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 'IS IT YES OR NO, DARTHEA?' 
 
 Page 552 
 Hugh Wpnne
 
 0»^ OCEANOGRAPHY 
 UNIVFPgl TY cr CALIFORNIA 
 
 I ^ i; '.I ! L ."A. It-^nh^i,^, — 
 
 Hugh Wynne 
 
 FREE QUAKER 
 
 Sometime Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel on the Staff 
 of his Excellency General Washington. 
 
 By S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D., LL.D. 
 
 With Four Illustrations 
 By HOWARD PYLE 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 Publishers New York
 
 Copyright, 1896, 1897, 
 The Century Co.
 
 Preface to Nineteenth Edition 
 
 SixcE Hugh Wynne was published in book form in 
 1896, it has been many times reprinted, and noTV 
 that again there is need for a new edition, I use a 
 desired opportunity to rectify some mistakes in 
 names, dates, and localities. These errors were of 
 such a character as to pass unnoticed by the ordi- 
 nary reader and disturb no one except the local 
 archa?oIogist or those who propose to the novelist 
 that he shall combine the accuracy of the historical 
 scholar with the creative imagination of the writer 
 of what, after all, is fiction. 
 
 Nevertheless, the desire of the scientific mind 
 even in the novel is for all reasonable accuracv, and 
 to attain it I used for six years such winter leisures 
 as the exacting duties of a busy professional life 
 permitted, to collect notes of the dress, hours, 
 sports, habits and talk of the various types of men 
 and women I meant to delineate. I burned a hun- 
 dred pages of these carefully gathered materials 
 soon after I had found time, in a summer holiday, 
 
 vii
 
 viii Preface 
 
 to write the book for which these notes were so 
 industriously gathered. 
 
 It is probable that no historical novel was ever 
 paid the compliment of the close criticism of details 
 which greeted Hugh Wynne. I was most largely in 
 debt for the pointing out of errors in names and 
 localities to a review of my book in a journal de- 
 voted to the interest of one of the two divisions of 
 the Society of Friends. 
 
 I deeply regretted at the time that my useful 
 critic should have considered my novel as a delib- 
 erately planned attack on the views entertained by 
 Friends. It was once again an example of the as- 
 sumption that the characters of a novel in their 
 opinions and talk represent the author's personal 
 beliefs. I was told by my critic that John AVynne 
 is presented as "the type of the typical character 
 of the Friends. ' ' As well might Bishop Proudie be 
 considered as representative of the members and 
 views of the Church of England or Mr. Tulking- 
 horn of the English la^vyer. 
 
 A man's course in life does not always represent 
 simple obedience to the counsels of perfection im- 
 plied in an accepted creed of conduct, but is modi- 
 fied by his own nature. He may therefore quite 
 fail to secure from his beliefs that which they pro- 
 duce in more assimilative natures. Age softens
 
 Preface ix 
 
 some hard characters, but in John Wynne the early 
 development of senile dementia deprived him of 
 this chance. I drew a peculiar and happily a rare 
 type of man who might have illustrated failure to 
 get the best out of any creed. 
 
 The course of this great revolutionary struggle 
 made or marred many men, and the way in which 
 such a time affects character affords to the novel of 
 history its most interesting material. 
 
 Erroneous statements in regard to the time and 
 place of Friends' ^leetings have been pointed out. 
 As concerns these and "the like, I may here state 
 that the manuscript of my novel was read with 
 care by a gentleman who was a birthright member 
 of the Society and both by age and knowledge com- 
 petent to speak. He remarked upon some of my 
 technical errors in regard to the meetings and dis- 
 cipline of Friends, but advised against change and 
 said that it was traditionally well known that at 
 the time of the Revolution there was much confu- 
 sion in their assemblies and great bitterness of feel- 
 ing when so many like Wetherill chose to revolt 
 against the doctrine of absolute obedience to what, 
 whether rightfully or not, they regarded as oppres- 
 sion. Needless to say that I meant no more than 
 to delineate a groat spiritual conflict in a very in- 
 teresting body of men who, professing neutrality.
 
 X Preface 
 
 were, if we may trust AVashington, anything but 
 neutral. 
 
 The amount of accuracy to be allowed in historic 
 fiction aroused fresh interest when Hugh Wynne 
 first appeared. In romances like Quentin Durward 
 and Ivanhoe the question need not be considered. 
 What may annoy the historian in the more serious 
 novel of history does not trouble the ordinary 
 reader nor does it detract from the interest of the 
 story. How little the grossest errors in biography 
 and history affect the opinions of the public con- 
 cerning a novel long popular may be illustrated by 
 the fact that one of my critics referred me to Henry 
 Esmond for an example of desirable accuracy. It 
 was an unfortunate choice, for in Esmond there is 
 hardly a correct historical statement. The Duke 
 of Hamilton described as about to marry Beatrix 
 M^as the husband of a second living wife and the 
 father of seven children — an example of contem- 
 plated literary bigamy which does not distress the 
 happily ignorant, nor are they at all troubled by 
 the many other and even more singular errors in 
 statement, some of them plainly the result of care- 
 lessness. A novel, it seems, may sin sadly as con- 
 cerns historic facts and yet survive. 
 
 The purpose of the novel is, after all, to be ac- 
 * ceptably interesting. If it be historical, the his-
 
 Preface xi 
 
 toric people should not be the constantly present 
 heroes of the book. The novelist's proper use of 
 them is to influence the fates of lesser people and 
 to give the reader such sense of their reality as in 
 the delineation of characters, is rarely possible for 
 the historian. 
 
 "With these long intended comments, I leave this 
 book to the many readers whose wants a new edi- 
 tion is meant to supply. I may say in conclusion 
 that I should have been less eager to alter, correct, 
 and explain if it were not that in schools and col- 
 leges Hugh Wynne has been and is still used in a 
 variety of ways so that the example of accuracy 
 and a definition of its desirable extent in historic 
 fiction becomes in some sense a literary duty. 
 
 S. Weir Mitchell. 
 
 August, 1908.
 
 Hugh Wynne 
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 T is now many years since I begran these 
 memoirs. I wrote fnlly a third of them, 
 and then pnt them aside, having found 
 increasing tliffieulties as I went on with 
 my task. These ai'ose out of the con- 
 stant need to use the first person in a naiTative of 
 adventure and incidents which chiefly concern the 
 writer, even though it involve also the fortunes of 
 many in all ranks of life. Having no gift in the 
 way of composition, I knew not how to supply or 
 set forth what was outside of my own knowledge, 
 nor how to pretend to that marvellous insight, as to 
 motives and thoughts, which they affect who write 
 books of fiction. This has always seemed to me 
 absurd, and so artificial that, with my fashion of 
 mind, I have never been able to enjoy such works nor 
 dgreeably to accept their claim to such privilege of 
 
 1
 
 2 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 insight. In a memoir meant for my descendants, it 
 was fitting and desirable that I should at times speak 
 of my own appearance, and, if possible, of how I seemed 
 as child or man to others. This, I found, I did not 
 inchne to do, even when I myself knew what had 
 been thought of me by friend or foe. And so, as I 
 said, I set the task aside, with no desire to take it 
 up again. 
 
 Some years later my friend, John Warder, died, 
 leaving to my son, his namesake, an ample estate, 
 and to me all his books, papers, plate, and wines. 
 Locked in a desk, I found a diary, begun when a lad, 
 and kept, with more or less care, during several years 
 of the great war. It contained also recollections of 
 our youthful days, and was very full here and there 
 of thoughts, comments, and descriptions concerning 
 events of the time, and of people whom we both 
 had known. It told of me much that I could not 
 otherwise have willingly set down, even if the mat- 
 ter had appeared to me as it did to him, which was 
 not always the case ; also my friend chanced to have 
 been present at scenes which deeply concerned me, 
 but which, without his careful setting forth, would 
 never have come to my knowledge. 
 
 A kindly notice, writ nine years before, bade me 
 use his jom*nal as seemed best to me. When I read 
 this, and came to see how fuU and clear were his 
 statements of much that I knew, and of some things 
 which I did not, I felt ripely inchned to take up 
 again the story I had left unfinished ; and now I 
 have done so, and have used my friend as the third
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 3 
 
 person, whom I coiild permit to say what he thought 
 of me from time to time, and to tell of incidents I 
 did not see, or record impressions and emotions of 
 his own. This latter privilege pleases me because I 
 shiill, besides mv own storv, be able to let those dear 
 to me gather from the confessions of his journal, and 
 from my own statements, what manner of person 
 was the true gentleman and gallant soldier to whom 
 I owed so much. 
 
 I ti'ust this tale of an arduous struggle by a new 
 land against a gi'eat empire will make those of my 
 own blood the more desirous to serve their coun- 
 ti'y with honour and earnestness, and with an abiding 
 telief in the great Ruler of events. 
 
 In my title of this volume I have called myself a 
 " Free Quaker." The term has no meaning for most 
 of the younger generation, and yet it should tell a 
 storj' of many sad spiritual straggles, of much heart- 
 searching distress, of brave decisions, and of battle 
 and of camp. 
 
 At Fifth and Arch streets, on an old gable, is this 
 
 record : 
 
 By General StTBscRiPTioN, 
 
 For the Free Quakers. 
 
 Erected a. d. 1783, 
 
 Op the Empire, 8. 
 
 Tn the buiying- ground across the street, and in 
 and about the sacred walls of Christ Church, not fju- 
 away, lie Benjamin Franklin, Francis Hopkinson, 
 Peyton Raudolpli, Benjamin Rush, and many a gal- 
 lant soldier and sailor of the war for freedom.
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 Among them, at peace forever, rest the gentle-folks 
 who stood for the king— the gay men and women who 
 were neutral, or who cared little under which George 
 they danced or gambled or di-ank their old Madeira. 
 It is a neighbom-hood which should be forever full of 
 interest to those who love the country of our bu-th.
 
 CHILD'S early life is sneh as those who 
 rule over hiiu make it ; but they can only 
 nuxlify what he is. Yet, as all know, 
 after their influence has ceased, the man 
 himself has to deal with the effects of 
 1)l(>.tcl ami breed, and, too, with the consequences of 
 the mistakes of his elders in the way of education. 
 For these reasons I am pleased to say something of 
 myself in the season of my green youth. 
 
 The story of the childhood of the gi'eat is often of 
 value, no matter from whom they are "ascended," 
 as mv friend Warder used to sav ; but even in the 
 lives of such lesser men as I, who have played the 
 part of .simple pawns in a mighty game, the change 
 from childhood to nuinhood is not without interest. 
 I have oft<?n wished we could have the recorded 
 truth of a child's life as it seemed to him daj' by day, 
 but this can never be. The man it is who writes the 
 life of the boy, and his recollection of it is peq)lexed 
 ))y the siftings of memorj-, which let so much of 
 thought and feeling escape, keeping little more than 
 l)arren facts, or the remembrance of periods of trou- 
 ble or of emotion, sometimes quite valueless, while 
 more important moral events are altogether lost. 
 
 5
 
 6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 As these pages will show, I have found it agree- 
 able, and at times nseful, to try to understand, as 
 far as in me lay, not only the men who were my cap- 
 tains or mates in war or in peace, but also myself. I 
 have often been puzzled by that well-worn phrase 
 as to the wisdom of knowing thj^self , for with what 
 manner of knowledge you know yoiu'self is a grave 
 question, and it is sometimes more valuable to know 
 what is truly thought of you by your nearest friends 
 than to be forever teasing yourself to determine 
 whether what you have done in the course of your 
 life was just what it should have been. 
 
 I may be wrong in the belief that my friend War- 
 der saw others more clearly than he saw himself. 
 He was of that opinion, and he says in one place that 
 he is like a mirror, seeing all things sharply except 
 that he saw not himself. Whether he judged me 
 justly or not, I must leave to others to decide. I 
 should be glad to think that, in the great account, I 
 shall be as kindly dealt with as in the worn and 
 faded pages which tell brokenly of the days of our 
 youth. I am not ashamed to say that my eyes have 
 filled many times as I have lingered over these 
 records of my friend, surely as sweet and true a 
 gentleman as I have ever known. Perhaps some- 
 times they have even overflowed at what they 
 read. Why are we reluctant to confess a not ignoble 
 weakness, such as is, after all, only the heart's con- 
 fession of what is best in life ? What becomes of 
 the tears of age? 
 
 This is but a wearisome introduction, and yet
 
 Hu^rh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 necessary, for I desii-e to use fi-eely my friend's jour- 
 nal, and tbk without perpetual nieution of his name, 
 save as one of the actors wlio played, as I did, a 
 modest part in the tumult of the war, in which my 
 own fortunes and his were so deeply concerned. To 
 tell of my own life without speaking freely of the 
 com-se of a mighty story would be quite impossible. 
 I look back, indeed, with honest comfort on a strug- 
 gle which changed the history of three nations, but 
 I am sure that the war did more for me than I for 
 it. This I saw in othei*s. Some who went into it 
 unfonned lads came out strong men. In others its 
 temptations seemed to find and foster weaknesses of 
 character, and to cultivate the liidden germs of evil. 
 Of all the examples of this influence, none has seemed 
 to me so tragical as that of General Arnold, because, 
 being of reputalile stock and sufficient means, gen- 
 erous, in every-day life kindly, and a free-handed 
 friend, he was also, as men are now loath to believe, 
 a most gallant and daring soldier, a tender father, 
 and an attached husband. The thought of the fall 
 of this man fetches back to me, as I write, the re- 
 membrance of my own lesser temptations, and with 
 a thankful lieart I turn aside to the uneventful story 
 of my boyhood and its surroundings, 
 
 I was born in the great city Governor William 
 Penn founded, in Pennsylvania, on the banks of the 
 Delaware, and my earliest memories are of the broad 
 river, the sliips, the creek before our door, and of 
 grave gentlemen in straight-collared coats and broad- 
 brimmed beaver hats.
 
 8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 I began life in a day of stern rule, and among a 
 people who did not concern themselves greatly as to 
 a child's having that inheritance of happiness with 
 which we like to credit childhood. Who my people 
 were had much to do with my own character, and 
 what those people were and had been it is needful to 
 say before I let my story run its natural and, I hope, 
 not uninteresting course. 
 
 In my father's bedroom, over the fireplace, hung a 
 pretty picture done in oils, by whom I know not. It 
 is now in my library. It represents a pleasant park, 
 and on a rise of land a gray Jacobean house, with, 
 at either side, low wings curved forward, so as to 
 embrace a courtyard shut in by raihngs and gilded 
 gates. There is also a terrace wath urns and flowers. 
 I used to think it was the king's palace, until, one 
 morning, when I was still a child, Friend Pember- 
 ton came to visit my father with William Logan and 
 a very gay gentleman, Mr. John Penn, he who was 
 sometime lieutenant-governor of the pro\dnce, and of 
 whom and of his brother Richard great hopes were 
 conceived among Friends. I was encouraged by 
 Mr. Penn to speak more than was thought fitting 
 for children in those days, and because of his rank 
 I escaped the reproof I should else have met with. 
 
 He said to my father, " The boy favours thy people." 
 Then he added, patting my head, "When thou art 
 a man, my lad, thou shouldst go and see where thy 
 people came from in Wales. I have been at Wyn- 
 cote. It is a great house, with wings in the Italian 
 manner, and a fine fountain in the court, and gates
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 9 
 
 which were gilded when Chai'les II. came to see the 
 squire, and which are not to be set open again until 
 another king comes thither." 
 
 Then I knew this was the picture upstairs, and 
 much pleased I said eagerly: 
 
 " My father has it in his bedroom, and oiu- ai*ms 
 below it, all painted most beautiful." 
 
 " Thou art a clever lad," said the young lieutenant- 
 governor, " and I must have described it well. Let 
 us have a look at it. Friend Wynne." 
 
 But my mother, seeing that William Logan and 
 Friend Pemberton were silent and grave, and that my 
 father looked ill pleased, made haste to make ex- 
 cuse, because it was springtime and the annual house- 
 cleaning was going on. 
 
 Mr. Penn cried out merrily, " I see that the elders 
 are shocked at thee. Friend Wynne, because of these 
 vanities of arms and pictures; but there is good 
 heraldry on the tankard out of which I drank James 
 Pemberton's beer yesterday. Fie, fie. Friend James ! " 
 Then he bowed to my mother very courteously, and 
 said to my father, " I hope I have not got thy boy 
 into difficulties because I reminded him that he is 
 come of gentles." 
 
 " Xo, no," said my mother. 
 
 " I know the arms, madam, and well too : quar- 
 terly, three eagles displayed in fesse, and—" 
 
 "Thou wilt pardon me. Friend Penn," said my 
 father, curtly. " These are the follies of a world which 
 concerns not thos<; of our sociwty. The lad's aunt has 
 put enough of such nonsense into his head already."
 
 lo Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 "Let it pass, then," returned the young lieutenant- 
 governor, with good humour ; " but I hope, as I said, 
 that I have made no trouble for this stout boy of 
 thine." 
 
 My father replied deliberately, " There is no harm 
 done." He was too proud to defend himself, but I 
 heard long after that he was taken to task by Thomas 
 Scattergood and another for these vanities of arms 
 and pictures. He told them that he put the picture 
 where none saw it but ourselves, and, when they per- 
 sisted, reminded them sharply, as Mr. Penn had done, 
 of the crests on their own silver, by wliich these 
 Friends of Welsh descent set much store. 
 
 I remember that, when the gay young lieutenant- 
 governor had taken his leave, my father said to my 
 mother, " Was it thou who didst tell the boy this fool- 
 ishness of these being our arms and the like, or was 
 it my sister Gainor?" 
 
 Upon this my mother drew up her brows, and 
 spread her palms out,— a French way she had,— and 
 cried, "Are they not thy arms? "WTierefore should 
 we be ashamed to confess it?" 
 
 I suppose this puzzled him, for he merely added, 
 " Too much may be made of such vanities." 
 
 All of this I but dimly recall. It is one of the 
 earliest recollections of my childhood, and, being out 
 of the common, was, I suppose, for that reason better 
 remembered. 
 
 I do not know how old I was when, at this time, 
 Mr. Penn, in a neat wig with side rolls, and dressed 
 very gaudy, aroused my curiosity as to these folks in
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker ii 
 
 Wiiles. It was lon^ after, and only l\v dein-ees, that 
 I learned the following facts, wliieli were in time to 
 have a gi-eat influence on ray own life and its varied 
 fortunes. 
 
 In or about the vcar 1G71, and of course before 
 Mr. Penn, the propriet;ny,canie over, my grandfather 
 had crossed the sea, and settled near Chester on 
 lands belonging to the Swedes. The reason of his 
 coming was this: about 16G9 the Welsh of the Eng- 
 lish church and the magistrates were greatly stin*ed 
 to ^\Tath against the people called Quakers, because 
 of their refusal to pay tithes. Among these offen- 
 ders was no ?mall numlier of the lesser gentry, espe- 
 cially they of ^Merionethshire. 
 
 My gi-andfather, Hugh Wynne, was the son and 
 successor of Godfrey Wynne, of Wyncote. How 
 he chanced to be born among these hot-blooded 
 WjTines I do not comprehend. He is said to have 
 been gay in his earlj' days, but in young manhood to 
 have become averse to the wild ways of his breed, 
 and to have taken a serious and contemplative turn. 
 Falling in with preachei*s of the people called Qua- 
 kei*s, he left the church of the estiiblishment, gave up 
 hunting, ate his game-cocks, and took to straight col- 
 lars, plain clothes, and plain talk. When he refused 
 to pay the tithes he was fined, and at last cast into 
 prison in Shrewsbury Gat« House, where lie lay for 
 a year, with no more mind to be taxed for a hire- 
 ling ministry' at the end of that time than at the 
 beginning. 
 
 His next brother, William, a churchman as men
 
 I 2 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 go, seems to have loved him, although he was him- 
 self a roUicking fox-hunter ; and, seeing that Hugh 
 would die if left in this duress, engaged him to go to 
 America. Upon his agreeing to make over his estate 
 to William, those in authority readily consented to 
 his liberation, since William had no scruples as to 
 the matter of tithes, and with him there would be no 
 further trouble. Thus it came about that my grand- 
 father Hugh left Wales. He had with him, I pre- 
 sume, enough of means to enable him to make a 
 start in Pennsylvania. It could not have been much. 
 He carried also, what no doubt he valued, a certifi- 
 cate of removal from the Quarterly Meeting held at 
 Tyddyn y Garreg. I have this singular document. 
 In it is said of him and of his wife, Ellin ("for 
 whom it may concern "j, that "they are faithfuR and 
 beloved Friends, well known to be serviceable unto 
 Friends and brethren, since they have become con- 
 vinced; of a blameless and savory conversation. 
 Also are P'sons Dearly beloved of all Souls. His 
 testimony sweet and tender, reaching to the quicking 
 seed of life ; we cannot alsoe but bemoan the want 
 of his company, for that in difficult occasion he was 
 sted-f ast— nor was one to be turned aside. He is now 
 seasonable in intention for the Plantations, in order 
 into finding his way clear, and freedom in the truth 
 according to the measure manifested unto him," etc. 
 And so the strong-minded man is commended to 
 Friends across the seas. In the records of the meet- 
 ings for sufferings in England are certain of his let- 
 ters from the jail. How his character descended to
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 13 
 
 my sterner parent, and, through another generation, 
 to me, and how the oonung in of my mothers gen- 
 tler blood helped in afttT-days, ami amid stir of 
 war, to modify in me, this present writer, the ruder 
 qualities of my race, I may hope to set forth. 
 
 William died suddenly in 1(379 without children, 
 and was succeeded by the third brother, Owen. This 
 gentleman lived the life of his time, and, dj-ing in 
 1700 of much beer and many strong waters, left one 
 son, Owen, a minor. What with executors and other 
 evils, the estate now went from ill to worse. Owen 
 Wvnne 2d was in no haste, and thus married Jis late as 
 somewhere about 1740, and had issue, William, and 
 later, in 1744, a second sou, Ai-thur, and perhaps 
 othei-s ; but of all this I heard naught until many 
 yeai-s after, as I have already said. 
 
 It mav seem a weak and careless thing for a man 
 thus to cast away his father's lauds as my ancestor 
 did; but what he gave up was a poor estate, embar- 
 rassed with mortgages and lessened by fines, until 
 the income was, I suspect, but small. Certain it is 
 that the freedom to worship God as he pleased was 
 more to him than wealth, and assuredly not to be 
 set against a so meagre estate, where he must have 
 lived among enmities, or must have diced, drunk, and 
 hunted with the rest of his kinsmen and neiglibours. 
 
 I have a faint memory of my aunt, Gainor Wynne, 
 as being fond of discussing the matter, and of how 
 angry this used to make my father. She had a 
 notion that my father knew more than he was will- 
 ing to say, and that there had been something further
 
 14 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 agreed between the brothers, although what this was 
 she knew not, nor ever did for many a day. She was 
 given, however, to filling my young fancy with tales 
 about the greatness of these Wynnes, and of how the 
 old homestead, rebuilded in James I.'s reign, had 
 been the nest of Wynnes past the memory of man. 
 Be all this as it may, we had lost Wyncote for the 
 love of a freer air, although all this did not much 
 concern me in the days of which I nov/ write. 
 
 Under the mild and just rule of the proprietary, 
 my grandfather Hugh prospered, and in turn his son 
 John, my father, to a far greater extent. Their old 
 home in Wales became to them, as time went on, less 
 and less important. Their acres here in Merion and 
 Bucks were more numerous and more fertile. I may 
 add that the possession of many slaves in Maryland, 
 and a few in Pennsylvania, gave them the feeling of 
 authority and position, which the colonial was apt to 
 lose in the presence of his English rulers, who, being 
 in those days principally gentlemen of the army, 
 were given to assuming airs of superiority. 
 
 In a word, my grandfather, a man of excellent wits 
 and of much importance, was of the council of Wil- 
 liam Penn, and, as one of his chosen advisers, much 
 engaged in his difficulties with the Lord Baltimore 
 as to the boundaries of the lands held of the crown. 
 Finally, when, as Penn says, "I could not prevail 
 with my wife to stay, and still less Avith Tishe," 
 which was short for L^titia, his daughter, an ob- 
 stinate wench, it was to men like Logan and 
 my grandfather that he gave his full confidence
 
 Hugh W'^ynne : Free Quaker 15 
 
 and delegrated his authority ; so that Hugh W^^lne 
 had become, long: before his death, a person of so 
 much greater condition than the small squires to 
 whom he had given up his estate, that he ■was 
 like Joseph in this new land. What with the indif- 
 ference come of large means, and disgust for a 
 country where he had been ill treated, he probably 
 ceased to think of his forefathers' life in Wales as 
 of a thing either desirable or in any way suited to 
 his own creed. 
 
 Soon the letters, which at fii'st were frequent, that 
 is, coming twice a year, when the London packet 
 arrived or departed, became rare ; and if, on the 
 death of my great-uncle William, they ceased, or if 
 any passed later between us and the next holder 
 of Wyncote, I never knew. The Welsh squires had 
 our homestead, and we our better portion of wealth 
 and freedom in this new land. And so ended my 
 knowledge of this matter for many a year. 
 
 You will readily understand that the rude life 
 of a fox-hunting squire or the position of a strict 
 Quaker on a but moderate estate in Merionethshire 
 would have had little to tempt my father. Yet one 
 thing remained with him awhile as an unchanged 
 inheritance, to wliich, so far as I remember, he only 
 once alluded. Indeed, I should never have guessed 
 that he gave the matter a thought but for that visit 
 of ]\Ir. John Penn, and the way it recurred to me in 
 later days in connection with an incident concerning 
 the picture and the blazoned arms. 
 
 I think he cared less and less as years went by. Tn
 
 1 6 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 earlier days he may still have liked to remember 
 that he might have been Wynne of Wyncote ; but 
 this is a mere guess on my part. Pride spiritual is 
 a master passion, and certain it is that the creed and 
 ways of Fox and Penn became to him, as years cre- 
 ated habits, of an importance far beyond the pride 
 which values ancient blood or a stainless shield. 
 
 The old house, which was built much in the same 
 fashion as the great mansion of my Lord Dysart on 
 the Thames near to Richmond, but smaller, was, after 
 all, his family home. The picture and the arms were 
 hid away in deference to opinions by which in gen- 
 eral he more and more sternly abided. Once, when 
 I was older, I went into his bedroom, and was sur- 
 prised to find him standing before the hearth, his 
 hands crossed behind his back, looking earnestly at 
 the brightly coloured shield beneath the picture of 
 Wyncote. I knew too well to disturb him in these 
 silent moods, but hearing my steps, he suddenly 
 called me to him. I obeyed with the dread his stern- 
 ness always caused me. To my astonishment, his 
 face was flushed and his eyes were moist. He laid 
 his hand on my shoulder, and clutched it hard as he 
 spoke. He did not turn, but, still looking up at the 
 arms, said, in a voice which paused between the words 
 and sounded strange : 
 
 " I have been insulted to-day, Hugh, by the man 
 Thomas Bradford. I thank God that the Spirit pre- 
 vailed with me to answer him in Christian meekness. 
 He came near to worse things than harsh words. 
 Be warned, my son. It is a terrible set-back from
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 17 
 
 right li\'ing to come of a hot-blooded breed like 
 these Wynnes." 
 
 I looked up at him as he spoke. He was smiling. 
 **But not all bad, Hugh, not JiU bad. Remember 
 that it is something, in tliis nest of disloyal traders, 
 to have eome of gentle blood." 
 
 Then he left gazing on the ai*ms and the old home 
 of our people, and said severely, *' Hast thou gotten 
 thy tasks to-day ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It has not been so of late. I hope thou hast con- 
 sidered before speaking. If I hear no better of thee 
 soon thou wilt repent it. It is time thou should st 
 take thy life more seriously. What I have said is 
 for no ear b^it thine." 
 
 I went away with a vague feeling that I had suf- 
 fered for Mr. Bradford, and on account of my father's 
 refusal to join in resistance to the Stamp Act ; for 
 this was in November, 17G5, and I was then fully 
 twelve years of age. 
 
 ]\Iv father's confession, and all he had said follow- 
 ing it, made upon me one of those lasting imj)res- 
 sions which are rare in youth, but which may have a 
 great influence on the life of a man. Now ail the 
 boys were against the Stamp Act, and I had at the 
 moment a sudden fear at being opposed to my father. 
 I had, too, a feeling of personal shame because this 
 strong man, whom I dreaded on account of his sever- 
 ity, should have been so overwhelmed by an insult. 
 There was at this period, and later, much going on 
 
 in my outer life to lessen the relentless influence of 
 2
 
 I 8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 the creed of conduct which prevailed in our home for 
 me, and for all of our house. I had even then begun 
 to suspect at school that non-resistance did not add 
 permanently to the comfort of life. I was sorry that 
 my father had not resorted to stronger measures 
 with Mr. Bradford, a gentleman whom, in after- 
 years, I learned greatly to respect. 
 
 More than anything else, this exceptional experi- 
 ence as to my father left me with a great desire to 
 know more of these Wynnes, and with a certain share 
 of that pride of race, which, to my surprise, as I think 
 it over now, was at that time in my father's esteem 
 a possession of value. I am bound to add that I also 
 felt some self-importance at being intrusted with 
 this secret, for such indeed it was. 
 
 Before my grandfather left Wales he had married 
 a distant cousin, EUin Owen, and on her death, child- 
 less, he took to wife, many years later, her younger sis- 
 ter, Gainor ;i for these Owens, our kinsmen, had also 
 become Friends, and had followed my grandfathei*'s 
 example in leaving their home in Merionethshire. To 
 this second marriage, which occurred in 1713, were 
 born my aunt, Gainor Wynne, and, two years later, 
 my father, John Wynne. I have no remembrance 
 of either grandparent. Both lie in the ground at 
 Merion Meeting-house, under nameless, unmarked 
 graves, after the manner of Friends. I like it not. 
 
 My father, being a stern and silent man, must 
 needs be caught by his very opposite, and, accord- 
 
 1 Thus early we shed the English prejudice against mar- 
 riage with a deceased wife's sister.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 19 
 
 iug to tliis law of our nature, fell iu love with Marie 
 Beauvais, the orphan of a French gentleman who 
 had become a Quaker, and was of that part of France 
 called the Midi. Of this marriage I was the only 
 sur\'i\ing offspring, my sister Ellin djing when I 
 was an infant. I was born iu the city of Peuu, on 
 Januaxy 9, 1753, at 9 P. M.
 
 n 
 
 HAVE but to close my eyes to see tlie 
 house in which I lived in my youth. It 
 stood in the city of Penn, back from the 
 low bluff of Dock Creek, near to "Walnut 
 street. The garden stretched down to 
 the water, and before the door were still left on either 
 side two gi'eat hemlock-spruces, which must have 
 been part of the noble woods under which the first 
 settlers found shelter. Behind the house was a sepa- 
 rate building, long and low, in which all the cook- 
 ing was done, and upstairs were the rooms where 
 the slaves dwelt apart. 
 
 The great garden stretched westward as far as 
 Third street, and was full of fine fruit-trees, and in 
 the autumn of melons, first brought hither in one of 
 my father's ships. Herbs and simples were not want- 
 ing, nor berries, for all good housewives in those days 
 were expected to be able to treat colds and the lesser 
 maladies with simples, as they were called, and to pro- 
 vide abundantly jams and conserves of divers kinds. 
 There were many flowers too, and my mother loved 
 to make a home here for the wildings she found in 
 the governor's woods. I have heard her regret that 
 the most delicious of all the growths of spring, the 
 
 9.n
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 21 
 
 ground-sweet, which I think they now call arbntus, 
 would not prosper out of its forest shelter. 
 
 The house was of black and red brick, and double j 
 that is, with two windows on each side of a wliite 
 Doric doorway, having something portly about it. I 
 use the word as Dr. Johnson defines it : a house of 
 port, with a look of sufficiency, and, too, of ready 
 hospitality, which was due, I think, to the upper 
 half of the door being open a good part of the year. 
 I recall also the bidl's-ej-e of thick glass in the upper 
 half-door, and below it a great brass knocker. In the 
 white shutters were cut crescentic openings, which 
 looked at night like half -shut eyes when there were 
 lights within the rooms. In the hall were hung on 
 pegs leathern buckets. They were painted green, 
 and bore, in yellow letters, '* Fire " and " J. W." 
 
 The day I went to school for the fii-st time is very 
 clear in my memory. I can see myself, a stout little 
 fellow about eight years old, clad in gray homespun, 
 vrith breeches, low shoes, and a low, tlat beaver hat. 
 I can hear my mother say, " Here are two big apples 
 for thy master," it being the custom so to propitiate 
 pedagogues. Often afterward I took eggs in a little 
 basket, or flowers, and others did the like. 
 
 '• Now run ! run ! " she cried, " and be a good boy ; 
 run, or thou wilt be late." And she clapped her 
 hands as I sped away, now and then looking back 
 over my shoulder. 
 
 I remember as well my return home to this solid 
 house, this first day of my going to school. One is 
 apt to associate events mih persons, and my mother
 
 2 2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 stood leaning on the half-door as I came running 
 back. She was some little reassured to see me smil- 
 ing, for, to tell the truth, I had been mightily scared 
 at my new venture. 
 
 This sweet and most tender-hearted lady wore, as 
 you may like to know, a gray gown, and a blue chintz 
 apron fastened over the shoulders with wide bands. 
 On her head was a very broad-brimmed white beaver 
 hat, low in the crown, and tied by silk cords under 
 her chin. She had a great quantity of brown hair, 
 among which was one wide strand of gray. This 
 she had from youth, I have been told. It was all 
 very silken, and so curly that it was ever in rebellion 
 against the custom of Friends, which would have had 
 it flat on the temples. Indeed, I never saw it so, for, 
 whether at the back or at the front, it was wont to 
 escape in large curls. Nor do I think she disliked 
 this worldly wilfidness, for which nature had pro- 
 vided an unanswerable excuse. She had serious blue 
 eyes, very large and wide open, so that the clear white 
 was seen all around the blue, and with a constant look 
 as if of gentle surprise. In middle life she was 
 still pliant and well rounded, with a certain compli- 
 ment of fresh prettiness in whatever gesture she 
 addressed to friend or guest. Some said it was a 
 French v/ay, and indeed she made more use of her 
 hands in speech than was common among people of 
 British race. 
 
 Her goodness seems to me to have been instinc- 
 tive, and to have needed neither thought nor effort. 
 Her faults, as I think of her, were mostly such as
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 23 
 
 arise from excess of loving and of noble moods. 
 She would be lavish where she had better have been 
 merely generous, or rash where some would have 
 lacked even the commoner qualities of courage. In- 
 deed, as to this, she feiu'ed no one— neither my grave 
 father nor the grimmest of inquisitive committees of 
 Friends. 
 
 As I came she set those large, childlike eyes on me, 
 and opening the lower half -door, cried out : 
 
 " I could scarce wait for thee ! I wish I could have 
 gone with thee, Hugh ; and was it dreadful ? Come, 
 let us see thy little book. And did they praise thy 
 reading ? Didst thou tell them I taught thee ? There 
 are girls, I hear," and so on— a way she had of ask- 
 ing many questions without waiting for a reply. 
 
 As we chatted we passed through the hall, where 
 tall mahogany chaii-s stood dark against the white- 
 washed wjills, such as were in all the rooms. Joyous 
 at escape from school, and its confinement of three 
 long, wearj' hours, from eight to eleven, I dropped 
 my mother's hand, and, running a little, slid down 
 the long entrj'over the thinly sanded floor, and then 
 slipping, came down with a rueful countenance, as 
 nature, foreseeing results, meant that a boy sliould 
 descend when his legs fail liim. IMy mother sat doAni 
 on a settl«% and s])r('ad out both palms toward me, 
 laughing, and cn.'ing out : 
 
 "So near are joy and grief, my friends, in tliis 
 wftrld of sorrow." 
 
 This was said so exactly with the voice and man- 
 ner of a famous preacher of our Meeting that even
 
 24 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 I, a lad then of only eight years, recognised the 
 imitation. Indeed, she was wonderful at this trick 
 of miniicr.y, a thing most odious to Friends. As 
 I smiled, hearing her, I was aware of my father 
 in the open doorway of the sitting-room, tall, strong, 
 with much iron-gray hair. Within I saw sevei-al 
 Friends, large rosy men in drab, with horn buttons 
 and straight collars, their stout legs clad in dark silk 
 hose, without the paste or silver buckles then in use. 
 All wore broad-brimmed, low beavers, and their 
 gold-headed canes rested between their knees. 
 
 My father said to me, in his sharp way, " Take thy 
 noise out into the orchard. The child disturbs us, 
 wife. Thou shouldst know better, A committee of 
 overseers is with me." He disliked the name Marie, 
 and was never heard to use it, nor even its English 
 equivalent. 
 
 Upon this the dear lady murmured, "Let us fly, 
 Hugh," and she ran on tiptoe along the hall with 
 me, while my father closed the door. " Come," she 
 added, " and see the floor. I am proud of it. We 
 have friends to eat dinner with us at two." 
 
 The great room where we took our meals is stiU 
 clear in my mind. The floor was two inches deep in 
 white sand, in which were carefully traced zigzag 
 lines, with odd patterns in the corners. A bare 
 table of well-rubbed mahogany stood in the middle, 
 with a thin board or two laid on the sand, that the 
 table might be set without disturbing the patterns. 
 In the corners were glass-covered buffets, full of sil- 
 ver and DeKt ware ; and a punch-bowl of Chelsea was
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 25 
 
 on the broad window-ledge, with a silver-mounted 
 eocoauut ladle. 
 
 " The floor is pretty," she said, regarding it with 
 pride, "and I would nuike flowers too, but that thy 
 father tliinks it vain, and Friend Pembertou would 
 set his bridge spectacles on his nose, and look at me, 
 until I said nauirhtv words, oh, verv ! Come out ; I 
 will find thee some ripe damsons, and save thee cake 
 for thy suj)per, if Friend Warder does not eat it all. 
 He is a httle man, and eats much. A soHcitous man," 
 and she became of a sudden the pei-son she had in 
 mind, looking somehow feeble and cautious and un- 
 easy, Avith arms at length, and the pabns turned 
 forward, so that I knew it for Joseph Warder, a fre- 
 quent caller, of whom more hereafter. 
 
 "^^'hat is so— solicitous?" I said. 
 
 " Oh, too fearful concerning what may be thought 
 of him. Vanity, vanity ! Come, let us run down the 
 garden. Canst thou catch me, Hugh ? " And with 
 this she fled away, under the back stoop and through 
 the trees, light and active, her curls tumbling out, 
 while I hurried after her, mindful of damsons, and 
 wondering how much cake Frieud Warder would 
 leave for my comfort at evening. 
 
 Dear, ever dear lady, seen through the mist of 
 years ! None was hke you, and none as dear, save 
 one who had as brave a soul, but far other ways and 
 charms. 
 
 And thus began my life at school, to which I went 
 hNnce a day, my father not approA-ing of the plan of 
 three sessions a day, which was common, nor, for
 
 26 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 some reason, I know not what, of schools kept by 
 Friends. So it was that I set out before eight, and 
 went again from two to four. My master, David 
 Dove, kept his school in Vidall's Alley, nigh to 
 Chestnut, above Second. There were many boys and 
 girls, and of the former John Warder, and Graydon, 
 who wrote certain memoirs long after. His mother, 
 a widow, kept boarders in the great Slate-roof House 
 near by ; for in those days this was a common re- 
 som-ce of decayed gentlewomen, and by no means 
 affected their social position. Here came many 
 officers to stay, and their red coats used to please my 
 eyes as I went by the porch, where at evening I saw 
 them smoking long pipes, and saying not very nice 
 things of the local gentry, or of the women as they 
 passed by, and calling " Mohair ! " after the gentle- 
 men, a manner of army word of contempt for citizens. 
 I liked well enough the freedom I now enjoyed, and 
 found it to my fancy to wander a little on my way to 
 school, although usually I followed the creek, and, 
 where Second street crossed it, lingered on the bridge 
 to watch the barges or galleys come up at full of tide 
 to the back of the warehouses on the northeast bank. 
 I have observed that teachers are often eccentric, 
 and surely David Dove was no exception, nor do I 
 now know why so odd a person was chosen by many 
 for the care of youth. I fancy my mother had to do 
 with the choice in my case, and was influenced by 
 the fact that Dove rarely used the birch, but had a 
 queer fancy for setting culprits on a stool, with the 
 bireh switch stuck in the back of the jacket, so as to
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 27 
 
 st«nd up behind the head. I hat^ this, and wonld 
 leather have been birched secuudum artem tlum to 
 have seen the girls gigghug at me. I changed my 
 opinion hiter. 
 
 Thus my uneventful life ran on, while I learned to 
 write, and accjuired, with other simple knowledge, 
 t'uough of Latin and Greek to fit me for entrance at 
 tlie academy, which Dr. Frankhn had founded in 1750, 
 in the hidl on Fourth street, built for Whitefield's 
 preaching. 
 
 At this time I fell much into the company of John 
 Warder, a lad of my own age, and a son of that 
 Joseph who liked cake, and was, as my mother said, 
 solicitous. Most of the games of boys were not 
 esteemed fitting by Friends, and hence we were 
 somewhat limited in our resources ; but to fish in the 
 creek we were fi'ce ; also to haunt the ships and hear 
 sea yarns, and to skate in winter, were not forbidden. 
 Jack Warder I took to because he was full of stories, 
 and would imagine what things might chance to my 
 father's ships in the West Indies ; but why, in those 
 early days, he liked me, I do not know. 
 
 Our school life with Dove ended after four years 
 in an odd fashion. I was then about twelve, and 
 hatl become a vigorous, daring boy, with, as it now 
 seems to me, something of the fortunate gaiety of 
 my mother. Other lads thought it singular tliat in 
 j)eril I became strangely vivacious ; but underneath 
 T had a share of the relentless firmness of my father, 
 and of his va.st dislike of failure, and of his love of 
 truth. I have often thought that the father in me
 
 28 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 saved me from the consequences of so much of my 
 mother's gentler nature as might have done me harm 
 in the rude conflicts of hf e. 
 
 David Dove, among other odd ways, devised a plan 
 for punishing the unpunctual which had consider- 
 able success. One day, when I had far overstayed 
 the hour of eight, by reason of having climbed into 
 Friend Pemberton's gardens, where I was tempted by 
 many green apples, I was met by f oui' older boys. One 
 had a lantern, which, with much laughter, he tied 
 about my neck, and one, marching before, rang a bell. 
 I had seen this queer punishment fall on others, and 
 certainly the amusement shown by people in the 
 streets would not have hurt me compared with the 
 advantage of pockets full of apples, had I not of a 
 sudden seen my father, who usually breakfasted at 
 six, and was at his warehouse by seven. He looked 
 at me composedly, but went past us saying nothing. 
 
 On my return about eleven, he unluckily met me 
 in the garden, for I had gone the back way in order 
 to hide my apples. I had an unpleasant half -hour, 
 despite my mother's tears, and was sent at once to 
 confess to Friend James Pemberton. The good 
 man said I was a naughty boy, but must come later 
 when the apples were red ripe, and I should take all 
 I wanted, and I might fetch with me another boy, 
 or even two. I never forgot this, and did him some 
 good turns in after-years, and right gladly too. 
 
 In my own mind I associated David Dove with 
 this painful interview with my father. I dishked 
 him the more because, when the procession entered
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 29 
 
 the school, a little girl for whom Wai-der and I had 
 a boy friendship, in place of laughing, as did the rest, 
 for some reason began to cry. This angered the 
 master, "vvlio had the lack of self-control often seen in 
 eccentric people. He asked why she cried, and on 
 her sobbing out that it was because she was sorry 
 for me, he bade her take off her stays. These being 
 stiff, and worn outside the gown, would have made 
 the punishment of the bii-ch on the shoidders of tri- 
 Hiug moment. 
 
 As it was usual to whip girls at school, the little 
 maid said nothing, but did as slie was bid, taking a 
 sharp birching without a crj*. Meanwhile I sat with 
 my head in my hands, and my Angel's in my ears lest 
 I should hear her weeping. After school that even- 
 ing, when all but Warder and I had wandered home, 
 I wrote on the outside wall of the school-house with 
 chidk, " David Dove Is A Cniel Beast," and went 
 away .somewhat better contented. 
 
 Now, with all his seeming dislike to use the rod, 
 DaNnd had turns of severity, and then he was far 
 more bnital than any man I have ever known. 
 Therefore it did not surprise us next morning that 
 the earlier scholars were looking ■\nth wonder and 
 alarm at the sentence on the wall, when Dove, ap- 
 pearing behind us, ordered us to enter at once. 
 
 Going to his desk, he ])ut on his spectacles, which 
 then were worn astride of the nose. In a minute he 
 set on below them a second j)air, and this we knew to 
 be a signal of coming violence. Then he stood up, 
 and asked who bad written the opprobrious epithet
 
 30 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 on the wall. As no one replied, he asked several in 
 turn, but luckily chose the gii'ls, thinking, perhaps, 
 that they would weakly betray the sinner. Soon he 
 lost patience, and cried out he would give a king's 
 pound to know. 
 
 When he had said this over and over, I began to 
 reflect that, if he had any real idea of doing as he 
 promised, a pound was a great sum, and to consider 
 what might be done with it in the way of marbles of 
 Amsterdam, tops, and of certain much-desired books, 
 for now this latter temptation was upon me, as it 
 has been ever since. As I sat, and Dove thundered, 
 I remembered how, when one Stacy, with an oath, 
 assiu'ed my father that his word was as good as his 
 bond, my parent said dryly that this equality left him 
 free to choose, and he would prefer his bond. I saw 
 no way to what was for me the mysterious security 
 of a bond, but I did conceive of some need to stiffen 
 the promise Dove had made before I faced the 
 penalty. 
 
 Upon this I held up a hand, and the master cried, 
 "Wliatisit?" 
 
 I said, " Master, if a boy should tell thee wouldst 
 thou surely give a pound ? " 
 
 At this a lad called " Shame ! " thinking I was a 
 telltale. 
 
 When Dove called silence and renewed his pledge, 
 I, overbold, said, "Master, I did it, and now wilt 
 thou please to give me a pound— a king's pound?" 
 
 " I will give thee a pounding ! " he roared ; and 
 upon this came down from his raised form, and gave
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 31 
 
 me a beating so terrible and cruel that at last the 
 girls cried aloud, and he let me drop on the floor, 
 sore and angrv. I lav still awhile, and then went to 
 my seat. As I bent over my desk, it was rather the 
 sense that I had been wronged, than the pain of the 
 blows, which troubled nie. 
 
 After school, refusing speech to any, I walked 
 home, and ministered to my poor little bniised body 
 as I best could. Now this being a Satiu'day, and 
 therefore a half -holiday, I ate at two with my father 
 and mother. 
 
 Presently my father, detecting my uneasy move- 
 ments, said, '* Hast thou been bii-ched to-day, and for 
 what badness ? " 
 
 Upon this my mother said softly, " What is it, my 
 son ? Have no fear.'' And this gentleness being too 
 much for me, I fell to tears, and blurted out all my 
 little tragedy. 
 
 As I ended, my father rose, very angry, and cried 
 out, " Come this way ! " But my mother caught me, 
 sapng, " No ! no ! Look, John ! see his poor neck 
 and his -wTist ! What a brute ! I tell thee, thou 
 sluilt not ! it were a sin. Leave him to me," and she 
 thrust me behind her as if for safety. 
 
 To my surprise, he said, " As thou wilt," and my 
 mother hurried me away. We had a grave, sweet 
 talk, and there it ended for a time. I learned tliat, 
 after all, the woman's was the stronger will. I was 
 put to bed and declared to have a fever, and giv<'ii 
 sulphur and treacle, and kept out of the paternal 
 paths for a mournful day of enforced rest.
 
 32 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 On the Monday following I went to school as 
 usual, but not without fear of Dove. When we were 
 all busy, about ten o'clock, I was amazed to hear my 
 father's voice. He stood before the desk, and ad- 
 dressed Master Dove in a loud voice, meaning, I 
 suppose, to be heard by all of us. 
 
 " David Dove," he said, " my son hath been guilty 
 of disrespect to thee, and to thy office. I do not say 
 he has lied, for it is my belief that thou art truly an 
 unjust and cruel beast. As for his sin, he has suf- 
 fered enough [I felt glad of this final opinion] ; but 
 a bargain was made. He, on his part, for a consid- 
 eration of one pound sterling, was to tell thee who 
 wrote certain words. He has paid thee and thou 
 hast taken interest out of his skin. Indeed, Friend 
 Shylock, I think he weighs less by a pound. Thou 
 wilt give him his pound. Master David." 
 
 Upon this a little maid near by smiled at me, 
 and Warder punched me in the ribs. Master Dove 
 was silent a moment, and then answered that there 
 was no law to make him pay, and that he had spoken 
 lightly, as one might say, '' I would give this or that 
 to know." But my father replied at once : 
 
 " The boy trusted thee, and was as good as his 
 word. I advise thee to pay. As thou art Master to 
 punish boys, so will I, David, use thy birch on thee 
 at need, and trust to the great Master to reckon with 
 me if I am wi'ong." 
 
 All this he said so fiercely that I trembled with 
 joy, and hoped that Dove would deny him ; but, in 
 place of this, he muttered something about Meeting
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 33 
 
 and Friends, and meanwhile searched his pockets 
 and brought out a guinea. This my father dropped 
 into his breeches pocket, saying, " The shilling Avill 
 be for interest" (a guinea being a sliilling over a 
 king's pound). After this, turning to me, he said, 
 "Come with me, Hugh," and went out of the school- 
 house, I following after, very well pleased, and think- 
 ing of my guinea. I dared not ask for it, and I 
 think he forgot it. He went along homeward, with 
 his head bent and his hands behind his back. In 
 common, he walked with his head up and liis chin set 
 forward, as though he did a little look down on the 
 world of other men ; and this in tnith he did, being 
 at least six feet tliree inches in his stocking-feet, and 
 ■vsitli no lack of proportion in waist or chest. 
 
 Next day I asked my mother of my guinea, but she 
 laughed gaily, and threw up her hands, and cried, " A 
 bad debt I a bad debt, Hugh ! Dost thou want more 
 interest ? My father used to say they had a proverb 
 in the Midi, 'If the devil owe thee money it were 
 best to lose it.' Le (liable! Oh, what am I saj-ing ? 
 Mon fils, forget thy debt. Wliat did thy father say ? " 
 And I told it again to her amusement; but she said 
 at la.st, very seriously : 
 
 " It has disturl)ed thy father as never before did 
 ami;hing since he would not join with Friend Brad- 
 ford against the Stamp Act. I would I had seen him 
 then, or this time. I like sometimes to see a strong 
 man in just anger. Oh, nion IHeu ! wliat did I 
 say ! I am but half a Quaker, I fear." My mother 
 never would turn away from the creed of her peo-
 
 34 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 pie, but she did not altogether fancy the ways of 
 Friends. 
 
 *' Eh, nioH fits, sometimes I say naughty words. 
 Give me a sweet little pat on the cheek for my bad- 
 ness, and always come to me with all thy troubles." 
 Then I kissed her, and we went out to play hide-and- 
 flnd in the orchai-d. 
 
 My father's grim, sarcastic humour left him as 
 years went on, and he became as entirely serious 
 as I ever knew a man to be. I think on this occa- 
 sion his after-annoyance, which endured for days, 
 was more because of having threatened Dove than 
 for any other cause. He no doubt regarded me as 
 the maker of the mischief which had tempted him 
 for a moment to forget himself, and for many a day 
 his unjust severity proved that he did not readily 
 forgive. But so it was always. My mother never 
 failed to understand me, which my father seemed 
 rarely able to do. If I did ill he used the strap with 
 little mercy, but neither in these early years, nor in 
 those which followed, did he ever give me a word of 
 praise. Many years afterward I found a guinea in a 
 folded paper, laid away in my father's desk. On the 
 outer cover he had written, " This belongs to Hugh, 
 He were better without it." 
 
 My mother scarce ever let slip her little French ex- 
 pletives or phrases in my f athei*'s hearing. He hated 
 all French things, and declared the language did not 
 ring true— that it was a slippery tongue, in which it 
 was easy to lie. A proud, strong man he was in 
 those days, of fixed beUefs, and of unchanging loy-
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 35 
 
 alty to the king. In his own house he was feared by 
 his son, his clerks, and his servants ; but not by my 
 mother, who cliarmed him, as she did all other men, 
 and had in most things her desire. 
 
 Outside of his own walls few men eared to oppose 
 him. He was rich, and coldly despotic ; a man exact 
 and just in business, but well able, and as willing, to 
 help with a free hand whatever cause was of interest 
 to Friends. My Aunt Gainor, a little his senior, was 
 one of the few over whom he had no manner of con- 
 trol. She went her own way, and it was by no means 
 his way, as I shall make more clear by and by. 
 
 Two davs later I was takeji to the aeademv, or the 
 college, as some called it, which is now the university. 
 ^Iv father wrote mv name, as vou mav see it in the 
 catalogue, and his own signature, with the date of Gth 
 month 4th, 176'). Beneath it istheentry of John War- 
 der and his father, Joseph ; for Jack had also been 
 removed from Dove's dominion because of what my 
 father said to Joseph, a man always pliable, and ad- 
 vised to do what larger men thought good. Thus it 
 came about that my friend Jack and I were by good 
 fortune kept in constant relation. Our schoolmate, 
 the small maid so slight of limb, so dark and 
 tearful, was soon sent away to live with an aunt 
 in Bri.stol, on the Delaware, having become an 
 orphan by the death of her mother. Darthea Pen- 
 iston passed out of my life for many years, having 
 been, through the accident of her tenderness, the 
 means for me of a complete and fortunate change.
 
 in 
 
 HE academy was, and still is, a plain 
 brick building, set back from Fourth 
 street, and having a large gravelled space 
 in front and also at the back. The main 
 school-room occupied its whole westward 
 length, and upstairs was a vast room, with bare joists 
 above, in which, by virtue of the deed of gift, any 
 Christian sect was free to worship if temporarily de- 
 prived of a home. Here the great Whitefield preached, 
 and here generations of boys were taught. Behind 
 the western playground was the graveyard of Christ 
 Church. He was thought a brave lad who, after 
 school at dusk in winter, dared to chmb over and 
 search around the tombs of the silent dead for a lost 
 ball or what not. 
 
 I was mightilj'^ afraid of the academy. The birch 
 was used often and with severity, and, as I soon 
 found, there was war between the boys and the 
 town fellows who lived to north and east. I was 
 also to discover other annoyances quite as little to 
 the taste of Friends, such as stone fights or snowball 
 skirmishes. Did time permit, I should like well to 
 linger long over this school life. The college, as it 
 
 36
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 37 
 
 was officially called, had a c:reat reputation, and its 
 eai'ly eatJilooriios ai'e rich with names of those who 
 made an empii-e. This task I leave to other pens, 
 and hasten to tell my own personal story. 
 
 In my friend Jack Warders jonrnal there is a kind 
 pagre or two as to what manner of lad I was in his 
 remembrance of me in aft/cr-yetu-s. I like to think 
 it was a true pictiu'e. 
 
 "When Hutch Wynne and I went to school at 
 the academy on Fourth street, south of Arch, I used 
 to en\y him his strength. At twelve he was as tall 
 as are most lads at sixteen, but possessed of such 
 activity and muscular power as are rarely seen, bid- 
 ding; fair to attain, as he did later, the height and 
 massive build of his father. He was a gi'eat lover 
 of risk, and not, as I have always been, fearful. 
 WTien we took apples, after the fashion of all xVdam's 
 young descendants, he was as like as not to give 
 them away. I think he went with us on these, and 
 some •wilder ei-rands, chiefly because of his fondness 
 for danger, a thing I could never comprehend. He 
 still has his mother's great eyes of blue, and a fair, 
 clear skin. God bless him ! Had I never known 
 him I might i)erhaps have been, as to one thing, a 
 happier man, but I had been less deserving of such 
 good fortune as has come to me in life. For this is 
 one of the uses of friends : that we consider how such 
 and such a thing we are moved to do might appear 
 to them. And this for one of my kind, who have 
 had— nay, who have— many weaknesses, has been 
 why Hugh Wynne counts for so much to me.
 
 38 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 "We, with two other smaller boys, were, at that 
 time, the only sons of Friends at the academy, and 
 were, thanks to the brute Dove, better grounded in 
 the humanities than were some, although we were 
 late in entering." 
 
 I leave this and other extracts as they were writ. 
 A more upright gentleman than John Warder I 
 know not, nor did ever know. What he meant by 
 his weaknesses I cannot tell, and as to the meaning 
 of one phrase, which he does not here explain, these 
 pages shall perhaps discover. 
 
 Not long after our entrance at the academy, my 
 father charged me one morning with a note to my 
 aunt, Gainor Wynne, which I was to deliver when 
 the morning session was over. As this would make 
 me late, in case her absence delayed a reply, I was 
 to remain and eat my midday meal. My father was 
 loath always to call upon his sister. She had early 
 returned to the creed of her ancestors, and sat on 
 Sundays in a great square pew at Christ Church, to 
 listen to the Rev. Robert Jennings. Hither, in Sep- 
 tember of 1763, my aunt took me, to my father's in- 
 dignation, to hear the great Mr. Whitefield preach. 
 
 Neither Aunt Gainor's creed, dress, house, nor 
 society pleased her brother. She had early made 
 clear, in her decisive way, that I was to be her heir, 
 and she was, I may add, a woman of large estate. I 
 was allowed to visit her as I pleased. Indeed, I did 
 so often. I liked no one better, always excepting my 
 mother. Why, with my father's knowledge of her 
 views, I was thus left free I cannot say. He was
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 39 
 
 the last of men to sacrifice his beliefs to motives 
 of fjaiu. 
 
 Wlien I knocked at the door of her house on Arch 
 street, opposite the Friends' Meeting-house, a black 
 boy, di'csscd as a page, let nie in. He was clad in 
 gi*ay armozine, a sort of corded stuff, witli red but- 
 tons, and he wore a red turban. As my aunt was 
 gone to drive, on a visit to that Madam Penn who 
 was once Miss Allen, I was in no hurry, and was 
 glad to look about me. The parlour, a gi'eat room 
 with three windows on the street, afforded a strange 
 contrast to my sober home. There were Smyrna 
 rugs on a polished floor, a thing almost unheard of. 
 Indeed, people came to see them. The furniture was 
 all of red walnut, and carved in shells and flower re- 
 liefs. There were so many tables, little and larger, 
 with claw-feet or spindle-legs, that one had to be 
 careful not to overturn their loads of Chinese drag- 
 ons, ivory carvings, grotesque Delft beasts, and fans, 
 French or Spanish or of the Orient. There was also 
 a spinet, and a corner closet of books, of which 
 every packet brought her a variety. Upstairs was a 
 fair room full of volumes, big and httle, as I found 
 to my joy rather later, and these were of all kinds : 
 some good, and some of them queer, or naughty. 
 Over the wide, white fireplace was a portrait of her- 
 self by the elder Peale, but I prefer the one now in 
 my library. Tliis latter hung, at the time I speak of, 
 l>etween the windows. It was significant of my aunt's 
 idea of her own importance that slio should have 
 wished to possess two portraits of herself. The lat-
 
 40 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 ter was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds when she 
 was in England in 1750, and represents her as a fine, 
 large woman with features which were too big for 
 loveliness in youth, but in after-years went well with 
 her abundant gi'ay hair and unusual stature ; for, like 
 the rest of us, she was tall, of vigorous and whole- 
 some build and colour, with large, well-shaped hands, 
 and the strength of a man— I might add, too, with 
 the independence of a man. She went her own 
 way, conducted the business of her estate, which 
 was ample, with skill and ability, and asked advice 
 from no one. Like my father, she had a liking to 
 control those about her, was restlessly busy, and 
 was never so pleased as when engaged in arranging 
 other people's lives, or meddling with the making 
 of matches. 
 
 To this ample and luxurious house came the bet- 
 ter class of British officers, and ombre and quadrille 
 were often, I fear, played late into the long nights of 
 winter. Single women, after a certain or uncertain 
 age, were given a brevet title of '' Mistress." Mis- 
 tress Gainor "Wynne lost or won with the coolness of 
 an old gambler, and this habit, perhaps more than 
 aught beside, troubled my father. Sincere and con- 
 sistent in his views, I can hardly think that my 
 father was, after all, unable to resist the worldly ad- 
 vantages which my aunt declared should be mine. 
 It was, in fact, difficult to keep me out of the obvi- 
 ous risks this house and company provided for a 
 young person like myself. He must have trusted to 
 the influence of my home to keep me in the ways of
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 41 
 
 Friends. It is also to be remembered, as regai'ds my 
 fathers motives, that my Aunt Gainor was my only 
 relative, since of the Owens none were left. 
 
 My mother was a prime favourite with this master- 
 ful lady. She loved nothing: better than to give her 
 fine silk pettieoats or a pearl-coloured satin goAvn ; and 
 if this should nowadays amaze Friends, let them but 
 look in the " Observer," and see what manner of fin- 
 ery was advertised in 1778 as stole from our fri(?nd, 
 Sarah Fisher, sometime Sai-ah Logan, a much re- 
 spected member of Meeting. In this, as in all else, 
 my mother had her way, and, like some of the 
 upper class of Quaker.^-', wore at times such raiment 
 as fifty yeai-s later would have surely brought about 
 a visit from a committee of overseers. 
 
 "Waiting for Aunt Gamor, I fell upon an open 
 parcel of books just come by the late spring packet. 
 Among these turned up a new and fine edition of 
 " Captain Gulliver's Travels," by Mr. Dean Swift. I 
 lit first, among these famous adventures, on an ex- 
 traordinary passage, so wonderful, indeed, and so 
 amusing, that I heard not the entrance of my father, 
 who at the door had met mv aunt, and with her some 
 fine ladies of the governor's set. There wei'e Mrs. 
 Ferguson, too well known in the politics of later 
 years, but now only a beautiful and gay woman. 
 Madam Allen, and Madam Chew, the wife of the 
 Attorney-General. 
 
 They were eagerly discussing, and laugliingly in- 
 quiring of my father, wliat colour of masks for the 
 street was to be preferred. He was in no wise em-
 
 42 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 barrassed by these fine dames, and never, to my 
 thinking, was seen to better advantage than among 
 what he called " world's people." He seemed to me 
 more really at home than among Friends, and as he 
 towered, tall, and gravely courteous in manner, I 
 thought him a grand gentleman. 
 
 As I looked up, the young Miss Chew, who after- 
 ward married Colonel Eager Howard, was saying 
 saucily, " Does not Madam "Wynne wear a mask for 
 her skin ? It is worth keeping, Mr. Wynne." 
 
 " Let me recommend to you a vizard with silver 
 buttons to hold in the mouth, or, better, a riding- 
 mask," cried Aunt Gainor, pleased at this gentle 
 badgering, " lil^e this, John. See, a flat silver plate 
 to hold between the teeth. It is the last thing." 
 
 " White silk would suit her best," cried Mrs. Fergu- 
 son, ''or green, with a chin-curtain— a loo-mask. 
 Which would you have, sir?" 
 
 "Indeed," he said quietly, "her skin is good enough. 
 I know no way to better it." 
 
 Then they all laughed, pelting the big man with 
 many questions, until he could not help but laugh, 
 as he declared he was overwhelmed, and would come 
 on his business another day. But on this the women 
 would not stay, and took themselves and their high 
 bonnets and many petticoats out of the room, each 
 dropping a curtsey at the door, and he bomng low, 
 like Mr. John Penn, as never before I had seen 
 him do. 
 
 No sooner were they gone than he desired me to 
 give him the note he had written to his sister, since
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 43 
 
 now it was not needed, and then he inquired what 
 book I was reading. Aunt Gainor glanced at it, and 
 replied for me. '' A book of travels, John, very im- 
 proving: too. Take it home, Huirh, and read it. If 
 you find in it no improprieties, it may be recom- 
 mended to your father." She loved nothing better 
 than to tease him. 
 
 " I see not what hann there could be in travels," 
 he retiu'ned. " Thou hast ray leave. Gainor, what 
 is tliis I hear ? Thou wouldst have had me sell thee 
 for a venture threescore hogsheads of tobacco from 
 Annapolis. I like not to trade with my sister, nor 
 that she should trade at all ; and now, when I have 
 let them go to another, I hear that it is thou who 
 art the real buyer. I came hither to warn thee that 
 other cargoes are to an-ive. Thon wilt lose." 
 
 Aunt Gainor said nothing for a moment, but let 
 loose the linen safeguard petticoat she wore against 
 mud or dust when riding, and appeared in a rich bro- 
 cade of gi-ay silken stuff, and a striped under-gown. 
 "VMien she had put off her loose camlet over-jacket, 
 she said, " Will you have a glass of ^Madeira, or shall 
 it be Hollands, John ? Ring the beU, Hugh." 
 
 " Hollands," said my father. 
 
 " What will you give me for your tobacco to-day, 
 John?" 
 
 " WTiy dost thou trifle ?" he returned. 
 
 " I sold it again, John. I am the bett<^r by an hun- 
 dred pounds. Two tobacco-ships are wrecked f»n 
 Hinlopen. An express is come. Have you not 
 heard T"
 
 44 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " Farewell," lie said, rising. He made no comment 
 on her news. I had an idea that he would not have 
 been unhappy had she lost on her venture. 
 
 Joseph Warder was her agent then and afterward. 
 She rarely lost on her purchases. Although gener- 
 ous, and even lavish, she dearly loved a good bar- 
 gain, and, I believe, liked the game far more than she 
 cared for success in the playing of it. 
 
 "Come, Hugh," she said, "let us eat and drink. 
 Take the book home, and put it away for your own 
 reading. Here is sixpence out of my gains. I hope 
 you will never need to trade, and, indeed, why should 
 you, whether I live or die ? How would the king's 
 service suit you, and a pair of colours ? " 
 
 I said I should like it. 
 
 " There is a pretty tale, Hugh, of the French gen- 
 tlemen, who, being poor, have to make money in com- 
 merce. They leave theu' swords with a magistrate, 
 and when they are become rich enough take them 
 back again. There is some pleasing ceremony, but 
 I forget. The Wynnes have been long enough in 
 drab and trade. It is time we took back our swords, 
 and quitted bow-thouing and bow-theeing." 
 
 I said I did not understand. 
 
 "Oh, you will," said Aunt Gainor, gi\dng me a 
 great apple-dumpling. " Take some molasses. Oh, 
 as much as j^ou please. I shall look away, as I do 
 when the gentlemen take their rum." 
 
 You may be sure I obeyed her. As to much that 
 she said, I was shocked ; but I never could resist a 
 Jaugh, and so we made meriy like children, as was
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 45 
 
 usual, for, as she used to say, "To le^im -w-hen to 
 laugh aud when not to laugh is an education." 
 
 When my meal was over, and my stomach and my 
 pockets all full, Aunt Gainor bade me sit on her 
 knees, and began to tell me about what fine gentle- 
 men were the Wynnes, and how foohsh my grand- 
 fatlier had been to turn (Quaker and give up fox-hunt- 
 ing and the old place. I was told, too, how much she 
 had lost to Mr. Penn last night, and more that was 
 neither well for me to hear nor wise for her to tell ; 
 but as to this she cared little, and she sent me away 
 tlien, as far too many times afterward, fidl of my own 
 import^mce, and of desii-e to escape some day from 
 the threatened life of the ledger and the day-book. 
 
 At last she said, " You are getting too hea\y, Hugh. 
 Handsome Mrs. Ferguson says you are too big to be 
 kissed, and not old enough to kiss," and so she bade 
 me go forth to the afternoon session of the academy. 
 
 After two weeks at the academy I got my first 
 lesson in the futility of non-resistance, so that all 
 the lessons of mv life in favour of this doctrine were, 
 
 ft ' 
 
 of a sudden, rendered vain. We were going home in 
 
 the afternoon, gay and happy, Jack Warder to take 
 
 supper with me, and to use a boat my aunt had 
 
 given me. 
 
 Near to High street was a vacant lot full of bushes 
 
 and briers. Here the elder lads paused, and one said, 
 
 " Wynne, you are to fight." 
 
 I rejilied, " Wliy should I fight ? T will not." 
 
 *' But it is to get your standing in the school, and 
 
 Totn Alloway is to fight you."
 
 46 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " This was a famous occasion in our lives," writes 
 my friend Jack j " for, consider : I, who was a girl for 
 timidity, was sure to have my turn next, and here 
 were we two little fellows, who had heard every Fii-st- 
 day, and ever and ever at home, that all things were 
 to be suffered of all men (and of boys too, I presume). 
 I was troubled for Hugh, but I noticed that while he 
 said he would not fight he was buttoning up his jacket 
 and tui-ning back the cuff of one sleeve. Also he 
 smiled as he said, 'No, I cannot;' and many times 
 since I have seen him merry in danger. 
 
 " For, of a truth, never later did he or I feel the 
 sense of a gi'eat peril as we did that day, with the 
 bigger boys hustling us, and Alloway crying, ' Cow- 
 ard ! ' I looked about for some man who would help 
 us, but there was no one ; only a cow hobbled near 
 by. She looked up, and then went on chewing her 
 cud. I, standing behind Hugh, said, ' Run ! run !' 
 
 "The counsel seemed good to me who gave it. 
 As I think on it now, I was in great perplexity of 
 soul, and had a horrible fear as to bodily hurt. I 
 turned, followed by Hugh, and ran fleetly across the 
 open ground and through the bushes. About mid- 
 way I looked back. Two lads were near upon us, 
 when I saw Hugh drop upon his hands and knees. 
 Both fellows rolled over him, and he called out, as 
 they fell to beating him, ' Run, Jack ! ' 
 
 " But I was no longer so minded. I kicked one boy, 
 and struck another, and even now recall how a strange 
 joy captured me when I struck the first blow." 
 
 There was a fine scrimmage, for no quarter was
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 47 
 
 asked or given, and I saw my poor Jaek's girl face 
 bloodv. This was the last I remember clearly, for the 
 lust of battle was on me, and I can recall no more of 
 what chanced for a little, than I could in later years 
 of the wild nielley on the main street of Germautown, 
 or of the struggle in the redoubt at Yorktowu. 
 
 Presently we were cast to right and left by a strong 
 hand, and, looking up, as I stood fierce and panting, 
 I saw Friend Rupert Forest, and was overwhelmed 
 with fear; for often on First-day I had heard him 
 preach solemnly, and always it was as to turning the 
 other cheek, and on the wickedness of profane lan- 
 guage. Just now he seemed pleased rather than 
 angered, and said, smiling: 
 
 *' This is a big war, boys. What is it about?" 
 
 I said, " I must fight for my standing, and I will 
 not." 
 
 " I think thou wert scarcely of that mind just 
 now. There will be bad blood until it is over." 
 
 To this I replied, " It is Alloway I am to fight." 
 
 To my suq)rise, he went on to say, " Then take off 
 thy jacket and stand up, and no kicking." 
 
 I a.sked nothing better, and began to laugh. At 
 this my foe, who was bigger and older than I, cried 
 out that I would laugh on the other side of my 
 mouth— a queer })oy phrase of wliich I could never 
 discover the meaning. 
 
 " And now, fair i)lay," said Friend Forest. " Keep 
 cool, Hugh, and wat<!h his eyes." 
 
 I felt glad that he was on my side, and we fell to 
 with no more words. I was no match for the prac-
 
 48 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 tised fists of my antagonist ; but I was the stronger, 
 and I kept my wits better than might have been ex- 
 pected. At last I got his head under my arm with a 
 grip on his gullet, and so mauled him with my right 
 fist that Friend Forest pulled me away, and my man 
 staggered back, bloody, and white too, while I was 
 held like a dog in leash. 
 
 " He hath enough, I think. Ask him." 
 I cried out, " No ! Damn him ! " It was my first 
 oath. 
 
 " Hush ! " cried Forest. " No profane language." 
 " I will not speak to him," said I, " and— and— he 
 is a beast of the pit." Now this fine statement I 
 had come upon in a book of Mr. WiUiam Penn's my 
 father owned, wherein the governor had denounced 
 one Mr. Muggleton. 
 
 Friend Forest laughed merrily. " Thou hast thy 
 standing, lad." For Alloway walked sullenly away, 
 not man enough to take more or to confess defeat. 
 Jack, who was still white, said : 
 
 "■ It is my turn now, and which shall it be ? " 
 " Shade of Fox ! " cried Friend Forest. " The wal- 
 ls over. Come, boys, I must see you well out of this." 
 And so reassuring us, he went down Fourth street, 
 and to my home. 
 
 My father was in the sitting-room, taking his long- 
 stemmed reed pipe at his ease. He rose as we fol- 
 lowed Friend Forest into the room. 
 
 "Well," he said, ''what coil is this?" For we 
 were bloody, and hot with fight and wrath, and 
 our garments in very sad disorder.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 49 
 
 Friend Forest very quietly related oiir story, and 
 made mucli of liis own share in the renewal of our 
 battle. To my surprise, my father smiled. 
 
 " It seems plain," he said, " that the lads were not 
 to blame. But how wilt thou answer to the Meet- 
 ing, Rupert Forest ? " 
 
 " To it, to thee, to any man," said the Quaker. 
 
 " It is but a month ago that thy case was before 
 Friends because of thy haviug beaten Friend Wain's 
 man. It will go ill with thee — ill, I fear." 
 
 " And who is to spread it abroad ? " 
 
 "Not I," said mv father. 
 
 " I knew that," returned the Friend, simply. " I 
 am but a jack-in-the-box Quaker, John. I am in and 
 out in a moment, and then I go back and repent." 
 
 " Let us hope so. Go to thy mother, Hugh ; and 
 88 to thee, John Warder, wait untd I send with thee 
 a note to thy father. There are liquors on the table, 
 Friend Forest." 
 
 ^ly mother set us in order, and cried a little, and 
 said : 
 
 " I am glad he was well beaten. Thou shouldst 
 never fight, my son ; but if thou must, let it be so 
 that thy advei'san.'' repent of it. Man Dieu ! mon 
 Dieul Jen ai jxur; the wild Welsh blood of these 
 Wynnes ! And thy poor little nose— how 't is 
 swelled ! " 
 
 Not understanding her exclamations. Jack said as 
 much, V)ut she answered : 
 
 **0h, it is a fashion of speech we Freucli have. I 
 shall never be cured of it. I fear. This wild blood —
 
 50 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 what will come of it?" And she seemed— as Jack 
 writes long after, being more observing than I — as 
 if she were looking away into the distance of time, 
 thinking of what might come to pass. She had, 
 indeed, strange insight, and even then, as I knew 
 later, had her fears and unspoken anxieties. And 
 so, with a plentiful supper, ended a matter which 
 was, I may say, a critical point in my life.
 
 IV 
 
 FTER this my days went by more peace- 
 fully. The help and example of Jack 
 assisted me greatly in my lessons, which 
 I did little relish. I was more fond of 
 reading, and devoured many books as I 
 sat under our orchard trees in the spring, or nestled 
 up to the fire on the long winter evenings, coiled on 
 the settle, that its high back might keep off drafts. 
 My aunt lent me an abundance of books after that 
 famous " Travels " of Mr. Gulliver, Now and then 
 my father looked at what she gave me, but he soon 
 tired of this, and fell asleep in the great oak chair 
 which Governor Peun gave my grandfather. 
 
 Many volumes, and some queer ones, I fell upon in 
 my aunt's house, but, save once, against the naughti- 
 ness of Mrs. Aphra Behn, she never iiitei-fered. We 
 liked greatly a book '-ailed " Peter Wilkins," by one 
 Paltock, full of a qu'-er folk, who had winged " graun- 
 dees," a sort of crimson robe made of folds of their 
 own skin. None read it now. My dear Jack fancied 
 it much more than I. 
 
 I was nigh to fifteen before we read " Robinson 
 Crusoe," but even earlier I devoured at my aunt's
 
 52 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 "Captain Jack" and "The History of the Devil." 
 The former book filled us vnth delight. Jack and 
 I used to row over to Windmill Island, on the great 
 Delaware, and there at the south end we built a hut, 
 and slew bullfrogs, and found steps on the sand, I 
 being thereafter Friday, and Jack my master. We 
 made, too, a sail and mast for my boat, and, thus 
 aided, saUed of Saturdays up and down the noble 
 river, which I have always loved. 
 
 A still greater joy was to go in our chaise with my 
 mother to the governoi'^s woods, which extended from 
 Broad street to the Schuylkill, and from CallowhiU 
 to South street. There we tied the horse, and under 
 the great trees we found in spring arbutus, even be- 
 neath the snow, and later fetched thence turkey-foot 
 ferns, and wild honeysuckle, and quaker-ladies, with 
 jack-in- the-puipits and fearful gray corpse-lights hid 
 away in the darker woods. In the forest my mother 
 seemed even younger than at home, and played with 
 us, and told us quaint tales of her French people, or 
 fairy stories of Griant Jack and others, which were 
 by no means such as Friends approved. 
 
 In our house one same stern, unbending rule pre- 
 vailed. I have been told by my aunt, Gainor Wynne, 
 that when he was young my father was not always so 
 steadfast in conduct as to satisfy Friends. When I 
 was old enough to observe and think, he had surely 
 become strict enough ; but this severity of opinion 
 and action increased with years, and showed in ways 
 which made hfe difficult for those near to him. In 
 fact, before I attained manhood the tinted arms and
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 53 
 
 the picture of Wjiieote were put away in the attic 
 room. Aly mothers innocent love of ornament also 
 boeame to liim a serious annoyance, and these pecu- 
 liarities seemed at last to deepen whenever the polit- 
 ie;J horizon darkened. At such times he became 
 silent, and yet more keen than usual to detect and 
 denounce an^-thing in our home life which was not 
 to his liking. 
 
 The affairs of a yoimg fellow between the ages of 
 childhood and younger nninhood can have butmeagi'e 
 interest. Our school life went on, and while we 
 worked or played, our elders saw the ever-increas- 
 ing differences between king and colonies becoming 
 year by year more difficult of adjustment. Except 
 when some noisy crisis ai'ose, they had for us lads 
 but little interest. 
 
