenes of other days returned?
Do I not hear the sentry’s measured tramp,
Clangor of mail, and neigh of battle-steed,
Mingling their discord with the drum’s deep roll?
No! ’twas a dream!—the magic of a place
Allied to memory of Earth’s noblest son,
Gives form and seeming life to viewless air.

Relic of our Heroic Age, farewell!

Long may these walls defy dissolving Time,
Mock the blind fury of the hollow blast,
And woo the pilgrim hither, while a voice
Comes from the shadowy caverns of the Past,
Full of instruction to a freeman’s soul —
A mighty voice that speaks of Washington,
And prompts renewal of stern vow to guard
Pure fires that on my Country’s altar glow.
 THE STRAWBERRY-WOMAN.
———
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
———

“Strawb’rees! Strawb’rees!” cried a poorly clad, tired-looking

woman, about eleven o’clock one sultry June morning. She was
passing a handsome house in Walnut street, into the windows of
which she looked earnestly, in the hope of seeing the face of a
customer. She did not look in vain, for the shrill sound of her voice
brought forward a lady, dressed in a silk morning-wrapper, who
beckoned her to stop. The woman lifted the heavy tray from her
head, and placing it upon the door-step, sat wearily down.
“What’s the price of your strawberries?” asked the lady, as she
came to the door.
“Ten cents a box, madam. They are right fresh.”
“Ten cents!” replied the lady, in a tone of surprise, drawing
herself up and looking grave. Then shaking her head, and
compressing her lips firmly, she added —
“I can’t give ten cents for strawberries. It’s too much.”
“You can’t get such strawberries as these for less, madam,” said
the woman. “I got a levy a box for them yesterday.”
“Then you got too much, that’s all I have to say. I never pay such
prices. I bought strawberries in market yesterday, just as good as
yours, for eight cents a box.”
“I don’t know how they do to sell them at that price,” returned
the woman. “Mine cost nearly eight cents, and ought to bring me at
least twelve. But I am willing to take ten, so that I can sell out
quickly. It’s a very hot day.” And the woman wiped, with her apron,
the perspiration from her glowing face.
“No, I wont pay ten cents,” said the lady(?) coldly. “I’ll give you
forty cents for five quarts, and nothing more.”
“But, madam, they cost me within a trifle of eight cents a quart.”
 “I can’t help that. You paid too much for them, and this must be
your loss, not mine, if I buy your strawberries. I never pay for other
people’s mistakes. I understand the use of money much better than
that.”
The poor woman did not feel very well. The day was unusually
hot and sultry, and her tray felt heavier, and tired her more than
usual. Five boxes would lighten it, and if she sold her berries at eight
cents, she would clear two cents and a half, and that made her
something.
“I’ll tell you what I will do,” she said, after thinking a few
moments; “I don’t feel as well as usual to-day, and my tray is heavy.
Five boxes sold will be something. You shall have them at nine
cents. They cost me seven and a half, and I am sure it’s worth a
cent and a half a box to cry them about the streets such hot
weather as this.”
“I have told you, my good woman, exactly what I will do,” said
the customer, with dignity. “If you are willing to take what I offer
you, say so, if not, we needn’t stand here any longer.”
“Well, I suppose you will have to take them,” replied the
strawberry-woman, seeing that there was no hope of doing better.
“But it’s too little.”
“It’s enough,” said the lady, as she turned to call a servant. Five
boxes of fine large strawberries were received, and forty cents paid
for them. The lady re-entered the parlor, pleased at her good
bargain, while the poor woman turned from the door sad and
disheartened. She walked nearly the distance of a square before she
could trust her voice to utter her monotonous cry of
“Strawb’rees! Strawb’rees!”
An hour afterward, a friend called upon Mrs. Mier, the lady who
had bought the strawberries. After talking about various matters and
things interesting to lady house-keepers, Mrs. Mier said —
“How much did you pay for strawberries this morning?”
“Ten cents.”
“You paid too much. I bought them for eight.”
“For eight! Were they good ones?”
“Step into the dining-room and I will show them to you.”
 The ladies stepped into the dining-room, when Mrs. Mier
displayed her large, red berries, which were really much finer than
she had at first supposed them to be.
“You didn’t get them for eight cents,” remarked the visiter
incredulously.
“Yes I did. I paid forty cents for five quarts.”
“While I paid fifty for some not near so good.”
“I suppose you paid just what you were asked?”
“Yes, I always do that. I buy from one woman during the season,
who agrees to furnish me at the regular market price.”
“Which you will always find to be two or three cents above what
you can get them for in the market.”
“You always buy in market.”
“I bought these from a woman at the door.”
“Did she only ask eight cents for them?”
“Oh no! She asked ten cents, and pretended that she got twelve
and a half for the same quality of berries yesterday. But I never give
these people what they ask.”
“While I never can find it in my heart to ask a poor, tired-looking
woman at my door, to take a cent less for her fruit than she asks
me. A cent or two, while it is of little account to me, must be of
great importance to her.”
“You are a very poor economist, I see,” said Mrs. Mier. “If that is
the way you deal with every one, your husband no doubt finds his
expense account a very serious item.”
“I don’t know about that. He never complains. He allows me a
certain sum every week to keep the house, and find my own and the
children’s clothes; and so far from ever calling on him for more, I
always have fifty or a hundred dollars lying by me.”
“You must have a precious large allowance then, considering
your want of economy in paying everybody just what they ask for
their things.”
“Oh, no! I don’t do that exactly, Mrs. Mier. If I consider the price
of a thing too high, I don’t buy it.”
“You paid too high for your strawberries to-day.”
“Perhaps I did; although I am by no means certain.”
 “You can judge for yourself. Mine cost but eight cents, and you
own that they are superior to yours at ten cents.”
“Still, yours may have been too cheap, instead of mine too dear.”
“Too cheap! That is funny! I never saw any thing too cheap in my
life. The great trouble is, that every thing is too dear. What do you
mean by too cheap?”
“The person who sold them to you may not have made profit
enough upon them to pay for her time and labor. If this were the
case, she sold them to you too cheap.”
“Suppose she paid too high for them? Is the purchaser to pay for
her error?”
“Whether she did so, it would be hard to tell; and even if she had
made such a mistake, I think it would be more just and humane to
pay her a price that would give her a fair profit, instead of taking
from her the means of buying bread for her children. At least this is
my way of reasoning.”
“And a precious lot of money it must take to support such a
system of reasoning. But how much, pray, do you have a week to
keep the family? I am curious to know.”
“Thirty-five dollars.”
“Thirty-five dollars! You are jesting.”
“Oh, no! That is exactly what I receive, and as I have said, I find
the sum ample.”
“While I receive fifty dollars a week,” said Mrs. Mier, “and am
forever calling on my husband to settle some bill or other for me.
And yet I never pay the exorbitant prices asked by everybody for
every thing. I am strictly economical in my family. While other
people pay their domestics a dollar and a half and two dollars a
week, I give but a dollar and a quarter each to my cook and
chambermaid, and require the chambermaid to help the washer-
woman on Mondays. Nothing is wasted in my kitchen, for I take
care, in marketing, not to allow room for waste. I don’t know how it
is that you save money on thirty-five dollars with your system, while
I find fifty dollars inadequate with my system.”
The exact difference in the two systems will be clearly
understood by the reader, when he is informed that although Mrs.
Mier never paid any body as much as was at first asked for an
article, and was always talking about economy, and trying to practice
it, by withholding from others what was justly their due, as in the
case of the strawberry-woman, yet she was a very extravagant
person, and spared no money in gratifying her own pride. Mrs.
Gilman, her visiter, was, on the contrary, really economical, because
she was moderate in all her desires, and was usually as well satisfied
with an article of dress or furniture that cost ten or twenty dollars,
as Mrs. Mier was with one that cost forty or fifty dollars. In little
things, the former was not so particular as to infringe the rights of
others, while in larger matters, she was careful not to run into
extravagance in order to gratify her own or children’s pride and
vanity, while the latter pursued a course directly opposite.
Mrs. Gilman was not as much dissatisfied, on reflection, about
the price she had paid for her strawberries, as she had felt at first.
“I would rather pay these poor creatures two cents a quart too
much than too little,” she said to herself,—“dear knows, they earn
their money hard enough, and get but a scanty portion after all.”
Although the tray of the poor strawberry-woman, when she
passed from the presence of Mrs. Mier, was lighter by five boxes, her
heart was heavier, and that made her steps more weary than before.
The next place at which she stopped, she found the same disposition
to beat her down in her price.
“I’ll give you nine cents, and take four boxes,” said the lady.
“Indeed, madam, that is too little,” replied the woman; “ten cents
is the lowest at which I can sell them and make even a reasonable
profit.”
“Well, say thirty-seven and a-half for four boxes, and I will take
them. It is only two cents and a-half less than you ask for them.”
“Give me a fip, ma!—there comes the candy-man!” exclaimed a
little fellow, pressing up to the side of the lady. “Quick, ma! Here,
candy-man!” calling after an old man with a tin cylinder under his
arm, that looked something like an ice-cream freezer. The lady drew
out her purse, and searched among its contents for the small coin
her child wanted.
“I havn’t any thing less than a levy,” she at length said.
 “Oh, well, he can change it. Candy-man, you can change a levy?”
By this time the “candy-man” stood smiling beside the
strawberry-woman. As he was counting out the fip’s worth of candy,
the child spoke up in an earnest voice, and said —
“Get a levy’s worth, mother, do, wont you? Cousin Lu’s coming to
see us to-morrow.”
“Let him have a levy’s worth, candy-man. He’s such a rogue I
can’t resist him,” responded the mother. The candy was counted out,
and the levy paid, when the man retired in his usual good humor.
“Shall I take these strawberries for thirty-seven and a-half
cents?” said the lady, the smile fading from her face. “It is all I am
willing to give.”
“If you wont pay any more, I mustn’t stand for two cents and a-
half,” replied the woman, “although they would nearly buy a loaf of
bread for the children,” she mentally added.
The four boxes were sold for the sum offered, and the woman
lifted the tray upon her head, and moved on again. The sun shone
out still hotter and hotter as the day advanced. Large beads of
perspiration rolled from the throbbing temples of the strawberry-
woman, as she passed wearily up one street and down another,
crying her fruit at the top of her voice. At length all were sold but
five boxes, and now it was past one o’clock. Long before this she
ought to have been at home. Faint from over-exertion, she lifted her
tray from her head, and placing it upon a door-step, sat down to
rest. As she sat thus, a lady came up, and paused at the door of the
house as if about to enter.
“You look tired, my good woman,” she said kindly. “This is a very
hot day for such hard work as yours. How do you sell your
strawberries?”
“I ought to have ten cents for them, but nobody seems willing to
give ten cents to-day, although they are very fine, and cost me as
much as some I have got twelve and a half for.”
“How many boxes have you?”
“Five, ma’am.”
“They are very fine, sure enough,” said the lady, stooping down
and examining them; “and well worth ten cents. I’ll take them.”
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