 Most people used the city landings, or lightered 
 their goods from ships in the stream. We, however, 
 had a great dock buUt out near to the mouth of Dock 
 Creek, and a warehouse. Hither came sloops from 
 my fathers ])lantation of tobacco, near Annapolis, 
 and othei-s from the ''permitted islands," the Cape 
 de Verde and the Madeiras. Staves for ban-els, 
 tobacco, and salt fish were the exports, and in retiu*n 
 came Eastern goods brought to these islands, and 
 huge tuns of Madeira wine. Rum, too, ari'ived from 
 New England, and salted mackerel. What else my 
 father imported, of French goods or tea, reached us 
 from England, for W(; were not allowed to trade with 
 the continent of Europe nor directly with India. 
 
 Once my father took me with Imn to Lewes, near
 
 54 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Cape Hinlopen, on one of his ships, and to my joy we 
 were met there by Tom, our black slave, with horses, 
 and rode back during two days by Newcastle and 
 Chester. As I rode ill, of course, and was sore for a 
 week, my father thought it well that I should learn to 
 ride, and this exercise I took to easily. Just before I 
 was sixteen my aunt gave me a horse, and after we 
 had separated abruptly a few times, and no harm 
 to any, I became the master, and soon an expert 
 rider, as was needful in a land where most long jour- 
 neys were made on horseback. 
 
 It seems to me now, as I look back, that the events 
 of life were preparing me and my friend Jack for 
 what was to follow. Our boating made every part 
 of the two rivers familiar. Now that I had a horse, 
 Jack's father, who would always do for him readily 
 what my Aunt Gainor did for me, yielded to his de- 
 sire to ride ; and so it was that we began, as leisure 
 served, to extend our rides to Germantown, or even 
 to Chestnut Hill. Thus all the outlying country 
 became well known to both of us, and there was not 
 a road, a brook, or a hill which we did not know. 
 
 Until this happy time I had been well pleased to 
 follow my aunt on a pillion behind her servant, 
 Caesar, but now I often went with her, perched on 
 my big horse, and got from my aunt, an excellent 
 horsewoman, some sharp lessons as to leaping, and 
 certain refinements in riding that she had seen or 
 known of in London. 
 
 A Captain Montresor— he who afterward, when a 
 colonel, was Howe's engineer— used to ride with her
 
 HughW^ynne: Free Quaker 55 
 
 in the sprins: of '60. He was a tall, stout man of 
 middle age. and much spoken of as likely to marry 
 my Auut Gaiiior, although she was older tliau he, 
 for, as fat Oliver de Laneey said years after, *' There 
 is no age to a woman's money, and guineas are al- 
 ways young." My aunt, Gainor Wynne, was still a 
 fine gentlewoman, and did not look her years. As 
 concerned this question of age, she was like a man, 
 and so in fact she was in some other ways. She 
 would tell any one how old she was. She once in- 
 formed Mr. de Lancey that she was so much more of 
 a man tlian any British officer she knew that she did 
 not see how she could decentlv maiTv anv of them. 
 
 I think it was about this time that I saw a little 
 scene which much impressed me, aiul which often re- 
 curs to my memory. We— that is, Mr. Montresor, and 
 my Aunt Gainor and I— of a Saturday afternoon rode 
 over by the lower ferry and up Gray's Lane, and so 
 to Mr. Ilamilton's country-seat. " The Woodlands," 
 as it was oaUod, stood on a hill amid many beautiful 
 trees and foreign shi-ul>s and flowers. Below it ran 
 the quiet Schuylkill, and beyond, above the gover- 
 nor's woods, could be seen far away Dr. Kearsley's 
 fine spire of Christ Church. No better did Master 
 Wren himself ever contrive, or more proportioned to 
 the edifice })eneath it. 
 
 On the porch were Mr. Ilainilton and Mrs. Penn, 
 with .saucy gray eyes, and I\Irs. Ferguson. A slim 
 young girl, Rebecca Franks, was teasing a cat. She 
 teased some one nil her days, and did it merrily, and 
 not unkindly. She was Uttle and very pretty, with a
 
 ^6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 dark skin. Did she di'eam she should marry a Brit- 
 ish soldier — a baronet and general — and end her 
 days in London well on in the century yet to come 1 
 
 Andi'ew Allen, whose lather, the chief justice, 
 took his wife, Margaret, from this house, sat on the 
 steps near Miss Franks, and beside her little Peggy 
 Shippen, who already gave promise of the beauty 
 which won for her so pitiful a hfe. Nothing in 
 this garden of gay women and flowers foretold the 
 tragedy of West Point. I think of it now with sad 
 wonder. 
 
 In one or another way these people became known 
 in our annals. Most of them were of the more exclu- 
 sive party known as the governor's set, and belonged 
 to the Church of England. With the Galloways, 
 Cadwaladers, Willings, Shippens, Rawles, and others, 
 they formed a more or less distinct society, affecting 
 London ways, dining at the extreme hour of four, 
 loving cards, the dance, fox-hunting, and to see a 
 main of game-cocks. Among them— not of them— 
 came and went certain of what were called ''gen- 
 teel" Quakers— Morrises, Pembertons, Whartons, 
 and Logans. They had races too,— that is, the gov- 
 ernor's set,— and one of my delights was, on the way 
 to the academy, to stop in Third street, above Chest- 
 nut, and see the race-horses in the Widow Nichols's 
 stables at the sign of the Indian Queen. 
 
 But I have left the laughter of the last century 
 echoing among the columns of Andrew Hamilton's 
 home. The guests were made welcome, and had a dish 
 of tea or a glass of punch ; and those desiring no more
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 57 
 
 bohea set a spoon across the cup. and fell into groups. 
 My aunt opened the velvet bag which hung at her 
 waist, to pay Mi-s. Ferguson n small gambling debt 
 of the night before. 
 
 '' Ah, here ! *' she cried gaily, " Mr. Montresor, this 
 is for you. One of Mr. Grenville's st-tmips ; I kept 
 two. I was lucky enough to get them from Master 
 Hughes, tlie stamp officer— a great cimosity. You 
 shall have one." 
 
 Mr. Montresor bowed. " I will keep it," he said, 
 "until it comes into use again." 
 
 "That will be never,'' said Andrew Allen, turning. 
 
 " Never ! " repeated Miss Wynne. " Let us hope, 
 sir, it may be a lesson to all future ministers." 
 
 "A man was wanted in New York in place of Mr. 
 Gage," cried Mrs. Ferguson. " As to those New Eng- 
 land Puritans, they were in rebellion before they 
 came over, and have been ever since." 
 
 " And what of New York, and this town, and Vir- 
 ginia f '' said my Aunt Gainor, with her great nose 
 well up. 
 
 "I would have ])ut an end to tlieir disloval wavs, 
 one and all," cried ]\Irs. Ferguson. 
 
 " It is curious," said ]\Ir. Galloway, " that the crown 
 should be so thwai-ted. What people have more rea- 
 son to be contented?" 
 
 " Contented !" said Miss Wynne. " Already they 
 talk of taxes in whicli we are to have no voice. Con- 
 tented ! and not a ship dare trade with France. It 
 amazes me that there is a man in the plantations to 
 bit quiet under it."
 
 58 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 "I am of your opinion, madam," said Mr. Mao- 
 pherson, ''and I might go still further," 
 
 " They consider us as mere colonials, and we may 
 not so much as have a bishop of our own. I would 
 I had my way, su'." 
 
 "And what would you do. Mistress Wynne?" 
 asked Mr. Chew. 
 
 " I would say, ' Mr. Attorney-General, give us the 
 same liberty all the English have, to go and come on 
 the free seas ! ' " 
 
 " And if not ? " said Montresor, smiling. 
 
 "And if not," she returned, "then — "and she 
 touched the sword at his side. I wondered to see 
 how resolute she looked. 
 
 The captain smiled. "I hope you will not com- 
 mand a regiment, madam." 
 
 " Would to God I could ! " 
 
 "I should run," he cried, laughing. And thus 
 pleasantly ended a talk which was becoming bitter 
 to many of this gay company. 
 
 Destiny was already sharpening the sword we were 
 soon to di'aw, and of those who met and laughed that 
 day there were sons who were to be set against 
 fathers, and brothers whom war was to find in hos- 
 tile ranks, A j'^oung fellow of my age, the son of 
 Mr, Macpherson, sat below us on the steps with the 
 girls. He was to leave his young life on the bastion 
 at Quebec, and, for myself, how little did I dream of 
 what I should get out of the devil-pot of war which 
 was beginning to simmer ! 
 
 Very soon I was sent with Rebecca Franks and
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 59 
 
 Miss Chew to srather flowei*s. Miss Franks e\adently 
 despised my youth, aud between the two little nudds 
 1, being unused to girls, had not a pleasant time, and 
 was glad to get back to the porch, whei*e we stood 
 silent until bidden to be seated, upon which the girls 
 curtseyed and I bowed, and then sat down to eat 
 cakes and drink syllabub. 
 
 At last my aunt put on her safeguard petticoat, 
 the horses came, and we rode awav. For a while she 
 was silent, answering the captain in monosyllables ; 
 but just beyond the ferry his horse cast a shoe, and 
 went so lame that the oflficer must needs return to 
 Woodlands leading him, there to ask a new mount 
 
 For yet a while my aunt rode on without a word, 
 but presently began to rally me as to Miss Chew. 
 I had to confess I cared not for her or the other, or, 
 indeed, for maids at all. 
 
 " It will come," said slie. " Oh, it will come soon 
 enough. Peggy Chew has the better manners. Aud, 
 by the way, sir, when you bow, keep your back 
 straight. !Mr. Montresor has a pretty way of it. 
 Observe him, Hugh. But he is a fool, and so are 
 the rest : and as for Bessy Ferguson, I should like to 
 lay a whip over her back like that," and she hit my 
 horse sharply, \K>or thing, so that I lost a stirrup 
 and came near to falling. 
 
 Wlien the beast got (luiet I asked why these nice 
 people, who had sucli pleasant ways, were all fools. 
 
 " I will tell you," she said. " There are many and 
 constant causes of trouble between us and the king. 
 When one ends, like this IStamp Act, another is
 
 6o Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 hatched. It was the best of us who left England, 
 and we are trained to rely on ourselves, and have 
 no need of England. You mil live to see dark days, 
 Hugh — just what, God alone can tell ; but you wiU 
 live to see them, and your life will have to answer 
 some questions. This may seem strange to you, my 
 lad, but it will come." 
 
 What would come I knew not. She said no more, 
 but rode homeward at speed, as she Hked best to do. 
 
 Thus time went by, until I was full sixteen, having 
 been at the college a year later than was usual. I 
 had few battles to fight, and contrived to keep these 
 to myself, or to get patched up at my Aunt Wynne's, 
 who delighted to hear of these conflicts, and always 
 gave me a shilling to heal my wounds. My dear, 
 fair-haired Jack, Aunt Gainor thought a girl-boy, 
 and fit only to seR goods, or, at best, to become a 
 preacher. His father she used and disliked. 
 
 Meanwhile we had been through Horace and 
 Cicero,— and Ovid for our moral improvement, I 
 suppose,— with Virgil and SaUust, and at last Ceesar, 
 whom alone of them all I liked. Indeed, Jack and 
 I built over a brook in my Aunt Gainor's garden at 
 Chestnut Hill a fair model of Caesar's great bridge 
 over the Rhine. This admired product of our in- 
 genuity was much praised by Captain Montresor, 
 who was well aware of my aunt's weakness for a 
 certain young person. 
 
 My father's decisions came always without warn- 
 mg. In the fall of 1769 I was just gone back to the 
 academy, and put to work at mathematics and some
 
 Huirh Wynne: Free Quaker 61 
 
 Greek under James Wilson, at that period one of the 
 tutors, and some time later an associate judge of 
 the Supreme Court. This great statesman and law- 
 yer of after-days was a most delightful teacher. He 
 took a fancy to my Jack, and, as we were insepa- 
 ra))lc, put up with my tlip])ancy and deficient scholar- 
 ship. Jack's diary says otherwise, and that he saw in 
 me that which, well used, miglit nifike of me a man 
 of distinction. At all events, he liked well to walk 
 with us on a Saturday, or to go in my boat, which 
 was for us a great honour. My father a])i)roved of 
 James Wilson, and liked him on the hoUdayto shai*e 
 our two-o'clock dinner. Then, and then only, did I 
 understand the rigour and obstinacy of my father's 
 opinions, for they ofttimes fell into debate as to the 
 right of the crown to tax us without representation. 
 Mr. Wilson said many towns in England had no 
 voice in Parliament, and that, if once the crown 
 yielded the principle we stood on, it would change 
 the whole political condition in the mother-land; 
 and this the king would never agi-ee to see. Mr. 
 Wilson thought we had been foolish to say, as 
 many did, that, while we would have no internal 
 ta.\es, we would submit to a tax on imports. This he 
 considered even worse. My father was for obedience 
 and non-resistance, and could not see that we were 
 fighting a battle for the hberty of all Englishmen. 
 He simply repeated his opinions, and was but a child 
 in the hands of this clear-headed thinker. My father 
 might well have feared for the effect of ^Ir. Wilson's 
 views on a lad of my age, in whose mind he opened
 
 62 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 vistas of thought far in advance of those which, with- 
 out him, I should ever have seen. 
 
 John Wynne was, however, too habitually accus- 
 tomed to implicit obedience to dream of danger, and 
 thus were early sown in my mind the seeds of future 
 action, with some doubt as to my father's ability to 
 cope with a man like oui' tutor, who considerately 
 weighed my father's sentiments (they were hardly 
 opinions), and so easily and courteously disposed of 
 them that these logical defeats were clear even to us 
 boys. 
 
 Our school relations with this gentleman were 
 abruptly broken. One day, in late October of 1769, 
 we went on a long walk through the proprietaiy's 
 woods, gathering for my mother boughs of the many- 
 tinted leaves of autumn. These branches she liked 
 to set in jars of water in the room where we sat, so 
 that it might be gay with the lovely colours she so 
 much enjoyed. As we entered the forest about 
 Eighth street Mr. Wilson joined us, and went along, 
 chatting agreeably with my mother. Presently he 
 said to me : "I have just left your father with Mr. 
 Pemberton, talking about some depredations in Mr. 
 Penn's woods. He tells me you boys are to leave 
 school, but for what I do not know. I am sorry." 
 
 Jack and 1 had of late expected this, and I, for 
 one, was not grieved, but my friend was less well 
 pleased. 
 
 We strolled acrcss to the Schuylkill, and there, 
 sitting down, amused ourselves with making a little 
 crown of twisted twigs and leaves of the red and yel-
 
 Huirh Wynne: Free Quaker 67 
 
 low maples. This we set merrily on my mother's gray 
 beaver, while 3Ir. Wilsou declared it most becoming. 
 •Just tlien Frieud Pemberton and my father came 
 upon us, and, as usual when the latter appeai*ed, our 
 laughter ceased. 
 
 " I shall want thee this afternoon, Hugh," he said. 
 "And what foohslmess is tJiis on thy head, mfe? 
 Art thou going home in this guise?" 
 
 " It seems au innocent prettiness," said Pemberton, 
 while my mother, in no wise dismayed, looked up 
 with her big blue eyes. 
 
 ** Thou wilt always be a child," said my father. 
 
 " Je Vespere," said the mother; "must I be put in 
 a corner? The ban Dieu hath just changed the 
 forest fiishions. I wonder is He a Quaker, Friend 
 Pemberton?" 
 
 "Thou hast ever a neat answer," said the gentle 
 old man. " Come, John, we are not yet done." 
 
 jNIy father said no more, and we boys were stUl as 
 mice. We went homeward with our mirth quite at 
 au end, Jack and Wilson leaving us at Fom*th street. 
 
 In the afti^rnoon about six— for an hour had been 
 named— I saw my aunt's chaise at the door. I knew 
 at once that something unusual was in store, for 
 Mistress Wynne rart'ly came hither except to see my 
 mother, and tht-n always in tlie forenoon. Moreover, 
 I noticed mv fatlier at the window, and never had I 
 known him to retm'u so early. When I went in he 
 said at once : 
 
 " I have been telling thy aunt of my uitentiou in 
 regard to thee."
 
 64 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 ' ' . ■■ ■ I.I .. y 
 
 " And I utterly disapprove of it," said my aunt. 
 
 " Wait," he said. *' I desire that thou shalt enter as 
 one of my clerks ; but first it is my will that, as the 
 great and good proprietary decreed, thou shouldst 
 acquire some mechanic trade ; I care not what." 
 
 I was silent ; I did not like it. Even far later, cer- 
 tain of the stricter Friends adhered to a rule which 
 was once useful, but was now no longer held to be of 
 imperative force. 
 
 ''I would suggest shoemaking," said my Aunt 
 Gainor, scornfully, "or tailoring." 
 
 " I beg of thee, Gainor," said my mother, " not to 
 discontent the lad." 
 
 " In this matter," returned my father, " I will not 
 be thwarted. I asked thee to come hither, not to 
 ridicule a sensible decision, but to consult upon it." 
 
 " You have had all my wisdom," said the lady. 
 " I had thought to ask my friend, CharlesTownshend, 
 for a pair of colours ; but now that troops are sent to 
 Boston to override all reason, I doubt it. Do as you 
 will with the boy. I wash my hands of him." 
 
 This was by no means my father's intention. I 
 saw his face set in an expression I well knew ; but 
 my mother laid a hand on his arm, and, with what 
 must have been a great effort, he controlled his 
 anger, and said coldly : " I have talked this over with 
 thy friend, Joseph Warder, and he desired that his 
 son should share in my decision as to Hugh. Talk 
 to him, Gainor." 
 
 " I do not take counsel with my agent, John. He 
 does as I bid him. I could shift his opinions at a
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 65 
 
 word. He is a Toiy to-day, and a Whig to-raorrow, 
 and anything to anybody. Why do you talk such 
 nonsense to me ? Let me tell you that he has ah'eady 
 been to iii^k me what I think of it. He feels some 
 doubt, poor man. Indeed, he is disposed to consider. 
 Bother ! what does it matter what he considers ? " 
 
 " If he has changed his mind I have not. Joseph 
 hath ever a coat of manv colours." 
 
 '• I shall tell him,"' she cried, laughing. The Quaker 
 rule of repression and non-resistance by no means 
 forbade the use of the brutal bludgeon of sarcasm, 
 as many a debate in Meeting could testify. She rose 
 as she spoke, and my mother said gently : 
 
 " Thou wilt not tell him, Gainor." 
 
 Meanwhile I stood amazed at a talk which so 
 deeply concerned me. 
 
 " Shall it be a smitliy ? " said my father. 
 
 " Oh, what you like. The Wynnes ai-e well down 
 in the world— trade, horseshoeing. Good evening." 
 
 " Gainor ! Gainor ! " cried my mother ; but she was 
 gone in ^vTath, and out of the house. 
 
 '• Thou wilt leave the academy. I have already 
 arranged with Lowry, in South street, to take thee. 
 Three months shoukl answer." 
 
 To this I said, " Yes, yes," and went away but little 
 pleased, my mother saying, " It is only for a time, 
 my son."
 
 [JAYS my friend Jack in his journal: 
 " The bovs were in these times keen 
 politicians whenever any unusual event 
 occurred, and the great pot was like soon 
 ^ to boil furiously, and scald the cooks. 
 Charles Townshend's ministry w^as long- over. The 
 Stamp Act had come and gone. The Non-importa- 
 tion Agreement had been signed even by men like 
 Andrew Allen and Mr. Penn. Lord North, a gentle 
 and obstinate person, was minister. The Lord Hills- 
 borough, a man after the king's heart, had the colo- 
 nial office. The troops had landed in Boston, and 
 the letters of Dickinson and Vindex had fanned 
 the embers of discontent into flame. 
 
 " Thi'ough it all we boys contrived to know eve y- 
 thing that was happening. I had a sense of fear about 
 it, but to Hugh I think it was delightful, A fire, a mob, 
 confusion, and disorder appeal to most boys' minds 
 as desirable. My father was terrified at the disturb- 
 ance of commerce, and the angry words which began 
 to be heard. Mr. John Wynne very coolly ad- 
 justed his affairs, as I have heard, and settled down 
 with the Friends, such as Wain and Shoemaker and 
 
 66
 
 Iluirh Wynne: Free Quaker 67 
 
 Pembei-tou and the rest, to accept whatever the king 
 might decree." 
 
 Jack and I talked it all over in wild boy fashion, 
 and went eveiy day at six in the morning to Lowry's 
 on South street At fii-st we both hated the work, 
 but this did not last ; and, once we were used to 
 it, the business had for fellows like ourselves a 
 cei-tiiin chju-m. The horses we learned to know and 
 undei-stand. Theii* o'vvnei's were of a class with which 
 in those days it was not thought seemly for persons 
 of our degi*ee to be familiar ; here it was unavoid- 
 able, and I soon learned how deep in the hearts of 
 the people was the determination to resist the author- 
 ity of the crown. 
 
 The lads we knew of the gay set used to come and 
 laugh at us, as we plied the hummer or blew tlie 
 bellows ; and one day Miss Franks and Miss Peggy 
 Chew, and I think Miss Shippen, stood awhile with- 
 out the forge, making verj' merry. Jack got red in 
 the face, but I was angry, worked on doggedly, and 
 said nothing. At last I thrashed soundly one Master 
 Galloway, who called me a horse-cobbler, and after 
 that no more trouble. 
 
 I became strong and muscular as the work went on, 
 and got to like our master, who was all for liberty, 
 and sang as he struck, and taught me much that was 
 u-seful as to the management of horses, so that I 
 was not long unhappy. My father, pleased at my 
 <liligence, once said to me that I seemed to be at- 
 tentive to the business in hand ; and, as far as I 
 remember, this was the only time in my life that
 
 68 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 he ever gave me a word of even the mildest com- 
 mendation. 
 
 It was what Jack most needed. His slight, 
 graceful figure filled out and became very straight, 
 losing a stoop it had, so that he grew to be a well- 
 built, active young f eUow, rosy, and quite too pretty, 
 with his blond locks. After our thu*d month began, 
 Lowry man'ied a widow, and moved away to her farm 
 up the country and beyond the Blue Bell tavern, 
 where he carried on his business, and where he was to 
 appear again to me at a time when I sorely needed 
 him. It was to be another instance of how a greater 
 Master ovemiles our lives for good. 
 
 Just after we had heard the news of the widow, 
 my father came into the forge one day with Joseph 
 Warder. He stood and watched me shoe a horse, and 
 asked Lowry if I had learned the business. When 
 he replied that we both might become more expert, 
 but that we could make nails, and shoe fairly well, 
 my father said : 
 
 ^' Take off these aprons, and go home. There will 
 be other work for both of you." 
 
 We were glad enough to obey, and, dropping our 
 leathern aprons, thus ended our apprenticeship. 
 Next week Tom Lowry, our master, appeared with 
 a fine beaver for me, saying, as I knew, that it was 
 tlie custom to give an apprentice a beaver when his 
 time was up, and that he had never been better 
 served by any. 
 
 My Aunt Gainor kept away all this time, and 
 made it clear that she did not wish my black hands
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 69 
 
 at her table. My father, no doubt, felt sure that, so 
 far as I was eoueerued, .<be would soon or lat^ relent. 
 This, in faet, came about in midwinter, upon her 
 asking mv mother to send me to see her. My father 
 obsen'ed that he had no will to make quarrels, or 
 to keep them alive. My mother smiled demurely, 
 knowing him as none other did, and bade me go 
 with her. 
 
 In her own room slie had laid out on the bed a 
 brown eoat of velveteen, with breeches to matt'li, and 
 stockings with brown clocks, and also a brown beaver, 
 the back looped up, all of which slie had, with sweet 
 craftiness, provided, that I might appear well before 
 my Aunt Gainor. 
 
 " Thou wilt fight no one on the way, Hugli, And 
 now, what shall be done with his hands, so rough and 
 so liard f Scrub them well. Tell Gainor I luive two 
 new lilies for her, just come from Jamaica. Bulbs 
 they ai*e; I will care for them in the cellar. I was 
 near to forget the marmalade of ])itter orange. She 
 must .send ; I cannot trust Tom. Thv father had him 
 whipped at tlie jail yesterday, and he is sulky. Put 
 on thy clothes, and I will come again to see how' 
 they fit thee." 
 
 In a little while she was back again, declaring I 
 lo<^)ked a lord, and that if she were a girl she should 
 fall in love with me, and then— "But I shall never 
 let any woman but me ki.ss thee. I sliall be jealous. 
 And now, sir. a l)ow. That was better. Now, as I 
 curt.sey, it is bad manners to have it over before I am 
 fully risen. Then it is permitted that les beaitx yeiu
 
 70 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 se rencontrent. Comme ra. Ca va Men. That is bet- 
 ter done." 
 
 " Wliat vanities are these 1 " said my father at the 
 door she had left open. 
 
 She was nowise alarmed. " Come in, John," she 
 cried. "He does not yet bow as well as thou. It 
 would crack some Quaker backs, I think. I can hear 
 Friend Wain's joints creak when he gets up." 
 
 " Nonsense, wife ! Thou art a child to this day." 
 
 " Then kiss me, mon pere.''^ And she ran to him 
 and stood on tiptoe, so engaging and so pretty that he 
 could not help but lift up her slight figure, and, kiss- 
 ing her, set her down. It was a moment of rare ten- 
 derness. Would I had known or seen more like it ! 
 
 " Thou wilt ruin him, wife." 
 
 As I ran down the garden she called after me, 
 "Do not thou forget to kiss her hand. To-morrow 
 will come the warehouse ; but take the sweets of life 
 as they offer. Adieu." She stood to watch me, all 
 her dear heart in her eyes, something pure, and, as 
 it were, virginal in her look. God rest her soul ! 
 
 It was late when I got to my aunt's, somewhere 
 about eight, and the hum of voices warned me of her 
 having company. As I entered she rose, expecting 
 an older guest, and, as I had been bid, I bowed low 
 and touched her hand with my lips, as I said : 
 
 " Dear Aunt Gainor, it has been so long ! " I could 
 have said nothing better. She laughed. 
 
 " Here is my nephew, Mr. Etheriugton "—this to an 
 English major ; " and, Captain Wallace of the king's 
 navy, my nephew."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 71 
 
 Tlic capt<aiu was a rough, boisterous sailor, and thfl 
 other a miui with too much nianuer, and, as I heard 
 hiter, risen from the ranks. 
 
 He sahited me with a lively thump on the shoul- 
 der, which I did not relish. " Zounds ! sir, but you 
 are a stout young Quaker ! " 
 
 *' We are most of us Quakei"s here, captain," said a 
 quiet gentleman, who saw, I fancy, by my face that 
 this rude greeting was unpleasant to me. 
 
 " How are you, Hugh?" This was the Master 
 of the Rolls, Mr. John Morris. Then my aunt said, 
 " Go and speak to the ladies— you know them ; " and 
 as I turned aside, '' I beg pardon, Sir William ; this 
 is my noj)hew, Hugh Wynne." This was addressed 
 to a liigli-coloured personage in yellow velvet with 
 gold buttons, and a white flowered waistcoat, and 
 with his queue in a fine hair-net. 
 
 " Tills Is Sir William Draper, Hugh ; he who took 
 Manilla, as you must know." I did not, nor did I 
 know until later that he was one of the victims of 
 the sharp pen of Junius, with whom, for the sake of 
 the Marquis of Granl)y, he had rashly ventured to 
 tilt. The famous soldier smiled as I stiluted him 
 with my l^est bow. 
 
 " Fine food for powder. Mistress Wynne, and al- 
 ready sixteen ! I was in serv'ice three years earlier. 
 Should he wi.sh for an ensign's commission, I am at 
 your sen-ice." 
 
 "Ah, Sir William, that might have been, a year or 
 80 ago, but no\^ he may have to fight General Gage.** 
 
 " The gods forbid ! Oui* poor general ! "
 
 72 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 '^'Mistress Wynne is a rank Whig," put in Mrs. 
 Ferguson, "She reads Dickinson's 'Farmer's Let- 
 ters/ and all the wicked treason of that man Adams." 
 
 " A low demagogue ! " cried Mrs. Galloway. " I 
 hear there have been disturbances in Boston, and 
 that because one James Otis has been beaten by our 
 officers, and because our bands play ' Yankee Doodle ' 
 on Sundays in front of the churches— I beg pardon, 
 the meetings— Mr. Robinson, the king's collector, has 
 had to pay and apologise. Most shameful it is ! " 
 
 " I should take short measures," said the sailor. 
 
 "And I," cried Etherington, "I have just come 
 from Virginia, but not a recruit could I get. It is 
 like a nest of ants in a turmoil, and the worst of 
 all are the officers who served in the French war. 
 There is, too, a noisy talker, Patrick Henry, and a 
 Mr. Washington." 
 
 " I think it was he who saved the wreck of the king's 
 army under Mr. Braddock," said my aunt. "I can 
 remember how they all looked. Not a wig among 
 them. The lodges must have been full of them, but 
 their legs saved their scalps." 
 
 "Is it for this they caU them wigwams?" cries 
 naughty Miss Chew. 
 
 " Fie ! fie ! " says her mamma, while my aunt 
 laughed merrily. 
 
 "A mere Potomac planter," said Etherington, " 'pon 
 my soul— and with such airs, as if they were gentle- 
 men of the line." 
 
 " Perhaps," said my aunt, " they had not had your 
 opportunities of knowing all grades of the service."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 'ji^ 
 
 The major Hushed. " I have served the king as 
 well as I know how, and I trust, madam, I shjiU have 
 tlie pleasure to aid in the punishment of some of 
 these insolent rebels." 
 
 " ^lay you be there to see, Hugh," said my aunt, 
 laughing. 
 
 Willing to make a diversion, Mrs. Chew said, " Let 
 US defeat these Tories at the card-table, Gainor." 
 
 "Witli all my heart," said my aunt, glad of this 
 turn in the talk. 
 
 " Come and give me luck, Hugh," said Mrs. Fergu- 
 son. " "WTiat a big fellow you are ! Your aunt must 
 find vou ruffles soon, and a steenku-k." 
 
 With this I sat down beside her, and wondered to 
 see how eager and interested they all became, and 
 how the guineas and gold half-joes passed from one 
 to another, wliile the gay Mrs. Ferguson, who was at 
 tlie table with Mrs. Penn, Captain Wallace, and my 
 aunt, gave me my fii'st lesson in this form of in- 
 dustry. 
 
 A little later there was tea, chocolate, and rusks, 
 with punch for the men ; and Dr. Sliippcn came in, 
 and the great Dr. Kush, with his delicate, clean-cut 
 face under a full wig. Dr. Shippen was full of talk 
 about some fine game-cocks, and others were busy 
 with the spring races in Centre Square. 
 
 You may be sure I kept my ears open to hear wliat 
 all these great men said. I chanced to heai- Dr. Rush 
 deep in tiilk behind the punch-tnlile with a handsome 
 young man, Dr. Morgan, newly come from London. 
 
 Dr. Rush said, " I have news to-day, in a letter fiom
 
 74 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Mr. Adams, of things being unendurable. He is bold 
 enough to talk of separation from England ; but that 
 is going far, too far." 
 
 " I think so, indeed," said Morgan. " I saw Dr. 
 Franklin in London. He advises conciliation, and 
 not to act with rash haste. These gentlemen yon- 
 der make it difficult." 
 
 " Yes ; there is no insolence like that of the soldier." 
 And this was all I heard or remember, for my aunt 
 bade me run home and thank my mother, telling 
 me to come again and soon. 
 
 The plot was indeed thickening, and even a lad 
 as young as I could scent peril in the air. At home 
 I heard nothing of it. No doubt my father read at 
 his warehouse the " Pennsylvania Journal," or more 
 likely Galloway's gazette, the " Chronicle," which was 
 rank Tory, and was suppressed in 1773. But outside 
 of the house I learned the news readily. Mr. War- 
 der took papei*s on both sides, and also the Boston 
 " Packet," so that Jack and I were well informed, and 
 used to take the gazett.es when his father had read 
 them, and devour them safely in oui* boat, when by 
 rare chance I had a holiday. 
 
 And so passed the years 1770, 1771, and 1772, 
 when Lord North precipitated the crisis by attempt- 
 ing to control the judges in Massachusetts, who were 
 in future to be paid by the crown, and would thus 
 pass under its control. Adams now suggested com- 
 mittees of correspondence, and thus the fii'st step 
 toward united action was taken. 
 
 These years, up to the autumn of 1772, were not
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker j^ 
 
 without influence on my own life for both good and 
 eWl. I was, of eoiu'so, kept sedulously at work at our 
 business, and, thoui^h liking it even less tliau farrieiy, 
 leanied it well enough. It was not without its plea- 
 sures. Certainly it was au agreeable thing to know 
 the old merchant captains, and to talk to their men 
 or themselves. The sea had not lost its romance. 
 Men could remember Kidd and Blackbeard. In the 
 low-lying dens below Dock Creek and on King street, 
 were many, it is to be feared, who had seen the black 
 flag flying, and who knew too weU the keys and 
 slioals of the West Indies. The captain who put to 
 sea with such sailors had need to be resolute and 
 ready. Ships went armed, and I was amazed to see, 
 in the holds of our own ships, carronades, which out 
 on the ocean were hoisted up and set in place on deck ; 
 also cutlasses and muskets in the cabin, and good 
 store of pikes. I ventured once to ask my father if 
 this were consistent with non-re«istance. He replied 
 that ph-ates were like to wild beasts, and vhat I had 
 better attend to my business ; after which I said no 
 more, having food for thought. 
 
 These captains got thus a noble training, were splen- 
 did seamen, and n<»t unused to arms and danger, as 
 proved fortunate in days to come. Once I would 
 have gone to the Madeiras with Captain Biddle, but 
 unluckily my mother prevailed with my father to 
 forbid it. It had been better for me had it been de- 
 cided otherwi.se, because I w;is fast getting an edu- 
 cation which did me no good. 
 
 "Indeed," says Jack later on in his diary, "I was
 
 76 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 much, troubled in those seventies " (he means up to 
 '74, when we were full twenty-one) '^ about my friend 
 Hugh. The town was full of oflQcers of all grades, 
 who came and went, and brought with them much 
 licence and contempt for colonists in general, and a 
 silly way of parading their own sentiments on all 
 occasions. Gambling, hard drinking, and all manner 
 of worse things became common and more openly 
 indulged in. Neither here nor in Boston could young 
 women walk about unattended, a new and strange 
 thing in our quiet town. 
 
 " Mistress Gainor's house was full of these gentle- 
 men, whom she entertained with a freedom only 
 equalled by that with which she spoke her good 
 Whig mind. The air was full of excitement. Busi- 
 ness fell oif, and Hugh and I had ample leisure to 
 do much as we liked. 
 
 " I must honestly declare that I deserve no praise 
 for having escaped the temptations which beset 
 Hugh. I hated all excess, and suffered in body if I 
 drank or ate more than was wise. As regards worse 
 things than wine and cards, I tliink Miss Wynne was 
 right when she described me as a girl-boy; for the 
 least rudeness or laxity of talk in women I disliked, 
 and as to the mere modesties of the person, I have 
 always been like some well-nurtured maid. 
 
 " Thus it was that when Hugh, encouraged by his 
 aunt, fell into the company of these loose, swagger- 
 ing captains and cornets, I had either to give up 
 him, who was unable to resist them, or to share 
 in their vicious ways myself. It was my personal
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 'jj 
 
 discrust at drunkenness or loose societj' which saved 
 me, not any moral or relisxious safeguards, although 
 I trust I wtU3 not altogether without these helps. I 
 have seen now and then that to be refined in tastes 
 and feehngs is a great aid to a virtuous life. Also I 
 have known some who would have been drunkards 
 but for theii* heads aiul stoma<.'hs, which so be- 
 haved as to be good substitutes for conscience. It 
 is sometimes the body which saves the soul. Both 
 of these helps I had, but my dear Hugh had neither. 
 He was a great, strong, masculine fellow, and if I 
 may seem to have said that he wanted refined feel- 
 ings, that is not so, and to him, who will never read 
 these lines, and to myself, I must apologise." 
 
 I did come to see these pages, as you know. I 
 think he meant, that with the ^\^ne of youth and at 
 times of other vintages, in my veins, the strong pater- 
 nal blood, which in my father only a true, if hard, 
 reUgion kept in order, was too much for me. If I 
 state this awkwardly it is because aU excuses are 
 awkward. Looking back, I wonder that I was not 
 woi-se, and that I did not go to the uttermost devil. 
 I was vig<^)rous, and had the stomach of a temperate 
 o.\, and a head which made no complaints. The 
 morning after some mad revel I could rise at five, and 
 go out in my boat and overboard, and then home in 
 a glow, with a fine appetite for breakfast ; and I was 
 so big and tall that I was thought to be many years 
 older than I was. 
 
 I should have been less able unwatched to go 
 down tliis ea«v descent, had it not been for a train
 
 7^ Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 of circumstances whicli not only left me freer than I 
 ought to have been, but, in the matter of money, made 
 it only too possible for me to hold my own amid 
 evil or lavish company. My aunt had lived in Lon- 
 don, and in a society which had all the charm of 
 breeding, and all the vices of a period more coarse 
 than ours. She detested mv father's notions, and if 
 she meant to win me to her own she took an ill way 
 to do it. I was presented to the English officers, and 
 freely supplied with money, to which I had been 
 quite unused, so long as my father was the only 
 source of supply. We were out late when I was 
 presumed to be at my Aunt Gainoi-'s ; and to drink 
 and bet, or to see a race or cock-fight, or to pull 
 off knockers, or to bother the ancient watchmen, 
 were now some of my most reputable amusements. 
 I began to be talked about as a bit of a rake, and 
 my Aunt Gainor was not too greatly displeased ; she 
 would hear of om* exploits and say " Fie ! fie ! " and 
 then give me more guineas. Worse than all, my 
 father was deep in his business, lessening his ven- 
 tures, and thus leaving me more time to sow the 
 seed of idleness. Everything, as I now see it, com- 
 bined to make easy for me the downward path. I 
 went along it without the company of Jack Wardei", 
 and so we drew apart ; he would none of it. 
 
 When my father began to withdraw his capital my 
 mother was highly pleased, and more than once in 
 my presence said to him : " Wliy, John, dost thou 
 strive for more and more money 1 Hast thou not 
 enough ? Let us give up all this care and go to our
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 79 
 
 great farm at Merion, and live as peaceful as our 
 cattle." 8he did not reckon upou the force with 
 which the habits of a life bound my father to his 
 business. 
 
 Iremember that it wasfaronin April, 1773, wheumy 
 Aunt Gainor appeared one day in my father's count- 
 ing-house. Hers was a well-known figure on King 
 street, and even in the unpleasant region alongshore 
 to the south of Dock street. She would dismount, 
 leave her horse to the groom, and, with a heavily 
 mounted, silver-topped whip in hand, and her riding- 
 petticoat gathered up, would march along, picking 
 her way tlirough mud and filth. Here she contrived 
 to find the queer china things she desired, or in some 
 mysterious way she secured cordials and such liquors 
 as no one else coidd get. 
 
 Once she took my mother with her, and loaded her 
 with gods of the Orient and fine China pongee sdks. 
 
 '* But, Hugh," said the dear lady, " il li'est pas jws- 
 sible de vons la lUcrire. Man Dieu ! she can say ter- 
 rible words, and I have seen a man who ventured 
 some rudeness to me— no, no, nio7i cJier, nothing to 
 anger you ; // nvait peur de ceffe feitnne. He was 
 afraid of her— her and her whip. He was so alarmed 
 that he let her liave a great china mandarin for a 
 mere nothing. I think he was glad to see her well 
 out of his low tavern." 
 
 " But the man," I urged ; " what did he say to thee, 
 mother?" 
 
 ^^ y imports, mon fih. I did want the mandarin. 
 He nodded this way— this way. He M-agged his head
 
 8o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 as a dog wags his tail, like Thomas Scattergood in 
 the Meeting. Comme gd." She became that man in a 
 moment, turning up the edge of her silk shawl, and 
 nodding solemnly. I screamed with laughter. Ever 
 since I was a child, despite my father's dislikes, she 
 had taught me French, and when alone with me 
 liked me to chatter in her mother language. In 
 fact, I learned it well. 
 
 On the occasion of which I began just now to 
 speak, my Aunt Gainor entered, with a graver face 
 than common, and I rising to leave her with my 
 father, she put her whip across my breast as I turned,, 
 and said, " No ; I want you to hear what I have tc^ 
 say." 
 
 '^Wliatisit, Gainor?" 
 
 "This business of the ship 'Gaspee'the Rhode Isl- 
 and men burned is making trouble in the East. The 
 chief justice of Rhode Island, Hopkins, has refused 
 to honour the order to arrest these Rhode-Islanders." 
 
 " Pu-ates ! " said my father. 
 
 " Pirates, if you like. We shall all be pirates be- 
 fore long." 
 
 "Well, Gainor, is that aU ? It does not concern me."' 
 
 "No; I have letters from London which informi 
 me that the Lord North is but a poppet, and as the 
 king pulls the wires he will dance to whatever tune 
 the king likes. He was a nice, amiable young fellow 
 when I stayed at his father's, my Lord Guilford's, 
 and not without learning and judgment. But for 
 the Exchequer— a queer choice, I must say." 
 
 " It is to be presumed that the king knows how to
 
 HughW^ynne: Free Quaker 8 1 
 
 choose his ministers. Thou knowest what I think, 
 Gainor. Wo have but to obey those whom the Lord 
 has set over us. We ai"e told to render unto Cn?sar 
 the things which are Civsai-'s, and to go our ways in 
 peace." 
 
 *'The question is, ^Miat are Ca?sar's?" said my 
 aunt. ^'Shidl Ca\stu* judge always? I came to tcU 
 you that it is understood in Loudon, although not 
 public, that it is meant to tax our tea. Now we do 
 not buy ; we smuggle it from Holland ; but if the 
 India Company should get a drawback on tea, we 
 shall be forced to take it for its cheapness, even with 
 the duty on it of threepence a pound." 
 
 "It were but a silly scheme, Gainor. I cannot 
 credit it." 
 
 " Who coidd, John ? and yet it is to be tried, and 
 all for a matter of a few hundred pounds a year. It 
 will ])e tried not now or soon, but next fall when the 
 tea-ships come from China." 
 
 " And if it is to be as thou art informed, what of 
 it?" 
 
 "A storm— a tempest in a teapot," said she. 
 
 My father stood still, deep in thought. He had 
 a profound respect for the commercial sagacity of 
 this clear-headed woman. Moreover, he was sure, 
 as usual, to be asked to act in Philadelphia as a con- 
 signee of the India Company. 
 
 She seemed to see through her brotlier, as one sees 
 through gla.ss. "You got into trouble when the 
 stamps came." 
 
 " What has that got to do with thisT"
 
 82 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 "And again when you would not sign the Non- 
 importation Agreement in '68." 
 
 " WeU ? " 
 
 " They will ask you to receive the tea." 
 
 " And I will do it. How can I refuse ? I should 
 lose all their India trade." 
 
 " There will soon be no trade to lose. You are, as 
 I know, drawing in your capital. Go abroad. Wind 
 up youi" affairs in England ; do the same in HoUand. 
 Use all your ships this summer. Go to Madeira from 
 London. Buy freely, and pay at once so as to save 
 interest ; it wiU rise fast. Come home in the fall of 
 '74 late. Hold the goods, and, above all, see that 
 in your absence no consignments be taken. Am I 
 clear, John?" 
 
 I heard her with such amazement as was shared 
 by my father. The boldness and sagacity of the 
 scheme impressed a man trained to skill in com- 
 merce, and ever given to coiu'ageous ventures. 
 
 " You must sail in October or before ; you will 
 need a year. No less will do." 
 
 " Yes— yes." 
 
 I saw from his look that he was captured. He 
 walked to and fro, while my Aunt Gainor switched 
 the dust off her petticoat or looked out of the win- 
 dow. At last she turned to me. " What think you 
 of it, Hugh?" 
 
 ''Mr. Wilson says we shall have war, aunt, and 
 Mr. Attorney-General Chew is of the same opinion. 
 I heard them talking of it last night at thy house. I ! 
 think the king's officers want a war." I took refuge.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 83 
 
 shrewdly, in the notions of my elders. I had 
 no wiser thing to say. "I myself do not know," I 
 added. 
 
 '• How shoiddst thou T " said my father, shai'ply. 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 "And Avhat tliink you, John?" 
 
 " What will niv wife sav, Gainor ? We have never 
 been a month ajiart." 
 
 '■ Let me t^dk to her." 
 
 '' Wilt thou shiu'e in the venture ? " He was testing 
 the sincerity of her advice. " And to what extent ? '' 
 
 "Five thousand pounds. You may draw on me 
 from London, and buy powder and muskets," she 
 added, with a smile. 
 
 "Not L Why dost thou talk such folly?" 
 
 "Then Holland blankets and i^ood cloth. I will 
 take them off your hands at a fan- profit." 
 
 " I see no objection to that." 
 
 My aunt gave me a queer look, saying, " The poor 
 will need them. I .shall sell them cheap." 
 
 It was siugidar that I caught her meaning, while 
 my father, reflecting on the ventm-e as a whole, did 
 not. 
 
 " I will do it," he .said. 
 
 " Then a word more. Be careful here as to delfts. 
 Why not wind up your business, and retire with 
 the profit you will iiiakef " It was the same advice 
 my mother had given, as I well knew. 
 
 "Hast thou been talking to my wife?" he said. 
 
 "No," slie replied, surpri-sed ; "may I?" 
 
 ^Yes As to going out of business, Gainor, I
 
 84 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 should be but a lost man, I am not as weU-to-do 
 as thou dost seem to think." 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense ! " cried my aunt. " I believe 
 Thomas Willing is no better off in what you call this 
 world's gear, nor Franks, nor any of them. You like 
 the game, and, after all, what is it but a kind of gam- 
 bling? How do you know what hands the ocean 
 holds ? Your ventures are no better than my guineas 
 cast down on the loo-table." These two could never 
 discuss anything but what it must end in a dif- 
 ference. 
 
 " Thou art a fool, Gainor, to talk such wicked non- 
 sense before this boy. It is not worth an answer. I 
 hear no good of Hugh of late. He hath been a con- 
 cern to James Pemberton and to my friend, Nicholas 
 Wain, and to me— to me. Tliy gambling and idle 
 redcoats are snares to his soul. He has begun to 
 have opinions of his own as to taxes, and concerning 
 the plain duty of non-resistance. As if an idle dog 
 like him had any right to have an opinion at aU ! " 
 
 " Tut ! tut ! " cried Miss Wynne. 
 
 " I am not idle," I said, " if I am a dog." 
 
 He turned and seized me by the collar. " I will 
 teach thee to answer thy elders." And with this he 
 shook me violently, and caught up a cane from a 
 chair where he had laid it. 
 
 And now, once again, that disposition to be meny 
 came over me, and, perfectly passive, I looked up at 
 him and smiled. As I think of it, it was strange m 
 a young fellow of my age. 
 
 " Wouldst thou laugh ? " he cried. " Has it gone
 
 • I WILL TKACH THKE TO ANSWKR THY KLDKRS 
 
 I'aoi- St
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker S^ 
 
 that far ? " and he raised his stick. My Aunt Gainor 
 jerked it out of his hand, and, standing, broke it 
 over her knee as if it had been a willow wand. 
 
 He fell back, crying, " Gainor ! Gainor ! " 
 
 " My God ! nuiu,'' she cried, " are you mad ? If I 
 were you I would take some heed to that hot Welsh 
 blood. "What wt»uld my good Marie say 1 Why have 
 you not had the sense to make a friend of the boy ? 
 He is worth ten ot you, and has kept his temper like 
 the gendemau he is." 
 
 It was true. I ha<l some queer sense of amusement 
 in the feeling that I really was not angry ; neither 
 was I ashamed ; but au hour later I was both angry 
 and ashamed. Just now I felt sorry for my father, 
 and shared the humiliation he evidently felt. 
 
 My aunt turned to her brother, where, having let 
 me go, he stood with .set features, looking from her 
 to me, and from me to her. Something in his look 
 disturbed her. 
 
 "You should be proud of his self-command. Can- 
 not you see that it is your accursed repression and 
 dry, drean,' life at home that has put you two apart ? " 
 
 " I have been put to scorn before ni}* son, Gainor 
 WjTine. It is thy evil ways that have brought this 
 about. I have lost my temper and would have struck 
 in anger, when I .should have reflected, and, after 
 prayer, chastised this insolence at home." 
 
 "I heard no insolence." 
 
 "Go away, Hugh, and thou, Gainor. Why dost 
 thou always provoke me T I will hear no more ! " 
 
 " Come, Hugh," she said j and then : " It seems to
 
 86 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 me that the boy has had a good lesson in meekness, 
 and as to turning that other cheek." 
 
 " Don't, Aunt Gainor ! " said I, interrupting her. 
 
 " Oh, go ! " exclaimed my father. " Go ! go, "both 
 of you ! " 
 
 '' Certainly ; but, John, do not mention my news 
 or my London letter." 
 
 " I shall not." 
 
 " Then by-by ! Come, Hugh ! "
 
 VI 
 
 HERE must have been in this troubled 
 (.'t)untry many such sad scenes as I have 
 tried to recall. Father and son were 
 to part with hot words, brother to take 
 sides against brother. My unpleasant 
 half-hour was but prophetic of that which was to 
 come in worse shape, and to last for yeai'S. 
 
 My Aunt Gainor said, " Do not tell your mother," 
 and I assuredly did not. 
 
 " He will t<"ll her. He tells her everything, soon 
 or late. I must see her at once. Your father is be- 
 coming, as the French say, impossible. The times, 
 and these wrangling Friends, %Wth theii* stupid tes- 
 timonies, irritate him daily until he is like a great, 
 strong bull, such as the Spaniards tease to madness 
 with little dart8 and fireworks. You see, Hugh, 
 events are prickly tilings. They play the deuce with 
 oV)stinate people. Your father ■will be better away 
 from home. He has never been in England, and he 
 will see how many, like Mr. Pitt and Colonel Barre, 
 are with us. As for myself, I have been a bit of a 
 fool about you, and your father is more or less right. 
 We must abjur« sack and take physic." 
 
 «7
 
 88 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 "What? "said I. 
 
 " To be plain, we must— that is, yon must— play 
 less and drink less, and in your father's absence 
 look sharply, "with my help, to his business." 
 
 I was to need other doctors before I mended my 
 ways. I said my aunt was right, and I made cer- 
 tain good resolutions, which were but short-lived and 
 never reached adult maturity of usefulness. 
 
 My aunt walked with me north between the ware- 
 houses, taverns, and ship-chandlers on the river- 
 front, and so across the bridge over Dock Creek, and 
 up to Third street. She said I must not talli to her. 
 She had thinking to do, and for this cause, I suppose, 
 turning, took me down to Pine street. At St. Petei"'s 
 Church she stopped, and bade me wait without, add- 
 ing, " If I take you in I shall hear of it ; wait." 
 
 There was a midday service at this time, it being 
 Lent. I waited idly, thinking of my father, and, as 
 I before said, vexed and sorry and ashamed by turns. 
 Often now I pause before I enter this sacred edifice, 
 and tliiuk of that hour of tribulation. I could hear 
 the fine, full voice of the Rev. Dr. Duche as he in- 
 toned the Litany. He hes now where I stood, and 
 under the arms on his tomb is no record of the 
 political foolishness and instability of a life otherwise 
 free from blame. As I stood, Mrs. Ferguson came 
 out, she who in days to come helped to get the un- 
 lucky parson into trouble. With her came my aunt. 
 
 " I said a prayer for thee, Hugh," she whispered. 
 " No ; no cards in Lent, my dear Bess. Fie ! for 
 shame ! This way, Hugh ; " and we went east,
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 89 
 
 through Fine street, and so to the back of our grar- 
 deu, where we fouud a way iu, aud, walking under 
 the peach-trees, came to where my mother sat be- 
 neath a phim-tree, sheUing peas, her gi*eat Manx eat 
 by her side. 
 
 She wore a thin cap on top of the curly head, 
 which was now ^nnd-blown out of all order. " Come, 
 Gainor," she cried, seeing us ; " help me to .shell my 
 peas. Thou shalt have some. They are come in a 
 ship from the Bermudas. Wiiat a pretty pjile gi'een 
 tlie pods are ! I should like an apron of that colour." 
 
 " I have the very thing, dear. Shall it be the min- 
 uet pattern, or plain?" 
 
 " Oh, plain. Am I not a Friend ? Une Amie f Ciel ! 
 but it is droll in French. Sarali Logan is twice as 
 gay as I, but John does not love such vanities. Quant 
 d moi,je h.'^ adore. It seems odd to have a colour to a 
 religion. I wonder if drab goodness be better than 
 red goodness. But what is wrong, Gainor? Yes, 
 there is something. Hugh, thy collar is torn ; how 
 careless of me not to have mended it ! " 
 
 Then mv Aunt Gainor, saving nothing of mv 
 especial difficulty, and leaving out, too, her London 
 news, related with remarkable clearness the reasons 
 why my fatlier should go overseas in the early full and 
 be gone ff>r a year. The mother went on quietly shell- 
 ing the peas, and losing no word. When Gainor had 
 done, the bowl of peas was .set aside, and my mother 
 put back her curls, fixed her blue eyes on her sister- 
 in-law, and was silent for a moment longer. At last 
 she said, "It were best, for many reasons best. I see
 
 9© Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 it," and sTie nodded her head affirmatively. " But 
 my son ? my Hugh ? " 
 
 " You will have him with you at home. Every- 
 thing will go on as usual, except that John will be 
 amusing himself in London." 
 
 At this the little lady leaped up, all ablaze, so to 
 speak. Never had I seen her so moved. "What man- 
 ner of woman am I, Gainor Wynne, that I should let 
 my husband go alone on the seas, and here and there, 
 without me ? I will not have it. My boy is my 
 boy ; God knows I love him ; but my husband comes 
 first now and always, and thou art cruel to wish to 
 part us." 
 
 " But I never wished to part you. Go with him, 
 Marie. God bless your sweet heart ! Leave me your 
 boy ; he cannot go. As God Hves, I will take care 
 of him ! " 
 
 Upon this the two women fell to weeping in each 
 other's arms, a thing most uncommon for my Aunt 
 Gainor. Then they talked it all over, as if John 
 Wynne were not : when it would be, and what room 
 I was to have, and my clothes, and the business, and 
 so on— all the endless details wherewith the cunning 
 affection of good women knows to provide comfort 
 for us. who are so apt to be unthankful. 
 
 It amazed me to see how quickly it was settled, 
 and stiU more to learn that my father did not oppose, 
 but fell in with all their plans. 
 
 Now back of all my weaknesses and folly I had, 
 as I have said, some of the sense of honour and proud 
 rectitude of my father, who strictly abided by his
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 91 
 
 creed and his conscience. I returned no more that 
 day to the counting-house, but, sayiug to my mother 
 I had business, I went off, with a hunk of bread, to 
 my boat, and down the creek to the Dehuvare. I 
 pulled out, past our old playground on the island, and 
 tar away toward the Jei-sey shore, and then, as the 
 sun fell, drifted ^^^th the tide, noting the ruddy lines 
 of the brick houses far away, and began to think. 
 
 The scene I had gone through had made a deep 
 impression. It has been ever so with me. Drink- 
 ing, gaming, bettiug, and worse, never awakened my 
 conscience or set me retiectiug, until some sudden, 
 unlooked-for thing took place, in wliich sentiment 
 or affection was concerned. Then I would set to 
 work to balance my books and determine my course. 
 At such times it was the dear mother who spoke in 
 me, and the father who resolut<ily carried out my 
 decision. 
 
 The boat ilrifted slowlv with the flood-tide, and I, 
 lying on the bottom, fell to thought of what the day 
 had brttught me. The setting sun touched the single 
 spire of Christ Church, and lit up yellow squares of 
 light in the westward-looking windows of the rare 
 farm-houses on the Jersey shore. Presently I was 
 aground on the south end of Petty's Island, where in 
 after-years lay rotting the "Allian(':e,"the remnant ship 
 of the greatest sea-fight that ever was since Grenville 
 lay in the " Revenge," with the Spanish fleet about him. 
 I came to ground amid the reeds and spatter-docks, 
 where the water-lilies were just in bud. A noisy 
 orchestra of frogs, with, as Jack said, liddlcs and
 
 92 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 .^ — . 1 ■- — — — ■-. -. I - .1 ■ ■ . . ■ I. I I ■■ I ^ 
 
 bassoons in their throats, ceased as I came, and 
 pitched headlong off the broad gi-een floats. Only 
 one old fellow, with a great bass voice, and secure 
 on the bank, protested loudly at intervals, like the 
 owl in Mr, Gray's noble poem, which my Jack loved 
 to repeat. 
 
 At last he— I mean my frog— whose monastery I 
 had disturbed, so vexed me, who wanted stillness, that 
 I smacked the water with the flat of an oar, which 
 he took to be a hint, and ceased to lament my in- 
 trusion. 
 
 I was now well on to twenty, and old enough to 
 begin at times to deal thoughtfully with events. A 
 young fellow's feelings are apt to be extreme, and 
 even despotic, so that they rule the hour with such 
 strength of sway as may be out of proportion to the 
 cause. I might have seen that I had no just cause to 
 blame myself, but that did not help me. The mood 
 of distressful seK-accusation was on me. I had no 
 repeated impulse to smile at what, in my father's 
 conduct, had appeared to me a little while ago odd, 
 and even amusing. I could never please him. I had 
 grinned as I always did when risks were upon me. 
 He never understood me, and I was tired of trying. 
 What use was it to try ? I had one of those minutes 
 of wishing to die, which come even to the wholesome 
 young. I was well aware that of late I had not, 
 on the whole, satisfied my conscience ; I knew this 
 quite too well ; and now, as I lay in the boat dis- 
 contented, I felt, as the youthful do sometimes feel, 
 as if I were old, and the ending of things were near.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 9 
 
 -> 
 
 It was but a mood, but it led up to serious thought. 
 There are surely hours in youth wheu we are older 
 than our years, and times in age when we are again 
 young. ISonietinies I wonder whether Jack was right, 
 who used to say it nuiy be we are never young or old, 
 but merely seem to be so. This is the queer kind of 
 reflection which I lind now and tlien in Jack's diary, 
 or with which he usf^d to puzzle me and please 
 James Wilson. Of cocU'se a man is young or is old. 
 and there 's an end on 't, as a gi-eater man has said. 
 But Jack has imagination, and I have none. 
 
 I asked myself if I had done wi-ong in what I had 
 said. I could not see tliat I had. With all my life- 
 long fear of my father, I greatly honoured and re- 
 spect<*d him, finding in myself something akin to the 
 unvielding fii-mness with which he stood fast when 
 he had made up his mind. 
 
 That this proud and steadfast man, so looked up to 
 by every one, no matter what might be theii* convic- 
 tions religious or political, should have been humili- 
 ated by a woman, seemed to me intolerable ; this 
 was the chief outcome of my reflections. Ir is tnie 
 I considered, but I fear lightly, my own misdoings. 
 I made up my mind to do better, and then again the 
 image of my father in his ^v^ath and his shame came 
 back anew. I turned the boat, and pidled steadily 
 across the river to our lauding. 
 
 My father was in the counting-house in his own 
 room, alone, although it was full late. '' Well ? " ho 
 said, s])iniiing round on his high stool. "What is 
 itT Thou hast been absent, and no leave a.sked."
 
 94 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " Father," I said, " if I was wrong this morning I 
 wish to ask thy pardon." 
 
 " Well, it is full time." 
 
 " And I am come to say that I will take the punish- 
 ment here and now. I did not run away from that." 
 
 "Very good," he replied, rising. "Take off thy 
 fine coat." 
 
 I wished he had not said this of my coat. I was 
 in a heroic temper, and the sarcasm bit cruelly, but 
 I did as I was bid. He went to the corner, and 
 picked up a rattan cane. To whip fellows of nine- 
 teen or twenty was not then by any means unusual. 
 What woidd have happened I know not, nor evet 
 shall. He said, " There, I hear thy mother's voice. 
 Put on thy coat." I hastened to obey him. 
 
 The dear lady came in with eyes full of tears. 
 "What is this, John, I hear? I have seen Gainor. 
 I could not wait. I shall go with thee." 
 
 "No," he said ; "that is not to be." But she feD 
 on his neck, and pleaded, and I, for my part, went 
 away, not sorry for the interruption. As usual she 
 had her way. 
 
 I remember well this spring of '73. It was early 
 by some weeks, and everything was green and blos- 
 soming in April. My father and mother were not to 
 sail until the autumn, but already he was arranging 
 for the voyage, and she as busily preparing or think- 
 ing over what was needed. 
 
 When next I saw my Aunt Gainor, she cried out, 
 " Sit down there, bad boy, and take care of my man- 
 darin. He and my great bronze Buddha are my only
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 9:^ 
 
 counsellors. If I want to do a tliinof I ask Mr. Man- 
 darin—he can only nod ves: and if I want not to do 
 a tiling I ask Buddha, and as he can neither say no 
 nor yes, I do as I j)leas;e. Wliat a wreteh you are ! " 
 
 I said I could not see it ; and then I put my head 
 in her lap, as I Siit on the stool, and told her of my 
 last interview with my father, and how for two days 
 he had hardly so much as bade me good-night. 
 
 "It is his way, Hugh," said my aunt. "I am 
 sorry; but neither love nor time will mend him. 
 He is what his nature and the hard ways of Friends 
 have made him." 
 
 I said that this was not all, nor the worst, and 
 went on to tell her my latest grievance. Our family 
 worship at home was, as usual with Friends in those 
 days, conducted at times in total silence, and was 
 spoken of by Friends as " religious retirement." At 
 other times, indeed commonly, a chapter of the Bible 
 was read aloud, and after that my father would some- 
 times pray openly. On this last occasion he took ad- 
 vantage of the opportunity to dilate on my sins, and be- 
 fore our servants to ask of Heaven that I be brought 
 to a due sense of my ini(juities. It troubled my 
 mother, who arose from her knees in tears, and went 
 out of the room, whilst I, overcome with anger, stood 
 looking out of the window. My father spoke to her 
 a.s she opened the door, but she made no answer, nor 
 even so much as turned her head. It brought to my 
 raemor}' a day of my childhood, when my father 
 was vexed l)ecause she taught me to say the Lord's 
 Prayer. He did not aj)prove, and would have no set
 
 96 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 form of words taught me. My mother was angry 
 too, and I remember my own amazement that any 
 one should resist my father. 
 
 When I had told my aunt of the indignity put 
 upon me, and of the fading remembrance thus 
 recalled, she said, " John Wynne has not changed, 
 nor will he ever." She declared that, after all, it was 
 her fault— to have treated me as if I were a man, and 
 to have given me too much money. I shook my head, 
 but she would have it she was to blame, and then said 
 of a sudden, '' Are you in debt, you scamp ? Did John 
 pray for me ? " I replied that I owed no one a penny, 
 and that she had not been remembered. She was 
 glad I was not in debt, and added, " Never play un- 
 less you have the means to pay. I have been very 
 foolish. That uneasy woman, Bessy Ferguson, must 
 needs tell me so. I could have slapped her. They 
 will have thy sad case up in Meeting, I can tell thee." 
 
 " But what have I done f " I knew well enough. 
 
 " Tut ! you must not talk that way to me ; but it is 
 my fault. Oh, the time I have had with your mother ! 
 I am not fit, it seems, to be left to take care of you. 
 They talk of leaving you with Abijah Hap worthy— 
 sour old dog ! I wish you joy of him ! " 
 
 " Good heavens !" I exclaimed ; for among my aunt's 
 gay friends I had picked up such exclamatory phrases 
 as, used at home, would have astonished my father. 
 
 " Rest easy," said Mistress Wynne ; " it is not to be. 
 I have fought your battle, and won it. But I have 
 had to make such promises to your father, and— woe 
 is me I —to yom* mother, as will damn me forever if
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 97 
 
 you do not help me to keep tliem. 1 can fib to your 
 father and not cai*e a snap, but lie to those blue eyes 
 f cannot." 
 
 '' I will try, Aunt Gainor ; indeed I mil try." In- 
 deed, I did mean to. 
 
 " You nuist, you must. I am to be a sort of god- 
 mother-in-hiw to vou, and renounce for vou the world, 
 the tlesh, and the devil ; and that for one of our breed ! 
 I shall be like a sipu-post, ar^l never go the way I 
 point. That was Bessy Ferfru-sons malice. Oh, I 
 have suffered, I can tell you. It is I, and not you, that 
 have repented." 
 
 " But I will ; I do." 
 
 " That is all very well ; but I have had my whip- 
 ping, and you got off yours." 
 
 "What do you mean, aunt?" 
 
 " What do I mean 1 Here came yesterday Sarah 
 Fisher, pretty gay for a Quaker, and tliat solemn 
 Master Savor>', with his sweet, low voice like a nice 
 girl's tongue, and his gentle ways. And they are 
 friends of thy pei^ple, who are distressed at thy go- 
 ings on ; and Nicholas Wain has seen thee with two 
 Bons of Belial in red coats, come out of the coffee- 
 bouse last month at evening, singing songs such as 
 are not to be described, and no better able to take 
 care of yourself than you should be. They did think 
 it well and kind— hang 'em, Hugh ! — to consider the 
 matter with me. We considered it— we did, indcid. 
 There be five people wliose consciences I am to make 
 you respect. And not one of them do I care for, 
 but Mother Blue-eyes. But I must.' I must! It was
 
 98 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 all true, sir, what Friend Wain said; for you liad 
 reason enough left to come hither, and did I not put 
 you to bed and send for Dr. Chovet, who grinned 
 famously, and said, ' Je comprends/ and went to call 
 on your father on a hint from me, to declare you were 
 enrhume, and threatened with I know not what; in 
 fact, he lied like a gentleman. You made a noble re- 
 covery, and are a credit to the doctor. I hope you 
 will pay the bill, and are ashamed." 
 
 I was, and I said so. 
 
 " But that is not all. These dear Quakers were 
 the worst. They wei-e really sorry, and I had to put 
 on my best mannei*s and listen ; and now everybody 
 knows, and you are the talk of the town. Those drab 
 geese must out with the whole naughtiness, despite 
 the company which came in on us, and here were 
 Mr. Montresor and that ape Etherington grinning, 
 and, worst of all, a charming young woman just come 
 to live here with her aunt, and she too must have 
 her say when the Quakers and the men were gone." 
 
 " And what did she say ? " I did not care much. 
 "And what is her name ? " 
 
 " Oh, she said the Quakers were rather outspoken 
 people, and it was a pity, and she was sorry, because 
 she knew you once, and you had taken her part at 
 school." 
 
 "At school?" 
 
 " Yes. She is Darthea Peniston, and some kin of 
 that Miss de Lancey, whom Su* William Draper wiU 
 man-y if he can." 
 
 "Darthea Peniston?" I said, and my thoughts
 
 Hu2:h Wynne: Free Quaker 99 
 
 went back to the tender little maid who wept when 
 I was punished, and for whom I had revenged my- 
 self on Master Dove. 
 
 '• Quite a Spauisli beauty," said my Aunt "Wj-nue ; 
 " a pretty mite of a girl, and not more money than 
 will elotlie her, they say ; but tlie men mad about her. 
 Come and see her to-morrow if you are sober." 
 
 '' O Aunt Gainor ! •' 
 
 "Yes, sir. I hear Mr, Monti'esor has leave from 
 Anthony Morris to invite you to ' The Colony in 
 Schuvlkill' to-morrow. It is well voiu* father has 
 gone to A-isit Mr. Yeates at Lancaster." 
 
 " I shaU behave myself. Aunt Gainor." 
 
 " I hope so. The Fish House punch is strong." 
 
 I went home thinking of Miss Darthea Peniston, 
 and filled vrith desire to lead a -vWser life. It was full 
 time. My aunt's lavish generosity had, as I have said, 
 given me means to live freely among the officers, 
 who were, with some exceptions, a dissolute set. To 
 be with them made it needful to become deceitful 
 and to fi*ame excuses, so that, when I was supposed 
 to be at ray aunt's, or riding, I was free that past win- 
 ter to goon sleighing-partiesor to frequent taverns, 
 plea.sed Anth the notice I got from men like Montre- 
 sor and the officers of the Scotch Grays. 
 
 I liave dwelt not at all on these scenes of dissipa- 
 tion. It is enough to mention them. My father was 
 Avrapped up in liis })usiness, and full of cares both 
 worlflly and spiritual ; for now Friends were becom- 
 ing politically divided, and the meetings were long 
 and sometimes agitated.
 
 I oo Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 My good mother was neither deceived nor uncon- 
 cerned. She talked to me often, and in such a way 
 as brings tears to my eyes even now to think of 
 the pain I gave her. Alas ! it is our dearest who 
 have the greatest power to wound us. I wept and 
 promised, and went back to my husks and evil com- 
 pany. 
 
 I have no wish to conceal these things from my 
 children. It is well that oiu- offspring when young 
 should think us angels; but it were as well that 
 when they are older they should learn that we have 
 been men of like passions with themselves, and have 
 known temptation, and have fought, and won or lost, 
 our battles with sin. It is one of the weaknesses of 
 nations, as weU as of children, that they come to 
 consider their political fathers as saints. I smUe 
 when I think of the way people nowadays think of 
 our great President, as of a mild genius, incapable 
 of being moved to anger or great mirth, a man un- 
 spotted of the world. They should have heard him 
 at Monmouth, when Lee failed him in a time of peril, 
 or seen him, as I have seen him, soberly merry over 
 his wine with Knox. But some day you shall see 
 him as my friend Jack and I saw him, and you will, 
 I trust, think no worse of him for being as human 
 as he was just. 
 
 The day of my more honest repentance was near, 
 and I knew not that it was to be both terrible and 
 of lasting value. I sometimes reflect upon the ciu-i- 
 ous conditions with which my early manhood was 
 surrounded. Here was I, brought up in the strictest
 
 Hu^h Wynne: Free Quaker loi 
 
 ways of a sect to which I do no injustice if I describe 
 it as ascetic. At home I saw plain living, and no 
 luxurv. save in regard to food, which my father 
 would have of the best money could buy. I was 
 taught the extreme of non-resistance, and absolute 
 simplicity as to dress and language. Amusements 
 there were none, and my father read no books ex- 
 cept such as dejilt with things spiritual, or things 
 commercial. At my aunt's, and in tlie society I saw 
 at her house, there were men and women who loved 
 to dance, gamble, and amuse themselves. The talk 
 was of bets, racing, and the like. To be drunk was 
 a thing to be expected of officers and gentlemen. 
 To avenge an insult with sword or pistol was the 
 only way to deal with it. ^ly father was a passive 
 Tor}', my aunt a furious Whig. What wonder that 
 I fell a victim to temptation ?
 
 vn 
 
 HE next day, having seen to matters of 
 business in the morning, I set out after 
 dinner in my finest clothes to join my 
 friends. I fear that I promised my mo- 
 ther to be careful, and to be at home 
 by nine o'clock. 
 
 I met Captain Montresor at the London Coffee- 
 house, at High and Front streets, and, having taken 
 a chaise, di'ove out through 'the woods to the upper 
 ferry, and tJience to Egglesfield, the seat of Mr. War- 
 ner, from whom the club known then as " The Colony 
 in Schuylkill " held under a curious tenure the acre 
 or two of land where they had built a log cabin and 
 founded this ancient and singular institution. Here 
 were met Anthony Morris, who fell at Trenton, Mr. 
 Tench Francis, sometime Attorney-General, Mifflin, 
 and that Galloway who later became a Tory, with 
 Mr. Willing, and others of less note, old and young. 
 I was late for the annual ceremony of presenting 
 three fish to Mr. Warner, this being the condition on 
 which the soil was held, but I saw the great pewter 
 dish with the Penn arms, a gift from that family, on 
 which the fish were offered. 
 
 It was a merry and an odd party ; for, clad in white
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker J 03 
 
 aprons, the apprentices, so called, cooked the dinner 
 and served it ; and the punch and Madeli-a went round 
 the table often enough, as the " king's health " was 
 drunk, and " success to trade," and " tlie ladies, God 
 bless them ! " 
 
 I liked it well, and, with my aunt's warning in 
 mind, drank but little, and li.^toned to the talk, which 
 was too free at times, as was tlie bad custom of that 
 day, and now and then angry ; for here were some 
 who were to die for their country, and some who were 
 to fail it in the hour of need. 
 
 Despite my English friends, and thanks to Mr. 
 Wilson and my Aunt Gainor, I was fast becoming an 
 ardent Whig, so tliat the talk, in which I had small 
 share, interested me deeply. At last, about seven, the 
 pipes having been smoked and much punch taken, 
 the company rose to go, some of them the worse for 
 their potations. 
 
 We drove into to\^Ti, and at the coffee-house put 
 up and paid for our chaise. I said good-by to Mr. 
 Jklontresor, who, I thmk, had been charged by Miss 
 Wynne to look after me, when a Captain Small, 
 whom I knew, stopped me. He was well kno^\^l as 
 one of the most reckless of the younger officers, a 
 stout, short man, ratht*r heroically presented long 
 afterward, in Trumbull's picture of the "Death of 
 Warren," its trying to put aside the bayonets. As I 
 paused to reply, I saw Jack Warder standing on the 
 other side of the street. Ho nodded, smiling, and 
 made as if he were about to cross over. He had 
 niany times talked \\ith me seriously this winter,
 
 1 04 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 until I had become vexed, and told him he was a 
 milksop. After this I saw little of him. Now I was 
 annoyed at the idea that he was spying upon my 
 actions, and therefore, like a fool, merely nodded, 
 and, turning my back on him, heard Mr. Small say : 
 "You must not go yet, Mr. Wynne. We are to 
 have supper upstaii's, and you will like to see a gen- 
 tleman of your name, Mr. Arthur Wynne, of the Scots 
 Grays. He tells me he is of distant kin to you." 
 
 Montresor said I had better go home, but Ether- 
 ington asked if I wanted my bottle and nurse ; and 
 so at last, partly from pride and partly out of cm-i- 
 osity to see this other Wynne, I said I would remain 
 long enough to welcome the gentleman and take a 
 social glass. When we entered the room upstairs, 
 I found a supper of cold meats and, as usual, punch 
 and liquors. There were two dozen or more officers 
 in undress jackets, their caps and swords in the cor- 
 ners, and also two or three of the younger men of 
 the Tory or doubtful parties. 
 
 Several officers called to me to sit with them, for I 
 was a f avouiite, and could troU a catch or siag parts 
 f au'ly well. My companion, Small, said, " Tliis way, 
 Wynne," and, followed by Montresor and the colonel 
 of the Scots Grays, whose name I forget, we moved 
 to a table remote from the door. Here Montresor, 
 pushing past Small, said : " Captain Wynne, I have 
 the honour to present to you Mr. Hugh Wynne, one 
 of j^our family, I hear." 
 
 Upon this there rose to greet me a gentleman in 
 the undress uniform of the Grays. He was tall and
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Qiuiker ^ 105 
 
 well built, bnt not so broad or strong as we other 
 "Wynnes : certiiinlv an uuusuallv handsome man. 
 He carried his head hitrh, was very erect, and had 
 an air of distinction, ft>r which at that time I shoiUd 
 have had no niuiie. I may add that he was dressed 
 with unusual neatness, and very richly ; all of which, 
 I being but a half-formed young fellow, did much 
 impress me. 
 
 He looked at me so steadily as we came near that 
 it gave me a rather unpleasant impression ; for those 
 who do not meet the eye at all are scarcely less dis- 
 agi-eeable than those who too continuidly watch you, 
 as was this man's way. I was rather young to be a 
 ver}' carefid observer of men's fjices, but I did see that 
 Captain Wynne's bore traces of too convivial habits. 
 
 As I recall his dark, regular features, I remember, 
 for we met often afterward, that the lower part of 
 his face was too thin, and that in repose his mouth 
 was apt not to remain fully shut, a peculiaiity, as I 
 now think, of persons of weak will. 
 
 My first feeling of there being something unpleas- 
 ing about him soon left me. He rose, and, with gi-a- 
 eiousness and tlie ease and manner of one used to 
 the best society, moved aroimd the table and took 
 my hand. 
 
 "I am but a far-away kinsman," he said, "but I 
 am charmed to make your acquaintance. You are 
 like the picture of old Sir Robert at Wjiicote, where 
 I was hist year for the otter-hunting." 
 
 I greeted liim warmly. " And art thou living at 
 WyncoteT" I asked rather awkwardly.
 
 1 06 % Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 "No, I do not live at home. I am but a cadet, 
 and yours is the elder branch." Then he added gaily, 
 " I salute you, sir, as the head of our old house. Your 
 very good health ! " And at this, with a charm of man- 
 ner I have seen but rarely, he put a hand on my 
 shoulder, and added, " We must be friends. Cousin 
 Wynne, and I must know your father, and above all 
 Mistress Wynne. Montresor never ceases talking of 
 her." 
 
 I said it would give me pleasure to present him ; 
 then, delighted to hear of Wyncote, I sat down, and, 
 despite a warning look from Montresor, began to take 
 wine with this newly found kinsman. 
 
 Mr. Arthur Wynne was a man fully ten years my 
 senior. He had served in the Guards, and in the 
 Indies, and was full of stories of court and camp 
 and war, such as every young fellow of spirit likes 
 to hear. 
 
 Captain Montresor lingered awhile, and then, find- 
 ing it vain to persist in his pui'pose, gave it up, and 
 fell to talking with one of his fellow-officers, while 
 I went on questioning my cousin as to the WjTines 
 to their uttermost generation. Either he cared httle 
 about them, or he knew little, for he seemed much 
 to prefer to tell queer stories about the court ladies, 
 and my Lord Chesterfield's boor of a son, who had 
 such small manners and such a large appetite, and 
 of Sir Guy Carleton, whom he was about to join in 
 Canada. He advised me to get a pair of coloiu-s as 
 my aunt had once desired, and seemed surprised 
 when I paraded my friend Mr. Wilson's opinions as
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker i 07 
 
 my own, and talked of taxation and the oppression 
 under which commerce had to be carried on. In fact, 
 as to this I knew something; but in this, as in other 
 matters, he defeired to me as one does to a well- 
 informed talker of one's own age, now sotting me 
 right with admirable courtesy, and now cordially 
 agreeing. 
 
 What with his evident desii'C to be friendly, and 
 the wine I was taking, I fell an easy prey to one who 
 rarely failed to please wlien he was so minded. Too 
 weU amused to reflect that the hours were swiftly 
 })assing, I sat, taking ghiss after glass mechanically. 
 As the night went on we luul more punch, and the 
 dice began to rattle on the tables, despite the land- 
 lord's remonstrance, who feared to fall into the hands 
 of the law and lose his liceniie. But a lively major 
 called out that here was licence enough, and hustled 
 him out of the room, calling for more rum-punch, 
 and stronger. 
 
 Meanwhile the smoke grew tliick and thicker. 
 Here and there a song broke out, and tlie clink of 
 coin and the rattle of dice went on. Tlien, when at 
 last Montresor came to our talile and said he was 
 going, and would I come too, I rose, and, bidding 
 my kinsman good-by, went with tlie cai)tain. I heard 
 liira swear as he found the door locked. No one 
 seemed to know who had tlie key, and as for me, not 
 ill-pleased, and past feeling regret, I turned back and 
 stood over a table where some officers were throwing 
 a main. 
 
 Then I saw in a comer a poor fellow who used to
 
 io8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 be an usher at the academy, and who, having taken 
 to di'ink, had lost his place. Now he was a sort of 
 servitor in the coffee-house, and had gotten locked 
 up in the room and could not escape. He had taken 
 refuge in a corner at a deserted table, and, sitting 
 unnoticed, was solacing himself with what was left 
 of a bowl of punch. A sense of not altogether maudlin 
 pity came upon me, and I went over and sat down 
 beside him. No one took any heed of us. The air 
 was heavy with pipe-smoke, oaths, mad catches of 
 song, clink of glasses, and rattle of dice noisily cast, 
 with here and there a toast cried ; so that it was hard 
 to see for the smoke, or to hear a man speak. 
 
 " Why, Savoy ! How earnest thou here ? " I said. 
 
 " The devil fetched me, I guess." 
 
 He was far gone in liquor. " I am like Mr. Sterne's 
 starling : ' I can't get out.' Ever read Mr. Sterne's— 
 what is it?— oh, his 'Sentimental Journey'?" 
 
 Here was one worse than I, and I felt inclined to 
 use what Friends call a precious occasion, a way 
 being opened. 
 
 *' This is a sad business, Savoy," I said. 
 
 " Dre'f ul," he returned. " Facilis descenstis taverni. 
 No use to talk to me. I am tired of life. I am going 
 to die. Some men shoot themselves, some like the 
 rope, and some cold water. You know what Bishop 
 what's-his-name— I mean Jeremy Taylor— says about 
 ways to die : '■ None please me.' But drink is the best. 
 I mean to drink myself dead— dead— d— dead," and 
 here he fell on to m.y shoulder. Letting him down 
 easily, I loosed his neckerchief, and stood beside him,
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 109 
 
 pitiful and shocked. Then in a moment I felt that 
 I was dnink. The room whirled, and with an effort 
 I got to the open window, stuml)liuQ; over legs of men, 
 who looked np from their cards and em*sed me. 
 
 Of what chanced after this I knew for a time but 
 little, until I was in one instant sobered. This was 
 an hour later, and nigh to twelve o'clock. "\Miat 
 took j)lace I heard from others ; and, as it concerns 
 a turuiug-])oint in my life, I shall try to relate it as 
 if I myself had been conscious all the wliile. 
 
 The better for air, I went over to a table in the 
 centre of the room not far from the door. Leaning 
 hea\'ily on Captain Small's shoulder, I threw on the 
 table the last gold joe my aunt had given me with her 
 final lesson in morals. 
 
 " Best in three, Etheringt'On." 
 
 " Take it," he cried. 
 
 I threw double sixes, he threes, and I deuce ace. 
 Then he cast some numbei*s as good. Certainly the 
 devil meant to have me. I threw a third time ; a sLx 
 and a five turned up, and he an ace and a four. I 
 had won. " Double or quits," I said ; " one throw." 
 I won again, and at this I went on until the pile of 
 gold grew beneath my eyes, amid laughter, curses, 
 and all manner of vileness. Presently I heard the 
 colonfl exclaim, " This won't do, gentlemen," and I 
 felt some one trying to draw me from the table. It 
 was Captain Wynne. I cried out, " Hands off ! no 
 liberties with me! I am the head of thy house; 
 thou art only a cadet." lie laughed as I pushed him 
 aside.
 
 no Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 ■I ■■■■- ^' I ■ ■ I ■■■'■■ — , . ■ ..^ I I I, .. I I., -I, , I I I I. ^ 
 
 "You said double or quits," cried the stout major. 
 How he got into the game I knew not. 
 
 " It is a mere boy ! for shame ! " cried the colonel. 
 "I forbid it." 
 
 " I am a gentleman," I said. " Thou canst order thy 
 officers ; thou canst not order me," and as I spoke I cast 
 so hard that I crushed the box. I heard some one cry, 
 " A damn pretty Quaker ! By George, he has lost! A 
 clean hundred pounds ! " Even in this di'unken revel 
 there was a pause for a moment. I was, after all, but 
 a tipsy lad of twenty, and some were just not far 
 enough gone to feel that it might look to others an 
 ugly business. The colonel said something to Major 
 Milewood as to disrespect, I hardly know what ; for 
 at this moment there was a loud knocking at the door. 
 In the lull that followed I heard the colonel's voice. 
 
 Then the tumult broke out anew. '' By Jove, it is 
 a woman ! " cried Wynne. " I hear her. "Wine and 
 women ! A guinea to a guinea she 's pretty ! " 
 
 " Done ! " cried some one. 
 
 "Here 's the key," said the major j "let 's have 
 her in." 
 
 " Place mix dames," hiccoughed a cornet. 
 
 The colonel rose, but it was too late. Wynne, 
 seizing the key, unlocked the door and threw it wide 
 open, as my mother, followed by Jack Warder, en- 
 tered the room, and stood still a moment, dazed. 
 
 Captain Wynne, leering and unsteady, caught at 
 her waist, exclaiming, "By George! she might be 
 younger, but I 've won. A toast ! a toast ! A Quaker, 
 by George ! "
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 1 1 i 
 
 Whether I was sobered or not, I kuow not. I can 
 only say that of a sudden I was myself, and strangely 
 quiet. I saw the dear lady, brave, beautiful, and 
 with her curls fidling about her neck, as she shrank 
 back fix)ni the niau's toucli. 
 
 '' Come, Hugh," she siiid. 
 
 " Yes, mother," I said ; " but first—" and I struck 
 Captain Wynne full in the face, so that, unprepared 
 as he was, he fell over a table and on to the tloor 
 
 Every one started up. There was instant silenc* 
 
 In a moment he was on his feet, and, like mjself, 
 another man. Turning, he said, with anuiziug coolness, 
 wiping the blood away, for I was strong, and had hit 
 hard, " Madiim, I beg your pardon ; we liave been 
 beha^-ing like beasts, and I am litly punished. As to 
 vou, Mr. Wvune, vou are a bov, and have undert-aken 
 to rougli it with men. This shall go no further." 
 
 ** It shall go where I please," I cried. 
 
 "No, no ; Hugh, Hugh ! " said my mother. 
 
 " We "will talk it over to-morrow," said the cap- 
 tain ; and then, turning, " I mean, gentlemen, that 
 this shall stop here. If any man thinks I am wrong, 
 let him say so. I shall know how to settle accounts 
 with him." 
 
 " No, no," said the colonel ; " you are right, and if 
 any officer thinks otherwise, I too am at his service." 
 In the silence whicli came after he added, " Permit 
 me, madam ;" and offering liis arm to my mother, 
 we follo^ving, they went downstaii*s, Jack and I after 
 them, and .so into the street and the reproachful calm 
 of the starlit April night.
 
 vm 
 
 VEN so far away as now," says Jack, 
 writing in after-daj^s, "it grieves me 
 to tliink of that winter, and of this 
 mad scene at the London Coffee-liouse. 
 When I saw Hugh go in with the 
 officers, I waited for an hour, and then went away. 
 Eeturning later, I learned that he was still upstau'S. 
 I felt that if I stayed until he came forth, although 
 he might not be in a way to talk to me, to know that 
 I had waited so long might touch him and help him 
 to hear me with patience. I walked to and fro 
 until the clock had struck twelve, fearful and troubled 
 like a woman. Sometimes I think I am like a woman 
 in certain ways, but not in aU. 
 
 " There were many people who loved Hugh, but, 
 save his mother, none as I did. He had a serious 
 kindliness in his ways, liking to help people, and for 
 me at certain times and in certain crises a reassur- 
 ing directness of swift dealing with matters in hand, 
 most sustaining to one of my hesitating nature. His 
 courage was instinctive, mine the result of obedi- 
 ence to my will, and requmng a certain resolute effort. 
 "I think of him always as in time of peril, thi'ow- 
 ing his head up and his shoulders back, and smiling, 
 
 112
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 1 1 3 
 
 vrith. very wide-open eyes, like his mother'?, but a 
 deeper bhie. The frieuiiship of young: men has often 
 for a partijil basis admiration of physical force, and 
 Hugh excelled me there, although I have never been 
 considered feeble or awkward except among those 
 of anotlier sex, wliere always I am seen, I fear, to 
 disadvantage. 
 
 "Just after twelve I saw a woman coming hastily 
 up Front street. As she came to a pause in the light 
 which streamed from the open door, I knew her for 
 ]Madam Marie, as she had taught me to call her. She 
 wore a caUche hood, fallen back so that I saw her 
 hair, half tumbled from under the thin gauze cap 
 worn on the top of the head by most Quakers, She 
 was clad quite too slightly, and had for wrap only a 
 tliiu, gray silk shawl. 
 
 *^'Mon Dieu ." she exclaimed. 'I liad to come. 
 Jack, is he here? Fl faut que je monte, I must go 
 upstaii*s.' In excitement she was apt to talk French, 
 and then to translate. ' Let me go,' said I ; but she 
 cried out, *No, no ! come ! ' 
 
 " There were many rougli folks without, and otliers 
 called together by the noise above, and no wonder. I 
 said, ' Come in ; I vn\\ go up with thee.' Slie pushed 
 me aside, and, with staring eyes, cried, ' Oh est Ves- 
 calier f As we went through the coflfee-room, the 
 lounge i-s looked at her with surprise. She followed 
 me without more words, ran by me on the stairs, and 
 in a moment beat fiercely on the door, cr^nng, ^Ouvrez! 
 open! quifk !' Then there was that madliou.se scene." 
 
 And this was how it came about, as Jack has herr? 
 
 8
 
 1 14 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 told, that, still liot and angry, but mucli sobered, I, 
 her son, walked beside my mother till we came to our 
 door, and Jack left us, saying : 
 
 " Wilt thou see me to-morrow 1 " 
 
 I said, " Yes. God bless thee ! Thou art the real 
 son," and we entered. 
 
 Then it was sweet to see her ; she said no word of 
 reproach except, "17 ne faut pas me donner ton haiser 
 du soir. No, no ; I am not to be kissed." And so I 
 went, sorrowful and still dizzy, up to my sleepless 
 couch. 
 
 At the first gray light of dawn I rose, and was soon 
 away half a mile from shore in my boat. As I came 
 up from my first plunge in the friendly river, and 
 brushed the water from my eyes, I do assui'e you the 
 world seemed different. The water was very cold, 
 but I cared nothing for that. I went home another 
 and a better man, with hope and trust and self-repose 
 for company. That hour in the water at early morn 
 forever after seemed to me a mysterious separation 
 between two lives, like a mighty baptismal change. 
 Even now I think of it with a certain awe. 
 
 I pulled home as the sun rose, and lingered about 
 until our servants came in for the early worship of 
 the day. Soon I had the mother's kiss, and under- 
 went a quick, searching look, after which she nodded 
 gaily, and said, "Est-ce que tout est Men, monfils 9 Is all 
 well with thee, my son ?" I said, "Yes— yes." I heard 
 her murmm' a sweet httle prayer in her beloved French 
 tongue. Then she began to read a chapter. I looked 
 up amazed. It was the prodigal's stori'.
 
 Huirh Wynne: Free Quaker ^:? 
 
 -:> 
 
 I stood it ill, thinkinir it hard that she sliould liave 
 made choice of that ivproaclit'ul {jurahk'. I stared 
 sideways out at the stivain and the ships, but lost uo 
 word, as, with a voice that broke uow and then, she 
 read the piu-able to its close. After this should have 
 come prayer, silent or spoken ; but, to my surprise, 
 she said, " We will not pray this morning:," and we 
 went in to breakfast at once. 
 
 As for me, I could not eat. I went out alone to 
 the garden and sat down. I knew slie would come 
 to me soon. It seemed to me a lunt; while. I sat on 
 the grass against a tree, an old cherry, as I remem- 
 ber, and waited. 
 
 I can see her coming toward me under the trees, 
 grave and quiet and sweet. The great oeauty, Sarah 
 Lukens, who mamed in mid-war the gallant Lennox, 
 iLsed to say of my mother that she put some sugar 
 into all her moods ; and it was true. I have seen her 
 an "TV. I had rather have faced mv father in his 
 wildest rage than her. Wliy was she not angiy now ? 
 She had vast reason for dis})leasure. After men have 
 become wise enough to understand woman, I protest 
 there will remain the mother, whom no man will ever 
 comprehend. 
 
 '■What a >»eautiful day, Hugh! And you had a 
 good swim ? was it cold ? Why may not girls swim ? 
 I should love it." 
 
 Next she was be<?ide me on the gra.ss, my head on 
 her bosom. sayiiiL'. with a little sob, as if she had done 
 some wrong tiling: 
 
 « I— I did not choose it, dear j indeed I did not. It
 
 1 1 6 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 came in order witli the day, as your father reads ; 
 and I— I did not think until I began it, and then I 
 would not stop. It is strange for it to so chance. I 
 wonder where that prodigal's mother was aU the 
 while ? Oh, you are better than that wicked, wicked 
 prodigal. I never would have let him go at all— 
 never if I could have helped it, I mean. Mon Dieu ! 
 I think we women were made only for prayer or for 
 forgiveness ; we can stop no sin, and when it is done 
 can only cry, * Come back ! come back ! I love you ! ' " 
 
 If I cried on that tender heart, and spoke no word, 
 and was but a child again, I am sure that it was of 
 aR ways the best to tell her that never again should 
 she be hurt by any act of mine. 
 
 " See, there is Judith at the door, wondering where 
 I am," she said, ^' and what is to be for dinner. I 
 must go and get ready the fatted calf. Ah, I would 
 not have left one alive. Yes, yes, I can jest, because 
 I am no more afraid, mmi fils, nor ever shall be." 
 
 Upon this I would have said something of my 
 deep shame, and of the swine among whom I had 
 wallowed. 
 
 "No," she cried; ^'c^esf fini, mon cJier. It is all 
 over. The swine will eat alone hereafter." She 
 would hear no more, only adding, "As for me, I 
 want to be told once how brave I was. Jack said 
 so ; indeed he did. I ivas brave, was I not ? " 
 
 " Don't, dear mother ! please ! I cannot bear it." 
 Somehow this plea, so childlike, to be praised for 
 what must have cost so much, quite overcame me. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said ; " I understand thee, and I
 
 Huo:h Wynne: Free Quaker 117 
 
 shall always. How strong thou art, tnon fiU ! I was 
 proud of thee, even in that sty of pigs in red coats. 
 And he behaved like a geutlenum, and hath wondrous 
 self-command. I woidd see him again ; who is he ? " 
 
 I told her liis name. 
 
 " Que c'est drdle. That is cui'ious. Thy cousin ! 
 No doubt we shall see him to-dav, and thv father. I 
 shall tell him all— all. He must know." 
 
 " Yes, he must know," I said ; " but I will tell him 
 myself," 
 
 " He will be angry, but that is pai*t of thy punish- 
 ment." 
 
 Then I tcld her, too, I had lost an hundred pounds, 
 as I believed, and she said : 
 
 " That is, after all, the least. There are pearls of 
 my sister's I never wear. Thy aunt must take them 
 and pay this debt. Go now to thy business as if 
 nothing had happened, and I will send thee the pearls 
 by Tom. No, no j it is to be as I say j I must have 
 my way." 
 
 What could I do ? I kissed her, and we parted. 
 I made no promises, and she asked for none. I 
 like to think of how, after all, I left with her this 
 sense of quiet trust. 
 
 I have said tliat the daily march of events never 
 so influenced my life as did critical occasions. This 
 was surely one of them. I do not now regret the 
 knowledge of a baser world wliich I thus acquired. 
 It has been of use to me, and to some with whose lives 
 I have had to deal. 
 
 Of the vs-rath of my father, when I hnmbly con-
 
 I iS Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 fessed my sins, it is not needful to speak at length. 
 For business calamities he was ready enough, and 
 lacked not decision; but in this matter he was, as 
 I could see, puzzled. He strode up and down, a great 
 bulk of a man, opening and shutting his hands, a 
 trick he had in his rare moments of doubt or of 
 intense self -repression. 
 
 " I know not what to do with thee," he said over 
 and over ; "and thou didst strike the man, thy cousin ? 
 Well, well ! and hm*t him, I am told ? And he did 
 not return the blow ! " 
 
 I had not said so. Thus I knew that other busy 
 tongues had been at work. For my life, I could not 
 see whether he looked upon the blow as my worst 
 iniquity, or deep in his heart was hardly grieved at it. 
 
 " Thou didst strike him ? I must consider of thee ; 
 I must take counsel. Go ! thou wilt bring my gray 
 hairs in sorrow to the grave." And so I left him, 
 stUl striding to and fro, with ever the same odd 
 movement of his hands. He took counsel, indeed, 
 and for me and for him the most unwise that ever 
 a troubled man could have taken. It was some days 
 before this unpleasant scene took place, and mean- 
 while I had seen my aunt. 
 
 She was taking snuff furiously when I entered, 
 and broke out at once, very red in the face, and 
 walking about in a terrible rage. My mother used 
 to say that tlie first thing one saw of my Aunt 
 Gainor was her nose. It had been quite too much 
 of a nose for the rest of her face, until gray hair and 
 some change wrought by time in the architecture of
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker i 19 
 
 her fine head helped to mjike it more in harmony 
 with the rest of her features. Somehow it arrested 
 my attention now, and Heaven knows why it seemed 
 to me more odd than ewv. 
 
 *' This is a fine repentance indt^d ! "Uliat are you 
 stiiriug at, you fool t Here has been that wild curlew, 
 Bess Ferg:uson, with an awful t-ale of how you have 
 gambled and lost an hundred pounds, and half killed 
 an unlucky cousin. Who tlie deuce is the man ? A 
 nice godchild you ai*e ! A proper rage I am in, and 
 Dr. Rush tells me I am never to get excited ! You 
 should hear Mi-s. Galloway ; duels and murder are the 
 least of her talk ; and, u])on my word, you know no 
 more of the small sword than of —I know not what. I 
 must send you to Pike for lessons. When is it to be ? " 
 
 " My dear aunt," I cried, " I wish all these Toiy 
 cats of yours were dead ! " 
 
 At this she broke into laughter, and sat down. 
 
 " Cats ! and did n't they miaow ! That sweet girl- 
 boy. Jack Warder, has been here too ; sent, I suppose, 
 by that dear Jesuit, your mother. How he blushes ! 
 I hear you behaved like a gentleman even in your 
 cups. I like the lad ; I did not use to. He is a manly 
 miss. Sit down, and tell me all about it. Bless me ! 
 how hot I am ! " 
 
 Upon this I knew I had won my battle, and went 
 on to tell the whole story. AVlien I produced my 
 pearls, of wliich I was hombly ashamed, .^he broke 
 out anew, declaring we were all mere traders, and 
 did we think her a pawnbroker? and ended by giving 
 me an hundred pounds, and bidding me to be care-
 
 I20 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 fill and pay at once, as it was a debt of honour. " As 
 to the pearls, let Madam Marie keep them for thy 
 wife." 
 
 Thus ended a sorry business. It was to be told, 
 and I have told it ; but none, not even my mother 
 or Jack, knew how deep a mark it left upon my 
 character, or how profoundly it affected my life. 
 
 My friend Jack shall say the requiescat of this 
 chapter of my life, which I have so unwillingly re- 
 corded. There was one more thing needed to com- 
 plete its misery. Says Jack : 
 
 "Hugh Wynne and I fell apart this last winter 
 of '72 and '73. It was my fault." This I do not 
 understand. "Came then that hideous night in 
 April, and all the rest ; and Hugh I saw the day 
 after, and begged him to forgive me because I had 
 so easily deserted him. I took him later a kind 
 message from Mr. James Wilson ; for our small city 
 knew it all. Friends looked at him as one disgraced, 
 except Friend Rupert Forest, who, to my amuse- 
 ment, seemed to enjoy to hear the whole story, say- 
 ing, ' Alas ! alas ! ' and yet, as I saw, far more pleased 
 than distressed. It brought to my mind the battle 
 he had set us to fight out when we were boys. For 
 a week or two Hugh was dispmted, but after that, 
 when the colonel had called, and his cousin, Arthur 
 Wynne, began to be more and more with him, he 
 took heart, and faced our little world, and would let 
 no one, except myself, say a word to him of the time 
 of his downfall ; this I think I never did, save per- 
 haps once, and that long after.
 
 Hiii^h Wynne: Free Quaker 121 
 
 '•There was no need to preaeh. Converted devils 
 miike tiie best saints. I never was iis good u« Hugh, 
 because I lacked courasre to be wicked. Hugh was 
 no saint, but he drank no more for a long while, and 
 was ever after moderate. As to cards and dice, it 
 was much the same." 
 
 What Jack has here writt^»n is all nonsense. He 
 was a better man than I, and never was nor could 
 have been a bad one.
 
 IX 
 
 HAVE said that one event had to be re- 
 corded before I completed the story of 
 that episode of which I was weary of 
 hearing. My father — and it was against 
 all his habits in regard to most matters 
 —reminded me almost daily of my misdeeds. He 
 hoped I did not drink any more, and he would even 
 look at the square flasks on the shelf to see, as I 
 suspected, if they had been used. To be prayed for 
 was worst of all, and this he did more than once. 
 It was all of it unwise, and but for my mother I 
 should have been even more unhappy. I can see 
 now that my father was this while in distress, feehng 
 that he must do something, and not knowing what 
 to do. 
 
 In his business life there had always been a way 
 opened, as Friends say. He did not see that what 
 I needed was what it was not in his nature to give, 
 and thus it came about that we drew apart, and per- 
 haps neither then nor at any later time were, or could 
 ever have been, in the kindlier relation which makes 
 the best of friendships that of the grown-up son with 
 the elderly father. 
 At last, after a month or more, when it was far 
 
 122
 
 Hugh \\ viine: Free Quaker 123 
 
 on in June, he ceased to trouble me, and to walk up 
 and down, opening and shutting his hands, as he 
 recounted my sins. He had i*eached un unfortunate 
 decision, of wliich I was soon to feel the results. 
 
 In tlie nu'au time my cousin, Mr. Arthur Wynne, 
 had come into very close iutinuicy with idl our family 
 circle. As he had much to do with my later life, it 
 is well to return a little, and to detail here what fol- 
 lowed after the night of my mother's visit to the 
 coffee-house. 
 
 Next day, in the evening, came the colonel of the 
 Scots Grays, and desired to see me in the sitting. 
 room, my father being still in Lancaster. 
 
 'Olr. Wynne," he said, "Captain Wynne has 
 asked me to call in reference to that unhappy busi- 
 ness of last night. He begs to make his excuses 
 to Mrs. Wynne in this letter, which may I ask 
 you to deliver? And after this action on his part 
 1 trust you wiU see your way to regret the blow you 
 struck." 
 
 I was quiet for a moment, feeling that I must be 
 careful what answer I made. " I cannot feel sorry," 
 I said ; " I do not i-egrt't it." 
 
 " That is a pity, Mr. Wynne. You should remem- 
 ber that Mr. Arthur Wynne could not have known 
 who the lady was. A blow is a thing no gentle- 
 man can, as a rule, submit to ; but this has been dis- 
 cussed by Sir William Draper and myself, and we 
 feel that Mr. Arthur Wynne cannot challenge a boy 
 of eighteen." 
 
 " I am twenty," I replied.
 
 124 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " Pardon me— of twenty, who is his cousin. That 
 is the real point I would make. You have the best 
 of it. You were right, quite right ; but, by St. George, 
 you are a hard hitter! Mr. Wynne would have 
 come in person, but he is hardly fit to be seen, 
 and a sign-painter is just now busy painting his eye- 
 lids and cheek, so as to enable him to appear out 
 of doors." 
 
 The colonel treated me with the utmost respect, 
 and, as a young fellow naturally would be, I was 
 embarrassed more than a little, but not at all dissat- 
 isfied with the condition of my cousin. I said awk- 
 wardly that if he was willing to forget it I supposed 
 I ought to be. 
 
 "I think so," said the colonel. "Suppose you 
 leave it with me, and in a day or two talk it over 
 with him. Indeed, he is a most charming gentleman, 
 and a worthy member of a good old house." 
 
 I said I would leave it with the colonel, and upon 
 this he said, " Good-by, and come and dine with the 
 mess some day, but don't hit any more of us ;" and 
 so, laughing, he went away, leaving me flattered, but 
 with the feeling that somehow he had gotten the bet- 
 ter of me. 
 
 My mother declared it was a beautiful letter, writ 
 prettily, but ill-speiled (neither George the king nor 
 our own George could spell well). She would not 
 let me see it. I did years afterward. In it he spoke 
 of me as a boy, and she was cunning enough to know 
 that I should not like that. 
 
 It was a week before we saw Mr. Arthur Wynne.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 125 
 
 My father had meanwhile vented his first wrath on 
 me, and I was slowly getting over the strong sense of 
 disgust, shame, contrition, and anger, and had set- 
 tled down earnestly to my work. I hardly recognised 
 the man who came in on us after supper, as my 
 mother and I sat in the orchard, with my father in a 
 better humour tluui of late, and smoking a churchwar- 
 den, which, you nuiy like to know, wjis a long clay 
 pipe. The smoke sailed peacef uUy up, as I sat look- 
 ing at its blue smoke-rings. How often since have 
 I seen them float from the black lips of cannon, and 
 thought of my father and his pipe ! 
 
 We discussed the state of trade, and now and then 
 I read aloud bits from the Boston "Packet'' of two 
 weeks btvck, or my mother spoke of their September 
 voyage, and of what would be needed for it, a voyage 
 being looked upon as a serious affair in those times. 
 
 "I found your doors hosi)ital)ly open," said the 
 captain, appearing, "and the servant said I should find 
 you here ; so I have taken my welcome for granted, 
 and am come to make my most humble excuses to 
 Mrs. Wynne.'' 
 
 We all rose as lie drew near, my mother saying 
 in my ear iis he approa<'hed, ''It is i\j'thur Wynne. 
 Now, Hugh, take C4ire ! " 
 
 This newly found cousin was, like all of us, tall, 
 but not quite so broad as we other Wynnes. He 
 was of swarthy complexion from long service in the 
 East, and had blaek hair, not fine, but rather coarse. 
 I noticed u scar on his forehead. He shook hands, 
 using his left hand, because, as I learned, of awkward-
 
 126 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 iiess from an old wound. But with his left he was 
 an expert swordsman, and, like left-handed swords- 
 men, the more dangerous. 
 
 "We are glad to see thee, Cousin Wynne," said 
 my mother. 
 
 Seeing the marks of my handiwork still on his 
 cheek, I took his greeting with decent cordiality, and 
 said, "Sit down; wilt thou smoke a pipe, Cousin 
 Arthur?" 
 
 He said he did not smoke, and set himself, with 
 the address of a man used to a greater world than 
 ours, to charm those whom no doubt he considered 
 to be quite simple folk. In a few minutes the un- 
 pleasantness of the situation was over. He and my 
 father were at one about politics, and I wisely held 
 my peace. He let fall a discreet sentence or two 
 about the habits of soldiers, and his own regrets, 
 and then said, laughing : 
 
 " Your son is not quite of your views as a Friend 
 in regard to warfare." 
 
 " My son is a hasty young man," said my father, 
 and I felt my mother's touch on my arm. 
 
 Our cousin was in no way upset by this. He said, 
 " No, no, cousin ; he is young, but not hasty. I was 
 fitly dealt with. We are hot-blooded people, we 
 Wynnes. The ways of Friends are not our ways of 
 dealing with an injury ; and it was more— I wish to 
 say so— it was an insult. He was right." 
 
 " There is no such thing as insult in the matter/* 
 said my father. " We may insult the great Master, 
 but it is not for man to resent or punish."
 
 Hugli Wynne: Free Quaker 127 
 
 " I fear as to that we shall continue to differ." He 
 spoke with the utmost deference. '*Do you go to Wyn- 
 cote 1 I hear you are for England in the autumn." 
 
 "No; I shall be too full of business. Wyncote 
 has no great interest for me." 
 
 "Indeed? It might perhaps disappoint you— a 
 tumble-down old house, an embarrassed estate. My 
 brother will get but a small income when it falls to 
 him. My father fights cocks and dogs, rides to 
 hounds, and, I grieve to say, drinks hard, like all our 
 Welsh squires." 
 
 I was surprised at his frank statement. My mother 
 watched him eiu-iously, with those attentive blue eyes, 
 as my father returned : 
 
 " Of a certainty, thou dost not add to my induce- 
 ments to visit Wj-ncote. I should, I fear, be sadly 
 out of place." 
 
 " I am afraid that is but too true, unless your head 
 is better than mine. Wo are a sad set, we Wynnes. 
 All the i»rosix'rity, and 1 foar much of the decency 
 of the family, crossed the ocean long ago." 
 
 " Yet I sliould like to see Wj-ncot*," said I. " I 
 think thou didst tell me it is not thy home." 
 
 " No ; a soldier can hardly be said to have a home ; 
 and a younger brother, with a tough father alive, 
 and an elder brother on an impoverished estate, must 
 needs be a wanderer." 
 
 " But we shall make thee welcome here," said my 
 father, with grave kindness. "We are jihiin people, 
 and live simi)ly ; but a Wynne should always find, 
 as we used to say here, the latch-string outside."
 
 128 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 With a little more talk of the Wynnes, the captain, 
 declining to remain longer, rose, and, turning to me, 
 said, " I hear, Cousin Hugh, that you refused to say 
 that you were sorry for the sharp lesson you gave me 
 the other night. I have made my peace with your 
 mother." 
 
 " I shall see that my son behaves hiniseK m future. 
 Thou hast heard thy cousin, Hugh ? " 
 
 I had, and I meant to make it up with him, but my 
 father's effort as a peacemaker did not render my 
 course the more easy. Still, with the mother-eyes 
 on me, I kept my temper. 
 
 " I was about to say thou hast done all a man can 
 do," said I. 
 
 " Then let us shake hands honestly," he repHed, 
 ''and let bygones be bygones." 
 
 I saw both my parents glance at me. " I should 
 be a brute if I did not say yes, and mean it, too ; but 
 I cannot declare that I am sorry, except for the whole 
 business." And with this I took his left hand, a 
 variety of the commonplace ceremony which always, 
 to my last knowledge of Captain Wynne, affected me 
 unpleasantly. 
 
 He laughed. '' They call us in Merionethshire the 
 wilful W\Tines. You will find me a good friend if 
 you don't want the things I want, I am like most 
 younger brothers, inclined to want things. I thank 
 you all for a pleasant hour. It is like home, or better." 
 With this he bowed low to my mothei-'s curtsey, and 
 went away, chatting as I conducted him to the door, 
 and promising to sail with me, or to fi^h.
 
 HughW^'nne: Free Quaker 129 
 
 Naturally enough, on my rehirn I found my parents 
 discussiiug our newly I'uuud relative. ^ly mother 
 tliought he talked much of himself, and had been 
 pleasimt<.'r if he had not spoken so frankly of his 
 father. My father said little, except that there seemed 
 to be good in the young num. 
 
 "Why should we not forgive that in him which 
 we must forgive in our own son ? " 
 
 My father had some dreadful power to hurt me, 
 and to mo only was lie an unjust man ; this may 
 have been because my wrong-doing troubled both 
 his patornjd and his sj)iritual pride. I was al)out 
 to say that there was little likeness between my sin 
 and that of my cousin ; but I saw my mother, as she 
 stood a little back of my father's great bulk, shake 
 her head, and I held my tongue. Not so she. 
 
 " If thou hadst been a woman in my place, John 
 Wynne, tliou wouldst be far from sayiug the thing 
 thou hiLst sjiid." 
 
 Never hml I heard or seen in our house a thing 
 like this. I saw, in the fatling light, my father work- 
 ing his hands as I have described, a signal of re- 
 strained anger, and, like anything j)liysically unus' 
 ual in one we love, not quite pleasant to see. But 
 my mother, who knew not fear of him nor of any, 
 went on, desj)ite hi.s saying, "This is unseemly— un- 
 seemly, wife." 
 
 " Thou art unjust, John, to my son." 
 
 " Thy son T " 
 
 "Yes ; mine as well as tliine. I have faith tliat thou, 
 even thou, John, wouldst have done as my boy did."
 
 130 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " I ? I ? " he cried ; and now I saw that he was dis- 
 turbed, for he was moving his feet hke some proud, 
 restrained horse pawing the grass. At last he 
 broke the stillness which followed Ms exclamations : 
 "There is but one answer, wife. Both have been 
 brutes, but this boy has been kept near to godly 
 things all his life. Each First-day the tongues of 
 righteous men have taught him to live clean, to put 
 away wrath, to love his enemies; and in a day — a 
 minute— it is gone, and, as it were, useless, and I the 
 shame of the town." 
 
 I hoped this was all ; but my mother cried, " John ! 
 John ! It is thy pride that is hiu*t. No, it is not 
 seemly to dispute with thee, and before thy son. And 
 yet— and yet— even that is better than to let him go 
 with the thought that he is altogether like, or no better 
 than, that man. If thou hast a duty to bear testi- 
 mony, so have I." And thus the mother of the prod- 
 igal son had her say. No doubt she found it hard, 
 and I saw her dash the tears away with a quick hand, 
 as she added, " If I have hurt thee, John, I am sorry." 
 
 " There is but one answer, wife. Love thy enemy ; 
 do good to them that despitefuUy use thee. Thou 
 wilt ruin thy son with false kindness, and who shall 
 save him from the pit ? " 
 
 I turned at last in a storm of indignation, crying, 
 " Could I see my mother treated like a street-wench 
 or a gutter-drab, and lift no hand? I wish I had 
 killed him ! " 
 
 " See, wife," said my father. " Yes, even this was 
 to be borne."
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker i 3 i 
 
 " Not by me ! " I cried, aud strode into the house, 
 "woudering if ever I was to be done with it. 
 
 The day after no one of us showed a siiifu of this 
 outbreak. Never had I seen the Ulce of it aiuonc: us ; 
 but the Quaker habit of absohite self-repression, and 
 of concealment of emotion again prevjiiled, so that 
 at breakfast we met as usual, and, whatever we may 
 have felt, there was no outward evidence of my 
 motlier's just auger, of my father's bitterness, or of 
 my own disgust.
 
 WAS not yet to see the end of my ini- 
 quity, and was to feel the consequences in 
 ways which, for many a day, influenced 
 my life and actions. 
 
 It was toward the end of June. The 
 feeling of uneasiness and dread was becoming more 
 and more felt, not only in commerce, which is so sen- 
 sitive, but also in the social relations of men. The 
 king-'s officers were more saucy, and, like all soldiers, 
 eager for active service, imagining an easy victory 
 over a people untrained in war. Such Tory pam- 
 phleteers as the foul-tongued Massachusetts writer, 
 Daniel Leonard, were answering " Vindex " (Mr. 
 Adams) and the widely read letters of " An American 
 Farmer." The plan of organised correspondence 
 between the colonies began to be felt in some ap- 
 proach to unity of action, for at this time the out- 
 spoken objection to the views of the king and his 
 facile minister was general, and even men like Gal- 
 loway, Chew, the Aliens, and John Penn stood with 
 varying degrees of good will among those who were 
 urging resistance to oppression. As yet the too 
 mighty phantom of independence had not appeared
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 13^ 
 
 on the horizon of our stormy i)olitics, to scare the 
 timid, tiud to consolidate our own resistance. 
 
 I worked hard with my father at our lessening 
 and complicated business, riding far into the country 
 to collect debts, often with Jack, who had like er- 
 rands to do, and with whom I discussed tlie topics 
 which were so often, and not always too amiably, in 
 question at my Aunt Gainor's table. I was just 
 now too busy to be much with mv old favourites, the 
 officers. Indeed, I was wise enough to keep away 
 from them. 
 
 ^Iv cousin I saw often, both at mv aunt's, as I shall 
 relate, and elsewhere ; for he came much to our house, 
 and my father found it agreeable to ttdk over with 
 him the news of the day. ^My mother did not like 
 him as well, but she held her peace, and, like eveiy 
 other man. he was attracted by her gaiety, and quaint 
 way of looking at men and things. 
 
 Mr. Wilson I saw at times, as he still had, I know 
 not why, a fancy for me, and loved well to sail with 
 me of evenings over to Kaighn's Point to fish, or 
 down to Gloucester to bob for crabs. I owed him 
 much. A profound knowledge of law, variety of 
 reading, and a mind which left broadly on our after- 
 history the marks of his powerful intellect, were at 
 mv ser\'ice. He u.«ed to caution me how I spoke of 
 his opinions to ot}H'i*s. and he would then discuss with 
 freedom politics and the men wIkjsc figinx'S were fast 
 rising into distinctness as leaders to be hstened to and 
 trusted. Many of them he knew, and thus first I heard 
 clejirly what manner of persons were Patrick Ileurj'
 
 134 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 and the Adamses, Dickinson, Peyton Randolph, and 
 others less prominent. In this way I came to be more 
 and more confirmed in the opinions my Aunt Gainor 
 so resolutely held, and also more careful how I ex- 
 pressed them. Indeed, although but twenty years of 
 age, I was become quite suddenly an older and graver 
 man. Mr. Wilson surprised me one day by saying 
 abruptly, as he pulled up a reluctant crab, " Do you 
 never think, Hugh, that we shall have war ? " 
 
 I was indeed amazed, and said so. Then he added, 
 " It win come. My place will not be in the field, 
 but, whether you like it or not, you will see battles. 
 You were made for a soldier, Hugh, Quaker or no 
 Quaker." 
 
 I thought it odd that two people as different as my 
 Aunt Gainor and he should have the same belief 
 that we were drifting into war. She had said to me 
 the night before that she had known Lord North as 
 a boy, and that the king was an obstinate Dutchman, 
 and would make his minister go his way, adding, 
 " Wlien it comes you will be in it ; you can't escape." 
 
 No one else whom I knew had any such belief, 
 Wilson's views and prediction sent me home thought- 
 ful enough. 
 
 That evening my father said to me, "We go to 
 Merion the day after to-morrow." It was there we 
 spent our summers. ''To-morrow wiU be Fourth- 
 day. It is our last day of Meeting in the town. There 
 will, perhaps, be some wise words said as to present 
 confusions, and I wish thee to hear them, my son." 
 
 I said, " Yes ; at seven, father ? " I was, however,
 
 Hugh W^'nne: Free Quaker 1-^5 
 
 astonished; for these occasional night Meetings in 
 the middle of the week were but rarely attended by 
 the younger Friends, and, although opened with sueh 
 religious observances as the society affected, were 
 chiefly reserved for business and questions of disci- 
 pline. I had not the least desire to go, but there was 
 no help for it. 
 
 Our supper took place at six on this Wednesday, 
 a little earher than usual, and I observed that mv 
 father drank severid cups of tea, which was not his 
 habit. Few people took tea since the futile tax 
 had been set upon it; but my father continued to 
 drink it, and would have no concealment, as was the 
 custom with some Whigs, who in public professed 
 to be opposed to the views of the crown as to the 
 right to collect indirect taxes. 
 
 Seeing that I did not drink it, and knowing that 
 I liked nothing bettt-r than a good dish of tea, he 
 asked me why I did not partake of it. Not willing 
 to create new trouble, I said I did not want any. 
 He urged the matter no fmther, but I saw he was 
 not well pleased. We set off soon after in silence, 
 he walking with hands behind his back clasping his 
 gold-headed cane, his collarless coat and waistcoat 
 below his beaver, and the gray hair in a thick mass 
 between. He wore shoes, fine dral) short-clothes, 
 and black silk stockings, all without buckles; and 
 ht; moved rapi<lly, nodding to those he met on the 
 way, to the Bank Meeting-house, in Front Street, 
 above Arch. 
 
 It was a simple, one-story, brick building, set a
 
 136 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 few feet above the level of the roadway. The gables 
 and shutters were painted white, as was also the 
 plain Doric doorway, which had a piUar on each 
 side. I Judged by the number of both sexes enter- 
 ing that it was an unusual occasion. There were 
 many di*ab-coated men, and there were elderly women, 
 in gowns of drab or gray, with white silk shawls 
 and black silk-covered cardboard bonnets. Here and 
 there a man or woman was in gayer colours or wore 
 buckles, and some had silver buttons ; but these were 
 rare. The Meeting-room was, so to speak, a large 
 oblong box with whitewashed walls. A broad 
 passage ran from the door to the farther end; on 
 the right of it sat the men, on the left the women ; 
 against the remoter wall, facing the rude benches, 
 were three rows of seats, one above the other. On 
 these sat at the back the elders, and in front of 
 them the overseers. The clerk of the Meeting had 
 a little desk provided for him. Over their heads 
 was a long sounding-board. 
 
 To me the scene had been familiar for years ; but 
 to-day it excited my attention because of an air of 
 expectation, and even of excitement, among the few 
 more youthful Friends. I saw, as we entered, furtive 
 glances cast at my father and myself ; but as to this 
 I had grown to be of late more or less indifferent, and 
 had no anticipation of what was to follow later. 
 
 I had become, since my sad downfall, a more serious 
 and thoughtful young man, and far better fitted to 
 feel the beauty and the spirituality of these Meetings 
 than I had been before. When the doors were closed
 
 Hugli Wynne: Free Quaker 137 
 
 I sat silent in ])rayer ; for some ten minutes inereas- 
 iug stillness came ui)on one and all of the three or 
 four hundred people here met toirether. 
 
 As I waited, with lonp-trnined })atieiiee, for full 
 twenty minutes, a yet deeper quiet fell on the 
 ligures seated on each side of the aisle. For a 
 time none of the men uncovered, but soon a few 
 took off their broad hats, having remained with 
 them on their heads long enough to satisfy cus- 
 tom by this protest against the ways of other men. 
 The hu'ger number kept their hats on their heads. 
 Then a strange incident took place: a woman of 
 middle age, but gi'ay, her hair fallen about her 
 shoulders, entered n<»isily, and, standing before the 
 elders, cried out in a loud voice, as though in afflic- 
 tion and sore distress, "See to your standing; tlie 
 Lord is about to search and examine your camp. 
 Ho ! ye of little faith and less wt»rks, the hand of 
 God is come upon you— the mighty hand of punish- 
 ment." As she spake thus wildly she swayed to and 
 fro, and seemed to me disordered in mind. Finally 
 she passed a<*ro.ss the space in front of the ovei*seei*s, 
 to the women's side, and then back again, repeating 
 her mad language. My Aunt Gainor's gi'cat bronze 
 Buddha was not more motionless tlian they who sat 
 on the eldei*s' seats. At last the woman faced the 
 Meeting, and went down the aisle, waving her hands, 
 and crying out, " I shall have peace, ])eace, in thus 
 having discharged my Lord's errand." The many 
 there met did justice to their discijdine. Scarce a 
 face showed the surprise all must have felt No one
 
 138 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 turned to see her go out, or seemed to hear the door 
 banged furiously after her. The covered heads re- 
 mained silent and undisturbed ; the rows of deep 
 bonnets were almost as moveless. Fully ten minutes 
 of perfect silence followed this singular outburst. 
 Then I saw the tall, gaunt figure of Nicholas Wain 
 rise slowly, a faint but pleasant smile on his severe 
 face, while he looked about him and began : 
 
 " Whether what ye have heard be of God I cannot 
 say. The time hath troubled many souls. The woman, 
 Sarah Harris, who hath^ as some are aware, borne 
 many sweet and pleasing testimonies to Friends in 
 Wilmington, I know not. Whether what ye have 
 heard be of God or but a rash way of speech, let us 
 feel that it is a warninsr to Friends here assembled 
 that we be careful of what we say and do. It hath 
 been borne in upon me that Friends do not fully 
 understand one another, and that some are moved 
 to wrath, and some inclined to think that Friends 
 should depart from their ways and question that 
 which hath been done by the rulers God hath set over 
 us. Let us be careful that our General Epistles lean 
 not to the aiding of corrupt and wicked men, who are 
 leading weak-minded persons into paths of violence." 
 And here he sat down. 
 
 A moment later got up Tliomas Scattergood, grim 
 and dark of visage. None of his features expressed 
 the slightest emotion, although even from the begin- 
 ning he spoke with vehemence and his body rocked 
 to and fro. 
 
 " The days are darkening ; the times are e\'Tl. Our 
 master, set over us by God, has seen fit to tax cer-
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 139 
 
 tain commodities, that means may be raised for the 
 just govenimeut of these eolouies, where we aud our 
 fathers have prospered iu our worldly goods, under 
 a rule that ha^j left us free to worship (jod as seems 
 best to us. Aud now we are bid by men, not of our 
 society, ungodly self-seekei-s, sons of darkness, to 
 unite with tJiem iu the way of resistance to the law. 
 There have even been found here among us those 
 who have signed agreements to disobey such as ai'e 
 set over us, unmindful of the order to render to Ctesar 
 that which is his. Let there be among Friends neither 
 feiu' nor any shortcoming. Let us bear testimony 
 against evil-doers, whether they be of us or not. Let 
 us cut down and utt^'rly cast forth those who depart 
 from righteousness. Are they not of the scum which 
 riseth on the boding j)ot ? There is a time for P^riends 
 to remonstrate, and a time to act. I fear lest these 
 too gentle counsels of Friend Wain be out of time 
 and out of place. Away with those who, hearing, 
 heed not. Let them be dealt with as they should be, 
 with love for the sinner, V)ut with thought as to the 
 evil which comes of unscourged examples, so that 
 when again we are met in the Quarterly Meeting there 
 shall be none among us to stir up discord, and we can 
 say to other Meetings, ' As we have done, so do ye. 
 Make elean the house of the Lord.'" 
 
 The night was now upon us, and the ringing tones 
 of the speaker were heard tlirough the darkness be- 
 fore he sat down. While alJ waited, two Friends 
 lit the candles set in tin sconces against the pillars 
 of the gallery, and, in the dim light they gave, the 
 discussion went on.
 
 140 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Then I saw that Ai'thur HoweD was about to speak. 
 This able and tender-minded man usually sat in 
 Meeting with his head bent, his felt hat before his 
 eyes, wrapped in thought, and lifted above aU con- 
 sideration of the things of this earth. As he began, 
 his rich, full voice filled the space, and something in 
 its pleading sweetness appealed to every heart. He 
 spoke as one who, having no doubt, wondered that 
 any one else should doubt, and he brought the dis- 
 cussion to a decisive point at once. 
 
 " It is well," he said, " that all should be convinced 
 by those who, from age and influence among Friends, 
 have the best right of speech. Nevertheless, since 
 this is a Meeting for discipline, let all be heard with 
 fairness and order. Men have gone astray. They 
 have contended for the asserting of civil rights in 
 a manner contrary to our peaceable profession and 
 principles, and, although repeatedly admonished, do 
 not manifest any disposition to make the Meeting a 
 proper acknowledgment of their outgoings. There- 
 fore it is that we bear our testimony against such 
 practices, and can have no unity with those who fol- 
 low them until they come to a sense of their errors. 
 Therefore, if this be the sense of our Meeting, let 
 the clerk be moved to manifest the feelings of the 
 Meeting to these members, signing on our behalf, 
 for the matter hath already been before us twice, 
 and hath been deeply and prayerfully considered by 
 ourselves ; and I am charged to tell Friends that these 
 members who have thus gone astray are unwilling 
 to be convinced by such as have sought to bring them
 
 HultH Wynne: Free Quaker 141 
 
 to a better mind. This hath been duly reported, and 
 ovei*seers haviu^' thus failed, it doth only remain 
 to abide by the sense of our Meeting. But this I 
 have ah'L'udy said : the matter hath bren pniyert'ully 
 considered." 
 
 After this, othei*s spoke, but all elder Friends un- 
 dei-stood that the business had been disposed of, and 
 little attention was given tt> those who rose after 
 Frii-nd Iloweli sat down. Indeed, tliat they were ill- 
 atlvised to speak at all was plainly to be read in the 
 countenances of many. 
 
 This was my fti-st experience of an evening Meet- 
 ing, and, even to one acquainted with all the ways 
 of Friends, the scene wjis not without its interest. 
 The night was now dark outside. The tallow dips 
 ran down and flared dismally. A man vnili snuffers 
 went to and fro, and the pungent odours of candles, 
 burned out and to be rej)laced, filled the room. 
 
 In the quiet which foUowed Arthur Howell's re- 
 fined and distinct accents, I looked at the row of 
 placid fa<'cs where the women sat, some rosy, some 
 old. all in the monastic cell of the bonnet, which nuule 
 it as impossible to see, except in front, as it is for a 
 horse with blinders. I wondered how this queer head- 
 gear came to have been made, and recalled my aunt's 
 amusement at the care exercised as to its form and 
 material. Few there, I think, let their thoughts 
 wander, and in front of me the row of drab coats and 
 wide felt or beaver huts remained almost motionless. 
 
 At last James Pemberton, the esteemed clerk of 
 the Meeting, rose. " I am moved," he said, '' by the
 
 142 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 Spirit to declare that the sense, and also the weight, 
 of the Meeting is that Cyrus Edson and William 
 Jameson be advised, in accordance with the instructed 
 wish of Friends." 
 
 He then sat down. There was no vote taken. 
 Even had a majority of those present been hostile to 
 the proposed action, it is improbable that any protest 
 would have been made. The clerk's statement that 
 the weight of the Meeting was affirmative, would 
 have been held to settle the matter, as it appeared 
 best to a limited number of those recognised, through 
 their piety and strict living, to be competent to decide 
 for the rest. 
 
 I was now assured that this was all, and looked to 
 see two of the elders shake hands, which is the well- 
 recognised signal for the Meeting to break up ; but 
 as the elders did not move, the rest sat still and waited. 
 By and by I saw Nicholas Wain extend his hand to 
 my father, who, looking steadily before him, made 
 no sign of perceiving this intention to dismiss 
 Friends. A stiU longer pause followed. As I learned 
 afterward, no fm-ther speaking was anticipated. No 
 one stirred. For my part, I was quite ready to go, 
 and impatientlj^ awaited the signal of dismissal. A 
 minute or two passed ; then I was aware of a short, 
 neatly built man, who rose from a bench near by. 
 His face was strong, irregular of feature, and for 
 some reason impressed me. I could see even in 
 the indistinct light that he flushed deeply as he got 
 up on his feet. He received instant attention, for he 
 went past me, and, standing in the passageway, was
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 143 
 
 quiet for a moment. He was, I think, not over thirty, 
 and seemed embarrassed at the instant attention he 
 received. For a few minutes he appeared to seek 
 his words, and then, quite suddenly, to find them in 
 eloquent abundauee. 
 
 '• It is not usual," he said, '• t'ur disowned members 
 of the society to openly protest. Neither ai*e tliese 
 our brothers here to-da}'. Nor, were they with us, 
 are they so skilled with the tongue as to be able to 
 defend tliemselves against the strong lauguage of 
 Thomas Scattcrgood or the gentle speech of Artliur 
 Howell. I would say a word for them, and, too, for 
 myself, since nothing is more sure than that I think 
 them right, and know that ye will, before long, cast 
 out me, to whom your worsliip is sweet and lovely, 
 and the ways of Friends for the most part such as 
 seem to me more acceptable than those of any other 
 Christian society. WTiether it be that old memories 
 of persecution, or too gi-eat prosperity, have hardened 
 you, I do not know. It does seem to me that ye have 
 put on a severity of dress and life that was not so 
 once, and that undue strictne.<;s hath destroyed for us 
 some of the innocent joys of this world. I also find 
 unwholesome and burdensome that inner garment 
 of self-righteousness in which ye clothe yourselves 
 to judge the motives of your fellow-men. 
 
 " So far as the law went against such views as you 
 entertained, none did more resist them, in your own 
 way, than did you ; but now the Engli.sh across the 
 seas tell us that the li})erty our fathers sought on 
 these shores is to be that which pleases a corrupt and
 
 144 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 pliant ministry, and not that which is common to 
 men of English blood. Some brave men of our so- 
 ciety say, ' Let us make a stand here, lest worse things 
 come. Let us refuse to eat, drink, or wear the ar- 
 ticles they assume to tax, whether we will or not.' 
 There is no violence. Believe me, there will be none 
 if we are one throughout the colonies. But if not— 
 if not— if grave old men like you, afraid of this mere 
 shadow of passive resistance, dreading to see trade 
 decay and the fat flanks of prosperity grow lean— 
 if you are wholly with our oppressors, passively with 
 them, or, as some believe, actively, then— then, dear 
 friends, it will be not the shadow, but the substance, 
 of resistance that will fall in blood and ruin on you 
 and on all men— on your easy lives and your ac- 
 cumulated gains. 
 
 " Aye, look to it ! There is blood on the garments 
 of many a man who sits fearfully at home, and thinks 
 that because he does nothing he will be free of guilt 
 when the great account is called." 
 
 On this a rare exception to the tranquillity of Meet- 
 ing occurred. Daniel OfSey, by trade a farrier, rose 
 and broke in, speaking loudly, as one used to lift his 
 voice amid the din of hammers : " Wherefore should 
 this youth bring among us the godless things of 
 worldly men ? " His sonorous tones rang out through 
 the partial obscurity, and shook, as I noticed, the 
 scattered spires of the candle flames. " This is no 
 time for foolish men to be heard, where the eldei*s 
 are of a mind. The sense of the Meeting is with us. 
 The weight of the Meeting is with us. The king is
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 145 
 
 a good king:, iind who are we to resist ? Out with 
 those who iiiv uot of oiu- ways ! Let the liaiuiiier 
 fall ou the uiirit^liteous, lest the sheep be scattered, 
 and the Shepherd leave them." 
 
 At this qiu-er iiiixtm-e of metaphors I saw the pre- 
 \'ious speaker smile, as he stood iu the aisle. Next 
 I heard the gentle voice of James Pemberton break 
 in on the uncouth speech of the big fanier. 
 
 *' It is the custom of Friends that all men who feel 
 to be moved to tell us aught shall be heard. Friend 
 "NVetherill, we %\'iU hear thee to an end.'' He spoke 
 with the courteous ease of a well-bred geutk'man, and 
 the smith sjit down. 
 
 Friend Wetherill paused a moment, looking to left 
 and right jdong the lines of deeply interested and 
 motionless faces. Then he continued : " On what you 
 and otliei-s do iu tliese days depends what shall come 
 upon us. Let no man deceive 3'ou, not even the timid 
 counsel of gniy hairs or the wariness of wealth. The 
 guinea fears ; the penny fights ; and tlie poor penny 
 Ls to-day deeply concerned. You take shelter under 
 the law of Christ, to live, as far as po.ssible, at peace 
 with all men. As far as possible ? It .should at times 
 l>e felt that Paul's Hmitation is also a command. 
 Do not resist liim who woxdd slay a child or wrong 
 a woman— that is liow you read the law of God. 
 
 " It is extremes which bring ruin to the best Chris- 
 tian societies, and if the mass of men were witli you 
 civil order would cea«e, and the carefulh' Imilded 
 structure of civilisation would perish. You are al- 
 ready undergoing a process of dry decay, and as you 
 10
 
 146 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 dry and dry, you harden and shrink, and see it not. 
 A wild woman has told you to set your camp in order. 
 See to it, my friends ; see to it ! " 
 
 For not less than a minute the speaker remained 
 silent, with bended head, still keeping the won- 
 derfully steady attention of this staid assembly. 
 Very slowly he lifted his face, and now, as he began 
 again, it was with a look of tender sweetness : " It 
 was far back in Second-month, 1771, I began to be 
 encompassed by doubts as to the course Friends were 
 taking. To-day I am assm-ed in spirit that you are 
 wrong in the support you gave, and, let me say, are 
 giving, to an unjust cause. I think I take an inno- 
 cent liberty to express myself on this occasion, also 
 according to the prospect I have of the matter. 
 There is something due to the king, and something 
 to the cause of the public. When kings deviate from 
 the righteous law of justice in which kings ought to 
 rule, it is the right, aye, and the religious duty, of the 
 people to be plain and honest in letting them know 
 where. I am not a person of such consequence as 
 to dictate ; but there is in me and in you a court, to 
 which I confidently appeal. I have appealed to it in 
 prayer, as to what my course shaR be. I obey my 
 conscience. Take heed that you do not act rashly." 
 
 Here again, after these calm words, he paused, and 
 then said, with emphatic sternness, "As my last 
 words, let me leave with you the admonition of the 
 great founder of this colony. ' I beseech you,' he 
 says, 'for the sake of Christ, who so sharply pro- 
 hibited making others suffer for their religion, that
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 147 
 
 you have a care how you exercise power over other 
 men's eonseieuies. My frieuds, conscience is God's 
 throne in man, and tlie power of it His prerogative !' 
 These are sok^niu words. Whether you k>ave me to 
 live among you, free to do what seems right to me^ 
 or drive me forth, who have no wish to go, now and 
 alwavs I shall love vou. That love vou cannot take 
 
 * * » 
 
 away, nor weaken, nor disturb." 
 
 I was sorry when the melody of this clear voice 
 ceased. The speaker, wiping the moisture from his 
 brow, stood still, and, covering his face with his hands, 
 was lost in the prayer which I doubt not followed. 
 
 A long interval of absence of all sound came after 
 he ceased to speak. No one replied. The matter was 
 closed, a decision reached, and the clerk instructed. 
 I knew enough to feel sure that those manly tones 
 of appeal and remonstrance had failed of their 
 puq)ose. 
 
 At this moment I saw an elderly man on the seal 
 before me rise, and with deliberateness kneel in 
 prayer ; or, as Friends say, Israel Sharpless appeared 
 in supplication. At first, as he began to be heard. 
 Friends rose here and there, until all were afoot and 
 Bill uncovered. The silence and reverent bended heads, 
 and the dim light, affected me as never ])efore. I\Iany 
 turned their backs on the praying man, an odd cus- 
 tom, but common. As he prayed his voice rose until 
 it filled the great room ; and of a sudden I startrd, 
 and broke out in a cold sweat, for this was what 1 
 heard : 
 
 " O Lord, arise, and let Thine enemies be scattered.
 
 148 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Dip me deeper in Jordan. "Wash me in the laver of 
 regeneration. Give me courage to wrestle with ill- 
 doers. Let my applications be heard. 
 
 " Father of mercy, remember of Thy pity those of 
 the young among us who, being fallen into evil ways, 
 are gone astray. We pray that they who have gam- 
 bled and drunk and brought to shame and sorrow 
 their elders may be recovered into a better mind, 
 and sin no more. We pray Thee, Almighty Father, 
 that they be led to consider and to repent of deeds 
 of violence, that those among us whom the confusion 
 of the times has set against the law and authority of 
 rulers be better counselled ; or, if not, strengthen us 
 so to deal with these young men as shall make pure 
 again Thy sheepfold, that they be no longer a means 
 of leading others into wickedness and debauchery." 
 I heard no more. This man was a close friend of my 
 father. I knew but too well that it was I who was 
 thus reproved, and thus put to shame. I looked this 
 way and that, the hot blood in my face, thinking to 
 escape. Custom held me, I caught, as I stared, 
 furtive glances from some of the younger folk. Here 
 and there some sweet, gentle face considered me a 
 moment with pity, or with a curiosity too strong for 
 even the grim discipline of Friends. I stood erect. 
 The prayer went on. Now and then I caught a phrase, 
 but the most part of what he said was lost to me. I 
 looked about me at times with the anguish of a 
 trapped animal. 
 
 At last I saw that my gentle- voiced speaker, Weth- 
 erill, was, like myself, rigid, with upheld head, and
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 149 
 
 that, with a faint smile on his face, he was looking 
 toward rae. Minute after minute passed. Would 
 they never be done with it? I began to wonder what 
 was going on under those bent gray hats and black 
 bonnets. I was far away from j)cnitence or remorse, a 
 bruised and tormented man, helj>lcss, if ever a nam was 
 helpless, under the monotonous and silent reproach of 
 some himdreds of people who had condemned me un- 
 heard. It did seem as if it never would end. 
 
 At last the voice died out. The man rose, and put 
 on his hat. All resumed their seats and their head- 
 coverings. I saw that Friend Scattergood extended a 
 hand to my fatlier, who was, as I have n<tt yet stated, 
 an elder. Tiie grasp was accepted. Elders and over- 
 seers, both men and women, rose, and we also. I 
 pu.shed my way out, rudely, I fear. At the door 
 James Pemberton put out his hand. I looked him 
 full in the face, and turned away from the too inquis- 
 itive looks of the younger Friends. I went by my 
 father without a word. He could not have known 
 what pain his meth(»d of .saving my soul would cost 
 me. That he had been in some way active in the 
 matter I did not doubt, and I knew later that my 
 opinion was but too correct. 
 
 Hastening down Front street ^vith an overwhelm- 
 ing desire to be alone, I paused at our own door, and 
 then, late as it was, now close to ten, I unmoored my 
 boat, and wa.s about to pusii off when I felt a hand 
 on my shoulder. It was Samuel Wetherill. 
 
 " Let me gf) with thee, my boy," he said. " Wo 
 should talk a little, thou and I."
 
 150 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I said, "Yes. Thou art the only man I want to 
 see to-night." 
 
 There were no more words. The moon was up as I 
 pulled down Dock Creek and out on my friendly river. 
 
 " Let thy boat drift," he said. "■ Perhaps thou art 
 aware, Hugh Wynne, how grieved I was ; for I know 
 all that went before. I somehow think that thou 
 hast already done for thyself what these good folk 
 seemed to think was needed. Am I right ? " 
 
 ''Yes," I said. 
 
 " Then say no more. James Wilson has spoken 
 of thee often. To be loved of such a man is much. 
 I hear that thou hast been led to think with us, and 
 that, despite those wicked wild oats, thou art a young 
 man of parts and good feehngs, thoughtful beyond 
 thy years." 
 
 I thanked him ahnosb in tears; for this kindly 
 judgment was, past behef, the best remedy I could 
 have had. 
 
 "I saw thy gi'eat suffering; but in a year, in a 
 month, this will seem a thing of no import; only, 
 when thou art calm and canst think, hold a Meeting 
 in thy own heart, and ask thy quiet judgment, thy 
 conscience, thy memory, if prayer be needed ; and do 
 it for thyself, Hugh." 
 
 I said, " Thank thee," but no more. I have ever 
 been averse to talking of my relations to another 
 world, or of what I beUeve, or of what I am led 
 thereby to do in hours of self-communion. I sat 
 wishing my father were like this, a tender-hearted 
 yet resolute man.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 151 
 
 Seeing: me indisposed to speak, he went on : "If we 
 could but keep the better part of Friends' creed, and 
 be set free to live at peace with the law, to realise 
 that to sit down quietly under oj^prt'ssion may be to 
 serve the devil, and not God ! Thou kuowest. as well 
 as I, that divers Friends have publicly avowed the 
 miuistr}', and tdlege that whatever they may do is a 
 just punishment of rebellion. We are going to have 
 a serious settlement^ and it will become ns all, Hugh, 
 young and old, to see that we are on the right side, 
 even if we have to draw the sword. And thou and 
 I shall not be alone of Friends. There are Clement 
 and Owen Biddle, and Christopher Marshall, and 
 more." 
 
 I was surprised, and said so. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said ; '' but I talk to thee as to a 
 man, and these tilings are not to be spread abroad. 
 I trust I have been to thee a comfort ; and, now the 
 moon is setting, let us go home." 
 
 I thanked him as well as I knew how. He had 
 indeed con.'^oled me. 
 
 When I ciune in my father had gone to bed, but 
 my mother was waiting to see me. She caught me 
 in her arms, and, weeping like a child, cried, " Oh, I 
 have heard ! He did not tell me beforehand, or I 
 should have for])ade it. Thou shouldst never have 
 gone ! never ! It was cruel ! ^fon Dieu ! how could 
 they do it ! " 
 
 It was I who now had to comfort, and this helped 
 me amazingly, and yet added to my just anger; 
 for wliy must she, who was innocent, be thus made
 
 152 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 to suffer? My father, when he came in, had asked 
 for me. He had met my cousin, who had seen me 
 going down Front street, and had liiuted that I meant 
 to find comfort at the coffee-house among the officers. 
 She knew better, and had said her mind of this kins- 
 man and his ways ; upon which my father had gone 
 angry to his bed. I was beginning to have an in- 
 creasing distrust and dislike of Arthur, and the 
 present news did not lessen either feeling. So at 
 last here was an end of the consequences of my sad 
 night at the coffee-house.
 
 XI 
 
 TIE next day we went to our farm in 
 Mcrioii. 3Iy father said no word of the 
 fleeting, nor did I. The summer of '73 
 went on. I rode in to my work daily, 
 sometimes with my father, who talked 
 almost altogether of his cattle or of his ventures, 
 never of the lowering political horizon. He had ex- 
 cused himself from being a consignee of the tea, on 
 the score of his voyage, which was now intended for 
 September. 
 
 My aunt lived in summer on the farther slope of 
 Chestnut Hill, where, when the road was in order, 
 came her friends for a night, and the usual card-play. 
 Wiieu of a Saturday I was set free, I dcliglitcd to 
 ride over and spend Sunday with her, my way being 
 across country to one of the fortls on the Scliuylkill, 
 or out from town })y the Ridge or the Gennautown 
 highroa<l. The ride was long, but, with my saddle- 
 bags and Lucy, a new mare my aunt had raised and 
 given me, and clad in ovendls, which we called tongs, 
 I cared little for the mud, and often enough stop]»ed 
 to assist a chaise out of the deep holes, which made 
 the roa<Is dangerous for vehicles. 
 
 Late one day in August, I set out with my friend 
 
 '53
 
 154 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Jack to spend a Sunday witli my Aunt Gainor. 
 Jack Warder was no «v a prime favourite, and highly 
 approved. We rode up Front street, and crossed the 
 bridge where Mulberry street passed under it, and is 
 therefore to this day called Ai-ch street, although few 
 know why. The gay coats of officers were plentiful, 
 farmers in then* smocks were driving in with their 
 vegetables, and to the right was the river, with here 
 and there a ship, and, beyond, the windmill on the 
 island. We talked of the times, of books, of my father's 
 voyage, and of my future stay with my aunt. 
 
 Although Jack's father was a Quaker, he was too 
 discreet a business man not to approve of Jack's 
 visits to my aunt, and too worldly not to wish for 
 his son a society to which he was not born ; so Mrs. 
 Ferguson and Mrs. Galloway made much of Jack, 
 and he was welcome, like myself, at Cliveden, where 
 the Chews had their summer home. 
 
 The Tory ladies laughed at his way of blushing 
 like a girl, and, to Jack's dismay, openly envied his 
 pink-and-white skin and fair locks. They treated 
 him as if he were younger than I, although, as it 
 chanced, we were born on tlie same day of the same 
 year ; and yet he liked it all— the gay women, the 
 coquettish Tory maids, even the ^' genteel " Quaker 
 dames, such as Mrs. Sarah Logan or Mrs. Morris, 
 and the pretty girls of the other side, like Sarah 
 Lukens and the Misses Willing, with their family 
 gift of beauty. These and more came and went at my 
 aunt's, with men of all parties, and the grave Drs. Rush 
 and Parke, and a changing group of English officers.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 155 
 
 lu the little old house at Belinout, the Rev. Richard 
 Peters was glad to sit at cards with the Tory ladies, 
 whose cause was not his, juid still less that of Richard, 
 his nephew. At times, as was the custom, sleigh- 
 ing ptirties in ^viuter or ridiug-parties in summer 
 used to meet at Cliveden or S]>ringetsbury, or at a 
 farm-house where John Penu dwelt while engaged 
 in building the great house of Lansdowne, looking 
 over trees to the quiet Schuylkill. 
 
 We rode out gaily this August afternoon, along 
 the Grermantown road, admiring tlie fine farms, and 
 the forests still left among the cultivated lands. 
 Near Fisher's Lane we saw some two or three peo- 
 ple in the road, and, drawing near, dismounted. 
 A black man, who lay on the ground, groaning with 
 a cut head, and just coming to himself, I saw to be 
 my aunt's coachman Ctesar. Beside him, held by a 
 tarni'-r, was a horse with a jiillion and saddle, all 
 muddy enough from a fall. Near by stood a slight 
 young woman in a saveguard petticoat and a sad- 
 coloured, short camlet cloak. 
 
 " It is Miss Darthea Peniston," said Jack. 
 
 " Miss Peniston," I said, dismounting, " what has 
 /uippened ? " 
 
 She told me quietly, that, riding pillion to stay 
 with my aunt, the horse had fallen and hurt Ca?sar, 
 not l)adly, slie thouglit. Slu* had alighted on her 
 fct't, but what sliould she do? After some dis- 
 cussion, and the black being })etter, we settled to 
 leave him, and I proposed that Jack, the lighter 
 weight, should ride my Aunt Gainer's horse, with
 
 156 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Miss Peniston on the pillion behind him. Upon this 
 Jack got red, at the idea, I suppose, of Miss Darthea's 
 contemplating the back of his head for fom' miles. 
 The young woman looked on with shy amusement. 
 
 At this moment Csesar, a much pampered person, 
 who alone of all her house dared give my aunt ad- 
 vice, declared he must have a doctor. Jack, much 
 relieved, said it was inhuman to leave him in this 
 case, and put an end to om* discussion by riding 
 away to fetch old Dr. de Benneville. 
 
 Miss Darthea laughed, said it was a sad thing a 
 woman should have no choice, and pretended to be 
 in miser}^ as to my unfortunate lot. I said nothing, 
 but, after looking Caesar's horse over, I gave my sad- 
 dle to be kept at the f armei^'s, and put the coachman's 
 saddle on my mare Lucy, with the pillion behind 
 made fast to the saddle-straps arranged for this use. 
 Then I looked well to the girths, and mounted to see 
 how Lucy would like it. She liked it not at aU, and 
 was presently all over the road and up against the 
 fence of the old gravej'^ard I was to see again in other 
 and wilder days. 
 
 I saw the httle lady in the road watching me with 
 a smiling face, by no means ill pleased with the spec- 
 tacle. At last I cried, " Wait ! " and putting Miss Lucy 
 down the road for a mile at a run, soon brought her 
 back quite submissive. 
 
 ''Art thou afraid?" I said. 
 
 " I do not like to be j^sked if I am afraid. I am 
 very much afi'aid, but I would die rather than not get 
 on your mai*e." So a chair was fetched, Miss Penis-
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 157 
 
 ton put on her linen riding-mask, and in a moment 
 was seat<?d behind me. For ten minutes I was fully 
 taken up with the feminine creature under me. At 
 last I said : 
 
 " Put an arm around my waist. I must let lier 
 go. At once ! " I added : for the mare was getting to 
 rear a little, and the young woman hesitated. " Do 
 as I tell thee ! " I cried sharply, and when I felt her 
 right ai'm about me, I said, " Hold fast ! " and gave 
 the mare her head. A mile sufficed, with the double 
 burden, so to quiet her that she came down to her 
 usual swift and steady walk. 
 
 When there was this chance to talk witliout hav- 
 ing ever}' word jolted out in fragments, the young 
 pereon was sOcnt; and wlien I remarked, "There 
 is now an opportunity to chat with comfort," said : 
 
 " I was waiting, sir, to hear your excuses ; but per- 
 haps Friends do not apologise." 
 
 I thought her saucy, for I had done my best; and 
 for her to think me unmannerly was neither just nor 
 kind. 
 
 " If I am of thy friends—" 
 
 "Oh, Quakers, I meant. Friends with a large F, 
 Mr. Wynne." 
 
 " It liad been no jesting matter if the mare had 
 given thee a hard fall." 
 
 " I shoidd have liked tliat better than to be ordered 
 to do as your worship thought fit." 
 
 " Then thou shouldst not have obeyed me." 
 
 " But I had to." 
 
 " Yes," I said. And the talk having fallen into these
 
 158 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 brevities, Miss Peniston was qiiiet awhile, no doubt 
 pouting prettily ; her face was, of course, hid from me. 
 
 After a while she said something about the mile- 
 stones being near together, and then took to praising 
 Lucy, who, I must say, had behaved as ill as a horse 
 could. I said as much, whereon I was told that 
 mares were jealous animals; which I thought a 
 queer speech, and replied, not kno\\ing well how to 
 reply, that the mare was a good beast, and that it 
 was fail* flattery to praise a man's horse, for what 
 was best in the horse came of the man's handling. 
 
 " But even praise of his watch a man likes," said 
 she. ''He has a fine appetite, and likes to fatten 
 his vanity." 
 
 She was too quick for me in those days, and I never 
 was at any time very smart at this game, having to 
 reflect too long before seeing my way. I said that 
 she was no doubt right, but thus far that I had 
 had thin diet. 
 
 Perhaps sajdng that Lucy was gay and well bred 
 and had good paces was meant to please the rider. 
 This woman, as I found later, was capable of many 
 varieties of social conduct, and was not above flatter- 
 ing for the mere pleasure it gave her to indulge her 
 generosity, and for the joy she had in seeiag others 
 happy. 
 
 Wondering if what she had said might be true, 
 held me quiet for a while, and busied with her words, 
 I quite forgot the young woman whose breath I felt 
 now and then on my hair, as she sat behind me. 
 
 Silence never suited Miss Peniston long in those
 
 HughW'vnne: Free Quaker 159 
 
 days, and especially not at this time, she being in a 
 meiTv mood, sufh as a little adveutm*e causes. Her 
 moods were, in fact, many and chaugef ul, and, as I 
 was to learn, were too apt to ride even licr serious 
 actions for the time ; but under it all was the true 
 law of her life, strongly charactered, and abiding 
 Hke the constitution of a land. It was long before I 
 knew the real woman, since for her, as for the most 
 of us, all early acquaintance was a masquerade, and 
 some have, like this lady, as many vizards as my 
 Aunt Gainor had in her sandalwood box, with her 
 long gloves and her mitts. 
 
 The nuire being now satisfied to walk comfortably, 
 we were going by the Wister house, when I saw saucy 
 young Sally Wister in the balcony over the stoop, 
 midway of the penthouse. She knew us both, and 
 pretended .shame for us, witl: her hands over her 
 face, laugliing memly. "We were friends in after- 
 life, and if you would know liow gay a creature 
 a young Quakeress could be, and how full of mis- 
 cliief, you shoidd see her journal, kept for Deborah 
 Logan, then Miss Noms. It has wonderful gaiety, 
 and, as I read it, fetches back to mind the officers 
 she prettily sketches, and is so sprightly and so full 
 of a life that must have been a joy to itself and to 
 others, that to think of it as gone and over, and of 
 her as dead, seems to me a thing impossible. 
 
 It was not thout^ht proper then for a young woman 
 to go on pillion behind a young man, and this Miss 
 Sally well knew. I dare say she set it down for the 
 edification of her young friend.
 
 i6o Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 "The child" (she was rather more than that) "is 
 saucy," said my lady, who understood well enough 
 what her gestures meant. " I should like to box her 
 ears. You were very silent just now, Mr. Wynne. 
 A penny is what most folks' thoughts are bid for, 
 but yours may be worth more. I would not stand 
 at a shilling." 
 
 " Then give it to me," said I. " I assure thee a 
 guinea were too little." 
 
 '' What are they ? " 
 
 " Oh, but the shiUing." 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 " I seem to see a little, dark-faced child crying be- 
 caiise of a boy in disgrace — " 
 
 " Pretty ? " she asked demurely. 
 
 " No, rather plain." 
 
 " You seem to have too good a memory, sir. Who 
 was she ? " 
 
 " She is not here to-day." 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " she cried. " I have her— oh, some- 
 where! She comes out on occasions. You may 
 never see her ; you may see her to-morrow." 
 
 I was to see her often. ^' My shilling," I said. 
 
 '' That was only a jest, Mr. Wynne. My other 
 girl has stolen it, for remembrance of a lad that was 
 brave and—" 
 
 " He was a young fool ! My shilling, please." 
 
 " No, no ! " 
 
 At this I touched the mare with my spur. She, 
 not seeing the joke, pranced about, and Miss Darthea 
 was forced to hold to my waist for a minute.
 
 Hu^h Wynne: Free Quaker i6i 
 
 " The mare is ill broke," she cried. " Why does 
 she not go along quietly ? " 
 
 " She hates dishonesty," I said. 
 
 " But I have not a penny." 
 
 "Thou shouldst never run in debt if thou art 
 without means. It is woi-se tlian gambhug, since 
 here thou hast had a consideration for thy money, 
 and I am out of pocket by a valuable thought." 
 
 " I am very bad. I may get prayed over in Meeting, 
 only we do not have the custom at Christ Church." 
 
 I was struck diunb. Of course every one knew of 
 my disaster and what came of it ; but that a young 
 girl shoidd taunt me with it, and for no reason, 
 seemed incredible. No one ever spoke of it to me, 
 not even Mistress Ferguson, whose daily food was 
 the saNnng of things no one else dared to say. I rode 
 on without a word. 
 
 At last I heard a voice back of me quite changed 
 — tender, almost teai-ful. "Will you pardon me, 
 Mr. Wynne? I was wicked, and now I have hurt 
 you who was once so good to me. Your aunt says 
 that I am six girls, not one, and that— Will you 
 please to forgive me?" 
 
 " Pray don't ; there is nothing to forgive. I am 
 over-sensitive, I sn]ipo.«;e. My friend Mr. Wilson 
 says it is a great thing in life to learn how to forget 
 wisely. I am learning the lesson ; but some wounds 
 take long to heal, and this is true of a boy's folly. 
 Pray say no more." 1 put the mare to trotting, and 
 we rode on past Cliveden and Mount Airy, neither 
 speaking for a while. 
 u
 
 1 62 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I wondered, as we rode, at her rashness of talk and 
 her want of consideration ; and I rtllected, with a 
 certain surprise, at the frequent discovery, of late, 
 on how much older I seemed to be. It was a 
 time which quickly matured the thoughtful, and I 
 was beginning to shake off, in some degree, the life- 
 long shackles of limitation as to conduct, dress, and 
 minor morals, imposed upon me by my home sur- 
 roundings. In a word, being older than my years, I 
 began to think for myself. Under the influence of 
 Mr. Wetherill I had come, as without him I could not 
 have done, to see how much there was of the beauti- 
 ful and noble in the creed of Fox and Penn, how 
 much, too, there was in it to cramp enterprise, to 
 limit the innocent joys of life, to render progress 
 impossible, and submission to every base man or 
 government a duty. 
 
 I had learned, too, in my aunt's house, the ways 
 and manners of a larger world, and, if I had yielded 
 to its temptations, I had at least profited by the bit- 
 ter lesson. I was on the verge of manhood, and had 
 begun to feel as I had never done before the charm 
 of woman ; this as yet I hardly knew. 
 
 As we breasted the hiU, and saw beneath us 
 the great forest-land spread out, with its scattered 
 farms, an exclamation of delight broke from my 
 companion's lips. It was beautiful then, as it is to- 
 day, with the far-seen range of hills beyond the river, 
 where lay the Valley Forge I was to know so weU, and 
 Whitemarsh, aU under the hazy blue of a cool August 
 day, with the northwest wind blowing in my face.
 
 HughWvnne: Free Quaker 163 
 
 "Within there were my aunt and some young wo- 
 men, and ray Cousin Arthur, with exphmations to be 
 made, aftvr which my young woman hurried off to 
 make her toilet, and I to rid me of my riding-dress. 
 
 It was about seven when we assembled out of doors 
 under the trees, where ou summer davs mv Aunt 
 Gainor liked to have supper served. My Cousin 
 Wynne left Mi*s. Ferguson aud came to meet me. 
 We strolled apart, and he began to ask me questions 
 about the tea cargoes expected soon, but which came 
 not until December. I said my fathei-^s voyage would 
 prevent his acting as consignee, aud this seemed to 
 surprise him and make him thoughtful, perhaps be- 
 cause he was aware of my fathers unflinching loyalty. 
 He spoke, too, of Mr. Wilson, appearing— and this 
 was natural enough— to know of my intimacy -vNath 
 the ^Vhig gentleman. I was cautious in my replies, 
 and he learned, I think, but little. It was a pity, he 
 said, that my father would not visit Wjnicote. It 
 seemed to me that he dwelt overmuch on this matter, 
 and my aimt, who greatly fancied him, was also of this 
 opinion. I learned long after that he desired to 
 feel entirely assured as to the certainty of this visit 
 not being made. I said now that I wished I had my 
 father's chance to see our Welsh home, and that I 
 often felt sorry my gi'andfather had given it up. 
 
 " But he did," said my cou.sin, *' and no great thing, 
 either. Here you are important people. We are 
 petty Welsh squires, in a decaying old house, with 
 no money, and altf)gether small folk. I should like 
 to change places witli you."
 
 1 64 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 "And yet I i-egret it," said 1. My Aunt Gainor 
 had filled me full of the pride of race. 
 
 I spoke as we approached the group about my 
 aunt, and I saw his face take an expression which 
 struck me. He had a way of half closing his eyes, 
 and letting his jaw di-op a little. I saw it often after- 
 ward. I suspect now that he was dealing intensely 
 with some problem which puzzled him. 
 
 He seemed to me to be entirely unconscious of this 
 singular expression of face, or, as at this time, to be 
 off his guard ; for the look did not change, although 
 I was gazing at him with attention. Suddenly I 
 saw come down the green alley, walled with well- 
 trimmed box, a fresh vision of her who had been 
 riding with me so lately. My cousin also became 
 aware of the figure which passed gaily under the 
 trees and smiled at us from afar. 
 
 " By Greorge ! Hugh/' said Arthur, " who is the 
 sylph ? what grace ! what grace ! " 
 
 For a moment I did not reply. She wore a silken 
 brocade with little broidered roses here and there, a 
 bodice of the same, cut square over a gu-l-hke neck, 
 white, and not yet filled up. Her long gloves were 
 held up to the sleeve by tightens of plaited white 
 horsehair, which held a red rosebud in each tie ; and 
 her hair was braided with a ribbon, and set high in 
 coils on her head, with but little powder. As she 
 came to meet us she dropped a curtsey, and kissed 
 my aunt's hand, as was expected of young people. 
 
 I have tried since to think what made her so un- 
 like other women. It was not the singular grace
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 165 
 
 whicli had at once struck my cousin ; neither was 
 she beautiful. I long after hated Miss Chew for an 
 hour because she said Darthea Peuiston had not one 
 perfect feature. She had, notwithstanding, clciir, 
 lai'ge brown eves, and a sniiL' which was so vari- 
 ously eloquent that no man saw it umnoved. This 
 was not alL Her face hatl some of that charm of 
 mystery which a few women possess— a questioning 
 look ; but, above all, there was a strange flavour of 
 feminine attractiveness, more common in those who 
 are older than she, and f idler in bud ; rare, I think, 
 in one whose \'irgin ciirves have not yet come to 
 maturitv. Wliat she was to me tliat summer even- 
 ing she was to all men— a creatui*e of many moods, 
 and of great power to express tliem in face and voice. 
 She was young, she loved admii-ation, and coidd be 
 carried off her feet at times by the follies of the 
 gay world. 
 
 If you should wonder how, at this distant day, I 
 can recall her dress, I may say that one of my aunt's 
 lessons was that a man should notice how a woman 
 dressed, and not fail at times to compliment a gown, 
 or a pretty fashion of hair. You may see that I had 
 some queer schoolmasters. 
 
 I said to my cousin, "That is Miss Darthea Pen- 
 iston." 
 
 "Darthea," he repeated. "She looks the name. 
 Sad if she had been called Deborah, or some of your 
 infernally idiotic Scripture names." 
 
 He was duly presented, and, I must say, made the 
 most of his chances for two days, so that the elder
 
 1 66 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 dames were amused at Darthea's conquest, my cousin 
 having so far shown no marked preference for any- 
 one except the elder Miss Franks, who was rich and 
 charming enough to have many men at her feet, 
 despite her Hebrew blood. 
 
 In truth he had been hit hard that fatal August 
 afternoon, and he proved a bold and constant wooer. 
 With me it was a more tardy influence which the fail' 
 Darthea as surel}'- exerted. I was troubled and dis- 
 turbed at the constancy of my growing and ardent 
 affection. At first I scarce knew why, but by and 
 by I knew too well ; and the more hopeless became 
 the business, the more resolute did I grow ; this is 
 my way and nature. 
 
 During the remaining weeks of summer I saw 
 much of Miss Peniston, and almost imperceptibly 
 was made at last to feel, for the first time in my life, 
 the mysterious influence of woman. Now and then 
 we rode with my aunt, or went to see the troops re- 
 viewed. I thought she liked me, but it soon became 
 only too clear that at this game, where hearts were 
 trumps, I was no match for my dark, handsome 
 cousin, in his brilliant uniform.
 
 xn 
 
 N September 1, 1773, and earlier than 
 had been meant, my father set sail for 
 London with my ever dear mother. 
 Many assiombhHl to see the "Fair Trader'' 
 leave her moorings. I went ^Nith my 
 prople as lar as Lewes, and on accoimt of weather 
 had mnch ado to get ashore. The voyage down the 
 Delaware was slow, for from want of proper lights 
 we must needs lay by at night, and if winds were 
 contrary- were forced to wait for the ebb. 
 
 WTiile I was with them my father spoke much to 
 me of business, but neither blamed my past, nor praised 
 my later care and assiduity in affairs. He was sure 
 the king would have his way, and, I tliouglit, felt sony 
 to have so readily given up the consignecship of the 
 teas. I was other-vvise minded, and I asked what was 
 to be done in the event of certain troubles such as 
 many feared. He said that Thomas, his old clerk, 
 would decide, and my Aunt Gainor had a power of 
 attorney ; as to the troubles I sjioke of, he well 
 knew that I meant sudi idle distur])anees of peace 
 as James Wilson and "Wi'thcrill were doing their 
 best to ])ring about. 
 
 "Thy Cousin Arthur is bettor advised," he said, 
 
 167
 
 1 68 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " and a man of sound judgment. Thou mightst seek 
 worse counsel on occasion of need." 
 
 I was sm-prised at this, for I should have believed, 
 save as to the king, they could not have had one 
 opinion in common. 
 
 Far other were those sweeter talks I had with my 
 mother, as we sat on the deck in a blaze of sunlight. 
 She burned ever a handsome brown, without freckles, 
 and loved to sit out, even in our great heats. She 
 would have me be careful at my aunt's not to be led 
 into idleness ; for the rest I had her honest trust ; and 
 her blue eyes, bright with precious tears, declared 
 her love, and hopeful belief. I must not neglect my 
 French— it would keep her in mind; and she went 
 on in that tongue to say what a joy I had been in 
 her life, and how even my follies had let her see how 
 true a gentleman I was. Then, and never before, 
 did she say a thing which left on my mind a fear 
 that life had not brought and kept for her through- 
 out all the happiness which so good and noble a 
 creature deserved. 
 
 " There is much of thy father in thee, Hugh. Thou 
 art firm as he is, and fond of thine own way. This 
 is not bad, if thou art thoughtful to see that thy way 
 is a good way. But do not grow hard. And when 
 thou art come to love some good woman, do not 
 make her life difficult." 
 
 "But I love no woman, 7na mere," I cried, "and 
 never shall, as I love thee. It is the whole of my love 
 thou hast, chere, cJiere niaman ; thou hast it all." 
 
 "Ah, then I shall know to divide with her, Hughj
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 169 
 
 and I shall be generous too. If tboii hast any little 
 fancies tliat way, thou must write and tell me. Oh, 
 nioH Jils, tiiou wilt write often, and 1 must know 
 all the news. I do hear that Dai-thea Peniston is in 
 tliy aunt's house a good deal, and Madam Ferguson, 
 the gossip, woidd have me believe thou carest for her, 
 and that ^\j-thur Wynne is taken in the same net. I 
 liked her. I did not tell thee that thy Aunt Gainor 
 left her with me for an hour while she went into 
 King street to bargain for a great china god. What 
 a gay, winning creature it is ! She nmst needs tell 
 me all about hei-self. Wliy do people so unlock 
 their hearts for me?" 
 
 I laughed, and Siiid she had a key called love ; and 
 on this she kissed me, and asked did I say such pretty 
 things to other women ? Darthea was now to live 
 with her aunt, that stiff Mistress Peniston, who was 
 a fierce Tory. " She will have a fine bargain of the 
 girl. She has twenty ways with her, real or false, 
 and can make music of them all like a mocking-bird. 
 Dost thou like her, Ilugh ?— I mean Darthea." 
 
 I said, " Yes." 
 
 " And so do I," she ran on. " I loved her at sight. 
 But if ever thou dost come to love her— and I see 
 signs, oh, I see signs— if ever,— then beware of thy 
 Cousin WjTine. I heard him once say to thy father, 
 ' If there is only one glass of tlie Madeira left, I want 
 it, because there is only one.' And there is only one 
 of a good woman. What anotlier wants that man 
 is sure to want, and I do not like him, Tlugh. Thou 
 dost, I think. He hu^ some reason to linger here.
 
 170 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Is it this woman ? Or would he spy out the land to 
 know what we mean to do ? I am sure he has orders 
 to watch the way things are going, or why should not 
 he have gone with Sir Guy Carleton to Quebec ? It 
 is a roundabout way to go through Philadelphia," 
 
 I said I did not know ; but her words set me to 
 thinking, and to wondering, too, as I had not done 
 before. Another time she asked me why Arthur 
 talked so as to disgust my father out of aU idea of 
 going to see the home of his ancestors. I promised 
 to be careful of my relations with my cousin, whom 
 I liked less and less as time ran on. 
 
 At Lewes we parted. Shall I ever forget it? 
 Those great blue eyes above the gunwale, and then 
 a white handkerchief, and then no more. When I 
 could no longer see the ship's hull I chmbed a great 
 sand-dune, and watched even the masts vanish on 
 the far horizon. It was to me a solemn parting. 
 The seas were wide and perilous in those days, the 
 buccaneers not all gone, and the trading ship was 
 small, I thought, to carry a load so precious. 
 
 As the sun went down I walked over the dunes, 
 which are of white sand, and forever shifting, so as 
 at one time to threaten with slow burial the little 
 town, and at another to be moving on to the forest. 
 As they changed, old wrecks came into view, and I 
 myself saw sticking out the bones of sailors buried 
 here long ago, or haply cast ashore, A yet stranger 
 thing I beheld, for the strong northwest wind, which 
 blew hard all day and favoured the "Fair Trader," had 
 so cast about the fine sand that the buried snow of
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 171 
 
 la^t winter was to be seen, which seemed to me a 
 thing must siug:iLlai'. When I tokl Jack, he made 
 verses about it, as he did sometimes, but would 
 show them only to me. I forget entirely what 
 he wrote; how a man can make verses and dig 
 rhymes out of his head has always been to me a 
 puzzle. 
 
 At the town inn, " The Lucky Fisherman," I saw, 
 to my surprise, Jack on horseback, just arrived. He 
 said he had a debt to collect for his father. It was 
 no doubt true, for Jack could not tell even the 
 mildest lib and not get rose-red. But he knew how 
 I grieved at this separation from my mother, and, I 
 think, made an occasion to come down and bear me 
 company on my long ride liome. I was truly glad to 
 have Mm. Together we wandered through the great 
 woodlands Mr. Penn had set aside to provide fire- 
 wood forever for the poor of Lewes. 
 
 The next day we sent Tom on ahead \\'itli our sacks 
 to Newcastle, where we meant to bait ourselves and 
 our horses. But first we rode down the coast to 
 Rehoboth, and had a noble sea-bath ; also above the 
 beach was a bit of a fresh-water lake, most delicious 
 to take the salt off the skin. After this diversion, 
 which as usual dismissed ray blue devils, we set out 
 up the coast of the Bay of Delaware, and were able 
 to reach Newcastle that evening, and the day after 
 our own homos. 
 
 This ride gave us a fine chance for talk, and wo 
 mad(i good use of it. 
 
 As we passed between the hedges and below the
 
 172 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 old Swede church nigh to Wilmington, Jack f eU into 
 talk of Darthea Peniston. Why we had not done so 
 before I knew not then: we were both shy of the 
 subject. I amused myself by insisting that she was 
 but a light-minded young woman with no strong 
 basis of character, and too fond of a red coat. It 
 did amuse me to see how this vexed Jack, who 
 would by no means accept my verdict. We con- 
 versed far longer on the stormy quarrels of the 
 colonies and their stepmother England, who seemed 
 to have quite forgot of what blood and breed they 
 were. 
 
 Concerning my Cousin Wynne, with whom at first 
 I had been much taken, Jack was not inclined to 
 speak freely. This I foolishly thought was because 
 Arthur laughed at him, and was, as he knew, of 
 some folks' notion that Jack was a feminine kind of 
 a fellow. That he had the quick insight and the 
 heart of a woman was true, but that was not all of 
 my dear Jack. 
 
 My aunt came back to town early in September, 
 and I took up my abode in her town house, where a 
 new life began for me. Letters went and came at long 
 intervals. Our first reached me far on in October. 
 
 My mother wrote : '' There is great anger here in 
 London because of this matter of the tea. Lord 
 Germaine says we are a tumultuous rabble; thy 
 father has been sent for by Lord North, and I fear 
 has spoken unadvisedly as to things at home. It is 
 not well for a wife to differ with her husband, and 
 this I wiU not ; nevertheless I am not fully of his
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 173 
 
 way of lliinking as to tliese sad troubles ; this, how- 
 ever, is not for luiy eye or ear but thine. Benjamin 
 Franklin was here to see us hist week. He seems to 
 think we juight as well, or better, pay for the tea, 
 and this suited thy father ; but after thus a^eeing 
 they went wide aj)art, Franklin having somewhat 
 shed his (Quaker views. I did fear at times that the 
 talk would be strong. 
 
 " When he had gone away, thy father said he never 
 had the Spirit with him, and wjis ever of what creed 
 did most advantage him, and perhaps underneath of 
 none at all. But this I think not. He hath muoh 
 of the shrewd wisdom of New England, which I like 
 not greatly ; but as to this, I know some who have 
 less of any wisdom, and, after all, I judge not a man 
 so wise, and so much my elder. 
 
 " General Gage, lately come hither on a visit, we 
 are told assured the king that no other colony would 
 st«nd by Massachusetts, and that four regiments 
 could put an end to the matter. I am no politician, 
 but it makes me angrj^ to hear them talk of us as if 
 we were but a nursery of naughty children. It seems 
 we are to pay for the tea, and until we do no ships 
 may enter Boston harbour. Also all crown officers 
 who may commit murder are to be tried in England ; 
 and there is more, but I forget." 
 
 This was most of it fresh news to us. Meanwhile 
 Hutchinson, the governor of the rebel State, was 
 assuring Lord North that to resist was against our 
 interest, and wo, l)cing "a trading set," would never 
 go to extremes. -* As if," said Wilson, " nations, like
 
 1*74 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 men, had not passions and emotions, as well as day- 
 books and ledgers." 
 
 Meanwhile at home our private affairs were rapidly 
 wound up and put in good condition. My father 
 found it difficult to collect his English debts, and so 
 had to limit his purchases, which we stowed as they 
 came over, declining to sell. As business failed, I 
 was more and more at leisure, and much in the com- 
 pany of my cousin, whom to-day I disliked, and to- 
 morrow thought the most amusing and agreeable of 
 companions. He taught me to shoot ducks at League 
 Island, and chose a good fowling-piece for me. 
 
 On Sundays I went to hear my aunt's friend, the 
 Eev. Mr. White, preach at Christ Church, and would 
 not go to Meeting, despite Samuel Wetherill, whose 
 Society of Free Quakers did not come to life until 
 1780. Meanwhile by degrees I took to wearing finer 
 garments. Cards I would never touch, nor have I 
 often, to this day. 
 
 One morning, long after my parents left, my Aunt 
 Gainor looked me over with care, pleased at the 
 changes in my dress, and that evening she presented 
 me with two fine sets of neck and wrist ruffles, and 
 with paste buckles for knees and shoes. Then she told 
 me that my cousin, the captain, had recommended 
 Pike as a fencing-master, and she wished me to take 
 lessons ; " for," said she, '' who knows but you may 
 some day have another quarrel on your hands, and 
 then where will you be ? " 
 
 I declared that my father would be properly furi- 
 ous ; but she laughed, and opened and shut her fan,
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 175 
 
 and said he was three thousand miles awav, and that 
 she was my jruardian, and responsible for my eduea 
 tiou. I was l>y no means loath, and a day hiter went 
 to see the man with my Cousin Artliur, who asked, as 
 we went, many questions about my mother, and then 
 if my father had left England, or had been to Wyu- 
 cot€. 
 
 I had, as he spoke, a letter in my pocket writ in 
 the neat ehai'aetei's I knew so well ; our clerk com- 
 ing from New York had just given it to me, and as 
 I had not as yet read it, liking for this rare pleasure 
 to taste it when alone, I did not mention it to my 
 cousin. I told him I was sure my father would not 
 go to Wales, both because of business, and for other 
 reasons ; but I hoped when he came back to get leave 
 to be a vear awav, and then I should be stu'e to %dsit 
 our old nest. 
 
 My cousin said, "A year— a year," musingly, and 
 asked when my parents would return. 
 
 I said, "About next October, and by the islands," 
 meaning the ^Madeiras. 
 
 To this Arthur Wynne returned, in an absent fash- 
 ion, " Many things may happen in a year." 
 
 I laughed, and said his observation could not be 
 contradicted. 
 
 "■ "SVliat observation ? " he replied, and then seemed 
 BO self-absorl)ed that I cried out : 
 
 '' What i)ossesses thee, Cousin Wj-nne ? Thou art 
 sad of lat<*. I can tell thee the women say tliou art 
 in love." 
 
 " And if I were, what then ? "
 
 176 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 This frankness in a man so mature seemed to me 
 odd, when I thought how shy was the growing ten- 
 derness my own heart began to hide. His words 
 troubled me. It could only be Darthea Peniston. 
 After a silence, such as was frequent in my cousin, 
 he added, "I fear that blushing friend of youi's is 
 fluttering about a certain bright caudle. A pity 
 the lad were not warned. You are my cousin, 
 and of course my friend. I may have to go away 
 soon, and I may ask you to do a certain thing 
 for me when I am gone. No man nor lad shall 
 stand in my way, and you must hold youi* tongue 
 too." 
 
 I was puzzled and embarrassed. I said cautiously, 
 " We shall see." But as to Jack Warder, I liked not 
 what he said, and for two reasons. I knew that, 
 living next door to Darthea, he was with her almost 
 daily; and here was a new and terrible fear, for 
 who could help but love her? Nor coidd I hear 
 with patience Jack so contemptuously put aside as a 
 child. 
 
 " Cousin Ai'thur," I said, " thou art mistaken in 
 Warder. There is no more resolute or courageous 
 man. Jack's shy ways and soft fashions make him 
 seem like a timid girl, but I would advise no one to 
 count on this." I went on, hesitating, "He is an 
 older friend than thou, and— holloa. Jack ! " for 
 here was the dear fellow himself, smihng and blush- 
 ing; and where had the captain been of late? and 
 that awkward left hand was taken, and Jack would 
 come with us and see us play with the small sword,
 
 Huijh Wynne: Free Quaker 177 
 
 and would like to ero after the ducks to-morrow. He 
 seemed happy aud i)loased to meet us. 
 
 Pike was a little mau who had a room amonc: the 
 shops ou Second street. He wore, as I had often 
 seen, a laced cocked hat, and was clad in a red coat, 
 such as none wore except Creoles fi'om the French 
 settlements, or gentlemen from the Carolinas. He had 
 the straight figure and aggressive look all men carry 
 who teach the sword, and a set belief that no man 
 could t^ach him anything— a small game-cock of a 
 fellow, who had lost one eye by an unlucky thrust 
 of a foil. 
 
 I \\'ill let Jack's jouriud, not \\Tit till long after, 
 tell the story for a while. He saw more than I at 
 the time, even if he understood it all as little. 
 
 "I saw Hugh strip," he writes, "and was amused 
 to see Pike feel his muscles and exclaim at his depth 
 of chest. Then he showed him how to wear the wire 
 mask, while the captain and I sat by and looked on. 
 
 " Hugh was awkward, ]>ut he had a wrist of steel, 
 
 and when once he had caught the ideas of Pike, who 
 
 talked all the time in a squeaky voice, his guard was 
 
 firm. Pike praised him, and said he would learn 
 
 soon. The thing so attracted me that I was fain to 
 
 know how it felt to hold a foil ; and saying as much, 
 
 the captain, who fenced here daily, said: 'It is my 
 
 breathing-time of dav, as Pi-ince Hamlet says. Bv 
 
 George ! yoji should see Mr. Garrick in that fencing 
 
 scene ! I will give Mr. Warder a lesson. I have rather 
 
 a fancy for giving young men les.sons.' 
 
 '•In a minute I saw my foil tly six feet away 
 12
 
 178 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 with such a wrench of the wrist as made my arm 
 tingle. 
 
 " 'Hold the foil lightly. Not so stit/ said Pike, and 
 we began again. Of course I was as a child before 
 this man, and again and again he planted a button 
 where he pleased, and seemed, I thought, to lunge 
 more fiercely than is decent, for I was dotted with 
 blue bruises that evening. 
 
 '' At last I gave up, and the captain and Pike took 
 the foils, while we sat and watched them. He was 
 more than a match for Pike, and at last crying, 
 * Take care ! here is a hotte you do not know,' caught 
 him fair in the left chest. 
 
 " '■ By George ! Mr. Wynne, that is a pretty piece 
 of play ! I remember now Major Montresor tried to 
 show it to me. He said it was that way you killed 
 Lord Charles Trevor.' 
 
 " I was shocked to know he had killed a man, and 
 Hugh looked up with his big mother-eyes, while the 
 captain said coolly : 
 
 " ' Yes ; a sad business, and about a woman, of 
 course. It is dreadful to have that kind of a dispo- 
 sition, boys, that makes you dangerous to some one 
 who wants what you want. He was very young too. 
 A pity ! a pity ! ' 
 
 ^' Hugh and I said nothing ; but I had the odd no- 
 tion that he was threatening us. One gets these 
 ideas vaguely in youth, and sometimes after-events 
 justify them. However, the fancy soon took me to 
 fence with Hugh in his room, for I dared not risk 
 asking my father's leave. As Hugh got his lessons
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quake 179 
 
 botli from Pike and the captain, and became very 
 expert, I got on pretty nearly as fast as he. 
 
 " At times we practised in our shirt-sleeves in the 
 garden at Miss Wynne's, or fenced with Graydon, 
 who was later the most expert small sword we had 
 in the army. Hugh soon became nearly as skilful, 
 but I was never ai> clever at it." 
 
 One day we were busy, as Jack has described, when 
 who should come out into the garden but Mistress 
 Wynne and Darthea, and behind them the captain. 
 W'e dropped our points, but Miss Peniston cried out, 
 '* Go on ! go on ! " and, laughing, we fell to again. 
 
 Presently I, a bit distracted, for I was facing 
 Darthea's eves, felt Jack's foil full on mv chest. 
 Darthea clai)ped her hands, and, running forward, 
 would pin a bunch of red ribbons she took from her 
 shoulder on Jack's sleeve. Jack fell back, as red as 
 the ribbons, and my aimt cried out, " Darthea, you 
 are too forward ! " 
 
 The young woman flushed, and cast down the bow, 
 and as Arthur Wynne bent to pick it up set her foot 
 on it. I saw tiif <-aptain rise, and stand with the half- 
 shut eyes and the little drop of tlie jaw I have already 
 mentioned. My aunt, who liked the girl well, went 
 after her at once as she left us in a pet to return to 
 the house. I saw my aunt jmt a hand on her shoul- 
 der, and then the captain, looking vexed, followed 
 after. An hour later I went to look for the ribbon. 
 It was gone, and for years I knew not where, till, 
 in a little box in Jack's desk, I came upon it neatly 
 tied up.
 
 i8o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Young as I was, I began to see that here were 
 Captain Wynne, and possibl}'' my friend, in the toils 
 of a girl,— she was but seventeen,— and I, alas! no 
 better off ; but of this I breathed not a word to any. 
 Jack hung about her and fell back when any less 
 shy man wanted his place. I felt that he was little 
 likely to have his way, and that neither he nor I 
 had much chance in such a game against a man like 
 my cousin. He had played with hearts before, and 
 the maid listened like Desdemona to this dark-browed 
 soldier when he talked of courts and kings, and far- 
 away Eastern battles, and the splendour of the Orient. 
 My aunt, whom nothing escaped, looked on much 
 amused. Perhaps she did not take as serious the 
 love-affairs of lads like Jack and me. We were like 
 enough to have a dozen before we were really cap- 
 tured. That I was becoming at twenty-one more 
 thoughtful and resolute than far older people, she did 
 not see, and she was sometimes vexed at my sober 
 ways. I was at times gay enough, but at others she 
 would reproach me with not taking more jDains to 
 please her guests. Society, she said, had duties as well 
 as pleasures. My friend Jack no one fully understood 
 in those days, nor knew the sweet manliood and the 
 unselfishness that lay beneath his girl-Hke exterior. 
 
 One day, late in November, my aunt and I were, 
 for a wonder, alone, when she dropped the cards with 
 which she was playing, and said to me : " Hugh, there 
 is something serious between that mischievous kitten 
 and your cousin. They are much talked of. If you 
 have a boy-fancy that way, get rid of it. I don't see
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker i 8 i 
 
 through the man. He has been telling her about the 
 fine house at Wyncote, and the great estate, and how 
 some day he will have it, his elder brother being far 
 gone in a phthisis." 
 
 "There must be some mistake." I said. "Thou 
 knowest what he told my father." 
 
 " Yes ; I don't like it," she went on ; " but the gu-l 
 is caught. He talks of soon having to join Sir Guy 
 Ctu'leton in Canada, And there is my dear girl-boy 
 trapped too, I fear. But, reaUy, he is such a child 
 of a fellow it hardly matters. How many does she 
 want in her net ? The fish may squabble, I fear, A 
 sweet tiling she is; ci-uel only by instinct; and so 
 gay, so tender, so truthful and right-minded with 
 all her nonsense. No one can help loving her ; but 
 to-day she has one mood, and to-morrow another. 
 There will be a mad massacre before she is done 
 with you all. Run away, Hugh ! run ! Make love 
 to Kitty Shippen if you want to get Miss Dar- 
 thea." 
 
 I laughed, but I had little mirth in my heart. 
 
 " Aunt Gainor," I said, " I love that woman, and 
 no other man shall have her if I can help it." 
 
 " If ? if ? Stuff ! you can't help it. Don't be a fool ! 
 The sea is full of fish. This is news indeed." 
 
 " The land has but one Darthea," said L " I am 
 a boy no longer. Aunt Gainor. Thou hast made me 
 tell thee, and, now it is out, I may as well say I know 
 all about my cousin. He as good as told me, and 
 in a way I did not like. The man thinks I am a boy 
 to be scared out of going my own way. I liave told
 
 1 82 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 no one else ; but if I can get her I will, and it is no 
 laughing matter." 
 
 "I am sorry, Hugh," she said. "I knew not it 
 was so serious. It is hard to realise that you are no 
 more a boy, and must have the sorrows my sex pro- 
 vides for you. I like her, and I would help you if I 
 could, but 3'ou are late." And she went on shiiffling 
 the cards, while I took up a book, being inclined to 
 say no more. 
 
 That evening two letters came by the New York 
 packet. One from my father I put aside. It was 
 dated outside, and was written two weeks later than 
 my mothei*'s, which I read first. I opened it with 
 care. 
 
 '* My own dear Son : Thy last sweet letter was a 
 great refreshment to me, and the more so because I 
 have not been well, having again my old ache in the 
 side, but not such as need trouble thee. I blush to 
 hear the pretty things thy letters say ; but it is love 
 that holds thy pen, and I must not be too much set 
 up in my own esteem. How much love I give thee 
 in return thou knowest, but to pay in this coin will 
 never beggar us. I love thee because thou art all I 
 can desire, and again because thou lovest me, and 
 again for this same dear reason which is all I can 
 say to excuse my mother-folly. Thy father is weU, 
 but weary of this great town ; and we both long to 
 be at home." 
 
 Then there was more about my Aunt WjTine, and 
 some woman-talk for her friends about the new
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 183 
 
 fasliions, wliich do not coucem her, she being not of 
 this world. " Am 1 not ? " she says, " I love it uU— 
 the sea, even the sea, and tlowers, and oiu' woods, 
 and, dear me ! also gay gowns. I hope the last I 
 got here will not disturb the Meeting, and my new 
 mull,— very big it is, — and a green Joseph to ride in. 
 I mean to ride with tliee next spring often- often." 
 And so on, half mother, hidf child, with bits of her 
 dear French, and all about a new saddle for me, and 
 silver spurs. The postscript was long, 
 
 " I saw last week a fair Quaker dame come ont of 
 Wales. I asked her about the Wynnes, She knew 
 them not, but told me of their great house, and how it 
 was a show-place people went to see,ha\'ing been done 
 over at great cost ; and how a year or two since coal 
 was found on the estate, and much iron, so that these 
 last two years they were rich, and there was some 
 talk of making the present man a baronet. Also 
 that the elder brother is ill, nigh to death. It seems 
 strange after what thy cousin said so often. Thy 
 father is away in Holland. I will tell him when he 
 is come back. Be cautious not to talk of this, I 
 never liked the man." 
 
 I sat back in my chair to read it all over again, first 
 giving my aunt my father's letter. In a few minutes 
 I heard a cry, and saw my aunt, pale and shaken, 
 standing up, the letter in her hand. 
 
 "Mv God!" I cried, "what is it? Is it mv 
 mother?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " she said. " Be strong, my boy ! She 
 is— dead ! "
 
 184 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 For a moment I saw the room whirl, and then, as 
 my Aunt Gainor sat down, I fell on my knees and 
 buried my face in her lap. I felt her dear old hands 
 on my head, and at last would have the letter. It 
 was brief. 
 
 " My Son : The hand of God has fallen hea\Tly 
 upon me. Thy mother died to-day of a pleurisy 
 which none could help. I had not even the conso- 
 lation to hear her speak, since, when I came from 
 Holland, she was wandering in talk of thee, and 
 mostly in French, which I know not. I seek to find 
 God's meaning in this chastisement. As yet I find 
 it not. It is well that we should not let bereave- 
 ments so overcome us as to make us neglect to be 
 fervent in the business of life, or to cease to praise 
 Him who has seen fit to take away from us that 
 which it may be we worshipped as an idol. What 
 more is to say I leave until I see thee. My affairs 
 are now so ordered that I may leave them. I shall 
 sail in a week for home in the ship in which I came 
 out, and shall not go, as I did mean, to the islands." 
 
 It seemed to me, as I read and re-read it, a cold, 
 hard letter. /J said as much to my aunt some days 
 after this ; but she wisely urged that my father was 
 ever a reticent man, who found it difficidt to let even 
 his dearest see the better part of him. 
 
 I have no mind to dwell on this sad calamity. I 
 went to and fro, finding neither possibility of repose 
 nor any consolation. I saw as I rode, or lay in my
 
 Hu2;h Wynne: Free Quaker i8c 
 
 boat, that one dear face, its blue-eyed tenderness, its 
 smile of love. 1 could never thus recall to sight any- 
 other of those who, in after-years, have left nie ; but 
 this one face is here to-day as I write, forever smiling 
 and forever young. 
 
 And so time ran on, and nigh to Christmas day 
 my father came home. The weather was more mila 
 than common, and his ship met no delay from ice. I 
 joined him off Chester Creek. He was gi-ayer, older, 
 I tliought, but not othei-wise altered, having still liis 
 erect stature, and the trick I have myself of throw- 
 ing his lieiid up and his shoulders back when about 
 to meet some emergent occaision. I saw no sign of 
 emotion when we met, except that he opened and shut 
 his hands as usual when disturbed. He asked if I 
 were well, and of my Aunt Gainor, and then, amid 
 the tears which were choking me, if I were satisfied 
 as to the business, and if the tea had arrived. I 
 said yes, and that the ship had been sent away with- 
 out \'iolence. He said it was a silly business, and 
 the king woiild soon end it ; he himself had been too 
 hasty— with more to like effect. 
 
 It .seemed to me while we talked as though he had just 
 come from my mother's death-ljed, whereas a long time 
 had elapsed, and he had been able to get over the first 
 cruel shock. My own grief was still upon me, and I 
 wondered at his tranquillity. A little later he said : 
 
 "I see thou ha.st taken to the foolishness of l)la('k 
 garments. This is thy aunt's doings." In fact, it was 
 her positive wish. I made no reply, l)ut only looked 
 him in the face, ready to cry like a child.
 
 I 86 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " Why hast thou no answers, Hugh ? Thy tongue 
 used to be ready enough. Thou hast thy mothei''s 
 eyes. I would thou hadst them not." 
 
 This was as near as he ever came to speech of 
 her, whom, to my amazement, he never again men- 
 tioned. Was it a deeper f eehng than I knew, that so 
 silenced him, or did he wish to forget her f I know 
 not. Some deal thus with their dead. He bade my 
 aunt take away my mother's clothes, and asked no 
 questions as to how she disposed of them ; nor for a 
 month did he desire my return home. 
 
 What then passed between him and my Aunt 
 Gainor I do not know ; but he said nothing more of 
 my dress, although I wore mourning for six months. 
 Nor did he say a word as to my exactness and indus- 
 try, which was honestly all they should have been. At 
 meals he spoke rarely, and then of affaii'S, or to 
 blame me for faults not mine, or to speak with cold 
 sarcasm of my friends. 
 
 Except for Jack, and my Aunt Gainor, and Wilson 
 and Wetherill, of whom I saw much, I should have 
 been miserable indeed. Captain Wynne stiQ came 
 and went, and his strange intimacy with my father 
 continued. I thought little of it then, and for my 
 own part I liked to hear of his adventurous life, but 
 the man less and less ; and so the winter of '73 and 
 '74 went by with fencing and skating and books, 
 wliich now I myself ordered to suit me, or found in 
 Mr. Logan's great library, of which I was made free. 
 
 In March my cousin left us for Canada and the 
 army. Once I spoke before him of the news in my
 
 Hugh W^nne : Free Quaker i 87 
 
 mothei-'s postscript; but he laughed, sayiug he had 
 heai'd some such rumours, but that the}- were not 
 true. They did not much trouble a huugry beggar 
 of a youuger sou with letters; still if there had 
 been such good news he shoidd have heard it. He 
 wished it might be so ; aud as to his brother, poor 
 devil ! he would last long euougli to marry aud have 
 children. Were tlie ducks still in the river? He 
 said no more to me of Darthea, or of what I was to do 
 for liim, but he found a way at need, I am sure, to get 
 letters to her, and that without difficulty. At last, 
 as I have said, he was gone to join Sir Guy. I was 
 not sorry. 
 
 Mrs. Peniston, Darthea's aunt, usually talked lit- 
 tle, and then of serious matters as if they were 
 trivial, aiul of these latter as if the\' were of the 
 utmost iini.ortance. Witli regard to tliis matter of 
 Darthea and my cousin, she was free of speech and 
 incessant, so that all the town was soon assured of the 
 great match Darthea would make. The fine house 
 at Wyncote grew, and the estate also. Neither Jack 
 nor I liked all this, and my friend took it sadly to 
 heart, to my Aunt Gainor's amusement and Mrs. 
 Ferguson's, wlio would have Dr. Rush set up a ward 
 in the new hospital for the broken-hearted lovers of 
 Darthea. Wiien first Ja<'k Warder was thus })a(lg- 
 ered, he fell into suc-li a state of ten-or as to wliat the 
 mad(;ap woTnan would say next that he declined aU 
 society for a week, and ever after detested the Tory 
 lady. 
 
 I became, under the iufluenoe of thismuch-talked-of
 
 I 88 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 news, as mute as Jack ; but, while he had only a deep 
 desire toward sadness, and to stay away from her 
 who had thus defeated his love, I, neither given over 
 to despair nor hope, had only a fierce will to have 
 my way ; nor, for some reason or for none, did I con- 
 sider Jack's case as very serious,— my aunt it much 
 amused,— so little do we know those who are most 
 near to us. 
 
 No sooner was the redcoat lover gone awhile 
 than, as Miss Chew declared, Darthea put off mourn- 
 ing for the absent. Indeed, the pretty kitten began 
 once more to tangle the threads of Jack's life and 
 mine. For a month Jack was in favour, and then 
 a certain captain, but never I, until one day late in 
 April. She was waiting among my aunt's china for 
 her return, and had set the goggle-eyed mandarin to 
 nodding, while, with eyes as wide as his, she nodded 
 in reply, and laughed like a merry child. 
 
 I stood in the doorway, and watched this delicious 
 creatnre for a minute while she amused herself — and 
 me also, although she knew it not. " Say No ! " she 
 cried out to the great china nobleman ; quite a foot 
 high he was. But, despite her pretence at altering 
 his unvaried affirmative, it stiU went on. My lady 
 walked all around him, and presently said aloud: 
 *' No ! no ! It must be No ! Say No ! " stamping a 
 foot, as if angry, and then of a sudden running up 
 to the mandarin and laughing. " He has a crack in 
 his head. That is why he says Yes ! Yes ! I must be 
 a female mandarin, and that is why I say No ! No ! I 
 wonder does he talk broken China ? "
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 189 
 
 At tliis moment she saw my tall black figure in a 
 corner miiTor, and made some exclamation, as if 
 startled ; an instant later she knew it was I, but 
 as if by magic the laughing woman was no longer 
 there. What I saw as she came towju'd me wiis a 
 slight, quiet nun with eyes full of tears. 
 
 I was used to her swift changes of mood, but "what 
 her words, or some of them, meant I knew not ; and 
 as for this pitvdng face, with its sudden sadness, 
 what more did it mean ? Major Andre said of her 
 lat^r that MLstress Darthea was like a lake in tho 
 hills, reflecting all tilings, and yet herself after all. 
 But how many such tricksy ways, pretty or vexing, 
 she was to show some of us in the years to come did 
 not yet appear. 
 
 In a moment I seemed to see before me the small 
 dai-k cluld I first knew at school. ^Vhy was she now 
 so curiously perturbed ? " Mr. Wjaine," she said, 
 '' vou never come near me now — oh, not for a month ! 
 And to-day your aunt has shown me a part of the 
 dear mother's letter, and— and— I am so sorry for 
 you ! I am indeed ! I have long wanted to say so. 
 I wi.sh I coidd help you. I do not think you forget 
 easily, and — and— you were so good to me when I 
 wa.s an uglv little brat. I think vour mother loved 
 me. That is a thing to make one think better of 
 one's self. I need it, sir. It is a pretty sort of 
 vanity, and how vain you must be, who had so much 
 of her love ! " 
 
 " I thank thee," I said simply. Indeed, for a time 
 I was so moved that say more I could not. " I thank
 
 1 90 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 thee, Miss Peniston. There is no one on earth whom 
 I would rather hear say what thou hast said." 
 
 I saw her coloiu' a little, and she replied quickly, " I 
 am only a child, and I say what comes to my lips ; I 
 might better it often if I stayed to think." 
 
 " No ! " I cried. Whenever she got into trouble— 
 and she was ready to note the tenderness in my 
 voice— this pretty pretext of the irresponsibility of 
 childhood would serve her turn. " No," said I ; " I 
 like dearly to hear my mother praised, — who could 
 praise her too much?— but when it is thou who 
 sayest of her such true things, how shall I tell thee 
 what it is to me who love to hear thee talk— even 
 nonsense ? " 
 
 '' I talk nonsense ? Do I ? " 
 
 "Yes, sometimes. I— want thee to listen to me. 
 I have cared for thee — " 
 
 " Now please don't, Mr. Wynne. They all do it, 
 and— I like you. I want to keep some friends." 
 
 " It is useless, Darthea. I am so made that I must 
 say my say. Thou mayest try to escape, and hate it 
 and me, but I have to say I love thee. No, I am not 
 a boy. I am a man, and I won't let thee answer me 
 now." 
 
 " I do not want to. It would hurt you. You must 
 know ; every one knows. It was his fault and my 
 aunt's, all this gossip. I would have kept it quiet." 
 
 " It will never be," I broke out. " Thou wilt never 
 marry that man ! " I knew when I said this that 
 I had made a mistake. I had learned to distrust 
 Arthur ; but I had too little that was of moment to
 
 Huf^h Wynne: Free Quaker 191 
 
 say agiiiust liim to make it wise to speak as I had 
 done. I wi\s youu}^ in those days, and hasty. 
 
 " Who ? '' says my hid}', all ou fii'e. " "Wliat man ? 
 Jack Wai-der ? And why not ? I do not know what 
 I shall do." 
 
 '' It is not my detu- Jack,'' I cried. " Why dost thou 
 trifle with me ? " 
 
 " Your dear Jack, indeed ! How he blushes ! I 
 mijj:ht ask him. He never would have the courage." 
 
 "It is my cousin, ^\j*thur Wynne, as thou weU 
 knowest. And thou ai't -sN-icked to mock at an honest 
 gentleman with thy hglit talk. Thou dost not know 
 the man, this man, my cousin." 
 
 '* Only a boy would be so fooUsh or so unfair as to 
 speak thus of one beliind his back, and to a woman 
 too, who — " And she paused, confused and angry. 
 
 I could not tell her what was only suspicion or 
 hearsay as to my cousin's double statements concern- 
 ing his father's estate, or how either she or we were 
 deceived, I had, in fact, lost my head a little, and 
 had gone further than was wise. I woidd not exphiin, 
 and I was too vexed to say more than that I woidd 
 say the same to his face. Then she rejoined softly : 
 
 "Tell it to me. You are as mysterious as Miss 
 Wynne ; and have I not a right to know ? " 
 
 " No," I said ; " not now, at least. Thou mayest 
 tell him if thou wilt." 
 
 " If I will, indeed ! Every one is against him — you 
 and Mistress Wyime and that impudent boy, Jack 
 Warder, despite his lilushes. Oh, ho can be bold 
 enough. Isn't he a dear fellow?"
 
 192 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 How could one deal with a woman like this? T 
 hesitated, and as I did so, not having ready anything 
 but sad reproaches of her levity, my aunt appeared 
 in the doorway. 
 
 " Are you two children quarrelling ? " she said, in. 
 her outspoken way. " You will have time to repent. 
 Here has been youi* father, sir, to-day, and his affairs 
 in Jamaica are all in a nice pickle, and you and the 
 old clerk are to up and away in the packet for Kings- 
 ton, and that to-morrow." 
 
 " Indeed ! " I cried. I was not sorry. 
 
 **I envy you," said my lady, as demure as you 
 please. " You will fetch me a feather fan, and come 
 back soon. I hate all those cornets and captains, and 
 now I shall have no one but Jack." 
 
 My aunt looked on amused. Her news was true 
 indeed, and with no chance to talk to any one, except 
 to say a mere good-by to Jack, I spent the evening 
 with my father and our head clerk over the business 
 which took me away so hastUy. At early morning 
 on a cold day at the close of April, 1774, we were 
 gliding down the Delaware with all sail set. 
 
 The voyage was long, the winds contrary. I had 
 ample leisure to reflect upon my talk with Darthea. 
 I was sure she must have known she was to me not 
 as other women. Except for the accident of this 
 chance encounter, I might long have waited before 
 finding courage to speak. I had made nothing by it, 
 had scarce had an answer, and should, like enough, 
 have fallen back into the coldness of relation, by 
 which she had so long kept me at a distance. I had
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 193 
 
 been foolish and hasty to speak of my cousin at all ; 
 it did but vex her. 
 
 Of my errand in Jamaica there is Uttle to be said. 
 My father's hitters were of business only. Of these 
 lung months and of what went on at home I heard 
 but little from him, and with my request to have the 
 gazettes he had evidently no mind to comply; nor 
 were the chances of letters frequent. I heard, indeed, 
 from my aunt but twice, and from Jack thrice ; but 
 he said nothing of Darthea. Years after I found in 
 his record of events : 
 
 *' Hugh left us the last of April. It may be he 
 cares too nuK-h for that wayward witch, Darthea." 
 
 I shoidd say that it was at this time or soon after 
 my dear friend began to keep a some wL at broken 
 diary of events. Wliat he says of former years was 
 put on paper long afterward. 
 
 •' If I did but know," writes Jack, " that he is se- 
 riously taken, I should understand, alas ! w^hat not 
 U) do. But as to some tilings Ilugh is a silent man. 
 I think as Mr. Wilson savs, some men are made for 
 friends, and some for lovers. I fear the latter is not 
 my role. Is tliere— can there be— such a thing as 
 revering a woman too much to make successful love ? 
 I think I see what Darthea is more truly than does 
 my dear Ilugli. There must come a day when she 
 will show it. Sometimes I can hardly trust myself 
 with her ; and I yearn to tell her that I alone know 
 her, and that I love her. I must watch myself. If 
 it really l>e that Hugh cares for lier, and yet I were 
 to be the fortunate man, how coidd I face him again,
 
 194 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 having had the advantage of his long absence ? It 
 seems strange that I should ask myself if I am more 
 her lover than his friend. He does not talk of her 
 to me. 
 
 " It is now September, '74, and Hugh must soon 
 return. Mr. Gage is fortifying Boston Neck, and 
 we have had the mischievous Boston Port Bill, 
 and Virginia up in a rage, which I do not under- 
 stand. We, who have our commerce crippled by 
 foolish laws, may well be on the side of resistance ; 
 but why the planters should put in peril their only 
 tobacco market I see less well. A Continental Con- 
 gress is to meet here on the fifth day of this month, 
 and already the town is alive with gentlemen from 
 the South and North. 
 
 "No doubt Darthea has letters from Mr, Arthur 
 Wynne. I think Mr. Wilson judges that man cor- 
 rectly. He says he is selfish, and more weak as to 
 morals than really bad, and that he wiU be apt to 
 yield to sudden temptation rather than to plan de- 
 liberate wickedness. Why should he have need 
 to plan at all? Mistress WjTine says he does not 
 like Hugh. How could any not hke my Hugh, and 
 how do women see the things which we do not ? 
 
 " It is sad to see my father's state of mind. Yes- 
 terday he was with me to visit Mr. Hancock, very 
 fine in a purple velvet coat with gold buttons, and 
 a flowered waistcoat. He is our correspondent in 
 Boston. My father came home a hot Wliig ; and to- 
 morrow is Meeting-day, and he will be most melan- 
 choly, and aU for the king if this, and that should
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 195 
 
 happen. John Wynne can turn him which way he 
 likes. If my Hugh remains of a Wliig mind— and 
 who less like to change?— he will have a hot time 
 with liis father, I fear."' 
 
 Is it any wonder I, his friend, loved this man? 
 He seemed so gentle that all but I, even James 
 Wilson, misunderstood him. No more obstinate fel- 
 low ever was or Avill be. I ought to say " determined,'* 
 for there was always a reason of head or heart for 
 what he would or would not do, and I rciilly think 
 that in ail liis noble life lie had but one hour of 
 weakness, of which by and by I may ha\'o to ttll.
 
 XIII 
 
 WAS to have come home earlier, but in 
 June I got letters from my father in- 
 structing me to await a vessel which 
 would reach Jamaica in June, and sail 
 thence to Madeira. There were careful 
 instructions given as to purchase of wines, and the 
 collection of delayed payments for staves, in the 
 wine islands. 
 
 I did not like it, but I was young, and to travel 
 had its charm after all. Had there been no Darthea, 
 I had been altogether pleased. The excuse of this 
 new business made me smile. It was clear my father 
 was using that pretext to keep me out of the mischief 
 which was involving most young men of courage, and 
 creating in them a desire to train as soldiers in the 
 organisations which were everywhere being formed. 
 He was unwise enough to say that my cousin, from 
 whom he had heard, sent his love, and was glad I 
 was out of our disloyal and uneasy country. 
 
 There was no help for it, and thus it chanced that 
 not until September did I see the red brick houses of 
 my native city. Late news I had almost none, for 
 none reached me, and I was become wild with desire 
 to learn what the summer months had brought forth. 
 
 196
 
 Hui^h Wynne: Free Quaker 197 
 
 On the fifth day of September, 1774, at seven in 
 the inoruiug, I saw my Jack in a boat come out to 
 meet me as we came to anchor in the stream. He 
 looked bro\\'u and handsome, reddening with joy as 
 he made me welcome. All wei-e well, he said. I did 
 not ask fnrDarthea. 
 
 My father was on the slip, and told me that business 
 miirht wait until the eveniuir. ^ly auut had not been 
 well, luul would see me at once. Tliis really was all, 
 and I miirht have been any one but his son for what 
 there was in his mode of meeting me. I widked with 
 Jack to my Aunt Gainoi-'s, where he left me. I was 
 pleased to see the deiu- lady at her breakfast, in a white 
 gOAvn with frills and a lace tucker, with a queen's 
 nightcap sueli as Lady Wasliington wore when I first 
 saw her. ^Mistress Wynne looked a great figure in 
 white, and fell on mv neck and kissed me : and I must 
 sit do\m, and here were cotfee and hot girdle-cakes 
 and blueberries, and what not. Did I like Jamaica? 
 And had I fetched some fans ? She must have her 
 choice ; and rum, she hoped, I had not forgot. How 
 well I looked, and my eyes were bluer than ever! 
 Was it the sea had got into them? and so on. 
 
 1 asked about the Congress, and she was off in a 
 moment. Mr. John Adams had been to see her, and 
 that cat, Bessy Ferguson, had been nide to him. An 
 ill-dressed man, but clear of head and veiy positive ; 
 and the members from Virginia she liked better. 
 Mr. Peyton Randolph had called; and I would like 
 Mr. Pendleton ; he had most deliglitfid manners. 
 Mr. Livingston had been good enough to remember
 
 198 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 me, and had asked for me. He thought we must 
 soon choose a general, and Mr. Washington had been 
 talked of. 
 
 " Has it come to that ? " said I. 
 
 "Yes; all the North is up, and G-age has more 
 troops and is at work intrenching himself, he who was 
 to settle us with three regiments. Mrs. Chew was 
 here, and behaved like the lady she is. But they are 
 all in a nice mess. Master Hugh, and know not what 
 to do. I hate these moderates. Mr. Washington is 
 a man as big as your father, and better builded. I 
 like him, although he says Httle and did not so much 
 as smile at Bessy Ferguson's nonsense. And Dar- 
 thea— you do not ask about Darthea. She is play- 
 ing the mischief with Jack and her captain. She 
 will not let me talk about him. He is in Boston with 
 Mr. Gage, I hear. Why don't you tell me about 
 yourscK ? " 
 
 "How could I, Aunt Gainor? Thou—" and I 
 laughed. 
 
 Then she became grave. " You will have to declare 
 yourseK and take sides ; and how can I counsel you 
 to resist your father ? You mus}: think it over and 
 talk to Mr. Wilson. He is of the Congress. Poor 
 Mr. Wetherill the Meeting has a mind to bounce, 
 and he takes it hard. Come back at eleven, and 
 we will go to Chestnut street, where they meet, 
 and see the gentlemen go into the Carpenters' Hall. 
 I came to town on purpose. And now go ; I must 
 dress." 
 
 At half -past ten — my aunt very splendid — we drove
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 199 
 
 do\m Second street and up Chestnut, where was a 
 givat crowd come to look on. Dr. Kush, seeing my 
 aunt's chariot, got in at ISecond street, and, being one 
 of the members, enabled us to get near to Cai"penters' 
 AUt'V, where at the far end, back from the street, is 
 the old building in which the Congress was to be held. 
 Jack met us here, and got up beside the coachman. 
 I think none had a better v-iew than we. Andrew 
 Allen came to speak to us, and then Mr. Galloway, 
 not yet seared by the extreme measures of which few 
 as vet dreamed, and which bv and bv drove these and 
 many other gentlemen into open declarations for the 
 crown. 
 
 I saw James Pemberton looking on sadly, and 
 near him other Friends with sour aspects. Here and 
 there militia uniforms were seen amid the dull gi'ays, 
 the smocks of farmers and mechanics, and the sober 
 suits of tradesmen, all come to see. 
 
 " The Kev. Dr. Duche passed us," says Jack, whom 
 now I quote, "in a fine ^^^g and black silk small- 
 clothes. He was to make this day the famous prayer 
 which so moved Mr. Adams." And later, I may 
 add, he went over to the other side. " Soon others 
 came. Some we knew not, but the great Dr. Kush 
 pointed out such as were of his ac(iuaintance. 
 
 " ' There,' he said, ' is Carter Braxton. He tells 
 me he docs not like the New England men — cither 
 their religion or their manners; and I like thcin 
 bdth.' The doctor was cynical, I thought, but very 
 int<'resting. I set do^vn but little of what he said 
 or I saw ; for most of it I forget.
 
 200 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " ' There is the great Virginia orator, Mr. Patrick 
 Henry/ said the doctor. He was in simple dress, 
 and looked up at ns curiously as he went by with 
 Pendleton and Mr. Carroll. ' He has a gi^eat estate 
 —Mr. Carroll,' said the doctor. 'I wonder he will 
 risk it.' He was dressed in brown silk breeches, with 
 a yellow figui-ed waistcoat, and, like many of them, 
 wore his sword. Mr. Franklin was not yet come 
 home, and some were late. 
 
 "Presently the doctor called, and a man in the 
 military dress of the Virginia militia turned toward 
 us. 'Colonel Washington,' said our doctor, 'will 
 permit me to present him to a lady, a great friend 
 of hberty. Mistress Wynne, Colonel Washington.' 
 
 " ' I have already had the honour,' he said, taking 
 off his hat— a scrolled beaver. 
 
 " ' He is our best soldier, and we are fortunate that 
 he is with us,' said the doctor, as the colonel moved 
 away." 
 
 The doctor changed his mind later, and helped, I 
 fear, to make the trouble which came near to cost- 
 ing Conway his life. I have always been a great 
 admirer of line men, and as the Virginia colonel 
 moved like Saul above the crowd, an erect, well-pro- 
 portioned figure, he looked taller than he really 
 was, but, as my aunt had said, was not of the big- 
 ness of my father. 
 
 " He has a good nose," said my Aunt Gainor, per- 
 haps conscious of her own possessions in the way 
 of a nasal organ, and liking to see it as notable in 
 another J " but how sedate he is ! I find Mr. Peyton
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 201 
 
 Randolph more agreeable, and there is Mr. Robert 
 Morris and John Dickinson." 
 
 Then John Adams went by, deep in talk with 
 Roger Sherman, whom I thonght shabbily dressed ; 
 and behind them Robert Livingston, whom my 
 aunt knew. Thus it was, as I am glad to remem- 
 ber, that I beheld these men who were to be the 
 makers of an empire. Perhaps no wiser group of 
 people ever met for a greater fate, and siu-ely the 
 hand of God was seen in the matter; for what 
 other colony— Canada, for example,— had such men 
 to show? There, meanwhile, was England, Avith its 
 great nobles and free commons and a splendid story 
 of hard-won freedom, driving madly on its way of 
 folly and defeat. 
 
 Of what went on within the hall we heard little. 
 A declaration of rights was set forth, committees of 
 correspondence appointed, and addresses issued to the 
 king and people of Great Britain. Congress broke 
 up, and the winter went by ; Gage was superseded 
 by Sir William Ilowe ; Clinton and BurgojTie were 
 sent out, and ten thousand men were ordered to 
 America to aid the pm*poses of the king. 
 
 The cold season was soon upon us, and the event- 
 ful year of '75 came in with a great fall of snow, but 
 with no great change for me and those I loved. A 
 sullen rage possessed the colonies, and especially Mas- 
 sachusett.s, where the Regulation Acts Avere quietly 
 disregarded. No counsellors or jurvmrn would serve 
 under the king's commission. The old muskets of 
 the French and Indian wars were taken from the
 
 202 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 corners and put in order. Men drilled, and women 
 east bullets. 
 
 Failing to corrupt Samuel Adams and Hancock, 
 Gage resolved to arrest them at Concord and to seize 
 on the stores of powder and ball. "■ The heads of trai- 
 tors will soon decorate Temple Bar," said a London 
 gazette; and so the march of events went on. In 
 the early spring Dr. Franklin came home in despair 
 of accommodation ; he saw nothing now to do but to 
 fight, and this he told us plainly. His very words 
 were in my mind on the night of April 23d of this 
 year of '75, as I was slowly and thoughtfully walk- 
 ing over the bridge where Walnut crossed the Dock 
 Creek, and where I stayed for a moment to strike flint 
 and steel in order to light my pipe. Of a sudden I 
 heard a dull but increasing noise to north, and then 
 the strong voice of the bell in the state-house. It was 
 not ringing for fire. Somewhat puzzled, I walked 
 swiftly to Second street, where were men and wo- 
 men in groups. I stopped a man and asked what 
 had chanced. He said, " A battle ! a battle ! and 
 General Gage killed." Couriers had reached the 
 coffee-houses, but no one on the street seemed to 
 have more than this vague information; all were 
 going toward Chestnut street, where a meeting was 
 to be held, as I learned, and perhaps fuller news 
 given out. 
 
 I pushed on, still hearing the brazen clamour of the 
 bell. As I crossed High street I came upon James 
 Wilson and Mr. Graydon. They stopped me to tell 
 of the great tidings just come by swift post-riders
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 203 
 
 of the fight at Lexington. After gi\'ing me the full 
 details, Wilson left us. Said Graydon, very serious : 
 "Mr. Wynne, how long are you to be in deciding? 
 Gome and join Mr. Cadwalader's troop. Few of us 
 ride as well as you." 
 
 I said I had been thinking. 
 
 " Oil, confound your thinkings ! It is action now. 
 Let the bigwigs think." 
 
 I could not tell a man I then knew but slightly 
 how immense was my reluctiuice to make this com- 
 plete break with the creed of my father, and to abso- 
 lutely disobey him, as I knew I must do if I followed 
 my inclinations; nor did I incline to speak of such 
 other diihculties as still kept me undecided. I .^aid 
 at last that if I took tip anus it would be with Mac- 
 pherson or Cowperthwaite's Quakei*s. 
 
 " Why not ? " he said. " But, by George ! man, do 
 something ! There ai*e, I hear, man}' Friends among 
 the Cowperthwaite Blues. Do they give orders with 
 ' thou ' and ' thee,' I wonder ? " 
 
 I laughed, and hurried away. The town was al- 
 ready in a state of vast excitement, women in tears, 
 and men stopping even those they did not kuow to ask 
 for news. I ran all the way to my aunt's, eager to 
 tell it. In the hall I stood a miuute to get my breath, 
 and reflect. I kuew full well, as I recognised vari- 
 ous voices, that my intelligence would mean tears 
 for some, and joy for others. 
 
 My long-taught Quaker .self-control often served 
 me as well as the practised calm I observed to be the 
 expression assumed by the best-bred oflicers of the
 
 204 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 army on occasions that caused visible emotion in 
 others. I went in quietly, seeing a well-amused party 
 of dames and younger folk, with, over against the 
 chimneypiece, the great Benjamin Franklin, now in 
 the full prime of varied usefulness, a benevolent face, 
 and above it the great dome of head, which had to me 
 even then a certain grandeur. He was talking eagerly 
 with Mistress Wynne— two striking figures. 
 
 Mr. Galloway was in chat with his kinsman, Mr. 
 Chew. The younger women, in a group, were mak- 
 ing themselves merry with my friend Jack, who was 
 a bit awkward in a fine suit I had plagued him into 
 buying. And what a beauty he was, as he stood, 
 half pleased with the teasing, blushing now and then, 
 and fencing prettily in talk, as I knew by the laugh- 
 ter ! At the tables the elder women were gambling, 
 and intent on their little gains and losses, while the 
 vast play of a nobler game was going on in the 
 greater world of men. 
 
 To my sui'prise, I saw among the guests an Eng- 
 lish lieutenant. I say " to my surprise," for the other 
 officers had gone of their own accord, or had been 
 ordered to leave by the Committee of Safety. This 
 one, and another, were, as I learned afterward, on 
 their way through the town to join General Gage. 
 There was evidently some dispute as to the cards. 
 I heard high-pitched voices, and " spadille," " basto,'* 
 " matador "— all the queer words of quadrille, then* 
 favoured game. 
 
 The lieutenant was bending over Mrs. Ferguson's 
 chair. He was a fellow I had seen before and never
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 205 
 
 liked, a viilpir-featiired luau, too fat for his years, 
 which may have been some tweuty-eijrht. He played 
 the best liand of all of them, and, as my aunt de- 
 clared, that was quite enough ; for the rest she coidd 
 keep any man in order. I lu'ld baek in the gloom 
 of the ludl. looking at their busy gaiety, and wonder- 
 ing what thcv would sav to mv news. 
 
 As I went in I lu'ard Woodville, the lieutenant, say, 
 *' The king— play the king, Mrs. Ferguson." 
 
 " No advice ! " cried Mrs. GuHoway. 
 
 " But I am betting," said he. " The king forever ! 
 We have won, madam. The king Ls always in luck." 
 
 I could not resist saying, " The king has lost, ladies." 
 
 My auut turned, and knew I meant something. I 
 suppose my face may have been more grave than my 
 words. "Vhat is it, Hugh ? " 
 
 " I have strange news. Aunt Gainor." 
 
 " News ? and what ? " As she spoke the talk ceased, 
 and ever}' one looked up. 
 
 " There has been a fight at Lexington. Major Pit- 
 caira is beat, and mv Lord Percv. The farmers were 
 all up to hinder them as they were on their way to 
 seize our powder, and to take Mr. Hancock. The 
 king has lost some tliree hundred men, and we under 
 a hundred." 
 
 '' (rood heavens I " said Mr. Galloway. " But it 
 cannot be true." 
 
 A pause came after, as I said there was no doubt 
 of it. 
 
 Dr. Franklin asked if I was sure. I said, " Yes ; 
 I have it of James Wilson, and the town is already
 
 2o6 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 in an uproar over it." The great philosopher re- 
 mained deep in thought a moment, while the women 
 sat or stood in fear, or whispering excitement. At 
 last he said he must go, and that it was the beginning 
 of war, and welcome too. Then he bowed gravely 
 and went out. As he left, the stillness which had 
 prevailed for a time was broken. 
 
 A dozen questions fell on me from all sides. I 
 could only repeat my story, as Jack went by me to 
 go out and hear, if possible, more of the news than I 
 had to tell. 
 
 At last Mr. Chew said thoughtfully, " If it be true, 
 it is a sad business ; but, really, how can it be, Hugh ? 
 How could a lot of farmers, without good arms and 
 discipline, put to rout a body of trained men, well 
 armed "? " 
 
 ''I think," said Galloway, "we shall have quite 
 another version to-morrow. How does it strike you, 
 Mr. WoodviUe?" 
 
 *'0h, quite absurd," said the officer. "You may 
 reassure yourselves, ladies ; such a loss, too, would be 
 incredible, even in regular war. I think we may go 
 on with our game, Mrs. Ferguson." He was very 
 pompous, but none seemed inclined to take his advice. 
 
 " And yet I don't like it," said a lady of the Tory 
 side. 
 
 " And I do," said Mistress Wynne. " It is as good 
 news as I have heard this many a day." 
 
 " It is nonsense ! " said the officer ; " sheer non- 
 sense ! You have strange notions, madam, as to 
 what is good news. It is only another rebel lie."
 
 Hugh W^ynne : Free Quaker 207 
 
 *' I think not," said I, venturing to add that men 
 vrho could kill squirrels would rarely miss a man, 
 and that many of the older farmers had fought In- 
 dians and French, and had, I suspected, picked off 
 the officL'i-s. 
 
 " How hoirid 1 " said Darthea. 
 
 Ilad a stra}' bullet found my cousin I should not 
 have grieved profoundly. 
 
 "You see where all your neutrality and loyalty 
 have brought you," said Mistress Wynne. *' I wish 
 King George were with Mr. Gage ; he might learn 
 wisdom. 'T is but the beginniug of a good end." 
 
 " May I remind you," said "Woodville, very red in 
 the face, " that I am his Majesty's officer ? " 
 
 " No, 3'ou may not remind me. A fig for his Maj- 
 estj' ! " cried my aunt, now in one of her tantrums. 
 
 "Shame ! " cried Mi's. Ferguson, rising, as did the 
 rest, some in teai-s and some saving Mrs. Ferguson 
 was right, or tlie Lord knows what— not at all a 
 pleasant scene j the men very silent, or vexed, or 
 troubled. 
 
 My Aunt Gainor, as they filed out, made them 
 each her finest curtsey. Darthea stood still, looking 
 grave enough. Mr. "Woodville, the lieutenant, lin- 
 gered, made his adieus very decently, and went out, 
 I showing him the way. On the step he said: "I 
 do not (juarrel with women ; but I have heard that 
 in Mistress Wynne's house, to which, as an officer 
 of his ]\Iajesty, I cannot submit." 
 
 " Well f " I said ; and my abominable propensity 
 to grin got the better of me.
 
 2o8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " You seem amused, sir," he said. 
 
 I was by no means amused. 
 
 " I suppose you are responsible," he added. " Miss 
 Wynne might have better manners, and her nephew 
 more courage. However, I have said what ought to 
 be enough with English gentlemen. Good-evening." 
 
 " I have half a mind to give thee a good honest 
 thrashing," said I. 
 
 "I dare say. You are big enough. Master Quaker ; 
 but I presume that about the weapons common among 
 men of honour you know as much as I know of 
 making horseshoes." 
 
 I was now cool enough and angry enough to have 
 killed him. " Thy friend can find me here," said I. 
 " I trust I shall be able to satisfy thee." 
 
 With this he went away, and I stood looking after 
 his stumpy fig-ure. I was again in a broil, not of my 
 making ; just a bit of ill luck, for here was a nice 
 business. I went in, and was caught on my way 
 upstairs by my Aunt Gainor, who called me into 
 the sitting-room. 
 
 Still too furious to be prudent, she broke out be- 
 fore Darthea. " Insolent idiots ! I hope I made Mr. 
 Galloway understand, and the rest of them too ! I 
 trust Bessy Ferguson will never darken my doors 
 again ! " She walked up and down, and at last up- 
 set a big mandarin, who came head down on the 
 hearth. 
 
 " I wish he were Mr. Gage ! " said my aunt, con- 
 templating the fragments. 
 
 " I dare say he was a Tory," says Darthea, wh.j
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 209 
 
 feared no one. " And I am a Torj' too, ]\liss Wynne, 
 I would have you to know." 
 
 " I dare say," said my aunt ; " it does n't matter 
 much wliat vou think, or what vou are. You had 
 some words with that stupid man, sii* ; I saw you. He 
 looked as if he did not like it. Oh, 1 heard you, too." 
 
 I vainly shook my head at her. 
 
 " Ai'e you two ijoing: to fight ? I am not sorry ! 
 I wish I eoidd have that cat Ferguson out." 
 
 " I hope— oh— I am sure, Mr. Wynne, it cannot be. 
 How dreadful ! " said Darthea. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " cried my aunt. " A man cannot 
 stand everything like a woman." 
 
 I said i)laiuly, seeing how vain my aunt had made 
 conceahnent, that there had been some words, but 
 that I trusted no harm would come of it. 
 
 '' But there will ! there will ! " said Miss PenLston. 
 
 " ^leroy upon us ! " cried my aunt ; for here was 
 Darthea on the floor, and burnt feathers and vinegar 
 at hand, servants running about, my aunt ordering 
 ** Cut her stay-stiings ! " as I was turned out, hearing 
 my aunt declare, " I do believe she is in love 'with all 
 the men. Is it you or the captain ? "\Miat a shame- 
 less monkey to tumble all of a heap that way ! It is 
 hardly decent. Do go away, you goose ! 'T is a way 
 she has Did never you see a woman faint?" 
 
 I never did, and I was scared faint myself. "WHiat 
 
 between Darthea's fainting spell, and this quarrel not 
 
 of my seeking, I was uneomfortaljle enough. I had 
 
 no one but Jack to appeal to ; and here was a pair 
 
 of Quaker lads, ju.^t over twenty-two, in a proper 
 u
 
 21 o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 scrape. I had not the least intention of getting out 
 of it, save in one way. The sneer at my aunt was 
 more than I coukl endure. What my father would 
 think was another matter. 
 
 Mr. Wilson used to say : " When you are in difficul- 
 ties dispose of the worst first ;" and so I resolved, as I 
 must fight the man, and that was the imminent matter, 
 to set aside all thought of my parent, until I was done 
 with Mr. Woodville. Jack I took for granted, and 
 so left a note with the servant asking my opponent's 
 friend to call on Jack at an hour when he was like 
 to be alone. Before I could leave to warn him of 
 what was on hand my aunt came to me. 
 
 " I sent that girl home in the chaise. It was her 
 fear lest some one may be hm-t, but she really has 
 no excuse. She talked quite wild as she came to— 
 I mean of you and Arthur Wynne— just mere babble. 
 And, O Hugh ! I am a drivelling old maid, and have 
 taught you all manner of nonsense, and now I have 
 got you into trouble. Don't let him kill you, Hugh. 
 Cannot it be stopped? I told Darthea to hold her 
 tongue, and I am so miserable, Hugh ; and when I 
 think of your dead mother, and all I promised, what 
 shall I do ? " And the kind old lady penitently wept 
 over me, as if I were run through already. 
 
 I felt, as you may imagine, the embarrassment and 
 doubt a young man feels when about to protest by 
 a single act against the creed of conduct which he 
 has been taught to follow since he could remember. 
 I smiled, too, as I recalled our first school duel, and 
 how Jack and I ran away.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 21 i 
 
 My aunt, seeing there was nothing more to be 
 done, ami having said quite enough, retired, I am 
 sure to pray for me, and for herself as tlic main cause 
 of my coming risk. She would have liked to see me 
 Avell out of the affaii-, but I do believe would not have 
 had me excuse myself to my lieutenant, let what 
 might occur. Indeed, she did her best to keep Miss 
 Darthea from betraving what, but for mv aunt's rash 
 outburst, would not have gone beyond those imme- 
 diately concerned. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon, when I found Jack 
 writing in his fathers house. I must have looked 
 grave, for he rose quickly and, coming to meet me, 
 set a hand on each of my shoulders— a way he had, 
 but only with me. 
 
 " \Vliat is it ? " he said ; " not the news ? " 
 
 " No." In fact, it had clean gone out of my mind. 
 " I have had trouble with Mr. Woodville, and now 
 I must fight him." And on this I related the whole 
 adventure, Jack listening intently. 
 
 ''Thou shouldst have an older man than I, Hugh. 
 These affairs may often be mended, I learn, %\'itliout 
 coming to violence." lie seemed a little embarrassed, 
 and reddened, hesitating as he spoke, so that, stupidly 
 not comprehending him as I should have done, I said 
 hastily that the man had insulted my aunt, and that 
 there was })ut one way out of it, but that I coidd 
 tr}- to get some one else, if to act as my friend was 
 not to his taste. 
 
 " At this time," he writes, " when Hugh came so 
 near to hurting me, I was really going through in
 
 212 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 my mind what lie had ah'eady disposed of in his. At 
 Pike's we heard of nothing but duels, I had long 
 been Pike's pupil. The duel had come to seem to us, 
 I fear, the natural and inevitable ending of a quar- 
 rel. Such was the belief of my good friend Mistress 
 WjTine's set, and of the oificers whose opinions as to 
 social matters we had learned to regard as final, 
 
 "And yet the absurdity of two Quaker lads so 
 trapped struck me as it did not Hugh. The man 
 must surely have thought him older than he was, but 
 so did most. I feared that I shoidd not do my friend 
 justice ; and then I thought of dear Mistress Gainor, 
 whom I now loved, and for whom to lose Hugh 
 would be as death in life ; and so, quickly turning it 
 over for one mad moment, I wondered if I could 
 not someway get this quarrel on to my own shoul- 
 ders. When I answered Hugh I must have made him 
 misunderstand me, or so I think from what he said. 
 When he exclaimed he could get some one else, I 
 made haste to put myself right. We had little time, 
 however, to discuss the matter, for at tliis moment 
 came a Captain Le Clere with Hugh's note. 
 
 "Hugh was now in one of his quiet, smiling 
 moods, when from his face you would have said 
 there was some jest or wager in question, and from 
 his talk, which had a kind of intensity of distinct 
 articulation, that it was, as I thought it, most serious. 
 He was coldly civil to Mr. Le Clere, aud to me apart 
 said, 'Small swords, and the governor's woods by 
 the spring,' as if he were arranging a quite familiar 
 and every-day affair.
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 2 i 3 
 
 " I frankly doolai-ed that I was new to an office of 
 this kind, and must trust to Mr. Le Clere's honour 
 and courtesy. He seemed pleased at this, and thou<rlit 
 a pity of so young a nuui to have sueh a dillieulty, 
 expressing his hoj)es of tu^conmiodation, which I 
 knew Hugh too well to think possible. 
 
 " As soon as we had arranged tlie needed prelimi- 
 naries, and Mr. Le Clere had gone, I went to borrow 
 small swords of Pike, arranging to come for them 
 after dark. Duels were common enough even in our 
 Quiiker town, especially among gentlemen of his 
 Majesty's service. Although illegjil, so strongly was 
 it felt that for certain offences there was no otlier 
 remedy possible, tliat it was difficult to escape the 
 resort to weapons if those involved were of what we 
 who are of it like to call the better class. 
 
 "At daybreak Hugh and I were waiting in the 
 woods wlu're— near to what Mr. Penn meant as a 
 public squai'C, a little east of tSchuylkill-Eighth 
 street— was an open spaoe, once a clearing, but now 
 disused, and much overgTO^\^^. We were first on the 
 ground, and I took occasion to tell Hugh of Pike's 
 counsels— for he had at once guessed what wo were 
 about— to watch his ojjponent's eyes, and the like. 
 Hugh, who was merry, and had put aside such 
 thoughts of the future as were ti'oubling me, de- 
 clared that it was the mouth a man should watch, 
 which I think is the better opinion. I said, of course, 
 nothing of what Pike told me as to Mr. "Woodville 
 being a first-rate player, and only advised my friend 
 to be cautious.
 
 214 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 "Mr. "Woodville, who came with Le Clere and 
 a surgeon, was a short lump of a man, and an 
 odd contrast to his friend, who was long and lank. 
 The pair of them looked like Don Quixote and his 
 squire. The short man I felt quite confident Hugh 
 could handle, and was sui-prised, seeing his build, 
 that Pike should have declared him a good blade. 
 Mr. Le Clere was very civil, and I followed his di- 
 rections, knowing, as I have said, but little of such 
 affairs. 
 
 " Our men being stripped to the shirt, and ready, 
 Mr. Le Clere and I di-ew away some twenty feet. 
 Then, to my surprise, the lean officer said to me, 
 ' Mr. Warder, shall I have the honour to amuse you 
 with a turn ? Here are our own swords of a length, 
 as you see.' 
 
 " I was anything rather than amused. I had heard 
 of this foolish Enghsh custom of the friends also en- 
 gaging. I knew that it was usual to make the offer, 
 and that it was not needful to accept ; but now, as I 
 saw my Hugh standing ready with his sword upon 
 the ground, I began to shake all over, and to colour. 
 Such hath always been my habit when in danger, 
 even from my boyhood. It is not because I am 
 afraid. Yet, as it seems to another hke fear, to feel 
 it sets me in a cold rage, and has many times, as on 
 this occasion, led me into extremes of rashness. 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Le Clere saw my condition, and 
 unhappily let loose on his face a faint smile. 'At 
 your service,' I said, and cast off my coat. 
 
 " ' It is not necessary, sir,' he rephed, a bit ashamed
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 215 
 
 to engage a fellow like me, who shook and blushed, 
 and looked to be about seventeen. 
 
 " ' We are losing time,' said I, m a fury, not over- 
 soiTj' to be thus or in any way distracted from Hugh's 
 peril. In truth, I need have had snuill fear for him. 
 For two years Hugh and I had feneed almost daily, 
 and what with Pike and Arthur Wynne, knew most 
 of the tricks of the small swurd, 
 
 "The next moment Le Clere cried, 'On guard, 
 gentlemen ! ' and I heard the click of the blades 
 as thev met. I had mv hands full, and was soon 
 aware of Le Clere's skiU. I was, however, as agile 
 as a cat, and he less clever with his legs than his 
 arm. Nor do I think he desired to make the affair 
 serious. In a few minutes— it seemed longer— I 
 heard an oath, and, alarmed for Hugh, cast a glance 
 in his direction. I saw his foe fall 1)ack, his sword 
 flving some feet awav. ISlv indiscretion gave mv 
 man his chance. His blade caught in my rolled- 
 up sleeve, bent, and, as I drove my own through his 
 shoulder, passed clean through the left side of my 
 neck. With a gi-eat jet of blood, I fell, and for a 
 little knew no more." 
 
 This account from Jack's journal is a better state- 
 ment of this sad business than T could have set do^^^l. 
 I saw with horror Ja<'k and Le Clere salute, and then 
 wa.s too full of business to see more, until I had dis- 
 armed Mr. Woodville, badly wounding his sword- 
 hand, a nire accident. And here was my Jack 
 dead, as I thought. I think I can never forget 
 that scene ; Mr. Le Clere, gaunt and thin, lifting his
 
 2 1 6 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 late foe, the surgeon kneeling and busy, my own 
 man hot and wrathful, cursing like mad, and wrap- 
 ping his hand about with a handkerchief, clearly in 
 pain, and I waiting for the word of death or life. 
 
 At last the doctor said, "It is bad— bad, but not 
 fatal. How came it, Le Clere 1 You told me that 
 neither you nor Mr. Woodville meant anything 
 
 serious." 
 
 I was kneeling by Jack, and was not intended to 
 hear what all were too hot and excited to guard by 
 bated breath. 
 
 " Damn it, doctor ! " returned Le Clere. " It is no 
 use to talk. I never imagined that youngster would 
 take me at my word." 
 
 " You will be in hot water here," said the doctor. 
 " I would advise you to get away, and soon." 
 
 "And we shall supply amusement to every mess 
 in the army," said WoodviUe, with an abundance of 
 bad language. " Quakers indeed ! " 
 
 Jack's eyes opened, and he said, "Thou art not 
 hurt, Hugh?" 
 
 " No, no ! " I answered, and, relieved a little, turned 
 to Mr. Le Clere : " We shall, I fear, have to ask thy 
 chaise of thee. We came afoot. I will send it back 
 at once." 
 
 Le Clere said, " Of course ; with aU my heart." 
 
 " Thou wilt pardon me," said I, " if I advise thee 
 to accept the doctor's advice, and get away with all 
 speed. I should be sorry if thou wert arrested. The 
 feeling against gentlemen of thy profession is un- 
 happily strong just now."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 217 
 
 Le Clere looked me over with a quick glance of 
 sometliiug like curiosity, aud said, as he gave his 
 hand, "You are a gallaut geutlemau, Mr. Wynne. 
 You will permit au older mau to say so. I tinist we 
 may meet agiiiu. Are all Quakei's as clever at sword- 
 play ? " 
 
 I said a ciWl word, seeing Jack smile as he lay 
 with my bloody coat under Ids head. Then, as I re- 
 membered tliat perhaps Mr. WoodviOe might not be 
 satisfied, I went up to him and said, '' I am at thy 
 service, sir, if thou art not contented to let us be quit 
 of this matter." 
 
 "It must needs rest now," he replied "Damn 
 your tricks ! '' 
 
 "Sir! "said I. 
 
 " Holloa ! " says Le Clere ; " this won't do. Keep 
 your temper. This way, Mr. Wynne." And he drew 
 me aside. 
 
 It was fidl time ; I was beginning to get my blood 
 up, and was in a rage. 
 
 " This comes," he said, " of going out with a fellow 
 that has risen from the ranks. Why do your ladies 
 receive evf^ry one who wears a red coat? Let me 
 help you with your friend. I am most sorr}'. For 
 my .share, I have a neat reminder in the shoulder. 
 Mr. Warder has the yrnai of a blacksmith"— which 
 was true, and for good reason. 
 
 There is no need to tell of the wratli and incapacity 
 of poor Ja(^k's father. I got away as soon as Dr. 
 Rush arrived, and, promising to return in an hour, 
 went off with a smile from my Jack, and a "Thank
 
 2 1 8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 God ! Hugh, that it was not thou who had the worst 
 of it." 
 
 It was about seven as I knocked at my aunt's 
 door, and, passing the black page, ran upstaii's. 
 My aunt was in the breakfast-room; she came to 
 meet me in a morning gown, and to my astonishment 
 was very tranquil, but with eyes that looked anxious, 
 and far more red than common. 
 
 " Sit down, sir. I want to hear about this ridicu- 
 lous business." 
 
 " It may seem so to thee," said I ; " I am glad if it 
 amuses thee." 
 
 "Stuff! Talk decent English, man. That was 
 like your father. Is — are you — is any one hurt!" 
 
 I said that was what we went for, and so told her 
 the whole sorry business. 
 
 " And it was for me, sir ! " she cried ; " for me ! 
 And my dear brave girl-boy ! Is it dangerous ? " 
 
 I hoped not. We had both left our marks on the 
 Enghsh officers. That she liked. Then she was silent 
 awhile. 
 
 " Here is come a note from the kitten. "Will you 
 have it ? It may be aU you will ever get of her. She 
 says she has held her tongue ; I can't— I don't believe 
 her— and asks me to let her know if any are hurt. 
 I will. Does she suppose gentlemen go out just to 
 look at one another ? Ridiculous ! " 
 
 I spoke at last of my father; of how he would 
 take this matter, of his increasing acerbity, and of 
 my own unhappy life, where I found nothing to re- 
 place my mother's love. My last disaster and poor
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 219 
 
 Jack's wound seemed like enough to widen the gap 
 between me and my parent, and my Aunt Gaiuor 
 was troubled. 
 
 '■ You mu.st be tii-st to tell him," said mv aunt. " I 
 think he will say but little. He has giveu you up 
 as a sheep lost in the darkness of iniquity, and too 
 black to be found easily." 
 
 I begged her not to jest. I was sore and sick at 
 heart. 
 
 '•Eat your breakfast," she said, " and get it over 
 with your father." 
 
 I hurried through the meal, and went upstairs, 
 to find my sleeve full of blood, although no harm 
 had been done but what was easily set right by what 
 Dr. Rush called a bit of diachylon plaster. (I think 
 I spell it correctly.) 
 
 As I went by Darthea's home I cast a glance up 
 at the open \\'indow, and saw my lady looking out. 
 She was pale, and as she called to me I could not 
 })ut go in, for, indeed, she ran hei-self to open the 
 door. 
 
 " Come in ! Oh, just a moment ! " .she cried. " Your 
 aunt has written me a note, and it tells me ahuost 
 nothing— nothing." 
 
 I was in no very kindly humour with MissDarthca, 
 Since our talk about my cousin she had been very 
 high and mighty, and would have little to say to me 
 except unpleasant things about the angry politics of 
 the day. I .'^aid I was glad to have heard she had 
 told no one of what my aunt's rash speech had let 
 slip. I had better have htld my own tongue. Darthea
 
 220 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 was in another mood to-day, and all at once became 
 quiet and dignified. 
 
 " I gave my word, Mr. Wynne. When you know 
 me better you will learn that I can keep it. Is— is 
 Mr. Warder much hurt f " 
 
 " Yes," I said ; " he is in great peril." I saw how 
 anxious she was, and was vexed enough to want to 
 hurt her. 
 
 " Oh, you men ! you men ! " she cried. " Will he 
 die, do you think ? Poor boy ! " She sat down and 
 began to cry. " He must not die ; why did you lead 
 him into such wicked trouble ? " 
 
 It was vain to explain how little I had to do with 
 the matter. Did she love Jack? I little knew in 
 those days how tender was this gentle heart, how it 
 went out, tendril-like, seeking it knew not what, and 
 was for this reason ever liable to say too much, and 
 to give rise to misapprehension. 
 
 " O Darthea ! " I cried. " Dost thou love my Jack ? 
 I shall be the last to come in his way. I have said 
 I love thee myself, and I can never change. But 
 how can it be 1 how can it be ? And my cousin ? O 
 Darthea ! " 
 
 " I love no one, sir. I love everybody. I— I think 
 you are impertinent, Mr. Wynne. Is it your business 
 whom I love ? My God ! there is blood on your hand ! 
 Are you hurt ? " 
 
 It was true ; a little blood was trickling down my 
 wrist. She was all tenderness again. I must not go ; 
 here was her handkerchief; and so on— till I longed 
 to take her in my arms, she made me so sorry for her
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 221 
 
 I said it "wns of no moment, and I must go. 
 
 "You will come soon apiin, and tell me about Jack." 
 
 I went away, not wondering that all the world 
 should love her. 
 
 I hastened to Jack's home, and there found Dr. 
 Rusli and Dr. Glentworth, who wjis later to be the 
 physician of Mr. Washington. My aunt, preceding 
 me, had taken possession. Mr. Warder was re- 
 duced to a condition of abject obedience, and for a 
 month and more my aunt hardly left her girl-boy's 
 pillow. Indeed, it was long before I was let to see 
 him, and then he was but a spectre of himself, with 
 not enough blood to blush with. Our officers very 
 promptly left for New York tlie day after our fight, 
 and we heard no more of tliem. 
 
 It would have been of little use to tell this long 
 story but for the consequences to me and to others. 
 I should have done well to see my father at once ; 
 but I could not get away, and sat till noon, asking 
 every now and then what I could do, and if Jack 
 were better, despite the fact that I was told he was 
 doing well. 
 
 Mr. Warder was one of those people who, once a 
 crisis seems over, must still be doing something, and 
 to be rid of him he was sent by my aunt to get 
 certain articles the doctors did or did not need. 
 It seemed wise to this gentleman, hanng completed 
 his errands, to pay a visit of condolence to my father, 
 and thus it was that greater mischief was made. 
 
 About two I got away, and set forth to see my par- 
 ent Alremly the news was out, and I was stopped
 
 222 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 over and over to explain what had happened. It was 
 the hour of dinner; for Friends dined at two, but 
 my aunt and the gayer set at four. 
 
 My father tiu'ned from his meal, and coldly looked 
 me all over, — my arm was in a sling, on which Dr. 
 Rush had insisted,— and last into my eyes. " Well," 
 he said, " thou art come at last. Fortunately, Friend 
 Warder has been here, and I know thy story and the 
 mischief into which thou hast led his poor lad. It is 
 time we had a settlement, thou and I. Hast thou fear 
 neither of God nor of man ? A rebellious son, and 
 a defier of authority ! It is well thy mother is dead 
 before she saw thee come to this iniin of soul and 
 body." 
 
 "My God ! father," I cried; "how canst thou 
 hui't me thus ! I am in sorrow for Jack, and want 
 help. To whom should I go but to thee ? O mother, 
 mother ! " I looked around at the bare walls, and 
 down at the sanded floor, and could only bury my 
 face in my hands and weep like a baby. What with 
 all the day had brought, and Darthea and Jack, and 
 now this stern old man silent, impassive, unmoved 
 by what was shaking me like a storm,— although I 
 loved Mm still for all his hardness, — I had no refuge 
 but in tears. 
 
 He rose, and I sat still, thinking what I should say. 
 " When thou art ready to turn from thy sin and ask 
 pardon of God and of me, who am brought to shame 
 on thy account, I will talk with thee." 
 
 Upon this I set myseK between him and the door. 
 " We cannot part this way. It is too terrible."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 223 
 
 " That was a matter thou hadst been wise to con- 
 sider long ago, Hugh." 
 
 '' Xo ! " I cried. I was as resolved as he. " I must 
 be heard. How have I offended ? Have I neglected 
 thy business? who can say so? I was insulted in 
 Meeting, and I went where men do not trample on 
 a penitent boy, and if I have gone the way of my 
 aunt's world, is it my fault or thine ? I have gone 
 away from what, in thy opinion, is right as regai'ds 
 questions in which the best and purest side with me. 
 Am I a child, that I may not use my own judgment ? " 
 It was the first time in my life that I had plainly 
 asserted my freedom to think and to act. 
 
 To my sui'prise, he stood a moment in silence, 
 looking down, I as quiet, regarding him with eager 
 and attentive eyes. Then he said, seeking my gaze, 
 '' I am to bhinie ; I have too nnicli considei-ed thy 
 chances of worldly gain. I know not whence thou 
 hast thy wilfulness." As I looked in the face of this 
 strong, rock-like man, I wondered ; for he went on, 
 "Not from me, Hugh, not from me—" 
 
 "Stop!" I said. "Thou hast said enough." I 
 feared lest again he should re])roach lier of whose 
 sweetness I had naught but a gift of the blue eyes 
 that must have met his with menace. I saw, as his 
 hands shook, tapjiing the floor with his cane, how 
 great were both his anger and his self-control. 
 
 '• It were well, my son, that this ended. I hope 
 thou wilt see thy way to better courses. Thy cousin 
 was right. He, too, is a man not of my world, but 
 he .suw more clearly than I wht'ic (liou wert going."
 
 224 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " What ! " I cried, " and thou canst think this ? 
 Thou hast believed and trusted Ai-thur Wynne! 
 What did he say of me?" 
 
 " I will not be questioned." 
 
 "The man lied to thee," I cried,— "why, I do not 
 know,— and to others also. Why did he deceive us 
 as to Wyncote ? What reason had he ? As he hed 
 about that, so does he seem to have lied about me. 
 By heaven ! he shall answer me some day." 
 
 "I will hear no profanity in my house. Stand 
 aside ! Dost thou not hear me ? Am I to be dis- 
 obeyed in my own house ? " 
 
 I but half took in his meaning, and stood still. 
 The next moment he seized me by the lapels of my 
 coat, and, spinning me round like a child, pushed me 
 from him. I fell into the great Penn chair he had 
 turned from the table when he rose. He threw open 
 the door, and I saw him walk quickly down the hall 
 and out into the orchard garden. 
 
 For a week he did no more than speak to me a 
 word when business made it needful, and then the 
 monotonous days went on as before in the gray, 
 dismal home, out of which the light of life's gladness 
 departed when those dear mother-eyes were closed 
 in death.
 
 XIY 
 
 IIILE, throughout that sad summer, mv 
 Jack was slowly coming: back to health, 
 even the vast events of the war now 
 under way moved me but little. My Aunt 
 Uainor would think of no one but her 
 young: Quaker. Her house was no longer gay, nor 
 would she go to the country, until Mr. Warder agi-eed 
 that she should take Jack with us to the Hill Farm- 
 house, where, in the wanu mouths, she moved among 
 her cattle, and fed the hens, and helped and buUied 
 every poor house^vife far and near. 
 
 In a bright-tinted hammock I fetched from Ma- 
 deira, Ja^k used to lie under the apple-trees that 
 June and July, with my aunt for company; better 
 could hardly have been. ^Mien I came from town 
 in June, with news of what the farmers and their 
 long rifles had done at Bunker Hill, it was a little 
 too much for Jack's strength, and he burst into tears. 
 But Dr. Rusli declared that self-control was an affair 
 of physical health, and that he who had too little 
 blood— and Jack was lily-white— could be neither 
 courageous, nor able to contain his emotions. I sup- 
 pose it may be true. 
 
 I went in and out of town daily, my father being 
 
 22^ 
 
 u
 
 226 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 unwilling to go to Merion. At times I met James 
 Wilson, who was steadily urging me to enter the 
 army. Wetherill had scarce any other words for me. 
 But my father, Jack's condition, and my aunt's de- 
 pending on me, all stood in my way, and I did "but 
 content myself with an houi''s daily drill in town 
 with others, who were thus preparing themselves 
 for active service. 
 
 We were taught, and well too, by an Irish ser- 
 geant — I fear a deserter from one of his Majesty's reg- 
 iments. As Jack got better, he was eager to have 
 me put him through his facings, but before he was 
 fit the summer was nigh over. 
 
 It had been a time of great anxiety to all men. 
 The Virginia colonel was commander-in-chief; a 
 motley army held Sir William Howe penned up in 
 Boston, and why he so quietly accepted this sheep- 
 like fate no man of us could comprehend. My aunt, 
 a great letter-writer, had many correspondents, and 
 one or two in the camp at Cambridge. 
 
 " My Vu'ginia fox-hunter," said my aunt, " is hav- 
 ing evil days with the New England farmers. He is 
 disposed to be despotic, says — well, no matter who. 
 He likes the whipping-post too well, and thinks all 
 should, like himself, serve without pay. A slow man 
 it is, but intelligent," says my Aunt Gainor ; " sure 
 to get himself right, and patient too. You will see, 
 Hugh; he will come slowly to understand these 
 people." 
 
 I smiled at the good lady's confidence, and yet she 
 was right. They took him ill at first in that undis-
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 227 
 
 ciplined camp, and queer things were said of him. 
 Like the rest, he was learning the business of war, 
 and was to commit many hhindors and get sharp 
 lessons in this school of the soldier. 
 
 These were everywhere uneasy times. Daj' after 
 day we heard of this one or that one gone to swell 
 the ever-changing number of those who beset Sir 
 Wilham. (.ioudolas— most unlike gondolas they 
 were— were being built in haste for oui' own river 
 defence. Committees, going from hoiLse to house, 
 collected arms, tent-stuffs, kettles, blankets, and Avhat 
 not, for our troops. There were noisy elections, arrests 
 of Tories ; and in October the death of Pejlon Ran- 
 dolph, ex-president of the Congress, and the news 
 of the coming of the Hessian hirelings. It was a 
 season of stir, angry discussion, and stern waiting 
 for what was to come ; but through it all my Jack 
 prospered migbtih' in health, so that by September 
 20 he was fit to leave us. 
 
 I still think pleasjintly of all the pretty pictures of 
 pale, fair-haired Jack in the hammock, with Darthea 
 reading to him, and the Wliig ladies with roses from 
 their gardens, and peaches and what not, all for Jack, 
 the hero, I being that summer but a small and alto- 
 gether unimportant personage. 
 
 When my Jack went home again, we began at 
 once to talk over our plans for joining ^Ir. Wash- 
 ington ; I nuide sure that now there was no greater 
 obstacle in my way than my father's opinions. 
 Alas! in NovemV)er my aunt took wliat Dr. Rush 
 called a pernicious ague, and, although bled many
 
 228 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 times and fed on Jesuits' bark, she came near to dy- 
 ing. In January she was better, but was become like 
 a child, and depended upon me for everything. If I 
 but spoke of my desire to be in the field, she would 
 fall to tears or declare me ungrateful. She was 
 morally weakened by her disease, and did seem to have 
 changed as to her character. I lamented to Jack 
 that it was my fate to stay, and he must go alone : 
 I would follow when I could. 
 
 It was far into April before my aunt was entirely 
 her old self, but as early as the close of January she 
 had decided that she was weU, and that to be weU 
 you must get rid of doctors. She told the great 
 physician as much, and he left her in vast disgust. 
 Society she would now have had for remedial dis- 
 traction, but the war had made of it a dismal wreck. 
 The Tories had been warned or sent away; the 
 moderates hardly fared better ; and the old gay set 
 was broken up. Nevertheless it was not until far 
 later, in July, 77, that Mr. Chew, Mr. Penn, and 
 other as important neutrals, were ordered to leave 
 the city ; until then some remnants of the governor's 
 set kept up more or less of the pleasant life they had 
 once led. But there were no more redcoats in their 
 drawing-rooms, and our antagonists were of the last 
 who had lingered. Even before their departure, any 
 gentleman of the king's service was sure to be told 
 to leave, and meanwhile was apt to find a militiaman 
 at his door. 
 
 My aunt would have none of them that winter, 
 and her old Tory friends ceased to be seen at her
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 229 
 
 house, save only Darthca, whilst continental uniforms 
 and gentlemen of the Congress were made warmly 
 welcome ; but alas ! among these was no match for 
 her at piquet, and she felt that no one had sacrificed 
 more for the countiy than had slie. 
 
 In Februaiy of '76 a double change took place 
 among us, and to my great discontent. I had seen 
 much of Darthea in the fall and early winter of '75, 
 and had come to know her l>ettcr. Slie was fond of 
 riding witli my aunt, who had a strong gi'ay stallion 
 full of tricks, but no nuister of the hardy old lad)*, 
 whom neither horse nor man ever dismayed. The 
 good spinster was by no means as vigorous as I 
 could have wished, but ride she would on all clear 
 days whether cold or not, and liked well to have 
 Darthea with us. "VMien ill she was a docile patient, 
 l)ut, once afoot, declared all doctr)rs fools, and would 
 have no more of them " and tlieir filthy doses." 
 
 We rode of sunlit winter days out to Germantown, 
 or upon the wood roads over Schuylkill, my Aunt 
 Gainor from good nature being pleased to gallop 
 ahead, and leave us to chat and follow, or not, as 
 might suit us. 
 
 One fine crisp morning in Februarj" we were 
 liroasting at a walk the slipperv incline of Chestnut 
 Hill, wlicn Darthea, wlio liad been unusually silent, 
 said (juitc abruptly : 
 
 " I am going away, Mr. Wynne." 
 
 I was in.stantly troubled. "Where?" I said. 
 
 "Next week, and to New York. My aunt can 
 no longer stand all this mob of rebels. We go to
 
 230 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 New York, and for how long I know not. Since, 
 in September, our friend, Dr. Jolm Kearsley, '*vas 
 mobbed and maltreated, my aunt declares you unfit 
 to live among. I must say I thought it brutal, sir. 
 When men of sense and breeding like Mr. Penn, 
 Mr. Chew, and Dr. Kearsley, cannot live unmolested 
 it is time, my aunt thinks, to run." 
 
 " No one annoys Mr. Penn or Mr. Chew," said I. 
 "To my mind, they are neutrals, and worse than 
 open foes; but thy doctor is a mad Tory, and a 
 malignant talker. I saw the matter, and I assure 
 thee it was overstated. He lost his temper; 't is 
 a brave gentleman, and I would he were with us. 
 But now that both sides are sure at last that they 
 are really at war, these men who live among us and 
 are ready to welcome every redcoat must have their 
 lesson. It must be Yes or No, in a war like this." 
 
 " But I hate that," she returned ; " and to be com- 
 fortable and snug, and to love ease and Madeira and 
 a quiet horse, and a book and a pipe and a nap of 
 an afternoon, and then to have certain of the baser 
 sort ciy, ' Get up and kill somebody ! ' I think I am 
 with Mr. Ross, and believe that, ' let who wUl be king, 
 I well know I shall be subject.' Imagine my Aunt 
 Peniston's fat poodle invited to choose between exile 
 and killing rats." 
 
 " My dear Darthea, for thee to preach caution and 
 neutrality is delightful." 
 
 " Did it sound like that Mr. Congregation ? " 
 
 «No ; to tell the truth, I think it did not." 
 
 ^' Indeed, you are right," says she. " I am a red-
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 231 
 
 hot Ton-, sir. I scare Margaret Chew out of her 
 sweet wits when I talk blood, blood, sir; and as to 
 Miss Franks,— she hates to be called Becky,— when I 
 say I hope to see Mr. Washington hanged, she vows 
 he is too fine a man, and she would only hang the 
 ugly ones. So take care, Mr. IStay-at-home, take 
 care ; I am no neutral." 
 
 " Thank thee/' I said, lifting my hat. " I like open 
 enemies best." 
 
 '' Oh, I will say a good word for you, when it comes 
 to that, and you will need it. Sh* Guy will have 
 Ticonderoga soon, and Mr. Howe New York ; so that, 
 with my loyal cousins and the king in possession, 
 we shall at least be in civilised society.'" 
 
 "There is a well-worn proverb," said I, "about 
 counting chickens. "Where shalt thou be in New 
 York?" 
 
 " Cousin De Lancey has asked us to stay with them. 
 "VMien the king's troops return to your rebel town 
 we shall come back, I suppose." 
 
 " I am Sony," I said. "All my friends are flitting 
 like swallows. Poor Mr. Franks is to go, it seems, 
 and the gay Miss Rebecca ; but she likes the redcoats 
 best, and another is of the same mind, I fear." 
 
 " I am not over-grieved to go myself,'' said Darthea, 
 " and we will not quarrel just now about the redcoats. 
 Have you seen Mr. Warder to-day ? " 
 
 " I have not." 
 
 "Then I am the bearer of ill news. He is to join 
 your new general in a week or two. He could not 
 find you this morning. I think he was relieved to
 
 232 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 * ■ — II II I I ■ ■■ ■^^■^M.^— — ■■ I .1 — I. ■■■■■— ^—a^ii—^—^ 
 
 know I should tell you. How mueh lie cares for you ! 
 It is not like a man friendskip. It is like tke way 
 we weak girls care for one another. How can he 
 be such a brave gentleman as he seems— as he must 
 be? I should have thought it would be you who 
 would have gone first. Why do you not go ? Here 
 is Miss Wynne's pet girl-boy away to fight, and you 
 —why do not you go ? " 
 
 I was puzzled, as well I might be. "Dost thou 
 want me to go ? " 
 
 A quick light came into those brown eyes, and a 
 httle flush to the cheeks as she said,— oh, so very 
 quickly,— "I want all my friends to do what seems 
 to them right." 
 
 " I am glad to answer," I said. " It seems to me 
 my duty to be with the army ; my friends have gone, 
 and now Graydon, the last to leave, has also gone. 
 I fancy people snnling to see me still at home— I 
 who am so positive, so outspoken. But here is my 
 father, with whom if I go I break for life, and here 
 is my Aunt Gainor, who bursts into tears if I do but 
 mention my wish to leave her." 
 
 " I see," said Darthea, not looking at me ; " now I 
 understand fuUy, I did not before. But— will you 
 think it strange if— if I say— I, a good and loyal 
 woman— that you should go, and soon ? " Then there 
 was a long pause, and she added, "When will this 
 cruel war end ? " 
 
 " God knows," said I. " Thank thee ; thou art right, 
 Darthea." 
 
 Another pause as long came after, when she said
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 233 
 
 abruptly, and in quite another voice, "You do not 
 like Mr. ^Vi-thur Wvuue ; why do you not ? " 
 
 I was startled. One never knew when she would 
 get under one's ^Miard and ]nit some prickly question. 
 
 '• Dost thou think I have reason to like liini ? " I 
 said. '' I did like him once, but now I do not ; nor 
 does he love me any better. Why dost thou ask 
 me?" 
 
 "Oh, for— no matter' I am not going to say 
 why." 
 
 "I think thou knowest, Darthea, that he is no 
 friend of mine." 
 
 ** Let us join your aunt," she said gravely. 
 
 " One word more," said I, " and I shall trouble thee 
 no further. Rest sure that, come what may, there 
 is one man who loves thee with a love no man can 
 better." 
 
 " I wish you had not said that. There are some, 
 Mr. Wynne, who never know when to take No for 
 an answer." 
 
 " I am one," said I. 
 
 To this she made no reply, and rode on looking 
 ahead in a dreamy way that fetched back to my 
 memory a prettiness my dear mother had. Pres- 
 ently turning, she said : 
 
 "Let it end here; and— and my name is Miss 
 Peniston, please." 
 
 There was no pettishness in her voice — only a 
 certain dignity which sits better on little women 
 than on little men, and ]»rovokes no smile. She was 
 looking at me with a curious steadiness of gaze as
 
 2 34 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 she spoke. It was my last chance for many a day, 
 and I could not let her go with a mere bow of meek 
 submission. 
 
 " If I have been rude or discourteous, I am more 
 sorry than I can say. If I called thee Darthea, it 
 was because hope seemed to bring us nearer for one 
 dear moment. Ah ! I may call thee Miss Peniston, 
 but for me always thou wilt be Darthea ; and I shall 
 love Darthea to the end, even when Miss Peniston 
 has come to be a distant dream and has another 
 name. I am most sorry to have given thee annoy- 
 ance. Forget that, and pardon me." 
 
 " Mr. Wynne, you are a kindly and courteous gen- 
 tleman. I wish— and you must not misapprehend 
 me— that I loved you. Oh, I do not. Youi* aunt, 
 who is so good to me, is a fierce wooer. I am afraid 
 of her, and— she must be miles away; let us join 
 her." And with this she shook her bridle, and was 
 off at speed, and my mare and I at her side. 
 
 If I have made those who loved Darthea Peniston 
 and me understand this winning soul, I shall be 
 glad ; and if not I shall at least have had the plea- 
 sure of repeating words and describing actions which 
 live in my remembrance with such exactness as does 
 not apply to much of what, to the outer world, may 
 seem far better entitled to be remembered. She had 
 it in her to hurt you, help you, pity you, mock or 
 amuse you, and back of it all was the honesty and 
 truth of a womanhood capable of courageous conduct, 
 and despising all forms of meanness. That she was 
 variously regarded was natural. Margaret Shippen
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 235 
 
 said she cared only for dress and the men , and the 
 witty Miss Franks, seeing further, but not all, said 
 that Darthea Peniston was an actress of the minute, 
 who believed her every role to be real. My wise 
 aunt declared that she was several women, and that 
 she did not always keep some of them in order. It 
 was clear, to me at least, that she was growing older 
 in mind, and was begiuuing to keep stricter school 
 for those other women with whom my aunt credited 
 this perplexing little lady. 
 
 Before I quit€ leave her for a time, I must let 
 Jack say a word. It will tell more than I then knew 
 or could know, and \n\\ save me from saying that 
 which were better said by auotlier. 
 
 " At last there is certainty of a long war, and I, 
 being well again, must take my side. It is fortunate 
 when choice is so easy, for I find it often hard in life 
 to know just what is right. Poor Hugh, who has 
 gone further than I from our fathers' faith, ^\^U still 
 declare he is of Friends ; but he commonly drops our 
 language if he is not excited or gi'catly interested, 
 and the rest ■will go too. It is strange that his reso- 
 luteness and clear notions of duty have so helped 
 me, and yet that he is so caught and tied fast by 
 Miss Gainor's dependence upon him, and by his 
 scruples as to his father. He cannot do the thing 
 he would- Now that my own father has sold out his 
 business, I at least am left without excuse. I sliall 
 go at once, for fear I shall chango my mind." A 
 more unlikely thing I cannot imagine to have hap- 
 pened to John Warder.
 
 236 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " I saw Darthea to-day," he goes on to write. " She 
 is going to New York. She talked to me with such 
 frankness as almost broke my heart. She does not 
 know how dear she is to me. I was near to teUing 
 her; but if she said No, — and she would, — I might 
 — oh, I could not see her again. I had rather live 
 in doubt. And whether Hugh loves her or not I 
 would I knew. Mistress Wynne does but laugh and 
 say, ' Lord bless us ! they aU love her ! ' Hugh is, 
 as to some things, reticent, and of Darthea likes so 
 little to speak that I am led to think it is a serious 
 business for him ; and if it be so, what can I but go ? 
 for how could I come between him and a woman 
 he loved ? Never, surely. Why is life such a tangle ? 
 As concerns this thing, it is weU I am going. What 
 else is left for me ? My duty has long been plain. 
 
 "I did venture to ask Darthea of Mr. Arthur 
 Wynne. She said quietly, ' I have had a letter to- 
 day;' and with tliis she looked at me in a sort of 
 defiant way. I like the man not at aU, and wonder 
 that women fancy him so greatly. When I said I 
 was sorry she was going, she replied, 'It is no 
 one's business ; ' and then added, ' nor Mr. Wynne's 
 neither,' as if Hugh had said a word. In fact, Miss 
 Peniston was almost as cross and abrupt as dear Miss 
 Wynne at her worst. If ever, God willing, I should 
 marry her, — there, I am blushing even to think of 
 such a sweet impossibility,— she would drive me fran- 
 tic. I should be in small rages or begging her par- 
 don every haK-hour of the day. 
 
 " What will Hugh say when he hears the Meeting
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 237 
 
 means to disown ns? It troubles me deeply. My 
 father is trembling too, for since a month he is all 
 for resisting oppression, and who has been talking 
 to him I do not know. i\Iiss Wynne called him a 
 decrepit weathercock to me last month, and then 
 was in a fury at hei'self , and soitv too ; but she will 
 talk with him no more. It cannot be because he 
 has sold his HoUand cloths so well to the clothier- 
 geuenil. I never can tliink that. 
 
 " When I saw Miss Wynne, and would have seen 
 Hugh had he been in, I told her of my meaning to 
 go away by the packet to BurUngton, and thence 
 through New Jersey. She said it was well, but that 
 Hugh should not go j-et. He should go soon. Mr. 
 Lee, the new general, had been to see her— a great 
 soldier, she was told. But she had not liked him, 
 because he let her believe he came of the same family 
 as Mr. Richard Henry Lee of Virginia, whereas this 
 is not so. He was lank, sour, and ill dressed, she 
 said, and fetched his two dogs into the house. When 
 he saw Hugli, he m\d it was time all the young men 
 were out. Miss Wynne disliked this, and it is re- 
 ported that Mrs. Ferguson and she, meeting after 
 church, had nearly come to blows, because Mrs. Fer- 
 guriou had said tlie people who made the war should 
 be in the war, and on this the old lady desired to 
 know if this arrow was meant for her or for her 
 nephew. Mrs. F., not lacking courage, said she 
 might choose. 
 
 "So Madam Wjaine is pidled this way and that, 
 and I must go alone ; and I shall have a lieutenant's
 
 238 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 commission, and a pretty fellow am I to order other 
 men about. I like best the continental line." 
 
 I saw Jack the day after my ride with Miss Pen- 
 iston. I said sadly that he was right, and we talked 
 it all over that week, running down the river at early 
 morning after ducks, and through the wdde channel 
 between League Island and the Neck; or else we 
 were away to Red Bank, or to the Jersey coast, if 
 the ice permitted, as it often did. It was a wonder- 
 ful, open winter, as it chanced, and we had more 
 than our usual share of the ducks, which were very 
 abundant. As we lay in the gray weeds below the 
 bluff at Red Bank, we little thought of what it was 
 to see. Our gallant Mercer, who fell at Princeton, 
 was to give a name to the fort we built long after ; 
 and there, too, was to die Count Donop, as brave a 
 man, far from home, sold by his own prince to be 
 the hireling of a shameful king. 
 
 The ducks flew over thick, and between times, as 
 we waited, we talked at intervals of the war, of 
 Montgomery's failure to capture Quebec, and of the 
 lingering siege of Boston ; of how the brutal de- 
 struction of Norfolk in December had stirred the Vir- 
 ginians, and indeed every true heart in the colonies. 
 Jack would write when occasion served. 
 
 That last day (it was now February, as I have said) 
 we supped with my aunt. Jack and I. After the meal 
 was over, she went out of the room, and, coming back, 
 gave Jack a handsome, serviceable sword, with a 
 proper sash and tie. Then she must make him take 
 a hundi-ed pounds m a purse she had netted; and
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 239 
 
 when he -woukl not she said he was going: to school, 
 and must have a tip, and woidd hear no more, and 
 kissed him, at which he got very red. Indeed, she 
 was dee})!}' moved, as was plain to see from the way 
 she talked, spetddng fast, and saying all manner of 
 foolish things. 
 
 This business of the sword troubled me more than 
 it ought to have done, and I resolved that nothing 
 should long keep me out of the field ; but alas ! it was 
 many a day befoi-e my going became possible. And 
 so my Jack went away, and Miss Pemston. 
 
 The wai' was dull for a time, as the armies got 
 ready for a spring at each other's throats. At last, 
 in Marcli, his Excellen<'v seized Dorchester Heights, 
 and Boston became no longer tenable. Howe left 
 it on March 17, and, what was as desirable, some two 
 hundred cannon and vast stores of ammunition. 
 Then, on Cambridge Common, our chief threw to the 
 free winds our flag, with its thii*teen stripes, and still 
 in the corner the blood-rod cross of St. George. 
 
 Late in this winter of '75- 7G, an event took place, 
 or rather the sequel of an event, wliich made me feel 
 deeply the emban-assniont in which the condition of 
 my aunt and father jjlaced me. He who reads ma}' 
 remember my speaking of a young fellow whom I 
 saw at the Woodlands, John Macpherson. I took 
 A great fancy to him later, and we fished and shot 
 together until he went away, in August of '75, to 
 join Am(»ld for his wild march mto Canada. 
 
 His father, broken and sad, now brouglit to my 
 aunt the news of his son's death in the assault on
 
 240 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 Quebec, and, speechless with grief, showed her the 
 young fellow's letter, writ the night before he fell. 
 He wrote, with other matter : " I cannot resist the 
 inclination I feel to assure you that I experience no 
 reluctance in this cause to venture a life I consider 
 as only lent, and to be used when my country de- 
 mands it." He went on to say that, if he died, he 
 could wish his brother WiHiam, an adjutant in the 
 king-'s army, would not continue in the service of 
 our enemies. I saw, too, General Schuyler's letter 
 of condolence, but this was later. 
 
 Nothing had moved me like this. I went away, 
 leaving the father and my aunt. People came to this 
 strong woman, sure of her tenderest help, and I trust 
 she comforted her friend in his loss. This was the 
 first ofl&cer of our own set our city lost in war, and 
 the news, I think, affected me more than any. How, 
 indeed, could I dare to stay when the best manhood 
 of the land was facing death in a cause as dear to 
 me as to any f 
 
 In June a new calamity fell on me, or I should say 
 on my father ; for I felt it but little, or only as in 
 some degree a release from bonds which I hesitated 
 to sever by my own act. On the morning of June 25, 
 my father called me into his counting-room, and, 
 closing the door, sat down, I, as was thought fit, 
 standing until told to be seated. Since he made no 
 sign of any such desire on his part, I knew at once 
 that this was not to be a talk about our affah-s, in 
 which, I may say, I had no interest except as to a 
 very moderate salary.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 241 
 
 r —■■■—■■'"■ ■ w 
 
 "Thou wilt have to-day a call from Friend Pem- 
 bertou. The overseers are moved, at last, to call tliee 
 to au aeeouut. I have k)st hope that thou wilt for- 
 sake aud eoiideinu thy error. I have worked with 
 the overseers to {j^ive tliee and thy friend, John War- 
 der, time, and this has been with tenderness accorded. 
 No good is yet come of it. If this private admoni- 
 tion be of no effect, thy case \vill come before over- 
 seers again, and thou wilt be dealt with as a disorderly 
 person, recommended to be disowned, when thy mis- 
 deeds come to be laid before the Quarterly Meeting 
 for discipline. Already the Yearly Meeting hath 
 found fault with us for lax dealing with such as 
 thou art. Thou liast ceased to obey either thy 
 father or thy God, and now my sliame for thee is 
 opened to all men." 
 
 Not gi-eatly moved I listened to this summary' of 
 what was to happen. " It is too late," I said, " to 
 argue this matter, my dear father. I cannot sin 
 agjiinst my conscience. I will receive Mr. Pemberton 
 as thy friend. He is a man whom all men respect 
 and many love, but his ways are no longer my ways. 
 Is that all ? " I added. I feared any long talk with 
 my father. We were as sure to fall out at last as 
 were he and my Aunt Gaiuor. 
 
 " Yes," he said ; " that is all. And tell Wilson to 
 bring me the invoice of the 'Saucy Sally.'" 
 
 This time neither of us had lost temper. He had 
 
 transacted a ])iece of ])usiness whic^h concerned my 
 
 soul, and I had listened. It had left me sore, but 
 
 that was au old aud too familiar story. Reflecting 
 10
 
 242 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 on what had passed in the counting-house,— and my 
 conclusion now shows me how fast I was growing 
 older,— I put on my hat at once, and set out to find 
 the overseer deputed to make a private remonstrance 
 with my father's son. I suppose that my action was 
 also hastened by a disinclination to lie still, awaiting 
 an unpleasant and unavoidable business. 
 
 Finding James Pemberton in his office, I told him 
 that my errand was out of respect to relieve him of 
 the need to call upon a younger man. He seemed 
 pleased, and opened the matter in a way so gentle 
 and considerate that I am sure no man could have 
 bettered the manner of doing it. My attention to 
 business and quieter life had for a time reassured 
 the overseers. He would not speak of blood-guilti- 
 ness now, for out of kindness to my distressed parent 
 they had seen fit to wait, and for a time to set it 
 aside. My father had been in much affliction, and 
 Friends had taken note of this. Now he had to call 
 to my mind the testimony of Friends as to war, and 
 even how many had been reported to the Yearly 
 Meeting for Sufferings on account of righteous un- 
 willingness to resist constituted authority, and how 
 men of my views had oppressed and abused them. 
 Had I read the letter of the Yearly Meeting of 1774, 
 warning members not to depart from their peaceful 
 principles by taking part in any of the political mat- 
 ters then being stirred up, reminding all Friends that 
 under the king's government they had been favoured 
 with a peaceful and prosperous enjoyment of their 
 rights, and the like ?
 
 HughW'vnne: Free Quaker 243 
 
 I listened quietly, and said it was too late to discuss 
 these que^tiuns, which were many ; that my mind 
 was fully made \\\\ and that as soon as possible I 
 meant to enter the army. He had the good sense 
 to see tliat I was of no inclination to change ; and 
 so, after some words of the most tender remonstrance, 
 he bade me to prayerfully consider the business fur- 
 ther, since overseers would not meet at once, and 
 even when they did there would be time to manifest 
 to Friends a iust sense of mv errors. 
 
 I thanked him, and went mv wav, makinc:, however, 
 no sign of grace, so that, on July 4 of this 177G, 
 late in the evening, I re(;eived in my aunt's presence 
 a letter from Isaac Freeman, clerk of the Meeting, 
 inclosing a formal minute of the final action of 
 Friends in my case. 
 
 *'\Miat is that?'' said Aunt Gainor, verj' cheerful 
 over a letter of thanks to her for having sold at cost 
 to the Committee of Safety the cloth of HoUand and 
 the blankets she had induced my father to buy for 
 lier. She liad stored them away for tliis hour of 
 need, and was now full of satisfaction because of 
 having made my father the means of clothing the 
 continental troops, 
 
 "Reiul it aloud. What is it, sir?" I was smiling 
 over wliat a few years before would have cost me 
 many a })itter thought. 
 
 "Give it me! What is it?'' Then she put on a 
 pair of the new spectacles with wire supports to rest 
 on the eai's. " Dr. Franklin gave me these new in- 
 ventions, and a great comfort too. I cannot endure
 
 244 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 bridge glasses ; they leave dents in one's nose. You 
 have not seen him lately. He was here to-day. You 
 should see him, Hugh. He was dressed very fine in 
 a velvet coat with new, shilling buttons, and bless 
 me ! but he has got manners as fine as his ruffles, 
 and that is saying a good deal— Mechlin of the best 
 You would not know the man." 
 
 With this she began to look at my letter. " Hoity- 
 toity, sir ! this is a fine setting down for a naughty 
 Quaker." And she read it aloud in a strong voice, 
 her head back, and the great promontory of her nose 
 twitching at the nostrils now and then with supreme 
 contempt : 
 
 '^ ' To Hugh Wynne : A minute, this Tenth-day of 
 Sixth-month, 1776, from the monthly Meeting of 
 Friends held at Philadelphia. 
 
 *^ ' Whereas Hugh Wynne hath had his birth and 
 education among Friends, and, as we believe, hath 
 been convinced of that divine principle which pre- 
 serves the followers thereof from a disposition to 
 contend for the asserting of civil rights in a manner 
 contrary to our peaceful profession, yet doth not 
 manifest a disposition to make the Meeting a proper 
 acknowledgment of his outgoings, and hath further 
 declared his intention to continue his wi'ong-doing ; 
 
 " ' Therefore, for the clearing of truth and our 
 society, we give forth our testimony against such 
 breaches, and can have no unity with him, the said 
 Hugh Wynne, as a member of our society until he 
 become sensible of his deviations, and come to a sense
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 245 
 
 of his error, and condemn the same to the satisfac- 
 tion of Friends ; which is that we, as Christian men, 
 desire. 
 
 " ' Signed in, and on behalf of, the Meeting by 
 
 " ' Isaac Free^ian, 
 " ' Clerk: 
 
 " "Wliat insolent nonsense ! " cried Miss WjTine. " I 
 hope your fatlier is satisfied. I assure you I am. 
 You ai*e free at last. Here was James Warder to-day 
 with a like document to tlie address of my dear Jack. 
 I was assm-ed that it was a terrible disgrace. I bade 
 him take snuff and not be any greater fool than na- 
 ture had nuide him. He took my snuff and sneezed 
 for ten minut-es. I think it helped him. One can 
 neither grieve nor reason when one is sneezing. It 
 is what Dr. Rush calls a moral alterative. Whenever 
 tlie man fell to lamenting, I gave him more snuff. 
 I tliink it helped him. And so the baa-lambs of Meet- 
 ing have disowned their two black sheep. Well, well ! 
 I have better news for you. Mr. Carroll was here 
 just now, with his charming ways. One would think 
 when he is talking that one is the only woman alive. 
 If I thought the priests taught him the trick, I would 
 turn papist. You should observe his bow, Hugh. I 
 thought Mr. Chew's bow not to be surpassed; but 
 Mr. Carroll — oh, where was I?" 
 
 " Some good news,*' I said. 
 
 " Yes, yes. lie tells me the Congress this evening 
 vot<?d for a Declaration of Independence." 
 
 " Indeed ! " I cried. " So it has come at last. I,
 
 246 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 too, am free, and it is time I went away, Aunt 
 Gainor." 
 
 "We will see," she said. "How can I do without 
 you? and there is your father too. He is not the 
 man he was, and I do not see, Hugh, how you can 
 leave him yet." 
 
 It was too true, as my last interview had shown 
 me. He was no longer the strong, steadily obstinate 
 John Wynne of a year or two back. He was less 
 decisive, made occasional errors in his accounts, and 
 would sometimes commit himself to risky ventures. 
 Then Thomas Mason, our clerk, or my aunt would 
 interfere, and he would protest and yield, having now 
 by habit a great respect for my aunt's sagacity, which 
 in fact was remarkable. 
 
 I went back to my work discontented, and pulled 
 this way and that, not clearly seeing what I ought 
 to do ; for how could I leave him as he now was ? 
 My aunt was right. 
 
 Next day I heard Captain John Nixon read in the 
 State-house yard the noble words of the declara- 
 tion. Only a few hundred were there to hear it, and 
 its vast consequences few men as yet could apprehend. 
 Miss Non'is told me not long after that she climbed 
 on a baiTOW and looked over their garden wall at 
 Fifth street and Chestnut ; " and really, Mr. Wynne, 
 there were not ten decent coats in the crowd." But 
 this Miss Norris was a hot Tory, and thought us all 
 an underbred mob, as, I fear, did most of the pro- 
 prietary set— the men lacking civil courage to fight 
 on either side, and amazed that Mr. Wilson, and
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 247 
 
 Mr. IRood, and !Mr. Robert Morris, and the Yirg^iuia 
 gentry, s1k>u1(1 side with demagogues like Adams 
 and Roger Sherman. 
 
 And so time ran on. I fenced, drilled, saw my 
 companions drift away into war, and knew not how 
 to eseape. I eau now look back on my dismissal 
 from Meeting with more regret than it gave my youth. 
 I have never seen my way to a return to Friends; 
 yet I am still apt to be spoken of as one of the small 
 number who constitute, with Wetherill and Owen 
 and Clement Biddle, the society of Friends known 
 as Free Quakers. To discuss why later I did not 
 claim my place as one of these would lead me to 
 speaking of spiritual affairs, and this, as I have else- 
 wliere said, I never do willingly, nor with comfort to 
 mvself. 
 
 One afternoon in September of this year I was 
 balancing an account when my father came in and 
 told me that Mason, our clerk, had just had a fall in 
 the hold of one of our ships. The day after I saw 
 him, and although his hui-ts were painful they hardly 
 seemed to justify my father in his desire that now 
 at last he should take a long rest from work. 
 
 This threw all the detail of our affairs as largely 
 into my hands as was possible with a man like my 
 father. I think he guessed my intention to leave 
 hiin for the anuy, and gladly improved this chance 
 to load me with needless affairs, and all manner of 
 small perplexities. My aunt was better— in fact, 
 well ; liut lure was this new trouble. AMiat could I 
 do? My father declared that the old clerk would
 
 248 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 soon be able to resume his place, and meanwhile, 
 he should have no one to help him but me. Now 
 and then, to my surprise, he made some absurd busi- 
 ness venture, and was impatient if I said a word of 
 remonstrance. Twice I was sent to Maryland to see 
 after our tobacco plantations. I was in despair, and 
 became depressed and querulous, seeing no present 
 way, nor any future likelihood, of escape. My father 
 was well pleased, and even my aunt seemed to me 
 too well satisfied with the ill turn which fate had 
 done me. My father was clearly using the poor old 
 clerk's calamity as an excuse to keep me busy ; nor 
 was it at all like him to employ such subterfuges. 
 All his life long he had been direct, positive, and 
 dictatorial ; a few years back he would have ordered 
 me to give up all idea of the army, and would as like 
 as not have punished resistance with cold-blooded 
 disinheritance. He was visibly and but too clearly 
 changing from the resolute, uncompromising man 
 he had once been. Was he cunning enough to know 
 that his weakness was for me a bondage far stronger 
 than his more vigorous rule had ever been ?
 
 XV 
 
 |Y personal difficulties were not made more 
 easy to bear by the course of public 
 events. Howe had taken New York. 
 S. In November Fort Wasliiugton fell. 
 Jack, who was within its walls, got 
 away, but was slisrhtly wounded. Our English gen- 
 eral, Lee. had begun already to intrigue against 
 Mr. Washington, writing, as Dr. Kush confided to my 
 aunt, that he, Lee, ought to be made dictator. My 
 aunt received the impression that the doctor, who 
 loved his country well, was becoming discontented 
 with our chief; but neither then nor later did she 
 change her own oiiinion of the reserved and cour- 
 teous Virginian. 
 
 He soon justified her views of his capacity. On 
 December 1 he broke down the bridges in his rear 
 over the Raritan, and marched through Jersey with 
 a dwindling army. At Princeton he had but three 
 thou.sand men ; destroying even* boat, he wisely put 
 the broad Delaware })etween his army and the enemy. 
 Lord Cornwallis halted at the river, waiting for it 
 to freeze that he might cross, and until this should 
 happen went back with Howe to New York. About 
 December 15 of '70, General Lee was captured, and. 
 
 ^49
 
 250 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 strange as it may now seem, no calamity yet come 
 upon us created more consternation. Meanwhile 
 our own alarmed citizens began to bury their silver 
 plate. While the feeble were flying, and the doubtful 
 were ready to renew their oath to the king, the wary 
 and resolute commander-in-chief saw his chance. 
 
 To aid his courageous resolve came Sullivan and 
 Gates from Lee's late command. " At sunset on 
 Christmas day we crossed the Delaware," writes Jack. 
 " My general was in a small boat, with Knox, and 
 two boatmen. We were ten hours in the ice, and 
 marched nine miles, after crossing, in a blinding storm 
 of sleet. By God's grace we took one thousand of 
 those blackguard Hessians, and, but for Cadwaladei-'s 
 ill luck with the ice, would have got Donop also. I 
 had a finger froze, but no worse accident. 
 
 '' I dare say you know we fell back beyond Assun- 
 pink Creek, below Trenton. There we fought my 
 lord marquis again with good fortune. Meanwhile 
 he weakened his force at Princeton, and, I fancy, 
 thought we were in a trap ; but our general left fii'es 
 burning, passed round the enemy's left, and, as we 
 came near Princeton at sunrise, fell upon Colonel 
 Mawhood on his way to join Cornwallis. I was close 
 to General Mercer when we saw them, and had as 
 usual a fit of the shakes, hang them ! Luckily there 
 was small leisure to think. 
 
 "In the first onset, which was fierce, our brave 
 general was mortally wounded ; and then, his Excel- 
 lency coming up, we routed them finely. So away 
 went Cornwallis, with the trapped hot after the trap-
 
 Hugh \\''ynne: Free Quaker 251 
 
 pers. "We have the Jerseys and two thousand pris- 
 ouei-s. I do not think even Miss Wvnne can imagine 
 what courai^e it took for our ijonoral to turn as he 
 did on an army like that of Coruwallis'. Are you 
 never coming f 
 
 " It is sad that the Southern officers look upon us 
 and those of New England as tradesfolk, and this 
 makes constant trouble, especially among the militia, 
 who come and go much as they please. I have had 
 no i>erson!U difficulty, but there have been several 
 duels, of which little is said. 
 
 "It is to be hoped that Congress will now order 
 all enlistments to be for the war, else we shall soon be 
 in a mortiil bad way. Hast heard of Miss Peuiston ? " 
 
 This letter came soon after the smart little winter 
 cami)aign in Jersey had made us all so happy. 
 
 '• It will last a good while yet," said James Wilson. 
 '• And when are you going, Hugh ? " Indeed, I began 
 at last to see a way opened, as we of Friends say ; 
 for now, in the spring, our old clerk hob])led back to 
 his desk, and I knew that my father would no longer 
 be left without friendly and fannliar help. But be- 
 fore he could assume his full duties August was upon 
 us— August of 77, a year for me most eventful. 
 Darthea's letters to my aunt grew less and less fre- ' 
 (luent, and, as I thought, had an air of sadness un- 
 usual in this gladsome creature. Once .she spoke of 
 Captain Wynne as absent, and once that he, like Jack, 
 had had a slight wound in the storm of Fort Wash- 
 ington. Of politics she could say nothing, as her 
 letters had usually to pass our lines.
 
 252 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 On July 31 Wasliingtoii knew that Howe's fleet 
 was off the Delaware capes. Meanwhile he had 
 crossed that river into Pennsylvania, and hurried his 
 army across country, finally encamping on a Satur- 
 day at Nicetown, some five miles from Philadelphia. 
 I rode out that evening to meet Jack, whose troop 
 camped even nearer to town, and close to the tents 
 of the headquarters staff. The general lay for this 
 nigJit at Stenton, where our Quaker friends, the 
 Logans, lived. He was shown, I was told, the secret 
 stairway and the underground passage to the stable 
 and beyond, and was disposed to think it curious. 
 
 Jack, now a captain, in a new suit of blue and buff, 
 looked brown and hardy, and his figure had spread, 
 but the locks were as yellow and the cheeks as rosy 
 as ever I knew them. 
 
 Dear Aunt Gainor made much of him that evening, 
 and we talked late into the night of battles and 
 generals and what had gone with Lord Howe. I 
 went to bed discontented, feeling myself to be a verj'' 
 inconsiderable person, and Jack rode away to camp. 
 The next day being Sunday, the 24th of August, 
 his Excellency marched into tovm by Front street at 
 the head of the flower of his army, in all about eleven 
 thousand. Fine men they were, but many half clad 
 and ill shod ; fairly drilled too, but not as they were 
 later in the war. The town was wild with delight, 
 and every one glad save the Tories and the Quakers, 
 many of whom remained all day in their houses. 
 
 This march being made only to exhibit the army 
 to friend and foe, the troops moved out High street
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 253 
 
 and by the middle ferry a<iross the Schuylkill, on 
 their way toward the Delaware to meet Mr. Howe, 
 who, having lauded at the head of Elk River, was 
 now on his way toward Pliiladelpliia. Ilis troops 
 were slow, the i*oa<ls bad and few, the ague iu great 
 force aud severe— or so we heard. I rode sadly with 
 our peoi)le as far as Darby, and then turned home- 
 ward a vexed and dispirit^nl man. It was, I tliink, 
 on the 4th of August that our general, who had rid- 
 den on in advance of his army, fii'st met Marquis 
 Lafayette. 
 
 My aunt, who spoke French with remarkable flu- 
 ency and a calm disregard of accent and inflections, 
 was well pleased to entertain the French gentleman, 
 aud at her house I had the happiness to make his 
 ac([uaintance, greatly, as it proved, to my futui-e ad- 
 vantage. He was glad to find any who spoke his 
 own tongue well, and discussed our affairs ■with me, 
 horrified at the la^'kof decent uniforms and discipline, 
 but, like me, pleased with the tall, strong men he saw 
 in our ranks. Later my acqujuntance with French 
 was of much use to me ; so little can a man tell what 
 value an accomplishment will have for him. 
 
 Tlie marquis was very young, aud somewhat free 
 in stating his o])inions. At this time he thought 
 Mr. Howe int^^ndcd Charleston, and, like others, wtis 
 amazed at his folly in not going up the Delaware 
 Bay to land liis troops. His strange strategy left 
 Burgoyne to the fate in store for him at Saratoga, 
 where the latter general was to act a first jmrt in a 
 tragic drama much finer than those ho wrote, which
 
 254 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 were so greatly praised by the fine ladies in London, 
 and indeed by some better critics. 
 
 A letter of Jack's came to hand during this week. 
 In it he said my aunt must leave, as he was sure we 
 had not force enough to keep General Howe out 
 of Philadelphia. But the old lady said, " Not I, in- 
 deed ! " and I think no mortal power could have in- 
 duced her to go away. She even declined to bury 
 her silver, as many had done. Not so the rest of 
 the Whigs. Every one fled who knew where to go, 
 or who feared to be called to account; and none 
 would hear of defending the town, as should have 
 been attempted. 
 
 Jack's letter went on to say that in Delaware the 
 general had a narrow escape. " He rode out," says 
 Jack, " with Marquis Lafayette on a reconnaissance, 
 attended by but two ofi&cers and an orderly. General 
 SuUivan had an officer follow with a half -troop ; but 
 the general, fearing such numbers might attract 
 attention, ordered them to wait behind a thicket. 
 Looking thence, they saw the general ride du-ect 
 toward a picket of the enemy, which from their 
 vantage they could see, but he could not. An Eng- 
 lish officer, perceiving him, seemed to give an order 
 to fire ; but as the men raised their pieces he struck 
 them up. As he was about to give the order to fire, 
 the general, being satisfied, had turned his back to 
 ride away. It is a curious tale, is it not ? and none 
 can explain it." 
 
 Long years after I myself met an EngUsh officer, 
 a General Henderson, in Canada, and on my telling
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 255" 
 
 ■ ■ - - -' 
 
 him the incident, he said at once it was he who was 
 concerned, and tliat when the general tiu'ued to ride 
 away he (.-oiild not make up his mind to shoot down 
 a man who had turned his back. He was amazed 
 and pleased to know who it was he thus spared. 
 
 On the 11th of September, at evening, came the 
 disaster of Brandywine, and on the 26th Lord Corn- 
 walhs njarched into our city, with two batteries and 
 the Sixteenth Dragoons and Grenadiers. They were 
 received quietly, and that evening my Cousin Arthur 
 appeared at our house. My father, who had been 
 very inert of late, seemed to arouse himself, and ex- 
 pressed quite forcibly his joy and relief at the coming 
 of the troops. He recounted his gi'iefs, too: how 
 that, refusing the militia tax, the Committee of Safety 
 had taken away his great tankard, and later two 
 tables, which was true enough. Then, to my amaze- 
 ment, m\' father declared Arthur must stay with us, 
 which he was notliing loath to do. 
 
 I was cool, as you may suppose, but it was difficult 
 for man or woman to resist Arthur Wynne when 
 he meant to be pleasant ; and so, putting my dislike 
 aside, I found myself chatting with him about the 
 war and what not. In fact, he was a guest, and what 
 else could I do f 
 
 My aunt kept herself indoors and would none of 
 the Galloways and Aliens, who had come back in 
 swarms, nor even the neutrals, Uke Mr. Penn, whom 
 she much liked. The day after the town was occu- 
 ]>ied, Captiiin Wynne appeared early in the morning, 
 as we were dibcusbiug u matter of buisiness. He
 
 256 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 took it for granted, I presume, that my aunt would 
 see him, and went past the turbaned black boy 
 despite his small remonstrances. My aunt rose to 
 the full of her great height, her nose in the air, and 
 letting fall a lapful of papers. 
 
 " To what," she said, " have I the honour to owe 
 a visit from Mr. Wvnne ? Is mv house an inn, that 
 any officer of the king may enter whether I will or 
 not ? " 
 
 Although he must have been surprised, he was 
 perfectly at his ease. Indeed, I envied him his self- 
 possession. 
 
 "Madam," he said, "I am charged "with a letter 
 from Miss Peniston." 
 
 "You may put it on the table," says Mistress 
 Wjmne. "My brother may choose his society. I 
 ask the same privilege. It will not consist of gentle- 
 men of your profession." 
 
 Mr. "Wynne's face grew black under its dark skin. 
 " Madam," he said, " I stay nowhere as an unwelcome 
 guest. I thank you for past kindness, and I humbly 
 take my leave. I could have done you a service as 
 to this business of the quartering of officers, and you 
 shaU stiU have my good offices for the sake of the 
 many pleasant hours I have passed in your house. 
 As my Cousin Hugh says nothing, I am glad to think 
 that he is of a different opinion from that which you 
 have put in words so agreeably." With this he went 
 away, leaving my aunt red in the face, and speechless 
 with wrath. 
 
 I thought he had the best of it ; but I merely said,
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 257 
 
 " My dear aunt, you should not have been so hai-d 
 with him,'' 1 did, indeed, think it both un^vise and 
 needless. 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense ! " says Miss Wynne, walking 
 about as niv father used to do. " I do not trust him, 
 and he has got that girl in his toils, poor child ! I 
 wonder what Ues he has told her. How does he hold 
 herf I did think that was }»ast any man's power; 
 and she is unliappy too. When a woman like Dar- 
 thea begins to find a man out, she eau't help showing 
 it, and some are more frank on paper than in talk ; 
 that is her way. I am afraid I made mischief once, 
 for I told him long ago that I meant her to marry 
 you ; and then I saw he did not like it, and I knew 
 I had been a goose. WTiatever is the reason he hates 
 you, Hugh ? Oh yes, he does— he does. Is it the 
 woman ? I will have no redcoats in my house." 
 
 I got a chance to say— what I was sorry to have 
 to say— how little need there was for him to fear 
 poor me, whom Darthea wished to have nothing to 
 do with, I thought. 
 
 "Her loves are like her moods, my dear Hugh; 
 who knows how long they will last ? Until a woman 
 is married she is not to be despaired of," 
 
 I shook my head sadly and went out. 
 
 I returned late in the evening, to order my horse 
 to be Siuldlcd and sent to me l)efore breakfast next 
 mornmg; for I kept it at no cost in my aunt's amj)le 
 stable. To my horror, I found a sentinel at the door, 
 and the hull full of anny })aggage. In the parloiu* 
 was a tall Hessian, General von Knyphaiuien, and 
 
 17
 
 258 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Count Donop and others, smoking, much at their ease. 
 They were fairly civil, but did not concern themselves 
 greatly if I liked it or not. I found my aunt in bed, 
 in a fever of vain anger. 
 
 She had the bed-curtains drawn, and when I was 
 bid to enter, put aside the chintz so as to make room 
 for her head, which appeared in a tall nightcap. I 
 am unfit, I fear, to describe this gear ; but it brought 
 out all her large features very strongly, and to have 
 seen her would have terrified a Hessian regiment. 
 
 " My house is full of Dutch dogs," she cried. " As 
 soon as they came they ordered bones." In fact, they 
 had asked quite civilly if they might have supper. 
 
 "I saw them at their feed," says my aunt, ''and 
 the big beast, Greneral Knyphausen, spread my best 
 butter on his bread with his thumb, sir — liis thumb ! 
 Count Donop is better; but Yon Heiser! and the 
 pipes ! heavens ! " Here she retreated within her 
 curtains, and I heard her say, " Bessy Ferguson saw 
 them come in, and must sail across the street and tell 
 Job— the page with the turban— to congratulate me 
 for her, and to advise me to get a keg of sauerkraut." 
 
 I assured my aunt that fortunately these were gen- 
 tlemen, but she was inconsolable, declaring herself 
 ill, and that Dr. Rush must come at once. 
 
 " But," I said, " he is gone with aU the Congress 
 to York." 
 
 " Then I shall die," moaned my aunt. 
 
 At last, knowing her well, I said, "Is it not too 
 sad?" 
 
 "What's that? What?"
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Qiuiker 259 
 
 "Mr. Howe has Uiken Mrs. Pemberton's can-iage 
 and the pair of soiTels for his owu use." 
 
 At this my Aunt Gaiuor's hirge face reappeared, 
 not a.'; niehiueholic as before, and I added, '' Friend 
 Wain has six to care for, and Thomas Seattergood 
 has the Hessian ehaplain and a drunken major. The 
 rest of Friends are no better oflf." 
 
 " Tliank the Lord for all His mercies ! " said ]Miss 
 WjTine. 
 
 *' And Mr. Cadwalader's house on Little Dock street 
 Sir William has." 
 
 " A pity that, Hugh. The fine furniture -will pay 
 for it, I fear. I think, Hugh, I am better, or I shall 
 be soon." 
 
 " They talk of the Meeting over the way for a bar- 
 rack, Aunt Gainor." Now this was idly nmioured, 
 but how could one resist to feed an occasion so 
 comic T 
 
 " I think I should die contented," said ^liss Wj-nne. 
 " Now go away, Hugh. I have had my medicine, and 
 I like it." She was quick at self-analysis, and was 
 laughing low, really happier for the miseries of her 
 Tory acquaintances. 
 
 After the bedroom comedy, which much amused 
 me and out of which my aunt got great comfort, she 
 was inclined to be on better terms with the officers 
 so abruptly thrust upon lier. For a while, howcvci-, 
 she dcf'liiif'd to eat her meals Avith them, and wlien 
 told tliat they had had Colonel Montresor to dine, and 
 had drunk tlie kin^s health, she sent all the glasses 
 they had used down to the blacks in the kitchen.
 
 26o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 and bade them never to dare set them on her table 
 again. This much dehghted Count Donop, who 
 loved George of Hanover no better than did she, and 
 I learned that she declared the bread-and-butter busi- 
 ness was the worst of Von Knyphausen, and was 
 no doubt a court custom. As to Count Donop, she 
 learned to like him. He spoke queer French, and 
 did not smoke. " Je nefoume pas chamais, tnadame" 
 he said ; " mais le Cheneral, ilfoume touchours, et Von 
 Seiser le meme," which was true. The count knew 
 her London friends, and grieved that he was sent on 
 a service he did not relish, and in which later he was 
 to lose his life. 
 
 My aunt fed them well, aud won at piquet, and 
 declared they were much to be pitied, although Von 
 Heiser was a horror. When he had knocked down 
 her red-and-gold Delft vase, the gods and the other 
 china were put away, and then the rugs, because of 
 the holes his pipe ashes burned, and still she vowed 
 it was a comfort they were not redcoats. Them she 
 would have poisoned. 
 
 Captain Andre alone was an exception. When, in 
 1776, he was made a prisoner by Montgomery in 
 Canada, and after that was on parole at Lancaster, I 
 met him ; and as he much attracted me, my aunt sent 
 him money, and I was able to ease his captivity by 
 making him known to our friends, Mr. Justice Yeates 
 and the good Cope people, who, being sound Tories, 
 did him such good turns as he never forgot, and 
 kindly credited to us. Indeed, he made for my aunt 
 some pretty sketches of the fall woods, aud, as I
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 261 
 
 have said, was welcome wliei*e no other redcoat could 
 euter. 
 
 My aunt was soon easier in mind, but my own 
 condition was not to be envied. Here was Arthur 
 Wynuf at my father's, the Hessians at my aunt's, the 
 Tories happy, seven or eight thousand folks gone 
 away, every inn and house full, and on the street 
 crowds of unmannerly officers. It was not easy to 
 avoid iiuarrels. ^Vlready the Hessian soldiers began 
 to steal all manner of eatables from the farms this 
 side of Schuylkill. More to my own inconvenience, 
 I found that Major von Heiser had taken the priv- 
 ilege of riding ray mare Lucy so hard that she was 
 unfit to use for two days. At last my aunt's chicken- 
 coops suffered, and the voice of her pet rooster was 
 no more heard in the land. I did hear that, as this 
 raid of some privates interfered with the Dutch gen- 
 eral's diet, one of the offenders got the strappado. 
 But no one could stop these fellows, and they were 
 so bold as to enter houses and steal what they wanted, 
 until severe measures were taken by Mr. Howe. They 
 robbed my father boldly, before his eyes, of two fat 
 Virginia peach-fed hams, and all his special tobacco. 
 He stood by, and said they ought not to do it. This, 
 as they knew no tongue Init their own, and Jis he 
 acted up to his honest belief in the righteousness of 
 non-resistance, and uttered no comi)laint, only .served 
 to bring them again. But this time I was at home, 
 and neai'ly killed a corporal with the Quaker staff 
 Tliomas Scattergood gave my father. The adven- 
 tuiv seemed to compensate Miss Wynne for her own
 
 262 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 losses. The corporal made a lying complaint, and 
 "but for Mr. Andre I should have been put to serious 
 annoyance. Our boys used to say that the Hessian 
 drum-beat said, " Plunder, plunder, plun, plun, plun- 
 der." And so for the sad remnant of Whig gentles 
 the town was made in all ways unbearable. 
 
 There are times when the life sands seem to run 
 slowly, and others when they flow swiftly, as dur- 
 ing this bewildering week. All manner of things 
 happened, mostly perplexing or sad, and none quite 
 agreeable. On the 28th, coming in about nine at 
 night, I saw that there were persons in the gi-eat 
 front sitting-room, w^hich overlooked Dock Creek. 
 As I came into the light which fell through the open 
 doorway, I stood unnoticed. The room was full of 
 pipe smoke, and rimi and Hollands were on the table, 
 as was common in the days w^hen Friends' Meeting 
 made a minute that Friends be vigilant to see that 
 those who work in the harvest-fields have portions of 
 rum. My father and my cousin sat on one side, op- 
 posite a short, stout man almost as swarthy as Ar- 
 thur, and with veiy small piercing eyes, so dark as 
 to seem black, which eyes never are. 
 
 I heard this gentleman say, " Wjmne, I hear that 
 your brother is worse. These elder brothers are un- 
 natural animals, and vastly tenacious of life." On 
 this I noticed my cousin frown at him and shghtly 
 shake his head. The officer did not take the hint, 
 if it were one, but added, smiling, " He will live to 
 bury you; unfeeling brutes— these elder brothers. 
 Damn 'em ! "
 
 Hugli \\'vnne: Free Quaker 263 
 
 I was sihocked to notice how inertly ray father 
 listened to the oath, and I recalled, with a sudden 
 sense of distress, what my aunt had said of my 
 fathers state of mind. The vounj:f are accustomed 
 
 * CD 
 
 to take for granted the permanency of health in their 
 elders, and to look upon them as unchanging insti- 
 tutions, until, in some sad way, reminded of the frailty 
 of all living things. 
 
 As I went in, Arthur rose, looked sharply at me, 
 and said, " Let me present my cousin, Mr. Hugh 
 Wynne, Colonel Tarleton." 
 
 I bowed to the officer, who lacked the politeness 
 to rise, merely sajdng, ''Pleased to see you, INIr. 
 Wynne." 
 
 *' We were talking," said Artlnu', " when you came 
 of the fight at the river with the queer name— Bran- 
 dy wine, is n't it ? " 
 
 '' No," said my father ; " thou art mistaken, and I 
 wished to ask thee, Arthur, what was it thou wert 
 saying. We had ceased to speak of the war. Yes; 
 it was of thy brother." 
 
 " What of thy brother ?" said I, glad of this opening. 
 
 *' Oh, nothing, except Colonel Tarleton had news 
 he was not so well." He was so shrewd as to tliiuk 
 I must have overheard enough to make it useless to 
 lie to me. A lie, he used to say, was a reserve not 
 to be called into service except when all eLse failed. 
 
 "Oh, was that all?" I returned. ''I did hear. 
 Cousin Arthur, that the Wyncotc estate was growing 
 to l>e valuable again j some coal or iron Imd been 
 found."
 
 264 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " So my mother writes me," said Tarleton. " We 
 are old friends of yoiu* family." 
 
 " You know," I said, " we are the elder branch." 
 I was bent on discovering, if possible, the cause of my 
 cousin's annoyance whenever Wyncotewas mentioned. 
 
 " I wish it were true about our getting rich," said 
 Arthur, with the relaxed look about the jaw I had 
 come to know so well ; it came as he began to speak. 
 "If it were anything but idle gossip, Tarleton, 
 what would it profit a poor devil of a younger son ? 
 They did find coal, but it came to nothing ; and in- 
 deed I learn they lost money in the end." 
 
 " I have so heard," said my father, in a dull way. 
 " Who was it told me ? I forget. They lost money." 
 
 I looked at him amazed. Who could have told him 
 but Arthur, and whj' ? Until a year back his mem- 
 ory had been unfailing. 
 
 I saw a queer look, part surprise, part puzzle, go 
 over Tarleton's face, a slight frown above, as slight 
 a smile below. I fancy he meant to twit my cousin, 
 for he said to me : 
 
 "And so you are of the elder branch, Mr. Hugh 
 Wynne. How is that, Arthur ? How did the elder 
 branch chance to lose that noble old house 1 " 
 
 My cousin sat rapping with his fingers on the table 
 what they use(i to call the " devil's tattoo," regarding 
 me with steady, half -shut eyes— a too frequent and 
 not well-mannered way he had, and one I much dis- 
 liked. He said notliing, nor had he a chance, for I 
 instantly answered the colonel : " My father can tell 
 you."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 265 
 
 "About what, Hugh?" 
 
 " About how we lost our Welsh estate." 
 
 My tailuT at this lifted his great bulk upright in 
 tile old Peuu chair, aud seemed more alive. 
 
 " It is Colonel Tarletou who asks, uot I." 
 
 '' It is an old story." lie spoke quite like himself. 
 "Our eousiu must kuow it well. My father suf- 
 fered for conscience' sake, aud, being a Friend, 
 would pay no tithes. For this he was east into jail 
 in Shrewsbury Gate House, and lay there a yeai*, 
 suffering much in body, but at peace, it may siu'ely 
 be thought, as to his soul. At last he was set free 
 on condition that he shoidd leave the country." 
 
 " And the estate ? " asked Tarleton. 
 
 " He thought little of that. It was hea^ily charged 
 with debt made by his father's wild ways. I believe, 
 too, there was some agreement with the officers of 
 the crown that he should make over the property to 
 his next brother, who had none of his scruples. This 
 was in 1G70, or thereabouts. A legal transfer was 
 made to my uncle, who, I think, loved my father, 
 and understood that, being set in his waj's, he would 
 defy tlie king's authority to the end. And so — 
 wisely I think —the overruling providence of God 
 brought us to a new land, where we have greatly 
 prospered." 
 
 "And that is all?" said the colonel. "TNHiat a 
 strange story ! Aud so you are WjTine of Wyncote, 
 and lost it." 
 
 ''For a greater gain," .'^aid my father. ''My son 
 has a billy fancy for the old place, but it is lost— lost
 
 266 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 —sold; and if we could have it at a word, it would 
 grieve me to see him cast in his lot among a set of 
 drunken, dicing, hard-riding squires— a godless set. 
 It will never be if I can help it. My son has left the 
 creed of his father and of mine, and I am glad that 
 his worldly pride cannot be further tempted. Dost 
 thou hear, Hugh?" 
 
 There was a moment of awkward silence. My 
 father had spoken with violence, once or twice strik- 
 ing the table with his fist until the glasses rang. 
 There was something of his old vehemence in his 
 statement ; but as a rule, however abrupt when we 
 were alone, before strangers he was as civil to me as 
 to others. My cousin, I thought, looked relieved as 
 my father went on; and, ceasing to drum on the 
 table, he quietly filled himself a glass of Hollands. 
 
 I was puzzled. What interest had Arthur to lie 
 about the value of Wyncote if it was irretrievably 
 lost to us ? As my father ended, he glanced at me 
 with more or less of his old keenness of look, smihng 
 a little as he regarded me. The pause which came 
 after was brief, as I have said; for my reflections, 
 such as they were, passed swiftly through my mind, 
 and were as complete as was under the circumstances 
 possible. 
 
 "I am soiTy for you," said Tarleton. "An old 
 name is much, but one likes to have with it all the 
 memories that go with its ancient home." 
 
 ''That is true," said I; "and, if my father will 
 pardon me, I like stUl to say that I would have 
 "Wyncote to-day if I could."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 267 
 
 " Thou canst not," said my father. *' And what we 
 cannot have— what God ha« willed that we sluill not 
 have— it were wise and well to forget. It is my allair, 
 and none of thiue. Wilt thou taste some of my newly 
 come Madeira, Friend Tarleton ? " 
 
 The colonel said " No,"' and shortly after left us, 
 my cousin going with him. 
 
 Mv father sat still for a while, and then said as 
 I rose, " I trust to hear no more of this nonsense. 
 Thy aunt and thy mother have put it in thy foolish 
 head. I will have no more of it— no more. Dost 
 thou hear ? " 
 
 I said I would try to satisfy him, and so the thing 
 came to an end. 
 
 The day after this singular talk, which so much 
 puzzled me, Arthur said at breakfast that he should 
 be pleased to go with me on the river for white perch. 
 I hesitated ; but, my father saying, " Certainly ; he 
 shall go with thee. I do not need him," I returned 
 that I woidd be ready at eleven. 
 
 "We pulled over toward Petty's Island, and when 
 half-way my cousin, who was steering, and had been 
 very silent for him, said : 
 
 " Let her diif t a bit ; I want to talk to you." 
 
 I sat still and listened. 
 
 " Wliy do not you join our army ? A commission 
 were easily had." 
 
 I rejjlied that he knew my sentiments well, and 
 that liis question was absurd. 
 
 "No," he said; "I am your friend, although you 
 do not think so. By George ! were I you, I would
 
 268 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 be on one side or the oilier. I like my friends to do 
 "what is manly and decisive." '* Holloa ! " thinks I ; 
 *' has Darthea been talking ? And why does he, an 
 officer of the king, want me to go ? " 
 
 " I shall go some day," I replied, '^ but when, I know 
 not yet. It seems to me queer counsel to give a good 
 rebel. When does Miss Peniston retm-n "? " I said. 
 
 " What the deuce has that got to do with it ? Yes, 
 she is coming back, of course, and soon ; but why do 
 not you join your ai-my ? " 
 
 "Let us drop that," I said. "There are many 
 reasons ; I prefer not to discuss the matter." 
 
 " Very good," he said ; " and, Hugh, you heard a 
 heap of nonsense last night about Wyncote. Tarle- 
 ton had too much of your father's rum-punch. Your 
 people were lucky to lose the old place, and how these 
 tales of our being rich arose I cannot imagine. Come 
 and see us some day, and you will no longer envy the 
 lot of beggared Welsh squires." 
 
 All of this only helped the more to make me dis- 
 believe him ; but the key to his lies I had not, and so 
 I merely said it would be many a day before that 
 could happen. 
 
 " Perhaps," he returned ; " but who knows ? The 
 war will soon be over." 
 
 " When will Miss Peniston be in town ? " said I. 
 
 He was not sui-e ; but said I put it in his mind to 
 say something. 
 
 " Well ? " said I, on my guard. 
 
 He went on : " I am a frank man, Cousin Hugh." 
 
 At times he was, and strangely so ; then the next
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 269 
 
 minute he would be indirect or lie to you. The mix- 
 ture made it hard to uudorstaud what he was after, 
 
 •■ I trust," he went on, '• that you will pardon me 
 if I say that in Enjjrland custom does not sanction 
 certain freedoms which in the colonies seem to be 
 regarded as of no moment. I am not of this opinion. 
 Miss Peniston is, I hope, to be my wife. She is 
 young:, impulsive, and— well, no matter. Some men 
 take these things coolly ; I do not. I am sui'e you 
 will have the good sense to agree vnth. me. When 
 a wonuin is pk'dged to a man, it is fit that she should 
 be most guarded in her relations with other men. 
 I-" 
 
 Here I broke in, "\Miat on earth does all this 
 mean ? " 
 
 " I will tell you. Your aunt writes now and then 
 to Miss Peniston." 
 
 " Certainly," said I. 
 
 " Yes ; she says, too, things concerning you and 
 that lady which ai'e not to my taste." 
 
 '•Indeed?" 
 
 " I have been so honoured as to see some of tliese 
 famous ei)istles. I think Darthea is pleased to tor- 
 ment me at times ; it is her way, as you may happen 
 to know. Also, and this is more serious, you have 
 yourself written to Darthea." 
 
 "I have, and several times. Why not?" 
 
 ''These letter-s," he wont on, ''she has refused to 
 show to me. Now I want to .say— and you will par- 
 don me— that I permit no man to write to a woman 
 whom I am to marry unless I do not object."
 
 270 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 ''Well?" I said, beginning to smile, after my 
 unmanageable habit. 
 
 ''Here I do object." 
 
 " What if I say that, so long as Miss Peniston does 
 not seem displeased, I care not one farthing who 
 objects ? " 
 
 " By George ! " cried he, leaping up in the boat. 
 
 " Take care ; thou wilt upset the skiff." 
 
 " I have half a mind to." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I can smm like a duck." 
 
 " This is no trifle, su*," he returned. " I wiU allow 
 no man to take the liberty you insist on. It amazes 
 me that you do not see this as I do. I am sorry, but 
 I warn you once for all that I—" 
 
 " I am at your service, sir," I broke in. 
 
 " Pshaw ! nonsense ! I am a guest in your father's 
 house. I have thought it my duty, for your sake and 
 my own, to say what I have said. When I know 
 that you have again disobeyed my reasonable and 
 most earnest wish, I shall consider how to deal with 
 the matter. I have been forbearing so far, but I 
 cannot answer for the future." 
 
 " Cousin Arthur," I replied, " this seems to me a 
 silly business, in which we have both lost our tem- 
 pers. I have no hope that Miss Peniston will ever 
 change her mind, and I am free to say to you that I 
 think it useless to persist; but nevertheless—" 
 
 " Persist ! " 
 
 " I said ' persist.' Until Miss Peniston is no longer 
 Miss Peniston, I shall not cease to do all that is in 
 my power to make her change her mind."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 271 
 
 "And vou call that honourable— the conduct of a 
 gentleman and a kinsman ? " 
 
 • Yes ; I, too, can be frank. I would rather see 
 her marrv any other man than yourself. You haye 
 sought to injure me, why I shall tell you at my o\nti 
 time. I think you haye been deeeiyinij all of us as 
 to certain mattei-s. Oh, wait ! I must ha^•e my say. 
 If you were— what I do not think you— a straight- 
 forward, truthful man, I should think it well, and 
 leaye Miss Penistou to what seems to be her choice. 
 You have been frank, and so am I, and now we un- 
 derstand each other, and— no; I heard you to an 
 end, and I must iusist that I too be hoard. I am not 
 sorry to haye had this talk. If I did not care for her 
 who has promised you her hand, I shoidd be careless 
 as to what j'ou are, or whether you have been an 
 enemy in my home while pretending to be a friend. 
 As it is, I loye her too well not to do all I can to 
 make her see you as I see you ; and this, although 
 for me there is no least hope of ever having a place 
 in her lieart. I am her friend, and .shall be, and, until 
 she forl)ids, shall claim every priNilege which, with 
 our simpler manners, the name of friend carries with 
 it. I trust I am plain." 
 
 " Plain ? By heavens ! yes. I have borne much, 
 but now I have only to add that I never yet forgave 
 an insult. You would be wiser to have a care. A 
 man who never yet forgave has warned you. What 
 I want I get ; and what I get I keep." 
 
 " I think," I said, " that we will go ashore." 
 
 "With all my heart." And in absolute silence I
 
 2/2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 pulled back. At the slip he left me without a word, 
 and I secured the boat and walked away, having 
 found ample subject for reflection. Nor was I alto- 
 gether discontented at my cousin's evident jealousy. 
 
 The afternoon of this memorable day I rode out 
 on poor Lucy, whom I had put for safety in our home 
 stables. I went out High to Seventh street, and up 
 to Race street road, where there was better footing, 
 as it had been kept in order for the sport wliich made 
 us call it Race street, and not Sassafras, which is its 
 real name. I was brought to a stand about Twelfth 
 street, then only an ox-path, by the bayonet of a gren- 
 adier, the camps l}"ing about this point. I turned to 
 ride back, when I heard a voice I knew crying : 
 
 ''Holloa, Ml". Wynne! Are you stopped, and 
 why!" 
 
 I said I knew no reason, but woidd go south. I 
 was out for a ride, and had no special errand. 
 
 " Come with me then," he said pleasantly. " I am 
 now the engineer in charge of the defences." This 
 was my Aunt Gainor's old beau. Captain Montresor, 
 now a colonel. 
 
 "I am sorry your aunt will see none of us, 
 Mr. Wynne. If agreeable to you, we will ride 
 through the lines." 
 
 I asked nothing better, and explaining, awkwardly 
 I fear, that my aunt was a red-hot Whig, we rode 
 south to Spruce street, past the Bettering-house at 
 Spruce and Eleventh streets, where the troops which 
 had entered with Lord Cornwallis were mostly sta- 
 tioned. The main army lay at Germantown, with de-
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 273 
 
 taohments below the cit}*, on the east and west banks 
 of the JSeliuylkill, to watch our forts at Ked Bank and 
 the ishiuds which commanded the Dehiware Kiver 
 and kept the Britisli commander from drawing sup- 
 plies from the great tleet which lay helpless below. 
 
 As we went by, the Grenadiers were drilling on 
 the open space before the poorhouse. I expressed 
 my admiration of their pointed caps, red, with silver 
 front plates, their spotless white leggings and blue- 
 trimmed scarlet coats. 
 
 " Too much finery, Mr. Wynne. These are a king's 
 puppets, dressed to please the whim of royalty. If 
 all kings took the field, we should have less of this. 
 Those miserable de\'ils of 'Mr. Morgan's fought as 
 well in their dirtv skin shirts, and can kill a man at 
 murderous distance with their long rifles and little 
 bullets. It is like gambling with a beggar. He 
 has all to get, and nothing to lose but a life too 
 wi-etched to make it worth keeping." 
 
 I made no serious reply, and we rode westward 
 through the govenior's woods to the river. As we 
 turned into an open space to escape a deep mud-hole, 
 Mr. Montresor said : 
 
 *'It was here, I think, you and Mr. Warder made 
 yourselves agreeable to two of our people." I laughed, 
 and said it was a silly business and quite needless. 
 
 "That, I believe," he cried, laughing, "was their 
 opinion somewhat late. They were the jest of every 
 regimental mess for a month, and we were inclined 
 to think Mr. Washington had better raise a few 
 regiments of Qiuikers. Are you all as dangerous?"
 
 274 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " Oh, worse, worse," I said. '' Jack Warder and I 
 are only half -fledged specimens. You should see the 
 old fellows." Thus jesting, we rode as we were able 
 until we reached the banks of the Schuylkill, pick- 
 eted on both shores, but on the west side not below 
 the lower ferry, where already my companion was 
 laying a floating bridge which greatly interested 
 me. 
 
 '' We have a post on the far hill," he said, " I am 
 afraid to Mr. Hamilton's annoyance. Let us follow 
 the river." 
 
 I was able to guide him along an ox-road, and past 
 garden patches across High street, to the upper ferry 
 at Callowhill street. Here he pointed out to me the 
 advantage of a line of nine forts which he was already 
 building. There was to be one on the hill we call 
 Fau'mount to command the upper ferry. Others 
 were to be set along to the north of Callowhill street 
 road at intervals to Cohocsink Creek and the Dela- 
 ware. 
 
 The gi*eat trees I loved were falling fast under the 
 axes of the pioneers, whom I thought very awkward 
 at the business. Farm-houses were being torn down, 
 and orchards and hedges levelled, while the unhappy 
 owners looked on in mute despair, aiding one an- 
 other to remove their furnitui'e. The object was to 
 leave a broad space to north of the forts, that an 
 attacking force might find no shelter. About an 
 hundred feet from the blockhouses was to be an 
 abatis of shai-pened logs, and a mass of brush and 
 trees, through which to move would be difficult.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 275 
 
 I took it all in, and frreedily. The colonel no doubt 
 thouirht me an intelligent young fellow, and was kind 
 enough to answer all my questions. He may later 
 have repeut^^d his freedom of speech. And now I 
 saw the reason for aU this piteous ruin. Compensa- 
 tion was promised and given, I heard, but it seemed 
 to me hard to be thus in a day thrust out of homes 
 no doubt dear to these sinii)le folk. We went past 
 gardens and fields, over )»roken fences, all in the 
 way of destruction. Tape-lines pegged to the earth 
 guided the engineers, and hundreds of negroes were 
 here at work. Near to Cohocsink Creek we met the 
 second Miss Chew, riding with her father. He was 
 handsome in dark velvet, his hair clubbed and pow- 
 dered beneath a flat beaver with three rolls, and at 
 his back a queue tied with a red ribbon. He had 
 remained quietly inactive and prudent, and, being 
 liked, ha<l ))een let alone by our own party. It is to 
 bt* feared that neither he nor the ril)bon was quite 
 as neutral as they luid been. Miss Margaret looked 
 her l>est. I much dislike " Peggy," by which name 
 she was kno\vn abnost to the loss of that fine, full 
 "Margaret," which suited better her handsome, 
 uptilted head and well-bred look. 
 
 On the right side rode that other Margaret, ^liss 
 Shippen, of whom awhile back I .spoke, but then 
 only as in pretty bud, at the Woodlands. It was a 
 fair young rose I now saw })owiiig in the saddle, a 
 woman with Itoth charm and beauty. Long after, 
 in London, and in less merry days, she was described 
 by Colonel Tarleton as past question the handsomest
 
 276 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 woman in all England. I fear, too, slie was the 
 saddest. 
 
 " And whei-e have you kept yourself, Mr. Wynne f " 
 she asked. "You are a favourite of my fathei^'s, 
 you know. I had half a mind not to speak to you." 
 
 I bowed, and made some gay answer. I could 
 not well explain that the officers who filled their 
 houses were not to my taste. 
 
 ''Let me present you to Mr. Andre," said Mr. 
 Shippen, who brought up the rear. 
 
 " I have the honour to know Mr. Wynne," said the 
 officer. " We met at Lancaster when I was a pris- 
 oner in '76 ; in March, was it not ? Mr. Wynne did 
 me a most kind service, Montresor. I owe it to him 
 that I came to know that loyal gentleman, Mr. Cope, 
 and the Yeates people, who at least were loyal to me. 
 I have not forgotten it, nor ever shall." 
 
 I said it was a very small service, and he was kind 
 to remember it. 
 
 " You may well afford to forget it, sir ; I shall not," 
 he returned. He was in full uniform ; not a tall man, 
 but finely proportioned, with remarkably regular 
 features and a clear complexion which was set off 
 to advantage by powdered haif drawn back and tied 
 in the usual ribboned queue. 
 
 We rode along in company, happy enough, and 
 chatting as we went, Mr. Andre, as always, the life 
 of the party. He had the gracious frankness of a 
 well-mannered lad, and, as I recall him, seemed far 
 younger than his years. He spoke very feelingly 
 aside to me of young Macpherson, who fell at Quebec
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 277 
 
 He himself had had the ill luck not to be present 
 when that gallant assault was made. He spoke of us 
 alwaj's as colonitils, and not as rebels ; and why was I 
 not in the ser\'ice of the king, or perhaps that was a 
 needless question f 
 
 I told him frankly that I hoped before long to be 
 in quite other service. At this he cried, " So, so ! 
 I would not say it elsewhere. Is that so? 'T is a 
 pity, ^Ir. Wynne •, a hopeless cause," adding, with a 
 laugh, that I shoidd not find it very easy to get out 
 of the city, which was far too true. I said there were 
 many ways to go, but how I meant to leave I did not 
 yet know. After I got out I would tell him. We 
 had fallen back a little as we talked, tlie road just 
 here not allowing three to ride abreast. 
 
 " I shall ask the colonel for a pass to join our army," 
 I said merrily. 
 
 '' I would," said he, as gay as I ; " but I fear you 
 and ^listress W\Tine will have no favours. Pray 
 tell her to be careful. The Tories are talking." 
 
 " Thanks," said I, as we drew aside to let pass a 
 .«:plendid brigiule of Hessians, fat and well fed, with 
 shining helmets. 
 
 '* We are drawing in a lot of men from German- 
 towii," said Andrt'*, " l)ut for what I do not know. 
 .^Vli, here com<'S the artillery ! " 
 
 I watched tlx'm as wc all sat in saddle, while regi- 
 ment after regiment passed, the women admiring 
 their precision and soldierly bearing. For my part, 
 I kept thinking of the half-dad, ill-armed men I had 
 seen go down these same streets a httle while before.
 
 278 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " I will go," I said to myself ; and in a moment I had 
 made one of those decisive resolutions wliieli, once 
 made, seem to control me, and to permit no future 
 change of plan. 
 
 By this time we were come to the bridge over 
 Cohocsiuk Creek, I having become self-absorbed and 
 silent. The colonel called my attention to his having 
 dammed the creek, and thus flooded the low meadows 
 for more complete defence. I said, "Yes, yes!" 
 being no longer interested. 
 
 Mr. Shippen said, '' We will cross over to the ' Rose 
 of Bath ' and have a little milk-punch before we ride 
 back." This was an inn where, in the garden, was 
 a mineral water much prescribed by Dr. Kearsley. 
 I excused myself, however, and, pleading an engage- 
 ment, rode slowly away. 
 
 I put up my mare in my aunt's stable, and went 
 at once into her parlour, full of my purpose. 
 
 I sat down and told her both the talk of two days 
 before with Tarleton and my cousin, and also that I 
 had had in my boat. 
 
 She thought I had been foolishly frank, and said, 
 " You have reason to be careful, Hugh. That man 
 is dangerous. He would not fight you, because that 
 would put an end to his relations with your father. 
 Clerk Mason tells me he has already borrowed two 
 hundred pounds of my brother. So far I can see," 
 she went on j " the rest is dark— that about Wyncote, 
 I mean. Darthea, when once she is away, begins to 
 criticise him. In a word, Hugh, I think he has 
 reason to be jealous."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Qiuiker 279 
 
 « O Aunt Gainor ! " 
 
 "Yes. She does not answer your letters, nor 
 should she, but she answers them to me, the minx ! 
 a good sign, sir." 
 
 " That is not all. aunt. I can stand it no longer. 
 I must go ; I am going.'' 
 
 " The tu-my, Hugh ? " 
 
 " Yes ; my mind is made up. My two homes are 
 hardly mine any longer. Every day is a reproach. 
 For my father I can do Uttle. His affairs are almost 
 entii'ely wound up. He does not need me. The old 
 clerk is better." 
 
 '' Will it be hard to leave me, my son ? " 
 
 " You know it will," said I. She had risen, tall and 
 large, her eyes soft with tears. 
 
 " You must go,"' she said, " and may God protect 
 and keep you. I shall be verj- lonely, Hugh. But 
 you must go. I have long seen it." 
 
 Upon this, I begged she would see ray father often, 
 and give me news of him and of Darthea whenever 
 occasion served. Then she told me Darthea was to 
 return to the city in two days, and she herself would 
 keep in mind all I ha<l wished her to do. After tliis 
 I told her of the difficulties I should meet with, and 
 we talked them over. Presently she said, " Wait ;" 
 then left the room, and, coming back, gave me a 
 sword the counterpart of Jack's. 
 
 " I have hatl it a year, sir. Let me see," she cried, 
 and would have me put it on, and the .sash, and the 
 buff-and-blue sword-knot. After this she put a great 
 hand on each shoulder just as she had don<> with
 
 28o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Jack, and, kissing me, said, " War is a sad thing, but 
 there are worse things. Be true to the old name, my 
 son." Nor could she bide it a moment longer, but 
 hurried out with her lace handkerchief to her eyes, 
 saying as she went, " How shall I bear it ! How shall 
 I bear it ! " 
 
 She also had for me a pair of silver-mounted pistols, 
 and an enamelled locket with my mothei*'s ever dear 
 face within, done for her when my mother was 
 in England by the famous painter of miniatm-es, 
 Mr. Cosway. 
 
 And now I set about seeing how I was to get away. 
 Our own forces lay at Pennypacker's Mills, or near 
 by ; but this I did not know until later, and neither 
 the British nor I were very sure as to theh* precise 
 situation. It was clear that I must go afoot. As 
 I walked down Second street with this on my mind, 
 I met Colonel Montresor with a group of of&cers. 
 He stopped me, and, after civilly presenting me, 
 -said: 
 
 " Harcourt and Johnston "—this latter was he who 
 later married the saucy Miss Franks and her fortune 
 — " want to know if you have duck-shooting here on 
 the SchuylkiU." 
 
 Suddenly, as I stood, I saw my chance and how 
 to leave the town. I said, "It is rather early, but 
 there are a few ducks in the river. If I had a boat I 
 would try it to-morrow, and then perhaps, if I find 
 •any sport, one of you would join me the day after." 
 
 " Very good," said they, as well pleased as I.
 
 Hui^h Wynne: Free Quaker 281 
 
 "And the boat?" I said. 
 
 The colonel had one, a rather light skiff, he told 
 me. He used it to go up and down to look at the 
 bridges he was now busily laying. When I asked 
 for its use the next day, he said Yes, if I would send 
 him some ducks ; adding that I should need a pass. 
 He would send it that evening by a sergeant, and an 
 order for the skiff, which lay on this side at the lower 
 fen-y. I ihauked him, and went away happy in the 
 success of my scheme. 
 
 I came upon Andre just after. " Not gone yet ? " 
 he said. 
 
 I replied, " Not yet ; but I shall get away." 
 
 lie rejoined that he would not like to bet on that, 
 and then went on to say that if my aunt had any 
 trouble as to the officers quartered on her, would she 
 kindly say so. The Hessians were rough people, and 
 an exchange might be arranged. Gentlemen of his 
 own acquaintance could be substituted. He himself 
 was in Dr. Franklin's house. It was full of books, 
 and good ones too. 
 
 I thanked him, but said I fancied she was Whig 
 enough to like the Hessians better. 
 
 On Second street I bought a smock shirt, rough 
 shoes, and coarse knit stockings, as well as a good 
 snapsack, and, rolling them up securely, left them 
 at home in the hay-loft. My sword and other finery I 
 must needs leave behind me. I had no friends to say 
 good-bye to, and quite late in the evening I merely 
 ran in and ki.ssed my aunt, and received eight hun-
 
 282 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 dred pounds in English notes, her offering to the 
 cause, which I was to deliver to the general. Her 
 gift to me was one hundred pounds in gold, just 
 what she gave to my Jack. The larger sum she had 
 put aside by degrees. It embarrassed me, but to 
 refuse it would have hurt her. 
 
 I carefully packed my snapsack, putting the gold 
 in bags at the bottom, and covering it with the flan- | 
 
 nel shirts and extra shoes which made up my outfit. * 
 
 I could not resist taking my pistols, as I knew that 
 to provide myself as well in camp would not be pos- 
 sible. The bank-bills I concealed in my long stock- 
 ings, and would gladly have been without them had 
 I not seen how greatly this would disappoint my aunt. 
 She counted, and wisely, on their insuring me a more 
 than favourable reception. Lastly, I got me a small 
 compass and some tobacco for Jack. 
 
 It must be hard for you, in this happier day, when 
 it is easy to get with speed anywhere on swift and 
 well-horsed coaches, to imagine what even a smaU 
 journey of a day or two meant for us. Men who 
 rode carried horseshoes and nails. Those who drove 
 had in the carriage ropes and a box of tools for re- 
 pairs. I was perhaps better off than some who drove 
 or rode in those days, for afoot one cannot be stalled, 
 nor easily lose a shoe, although l)etween Philadelphia 
 and Darby I have known it to happen. 
 
 I knew the country I was to travel, and up to a 
 point knew it well ; beyond that I must trust to good 
 fortune. Early in the evening came a sergeant with 
 the promised order for the boat, and a pass signed
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 25^ j 
 
 by Sir William Howe's adjutant. At ten I bade my 
 father good-uight and went upstaii'S, where I wrote 
 to hini, and melosed the note in one for my aunt. 
 Tliis I gave to Tom, our coachman, with strict orders 
 to deliver it late the next day. I had no wish that 
 bv any accident it should too earlv l)etrav mv true 
 purpose. My gun I ostentatiously cleaned in the late 
 afternoon, and set in the hall. 
 
 No one but my aunt had the least suspicion of 
 what I was in act to do. At last I sat down and 
 carefully considered my plan, and my best and most 
 rapid way of reaching the army. To go through 
 Germantown and Chestnut Hill would have been the 
 direct route, for to a surety our army lay somewhere 
 nigh to Worcester, which was in the county of Phil- 
 adelphia, although of late years I believe in Mont- 
 gomery. To go tliis plain road would have taken me 
 through the pickets, and wliere lay on guard the chief 
 of the British army. This would, of course, be full of 
 needless risks. It remained to consider the Ion ger road. 
 This led me down the river to a point where I must 
 leave it, shoulder my snapsack, and trudge down the 
 Darby road, or between it and the river. Somewhere 
 I must cross the highway and strike across-country 
 as I could to the Schuylkill River, and there find 
 means to get over at one of the fords. Once well 
 away from the main road to Darby and Wilming- 
 ton, I should be, I thought, safe. After crossing 
 the Schuylkill I hoped to get news which would 
 guide me. I hardly thought it likely that the 
 English who lay at Germantown and Mount Airy
 
 284 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 would picket beyond the banks of the Wissahickou. 
 I might have to look out for foraging English west 
 of the Schuylkill, but this I must chance. 
 
 I was about to leave home, perhaps forever, but I 
 never in my life went to bed with a more satisfied 
 heart than I bore that night.
 
 XVI 
 
 i 
 
 
 |T break of day I woke, and, stealing: down- 
 stall's, took ^in, powder-horn, and shot, 
 and in the stable loft pnt the ainniunition 
 in the top of my snapsao.k ; then, quiekly 
 chanirint; 7iiy elothes, concealed those I 
 had put olf under tlie hay, and so set out. 
 
 The towni wa»s all asleep, and I saw no one until I 
 passed the Bettering-house, and the Grenadiers elean- 
 inp their gruns, and powdering their queues and liair, 
 and thence pushed on to the river. The lower feiTy, 
 known also as Gray's, lay just a little south of where 
 the Woodlands, Mr. Andrew Hainilton's house, stood 
 among trees high above the quiet river. 
 
 A few tents and a squad of sleepy men were at the 
 ferr\'. I lianded my order and pass to the sergeant, 
 who looked me over as if he thought it odd that a 
 man of my cltiss should be so equipped to shoot ducks. 
 However, he read my ])ass and the order for the boat, 
 pushed the skiff into the water, and ju'oposed, as he 
 liftc'd my sna])sa<;k, to let one of his men row me. I 
 said No ; I must drift or paddle on to the ducks, and 
 would go aloiH'. Thanking him, I pushed out into 
 the stream. He wished me good luck, and pocketed 
 my shilling. 
 
 285
 
 286 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 — ■ — I , 1^ 
 
 It was now just sunrise. I paddled swiftly down, 
 stream. Not a hundred yards from the ferry I saw 
 ducks on tlie east shore, and, having loaded, paddled 
 over to Rambo's Rock, and was lucky enough to get 
 two ducks at a shot. Recrossing, I killed two more 
 in succession, and then pushed on, keeping among 
 the reeds of the west bank. As I passed Bartram's 
 famous garden, I saw his son near the river, busy, 
 as usual, with his innocent flowers. 
 
 A half-mile below I perceived, far back of the 
 shore, a few redcoats. Annoyed no little,— for here 
 I meant to land,— I turned the boat, still hidden by 
 the tall reeds, and soon di*ew up the skiff at Bartram's, 
 where, taking gun and snapsack, I went up the slope. 
 I found Mr. William Bartram standing under a fine 
 cypress his father had fetched as a slip from Florida 
 in 1731. He was used to see me on the river, but 
 looked at my odd costume with as much curiosity as 
 the sergeant had done. He told me his father had 
 died but ten days before, for which I felt sorry, since, 
 except by Friends, who had disowned the good botan- 
 ist, he was held in general esteem. I hastily but 
 frankly told jMr. Bartram my errand. He said : 
 
 " Come to the house. A company or two has just 
 now passed to relieve the lower fort." 
 
 After I had a glass of milk, and good store of 
 bread and butter, I asked him to accept my gun, and 
 that he would do me the kindness to return the skiff, 
 and with it to forward a note, for the writing of 
 which Mrs. Bartram gave me quill and paper. 
 
 I wrote :
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 287 
 
 '■ Mr. Hugh W\-iine presents his compliments to 
 Mr. Montresor, and retin-ns his skiff. He desires Mr. 
 Montresor to accept two brace c)f ducks, and begs to 
 exjiress his sincere thanks for tlie pass, -whieh enabled 
 3Ir. Wynne to make with comfort his way to the army. 
 Mr. Wynne trusts at some time to be able to show 
 his gratitude for this favour, and meanwhile he re- 
 mains ^Ir. Montresor's obedient, humble servant. 
 
 "October 1, 1777. 
 
 " Mr. Wynne's most particular compliments to Mr. 
 Andre. It proved easier to escape than Mr. Andr6 
 thought." 
 
 I could not help smiling to think of the good colo- 
 nel's face when he should read this letter. I glanced 
 at the arms over the fireplace, thanked the good 
 people wamily, and, as I went out, looked back at 
 the familiar words old John Bartram set over the 
 door in 1770 : 
 
 T is God alone, Almighty Lord, 
 The Holy One by me adored. 
 
 It seemed the last of home and its associations. I 
 turned away, pa*;sed through the gi-ounds, which ex- 
 tended up to the Darby road, and, after a careful look 
 aVjout me, moved rapidly southward. Here and there 
 were farm-houses between spurs of the broken forest 
 which, with its many farms, stretched far to west- 
 ward. I met no one. 
 
 I knew there was a picket at the Blue Bell Inn, 
 and .so, before Hearing it, I struck into a W(K)dlan(l, 
 and, avoiding the farms, kept to the northwest until
 
 288 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I came on to a road which I saw at once to be Gray's 
 Lane. Unused to guiding- myself by compass, I had 
 again gotten dangerously near to the river. I pushed 
 up the lane to the west, and after half an hour came 
 upon a small hamlet, where I saw an open forge and 
 a sturdy smith at work. In a moment I recognised 
 my old master, Lowiy, the farrier. I asked the way 
 across- country to the Schuylkill. He stood a little, 
 resting on his hammer, not in the least remembering 
 me. He said it was difficult. I must take certain 
 country lanes until I got into the Lancaster road, 
 and so on. 
 
 I did not wish to get into the main highway, where 
 foragers or outlying parties might see fit to be too 
 curious, I said at last, '^ Dost not thou know thy old 
 prentice, Hugh Wynne ? " 
 
 I felt snre of my man, as he had been one of the 
 Sons of Liberty, and had fallen out with Friends in 
 consequence, so that I did not hesitate to relate my 
 whole story. He was pleased to see me, and bade me 
 enter and see his wife. As we stood consulting, a 
 man cried out at the door : 
 
 " Here are more Hessians." And as he spoke we 
 heard the notes of a bugle. 
 
 '' Put me somewhere," I said, " and quick." 
 
 "No," he cried. "Here, set your snapsack back 
 of this forge. Put on this leather apron. Smudge 
 your face and hands." 
 
 It took me but a minute, and here I was, grimy 
 and black, a smith again, with my sack hid under a 
 lot of old iron and a broken bellows.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 289 
 
 As they rode up— some two dozen yagers— I let 
 fall the bellows handle, at which mv master had set 
 me to work, and went out to the doorway. There, 
 not at all to my satisfaction, I saw the small Hessian, 
 Captain von Heiser, our third and least pleasant 
 boai'dei*, the aide of General Knypluiusen. Worse 
 stiD, he was on Lucy. It was long before I knew 
 how this came to pass. Tht-y hud two waggons, and, 
 amidst the lamentations of the hamlet, took chickens, 
 pigs, and gi"idn, leaving orders on the paymaster, 
 which, I am told, were sciiipulously honoured. 
 
 Two horses needed shoeing at once, and then I was 
 told Lucy had a loose shoe, and my master called me 
 a lazy dog, and bid me qidt staring or I would get a 
 strapping, and to see to the gentleman's mare, and 
 that in a hurry. It was clear the dear thing knew 
 me ; for she j)ut her nose down to my side to get the 
 apples I hked to keep for her in my side pockets. I 
 really thought she would betray me, so clearly did 
 she seem to me to understand that here was a friend 
 she knew. A wild thought came over me to moimt 
 her and ride for my life. No horse there of the heavy 
 Brandenburgers could liave kept near her. It would 
 have been madness, of course, and so I took my six- 
 pence with a toucli of my felt hat, and saw my dear Lucy 
 disappear in a cloud of du.st, riding toward the town. 
 
 "That was a big risk for thee," said the smitli, 
 wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. 
 " I will mount and ride with thee across-country 
 through the Welsh Barony. There thou wilt not 
 be far from the river. It is a good ten-mile business."
 
 290 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 After a little, when I had had some milk and rum, 
 the horses were saddled, and we crossed by an ox- 
 road through the forest past the settlement of Card- 
 ington, and then forded Cobb's Creek. A cross-road 
 carried us into the Haverford road, and so on by 
 wood- ways to the old "Welsh farms beyond Merion. 
 
 We met no one on the wskj save a farmer or two, 
 and here, being near to the Schuylkill, my old master 
 farrier took leave of me at the farm of Edward Mas- 
 ters, which lay in our way, and commended me to 
 the care of this good Free Quaker. 
 
 There I was well fed, and told I need to look out 
 only on this side the river for Tories. They were worse 
 than Hessianers, he said, and robbed like highway- 
 men. In fact, already the Tories who came confidently 
 back with the British army had become a terror to all 
 peaceful folk between Sweedsboro and our own city. 
 Their bands acted under royal commissions, some as 
 honest soldiers, but some as the enemies of any who 
 owned a cow or a bai'rel of flour, or from whom, 
 under torture, could be wrested a guinea. All who 
 were thus organised came at length to be dreaded, 
 and this whether they were bad or better. Friend 
 Masters had suffered within the week, but, once over 
 the Schuylkill, he assured me, there need be no fear, 
 as our own partisans and foragers were so active to 
 the north of the stream as to make it perilous for 
 Tories. 
 
 With this caution, my Quaker friend went with 
 me a mile, and set me on a wood path. I must be 
 put over at Hagy's Ford, he feared, as the river was
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 291 
 
 in AockI and too hi«rh for a horse to wade ; n<^r was 
 it nuu'h better at Youiig-'s Ford above. Finally he 
 sjiid, '* The ferryman ii> Peter iSkiuner, and as bad as 
 the Jereey Tories of that name. If thou dost perceive 
 hiiu to tiilk Friends' hingruage in reply to thy own 
 tidk, thou wilt do wi-11 to doubt what he ma}' tell thee. 
 He is not of our society. He cannot even so speak 
 as that it will deceive. Hereabouts it is thought he 
 is in league with Fitz.'' I asked who was Fitz. He 
 was one, I was told, who had received some lashes 
 when a pnvat« in our army, and had deserted. The 
 British, discovering his capacity, now used him as a 
 forager ; but he did not stop at hen-roosts. 
 
 With this added warning, I went on, keeping north 
 imtil I came to the Rock road, by no means mis- 
 named, and so through Merion Square to Hagy's Ford 
 Lane and the descent to the river. I saw few people 
 on the way. The stream was in a freshet, and not to 
 be waded. My ferryman was caulking a dory. I said : 
 
 "Wilt thou set me across, friend, and at what 
 charge ? " 
 
 To this he replied, " WTiere is thee bound ? " 
 
 I said, " To White Marsh." 
 
 " Thee is not of these parts." 
 
 "No." 
 
 He was speaking the vile tongue which now all 
 but educated Friends speak, and even some of these ; 
 but at that time it was s])oken only by the vulgar. 
 
 " It will cost thee two shillings." 
 
 " Too much," said I ; " but thou hast me caught 
 I must over, and that soon."
 
 292 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 He was long about getting ready, and now and 
 then looked steadily across the stream ; but as to this 
 I was not troubled, as I knew that, once beyond it, 
 I was out of danger. 
 
 I paid my fare, and left him looking after me up 
 the deep cut which led to the more level uplands. 
 Whistling gaily, and without suspicion, I won the 
 hilltop by what I think they called Ship Lane. 
 
 Glad to be over Schuylkill and out of the way of 
 risks, I sat down by the roadside at the top of the 
 ascent. The forest was dense with underbrush on 
 either side, and the hickories, and below them the 
 sumachs, were already rich with the red and gold of 
 autumn. Being rather tired, I remained at rest at 
 least for a haK-hour in much comfort of body and 
 mind. I had been strongly urged by my love for 
 Darthea to await her coming ; but decisions are and 
 were with me despotic, and, once I was of a mind to 
 go, not even Darthea could keep me. Yet to leave 
 her to my cousin and his wiles I hated. The more 
 I discussed him in the council of my own thoughts, 
 the more I was at a loss. His evident jealousy of 
 one so much younger did seem to me, as it did to my 
 aunt, singular. And why should he wish me to be 
 away, as clearly he did ? and why also malign me to 
 my father ? I smiled to think I was where his malice 
 could do me no harm, and, rising, pulled my snapsack 
 straps up on my shoulders, and set my face to the 
 east. 
 
 Of a sudden I heard to left, " Halt, there ! " I 
 saw a long rifle covering me, and above the brush
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Uuaker 293 
 
 a man's face. Tlien stepped out to right, as I obeyed 
 the order, a fellow in buckskin shirt and leggings, 
 with a pistol. I cried out, " I surrender ; " for what 
 else could I do ? Instantly a dozen men, iill armed, 
 were in the roa<l. and an ill-looking lot they were. 
 The leader, a coarse ft-llow, was short and red of 
 face, and much pimpled, lie had hair half a foot 
 long, and a beard such as none woi-e in those days. 
 
 I had but time to say meekly, "Why dost thou 
 stop me, friend ? '' when he jerked off my sack and, 
 plunging a hand inside, jiulled out a pistol. 
 
 *• A pretty Quaker ! Here," and he put back the 
 pi.stol, crying, as the men laughed, "sergeant, strap 
 this on your back. Quick ! fet<jh out the horses ; we 
 will look him over later. Up with him behind Joe ! 
 Quick— a girth ! We have no time to waste. A 
 darned rebel spy ! No doubt Sir William may like 
 to have him.'' 
 
 In truth, no time was lost nor any ceremony used, 
 and here was I strapped to the waist of a sturdy 
 trooper, behind whom I was set on a big-boned roan 
 hoi*se, and on my way home again. 
 
 "Whi<-h way, Cai)tain Fitz?" said the sergeant. 
 " The ford is high.*' In a moment we were away, in 
 all, as 1 uottid, about a score. 
 
 The fauious Tory chief— he was no better than 
 a bold thief— mad*' no reply, but rode northwest 
 with his following for a Iowcm- ford, as I fancied. 
 He went at speed through the open pino forest, 
 I. my hands bfing free, holding on to my man as 
 well as 1 could, and, as you may suppose, not \ery
 
 294 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 happy. A mile away we came out on a broad road. 
 Here the captain hesitated, and of a sudden turned 
 to left toward the river, crying loudly, with an oath, 
 " Follow me ! " The cause was plain. 
 
 Some twenty troopers came out into the road not 
 a hundred yards distant, and instantly rode down on 
 us at a run. Before we could get as swift a pace, 
 they were close upon us ; and then it was a wild and 
 perilous race downhill for the river, with yells, curses, 
 and pistol-balls flying, I as helpless, meanwhile, as 
 a child. The big roan kept weU up to the front 
 near the captain. Looking back, through dust and 
 smoke, I saw our pursuers were better horsed and 
 were gaining. A man near me dropped, and a horse 
 went down. With my left hand I caught hold of the 
 strap which fastened me to the rascal in the saddle. 
 He was riding for life, and too scared to take note of 
 the act. I gave the buckle a quick jerk, and it came 
 loose, and the strap feU. I clutched the man by the 
 throat with my right hand, and squeezed his gullet 
 with a death-grip. He made with his right hand for a 
 holster pistol, losing his stirrups, and kicking as 
 if in a fit. I only tightened my grip, and fetched 
 him a crack under the left ear with my unengaged 
 hand. He was reehng in the saddle when, at this 
 instant, I was aware of a horseman on my right. I 
 saw a sabre gleam in au' above us, and, letting go 
 my scamp's throat, I ducked quickly below his left 
 shoulder as I swung him to left, meaning to chance 
 a fall. He had, I fancy, some notion of his peril, for 
 he put up his hand and bent forward. I saw the
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 295 
 
 flai»h of a blade, and, my captor's head falliiifr for- 
 ^\"ard, a great spout of blood shot l^aok into my fju'e, 
 as the pair of us tumbled togetlier headlong from 
 his horse. I was dimly conscious of yells, oaths, a 
 liorse leaping over me, and for a few seconds knew 
 no more. Then I sat up, wiped the blood away, and 
 Siiw what had hap])ened. 
 
 The trooper lav across me dead, his head nearly 
 severed from the trunk, and spouting great jets of 
 blood. A half-dozen dead or wounded wtTc scattered 
 along tlie road. Not a rod away was the sergeant 
 who had my sack pinned under his horse, and far 
 ahead, in a cloud of dust, that terrible swordsman 
 riding hard after the bandit. Fitz, well mounted, got 
 off, I may add. and, vrith three or four, swam the 
 river, living to be hanged, as he well deserved. 
 
 By the time I was up and staggering forward, bent 
 on recovering my sack, the leader, who had given up 
 the chase, rode toward me. I must have been a queer 
 and horrid figure. I was literally covered with blood 
 and mud. Tlie blood was everywhere, — in my hair, 
 over ray face, and down my neck,— but I wanted my 
 precious siick. 
 
 " Halt ! " he cried out. " Here, corporal, tie this 
 fellow." 
 
 " Pardon me," .said I, now quite myself. " I was 
 the pri.sr)ner of these rji.scahi." 
 
 " Indeed ? Your name t " 
 
 " Hugh Wynne." 
 
 "Wliere from?" 
 
 " From the city." 
 
 »
 
 296 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 " To join the army." 
 
 " Your business ? What are you ? " 
 
 " Gentleman." 
 
 " Good heavens ! you are a queer one ! We shall 
 see. Are you hurt ? No ? Great Csesar ! you are 
 an awful sight ! " 
 
 "I was tied to that fellow you disposed of, and 
 with your permission I will get my snapsack 3'^onder." 
 
 " Good ; get it. Go with him, corporal, and keep 
 an eye on him." 
 
 In a half -hour the dead were stripped and pitched 
 aside, the wounded cared for in haste, and the horses 
 caught. 
 
 " Can you ride ? " said my captor. " By George, 
 you must ! " 
 
 " Yes, I can ride." 
 
 " Then up with you. Give him a leg." 
 
 I wanted none, and was up in a moment on the 
 bare back of a big farm mare ; their errand had been, 
 I learned, the purchase of horses. The captain bade 
 me ride with him, and, turning north, we rode away, 
 while the big brute imder me jolted my sore bones. 
 
 "And now," said the captain, "let me hear, Mr. 
 Wynne, what you have to say. Take a pull at my 
 flask." 
 
 I did so, and went on to relate my adventures 
 briefly— the duck-shooting, which much amused him, 
 the escape at the forge, and what else seemed to be 
 needed to set myseK right. He looked me over again 
 keenly.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 297 
 
 "You had a close thing of it." 
 
 " Yes," said I ; '' yo\i ai*e a terrible swordsman, and 
 a good one, if you will pardon me." 
 
 " I meant to cut liim on the liead, but he put his 
 neck where his heatl should have been. There is 
 one rascal the less ; but I missed the leader. Hang 
 him!" 
 
 " He will take care of that," said I. 
 
 Then my companion sjiid I must join his troop, 
 ajul would I excuse his rough dealing with me ? 
 
 I deehired myself well content, and explained as to 
 his otYer that I was much obliged, and would think 
 it over ; but that I desired fii'st to see the army, and 
 to find my fi'iend, Captain Warder, of the Pennsyl- 
 vania line. 
 
 " Yes ; a stout man and dark ? " 
 
 " No ; slight, well built, a blond." 
 
 " Good ; I know him. I was testing your tale, Mr. 
 Wynne. One has need to be careful in these times." 
 For a few moments he was silent, and then asked 
 shaq)ly, " "VMiere did you cross T " 
 
 I told him. 
 
 "And are there any outlying pickets above the 
 npper terry on the west bank f " 
 
 I thought not, and went on to tell of the bridging 
 of the river, of the lines of fort.s, and of the positions 
 held in the city by the Grenadiers and the High- 
 landers. A large part of tin* army, I said, was being 
 withdrawn from Gcrniantown, I supposed with a 
 view to attack the forts beh)\\' the city. 
 
 "^^^iat you say is vahiable, Mr. Wynne." And lie
 
 298 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 quickened the pace with an order, and pushed on at 
 speed. 
 
 It seemed to me time to know into whose company 
 I had fallen, and who was the hardy and decisive 
 rider at my side. 
 
 " May I take the liberty to ask with what command 
 I am ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I am Allan McLane, at your service. 
 I will talk to you later ; now I want to think over 
 what you have told me. I tried to get into the city 
 last week, dressed as an old woman ; they took my 
 eggs— Lord, they were aged!— but I got no farther 
 than the middle ferry. Are you sure that troops are 
 being withdi'awn from Germantown ? " 
 
 I said I was, and in large numbers. After this we 
 rode on in silence through the twilight. I glanced 
 now and then at my companion, the boldest of our 
 partisan leaders, and already a sharp thorn in the 
 side of General Howe's extended line. He was slight, 
 well made, and dark, with some resemblance to 
 Arthur Wynne, but with no weak lines about a 
 mouth which, if less handsome than my cousin's, was 
 far more resolute. 
 
 I was ready to drop from my rough steed when we 
 began, about nine at night, to see the camp-fires of 
 our army on either side of Skippack Creek. A halt 
 at the pickets, and we rode on around the right flank 
 among rude huts, rare tents, rows of spancelled 
 horses,— we call it "hobbled" nowadays,— and so at 
 last to a group of tents, the headquarters of the small 
 cavalry division.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 299 
 
 " Halt ! " I heard ; and I literally almost tumbled 
 off my hoi-se, pleased to see the last of him. 
 
 ''This way, sir," said MeLane, ''Here is my tent. 
 There is a tlask under the ])ine-needles. I have no 
 feather-bed to offer, (ret an hour's rest : it is all vou 
 can have just now. When I find out the headquar- 
 ters, you must ride acraiu." And he was gone. 
 
 I found a jui; of water and a towel; but my at- 
 tempts to get the blood and mud out of my hair and 
 neck were quite vain. I gave it up at last. Then I 
 nearly emptied the flask whioh McLane had left me, 
 set my sack under my head, j)ulled up a blanket, and 
 in a minute was out of the world of war and sound 
 asleep. 
 
 I do not know how long my slumber lasted on my 
 fragrant bed of pine. I heard a voice say, "Are you 
 dead, man ? " And shaken roughly, I sat up, confused, 
 and for a moment wondering where I was. 
 
 *• Come," said McLane. " Oh, leave your sack." 
 
 "No," I said, not caring to explain why. 
 
 In a moment I was in the saddle, as fi'esh as need 
 be, the cool October night-^\ind in my face. 
 
 " "Wliere are we bound ? " I asked. 
 
 " Head(iuarters. I want you to tell your own news. 
 Hang the man ! " We had knocked down a lurching 
 drunkard, but McLane stayed to ask no questions, 
 and in a half-hour we pulled up in the glare of a huge 
 fire, around which lay aides, some asleep and others 
 smoking. A few yards away was a row of tents. 
 
 Mclxine looked a))Out him. " Holloa, Hamilton ! " 
 he cried to a slight young man lying at the fire.
 
 300 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " Tell his Excellency I am here. I have news of im- 
 portance." 
 
 A moment after, the gentleman, who was to become 
 so well known and to die so needlessly, came back, 
 and we followed him to the largest of the tents. As 
 he lifted the fly he said, ''Captain McLane to see 
 your Excellency." 
 
 On a plain farm-house table were four candles, 
 dimly lighting piles of neatly folded papers, a simple 
 camp-bed, two or three wooden stools, and a camp- 
 chest. The ofiicer who sat bareheaded at the table 
 pushed aside a map and looked up. I was once more 
 in the presence of "Washington. Both McLane and 
 I stood waiting— I a little behind. 
 
 '' Whom have you here, sir ? " 
 
 ''Mr. Wynne, a gentleman who has escaped in 
 disguise to join the army. He has news which may 
 interest your Excellency." As he spoke I came 
 forward. 
 
 " Are you wounded, sir ? " 
 
 " No," said I ; " it is another man's blood, not mine." 
 He showed no further curiosity, nor any sign of the 
 amazement I had seen in the faces of his aides-de- 
 camp on my appearance at the camp-fire. 
 
 "Pray be seated, gentlemen. Do me the favour. 
 Captain McLane, to ask Colonel Hamilton to retui'n. 
 Mr. Wynne, you said ? " 
 
 " Yes, your Excellency." 
 
 Then, to set myseK right, I told him that I had had 
 the honour to have met him at the house of my aunt, 
 Mistress Wynne. " With permission, sir," I added,
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 301 
 
 " I am charged to deliver to your Excelleucy eight 
 hundred pounds which Mistress Wynne humbly 
 trust^s may be of use to the cause of liberty." So 
 sjipng, I pulled the English notes out of my long 
 stockings and laid them before him. 
 
 *' I could desire many reciiiits like you," he said. 
 ** Mr. Hamilton, I beg to present Mr. Wynne. Have 
 the kindness to make memoranda of what he may 
 tell us." He spoke Avith deli]>eration, as one who had 
 learned to weigh his words, not omitting any of the 
 usual courteous forms, more common at that time 
 than in our less formal day. General Knox came in 
 as we sat down. 
 
 He was a sturdy man with a sliglit stoop, and had 
 left his book-shop in Boston to become the trusted 
 friend and artillery officer of the great Virginian, 
 who chose his men with slight regard to the tongues 
 of the Southern officers, for whom they were too 
 often " sliopkeepers " or '• mere traders." 
 
 '• Report of court martial on Daniel Ph-nipton, 
 de.-<erter,'' said Knox. The general took the papers, 
 and for ten minutes at least was intently concerned 
 with what he reatl. Then he took a pen and wi'ote 
 a line and his name, and, looking up, said, " Approved, 
 of course. Parade his regiment at daybreak for exe- 
 cution. Your pardon, gentlemen." And at once he 
 began to put to me a series of questions rather slowly. 
 The absence of hurry surprised mf', young as I was, 
 and not yet apt to take in all I might see. Every 
 minute .some oii»' appeared. Thei't' were papers to 
 sign, aidf'S coming and going, impatient sounds with-
 
 302 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 out, a man's death decreed ; but with no sign of haste 
 he went on to finish. 
 
 At last he rose to his feet, we also standing, of 
 course. "Ai-e 3'ou sure that Sir William has re- 
 called any large force from Germantown ?— any large 
 force!" 
 
 I knew that the Grenadiers and many Hessians had 
 come in, and a considerable part of the artillery, but 
 to what extent or precisely in what numbers I could 
 not be sure. He seemed to me to be intensely con- 
 sidering what I told him. 
 
 At last he said, " You must be tired. You have 
 brought much needed help, and also good news." 
 Why good I did not then understand. "And now 
 what do you desire! How can I serve you, Mr. 
 Wynne ! " 
 
 I said I wished to be in the ranks for a time, 
 until I learned a little more of the duty. 
 
 He made no comment, but turning to McLane, 
 said, " Captain McLane, you will care for this gen- 
 tleman. I trust occasion may serve, Mr. Wynne, to 
 enable me to offer Mistress WjTine my thanks. When 
 you desire a commission, Mr. Hamilton will kindly 
 remind me of the service you have done your coun- 
 try to-day. You have acted with your usual discre- 
 tion. Captain McLane. Good-night, gentlemen." 
 We bowed and went out. 
 
 On our way back we rode a footpace, while the 
 captain, now ready enough to talk, answered my 
 many questions. " Yes ; the general was a reserved, 
 tranquil man, with a chained-up devil inside of him j
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 303 
 
 could lay a whip over a black fellow's back if a horse 
 were ill groomed, or call a luau— and he a generid 
 
 — a d ili-unkard; but that woidd be in the heat 
 
 of a fight. ^Vn archbishop would learn to swear in 
 the army, and the general had no more piety than 
 was good for men who were here to commit murder." 
 
 The next day I set out afoot, as I preferred, to look 
 for Jack, and a nice business I found it. The army 
 was moNing down the Skippack road to Worcester 
 township, and the whole march seemed, to me at least, 
 one great bewildering confusion of dust, artillery, 
 or waggons stalled, profane aides going liither and 
 thither, broken fences, women standing at farm-house 
 doors, white and cr\dug, as the long line of our foot 
 passed ; and over all rang sharp the clink and rattle 
 of Hanking cavahy as the horse streamed by, tram- 
 phng the ruddy buckwheat-fields, and through rav- 
 aged orchards and broken gardens. Overhead, in a 
 great cloud higli in air, the fine dust was blown down 
 the line by the east wind. It was thick and oppres- 
 sive, choking man and horse Avith an exacting thirst, 
 mocked by empty wells and defiled brooks. No one 
 knew where any one else was, and in all my life, save 
 on one memorable evening, I never heard as gi'cat a 
 variety of abominable language. 
 
 I had done my best, by some change of under- 
 clothes and the industrious use of soap and water, to 
 make my ai»]varance less uoticeal)le ; Ijut it was still 
 bad enough, beeause I had no outer garments except 
 those I was wearing. Had I been better dressed, I 
 had fared better ; for in those days clothes were cou-
 
 304 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 sidered, and you might easily tell by his costume if a 
 man were a mechanic, a farmer, a small trader, or a 
 gentleman. 
 
 I fell at last upon an officer who was endeavouring 
 to get his horse a share of wayside ditch water. I 
 said to him, seeing my chance, that his horse had 
 picked up a stone; if he would wait a moment I || 
 
 would knock it out. On this, and upon his thank- 
 ing me, I asked where I might find Wayne's brigade, 
 for in it, as I knew, was my captain of the Third 
 Pennsylvania Continental foot. He told me it was 
 a mile ahead. Comforted by this news, I walked on, 
 keeping chiefly in the fields, for there alone was it 
 possible to get past the marching columns. 
 
 About eleven there was a halt. I passed a lot of 
 loose women in carts, many canvas-covered commis- 
 sary waggons, footsore men fallen out, and some 
 asleep in the fields,— all the scum and refuse of an j 
 
 army, — with always dust, dust, so that man, beast, 
 waggons, and every green thing were of one dull 
 yellow. Then there was shouting on the road ; the 
 stragglers fled left and right, a waggon of swearing 
 women turned over into a great ditch, and with ^ 
 
 laughter, curses, and crack of whip, two well-horsed 
 cannon and caissons bounded over the field, crashing 
 through a remnant of snake fence, and so down the 
 road at speed. I ran behind them, glad of the gap 
 they left. About a mile farther they pulled up, and 
 going by I saw with joy the red and buff of the 
 Pennsylvania line. Behind them there was an 
 interval, and thus the last files were less dusty. But
 
 HuLji:h Wynne: Free Quaker 305 
 
 for this I should have gone past them. A soldier 
 told me that this was the regimeut I sought, aud, 
 searching the ranks eagerly as they stood at ease, I 
 walked swiftly along. 
 
 " Holloa ! " I shouted. I saw Jack look about him. 
 *•■ Jack I " I cried. He ran to me as I spoke. I think 
 I .-;hoidd have kissed him but for the staring soldiers. 
 In all my life I never wtus so glad. There was brief 
 time allowed for greetings. " Fall in ! fall in ! " I 
 heard. '• ,^larch ! " 
 
 " Come along," he said. And walking beside him, 
 I poured out news of home, of my Aunt Gaiuor, and 
 of myself. 
 
 A mile beyond we halted close to the road near to 
 Methacton Hill, where, I may add, we lay that night 
 of October 2. Having no tents, Jack and I slept 
 on the ground rolled up in Holland blankets, and 
 sheltered in part by a wicky-up, which the men con- 
 trived cleverly enough. 
 
 I saw on our an'ival how— automatically, as it 
 seemed to me— the regiments found camping- gi-ounds, 
 and how well the ragged men arranged for shelters 
 of boughs, or made tents with two rails and a blanket. 
 The confusion disappeared. Sentries and pickets 
 were posted, fires were lit, and food cooked. The 
 order of it seenu'd to me as mysterious as the seem- 
 ing disorder of the march. 
 
 After .some talk with Jack, I concluded to serve as 
 a volunteer, at least for a few weeks, and learn the 
 V)usines8 better before I should decide to accept the 
 general's kindness. Accordingly I took my place
 
 306 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 in the ranks of Jack's company, and, confiding most 
 of my gold to Ms care, kept in a belt under my 
 clothes not more than six guineas, as I remember. 
 No uniform was to be had at any price ; but I was 
 hardly worse off than half of the men who made up 
 our company. A musket, and what else was wanted, 
 I obtained without trouble, and as to the drill, I knew 
 it well enough, thanks to the Irish sergeant who had 
 trained us at home. 
 
 Our duties, of course, kept us much apart— that is, 
 Jack and myself; but as he made use, or pretended 
 to make use, of me as an orderly, I was able to see 
 more of him than otherwise would have been possi- 
 ble. My pistols I asked him to use until I could 
 reclaim them, and I made him happy with the to- 
 bacco I brought, and which I soon saw him divid- 
 ing among other officers ; for what was Jack's was 
 always everybody's. And, indeed, because of this 
 generosity he has been much imposed upon by the 
 selfish.
 
 xvir 
 
 N this night of tlie 2d of October, Jack 
 tokl ine we sliouki move next niornintr 
 I or the day after. He liad seen General 
 Wayne on an errand for onr colonel. 
 " A strong talker, the general ; but as 
 ready to tight as to talk.'' In fact, ammunition was 
 i.>isued, and before dawn on the 4th the mjTiad noises 
 of an army breaking camp aroused me. It was a 
 gray morning over-head, and cool. When we fell 
 into line to inarch, Jack called me out of the ranks. 
 " There ^\-ill be a fight, Hugh. Mr. Howe has sent 
 troo])s into Jersey, and weakened his hold on the 
 village, or so it is thought. In fact, you know tliat, 
 for it was von that fetched the news. If— I should 
 get killed— you will tell your aunt— not to forget me 
 —and Darthea too. And my father— my father, 
 Hugh — I have wi-itten to him and to Miss Wynne— 
 in case of accident." The day before a fight Jack 
 was always going to be killed. T do not think I ever 
 thought I should be hit. I had. later in the war, a 
 constant impression that, if I were, it would be in the 
 stoinaeh, and tliis idea I much disliked. I fell to 
 thinking of Darthea and Jack, wondering a little,
 
 308 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 until the drum and fife struck up, and at tlie word 
 we stepped out. 
 
 I have no intention to describe more of the fight 
 at Germantown than I saw, and that was but little. 
 It seemed to me confusion worse confounded, and 
 I did not wonder that Gray don had once written 
 me from the North that we were in a "scuffle for 
 liberty." The old village was then a long, broken 
 line of small, gray stone houses, set in gardens on 
 each side of the highway, with here and there a 
 larger mansion, like the Chew House, Cliveden, and 
 that of the Wisters. 
 
 The ascent from the city is gradual. At Mount 
 Airy it is more abrupt, and yet more steep at Chest- 
 nut Hill, where my aunt's house, on the right, looks 
 down on broken forests, through which the centre 
 marched by the Perkiomen road. The fight on our 
 right wing I knew nothing of for many a day. 
 
 As we tramped on our march of many miles, the 
 fog which the east wind brought us grew thicker, 
 but there was less dust. Soon after dusk of morn- 
 ing we came out of the woods, and moved up the 
 ascent of Chestnut Hill, where I wondered to find 
 no defences. There were scarce any houses here- 
 abouts, and between the hill and the descent to Mount 
 Airy our own regiment diverged to the left, off the 
 road. There were hardly any fences to trouble us, 
 and where the lines were broken by gardens or 
 hedges, we went by and remade the line, which was 
 extended more to left as we moved away from the 
 highway.
 
 Hugh \W'nne : Free Quaker 309 
 
 At len<]:th we were halted. I was thinking of the 
 glad days I had spent hereabouts when we heard to 
 right the rattle of muskets. ]MeLane had driven in 
 the advance picket of the enemy. Then the right of 
 C)ur own force fell on some British light infantry, 
 and. swinging the left on the right as a pivot, our 
 own flanking regiment faced their guns, so that we 
 were in part back on the main road. The sun came 
 out for a little, but the fog thickened, and it was lost. 
 I saw Jack look at me, and noticed how flushed he 
 was, and that his face was twitching. So heav\' was 
 the fog that, as we saw the guns, we were almost on 
 them. To see fifty feet ahead was impossil)le. I saw 
 two red fla.shes as the muskets rang out. There were 
 wild fries, (juit-k orders : '' Fire ! fire ! " And vdih a 
 gi-eat shout we ran forward, I hearing Jack cry, 
 '' The bayonet ! the bayonet ! " I saw in the smoke 
 and fog men fall to right and left, and in a moment 
 was after Jack, who stood between the guns, fencing 
 with two big grenadiers. I clu})bed one of them with 
 my l)utt, and Jack disposed of the second. 
 
 Meanwhile the English line had broken, and men 
 who had fallen hurt or were standing wer<' crying 
 for quarter. I saw none given. It was horril)le. Our 
 men were paying a sad dcljt, contracted on the 20th 
 of September, when Grey surpi-ised Wayne at Paoli, 
 and there were no wounded left and few prisoners. 
 
 It was a frightful scene, and when the officers suc- 
 ceeded to stop the slaughter, the account had been 
 mercilessly settled, and tliere was scarce a living 
 enemy in sight. Hastily reforming, we went on
 
 31 o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 again, more to left of the main road, through tents, 
 scattered baggage, dying horses, and misty red 
 splotches where the scarlet uniforms lay thick on the 
 wet grass. As we pushed on, the fog broke a little, 
 and a confused mass of redcoats was seen, some 
 running, and some following tumultuously their colo. 
 nel, Musgrave, into the solid stone house of Clive- 
 den, while the larger number fled down the road and 
 over the fields. 
 
 Meanwhile Sullivan's people came up. Two cannon 
 set across the road— they were but four-pounders— 
 opened with small effect on the stone house. The 
 fire from the windows was fierce and fatal. Men 
 dropped here and there, until Jack called to us to 
 lie down. We were at this time behind the mansion. 
 As we lay, I saw Jack walking to and fro, and coolly 
 lighting a pipe. Our company lay to the left a little, 
 and away from the rest of the regiment. I called 
 to Jack : 
 
 "Let us rush it, Jack, and batter down the back 
 door." 
 
 Jack, as I rose, called out to me, with a fierce oath, 
 to keep still and obey orders. I dropped, and as I 
 did so saw an of&cer with a white flag shot down as 
 he went forward to ask a surrender. 
 
 Then we were ordered to march, leaving a regiment 
 to continue the siege ; a half -hour had been lost. We 
 went at a run quite two miles down the slope, now 
 on, now off the main street, with red gleams now and 
 then seen through this strangeness of fog. The Brit- 
 ish were flying, broken and scattered, over the fields.
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 3 1 i 
 
 I heard " Halt ! " as we svnmg parallel with the 
 road at the market-place, where the Grenadiers made 
 a gallant stand, as wtis kuo^vn by the more orderly 
 platoon firing. Then we, too, broke out iu gi'eat 
 blaze, and after, what with fog and smoke, a fight iu 
 a cellar were as good. 
 
 The next minute our people came down the high- 
 way, and, between the two fii*es, the Enghsh again 
 gave way. I heard, "Forward ! We have 'em ! " Some 
 near me hesitated, and I saw Jack run by me crying, 
 " The bayonet, men ! After me ! " I saw no more 
 of Jack for many a day. "We were in the wide market- 
 place—a mob of furious men, blind with fog and 
 smoke, stabbing, clubbing, striking, as chance served. 
 My great personal strength helped me well. Twice 
 I cleared a space, until my musket broke. I fell 
 twice, once with a hard crack on the head from the 
 butt of a musket. As some English went over me, 
 I stabbed at them madly, and got a bayonet thrust 
 in my left arm. I was up in a moment, and for a 
 little while, quite unarmed, was in the middle of a 
 confused mass of men raging and swearing like mani- 
 acs. Suddenly there was no one to be seen near me ; 
 the noise of muskets, tlie roar of cannonr}-, red flashes 
 in the fog in front — that was all, as I stood panting 
 and dazed. Next I heard wild cries back of me, and 
 the crash of musketry. Stephens's division, coming 
 up beliiud us, began to fire, mistaking us, in the in- 
 fernal darkness, for an enen)y. Our people broke 
 under it, and, passing me, ran, beaten ; for the panic 
 spread in the very moment of victory.
 
 3 I 2 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 I turned, not understanding, stumbled over a dead 
 man, and suddenly felt as if a stone had struck my 
 left leg above the knee. I fell instantly, and for a 
 time— I do not know how long— lost consciousness. 
 It could have been but a few moments. 
 
 When I came to myself, I got up, confused and 
 giddy, and began to walk, but with painful difficulty, 
 stumbling over dead or wounded men. Our people 
 were gone, and I saw no one for a little, till I heard 
 the quick tramp of feet and saw through the fog the 
 red line of a marching regiment almost upon me. I 
 made an effort to fall to one side of the street, but 
 dropped again, and once more knew nothing. I 
 think they went over me. When evening came, I 
 found myself lying with others on the sidewalk in 
 front of the Wister house. How I was taken thither 
 I know as little as any. I was stiff, sore, and bloody, 
 but soon able to look about me. I found a bandage 
 around my leg, and felt in no great pain unless I 
 tried to move. Men in red coats came and went, but 
 none heeded my cry for water, until an old servant- 
 woman, who during the fight had refused to leave 
 the house, brought me a drink. I knew her well. I 
 tried to tell her who I was, but my parched tongue 
 failed me, and a rough corporal bade her begone. 
 My watch, a good silver one, was stolen, but my 
 money-belt was safe. 
 
 Beside me were many other wounded, one man 
 hideous vsdth his jaw broken ; he seemed to me dying. 
 By and by soldiers fetched others. Then a detach- 
 ment of Virginians went past, in their fringed skin
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 3 1 3 
 
 shirts, prisoners, black -wdth smoke, dirty and sullen. 
 Surgeons' aids came and went in and out, and soon 
 the sidewalk was crowded with the wounded. At last 
 they carried a dying general into the house. I asked 
 his name, but no one answered me. It was the brig- 
 adier Agnew, now lying at rest in the lower burial- 
 ground by Fishei*'s Lane. 
 
 An otfieer came and counted us like sheep. About 
 nine a row of carts stopped, — country waggons seized 
 for the purpose,— and, with small tenderness, we 
 were told to get in, or at need lifted in. I was put, 
 with eight others, in a great Couestoga wain without 
 a cover. Soon a detachment of horse arrived, and 
 thus guarded, we were carted away like logs. 
 
 The road was never good, but now it was full of 
 holes and cut up by the wheels of artiller\'. I shall 
 never forget the misery of that ride. I set my teeth 
 and resolved to utter no groan. Before us and be- 
 hind us were many loads of wounded men, chiefly 
 such a.s seemed fit to travel. There were nine of us. 
 One was dead before we reached town. As we jolted 
 on, and the great wain rocked, I heard the crack 
 of the drivers' whips, and far and near, in the dark- 
 ness or near beside me, curses, prayers, mad screams 
 f)f pain, or men imploring water. 
 
 When near to Nicetowu, came on a cold, heavy 
 rain which chilled us to shivering. I let my hand- 
 kerchief get soaked, and sucked it. Then I wet it 
 again- the rain a torrent— and gave it into the hand 
 of him who was next me. He could not use his arm, 
 nor could I turn to aid him, nor did he answer me.
 
 314 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 At times we waited on the way, so ttiat it was one 
 in the morning when we found ourselves in Chestnut 
 street in front of the State-House. It was still dis- 
 mally raining. We were told to get out, and with 
 help I did so, a hne of soldiers standing on each side ; 
 but no one else near, and it was too dark to see if 
 any whom I knew were to be seen. When they pulled 
 out the man next to me, his head fell, and it was 
 clear that he was dead. He was laid on the sidewalk, 
 and we were helped or made to crawl upstairs to the 
 long room in the second story. 
 
 Here some surgeons' mates came and saw to us 
 quite patiently. Soldiers fetched bread and water. 
 I asked a pleasant kind of youth, a sui'geon's aid, 
 to let my aunt know of my condition. He said he 
 would, and, without the least doubt that he would 
 keep his word, I managed to get into a position of 
 partial ease, and, sure of early reUef, lay awaiting 
 the sleep which came at last when I was weary with 
 listening to the groans of less patient men. The 
 young surgeon never troubled himself with the de- 
 livery of my message. May the Lord reward him !
 
 XVIII 
 
 HE mad screams of a man in an ag:ony 
 of pain awoke me on this Sunday, Octo- 
 ber o, at daybreak. The room was a 
 sorry sight. Some had died in the night, 
 and were soon carried out for burial I 
 lay .^till, iu no gi*eat pain, and reflected on the swift 
 succession of events of the past week. I had had 
 bad luck, but soon, of course, my aunt or father 
 would know of my misfortune. As I waited for what 
 might come, I tried to recall the events of the battle. 
 I found it almost impossible to gather them into 
 consecutive clearness, and often since I have won- 
 dered to hear men profess to deliver a lucid history 
 of what went on in some desperate struggle of war. 
 I do not believe it to be possible. 
 
 Being always of a sanguine turn of mind, I 
 waited, full of comforting hope. About five, after 
 some scant food, we were told to get up and go down- 
 stairs. It was still dark because of the continuous 
 ruin and overcast skies. I refused to walk, and was 
 lifted by two men and j)ut in a waggon. A few early 
 idh'rs were around the door to see us come out. I 
 looked eagerly for a face I knew, but saw none. Our 
 ride wuij short. We went down Sixth street, and
 
 316 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 drew up at the Walnut street front of the prison^ 
 called, while the British held the town, the Provost. 
 It was unfinished, a part being temporarily roofed 
 over with boards. At the back was a large yard 
 with high walls. Some, but not all, of the windows 
 in the upper story had transverse slats to keep those 
 within from seeing out. On the Sixth street side 
 were none of these guards, and here the windows 
 overlooked the potter's field, which now we call Wash- 
 ington Square. 
 
 As I managed, with some rough help, to get up the 
 steps, a few early risen people paused to look on. 
 Others came from the tumble-down houses on the 
 north side of Walnut street, but again I was unfortu- 
 nate, and saw none I knew. 
 
 My heart fell within me as I looked up at the gray 
 stone walls and grated windows. The door soon 
 closed behind a hundred of us, not a few being of 
 the less severely wounded. Often in passing I had 
 thought, with a boy's hori'or, of this gloomy place, 
 and tried to imagine how I should feel in such a 
 cage. I was to learn full well. 
 
 With fifteen others, I was shut up in a room about 
 twenty-two feet square, on the Sixth street side and 
 in the second story. I was, but for a Virginia 
 captain, the only wounded man among these^ the 
 rest being stout country fellows, ruddy and strong, 
 except one lean little man, a clerk, as I learned later, 
 and of the commissary department. 
 
 As I had again refused to walk upstairs, I was 
 carried, and not rudely laid down by two soldiers in
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 317 
 
 a corner of the bare room, uow to be for many a 
 day our prison. The rest sat down here and there 
 in dull silence, now and then looking at the door 
 as if there hope was to be expected to enter. I 
 called the Virginia captain, after an hour had gone 
 by, and asked him to lift and ease my hurt leg. 
 He was quick to help, and tender. In a few min- 
 utes we came to know each other, and thus began 
 a friendly relation which lias endured to this present 
 time. 
 
 For a day or two soldiers were employed as turn- 
 keys, but then a lot of rough fellows took their 
 places, and we began to feel the change, I may say 
 the like of our food. For a week it was better than 
 our pot-luck in camp. We had rye bread, tea with- 
 out sugar, and liorribly tough beef ; but within two 
 weeks tlie ration fell to bread and water, with uow 
 and then salt or fresh beef, and potatoes or beans, 
 but neither nun nor tea. A sui-geon dressed my 
 wounds for a month, and then I saw him no more, 
 lie was a surly fellow, and would do for rae nothing 
 else, and was usually half intoxicated. The arm was 
 soon well, but the leg wound got full of maggots 
 when it was no longer cared for, and only when, in 
 Januar}', I pulled out a bit of bone did it heal. 
 
 Once a day, sometimes in the morning, more often 
 in the afternoon, we were let out in the yard for an 
 hour, watched by sentries, and these also we heard 
 outside under our windows. Obscr\'ing how quickly 
 the big country louts lost flesh and colour, I set my- 
 self to seeing how I could keep my health. I talked
 
 3 1 8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 with my unlucky fellow-prisoners, ate the food even 
 when it was as vile as it soon became, and when in 
 the yard walked up and down making acquaintances 
 as soon as I was able, while most of the rest sat 
 about moping. I felt sure that before long some one 
 would hear of me and bring relief. None came. 
 
 The scoundrel in charge was a Captain Cunning- 
 ham, He had risen from the ranks. A great, florid, 
 burly, drunken brute, not less than sixty years old. 
 This fellow no doubt sold our rations, for in Decem- 
 ber we once passed three days on rye bread and 
 water, and of the former not much ; one day we had 
 no food. 
 
 He kicked and beat his victims at times when 
 drunk, and when I proposed to him to make ten 
 pounds by letting my aunt know where I was, he 
 struck me with a heavy iron key he carried, and cut 
 open my head, as a great scar testifies to this day. 
 
 In late December the cold became intense, and we 
 were given a blanket apiece to cover us as we lay 
 on the straw. We suffered the more from weather 
 because it chanced that, in October, the frigate 
 " Augusta " blew up in the harbour, and broke half 
 the panes of glass. In December the snow came in 
 on us, and was at times thick on the floor. Once or 
 twice a week we had a little fire-wood, and contrived 
 then to cook the beans, which were rarely brought 
 us more than half boiled. 
 
 We did our best, the captain and I, to encourage our 
 more unhappy companions, who, I think, felt more 
 than we the horroi*s of this prisoned life. We told
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 319 
 
 stories, grot up games, and I induced the men to go 
 a-fisbing, as we called it; that is, to let down tlieir 
 ragged hats through the broken window-panes by 
 cords torn from the edges of our bhmkets. Now and 
 then the poor folks near by tilled these nets with stale 
 bread or potatoes ; but one day, after long ill luck, 
 a hat wai> of a sudden felt to be hea^y, jind was 
 declared a mighty catch, and hauled up witli care. 
 When it was found to be full of stones, a strange 
 misery appeared on the faces of these eager, half- 
 starved wretches. The little clerk said, " We asked 
 bread, and they gave us a stone," and of a sudden, 
 broke out into hideous exuberance of blasphemy, 
 like one in a minute distraught. It was believed 
 Cunningham had been he who was guilty of this 
 cruel jest ; but as to this I have no assurance. Our 
 efforts to cultivate patience, and even gay endurance, 
 by degrees gave way, as we became feeble in body, 
 and the men too hungiy to be comforted by a joke. 
 At last the men ceased to laugh or smile, or even 
 to talk, and sat in comers close to one another for 
 the saving of body warmth, silent and inert. 
 
 A stout butcher, of the Maryland line, went mad, 
 and swore roundly he was George the king. It was 
 hard, indeed, to resist the sense of despair wliich 
 seemed at last to possess all alike ; for to starvation 
 and cold were added such filth and vileness as men 
 of decent habits felt more than those accustomed 
 to be careless tis to cleanliness. 
 
 The Virginian, one Richard Dclaney, soon got over 
 a slight hurt he had, and but for him I should not
 
 320 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 be alive to-day. The place swarmed with rats, and 
 he and I set to work capturing them, fllUng their 
 holes as they came out at evening, and chasing them 
 until we caught them. Tliey kept well in the intense 
 cold, and when we were given fii-e-wood, we cooked 
 and ate them greedily. 
 
 Meanwhile death was busj^ among the starving 
 hundreds thus huddled together. We saw every day 
 hasty bmials in the potter's field. I wrote twice, 
 with charred wood, on the half of a handker- 
 chief, and threw it out of the window, but no good 
 came of this ; I suppose the sentries were too vigi- 
 lant. 
 
 A turnkey took one of my guineas, promising to 
 let my aunt hear of me. I saw him no more. As 
 to Cunningham, he was either too drunk to care, or 
 expected to make more out of our rations than by a 
 bribe, and probably did not credit the wild promises 
 of a ragged prisoner. At all events, no good came 
 of our many efforts and devices, which were more 
 numerous than I have patience to relate. From the 
 beginning my mind was full of schemes for escaping, 
 and these I confided to Delaney. They served, at 
 least, to keep hope fat, as he said. 
 
 Early in December I began to have dysentery, and 
 could eat no more, or rarely ; but for Delaney I should 
 have died. He told me, about this time, that the men 
 meant to kill Cunningham and make a mad effort to 
 overcome the guard and escape. It seemed to me the 
 wildest folly, but they were grown quite desperate 
 and resolute for something— all but the butcher, who
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 321 
 
 sang obscene songs or doleful hjonns, and sat dejected 
 in a corner. 
 
 The day after I saw the little commissaiy clerk 
 ttilkiug in the yard to Cunningham, and that even- 
 ing this ra-scal appeared with two soldiers and 
 carried oil" four of the dozen left in our room; 
 for witliin a week several had died of the t^-phus, 
 which now raged among us. The next morning the 
 clerk was found dead, strangled, as I believe, in the 
 night, but by whom we never knew. 
 
 I got over the dysentery more speedily than was 
 common, but it was quickly followed by a bm-ning 
 fever. For how long I know not I lay on the floor 
 in the straw, miserably rolling from side to side. 
 The last impression I recall was of my swearing 
 wildly at Delaney because he would insist on putting 
 under me his own blanket. Then I lost conscious- 
 ness of my pain and unrest, and knew no more for 
 many days. I came to a knowledge of myself to find 
 Delaney again caring for me, and was of a sudden 
 aware howdelicious was the milk he was pouring do^\^l 
 my throat. What else Delaney did for me I know not, 
 except that he found and cared for mv monev, and 
 bribed the turnkey with part of it to bring me milk 
 daily for some two weeks. But that we had hid the 
 guineas forawhilein thea.shesof the fireplace, Ishould 
 have lost this chance and have died ; for one day Cun- 
 ningham made us all strip, and searched us thoroughly. 
 
 About the end of January, Delaney, seeing me 
 b<.'ttered and able to sit up a little, told me this 
 btruuge story. While I was ill and unconscious, an 
 
 21
 
 322 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 officer had come to inspect the prison. Cunningham 
 was very obsequious to this gentleman, and on De- 
 laney's seizing the chance to complain, said it was a 
 pack of lies, and how could he help the dysentery 
 and typhus ? All jails had them, even in England, 
 which was too true. 
 
 " I went on," said Delaney, " to say that it was an 
 outrage to confine officers and men together, and 
 that Mr. Wynne and myseK should be put on parole. 
 The inspector seemed startled at this, and said, ' Who "? ' 
 I had no mind to let a lie stand in your way, and I 
 repeated, 'Captain Wynne,' pointing to you, who 
 were raving and wild enough. He came over and 
 stood just here, looking down on you for so long that 
 I thought he must be sorry for us. Then he said, in 
 a queer way, and very deliberately, 'Will he get 
 well? He ought to be better looked after.' Cun- 
 ningham said it was useless, because the surgeon had 
 said you would be over yonder (pointing to the pot- 
 ter's field) in a day or two." Which, in fact, was his 
 cheerful prediction. It was safe to say it of any who 
 fell lU in the jail. 
 
 " This officer appeared puzzled or undecided. He 
 went out and came back alone, and leaned over you, 
 asking me to pull the blanket from your face. I 
 did so, as he seemed afraid to touch it. You, my 
 dear Wynne, were saying ' Dorothea ' over and over ; 
 but who is Dorothea the Lord knows, or you. The 
 officer, after standing a while, said, ' it was a pity, 
 but it was of no use ; you would die.' As for me, 
 I told him that we were officers starving, and
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 323 
 
 were entitled to better treatment. He said he would 
 see to it ; and that is all. He went away, and we are 
 still here ; but if ever—" 
 
 I broke in on Delanev's threat with, "Who was 
 the man \ " 
 
 " Cimningham consigned me to a more comfortable 
 climate than this when I asked him, and the tiu-nkey 
 did not know," 
 
 " What did he look like ? " said I. 
 
 " He was tall, very dark, and had a scar over the 
 left eye." 
 
 " Indeed ? Did he have a way of standing with 
 half -shut eyes, and liis mouth a little open ? " 
 
 "Certainly, ^^'hy, Wynne, you must know the 
 man." 
 
 " I do— I do. He is my cousin." 
 
 "I congratulate you." And so saying, he went 
 away to the door to receive our rations, of which 
 now every one except oui'selves stole whatever he 
 could lay hands on. 
 
 It did seem to me, as I lay still, in much distress 
 of body, and thought over that which I now heard 
 for the first time, that no man could be so cruel as 
 Arthur had shown himself. Time had gone by, and 
 he had done nothing. If, as appeared likely, he was 
 sure I was almost m the act of death, it seemed yet 
 worse ; for how could I, a dying man, hurt any one? 
 If for any eause he feared me, here was an end of it. 
 It seemed to me })f)th stupid and villainous. He had 
 warned me that I had everything to dread from his 
 enmity if I persisted in writing to Darthea. As-
 
 324 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 suredly he had been as good as his word. He was 
 unwilling to risk any worldly advantages by giving 
 me a gentleman's satisfaction, and could coldly let 
 me die far from the love of those dear to me, in not 
 much better state than a pig perishing in a sty. Nay ; 
 the pig were better off, having known no better 
 things. 
 
 I thought much as I lay there, having been near 
 to death, and therefore seriously inclined, how im- 
 possible it must ever be for me to hate a man enough 
 to do as Arthur had done. As the days went on, the 
 hope which each week brought but hatched a new 
 despair ; and still I mended day by day ; and for this 
 there was a singular cause. I kept thinking of the 
 hour when my cousin and I should meet ; and as I 
 fed this animal appetite I won fresh desire to live, 
 the motive serving as a means toward health of body. 
 
 Concerning what had caused Arthur to lift no 
 finger of help, I tried to think no more. If it were 
 because of Darthea, why should he so fear me ? I 
 wished he had more reason. He must have learned 
 later that I was still alive, and that I was, when he 
 saw me, in no state to recognise him. It looked 
 worse and worse as I thought about it, until Delaney, 
 hearing me talk of nothing else, told me I would go 
 mad like the butcher if I let myself dwell longer 
 upon it. Thus wisely counselled, I set it aside. 
 
 It was now the beginning of February; I was 
 greatly improved, and fast gaining strength, but had 
 lost, as I guessed, nearly three stone. There were but 
 six of us left, the butcher dying last on his rotten
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 325 
 
 straw iu awful anj:ruish of terror aiul despair. 
 Delaney and I consoled each other all this dreary 
 ■winter, and we did all men could do for the more 
 unfortunate ones, whose sicknesses and deaths made 
 this hell of distress almost unbearable. 
 
 The food was at times better, and then again, as a 
 drunkard's caprice willed, there might be none for 
 a day. If we were ourselves wretched and starved, 
 we were at least a source of comfort and food to 
 those minor beings to whom we furnished both board 
 and bed. 
 
 I do not mean to tell over the often-heard story 
 of a j)rison ; what we did to while away the hours ; 
 how we taxed our memories until the reading, long 
 forgotten, came back in morsels, and could be put 
 together for new pleasure of it. 
 
 There was one little man who had been a broken- 
 do\N-n clergA'man, and had entt^red the army. His 
 chief trouble was that he coidd get no rum, and of 
 this he talked whenever we would listen. He had, 
 like several sots I have known, a remarkable memory, 
 and was thus a gi*eat resource to us, as he could re- 
 peat whole plays, and a wonderful amount of the 
 Bible. As it was hard to arouse him, and get him 
 to use his power to recall what he had read, in an evil 
 hour we bribed him with some choice bits of our 
 noble rations. After this the price would rise at 
 times, and he became greedy. His mind gave way 
 by degrees, but h«; still kej)t his memory, being also 
 more and more eager to be paid for his j)0\ver to 
 interest or amuse us.
 
 326 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 When he grew melancholy and sleepless, and 
 walked about all night, it was a real addition to 
 our many evils. He declared that he must soon die, 
 and I heard him one night earnestly beseeching God, 
 in language of great force and eloquence, to forgive 
 him. In the morning he was dead, having strangled 
 himself resolutely with a strip of blanket and a bro- 
 ken rung of a stool, with which he had twisted the 
 cord. It must have taken such obstinate courage as 
 no one could have believed him to possess. He had 
 no capacity to attach men, and I do not think we 
 grieved for him as much as for the loss of what was 
 truly a library, and not to be replaced. 
 
 On the 3d of February I awakened with a fresh 
 and happy thought in my mind. My good friend 
 the late lamented Dr. Franklin, used to say that in 
 sleep the mind creates thoughts for the day to hatch. 
 I am rather of opinion that sleep so feeds and rests 
 the brain that when fii-st we awaken our power to 
 think is at its best. At aU events, on that day I 
 suddenly saw a way to let the sweet outside world 
 know I was alive. 
 
 At first I used to think of a chaplain as a resource, 
 but I never saw one. The sui'geon came no more 
 when I grew better. Being now able to move about 
 a little, I had noticed in the yard at times, but only 
 of late, a fat Romanist priest, who was allowed to 
 bring soup or other food to certain prisoners. I soon 
 learned that, because Cunningham was of the Church 
 of Rome, those who were of his own faith were fa^ 
 voured. Indeed, now and then a part of my lesser^
 
 HughW^ynne: Free Quaker 327 
 
 ing guineas obtained from these men a share of the 
 supplies which the i)riest, and, I nuiy add, certain 
 gray-chul sisters, also brought j but this was rare. 
 
 That day in the yard I drew near to the priest, 
 but Siiw Cunningham looking on, and so I waited 
 with the patience of a prisoned man. It was quite 
 two weeks before my chance came. The yard being 
 small, was literally full of half-clad, whole-starved 
 men. who sliivered and huddled together where the 
 sunliirht fell. Manv reeled with weakness ; most were 
 thin past belief, their drawn skin the colour of a de- 
 cayed lemon. From this sad crowd came a strange 
 odour, Uke to cheese, and yet not like that. Even to 
 remember it is most hon-ible. Passing near to a stout 
 old Sister of Charity, I said quietly : 
 
 "I have friends who would help me. For God's 
 lo^■e, see ]\liss "Wynne in Arch street, across from the 
 Meeting." 
 
 '* I will do your errand," she said. 
 
 " Others have said so, sister, and have lied to me." 
 
 " I will do it,"' she said. " And if she is away ? " 
 
 I thought of my father, lie seemed my natural 
 resource, but my cousin would be there. A final 
 hope there was. I was foolish enough to say, "If 
 she is not in town, then Miss Darthea Peniston, near 
 by. If you fail me, I shall curse you while I live." 
 
 " I will not fail you. \Vliy should you poor pris- 
 oners be so ill used ? Trust me." 
 
 I turned away satisfied, remembering that when 
 I loft Darthea was al>out to return. If she came to 
 know, that would be enough. I had faith in her
 
 328 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 friendsMp and in her ; and— if ever I saw her again 
 —should I tell her what now I knew of Arthur 
 Wynne ? I learned many lessons in this awful place, 
 and among them caution. I would wait and see. 
 
 Both Delaney and I strongly desired an exchange, 
 and not merely a parole. We imagined exchanges 
 to be frequent. My own dilemma, Delaney pointed 
 out, was that I was not of the army, although I had 
 been in it. And so we speculated of things not yet 
 come about, and what we would do when they did 
 come. 
 
 The next day went by, and the morning after, it 
 being now February 19, we were all in the yard. A 
 turnkey came and bade me follow him. I went, as 
 you may imagine, with an eager heart, on the way, 
 as I hoped, out of this death in life. As I questioned 
 the man, he said there was an order for a lady to 
 see me. 
 
 Now at this time my hair was a foot long, and no 
 way to shear it. We had taken the blankets of the 
 dead, and made us coats by tearing holes through 
 which to thrust our arms. Then, as we lacked for 
 buttons, or string for points, we could do no more 
 than wrap these strange gowns about us so as to 
 cover oiu" rags. 
 
 My costume troubled me little. I went to the foul- 
 smelling room, now empty, and waited until the man 
 came back. As he opened the door, I saw the good 
 Sister of Charity in the hall, and then— who but Dar- 
 thea ? She was in a long cloak and great muff, and 
 held in her hand a winter mask.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 329 
 
 Seeins: me in this Line blanket, all nnslioru, and 
 •with what beard 1 had covering my face, when all 
 men but Hessians shaved clean, I wonder not, I say, 
 that, seeiug this trannt scarecrow, she fell back, say- 
 ing there was some mistake. 
 
 I cried out, "Durthea! Darthea! Do not leave 
 me. It is I ! It is I, Hugh Wynne." 
 
 " My God ! " she cried, " it is Hugh ! It is ! it is ! " 
 At this she cauglit my lean yellow hand, and went 
 on to say, " Why were we never told ? Your Aunt 
 Wynne is away. Since we thought you dead, she has 
 ordered mourning, and is gone to her farm, and leaves 
 the servants to feed those quartered on her. But you 
 are not dead, thank God! thank God! I was but 
 a day come from New York, and was at home when 
 the dear old sister came and told me. I made her 
 sit down while I called my aunt. Then Arthur came, 
 and I told him. He was greatly shocked to liear it. 
 He reminded me that some while before he had 
 t<jld me that he had seen a man wlio looked like you in 
 the jail, and wasabout to die ; and now could it— could 
 it have been you ? He is for duty at the forts to-day, 
 but to-moiTow he will get you a parole. He supposed 
 a day made no matter ; at all events, he must delay 
 that long. I never saw him so troubled." 
 
 "Well he might be," thought I. I merely said, 
 " Indeed f" But I must have looked my doubt, for 
 she added quickly : 
 
 "Who could know you, Mr. Wj-nne?" 
 
 I stood all this while clutcliing at my blanket to 
 cover my tilth and rags, and she, young and tender,
 
 33° Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 now all tears, now flashing a smile in between, like 
 the pretty lightning of this storm of gentle pity. 
 
 " And what fetched you here to this awful place ? " 
 I said. " God knows how welcome you are, but—" 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "when Arthur went, I said I 
 would wait, but I could not. My aunt was in a rage, 
 but I would go with the dear sister ; and then I found 
 Sir William, and Mr. Montresor was there ; and you 
 will be helped, and an end put to this wickedness. 
 But the parole Arthur will ask for— that is better." 
 
 " Darthea," I said hoarsely, my voice breaking, " I 
 have been here since early in October. I have been 
 starved, frozen, maltreated a hundred ways, but I can 
 never take a parole. My friend Delaney and I are 
 agreed on this. As to exchanges, I have no rank, 
 and I may be a year inactive. I will take my chance 
 here." I think death had been preferable to a parole 
 obtained for me by Arthur Wynne. No ; I was not 
 made of my father-rock to do this and then to want 
 to kill the man. I could not do that. I put it on 
 the parole. Delaney and I had agreed, and on this 
 I stood firm. 
 
 She implored me to change my mind. " How ob- 
 stinate you are ! " she cried. " Do you never change ? 
 Oh, you are dreadfully changed ! Do not die ; you 
 must not." She was strange in her excitement. 
 
 Then I thought to ask to have Delaney in, and 
 to bid him tell that \ile and wicked story; but it 
 seemed no place nor time to hurt her who had so 
 helped me, daring to do what few young women had 
 ever dared even to think of. As I hesitated, I was
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 3^1 
 
 struck with a thought which was like a physical pain. 
 It put myself and the other wi*etched business quite 
 out of my head. 
 
 " O Dartliea ! " I cried, " you should never have 
 come here. Go at once. Do not stay a minute. This 
 is a house poisoned. Seven died of fever in this room, 
 Writ^- me what else is to say, but *;o ; and let me have 
 some plain clothes from home, and linen and a razor 
 and scissors and, above all," and I smiled, "soap. 
 But go ! go ! Why were you let to come ? " 
 
 '• I will go when I have done. Why did I come? 
 Because I am your friend, and this is the way I read 
 friendship. Oh, T shall hear of it too. But let him 
 take care ; I would do it again, iVnd as to the parole, 
 he shall get it for you to-morrow, if you like it or not. 
 I will write to you, and tlie rest you shall have ; and 
 now good-l)y, I am to be at home for Mr, Montre- 
 sor in a half-hour. This is but a bit of pa\Tnent for 
 the ugly little girl, who is very honest, sir, I do as- 
 sure you," 
 
 " Do go," I cried. " And, oh, Darthea, if this is 
 your friendsliip, what would be your love ! " 
 
 " Fie ! fie ! Ilush ! " she said, and was gone. 
 
 In two hours came a note, and I learned, for I had 
 asked to hear of the war, that Wasiiiugton was not 
 dead. We had been told that he was. I heard, too, 
 of Burgoyne's surrender, news now near to five 
 months old, of Count Donop's defeat and death, of 
 the fall of our forts on the Delaware, of Lord C'orn- 
 wallis gone to England, (if failures to effect exchanges. 
 Then she went on to write : " Your father was, strange
 
 332 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 to say, roused out of a sort of lethargy by the news 
 of your death. Jack managed to get a letter to your 
 aunt to say you were missing, and Arthur had search 
 made for you ; but many nameless ones were buried 
 in haste, and he could not find your name on the lists 
 of prisoners." None had been made to my knowledge. 
 " We all thought you dead. Your aunt is in mourn- 
 ing, but only of late, thinking it could not be that 
 you were lost to her. It is well, as you do not like 
 your cousin, that you should know how kind he has 
 been, and what a comfort to your father. Indeed, — 
 and now it will amuse you,— he told Arthur, you 
 being dead, he had still a son, and would consider 
 Arthur as his heir. All this ought to make you think 
 better of Ai-thur, whom, I do believe, you have no 
 reason to dislike. I beg of you to think otherwise 
 of him ; my friends must be his. And have I not 
 proved I am a friend ? I fear I cannot at once get 
 news of you to Mistress Wynne, who has gone to 
 live at the Hill Farm." And so, with other kind 
 words, she ended, and I, putting the note in a safe 
 place, sat on my straw, and laughed to tliink of Ar- 
 thm-'s filial care and present disappointment. 
 
 In a few hours came the turnkey, quite captured 
 by Darthea, and no doubt the richer for a good fee 
 He fetched a portmantle just come, and an order to 
 put me in a room alone. I left Delaney with sorrow, 
 but hoped for some way to help him. In an hour I 
 was clean for the first time in five months, neatly 
 shaven, my hair somehow cut, and I in sweet linen 
 and a good, plain gray suit, and a beaver to match.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 333 
 
 Then I stit down to think, the mere hope of escape 
 making me weak, and what came of it you shall hear. 
 
 The next day I was ordered forth with a few 
 others, and, luckily, late in the afternoon. I covered 
 my fine clothes with the blanket and went out. In 
 the yai'd. just before our time was up, I saw tlie sis- 
 ter, to my deli<rht, and j)crceived too, with joy, that 
 the prisoners did not rccoijnise me, decently sliaven 
 as I was. Only one thin»^ held me back or made me 
 doubt that I was now close to liberty : I was so feeble 
 that at times I staggered in walking. I knew, bow- 
 ever, that when mv new clothes became familiar in 
 the jail my chance of o«;cape would be over. I must 
 take the present opportunity, and tnist to luck. 
 
 My sclicme I had clearly thought out. I meant, 
 when in the yard, to drop the blanket cover, and 
 coolly follow the .«;ister, trusting to my being taken, 
 in my new gamients, for a visitor. It was simple, 
 and like enough to succeed if my strength held out. 
 It was du.^k. and a dark, overclouded day. A bell 
 was rung, this being the signal for the gang of 
 prisoners to go to their rooms. Falling back a little, 
 I cast aside the blanket, and then following the rest, 
 was at once in the hall, dimly lit with lanterns. It 
 was some eighty feet long. Here I kept behind the 
 group, and went b(jldly after the stout sister. No one 
 seemed disposed to suspect the well-dressed gentle- 
 man in gray. I went by the turnkey, keeping my 
 face the other way. I was some fifteen feet from 
 the great barred outer door. The two sentries 
 stepped back to let the sister go by. Meanwhile the
 
 334 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 gate-keeper, with his back to me, was busy with his 
 keys. He unlocked the door and pulled it open. A 
 greater lantern hung over it. I was aghast to see 
 the wretch, Cunningham, just about to enter. He 
 was sure to detect me. I hesitated, but the lookout 
 into space and lil)erty was enough for me. The beast 
 feU back to let the sister pass out. I dashed by the 
 guards, upset the good woman, and, just outside of 
 the doorway, struck Cunningham iu the face— a blow 
 that had in it all the gathered hate of five months of 
 brutal treatment. He fell back, stumbling on the 
 broad upper step. I caught him a second f uU in the 
 neck, as I followed. With an oath, he roUed back 
 down the high steps, as I, leaping over him, ran 
 across Walnut street. One of the outside guards 
 fired wildly, but might as well have killed some 
 passer-by as me. 
 
 Opposite were the low houses afterward removed 
 to enlarge Independence Square. I darted through 
 the open door of a cobbler's shop, and out at the back 
 into a small yard, and over paUngs into the open 
 space. It was quite dark, as the day was overcast. 
 I ran behind the houses to Fifth street. Here I 
 jumped down the raised bank and tui-ned northward. 
 
 Beside me was a mechanic going home with his 
 lantern, which, by military law, all had to carry after 
 fall of night. He looked at me as if in doubt, and 
 I took my chance, saying, ''Take no notice. I am 
 a prisoner nin away from the jail." 
 
 " I 'm youi- man," lie said. " Take the lantern, and 
 walk with me. I hear those devils." And indeed
 
 HughW^ynne: Free Quaker 335 
 
 there was a gn'eat noise ou Walnut street and in the 
 square. Men were dimly seen running to and fro, 
 and seizinjr auv who had no lanterns. 
 
 We went ou to Chestnut street, and do^vn to Sec- 
 ond. I asked him here to go to Dock Creek with me. 
 
 At my own home I offered him my last guinea, but 
 he said No. I then told him my name, and desu-ed 
 he would some day, in better times, seek me out. 
 And so the honest fellow left me. Many a year after 
 he did come to me in debt and trouble, and, j'ou may 
 be sure, was set at ease for the rest of his life. 
 
 Looking up, I saw light in the window, and within I 
 could see Arthur and three other oiBeers. The liquors 
 and decanters were on a table, with bread and cheese, 
 plain to be seen by hungry eyes. My father's bidky 
 form was in his big Penn arm-chair, his head fallen 
 forward. He was sound asleep. Colonel Tarleton had 
 his feet on a low stool my mother used for her bas- 
 ket of sewing material and the stockings she was so 
 constantly darning. Harcourt and Colonel O'Hara 
 were matching pennies, and my cousin was standing 
 by the fire, speiiking now and then, a glass in his 
 hand. 
 
 The dog asleep in the stable was no more considered 
 than was my poor father by these insolent guests. 
 An almost overmastering rage possessed me as I 
 gazed through the ])anes ; for no one had closed the 
 shutters as was usually dom; at nightfall. I was 
 hungry, cold. aii<l weak, and these — ! I turned 
 away, and went down the bank of Dock Creek to 
 the boat-house. It was locked, and this uk^cI^ it likely
 
 33^ Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 my boat had escaped the strict search made by the 
 British. No one being in sight, I went around the 
 house to the stable at the farther end of the garden. 
 As I came near I smelc the smoke of our old Tom's 
 pipe, and then seeing him, I called softly, " Tom ! 
 Tom ! » 
 
 He jumped up, crying, " Save us, Master Hugh ! " 
 and started to run. In a moment I had him by 
 the arm, and quickly made him understand that I 
 was alive, and needed food and help. As soon as 
 he was recovered from his fright, he fetched me 
 milk, bread, and a bottle of Hollands. After a 
 greedy meal, he carried to the boat, at my order, 
 the rest of the pint of spirits, oars, paddle, and 
 boat-key. On the way it occurred to me to ask for 
 Lucy. She had been seized by the Hessian, Von 
 Heiser, and was in my aunt's stable. I had not 
 asked about the mare without a purpose ; I was in 
 a state of intense mental clearness, with all my 
 wits in order. In the few minutes that followed I 
 told Tom not to let any one know of my coming, 
 and then, pushing off, I dropped quietly down the 
 creek. 
 
 It was cold and veiy dark, and there was some ice 
 afloat in smaU masses, amidst which my boat, turning 
 with no guidance, moved on the full of the ebb tide 
 toward the great river. For about two hundred 
 yards I drifted, lying flat on my back. At the outlet 
 of the creek was a sudden turn where the current 
 almost fetched me ashore on the south bank. There 
 from the slip nearly overhead, as the boat whirled
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 337 
 
 aroimd, I hetird a sentiuel ctill out, " Stop there, or 
 I fire ! " I remained motionless, feeling sm-e that he 
 would not risk an alarm by reason of a skiff gone 
 adrift. As he called again the boat slewed around, 
 and shot, stern first, far out into the gi-eat flood of 
 the Delaware. Never had it seemed to me a dearer 
 friend. I was free. Cautiously using the paddle 
 without rising, I was soon in mid-river. Then I sat 
 up, and, taking a great drink of the gin, I rowed up- 
 stream in the dai'kness, findiug less ice than I had 
 thought probable. 
 
 My plan now was to pull up to Burlington or 
 Bristol ; but I soon found the ice in gi-eater masses, 
 and I began to be puzzled. I turned toward Jersey, 
 and hither and thither, and in a few minutes came 
 upon fields of moving ice. It was clear that I must 
 land in the city, and take my chance of getting past 
 the line of sentries. I pulled cautiously in at Arch 
 street, and saw a sloop lying at a slip. Lying down, I 
 used the paddle luitil at her side. Hearing no sound, 
 I climbed up over her low rail, and made fast the 
 boat. I could see that no one was on deck. A lighted 
 lantern hung from a rope near the bow. I took it 
 down, and boldly stepped on the slij^ A sentry, 
 seeing nif come, said, "A cold night, captain." 
 " Ver}'," I rejoined, and went on up the slope. Chance 
 had favoured me. In a few minutes I saw m}- aunt's 
 hou.se, shut up, but with a light over the transom of 
 the hall do(jr. I passed on, went up to Third street, 
 around to the back of the premises, and over the 
 palings into the long garden behind the dweUing.
 
 338 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 As I stood reflecting I heard Lucy neigh, and no 
 voice of friend could have been sweeter. I smiled 
 to think that I was a man in the position of a thief, 
 but with a right to take whatsoever I might need. 
 I began to suspect, too, that no one was in the house. 
 Moving toward it with care, I found all the back 
 doors open, or at least not fastened. A fire burned 
 on the kitchen hearth, and, first making sure of the 
 absence of the servants, I shot the bolt of the hall door, 
 fastened the pin-bolts of the windows which looked 
 on the front street, and went back to the kitchen with 
 one overruling desire to be well warmed. I had been 
 cold for four months. Making a roaring fire, I 
 roasted myself for half an hour, turning like a duck 
 on a spit. Heat and good bread and coffee I craved 
 most. I found here enough of all, but no liquors ; 
 the gin I had finished, a good pint, and never felt it. 
 Still feeling my weakness, and aware that I needed 
 all my strength, I stayed yet a minute, deep in 
 thought, and reluctant to leave the comfort of the 
 hearth. At last I took a lantern and went upstau's. 
 The china gods and beasts were all put away, the 
 silver tankards and plate removed, the rugs gone. 
 My good Whig aunt had done her best to make her 
 despotic boarders no more comfortable than she 
 could help. All was neglect, dust, and dirt ; pipes 
 and empty bottles lay about, and a smell of stale to- 
 bacco smoke was in the air. Poor Aunt Gainor ! 
 
 Upstairs the general had moved into the room 
 sacred to her spinster slumbers. The servants had 
 taken holiday, it seemed, and the officers appeared
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 339 
 
 to have been indifferent, or absent all day ; for this 
 room was in a \'ile condition, with even the bed not 
 yet made up, and the curtains torn. In this and the 
 front chamber, used commonly as my aunt's own 
 sitting-room, was a strange litter of maps, papers, 
 and equipments, two swords, a brace of inlaid pistols, 
 brass-plated, two Hessian hats, the trappings of a 
 Brunswick chasseur, and a long military cloak ^vith 
 a gold-braided regimental niunber under a large 
 crown on each shoulder. A sense of amusement stole 
 over me, although I was so tu*ed I could have fallen 
 with fatigue. I was feeling my weakness, and suffer- 
 iugf rom what even to a man in health would have been 
 great exertion. A full flask of rum lay on the table ; 
 I put it in my pocket, lea\'ing tlie silver cover. Next 
 I put on the long cloak, a tall Auhalter helmet, and 
 a straight, gold-mounted sword. The pistols I took 
 ab^o, loading and priming them, and leaving only 
 the lx)X where they had lain. 
 
 It was now almost ten, and I could not hope to 
 be long left in easy possession. Then I turned 
 to the table. Much of the confused mass of papers 
 was in German. I put in my pocket a beauti- 
 fully drawn map of our own lines at Valley Forge. 
 I gave it to .tVlexander Hamilton soon after the 
 war. 
 
 A small }iij»( — I think the Germans call meer- 
 schaum— I could not despise, nor a great bundle of 
 tobacco, which I thrust into the inside pouch of the 
 cloak. 
 
 Last I saw a sealed letter to Lieutenant-Colonel
 
 340 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 — — — — ~- — ■ ■ — ■■■■'■' — ■ '■' II --.. — -»■ 
 
 Ernst Ludwig Wilhelm von Specht, also one to Colo- 
 nel Montresor. These were much to my purpose. 
 Finallj^, as I heard the great clock on the stairway- 
 strike ten, I scribbled on a sheet of paper under Von 
 Knj'phausen's arms, " Captain Allan McLane presents 
 his compliments to General von Knyphausen, and / 
 hopes he will do Captain McLane the honour to re- 
 tm-n his visit.— February 20, 1778, 10 p. m." 
 
 I laughed as I went downstairs, in that mood of 
 merriment which was my one sign of excitement at 
 the near approach of peril. A pause at the grateful 
 fii*e, and a moment later I was saddling Lucy, look- 
 ing weU to girth and bit, and last buckling on the 
 spurs of a Hessian officer. 
 
 In a few minutes I was trotting up Fifth street. 
 I knew only that the too extended lines had been 
 drawn in close to the city, after the sharp lesson at 
 Germantown ; but I did not know how complete were 
 the forts and abatis crossing from the Delaware to 
 the Schuylkill, to the north of Callowhill street. I 
 meant to pass the lines somewhere, trusting to the 
 legs of Lucy, who well understood the change of 
 riders, and seemed in excellent condition. 
 
 I turned off into the fields to the westward at 
 Vine street, riding carefully j and soon, as I moved 
 to north, saw that fences, fruit-trees, and the scat- 
 tered remnant of the wood were gone. Stumbling 
 through mud and over stumps, I began to see before 
 me one of Montresor's blockhouses, and presently, for 
 now the night was far too clear, the forms of sentries on 
 top. Dismounting, I moved aside a hundred yards, so
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 341 
 
 that I passed unseen between two of these foi-ts. But 
 a good pit'ce to the north of them I came on a strong 
 stockade, and saw beyond it a hazy mass of what I 
 took to be a monster t^mgle of dead trees, well fitted 
 to delay a storming-party. Then I remembered my 
 ride with Montresor. I was caught. I stood still in 
 the night, wondering what to do : behind me the hum 
 and glow of the city, before me fi-eedom and dai"k- 
 ness. 
 
 A man thinks quickly in an Ijour like that. I 
 mounted, feehng the lift of my weak body an exer- 
 tion, and rode back into Vine, and so to Front street. 
 A hundred yards before me was a great camp-fire, 
 to left of where the road to Germanto^vTl diverges, 
 I saw figures about it passing to and fro. I felt 
 for my pistols in the holsters of the saddle, and 
 cocked the one on my right, loosened the long 
 straiglit Ilossian blade, and took the two letters in 
 my bridle-hand. 
 
 As I rode up I saw, for the fire was brightly blazing, 
 that there were tents, pickets to left and right, men 
 afoot, and liorses not saddled. A sergeant came out 
 into the road. " Halt ! " he cried. In V)roken Eng- 
 lish, I said I had a letter for Colonel i\Iontresor, to 
 be given in the morning when he wouKl be out to 
 inspect the lines, and one for Lieutenant-Colonel von 
 JSpecht. The man took the letters. I meant to turn 
 back, wheel, and go by at speed ; but by evil luck a 
 wind from the north blew open my cloak, and in the 
 brilliant firelight he saw ray gray clothes. 
 
 " llolloa ! " he cried. " What 's the word ? You
 
 342 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 are not in uniform. Get off ! " So saying, he caught 
 the rein he had dropped, a man or two running to- 
 ward us as he spoke. 
 
 If I could, I would have spared the man : but it 
 was his life or mine j I knew that. I fii-ed square at 
 his chest, the mare reared, the man feU with a cry, 
 I let Lucy have both spurs. She leaped as a deer 
 leaps, catching a f eUow in the chest with her shoulder, 
 and was off like a crazy thing. I looked ahead ; the 
 way was clear. A glance back showed me the road 
 full of men. I heard shouts, orders, shot after shot. 
 I was soon far beyond danger, and going at racing 
 speed through the night ; but I had scared up a plea- 
 sant hornets' nest. The last picket was a quarter of 
 a mile ahead, perhaps. I pulled up, and with diffi- 
 culty made the mare walk. There were fii'es on both 
 sides, and a lot of alert soldiers out in the road. I 
 turned off into the fields behind a farm-house, glad 
 of the absence of fences. The next moment I felt 
 the mare gather herself mth the half -pause every 
 horseman knows so well. She had taken a ditch, 
 and prettily too. 
 
 Keeping off the highway, but in line with it, I 
 went on slowly, leaning over in the saddle. After 
 a mile, and much stumbling about, I ceased to hear 
 noises back of me, and turned, approaching the road 
 I had left. No one was in sight. Wliy I was not 
 followed by the horse I know not. I wrapped my 
 cloak about me, and rode on up the deserted high- 
 way. I was free, and on neutral ground. All I had 
 to fear was an encounter with one of the foraging
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 343 
 
 parties which kept the country around in constant 
 t^iTor. I met no one. The sole unpleasant thought 
 which haunted my cold night ride was the face of 
 the poor devil I had sh(>t. I put it aside. Prison 
 life had at least taught me the habit of dismissing 
 the torment of vain i*ctlcctit)n on an irreparable past. 
 
 I went by tlie old burying- ground of Germautown, 
 and the rare houses, going slowly on account of the 
 road, which was full of deep holes, and so through 
 the market-place where we made our last charge. 
 
 At last I breasted the slippery rise of Chestnut 
 Hill, and throwing my cloak over the mare, that I 
 had taught to stand, went up to the door of my Aunt 
 Gainor's house. 
 
 I knocked long before I was heard. A window 
 was opened above me, and a voice I loved called out 
 to know what I wanted. I replied, " It is I, Hugh. 
 Be quick ! " A moment later I was in her dear old 
 anns, the serv'ants were called up, and my faithful 
 Lucy was cared for. Then I fell on a settle, at the 
 limit of my strength. I was put to bed, and glad I 
 was to stay there for two days, and not even talk. 
 Indeed, what with good diet and milk and spirits and 
 clean sheets, I slept as I had not done for many a 
 night. 
 
 As soon as I was up and fit to converse, I was 
 made to tell my story over and over. Meanwhile 
 my aunt was desperately afraid last we should })e 
 visited, as was not rare, by foragers or Tory par- 
 tisans. I must go, and at once. Even war was to 
 be preferred to this anxiety. But before I went she
 
 344 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 must tell me what slie thought of this strange busi- 
 ness of my cousin. I had been wise not to tell 
 Darthea. A rascal like Arthur would trip himself 
 up soon or late. Then she fell to thinking, and, 
 bidding me cease for a little, sat with her head in her 
 large hands, having her elbows on the table. 
 
 "Hugh," she said at last, "he must have more 
 cause to be jealous than we know. He has still more 
 now. Is it only the woman! Can it be anything 
 about the estate in Wales ? It must be ; you remem- 
 ber how he bed to us about it ; but what is it ? " 
 
 " He thinks I regret the loss of Wyncote, and that 
 I would like to have it. I am afraid I found it plea- 
 sant to say so, seeing that it annoyed hun." 
 
 " I wish he may have some such cause to hate you, 
 and no other. But why ? Your grandfather made 
 a legal conveyance of an unentailed property, got 
 some ready money,— how much I never knew,— and 
 came away. How can you interfere with Arthur? 
 The Wynnes, I have heard, have Welsh memories 
 for an insult. You struck him once." 
 
 " The blow ! " and I smiled. " Yes ; the woman ! 
 Pray God it be that. The estate— he is welcome to 
 it. I hardly think a Welsh home would bribe me to 
 leave my owti country. But I do not see, aunt, why 
 you so often talk as if Wyncote were ours, and stolen 
 from us. I do not want it, and why should 11" 
 
 " Is not that unreasonable, Hugh ? " she returned, 
 with more quietness in the way of reply than was 
 usual when she was arguing. " You are young now. 
 The anger between England and ourselves makes all
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 345 
 
 thiug:s in Great Britain seem hateful to you, to me, 
 to all houest colonials ; but this will not last. Peace 
 will come one day or another, and when it does, to 
 be Wynne of Wyncote — " 
 
 " Good gracious, Aunt Gainor ! let us set this 
 aside. Arthur Wynne's lies have stirred us all to 
 think there nuist be some reason for such a keen de- 
 sire to mislead me, you, and my father— above all, 
 mv father. But it is mv father's business, not mine ; 
 nor, if I may be excused, is it yours." 
 
 "That is true, or would be if your father were 
 well or interested. He is neither— neither ; and there 
 is something: in the matter. I shall ask my brother." 
 
 *' You have done that before." 
 
 " I have, but I got nothing. Now he is in such a 
 state that he may be more free of speech. I think 
 he could be got to tell me what neither he nor my 
 o^vn father liked to speak of." 
 
 Upon this, I told my aunt that I did trust she 
 would not take advantage of my father's weak mind 
 to get that which, when of wholesome wits, he had 
 seen fit to conceal. I did not like it. 
 
 "Non.sen.'^e ! " she cried, "nonsense ! if you could 
 have the old home — " 
 
 " But how can I ? It is like promising fairy gold, 
 and I don't want it. I should like to go there once 
 ami see it and my cousins, and come home to this 
 country." 
 
 I was, in fact, weary of the thing, and my aunt 
 would have talked it over all day. She could not 
 aee why I was so set in my mind. She kept urging
 
 346 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 that something would turn up about it, and we should 
 have to act ; then I would change my mind. I hardly 
 knew why that which once had been a delightful and 
 mysterious bait now lured me not at all. What with 
 the great war, and my own matui'ity, and Darthea, 
 Wyncote had shrunken out of the world of my de- 
 sires. It was too dreamy a bribe for one of my turn 
 of mind. I would have given half Wales for an hour 
 alone with Arthur Wynne. 
 
 Then tlirough my meditations I heard, " Well, mark 
 my word. Master Absolute; there is some flaw in 
 their title, and— and soon or late—" 
 
 " Oh, please, aunt—" 
 
 "Well, do not make up your mind. I am afraid 
 of you when you make up your mind. You are as 
 set in your ways as your father. Do you remember 
 what Nicholas Wain said of him: 'When John 
 Wynne puts down his foot, thou hast got to dig it 
 up to move him ' ? " 
 
 She was right ; nor did I defend myself. I laughed, 
 but was sad too, thinking of my poor old father, 
 whom I could not see, and of how far he was now 
 from being what his friend had described. 
 
 I said as much. My aunt replied, " Yes, it is too 
 true ; but I think he is less unhappy, and so thinks 
 Dr. Rush." 
 
 After this our talk di-ifted away, and my aunt 
 would once more hear of my note in McLane's name 
 left for the Hessian general. " I hope yet to ask him 
 of it," she cried, "and that dear Mr. Andre— I can 
 see his face. It is the French blood makes him so
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 347 
 
 gentle. Catoh him for me in the war. I should like 
 to have him on parole for a sLxmouth." ^Vud at tliis 
 she laughed, and heartily, as she did most things. 
 
 WTien this talk occurred we were in a gi'eat front 
 room in the second story. There was a deep bow- 
 window to westward, and here my aunt liked to be 
 at set of sun, and to look over what seemed to be a 
 boundless forest ; for the many scattered farms were 
 hid away in their woodland shelters, so that from 
 this vantage of height it looked as though the coun- 
 try beyond might be one great solitude. Nearer 
 were well-tilled farms, on which the snow still lay in 
 melting drifts. 
 
 As we sat, I was smoking the first tobacco I had 
 had since I left the jail. This habit I learned long 
 before, and after once falling a captive to that con- 
 soler and counsellor, the pii)e, I never gave it up. It 
 is like others of the good gifts of God : when abused 
 it loses its use, which seems a silly phrase, but does 
 really mean more than it says. Jack hath somewhere 
 writ that words have souls, and are alwavs more than 
 they look or say. I could wish mine to be so taken. 
 And as to tobacco and good rum. Jack said— but I 
 forget what it was— something neat and pretty and 
 honest, tliat took a good grip of you. The tricks an 
 old fellow's memory plays him are queer enough. I 
 often recall the time and place of something clever 
 a friend hath said long ago, but when I try to get it 
 back, I have but a sense of its pleasantness, as of a 
 flavour left in the mouth, while all the wise words 
 of his saying are quite forgot. Dr. Rush thinks that
 
 34^ Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 we are often happy or morose without apparent cause, 
 when the mind is but recalling the influence of some 
 former joy or grief, but not that which created either. 
 The great doctor had many hard sayings, and tliis 
 v/as one. 
 
 As I sat reflecting, I felt a sudden consciousness 
 of the pleasure my tobacco gave, and then of how 
 delightful it was to be, as it were, growing younger 
 day by day, and of how, with return of strength, 
 came a certain keenness of the senses as to odours, 
 and as to what I ate or drank. It seemed to me a 
 kind of reward for suffering endm-ed with patience. 
 
 My Aunt Gainor sat watcliing me with the pleasure 
 good women have over one too weak to resist being 
 coddled. When I had come to this happy condition 
 of wanting a pipe, as I had jolted out of my pouch 
 the tobacco I stole, she went off and brought the good 
 weed out of the barn, where she had saved her last 
 crop under what scant hay the Hessian foragers 
 left her. I must smoke in her own library, a thing 
 unheard of before; she loved to smell a good to- 
 bacco. 
 
 " O Aunt Gainor ! " 
 
 " But Jack ! " she said. She did not like to see 
 Jack with a pipe. He looked too like a sweet girl, 
 with his fair skin and his yellow hair. 
 
 I smoked on in mighty j)eace of mind, and soon 
 she began again, being rarely long silent, " I hope 
 you and your cousin will never meet, Hugh." 
 
 The suddenness of this overcame me, and I felt 
 myself flush.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 349 
 
 " Ah ! " she said, " I knew it. There is little love 
 lost between you." 
 
 *' There are thingrs a man cannot forgive." 
 " Then may the good God keep yon apart, my son." 
 *' I tinist not," said I. *• I can forgive an insult, 
 even if I am Welsh and a Wynne ; but oh, Aunt Gai- 
 nor, those added weeks of misery, foulness, filth, and 
 pain I owe to this man ! I will kill him as I would 
 kill anv otlier vermin." Then I was ashamed, for to 
 say such things before women was not my way. 
 
 " I could kill hira myself," said my aunt, savagely. 
 "And now do have some more of this nice, good 
 gniel," which set me to laughing. 
 
 *' Let him go," said I, " and the gruel too." 
 "And that is what you must do, sir. You must 
 go. I am all day in terror." 
 
 And still I stayed on, pretty easy in mind ; for my 
 aunt had set a fellow on watch at Mount Airy, to let 
 us know if any parties a})i)eared, and we kept Lucy 
 sjiddled. I sorely needed this rest and to be fed ; for 
 I was a mere shallow of my big self when I alighted 
 at her door on that memorable 20th of February. 
 
 The day bef (jre I left this deliglitfid haven between 
 jail and camp, came one of ray aunt's women slaves 
 with a letter slie had brought from the city, and this 
 was what it said : 
 
 " Dear Mistress Wynne : At last I am honoiired 
 with the permission to write and tell you that Mr. 
 Hugh Wynne is alive. It was cruel that tlie general 
 would not earlier grunt me so small a favour as to
 
 350 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 pass an open letter; but Arthur found much diffi- 
 culty, by reason, I fear, of your well-known opinions. 
 He was on the way to the jail when he heard of Mr. 
 Hugh Wynne's having escaped, after dreadfully in- 
 jaring the poor man who took such good care of him 
 all winter. How it came that he lay five months in 
 this vile abode neither Arthur nor I can imagine, nor 
 yet how he got out of the town. 
 
 "Arthur tells me that insolent rebel, Allan McLane, 
 broke into your house and stole the beautiful sword 
 the Elector of Hesse gave to General von Knyphau- 
 sen, and what more he took the Lord knows. Also 
 he left an impudent letter. The general will hang 
 him whenever he catches him ; but there is a proverb : 
 perhaps it is sometimes the fish that is the better 
 fisherman. 
 
 "I have a queer suspicion as to this matter, and 
 as to the mare Lucy being stolen. I am so glad it 
 is I that have the joy to tell you of Mr. Hugh "Wynne's 
 safety; and until he returns my visit, and forever 
 after, I am, madam, 
 
 " Your devoted, humble servant, 
 
 " Darthea. 
 
 "To Mad" Wynne, 
 "At the Hill Farm, 
 "Chestnut Hill." 
 
 My aunt said it was sweet and thoughtful of Dar- 
 thea, and we had a fine laugh over the burglary of 
 that bad man, McLane. The woman went back with 
 two notes stitched into the lining of her gown ; one 
 was from my aunt, and one I wrote j and to this
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 351 
 
 day Darthea aloue knows what it said. God bless 
 her! 
 
 It was Mju-ch 20 of 78 before I felt myself fuUy 
 able to set out for camp, I had ruu uo g:reat risk. 
 The country had beeu ravaged till it was hard to find 
 a pig or a cow. Farmers were on smiiU rations, and 
 the foragers had quit looking for what did not exist. 
 One dull morning I liad the mare saddled, and got 
 ready to leave. It was of a Friday I went away ; my 
 aunt as un-willing to have me set out as she had been 
 eager to have me go the day before. My Quaker 
 training left me clear of all such nonsense, and, 
 kissing the dear lady, I left her in teai's by the road- 
 side.
 
 XIX 
 
 T is a good eighteen-mile ride to Valley 
 Forge over the crooked Perkiomen road, 
 which was none the better for the break- 
 ing up of the frost. I rode along with a 
 light heart, but I was watchful, being so 
 used to disastrous adventures. Happily, I met with 
 no difficulties. 
 
 A few miles from the bridge General Washington 
 had built, I fell in with a party of horse. The officer 
 in command seemed at fii-st suspicious, but at last 
 sent me on with two troopers. On the last Sunday 
 of the month Friends were persistently in the habit 
 of flocking into the city to General Meeting. They 
 were not unwelcome, for they were apt to carry news 
 of us, and neither we nor the enemy regarded them 
 as neutrals. Oui- commander-in-chief, in an order 
 of this day, declared " that the plans settled at these 
 meetings are of the most pernicious tendency," and 
 on this account directed General Lacy " that the 
 parties of light horse be so disposed as to fall in with 
 these people." 
 
 It was one of these parties of horse I had encoun- 
 tered. The officer sent me on with a guard, and thus, 
 in the company of two troopers, I rode through a 
 
 3S^
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 353 
 
 fiiirly wooded coiuitrv to the mueh-woru road leading 
 down to the river, llere my guards left me with the 
 picket at the bridge. It was a hall'-hour l^efore the 
 oflieer here stationed was satisfied, and meanwhile I 
 stared aeross the Schuylkill at the precipitous bluffs, 
 and wondered where lay the army which had passed 
 the winter back of them. A few men along the far 
 shore, and on the hill beyond a little redoubt, were 
 aU the signs of life or of war and its precautions. 
 The bridge, over wliich presently I rode, was of army 
 waggons weighted with stone, and on top rails with 
 rude scantling. On the high posts driven into the 
 river-bed for stay of the bridge were biu-ned the 
 names of the favourite genenils. Once over, I walked 
 Lucy up a cleft in the shore cliff, and came out on 
 the huts of General Varnum's brigade. The little 
 world of an army came iu view. 1 was on the first 
 rise from the stream, a mile and a half to the south 
 of the Valley Creek. To westward the land fell a lit- 
 tle, and then rose to the higher slope of Mount Joy. 
 To north the land again dropped, and rose beyond to 
 the deep gulcli of the Valley Creek. On its farther 
 side the fires of a picket on Mount Misery were seen. 
 Everywhere were regular rows of log huts, and on 
 the first decline of every hill slope intrenchments, 
 ditches, redoulits, and artillery. Far beyond, this 
 group of hills fell graduidly to the rolling plain. A 
 rnihi away were the long outlying lines of "Wayne, 
 and the good fellows with whom I had charged at 
 Germantown. 
 
 Everywhere the forests were gone. Innumerable 
 
 23
 
 354 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 ' *" .I... III. — ^1— 11 . . I., .„. .. ., ^. 
 
 camp-fires and a city of log huts told for what uses 
 they had fallen. On the uplands about me ragged 
 men were dialling; far away I heard the cavalry 
 bugles. A certain sense of elation and gaiety came 
 over me. It lasted no long time, as I rode Lucy over 
 the limestone hillocks and down to the lesser valley, 
 which far away fell into the greater vale of Chester. 
 
 The worst of the winter's trials were over, and yet 
 I was horror-struck at the misery and rags of these 
 poor fellows. No wonder men deserted, and officers 
 were resigning in scores, desperate under the appeals 
 of helpless wife and family in far-away homes. It 
 was no better on the upland beyond. Everywhere 
 were rude huts in rows, woeful-looking men at drill, 
 dejected sentries, gaunt, hungry, ill clothed, with 
 here and there a better-dressed officer to make the 
 rest look all the worse. 
 
 I thought of the grenadier British troops, fat and 
 strong, in the city I had fled from, and marvelled to 
 think of what kept them from sweeping this squalid 
 mob away, as a housewife switches out the summer 
 flies. Full of thought, I rode a mile through the 
 melting drifts of snow, and came on Wayne's brigade, 
 which held the lines looking in this direction. 
 
 I was long about it ; but at last a man pointed out 
 a hut, and I went in. " Holloa, Jack ! " I cried. 
 
 " Hugh ! Hugh ! Where on earth are you from ? " 
 And he flushed as he used to do, and gave me a great 
 bear-hug, saying, " And you are not dead ! not dead ! 
 Thank God ! thank God ! " 
 
 Thus again we met, to my unspeakable joy. He
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 355 
 
 was about as lean a^s I had been, but on the whole, 
 thanks to his florid skin, looked well or better than 
 tlie best of that half- fed arm v. liow we talked, how 
 we poured out our news that cold ]\Iarch afternoon, 
 I shall not take spa<?e to tell ; nor his great wonder 
 at seeing nie after jdl had believed nie dead. 
 
 After supper came a half-dozen oflieei's, and I heard 
 all the L-auip gossip, and was made heartily welcome. 
 Everything was on the mend, they said. ISteuben 
 was di'iiling the men ; Greene was the new and elli- 
 cient quartermaster-general. Supplies were pour- 
 ing in. Mrs. Washington and Lady Stirling had 
 come. The French were sure to make a treaty with 
 us. As they talked of their privations I learned, 
 for the first time, of the full horrors of the winter 
 camp at the forge in the valley. There was stOl 
 enougli wretchedness to show how far worse must 
 have been the pitiable condition of the army during 
 that winter of '77-78. I passed the next day at 
 rest with Jack. I had had enougli of the volunteer 
 business, and determined, to Jack's regret, to take 
 service ^sith the horse. I was still unfit to march, 
 and it seemed to me wise for this reason to stick to 
 Lucy's good legs, at least until my own were in better 
 order. 
 
 I think Jack felt that he was under some necessity 
 to take care of me, or from that affection he has ever 
 shown desired to keep me near him. He only hoped 
 I would not incline to join McLane's troop, and when 
 I asked why, declaring that to be ray utmost deshe, 
 he said it was a service of needless peril.
 
 356 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Upon this I laughed so that the hut shook, and 
 poor Jack became quite disconcerted, and fell to 
 making a variety of excuses. It is of this he says : 
 
 " Hugh is come from death, and there is more to 
 live for. For me, that am often unready and weak, 
 here is again his ever just helpfulness. He is but 
 a shadow of himself, and I cannot wonder that he is 
 so bitter against the enemy, or that he desires, less 
 on account of his bodily feebleness than from a wish 
 to revenge his cruel treatment, to serve with the 
 horse. They are never more quiet than gadflies. It 
 is dangerous duty, and should it cost this dear life, 
 how shall I ever face Mistress Wynne ? " 
 
 I myself had but one thought in my own mind 
 this Sunday in March, as I rode through the east 
 wind. It is my way, and always was, to have but a 
 single idea in mind, and to go straight to my object 
 the nearest way. He was right in his belief that it 
 was my burning wish to pay the debts of my poor 
 abused body. I knew not when we should move, 
 and the dislike of tiresome drills under Steuben, with 
 a restless, perhaps a wholesome, instinct to lead a 
 more active life, conspired to make my hatred seem 
 reasonable. 
 
 I could see, as I rode along through the canton- 
 ment and the long lines of huts, how well chosen was 
 the valley camp. The SchuylkiU flowing from the 
 Blue HUIs turned here to eastward, the current was 
 deep, the banks were high and precipitous. To the 
 west, in a deep gorge, the Valley Creek protected the 
 camp. Running down from Mount Joy, a broad
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 357 
 
 spur turned nortbwai'd to the Schuylkill. Between 
 this ridge and the river lay an angular table-laud, 
 taUiug to the vallej' beyond. Along this ridge, and 
 high on Mount Joy, were the intrenehnients laid out 
 by Du Portiiil^ and within them were the camps of 
 rare tents and the rows of wooden huts. 
 
 Riding north amid the stimips and the lessening 
 drifts of snow, past the dark huts, and the files of 
 ragged men in hue for moruiug service, I came down 
 to the angle between the Valley C!reek and the Schuyl- 
 kill. The river was full, and ran a gray-brown flood. 
 "VMiere the trampled slope rose from the creek I 
 came upon a small but solid house, built of gi'ay 
 and niddy sandstones, a quaint, shell-curved pent- 
 house above the open doorway. Here were horses 
 held by orderlies, the blue and white of French uui- 
 fonus, buff-and-blue officers, and the giuird of fifty 
 light horse on a side road in the saddle, facing the 
 house. I knew I had found the headquarters. Look- 
 ing about, I saw, to my joj-, Mr. Hamilton talking 
 with some of our allies. I rode up, and as they 
 turned, I said, "I am Mr. Hugh Wynne, Colonel 
 Hamilton." 
 
 " Good heavens, sir ! You are not dead then, after 
 aU!" 
 
 " No," I said, laughing ; " I am alive, thank you. 
 I have been in prison for months, and I am come 
 now to ask for that commission in the light horse 
 al>out which I must beg you to remind his Excel- 
 lency." 
 
 " No wonder," said he, " I did not recognise you.
 
 358 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 We are now going to morning service, I will see 
 to it at once. We thought you dead. Indeed, his 
 Excellency wrote to Mistress Wynne of you. The 
 general has full powers at last, and you are sure of 
 your commission. Now I must leave you." 
 
 A few more needed words were said, and I drew 
 aside to see the staff ride away. In a few minutes 
 the young aide came back. 
 
 " You may join McLane at once. You will have 
 an acting commission untU a more formal one reaches 
 you. I suppose you have no news ? " 
 
 " None," I said, ** except of how a British jail looks." 
 
 " His Excellency desires your company at dinner 
 to-day at six." 
 
 I said I had no uniform. 
 
 " Look at mine," he cried, laughing. " I have only 
 one suit, and the rest are hardly better off." 
 
 I drew back and waited. In a few minutes the 
 general came out, and mounting, sat stUl until all of 
 the staff were in the saddle. 
 
 He had changed greatly from the fresh, clear- 
 skinned country gentleman I saw fu'st in Philadel- 
 phia. His face was more grave, his very ruddy skin 
 less clear and more bronzed. I observed that his 
 eyes were deep set, light blue in colour, and of un- 
 usual size ; his nose was rather heavy and large ; the 
 mouth resolute and firm, with full lips. His general 
 expression was sedate and tranquil. In full, neat 
 buff and blue, his hair powdered, the queue carefully 
 tied, he sat very erect in the saddle, and looked to 
 be a good horseman.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 359 
 
 This is all I remember at that time of this high- 
 minded gentleman. I heard much of him then and 
 later ; and as what I heai'd or saw varies a good deal 
 from tlie idea now held of liiiu, I shall not refrain 
 from saying how he seemed to us, who saw him in 
 camp and lield, or in tlie horn* of rare leisure. But 
 I sliall do better, perhaps, just now to let my friend 
 Siiy what he seemed to be to his more observant and 
 reflective mind. It was writ long after. 
 
 ** Abler pens tlian mine," says Jack, " have put on 
 record the son-owf ul gloiy of that dreadful camp- 
 gi'ound by Valley Forge. It is strongly charactered 
 in those beseeching lettei*s and despatches of the al- 
 most heartbroken man, who poured out his grief in 
 Language wLich even to-day no man can read un- 
 moved. To us he showed only a gi-avely tranquil 
 face, which had in it something which reassured 
 those starving and naked ones. Most wonderful is 
 it, as I read what he wrote to inefficient, blundering 
 men, to see how calmly he states our pitiful case, how 
 entirely he controls a nature violent and passionate 
 beyond that of most men. He was scarcely in the 
 saddle as commander before the body which set him 
 there was filled with dissatisfaction. 
 
 "I think it well that we know so Uttle of what 
 went on within the wjills of Congress. The silence 
 of history has been friendly to many reputations. 
 There need be no silence as to this man, nor any 
 concealment, and there has been much. I would have 
 men see him as we saw him in his auger, when no 
 language was too strong; in hia hour of sereno
 
 360 Hugh Wynne; Free Quaker 
 
 kindliness, when Hamilton, the aide of twenty, was 
 'my boy'; in this starving camp, with naked men 
 shivering all night in their blankets by the fires, 
 when 'he pitied those miseries he could neither relieve 
 nor prevent.' Am I displeased to think that although 
 he laughed rarely he liked Colonel Seammel's strong 
 stories, and would be amused by a song such as no 
 woman should hear ? 
 
 " This serene, inflexible, decisive man, biding his 
 hour, could be then the ventm-esome soldier, willing 
 to put every fortune on a chance, risking himself 
 with a courage that alarmed men for his life. Does 
 any but a fool think that he could have been all these 
 things and not have had in him the wild blood of 
 passion 1 He had a love for fine clothes and show. 
 He was, I fear, at times extravagant, and, as I have 
 heard, could not pay his doctor's bill, and would 
 postpone that, and send him a horse and a little 
 money to educate his godson, the good doctor's son. 
 As to some of his letters, they contained jests not 
 gross, but not quite fit for grave seigniors not virgini- 
 his puerisque. There is one to Lafayette I have been 
 shown by the marquis. It is most amusing, but— 
 oh, fie ! Was he rehgious ? I do not know. Men 
 say so. He might have been, and yet have had his 
 hours of ungoverned rage, or of other forms of hu- 
 man weakness. Like a friend of mine, he was not 
 given to speech concerning his creed." 
 
 My Jack was right. Our general's worst foes were 
 men who loved their country, but who knew not to 
 comprehend this man. I well remember how I used
 
 Huirh Wynne: Free Quaker ^61 
 
 J' 
 
 to stop at the camp-fires and heai- the men talk of 
 him. Here was no lack of sturdy sense. The notion 
 of Adams and Kush of appointing;: new major-generals 
 every year much amiu^ed them, and the shai'p logic 
 of cold and empty bellies did not move them from 
 tlie heUef that tlieii- chief was the right man. How 
 was it they could judge so well and these others so 
 ill? 
 
 lie had no tricks of the demagogue. He coveted 
 no popuhirity. He knew not to seek favour by going 
 freely ajnong the men. The democratic feeling in 
 om* anny was intense, and yet this reserved aristo- 
 crat liad to the end the love and confidence of every 
 soldier iu the ranks.
 
 
 I SHALL pass lightly over the next two 
 months. I saw Jack rarely, and McLane 
 kept us busy with foraging parties and 
 incessant skirmishes. Twice we rode dis- 
 guised as British troopers into the very 
 heart of the city, and at night as far down as Second 
 street bridge, captured a Captain Sandford and car- 
 ried him off in a mad ride through the pickets. The 
 life suited maid Lucy and myself admii-ably. I grew 
 well and strong, and, I may say, paid one of my debts 
 when we stole in and caught a rascal named Varnum, 
 one of oui' most cruel turnkeys. This hulking coward 
 went out at a run through the lines, strapped behind 
 a trooper, near to whom I rode pistol in hand. We 
 got well peppered and lost a man. I heard Varnum 
 cry out as we passed the outer picket, and supposed 
 he was alarmed, as he had fair need to be. 
 
 We pulled up a mile away, McLane, as usual, laugh- 
 ing like a boy just out of a plundered apple-orchard. 
 To my horror Varnum was dead, with a baU through 
 his brain. His arms, which were around the trooper's 
 waist, were stiffened, so that it was hard to unclasp 
 them. This rigidness of some men killed in battle 
 I have often seen. 
 
 362
 
 Huirh Wynne: Free Quaker ':6 
 
 J 
 
 On Saturday, the 16th of May, Marqiiis Lafayette 
 came to oiir liutt; aud asked me to walk apart with 
 him. We spoke French at his request, a*; he did not 
 wish to be overheard, and tiilked English but ill. He 
 said his Excellency desired to have fuller knowledge 
 of the forts on the Neck and at the lower ferry, as 
 well as some intelligence as to the upper lines north 
 of the town. Mr. Hamilton thought me very tit for 
 the affair, but the gcneral-in-chief had said, in his 
 kind way, that I had suffei-ed too much to put my 
 neck in a noose, and that I was too well known in 
 the town, although it seemed to him a good choice. 
 
 When the marquis had said his say I remained 
 silent, until at last he added that I was free to refuse, 
 and none woidd tliink the worse of me ; it was not 
 an order. 
 
 I replied that I was only thinking how I should doit. 
 
 He laughed, and declared he had won a guinea of 
 Mr. Hamilton. "I did bet on your face, Monsieur 
 Vynue. I make you my compliments, and shall I 
 say it is ' Yes ' T " 
 
 " Yes ; and I shall go to-morrow, Sunday." And 
 with this he went away. 
 
 Wlien I told McLane he said it was a pity, because 
 the redeoats were to have a grand fandango on the 
 18th, and ho meant to amuse himself that evening, 
 which he did to some puqiosc, as you shall hear. 
 
 I spent the day in buying from a farmer a full 
 Quaker dress, and stained my face that night a fine 
 brownish tint with stale pokeberry juice. It was all 
 the ink we had.
 
 364 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Very early on the 17th I rode at dawn with a 
 trooper to my aunt's house, and in the woods back 
 of it changed my clothes for the Quaker rig and 
 broad-brimmed hat., To my delight, my aunt did not 
 know me when I said I wanted to buy her remaining 
 cow. She was angry enough, until I began to laugh 
 and told her to look at me. Of course she entreated 
 me not to go, but seeing me resolved, bade me take 
 the beast and be off. She would do without milk ; 
 as for me, I should be the cause of her death. 
 
 I set out about six with poor Sukey, and was so 
 bothered by the horrible road and by her desire to 
 get back to her stall that it was near eleven in the 
 morning before we got to town. As usual, food was 
 welcome, and a trooper was sent with me to the 
 commissary at the Bettering-house, where I was paid 
 three pounds six after much sharp bargaining in 
 good Quaker talk. A pass to return was given me, 
 and with this in my pocket I walked away. 
 
 I went through the woods and the Sunday quiet of 
 the camps without trouble, saying I had lost my way, 
 and innocently showing my pass to everybody. Back 
 and to south of the works on Callowhill were the Hes- 
 sians and the Fourth foot. The Seventh and Four- 
 teenth British Grenadiers lay from Delaware 
 Seventh to westward ; the Yagers at Schuylkill Third 
 street, or where that would be on Mr. Penn's plan ; 
 and so to Cohocsink Creek dragoons and foot. Nortii 
 of them were Colonel Montresor's niue blockhouses, 
 connected by a heavy stockade and abatis, and in 
 front of this chevaux-de-frise and the tangled mass 
 of dead trees which had so beaten me when I escaped.
 
 HughWVnne: Free Quaker 365 
 
 The stockade and the brush aud the tumbled fruit- 
 trees were dry from loug exposure, aud were, i 
 thought, well litted to defy attack. 
 
 I turued west again, aud Aveut out to the Schuyl- 
 kill River, where at the up})er ferry was now a bridge 
 with another fort. Then I walked southward along 
 the stream. The guards on the river-l^ank twice 
 turned me back; but at last, taking to the Avoods, I 
 got into the open farm country beyond South Street, 
 and before dark climbed a dead ]iine and was able 
 to see the fort near to !Mr. Andrew Hamilton's seat 
 of the Woodlands, set high above tlie lower ferry, 
 which was now well bridged. 
 
 Pretty tired, I lay down awhile, and then strolled 
 off into town to get a lodging. When past Walnut 
 street I found the streets unusually full. I had of 
 purpose chosen First-day for my errand, expecting 
 to find our usual Sunday quiet, but the licence of an 
 array had changed the ways of this decorous town. 
 Every one had a lantern, which gave an odd look 
 of festivity, and, to comply with the military rule, I 
 bought me a lantern. Men were crj'ing tickets for 
 the play of the '* Mock Doctor" on Tuesday, and for 
 Saturday, "The Deuce is in Him ! " Others sold places 
 for the race on Wednesday, and also hawked almanacs 
 and Tor}' broa<lsides. The stores on Second street 
 were open and well lighted, and the coffee-house was 
 full of redcoats carousing, while loose women tapped 
 on the Avindows and gathered at the doors. .^Vll 
 seemed meny and prosperous. Here and there a 
 8taid Quaker in drab walked u]) the busy street on 
 his homeward wa}', undistracted by the merriment
 
 366 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 and noise of the thronged thoroughfare. A dozen red- 
 coats went by to change the guards set at the doors 
 of general officers. A negi-o paused on the sidewalk, 
 crying, " Pepper-pot, smoking hot ! " Another offered 
 me the pleasant calamus-root, which in those days 
 people liked to chew. A man in a red coat walked 
 in the roadway ringing a bell and crying, "Lost 
 child ! " Sedan-chairs or chaises set down officers. 
 The quiet, sedate city of Penn had lost its air of de- 
 mure respectability, and I felt like one in a strange 
 place. This sense of ahen surroundings may have 
 helped to put me off my guard ; for, because of being 
 a moment careless, I ran a needless risk. Over the 
 way I saw two blacks holding lanterns so as to show 
 a great bill pasted on a wall. I crossed to look at 
 it. Above was a Latin motto, which I cannot now 
 recall, but the body of it I remember weU : 
 
 " All Intrepid, able-bodied Heroes who are willing 
 to serve against the Ai-bitrary Usurpations of a 
 Tyranickal Congress can now, by enlisting, acquire 
 the polite Accomplishments of a Soldier. 
 
 " Such spirited Fellows will, besides their Pay, be 
 rewarded at the End of the War with 
 
 Fifty Acres 
 of Land, 
 To which every Heroe may retire and Enjoy His 
 Lass and His Bottle." 
 
 This so much amused me that I stood stiU to gaze ; 
 for below it was seen the name of an old schoolmate,
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 367 
 
 William Allen, now a lieutenant-colonel, in want of 
 Tory recruit:*. 
 
 I felt suddenly a rousing whack on the back, and 
 turning in a rage, saw two drunken grenadiers, 
 
 "Join the liarniy, friend; make a cussed fine 
 Quaker bombardier," 
 
 I inst^mtly cooled, for people began to stop, pleased 
 at the fun of baiting a Quaker. The others cried, 
 " Give us a drink, old Thee-and-Thou ! " Some sol- 
 diei-s paused, hoping for a ring and a fight. I was 
 pushed about and hustled. I saw that at any mo- 
 ment it might end ill. I had a mighty mind toward 
 anything but non-resistance, but still, fearing to hit 
 the fellows, I cried out meekly, ''Thou art wrong, 
 friends, t^^ oppress a poor man." Just then I heard 
 William AUen's voice back of me, crying, "Let that 
 Quaker alone ! " As he quickly exercised the author- 
 ity of an officer, the gathering crowd dispersed, and 
 the grenadiers staggered away. I was prompt 
 enough to slip down High street, glad to be so well 
 out of it. 
 
 At the inn of the " Bag of NaUs," on Front street, 
 I found a number of Friends, quiet over their Hol- 
 lands. I sat do^vn in a dark corner, and would have 
 had a well-earned bowl ; but I was no sooner seatod 
 than in came a man with a small bell, and, walking 
 among the guests, rang it, saying, '' It is half after 
 ten, and there will be no more liquor served. No 
 more ! no more ! " 
 
 I knew that it would be impossible to break this 
 decree, and therefore contented myself with cold
 
 368 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 beef and cole-slaw. I went to bed, and thought 
 over the oddity of my being helped by William Allen, 
 and of how easily I might have been caught. 
 
 In washing next morning I was off my guard, and 
 got rid of the most of my pokeberry juice. I saw 
 my folly too late, but there was no help for it. I 
 resolved to keep my wide brim well down over my 
 face, seeing in a mirror how too much like my own 
 self I had become. 
 
 I settled my score and went out, passing down the 
 river-front. Here I counted and took careful note of 
 the war-ships anchored all the way along the Dela- 
 ware. At noon I bought an " Observer," and learned 
 that Mr, Howe had lost a spaniel dog, and that 
 there was to be a great festival that night in hon- 
 our of Sir William Howe's departure for England. 
 Would Darthea be there? I put aside the temp- 
 tation to see that face again, and set about learn- 
 ing what forts were on the neck of land to south, 
 where the two rivers, coming together at an angle, 
 make what we call the Neck. It was a wide lowland 
 then, but partly diked and crossed by many ditches ; a 
 marshy country much like a bit of Holland, with here 
 and there windmills to complete the resemblance. 
 
 It was so open that, what with the caution required 
 in approaching the block forts and the windabout 
 ways the ditches made needful, it was late before I 
 got the information I needed. About nine on this 
 18th of May, and long after dusk, I came upon the 
 lower fort, as to which the general was desirous of
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 369 
 
 more complete knowledire. I walked around it, and 
 wa<; at last ordered off by the guards. 
 
 ^Iv errand was now nearly done. Mv wav north 
 took me close to Walnut Grove, the old countiy-seat 
 of my father's friend, Joseph Wharton, whom, on 
 account of his hau«rlity ways, the world's people 
 wickedly called the QuiUier duke. The noise of people 
 come to see, and the faint strains of distant music, 
 had for an hour reniiudod me, as I came nearer the 
 crardens of Walnut Grove, that what McLane had 
 called the creat fandango in honour of Sir William 
 Howe was in full activity. Here in the tall box alleys 
 as a child I had many times played, and every foot of 
 the ground was pleasingly familiar. 
 
 The noise increased as I approached through the 
 growing darkness ; for near where the lane reached 
 the Delaware was a small earthwork, the last of those 
 I nr<^ded to visit. I tried after viewing it to cross the 
 double rows of gi'cnadiers which guarded this road, 
 but was rudely repulsed, and thus had need to go 
 back of their line and around the rear of the mansion. 
 When o])posite to the outhouses used for servants I 
 pau.sed in the gi-eat crowd of townsfolk who were 
 ap]»lauding or sullenly listening to the music heard 
 through the open windows. I had no gi-eat desire to 
 linger, but as it was dark I feared no recogniticm, 
 and stayed to listen to the fine l)and of tlie Hessians 
 and the wild clash of their cymbals, which, before 
 tlie.se Germans came, no one had heard in the colonies, 
 ily work was over 1 hud but to go fai' buck of the 
 
 31
 
 370 Hugh Wynne; Free Quaker 
 
 house and make my way to camp by any one of the 
 ferries. Unluekity the music so attracted me that I 
 stayed on, and, step by step, quite at my ease, drew 
 nearer to the mansion. 
 
 The silly extravagance of the festival, with its after- 
 noon display of di-aped galleys and saluting sliips 
 gay with flags, and its absurd mock show of a tour- 
 nament in ridiculous costumes, I have no temptation 
 to describe, nor did I see this part of it. It was 
 meant to honour Sir William Howe, a man more 
 liked than respected, and as a soldier beneath con- 
 tempt. I had no right to have lingered, and my idle 
 curiosity came near to have cost me dear. The house 
 was precisely like Mount Pleasant, later General 
 Arnold's home on the Schuylkill. In the centre of 
 a large lawn stood a double mansion of stone, and a 
 little to each side were seen outhouses for servants 
 and kitchen use. The open space toward the water 
 was extensive enough to admit of the farcical tilting 
 of the afternoon. A great variety of evergreen trees 
 and shrubs gave the house a more shaded look than 
 the season would otherwise have afforded. Among 
 these were countless lanterns illuminating the 
 grounds, and from the windows on all sides a blaze 
 of light was visible. Back of the house two roads 
 ran off, one to west and one to north, and along these 
 were waggons coming and going, servants, orderhes, 
 and people with supplies. 
 
 At this locality there was much confusion, and, 
 picking up a pair of lanterns, I went unquestioned 
 past the guard on the south side of Walnut Lane.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 371 
 
 Indeed, the sentries here and most of the orderlies 
 were by this time well in liquor. Ouee within the 
 gi-ounds, wliich I knew well, I was perfectly at home. 
 No one of the guests was without at the side or front. 
 Xow and then a servant passed through the alleys 
 of clipped box to see to the lanterns. I was quite 
 alone. In the shelter of a row of low hemlocks and 
 box I stood on a garden-seat at the south side of the 
 house, fifteen feet from a large bow-window, and, 
 parting the branches, I commanded a full vdew of the 
 dancing-room. I had no business here, and I knew 
 it ; I meant but to look and be gone. The May night 
 was warm and even sultry, so that the sashes were 
 all raised and the curtains di*awn aside. I saw with 
 ea.<e a charming scene. 
 
 The walls were covered with mirrors lent for the 
 occasion, and the room I commanded was beautifully 
 draped witli flags and hangings. Young blacks stood 
 at the doors, or came and went with refreshments. 
 These servants were cla<l in blue and white, with red 
 turbans and metal collars and bracelets. The six 
 Knights of tlie Blended Roses, or some like silliness, 
 had cast their queer raiments and were in uniform. 
 Their six chosen ladies were still in party-coloured 
 costumes, which were not to my taste. Mo.st of the 
 women — there were but some threescore, almost all 
 Tories or Moderates— were in the gorgeous brocades 
 and the wide hooped skirtii of the day. The extrav- 
 agance of the costumes struck me. The head-dresses, 
 a foot above the head with aigrets and feathers and 
 an excess of powder, seemed to me quite astonishing.
 
 372 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I stood motionless, caught by the beauty of the 
 moving picture before me. I have ever loved colour, 
 and here was a feast of it hard to equal. There were 
 red coats and gold epaulets, sashes and ribboned 
 orders, the green and red of the chasseurs of Bruns- 
 wick, blue navy uniforms, the gold lace and ghtter 
 of staff-officers, and in and out among them the 
 clouds of floating muslin, gorgeous brocades, flash- 
 ing silk petticoats, jewels, and streaming ribbons. 
 The air was full of powder shaken from wig, queue, 
 and head-dress; spurs clinked, stiff gown skirts 
 rustled. The moving mass of coloiu', lovely faces, 
 and manly forms bent and swayed in ordered move- 
 ment as the music of the grenadier band seemed to 
 move at will these puppets of its harmony. 
 
 They were walking a minuet, and its tempered 
 grace, which I have never ceased to admire, seemed 
 to suit well the splendour of embroidered gowns and 
 the brilliant glow of the scarlet coats. I began to 
 note the faces and to see them plainly, being, as I 
 have said, not fifteen feet away from the window. 
 Sir WiUiam Howe was dancing with Miss Redman. 
 I was struck, as others have been, with his likeness to 
 Washington, but his face wanted the undisturbed 
 serenity of our great chief's. I dare say he knew 
 better than to accept as his honest right the fulsome 
 homage of this parting festival. I thought indeed 
 that he looked discontented. I caught glimpses of 
 Colonel Tarleton bowing to Miss Bond. Then I saw 
 Miss Franks sweeping a deep curtsey to Lord Cath- 
 cart as he bowed. There were the fair Shippen
 
 Hugh \\ynne : Free Quaker 373 
 
 women, the Chews, the provost's blonde daughter 
 vdth JSir John Wrottesley, Mrs. Ferguson, my auut's 
 " Tory cat," in gay chat with Sii* Charles Caldor, Gal- 
 loways, Aliens— a pretty show of loyal dames, with 
 — save the officers— few young men I knew. 
 
 I started as Darthea moved across the window- 
 space on the arm of Andre, while following them 
 were Montresor and my cousin. I felt the blood go 
 to my face as I saw them, and drew back, letting the 
 parted branches come together. With this storm of 
 love and hate came again the sudden reflection that 
 I had no right to be here, and that I was off the track 
 of duty. I stood a moment; the night was dark; 
 light.s gleamed fai* out on the river from the battle- 
 ships. The strains of their bands fell and rose, 
 faintly heard in the distance. 
 
 I saw as it were before me with distinctness the 
 camp on the windy hill, the lialf-starved, ragged men, 
 the face of the great chief they loved. Once again 
 I looked back on this contrasting scene of foolish 
 luxurj', and turned to go from where I felt I never 
 should have been. Poor old Joseph \Vliarton ! I 
 smiled to think that, could he have known to what 
 worldly use his quiet Quaker home had come, he 
 would have rolled uneasy in his unnamed gi'ave in 
 the ground of the Arch Street Meeting. 
 
 Turning, I gave a few moments of thouglit to my 
 j)lans. Suddenly the music ceased, and, with laughter 
 and pretty cries of expectation, gay gown and fan 
 and hoop and the many-coh)ured uniforms trooped 
 out from the doors, as I learned later, to see the
 
 374 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 fireworks, over which were to be set off for final 
 flattery in fiery letters, " Tes Lauriet's Sont Lmnortels." 
 I hope he liked them, those unfading laurels ! The 
 shrubbery was at once alive with joyous women and 
 laughing' men. 
 
 I had not counted on this, and despite my disguise 
 I felt that any moment might put me in deadly peril. 
 The speedy fate of a spy I knew too well. 
 
 They were all around me in a minute, moving to 
 and fro, meiTy and chatting. I heard Andre say to 
 Darthea, " It must please the general ; a great success. 
 I shall write it all to London. Ah, Miss Peniston ! 
 how to describe the ladies ! " 
 
 "And their gowns ! " cried Darthea, "their gowns ! " 
 
 "I am reduced to desperation," said Andre. "I 
 must ask the women to describe one another ; hey, 
 Wynne ? " They were now standing apart from the 
 rest, and I, hid by the bushes, was not five feet away. 
 
 "■ A dangerous resource," returned Wynne. " The 
 list of wounded vanities would be large. How like 
 a brown fairy is Miss Franks ! Who shall describe 
 her ? No woman wiU dare." 
 
 " You might ask Mr. Oliver de Lancey,'' said Miss 
 Darthea. " She would be secure of a pretty picture." 
 
 "And you," said Wynne— "who is to be your 
 painter ? " 
 
 " I shall beg for the place," cried Andr6. 
 
 " I think I shall take some rebel officer," said Dar- 
 thea, saucily. " Think how fresh we should look to 
 those love-starved gentlemen whom Sir William has 
 brought to such abject submission."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 375 
 
 Andre laughed, but not very heartily. As to 
 TV\Tme, he was silent. The captain went on to say 
 how sad it was that just as the general was ready to 
 sweep those colonials out of existence— 
 
 " Why not say rebels, Andi'e f " Wynne broke in. 
 
 "Better not! bett«* not! I never do. It only 
 makes more bitter what is bad enough. But where 
 ai'e the tireworks ? ^ 
 
 Meauwhile I was in dire perplexity, afraid to stir, 
 hoping that they would move away. 
 
 "There is a seat hereabouts," said my cousin. 
 " You must be tired, Miss Peuiston." 
 
 " A httle." 
 
 " I wiU look," said Wj-nne. " This way." 
 
 As I was in possession of the seat, I got down at 
 once, but in two steps Arthur was beside me, and 
 for an instant the full blaze from the ^vindow caught 
 me square in the face. He was nearest, but Darthea 
 was just behind him, and none other but Andi-e close 
 at hand. 
 
 " By heavens ! " I heard, and my cousin had me by 
 the collar. " Here, Andre ! A spy ! a spy ! Quick ! " 
 
 I heard a cry from Darthea, and saw her reel 
 against my cousin's shoulder. 
 
 "Heli>!'help! I am— ill." 
 
 Arthur turned, exclaiming, " Darthea ! My God ! " 
 and thus distracted between her and me, let slack 
 his hold. I tore away and ran around the house, 
 upsetting an old officer, and so through the shrub- 
 bery and the servants, whom I hustled one way and 
 another. I heard shouts of " Spy ! " " Stop tliief ! *
 
 376 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 and the rattle of arms all around me. Several wag'- 
 gons blocked the roadway. I felt that I must be 
 caught, and darted under a waggon body. I was 
 close to the lines as I rose from beneath the waggon. 
 
 At this instant cannonry thundered out to north, 
 and a rocket rose in air. The grenadiers looked up 
 in surprise. Seeing the momentary disorder of these 
 men, who were standing at intervals of some six feet 
 apart, I darted through them and into the crowd 
 of spectators. I still heard shouts and orders, but 
 pushed in among the people outside of the guard, 
 hither and thither, using my legs and elbows to good 
 purpose. Increasing rattle of musketry was heard 
 in the distance, the ships beating to quarters, the 
 cries and noises back of me louder and louder. I 
 was now moving slowly in the crowd, and at last got 
 clean away from it. 
 
 What had happened I knew not, but it was most 
 fortunate for me. When a few yards from the people 
 I began to run, stumbling over the fields, into and 
 through ditches, and because of this alarm was at 
 last, I concluded, reasonably safe. 
 
 I had run nearly a mile before I sat down to get 
 my breath and cool off. Away to north a great flare 
 of red fire lit up the sky. What it was I knew not, 
 but sat awhile and gave myself leave to think. My 
 cousin had instantly known me, but he had hesitated 
 a moment. I knew the signs of indecision in his 
 face too well to be misled. I had felt, as he seized 
 me, that I was lost. I could not blame him ; it was 
 clearly his duty. But I do not think I should have
 
 HKKK A.NIJKK' A SPY" 
 
 I'oue 376 
 
 Huijh U'pnne
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 377 
 
 mllincrly recognised him under like circnmstances. 
 My very hatred would have made me more than hes- 
 itate. Still, who can say what he would do in the 
 haste of such a brief moral conflict ? I could recall, 
 as I sat still and reflected, the really savage joy in 
 his face as he collared me. How deeply he must 
 love her ! He seemed, as it were, to go to pieces at 
 her cry. Was she ill ? Did her quick-coming sense 
 of my danger make her faint? I had seen her 
 unaccountitbly thus affected once before, as he who 
 reads these pages may remember. Or was it a ready- 
 witted ru.se? Ah, my sweet Darthea! I wanted to 
 think it that. 
 
 The bhize to northward was stiU gi'owing brigliter, 
 and being now far out on the marshes south of the 
 town, I made up my mind to use my pass at the 
 nearer feny, which we call Gray's, and this, too, as 
 soon as possible, for fear that orders to stop a Qua- 
 ker spy might cause me to regret delay. 
 
 When I came to Montresor's bridge my thought 
 went back to my former escape, and, avoiding all 
 appearance of haste, I stayed to ask the sergeant in 
 charge of the guard what the blaze meant. He said 
 it was an alert. 
 
 A few days after, ^NlcLane related to me with glee 
 how with Clowe's dragoons and a hundred foot he 
 liad stolen up to the lines, every man ha\dng a pot 
 of tar ; how they had smeared the diy abatis and 
 bru.'<h, and at a sigiuil fired the whole mass of dried 
 wood. lie was followed into the fastnesses of the 
 Wissahickon, and lost his ensign and a man or two
 
 37^ Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 near Barren Hill, The infantry scattered and hid 
 in the woods, but McLane swam his horse across the 
 Schuylkill, got the help of Morgan's rifles, and, re- 
 turning, drove his pursuers up to their own intreneh- 
 ments. He said it was the best fun he had ever had, 
 and he hoped the Tory ladies liked his fii-eworks. 
 At all events, it saved my neck. 
 
 As I walked through Gray's Lane I fell to reflect- 
 ing upon Andre's behaviour, of which I have said 
 nothing. I came to the conclusion that he could 
 hardly have recognised me. This seemed likely 
 enough, because we had not met often, and I too, 
 apart from my disguise, had changed very greatly. 
 And yet why had he not responded to an obvious 
 call to duty? He certainly was not very quick to 
 act on Arthur's cry for help. But Darthea was on 
 his arm, and only let it go when she fell heavily 
 against my cousin. 
 
 I had a fine story for Jack, and so, thinking with 
 wonder of the whirl of adventure into which I had 
 fallen ever since I left home, I hurried along. It is 
 a singular fact, but true, that certain men never have 
 unusual adventures. I am not one of these. Even 
 in the most quiet times of peace I meet with odd 
 incidents, and this has always been my lot. With 
 this and other matters in my mind, resolving that 
 never again would I permit any motive to lead me 
 off the track of the hoiu*'s duty, I walked along. I 
 had had a lesson. 
 
 I sought my old master's house, and reached it in 
 an hour. Here I found food and ready help, and
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 379 
 
 before evening next day, May 19, was at tlie camp. 
 I spent an hour in earefiill}' writing out my report, 
 and Jack, under my directions, being clever \N-itli the 
 pencil, made plans of the forts and the enemy's de- 
 fences, which I took to headquartei-s, and a copy of 
 which I have inserted in these memoirs. I had everj' 
 reason to beheve that my report was satisfactory, 
 I then went back to discourse with Jack over my 
 adventures. You may see hanging framed in my 
 library, and below General von Kuyphausen's sword, 
 a letter which an orderly brought to me the next 
 day: 
 
 " Sir : It would be an impropriety to mention in 
 general orders a service such as you have rendered. 
 To do so might subject you to greater peril, or to ill 
 treatment were you to fall into the hands of the en- 
 emy. I needed no fresh proof of yom* merit to bear 
 it in remembrance. No one can feel more sensibly 
 the value of your gallant conduct, or more rejoice 
 for your escape. 
 
 " I have the honour to be 
 
 " Your obed' Hum* Serv*, 
 '' G' Washington. 
 
 "To Lieut. ITugh "WjTme, etc." 
 
 This was writ in his own hand, as were many of 
 hi.s letters, even such as were of great length. The 
 handwriting )>etrays no mark of haste, and seems 
 penned with such exactness as all his correspondence 
 shows. It may be that he composed slowly, and thus

 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Oiuaker 3S1 
 
 of need wrote witli uo greater speed than his thought 
 permitted. I at least found it liard to exphiin how, 
 in the midst of affairs, worried, interrupted, distracted, 
 he does at no time show in his penmanship au}' sign 
 of haste. 
 
 Wlieu I handed this letter to Jack I coidd not 
 speak for a moment, and yet I was never much the 
 victim of emotion. Mv dear Jack said it was not 
 enough. ¥ov my own part, a captain's commission 
 woidd not have pleased me as well. I ran no risk 
 which I did not bring upon myself by that which 
 was outside of my duty ; and as to this part of my 
 adventure, I told no one but Jack, being much 
 ashamed of the weakness which came so near to 
 costing me not only my life, but— what would have 
 been worse— the success of my errand.
 
 XXI 
 
 HE warm spring weather, and General 
 Greene's good management as quarter- 
 master, brought us warmth and better 
 diet. The Conestoga wains rolled in with 
 gi'ain and good rum. Droves of cattle 
 appeared, and as the men were fed the drills pros- 
 pered. Soldiers and officers began to amuse them- 
 selves. A theatre was arranged in one of the bigger 
 barns, and we— not I, but others— played " The Fair 
 Penitent." Colonel Grange had a part, and made a 
 fine die of it ; but the next day, being taken with a 
 pleurisy, came near to making a more real exit from 
 life. I think it was he who invited Jack Warder to 
 play Galista. Lady Kitty Stirling had said he would 
 look the part well, with his fair locks and big inno- 
 cent blue ej'^es, and she would lend him her best silk 
 flowered gown and a fine lot of lace. Jack was in a 
 rage, but the colonel, much amused, apologised, and 
 so it blew over. His Excellency and Lady Washing- 
 ton were to see the play, and the Ladies Stirling 
 and Madam Greene were all much delighted. 
 
 " The Recruiting Officer " we should have had later, 
 but about the latter part of May we got news of 
 the British as about to move out of my dear home 
 
 382
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 383 
 
 city. After this was bruited about, no one eared to 
 do anything but get ready to leave the winter huts 
 and be after Sir Henry. In fact, long before this 
 got out thei*e wais an air of hopeful expectation in 
 the anny, and the men began, like the officers, to 
 amuse themselves. The camp-fires were gaj', jokes 
 seemed to revive in the warm air, and once more men 
 laughed. It wa« pleat^ant, too, to see the soldiers at 
 fives, or the wickets up and the oricket-balls of tiglitly 
 roUcd rag ribbons flying, or fellows at leap-frog, idl 
 much encouraged by reason of having better diet, 
 and no need now to shrink their stomachs with green 
 persimmons or to hve without rum. As to McLane 
 and our restless Wayne, they were about as quiet as 
 disturbed wasps. The latter liked nothing better this 
 spring than to get up an alert by running cannon 
 do^vn to the hiUs on the west of the Schuylkill, pitch- 
 ing shot at the bridges, and then to be off and away be- 
 fore the slow grenadiers could cross in force. Thus 
 it was that never a week went by without adventures. 
 Captain McLane let neither man nor horse live long 
 at ease ; but whatever he did was planned witli the 
 extreme of care and can-ied out with equal audacity. 
 
 The army was most eager for the summer camjjaign. 
 We had begun, as I have said, to suspect that Sir 
 Heurj' Clinton, who luul succeeded Howe, was about 
 to move ; but whither he meant to march, or his 
 true object, our camp-fii'e councils coidd not guess 
 as yet. 
 
 Verj' early in the evening of June 17, I met Col- 
 onel Hamilton riding in ha«te. " Come," he said; "I
 
 384 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 am to see Wayne and the marquis. Clinton is on 
 the wing, as we have long expected. He will very- 
 likely have already crossed into the Jerseys. Will 
 you have a place in the foot if his Excellency can get 
 you a captaincy ? " 
 
 I said " Yes " instantly. 
 
 " You seem to know your own mind, Mr. Wynne. 
 There will be more hard knocks and more glory." 
 - I thought so too, but I was now again in the full 
 vigour of health, and an appointment in the foot 
 would, as I hoped, bring me nearer to Jack. 
 
 And now joy and excitement reigned throughout 
 the camps. The news was true. On the 18th of June 
 Sir Henry CHnton, having gotten ready by sending 
 on in advance his guns and baggage, cleverly slipped 
 across the Delaware, followed by every Tory who 
 feared to remain ; some three thousand, it was said. 
 
 Long before dawn we of McLane's light horse 
 were in the saddle. As we passed Chestnut Hill I 
 fell out to teU my aunt the good news. I was scarce 
 gone by before she began to make ready to follow 
 us. As we pushed at speed through Germantown, 
 it became sure that the evacuation had been fully 
 accomplished. We raced down Front street at a rate 
 which seemed reckless to me. McLane gave no or- 
 ders, but galloped on ahead in his usual mad way. 
 The townsfolk were wild with joy. Women stood 
 in tears as we went by ; men cheered us and the boys 
 hurrahed. At Arch and Front streets, as we pulled up, 
 I saw a poor little cornet come out of a house half 
 bewildered and buttoning his red jacket. I pushed
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 385 
 
 Lucy on to the sidewtilk and canght him by the col- 
 lai'. He made a great fuss and had clearly overslept 
 hunself. I wjis hurriedly exi>laiuing, amid much 
 laughter, wIr'U AIcLane called out, "A nice doll-baby I 
 Up with him I " And away he went, behind a 
 trooper. At Thu-d street bridge were two other offi- 
 cers who must have been tipsy overnight and have 
 slept too late. At last, ^vith oui* horses half dead, 
 we walked them back to Front and High streets, 
 and got off for a rest and a mug of beer at the coffee- 
 house. Soon came a brigade of Vu'ginians, and we 
 marched away to camp on the common called Centre 
 Squai'e. 
 
 The streets were full of huzzaing crowds. Our 
 flags, long hid, were Hying. Scared tradesmen were 
 pulling down the king's arms they had set over theii* 
 signs. The better Toiy houses were closed, and few 
 of this class were to be seen in the streets. 
 
 ^lajor-General Arnold followed after us. Unable, 
 because of his wound, to accept a command in the 
 field, he took up his abode as commandant of the 
 city in Mr. Moms's gi*eat house at the northeast 
 comer of Front and High streets. I saw this gallant 
 soldier in May, at the time he joined the camp at the 
 Forge, when he was handsomely cheered by the men. 
 He was a man dai'k and yet ruddy, soldierly looking, 
 with a large nose, and not unlike his Excellency as 
 to the upper part of his face. He was still on crutches, 
 being thin and worn from the effects of the hurt he 
 received at Sarat<»ga. 
 
 An soon as possible I left the troop and rode away
 
 386 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 on Lucy down High street to Second and over the 
 bridges to my home. 
 
 I was uo longer the mere lad I had left it. Com- 
 mand of others, the leisure for thought in the camp, 
 the sense that I had done my duty well, had made 
 of me a resolute and decisive man. As I went 
 around to the stables in the rear of the house it 
 seemed to me as if I must in a minute see those blue 
 eyes, and hear the pretty French phrases of tender 
 love which in times of excitement used to rise to my 
 mother's lips. It is thus as to some we love. We 
 never come to feel concerning them that certainty 
 of death which sets apart from us forever others who 
 are gone. To this day a thought of her brings back 
 that smiling face, and she lives for me the life of 
 eternal remembrance. 
 
 No one was in the stable when I unsaddled the 
 tired mare. At the kitchen door the servants ran 
 out with cries of joy. With a word I passed them, 
 smelling my father's pipe in the hall, for it was even- 
 ing, and supper was over. 
 
 He rose, letting his pipe drop, as I ran to fall on 
 his great chest, and pray him to pardon, once for all, 
 what I had felt that it was my duty to do. I was 
 stayed a moment as I saw him. He had lost flesh 
 continually, and his massive build and unusual height 
 showed now a gaunt and sombre man, with clothes 
 too loose about him, I thought that his eyes were 
 filling, but the habits of a life controlled him. 
 
 He held to a chair with Ms left hand, and coldly 
 put out the right to meet my eager grasp. I stood
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 387 
 
 still, my instinct of tenderness cheeked. I could only 
 repeat, '' Father, father, I have come home." 
 
 " Yes," he said, " thon hast come home. Sit 
 down." 
 
 I obeyed. Then he stooped to pick up his pipe, 
 and raising liis strong gray head, looked me over in 
 perfect silence. 
 
 " Am I not welcome," I cried, " in my mother's 
 home? Are we always to be kept apart? I have 
 done what, under God, seemed to me His will. Can- 
 not you, who go your way so steadily, see that it is 
 the right of your son to do the same? You have 
 made it hard for me to do my duty. Tliink as seems 
 best to you of what I do or shall do, but have for me 
 tlie charity Christ teaches. I shall go again, father, 
 and you may never see me more on earth. Let there 
 be peace between us now. For my mother's sake, 
 let us have peace. K I have cost you dear, beheve 
 me, I owe to you such sad hours as need never have 
 been. My mother— she— " 
 
 During this outburst he heard me with motionless 
 attention, but at my last word he raised his hand. 
 " I like not thy naming of thy mother. It has been 
 to me ever a reproach that I saw not how far hor 
 indulgence was leading tliee out of the ways of 
 Friends. There are who by birthright are with us, 
 but not of us— not of us." 
 
 Tliis strange speech startled me into fuller self- 
 command. I remembered his strange dislike to hear 
 her mentioned. As he spoke his fingers opened and 
 shut on the arms of the chair in which he sat, and
 
 388 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 here and there on Ms large-featured face the muscles 
 twitched. 
 
 " I will not hear her named again," he added. " As 
 for thee, my son, this is thy home, I will not drive 
 thee out of it." 
 
 " Drive me out ! " I exclaimed. I was horror-struck. 
 
 "And Avhy not? Since thou wert a boy I have 
 borne all tilings: drunkenness, debauchery, blood- 
 guiltiness, rebellion against those whom God has set 
 over us, and at last war, the murder of thy fellows." 
 
 I was silent. What could I say? The words 
 which came from my heart had failed to touch him. 
 He had buiied even the memory of my mother. I 
 remembered Aunt Gainor's warnings as to his health, 
 and set myself at once to hear and reply with gentle' 
 ness. 
 
 He went on as if he knew my thought : " I am 
 no longer the man I was. I am deserted by my son 
 when I am in greatest need of him. Had it not 
 pleased God to send me for my stay, in this my lone- 
 liness, thy Cousin Arthur, I shoidd have been glad 
 to rest from the labours of earth." 
 
 " Arthur ! My cousin ! " 
 
 " I said so. He has become to me as a son. It is 
 not easy for one brought up among dissolute men to 
 turn away and seek righteousness, but he hath heard 
 as thou didst never hear, nor wouldst. He hath given 
 up dice and cards, and hath asked of me books such as 
 Besse's * Sufferings ' and George Fox's ' Testimony.'" 
 
 This was said so simply and in such honest faith 
 that I could not resist to smile.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 389 
 
 " I did not ask thee to believe me," said mv father, 
 sharply; ''and if because a man is spii-ituaUy re- 
 miu.led and hath staved to consider his sin, it is for 
 thee but cause of vain mirth, I will say no more. 
 I have lost a son, and found one. I would it had 
 been he whom I lost that is now found." 
 
 I answered gi-avely, " Father, the man is a hj-jio- 
 crite, lie saw me dying a prisoner in jail, starved 
 and in rags. He left me to die." 
 
 " I have heard of this. He saw some one about to 
 die. He thought he was like thee." 
 
 " But he heard my name." 
 
 *' That cannot be. He said it was not thee. He 
 said it ! " 
 
 " He lied ; and wliy should he liave ever mentioned 
 the matter to thee— as indeed he did to others— ex- 
 cept for precaution's sake, that if, as seemed unhko 
 enough, I got well, he might have some excuse ? It 
 seems to me a weak and fooUsh action, but none the 
 less wicked." 
 
 My fatlier listened, but at times with a look of 
 being puzzled. "I do not think I follow thy argu- 
 ment, Hugh," he said, " neither does thy judgment 
 of tlie business seem favoured by that which I know 
 of thy cousin." 
 
 *' Father, tliat man is my enoiny. He hates me 
 becau.se— because Darthea is my friend, and but for 
 her 1 shoidd have rotted in the jail, "with none to 
 help me." 
 
 " Thy grandfatlier lay in Shrewsbury Gate House 
 a year for a better (Miuse, and as for thy deliverance,
 
 39^ Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I heard of it later. It did seem to Arthur that the 
 young woman had done more modestly to have asked 
 his help than to have been so forward.'' 
 
 My father spoke with increase of the deliberate- 
 ness at all times one of his peculiarities, which seemed 
 to go well with the bigness of his build. This slow- 
 ness in talk seemed now to be due in part to a slight 
 trouble in finding the word he required. It gave me 
 time to observe how involved was the action of his 
 mind. The impression of his being iadirect and less 
 simple than of old was more marked as oui* talk went 
 on than I can here convey by any possible record of 
 what he said. I only succeeded in making him more 
 obstinate in his belief, as was always the case when 
 any opposed him. Yet I could not resist adding: 
 " If, as you seem to think, Arthur is my friend, I 
 would you could have seen his face when at that sUly 
 jMischianza he caught me in disguise." 
 
 " Did he not do his duty after thy creed and his ? " 
 
 " It was not that, father. Some men might have 
 hesitated even as to the duty. Mr. Andre did not 
 help him, and his debt to us was small. Had I been 
 taken I should have swung as a spy on the gallows 
 in Centre Square." 
 
 " And yet," said my father, with emphatic slowness, 
 " he would have done his duty as he saw it." 
 
 " And profited by it also," said I, savagely. 
 
 " There is neither charity nor yet common sense 
 in thy words, Hugh. If thou art to abide here, see 
 that thy ways conform to the sobriety and decency 
 of Friends. I will have no cards nor hard drinking."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 391 
 
 " But good heavens ! father, when have I ever 
 done these things here, or indeed anywhere, for 
 veaj-s ? " 
 
 Ilis fingei"s were again placing on the anns of Mr. 
 Penn's great chair, and I made haste to put an end 
 to this bewildering talk. 
 
 *• I will try," I said, " to live in such a way as shall 
 not offend. Lucy is in the stable, and I will take my 
 old room. My Aunt Gainor is to be in town to- 
 morrow." 
 
 *' I shall be pleased to see her." 
 
 "And how is the business, father?" I said. 
 " There are no ships at sea, I hope. The privateers 
 are busy, and if any goods be found that may have 
 been for use of the king's people, we might have to 
 regret a loss." 
 
 " /might," he returned sharply. "I am still able 
 to conduct my own ventures." 
 
 *'0f course, sir," I said hastily, wondering where 
 I could find any subject which was free from power 
 to annoy him. Then I rose, sajing, "There is an 
 early drill. I shall have to be on hand to receive 
 General Arnold. I shall not be back to breakfast. 
 Good-night." 
 
 "Farewell," he said. And I wont upstairs with 
 more food for thought than was to my liking. I had 
 hoped for a brief .season of rest and peace, and here 
 was whatever snudl place I held in my father's heart 
 filled by my cou.sin. 
 
 When, nc»t long after, for mere comfort, I liad occa- 
 sion to speak to the great Dr. Rush of my fatlier, he
 
 392 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 said that when the brain became enfeebled men were 
 apt to assig:n to one man acts done by another, and 
 that this did explain the latter part of my father's talk 
 about cards and drinking. Also he said that with 
 defect of memory came more or less incapacity to 
 reason, since for that a man must be able to assemble 
 past events and review them in his memory. Indeed, 
 he added, certain failures of remembrance might 
 even permit a good man to do apparent wrong, which 
 seemed to me less clear. The good doctor helped me 
 much, for I was confused and hurt, seeing no remedy 
 in anything I could do or say. 
 
 I lit the candles in mv old room and looked about 
 me. My cousin had, it appeared, taken up his abode 
 in my own chamber, and this put me out singularly ; 
 I could hardly have said why. The room was in the 
 utmost confusion. Only that morning Arthur Wynne 
 had left it. Many of the lazier officers had overslept 
 thems' Ives, as I have said, and came near to being 
 quite left behind. Lord Cosmo Gordon, in fact, made 
 his escape in a skiff just before we entered. 
 
 The bed was still not made up, which showed me 
 how careless oui* slaves must have become. The floor 
 was littered with torn paper, and in a drawer, forgot 
 in Arthur's hurry, were many bills, paid and unpaid, 
 some of which were odd enough ; also many notes, 
 tickets for the Mischianza, theatre-bills, portions of 
 plays,— my cousin was an admirable actor in light 
 parts,— and a note or two in Darthea's neat writing. 
 I had no hesitation in putting them all on the hearth. 
 
 There was nothing in me to make me take advan-
 
 Pliigh \\^'nne: Free Quaker 393 
 
 tage of wlmt I t'ouiul. I kept tlie Miscliiauzii tickets, 
 aud that waii all. I have them yet. On the table 
 were Fox's '•Apolo'ry," "A Sweet Discourse to 
 Frieuds,'' by \ViIli:im I'euu. aud the famous *' Book 
 of Sufferiu^'s.-' In the hitter was thrust a small, thin 
 betting-tublL't, such as many gentlemen then carried. 
 Here were some queer records of bets more curious 
 than reputable. I recall but two : " Mr. Harcourt 
 bets Mr. Wynne five pounds tluit Miss A. will wear 
 red stockings at the play on May 12th. "Won, A. 
 Wj'nne. Thej' were blue, and so was the lady." " A. 
 W. bets Mr. von Speiser ten pounds that he will 
 di'ink fom- cpuu-ts of Madeira before Mr. von S. can 
 drink two ; Major de Lancey to measure the wine. 
 Lost, A. W. The Dutch pig was too much for me." 
 
 Wondering whatDai'thea or my father woidd think 
 of these follies, I tossed the books and the betting- 
 tablet on the pile of bills on the hearth. I have since 
 then been shown in London by General Burgoyne 
 the betting-book at Brooks's Club. There are to bo 
 seen the records of still more singular bets, some 
 quite abominable ; but such were the manners of the 
 day. My cousin, as to this, was like the rest. 
 
 In a closet were cast-off garments and riding-boots. 
 I sent for Tom, and bade him do with these as he 
 liked ; then I set fire to the papers on the hearth, 
 ordered the room put in order, and atlvr a pipe in 
 the orchard went to bed.
 
 XXII 
 
 |Y father was out when, the next day at 
 noon, I found in the counting-house our 
 old clerk, Thomas Mason. He, like my- 
 self, had seen with distress my father's 
 condition ; but he told me, to my surprise, 
 that he was still acute and competent in most matters 
 of business. 
 
 "Look at this, Mr. Hugh," he said, showing me 
 careful entries in the day-book, in my father's hand, 
 of nearly one thousand pounds lent to my Cousin 
 Arthur. My father had spoken to Mason of an in- 
 tention to alter his will. He never did alter it, but, 
 believing me dead, tore it up and made no new one. 
 None of our ships were at sea. Most of them had 
 been sold as transports to the British quartermaster. 
 My sole comfort at home was in the absence of Arthur 
 Wynne, and in the fact that Darthea was in the city, 
 as I learned from Mason. 
 
 After this I went at once to see my aunt, but could 
 give her only a few minutes, as I knew McLane 
 would need my knowledge of the neighbourhood. 
 In fact, I was busy for two days looking after the 
 Tory bands who were plundering farms to west of 
 the city. 
 
 394
 
 k 
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 395 
 
 As soon as possible I weut a<^aiu to see my Aunt 
 Gaiuor. The ^'ood old lady was lamenting ber scanty 
 toilet, and the dirt in which the Hessians had left 
 her house, '' I have drunk no tea since Lexington," 
 she said, " and I have bought no gowns. My gowns, 
 sir, are on the backs of our poor soldiers. I am not 
 fit to be seen beside that minx Darthea. And how 
 is Jack? The Ferguson woman has been here. I 
 hate her, but she has all the news. If one has no 
 go'v^Tis, it is at lea^it a comfort to hear gossip. I told 
 her so, but Lord ! the woman docs not care a rap if 
 you do but let her talk. She says Joseph Warder 
 is smit with Darthea's aunt, and what a tine courtship 
 that will be ! Old Duche, our preacher, is gone away 
 with Sir William; and now we have my beautiful 
 young man, Mr. White, at Christ Chui'ch." 
 
 So the dear lady rattled on, her great form mov- 
 ing among her battered f uruitm*e, and her clear voice, 
 not without fine tones, rising and falling, until at 
 la.st she dropped into a chair, and would hear all my 
 adventures. It was dangerous to wait long when 
 my aunt invited replies, and before I had time to 
 tliink she began anew to tell me that Darthea liad 
 come at once to see her, and of how respectful she 
 was. At this I encouraged my aunt, which was 
 rarely needed, and then heard further that ^Irs. 
 Peniston would remain in town, ])crliaps because of 
 Friend Jcjscpli Wanlt-r. 
 
 Darthea had al.so spoken eagerly of Arthur. His 
 people in Wales had written to her : Arthur's father 
 and his brother, who was so ill. '' I could not but
 
 39^ Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 thank her," said my aunt, '' for that brave visit to the 
 jail, as to which she might have written to me. I told 
 her as much, but she said I was a Whig, and outside 
 the lines, and she did not wish to get her aunt into 
 trouble. 'Stuff!' said I; 'how came it Mr. Arthur 
 never knew Hugh ? ' ' How could he ? You should 
 have seen him,' saj^s my httle lady, ' and even after 
 he was well. I did not know him, and how should 
 Mr. Wynne ? ' 
 
 " But," said my aunt, " I made such little additions 
 to his tale as I dared, but not all I wanted to. I 
 promise you they set my miss to thinking, for she 
 got very red and said it was sheer nonsense. She 
 would ask you herself. She had a pretty picture to 
 show me of Wyncote, and the present man was to be 
 made a baronet. Can a good girl be captured by 
 such things ? But the man has some charm, Hugh. 
 These black men"— so we called those of dark com- 
 plexion— "are always dangerous, and this special 
 devil has a tongue, and can use it well." 
 
 I listened to my aunt, but said little. What chance 
 had I to make Darthea credit me ? She had a girl's 
 desire for the court and kings' houses and rank; 
 or was this only one Darthea? Could that other be 
 made to listen to a plain lieutenant in a rebel army ? 
 Perhaps I had better go back and get knocked on 
 the head. Would she love me the better for proving 
 Arthur a rascal ? 
 
 I said as much to Aunt Gainor. At this she got 
 up, crying, " Good heavens ! there is a Hessian cock- 
 roach ! They are twice as big as they were. What
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 397 
 
 a fool yon aro ! The grirl is bog^innini:: to be in donbt. 
 I am sorry you liave driven tlie man away. A pretty 
 tale yoiu* mother had in Freneli of her dear Midi, 
 of the man who would have Love see, and pulled 
 the kerchief off his eyes, whereon the boy's wincrs 
 tumbled off, and he sat down and cried because he 
 could no longer fly. When a scamp loves a good 
 girl, let him thank the devil that love is blind." 
 
 Here wa.s Aunt Gainor sentimental, and clever too. 
 I shook my head sadly, being, as a man should be, 
 humble-minded as to women. She said next she 
 would see my father at once, and I must come at 
 eight and bring Mr. McLaue. Diu-thea would be with 
 her, and a friend or tAvo. 
 
 I went, but this time I did not bring my command- 
 ing officer. Miss Peniston was late. In all her life 
 she was never punctual, nor could she be. Wliile 
 we waited my aunt went on to tell me that Darthca 
 wished me to know how glad Mr. Wynne was I had 
 escaped at tlie Misehianza. An impulse of a soldier's 
 duty had made liim seize upon me, and he had been 
 happy in the accident which aided my escape. I had 
 done a brave thing to venture into the city, and she 
 and Mr. Wynne felt strongly what a calamity my 
 capture would have been. Darthea's friends were 
 his friends. " And he is jealous too," says my lady, 
 "of De Lancey, and Moutresor— and— of Mr. Hugh 
 Wynne." 
 
 You must have known Mistress Wynne to com- 
 prfhf'nd what scorn slie ])ut into poor Darthea's sad 
 excuses, and her explanations of what could not be
 
 398 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 explained. I felt sorry for the little lady who was 
 absent and was getting such small mercy. It was 
 vain to try to stop my aunt. That no man and few 
 women could do. I did at last contrive to leai'n that 
 she had said no more of the visit of Arthur to the 
 jail than that I did not seem satisfied. 
 
 I had rather my aunt should have let my luckless 
 love-affair alone. I had been in a way to tell her of 
 it, but now I wanted no interference. I feared to 
 talk even to Jack Warder of my dear Darthea. That 
 he saw thi'ough me and her I have, after many years, 
 come to know, as these pages must have shown. If 
 to speak of her to this delicate-minded friend was 
 not at this time to my taste, you may rest assured I 
 liked not my aunt's queer way of treating the matter 
 as she would have done a hand at piquet. She ended 
 this wandering talk with her usual shrewd bits of 
 advice, asking me, as she stopped short in her walk, 
 " Have you a little sense left ? " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Then get your head to help that idiot your heart. 
 Leave Darthea to herself. Ride with Miss Chew or 
 Miss Redman. Women are like children. Let them 
 alone, and by and by they will sidle up to you for 
 notice." 
 
 When the town was in Sir William Howe's hands, 
 my aunt had rejected all her Tory, and even her 
 neutral, friends. But now that Sir Henry Clinton 
 was flying across the Jerseys, harassed by militia., and 
 our general was on the way to cross the Delaware 
 after them, things were different. Her Tory friends
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 399 
 
 might come to see her if they pleased. Most of these 
 dames came gladly, likiug my aunt, aud having 
 always had of her much generous kindness. Bessy 
 Ferguson was cross, and Mistress Wynne had been 
 forced to visit her first. What manner of peace was 
 made I did not hear ; but no one else was a match 
 at piquet for ni}- Aunt Gainer, and doubtless this 
 helped to reconcile the lady. I gi-ieve that no his- 
 torian has recorded their interview. 
 
 When I wrote of it to Jack, he was much delighted, 
 and just before the fight at Monmouth wrote me a 
 laughing letter, all about what ni}' aunt aud Mrs. 
 Ferguson must have said on this occasion. As he 
 knew no word of it, I could never see how he was 
 able to imagine it. Once, later, when their war broke 
 out anew, my aunt told me all about her former 
 encounter ; and so much like was it to what Jack had 
 writ that I laughed outright. My aunt said there 
 was nothing to grin at. But a one-sided laugli is 
 ever the merrier. I could not always tell what ^Mis- 
 tress Wynne would do, and never what she would 
 say ; but Jack could. He should have writ books, 
 but he never did. 
 
 I had heard my aunt's wail over her wardrobe, and 
 was struck dumb at her appearance when, in the 
 evening, I returned as she desired. The gods and 
 the china dragons were out, and, the Hessian devils 
 having l)een driven forth, the mansion had l)een 
 swept and garnished, the rugs were down, and the 
 floor was dangerously polished. 
 
 My Aunt Gainor was in a brocade which she told
 
 400 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 me was flowered beautiful with colours very lively. 
 I thought they were. As to the rest of her toilet, I 
 am at a loss for words. The overskirt was lute- 
 string silk, I was told. The hoops were vast ; the 
 dress cut square, with a " modesty-f euce " of stiff 
 iace. A huge high cap "with wings is the last 
 thing,'" cried the ladj^, turning round to be seen, 
 and well pleased at my admiration. She was an 
 immense and an amazing figure. I did wonder, so 
 big she was, where she meant to put the other women 
 —and I said as much. 
 
 " Here is one," she whispered, " who will like your 
 uniform more than wiU the rest. Mr. Wynne of the 
 army, my nephew. Miss Morris. And how is Mr. 
 Gouverneur Morris f " 
 
 We fell to talking, but when others came and 
 were presented or named by me to the Wliig lady, 
 my young woman said, " Ai-e there none but Tories ? " 
 And she was short, I thought, with Mrs. Ferguson, 
 w^ho came in high good humour and a gown of 
 Venice silk. I saw Aunt Gainor glance at her gold- 
 laced handkerchief. 
 
 I was glad to see them all. Very soon the rooms 
 were well filled, and here were Dr. Rush and Charles 
 Thomson, the secretary of Congress, who stayed but 
 a little while, leaving the great doctor to gi'owl over 
 the war with Miss Morris, and to tell her how ill read 
 was our great chief, and how he could not spell, and 
 had to have his letters writ for him to copy like a boy. 
 Mr. Adams had said as much. I ventured to remark, 
 having by this time come to understand our doctor,
 
 Hugh\\ynne: Free Quaker 401 
 
 that we knew better iu camp, aud that at least our 
 chief understottd the ai*t of war. The doctor was 
 not of tliis opinion, aud considered General Gates 
 the greater man. 
 
 Theu I left them to welcome Mrs. Chew and the 
 lovely Margaret, and Miss Shippeu, and last my Dar- 
 thea with her aunt, who wai> as thin as a book-nuirker. 
 
 " Aunt," I said slyly, '' what is this ? Tories again ? " 
 
 '' Be quiet, child ! You have pulled their teeth. 
 You will .see they are meek enough. The dog on top 
 can always forgive, and I must have my cards. Be- 
 have yourself ! How handsome you are ! Here they 
 come." And now there was a cross-fii'c of welcomes 
 and " We have missed you so much," and " How well 
 you look ! " and fine sweep of curtseys, very pretty 
 and refreshing to a war-worn veteran, 
 
 I bent to kiss Mrs. Shippen's hand. Mrs. Fer- 
 guson tapped me on the arm with her fan, whispering 
 I was grown past the kissing-agc, at whicli I cried 
 that would never be. I took Darthea's little hand 
 with a formal word or two, and, biding my time, sat 
 do-s^-n to talk with the two Margarets, whom folks 
 called Pegg\', although both were like stately lilies, 
 and the pet name had no kind of fitness. 
 
 Tlie ombre-tables were set out aud ready, and it 
 was all gay and merrj--, and as if there might never 
 have been war, cither civil or social. " It is all as 
 meek as doves' milk," whispered Mistress Wynne over 
 my shouhh'r. " Go.ssip and cards against the world 
 for pcaeemakers, eh, Hugh?" Asstn-edly hero was 
 a beautiful truce, aud all the world amiable.
 
 402 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 The powdered heads wagged; brocade and sSk 
 rustled ; the counters rattled. Fans huge as sails set 
 little breezes going; there was wise neutrality of 
 speech, King Ombre being on the throne and every- 
 body happy. 
 
 Meanwhile I set my young women laughing with 
 an account of how a Quaker looked in on them 
 through the window at the redcoat ball, but of the 
 incident in the garden I said nothing, nor was it 
 known beyond those immediately concerned. The 
 two Margarets were curious to hear what Mr. Wash- 
 ington looked like, and one miss would know if Mr. 
 Arnold was a dark man, hearing with the delight of 
 girls how his Excellency gave dinners in camp and 
 ' sat on one side, with Mr, Hamilton or Mr. Tilghman 
 at the top, and for diet potatoes and salt herring, 
 with beef when it was to be had, and neither plates 
 nor spoons nor knives and forks for all, so that we 
 had to boiTOw, and eat by turns. 
 
 Miss Morris, just come to town with good Whig 
 opinions, was uneasy in this society, and said, " We 
 shall have enough of everything when we catch Sir 
 Henry Clinton." In a minute there would have been 
 more war had not my aunt risen, and the party 
 turned to drink chocolate and eat cakes. 
 
 After a world of little gossip they settled their 
 debts and went away, all but Mrs. Peniston and her 
 niece, my aunt declaring that she wanted the elder 
 lady's advice about the proper mode to cool black- 
 berry jam. For this sage purpose the shadow-like 
 form of Darthea's aunt in gray silk went out under
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 403 
 
 co^•er of my aunt's; large figure, and Darthea and I 
 were left jilone. 
 
 How pretty she wa.s in fair white niusUn with long 
 gloves, a red rosebud in each sleeve, and only a trace 
 of powder on her hair, smiling, and above all women 
 gi-aeefiU ! She had seemed older when we met in 
 the Provostry, and now to-day was slim and girl- 
 like. I do not know where she got that trick of 
 change, for in after-days, when in the fuller bloom 
 of middle age, she still had a way of looking at times 
 a gay and heedless young woman. She had now so 
 innocent an air of being merely a sweet child that a 
 kind of wonder possessed me, and I could not but look 
 at her with a gaze perhaps too fixed to be mannerly. 
 
 " Darthea,*' I said, as we sat down, " I owe my life 
 to you twice— twice." 
 
 " No, no ! " she cried. " TVliat could I do but go 
 to the jail T Mi.ss Wynne was away." 
 
 " Yini might have told my father," I said. Why 
 had she not? 
 
 '' Mr. Wynne is grown older, and— I— There was 
 no time to be lost, and Arthui* was gone on duty for 
 I know not what.'' She was seeing and answering 
 what further might have seemed strange to me. 
 "Aunt Peniston was in a rage, I assure you. !My 
 aunt in a rage, Mr. Wjiine, is a tempest in a thimble. 
 All in a minute it boils over and puts out the little 
 fire, and there is an end of it, and she a.sks what 
 ought to be done. But now I am penitent, and have 
 been scolded by Arthur. I will never, never do it 
 any more. My aunt wa*5 right, sii*."
 
 404 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 "I think you gave me more than life, Darthea, 
 that day. And did you think I would take the 
 parole ? " 
 
 "Never for a moment! " she cried, with flashing 
 eyes. " I would have taken it, but I want my friends 
 to be wiser and stronger than I. I— I was proud of 
 you in your misery and ragged blanket." And with 
 this the wonderful face went tender in a moment, 
 and for my part I could only say, " Darthea ! Dar- 
 thea ! " 
 
 She was quick to see and to fear, and to avoid that 
 which was ever on my lips when with her, and which 
 she seemed to bid to live, and then to fly from as if 
 she had never tempted me. 
 
 "Ah, you were a droll figiu-e, and Arthur could 
 not but laugh when I described this hero in a blanket. 
 It was then he told me more fully what before he 
 had wi'ote, how in the hurry of an inspection he saw 
 many men dying, and one so like you that he asked 
 who it was, and was given another name ; but now 
 he thought it must have been you, and that you had 
 perhaps chosen, why he knew not, a name not your 
 own, or you had been misnamed by the turnkey. It 
 was little wonder where men were dying in scores 
 and changed past recognition ; it was no wonder, I 
 say, he did not know you, Mr. WjTine. He was so 
 sorry, for he says frankly that just because you and 
 he are not very good friends— and wh}^ are you 
 not?— he feels the worse about it. After he had 
 scolded me well, and I made believe to cry, he said 
 it was a noble and brave thing I had done, and he
 
 HughWvnnc: Free Quaker 405 
 
 felt he should have Wen the one to do it had he 
 knovni in season. He did really mean to get tlie 
 parole, but then yon ran away. And you do see, Mr. 
 Wynne, that it was all a frijjflitful mistake of Artliui*'s, 
 and he is— he must be sorry?" 
 
 I would then and there have said to her that the 
 man was a liar, and had meanly left me t<> die ; but 
 it was my word ajrainst his, and Delaney had long 
 ago gotten out and been exchanged and gone South, 
 whither I knew not. As of course she must trust 
 the man she loved, if I were to sav I did not be- 
 lieve him we should (quarrel, and I should see her 
 no more. 
 
 "My dear lady," I said, keeping myself well in hand, 
 " the moral is that women should be sent to inspect 
 the hungty, the ragged, the frozen, and tlie dying." 
 
 I saw she did not relish my answer. Was she 
 herself quite satisfied? Did she want to be forti- 
 fied in her love and tnist by me, who had suffered ? 
 A shadow of a frown was on her lirow for a moment, 
 and thon she said, " He \\ill •sn-ite to you. Tie prom- 
 ised me he would write to j'ou. And that dear old 
 Sister of Charity ! —you must go and tliank her at the 
 little convent beside St. Joseph's, in Willing's Alley. 
 You upset her as you went out in that rude fashion. 
 Any but a Quaker would have stayed to apologise. 
 Mr. W}nmc wjus i>leased I went to the jail with the 
 dear sister. I believe the man really thought I 
 would have gone alone. And I would ; I would ! 
 Wlu'n he told me it yyns clever and modest to get the 
 sweet old papist for company, I swept him a mighty
 
 4o6 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 ciu'tsey and thanked him and puzzled him, which is 
 what men are for." 
 
 Sitting in the open bow-window above the garden, 
 my Darthea had most of the talk, while, when I 
 dared no longer stare at her changeful face, I looked 
 past her at the June roses swaying in the open win- 
 dow-space. 
 
 " Yes," I laughed, " that is what men are for ; but 
 I have not done with you. I have also to thank you 
 for my escape in the garden— you and Mr. Andre. 
 He has a good memory, I fancy." 
 
 " Oh, the fainting— yes," said Miss Peniston, lightly. 
 " It was fortunate it came just then. And Mr. Wynne 
 was glad enough of it later. He said it had saved 
 him from the most horrible regret life could bring. 
 If he had but had time to think— or had known—" 
 
 ''Known what?" 
 
 "No matter; I was in time to stop myseK from 
 saying a foolish thing. Let me give thanks for my 
 escape. I have a restless tongue, and am apt to say 
 what I do not mean ; and I do faint at nothing." 
 
 " It was very opportune, my dear Miss Peniston." 
 
 "La! la! as aunt says, one would think I went 
 faint on purpose, in place of its being the heat, and 
 a providential accident, and very anno}dng too ; not 
 a woman anywhere near me." 
 
 " It saved a worthless life," I said ; " and but for it 
 I should have had short shrift and the gaUows on 
 the Common." 
 
 " Hush ! " she returned. " That is not pretty talk. 
 Your cousin is unlucky, he says, to have had you faU
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 407 
 
 in his way when it was impossible to escape from 
 arrestinj» vou. He told nie ^Ir. Andre assured him 
 he could have done no other thing, and that it was 
 vain to rec^t what was the inevitable duty of a 
 soldier. I think Arthur was the most pleased of all 
 when you got away. • I must say you went very fast 
 for so grave a Quaker." 
 
 "And could vt)u see?'' said I, slvlv. 
 
 "No, of c(»iu-se not. How should I, and I in a 
 dead faint ? Mr. Antlre told me next day he thought 
 that dreadfid rebel, Mr. McLane, saved your life 
 yhen he was mean enough, just in the middle of that 
 beautiful ball, to set fire to something. At first we 
 took it for the fireworks. But tell me about Miss 
 Gainer's girl-boy— our own dear Jack." 
 
 " He can still blush to beat Miss Franks, and he 
 still believes me to be a great man, and— but you do 
 not want to hear about battles."' 
 
 " Do I not, indeed ! I should like to see Mr. Jack 
 in a battle ; I cannot imagine him hurting a fly." 
 
 " The last I saw, at Germantown, of Jack, he was 
 raging in a furious mob of redcoats, Anth no hat, 
 and that sword my aunt presented cutting and par- 
 rj-ing. I gave him up for lost, but he never got a 
 scrat<^'h, I like him best in camp •w'ith starving, 
 half-naked men. I have soon liini give his last loaf 
 away. You should hear Mr. Hamilton — that is his 
 Excellency's aide- talk of Ja<'k ; how like a tender 
 woman he was among men who were sick and starv- 
 ing. Hamilton told me how once, when Ja^'k said 
 jirayers beside a dying soldier and some fellow
 
 4o8 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 laughed,— men get hard in war,— our old Quaker 
 friend Colonel Forest would have had the beast out 
 and shot him, if the fool had not gone to Jack and 
 said he was sorry. Every one loves the man, and 
 no wonder." 
 
 <' He is fortunate in his friend, Mr. Wynne. Men 
 do not often talk thus of one another. I have heard 
 him say as much or more of you. Mistress Wynne 
 says it is a love-affair. Are men's friendships or 
 women's the best, I wonder?" I said that was a 
 question beyond me, and went on to tell her that I 
 should be in town but a few days, and must join mj 
 regiment as soon as General Arnold could do with- 
 out us, which I believed would be within a week. 
 
 She was as serious as need be now, asking intelli- 
 gent questions as to the movements of the armies 
 and the chances of peace. I had to show her why 
 we lost the fight at Grermantown, and then explain 
 that but for the fog we should have won it, which 
 now I doubt. 
 
 Mr. Andre had told her that it was because of our 
 long rifles that the enemy lost so many officers, picked 
 off out of range of musket, and did I think this was 
 true ? It seemed to her unfair and like murder. 
 
 I thought she might be thinking of my cousin's 
 chances, for here, after a pause, she rose suddenly 
 and said it was late and that the strawberry jam must 
 be cool, or the discussion over it hot, to keep Mrs. 
 Peniston so long. My aunt would have had me stay 
 for further talk, but I said I was tii*ed, and went away 
 home feeling that the day had been full enough forme.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 409 
 
 A little later, one uftonioon in this June, I found 
 my aunt seated so deep in thouglit that I asked her 
 the cause. 
 
 " Presently," slie said. " I have meant to tell yon, 
 but I have delayed ; I have delayed. Now you must 
 know.'' Here she rose and began to stride restlessly 
 among the furniture, walking to and fro with appa- 
 rent disregard of the eliina gods and Delft cows. She 
 reminded me once more of my father in his better 
 days. Her liands were clasped behind her, which is, 
 I think, a rare attitude with women. Iler large head, 
 cl"0^^^led vrith a great coil of gray hair which seemed 
 to suit its miussive build, was bent forward as if in 
 thought. 
 
 "^VTiat is it, Aunt Gainor?" 
 
 She did not pause in her walk or look up, and only 
 motioned me to a seat, saying, " Sit down. I must 
 think ; I must think." 
 
 It was unlike lier. Generally, no matter how seri- 
 ous the thing on her mind, she was apt to come at 
 it through some trivial cliat ; but now her long ab- 
 sence of speech troubled me. 
 
 I sat at least ten minutes, and then, uneasy, said, 
 " Aunt Gainor, is it Darthea 1 " 
 
 " No, you fool ! " And she went on her wandering 
 way among the crackled gods. "Now I will talk, 
 Hugh, and do not interrupt me. You always do;" 
 but, as Jack Warder says, no one ever did success- 
 fully int<'rrupt Miss Wynne except I\Ii.ss Wynne. 
 
 She sat down, crossed one leg over the other, as 
 men do when idone with men, and went on, as I re*
 
 41 o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 call it, to this effect, and quite in her ordinary man- 
 ner : " When the British were stni hei'e, late in May 
 I had a note through the lines from Mr. Warder as 
 to the confusion in my house, and some other matters. 
 He got for me a pass to come in and attend to these 
 things. I stayed three days with Mrs, Peniston and 
 Darthea. While here the second day I was bid to 
 sup at Parson Duche's, and though T hated the lot of 
 them, I had had no news nor so much as a game of 
 cards for an age, and so I went. Now don't grin 
 at me. 
 
 "When I was to leave no coach came, as I had 
 ordered, and no chair, either. There was Mrs. Fer- 
 guson had set up a chaise. She must offer me to be 
 set down at home. I said my two legs were as good 
 as her horses', and one of them— I mean of hers — 
 has a fine spavin ; as to Mrs. Mischief's own legs, they 
 are so thin her garters will not stay above her ankles. 
 
 "I walked from Third street over Society HiE, 
 thinking to see your father, and to find a big stick 
 for company across the bridges." 
 
 She was given to going at night where she had 
 need to go, with a great stick for privateersmen, the 
 vagabond, drunken Hessians, and other street pirates. 
 I can see her now, shod with goloe-shoes against mud 
 or snow, with her manhke walk and independent air, 
 quite too formidable to suggest attack. 
 
 "I went in at the back way," she continued; "not 
 a servant about but Tom, sound asleep at the kitchen 
 fire. I went by him, and from the hall saw your 
 father, also in deep slumber in his arm-chair. I got
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 411 
 
 me a candle and went upstairs to look how things 
 were. The house was in vile disorder, and dh-ty past 
 belief. As to your own clianiber, where that scamp 
 Arthur slept, it was— well, no matter. 
 
 "As I went downstaii's and into the back dining- 
 room I heard the latch of the hall door rattle, ' Is 
 it Ai'thur T ' thought I ; and of no mind to see him, I 
 sat down and put out my candle, meaning to wait till 
 he was come in, and then to slip out the back way. 
 The next moment I lieiu-d Arthur's voice and your 
 father's. Both dooi-s into the front room were wide 
 open, and down I sat quietly, \\'ith a good mind to 
 hear. It is well I did. I suppose you would have 
 marched in and said, ' Take care how you talk ; I am 
 listening.' Very fine, sir. But this was an enemy. 
 You he, cheat, spy, steal, and mm*der in war. How 
 was I worse than von ? " 
 
 " But, dear Aunt Gainor— " 
 
 " Don't interrupt me, su*. I sat still as a mouse." 
 My aunt as a mouse tickled my fancy. There may 
 be such in my friend Mr, Swift's Brobdingnag. 
 
 *' I liiitcned. Master Wynne is pleasant, and has 
 had a trifle too much of Mr, Somebody's Madeira. 
 He is affectionate, and your fatlier sits up, and, as 
 Dr. Rush tells me, is cleai' of heail after his sleep, 
 or at least for a time. 
 
 '• My gentleman says, ' I may have to leave you 
 soon, my dear cousin. I want to talk to you a little. 
 Is there any one in the back room?' As there is no 
 one, he goes on, and asks liis cousin to tell him about 
 the title to Wyucote as he had promised. His brother
 
 412 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 was ill and uneasy, and it was all they had, a,nd it 
 was a poor thing after all. Your father roused up, 
 and seemed to me to fully understand aU that fol- 
 lowed. He said how fond he was of Arthur, and 
 how much he wished it was he who was to have the 
 old place. Ai-thui* replied that it was only in his 
 father's interest he spoke. 
 
 " Then they talked on, and the amount of it was 
 pretty much this. How many lies Arthur got into the 
 talk the Lord— or the devil— knows ! This was 
 what I gathered : Your grandfather Hugh, under 
 stress of circumstances, as you know, was let out of 
 Sln'ewsbury jail with some understanding that he was 
 to sell his estate to his brother, who had no scruples 
 as to tithes, and to go away to Pennsylvania. This 
 I knew, but it seems that this brother William was 
 a Wynne of the best, and, as is supposed, sold back 
 the estate privately to Hugh for a trifle, so that at 
 any time the elder brother could reclaim his home. 
 What became of the second deed thus made was 
 what Arthui* wanted to know. 
 
 "Your father must have it somewhere, Hugh. 
 Now says Arthur, ' We are poor, cousin ; the place 
 is heavilv encumbered ; some coal has been found. 
 It is desirable to sell parts of the estate ; how hon- 
 estly can my father make a title ? ' Your great-uncle 
 William died, as we know, Hugh, and the next bro- 
 ther's son, who was Owen and is Arthur's father, 
 had a long minority. When he got the place, being 
 come of age, some memoranda of the transaction 
 turned up. It was not a rare one in older Round-
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 413 
 
 head days. Nothing was done, and time ran on. Now 
 the occupant is getting on in years, and as his sec- 
 ond son Ai-thur is ordered hither on service, it was 
 thought as well that he should make inquiry. The 
 older i>(iuires had some vague tradition about it. It 
 was become worth while, as I inferred, to clear the 
 business, or at need to effect a compromise. Half 
 of this I heai'd, and the rest I got by thinking it over. 
 Am I plain, Hugh?" She was, as usual. "Your 
 father surprised me. He spoke out in his old delib- 
 erate way. He said the deed— some such deed— was 
 among his father's papers ; he had seen it long ago. 
 He did not want the place. He was old and had 
 enough, and it should be settled to Master Arthm-'s 
 liking. 
 
 " Your cousin then said some few words about you. 
 I did not hear what, but your father at once broke 
 out in a fierce voice, and cried, * It is too true ! ' Well, 
 Hugh," she went on, " it is of no use to make things 
 worse between you." 
 
 " No," I said ; " do not teU me. Was that all ? " 
 
 "Not quite. Master Arthur is to have the deed 
 if ever it be found, and ^nth your father's and your 
 grandfather's methodical ways, that is pretty sure to 
 happen." 
 
 " I do not care much. Aunt Gainor, except that—" 
 
 "I know," she cried; "anybody else might have 
 it, but not Arthur." 
 
 "Yes; unless Darthea— " 
 
 " I understand, sir ; and now I see it all. The elder 
 brother will die. The father is old, the estate valu-
 
 414 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 able, and this lying scamp with his winning ways 
 will be master of Wyncote, and with a clear title if 
 your father is able to bring it about. He can, Hugh, 
 unless — " 
 
 "What, aunt?" 
 
 " Unless you intervene on account of my brother's 
 mental state." 
 
 " That I will never do ! Never ! " 
 
 " Then you will lose it." 
 
 " Yes ; it must go. I care but little, aunt." 
 
 " But I do, sir. You are Wynne of Wyncote." 
 
 I smiled, and made no reply. 
 
 " The man stayed awhile longer, but your father 
 after that soon talked at random, and addressed 
 Arthur as Mr. Montresor. I doubt if he remembered 
 a word of it the day after. When he left and went 
 upstairs your father fell into sleep again. I went 
 away home alone, and the day after to the Hill Farm." 
 
 " It is a strange story," I said. '' And did he get 
 the deed before the army left ? " 
 
 My aunt thought not. " Mason says all the papers 
 are at the counting-house, and that up to this time 
 your father has made no special search. It was but 
 two weeks or less before they left town." 
 
 It was a simple way to trap an over-cunning man, 
 and it much amused me, who did not take the deed 
 and estate matter to heart as did my aunt. When 
 she said, " We must find it," I could but say that it 
 was my father's business, and could wait ; so far, at 
 least, as I was concerned, I would do nothing. Of 
 course I told it aU to Jack when next we met.
 
 XXITI 
 
 (|N Suiulay, the 21st of June, while oiir 
 chief was erossiuji^ into the Jerseys, I was 
 hearing at Christ Church, for the fii'st 
 time, the words of prayer in wliich Wil- 
 hani White commended Congi-essandour 
 armies and theii* great leader to the protecting mercy 
 of Almighty God. General Arnold was already busy 
 witli the great household and equipage which soon 
 did so much to involve him in temi)tations gi-owing 
 out of his fondness for display. The militia were 
 unwilling to act as a body-guard, or to stand sen- 
 tries l)eside the gi-eat lamp-posts at his door. Nor 
 did McLane and the re.'it of us fancy the social and 
 guard duties which the general exacted ; but we had 
 to obey orders, and were likely, I feai'ed, to remain 
 long in this ungrateful service. 
 
 On June 30 we heard of the glorious battle at 
 ^lonmouth, and with surprise of General Lee's dis- 
 grace. On the 3d of July came Jack with a bayonet- 
 thnist in liis right .«<houlder and a nasty cut over 
 the left temi)le. lie was al»le to be afoot, but was 
 quite unfit for service. I heard from him of tlie 
 si)leiidid courage and judgUK'nt sliowii by his Excel- 
 lency, and of tlie profane and terrible language he 
 
 4^5
 
 41 6 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 had used to that traitor Lee. Jack said: "I was in 
 the midst of a lot of seared men, with a leader who 
 wanted only to get awa5\ And then the general 
 rode up, and all was changed. I think, Hugh, he 
 was hke an angiy god of war. I should have died 
 of the things he said to Mr. Lee." 
 
 When, long after this, in July, '79, his Excellency 
 issued that severe order about swearing, how it was 
 against all religion, decency, and order. Jack was 
 much amused. Like the army in Flanders, our own 
 army solaced their empty stomachs with much bad 
 language. But, as Jack observed, " There is a time 
 for everj^thing ; Mr. Lee did catch it hot." 
 
 McLane soon left us, glad to get away. Had he 
 stayed much longer there would have been one 
 more sad moth in the pretty net into which fell all 
 who were long in the company of our fatal Darthea. 
 I too applied for active duty, but some influence, 
 probably that of General Arnold, came in the way 
 and kept me in the city. 
 
 Very soon, to my pleasure, I received a letter 
 from Mr. Hamilton, inclosing my commission as 
 captain in the Third Regiment of the Pennsylvania 
 line, and wdth it, not to my pleasure, an order to re- 
 cruit in and near the city. Rather later the general 
 asked me, as I was but little occupied, to act as an 
 extra aide on his staff, a position which might have 
 been my ruin, as I shall by and by relate. 
 
 Jack's hurts turning out worse than was antici- 
 pated, he was of no use in camp, and remained at home 
 to be petted and fussed over by my Aunt Gainor.
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 417 
 
 After a month or two he was able to go about with 
 his lu-m in a shug, and to be greatly noticed by the 
 Whig women. Very soon he was caught, like me, 
 in a ceaseless round of all manner of gaieties. He 
 shortly grew weary of it, and fell back on his books 
 and the society of the many who loved him— above 
 all, that of my aimt and Darthea. For me there was 
 no escape, as my own dissi])ations were chiefly those 
 of official duty, and in company witli my chief. 
 
 Congi-ess was still in session, but from it were miss- 
 ing Adams, Franklin, Uenry, Jay, and Kutledge, who 
 were elsewhere fiUing posts of importance. It had 
 no fully recognised powers, and the want of more 
 distinct union was beginning to be sadly felt. Had 
 not the ruin of the Conway cabal and the profound 
 trust of the people lifted Washington into a position 
 of autliority, the fears and predictions of men like 
 my friend Wilson would have been fully justified. 
 Intrigues, ruinous metliods of finance, appointments 
 given to untried foreign officers who were mere ad- 
 venturers—all these and baser influences were work- 
 ing toward the ruin of our cause. 
 
 Our own city went wild that winter. The Tories 
 Were sharply dealt with at first, but, as many of 
 them were favoured by the general in command, 
 they soon came back in mischievous numbers. The 
 more moderate neutrals oj>cncd their doors to all 
 parties. The general began to be at ease in the 
 homes of the proj)rietary set, and, buying the great 
 house of Mount Pleasant, made court to the lovely 
 Margaret hJhippeu, and was foremost in a display of 
 tt
 
 4 1 8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 excess and luxury sucli as annoyed and troubled 
 those who saw him hand and glove with the Toiy 
 gentlemen, and extravagant beyond anything hith- 
 erto seen in the quiet old city of Penn. 
 
 At this time the Congress often sat with but a 
 dozen members. It was no longer the dignified body 
 of seventy-six. Officers came and went. Men like 
 Robert Morris and Dr. Rush shook their heads. 
 Clinton lay in New York, watched by Washington, 
 and in the South there was disaster after disaster, 
 while even our best men wearied of the war, and 
 asked anxiously how it was to end. 
 
 Recruiting in the face of such a state of things 
 was slow indeed. I had little to do but wait on the 
 general, read to my aunt, ride with her and Darthea, 
 or shoot ducks with Jack when weather permitted j 
 and so the long winter wore on. 
 
 With Darthea I restrained my useless passion, and 
 contented myself with knowing that we were day by 
 day becoming closer friends. If Arthur wrote to her 
 or not, I could not teU. She avoided mentioning 
 him, and I asked no questions. 
 
 I shall let Jack's diary teU— at this time it was 
 very fuU— what chanced in midwinter. Alas, my 
 dear Jack ! 
 
 " It has," he wrote, " been a season of foolish dis- 
 sipation. While the army suffers for everything, 
 these fools are dancing and gambling, and General 
 
 A the worst of all, which seems a pity in so good 
 
 a soldier. He is doing us a mighty harm. 
 
 " To-day has been for me a sad one. I shall think
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 4 1 9 
 
 ever of my foUy with remorse. I set it down as a 
 lesson to be read. We liad a great sleighing-frolic 
 to Cliveden. There were all the Tories, and few 
 else— the general driving Peggy Shippen, and I Dar- 
 thea. Mistress Wynne would have none of it. ' We 
 were no worse off under Howe,' she says ; ' Mr. Arnold 
 has no sense and no judgment.' It is true, I fear, 
 Mrs. Peniston, half froze, went along in our old 
 sleigh. We drove up to the stone steps of Cliveden 
 about seven at night— a fine moonlight, so that the 
 stone vases on the roof, crowned with their carved 
 pineapples, stood out against the sky. The A^ndows 
 were all aglow, and neither doors nor shutters were 
 as yet fully repaired. 
 
 "We had a warm welcome, and stood about the 
 ample fires while the ladies went men-ily upstairs 
 to leave their cloaks. I looked about me euri- 
 cusl}', for there were dozens of bullet-marks on the 
 plaster and the woodwork. It had been a gallant 
 defence, and cleverly contrived. Soon came down 
 the sta.irs a bevy of laughing girls to look, with 
 hushed voices, at the blood-stains on the floor and the 
 dents the muskets had made. They did think to 
 U'as.e me by praising Colonel Musgrave, who had 
 commanded the British; ])ut I, not to be outdone, 
 declared him the liravest man alive. Darthea smiled, 
 but said ncjthiug, and for that I loved her better than 
 ever. 
 
 "Then we fell to chatting, and presently she said, 
 'Madam Chew, Mr. Ward<'r is to show me where the 
 troops lay, and Mr. Wayne's brigade; and who will
 
 420 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 come too ? ' There were volunteers, but once outside 
 they found it cold, and Darthea, saying, ' We shall 
 be gone but a minute,' walked with me around the 
 stone outbuilding to northwest. She was very 
 thoughtful and quiet this night, looking as sweet as 
 ever a woman could in a gray fur coat against the 
 moon-lit drifts of snow. ' Over there,' I said, ' across 
 the road, were oiu* poor little four-pounders; and be- 
 yond yonder wall our chief held a brief council of 
 war J and just there in the garden lay my own men 
 and Hugh, and some Maryland ti'oops, among the 
 box where we used to play hide-and-find.' 
 
 " On this Darthea said, ' Let me see the place,' and 
 we walked down the garden, a gentle excitement 
 showing in her ways and talk; and I— ah me, that 
 night ! 
 
 " ' I must see,' she said, ' where the dead lie ; near 
 the garden wall, is it ? ' 
 
 " 'Here,' said I— 'ours and theirs.' 
 
 " ' In the peace which is past understanding,' said 
 Darthea. Then, deep in thought, she turned from 
 the house and into the woods a little beyond, not 
 saying a word. Indeed, not a sound was to be heard, 
 except the creak and craunch of the dry snow under 
 our feet. A few paces farther we came to the sum- 
 mer-house, set on circular stone steps, and big enough 
 to dine in. There she stood, saying, 'I cannot go 
 back yet ; oh, those stiU, still dead ! Don't speak to 
 me— not for a little whUe.' She stayed thus, looking 
 up at the great white moon, while I stood by, and 
 none other near.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 421 
 
 " ' I am better now, Jack, and yon will not tell of 
 how foolish I was— but— ' 
 
 "I said there was some sweet folly, if she hked 
 so to call it, which was better than wisdom. And 
 then how it was I know not, nor ever shall. I felt 
 mvself flush and tremble. It is mv foolisli way when 
 in danger, being by nature timid, and forced to exer- 
 cise nUe over myself at such seasons. 
 
 "She said, 'What is it. Jack?' for so she often 
 called me when we were alone, although Hugh was 
 Mr. Wpine. The ways of women are strange. 
 
 " I couhl not help it, and yet I knew Hugh loved 
 her. I knew also that she was surely to marry Mr. 
 Arthur Wynne. I was wrong, but, God help us ! 
 who is not wrong at times ? I said : * Darthea, I love 
 you. If it were to be Hugh I should never say so.' 
 I cared nothing about the other man ; he hates my 
 Hugh. 
 
 *' * Oh, Jack, Jack ! you hurt me ! ' Never was any- 
 thing so sweet and tender. Her great eyes— like 
 Madam Wynne's that were— filled and ran over. 
 *0h. Jack I ' she cried, 'must I hurt you too, and is it 
 my fault? Oh, my dear Jack, whom I love and 
 honour, I can't love von this wav. I can't— I can't. 
 And I am sorrj'. I must marry Arthur Wynne; I 
 have promised. You men think we women give our 
 hearts lightly, and take them again, as if they were 
 mere coimtci-s ; and I am troubled. Jack, and no ono 
 knows it. I mu.st not talk of that. I wish you would 
 all go away. I ciin't man*}' you all.' And she began 
 to be agitated, and to laugh in a way that seemed to
 
 422 HughWVnne: Free Quaker 
 
 me quite strange and out of place ; but then I know 
 little about T\'omen. 
 
 ''I could but say: 'Forgive me; I have hurt you 
 whom I love. I will never do it more— never. But, 
 dear Darthea, you \\dll let me love you, because I can- 
 not help it, and this will all be as if it had never been. 
 To hurt you— to hurt you of all the world ! I had 
 no right to ask you.' 
 
 " ' Don't,' she said, with a great sob, which seemed 
 to break my heart. 
 
 "'Darthea/ I said— 'Darthea, do not marry that 
 man ! He is cruel ; he is hard ; he does not love you 
 as my Hugh loves you.' 
 
 " ' Sir,' she said, with such sudden dignity that I 
 was overcome, and fell back a pace, ' I am promised ; 
 let that suffice. It is cold ; let us go in. It is cold- 
 it is cold ! ' 
 
 "I had never seen her like this. I said: 'Cer- 
 tainly ; I should not have kept you. I was thought- 
 less.' And as she said nothing in reply, I went after 
 her, having said my say as I never intended, and 
 more than was perhaps wise. At the door she tm-ned 
 about, and, facing me, said abruptly, with her dear 
 face all of a flush: 'Do not let this trouble you. I 
 am not good enough to make it worth while. I have 
 been a foolish girl, discontented with our simple 
 ways, wanting what I have not. I have cried for 
 toys, and have got them, and now I don't care for 
 them ; but I have promised. Do you hear, sir ? I 
 have promised— I have promised.' 
 
 " She stayed for no answer, but went in. It seemed
 
 Hug. Wynn,. ^ree Quakei 423 
 
 to me a singular speech, and to mean more than was 
 said. The repeating of one phrase over and over 
 api)eared meant to reinforce a doubtful purpose. I 
 think she cares little for Mr. Arthur ^\'vuue, but 
 who can say 1 Darthea is full of sui'prises. 
 
 " Can it be that she loves Hugh and knows it not, 
 or that she has such a strong sense of honour that it 
 is hard for her to break her word ? She does not be- 
 lieve this man to be bad. That is sure. If ever I 
 can make her see him as I see him, he will hold her 
 not an hour. I shall disturb her life no more. Had 
 she taken me to-day, I know not what would have 
 come of it. I am not strong of will, like Hugh. 
 God knows best. I will ask no more." 
 
 I was an old man when I, Hugh Wjiine, read 
 these pages, and I am not ashamed to say they cost 
 me some tears. 
 
 So far ais I remember, neither Jack nor Darthea 
 betrayed by their manner what I learned nauglit of 
 for so many yeai*s. Neither did my Aunt Gainor's 
 shrewdness get any hint of what passed at Cliveden. 
 I recall, however, that Jack became more and more 
 eager to rejoin his regiment, and this he did some 
 two weeks later. 
 
 My father's condition waa such as at times to 
 alarm me, and at last I proposed to him to see Dr. 
 Hush. To my suq)rise, he consented. I say to my 
 8urj)rise, for he had a vast distrust of doctors, and, 
 to tell the truth, had never needed their help. The 
 day after the do<'toi*'s visit I saw our great physician, 
 whom now all the world has learned to revere, and
 
 424 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 who was ever more wise in matters of medicine than 
 in matters of state. 
 
 He told me that my father was beginning to have 
 some failure of brain because of his arteries being 
 older than the rest of him, which I did not quite com- 
 prehend. He had, he said, losses of memory which 
 were not constant. Especially was he affected with 
 forgetfulness as to people, and for a time mistook 
 them, so that for a while he had taken Dr. Rush for 
 his old clerk Mason. The doctor said it was more 
 common to lack remembrance of places. In my 
 father's condition he might take one man for an- 
 other, and to-morrow be as clear as to his acquain- 
 tance as ever he had been ; but that as to business, 
 as was in such cases rare, his mind continued to be 
 lucid, except at times, when his memory would sud- 
 denly fail him for a few minutes. The doctor saw 
 no remedy for his condition, and I mention it only 
 because my father's varying peculiarities came in a 
 measure to affect me and others in a way of which 
 I shall have occasion to speak. 
 
 My sense of his state did much to make me more 
 tender and more able to endure the sad outbreaks of 
 passion which Dr. Rush taught me were to be looked 
 for. Nor was my aunt less troubled than I. Indeed, 
 from this time she showed as regarded my father all 
 of that gentleness which lay beneath the exterior 
 roughness of her masculine natm*e. I observed that 
 she looked after his house, paying him frequent 
 visits, and in all ways was sohcitous that he should 
 be made comfortable.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 425 
 
 Near about the 1st of March — I am not quite 
 sure of the date — I was asked iu the absence of 
 !Major Chirkson, chief of the staff, to take his duties 
 for a few days. I then saw ho\v needlessly the geuerid 
 was creating enmities. His worst foe, Mr. Joseph 
 Reed, had become in December presidentof the Coun- 
 cil of State, and we — I sav we — were thenceforward 
 forever at outs with the body over which he presided. 
 When at last, thoroughly disgusted, General Arnold 
 was about to resigu from the army, those unpleasant 
 charges were made against him wliich came to little 
 or nothing, but which embittered a life already 
 harassed by disappointed ambition and want of 
 means, and now also by the need to show a fair face to 
 Mr. Shippen, whose daughter's liand he had asked. 
 
 General Arnold's indifference as to privacy in his 
 affairs amazed me, and I saw enough to make me 
 both wonder and grieve. The friend of Schuyler and 
 of Warren, the soldier whom Washington at one time 
 absolutelv trusted, attached me to him bv his kind- 
 ness and hiN-ish generosity, and as an officer he had 
 my unbounded admiration. Surely his place was in 
 the field, and not at the dinner tables of Tories, 
 whose society, as I have said, he much affected. It 
 was a sign of weakness that he overesteemed the 
 homage of a merely gay and fashionable set, and 
 took with avidity the dangerous flattery of the Tory 
 dames. 
 
 lie was withal a somewhat coarse man, with a vast 
 amount of vanity. It was u blow to his self-estimate 
 wlien he was unjustly parsed over in the promotions
 
 426 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 to major-general. He felt it deeply, and was at no 
 pains to hide his disgust. I did not wonder that the 
 Shippens did all they could to break off this strange 
 love-affair. They failed ; for when a delicate-minded, 
 sensitive, well-bred woman falls in love with a 
 strong, coarse, passionate man, there is no more to 
 be said except, " Take her."
 
 XXIV 
 
 S the spring: came on my father's condi- 
 tion seemed to me to grow worse. At 
 times he had great gusts of passion or of 
 tears, quit€ unlike himself ; for a day he 
 would think I was my cousin, and be 
 more affectionate than I had ever seen him. Once 
 or twice he tidked in a confused way of our estate in 
 Wales, and so, what with this and my annoyance 
 over the irregularities at our headquarters, I had 
 enough to trouble me. 
 
 The oflice duties were, as I have said, not much to 
 my taste, but I learned a good deal which was of 
 future use to me. It was a dull life, and but once 
 did I come upon anything worth narrating. This, in 
 fact, seemed to me at tlie time of less moment than 
 it grew to be thereafter. 
 
 Neither I nor Major Clarkson, his chief of staff, 
 had all of the gcueral's coulideuce. Men came and 
 went now and then with letters, or Avhat not, of 
 which naturally I learned nothing. One— a lean, 
 small man, ill disguised as a Quaker— I .saw twice. 
 The last time he found the general absent. I offered 
 to take charge of a letter he said he had, but he de- 
 chned, sajnng he would return, and on this put it 
 
 4^7
 
 428 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 back in his pocket, or tried to ; for he let it fall, and 
 in quick haste secured it, although not before I 
 thought I had recognised Arthur Wjoine's peculiar 
 handwriting. This astounded me, as you may ima- 
 gine. But how could I dream of what it meant ? I 
 concluded at last that I must have been mistaken, 
 and I did not feel at liberty to ask the general. It 
 was none of my business, after all. 
 
 The fellow— I had always supposed him one of our 
 spies— came again in an hour, and saw the general. 
 I heard the man say, " From Mr. Anderson, sir," and 
 then the door was closed, and the matter passed from 
 my mind for many a day. 
 
 Jack very soon after left us, and Darthea became 
 more and more reserved, and unlike her merry, 
 changeful self. 
 
 On March 25, 79, I came in late in the afternoon 
 and sat down to read. My father, seated at the table, 
 was tying up or untying bundles of old papers. 
 Looking up, he said abruptly, *' Your cousin has been 
 here to-day." It was said so naturally as for a mo- 
 ment to surprise me. I made no reply. A few 
 minutes later he looked up again. 
 
 "Arthur, Arthur—" 
 
 I turned from a book on tactics issued by Baron 
 Steuben. " I am not Arthur, father." 
 
 He took no notice of this, but went on to say that 
 I ought to have come long ago. And what would I 
 do with it ? 
 
 I asked what he meant by it, and if I could help 
 him with his papers.
 
 HiighWVnne: Free Quiiker 429 
 
 No, no ; he needed no help. Did I ever hear from 
 Wyucote, and how wa^ AMlliam ? I made sure he 
 hiid onee again taken me for my cousin. I found it 
 was vain to insist upon my being: his son. For a 
 moment he would seem puzzled, and would then call 
 me Arthur. At last, when he became vexed, and said 
 auj;:rily that I was behaving worse than Hugh, I re- 
 called Dr. Ru.^ih's adN^ice, and humouring Ids delusion, 
 said, *' Uncle, let me help you." Meanwhile he was 
 fuml)ling nervously at the papers, tying and untying 
 the s:une bundle, which seemed to be chieflv old bills 
 and invoices. 
 
 " Here it is," he went on. " Take it, and have a 
 care that thou hast it duly considered by James Wil- 
 son, or another as good. Then we will see." 
 
 " Wliat is it, uncle ? " I returned. 
 
 He said it was the reconveyance of Wyncote to my 
 grandfather; and with entirely clear language, and 
 no faidt of thouglit tliat I could observe, he stated 
 that at need he would execute a proper title to God- 
 frey, the present man. 
 
 I was struck dumb with astonishment and pity. 
 Here was a man acting within a W(»rld of delusion as 
 to who I was, and with as much competence as ever 
 in his best davs, I did not know what to sav, nor 
 even what to do. At last I rore, and put the old 
 yellow parchment in my coat pocket, saying I was 
 greatly ol>liged by his kindness. 
 
 Then, his ]tusin<'ss liabits acting as was their wont, 
 he said, ' But it will be proper for thee to give me a 
 receipt"
 
 430 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I said it was not needed, but lie insisted ; and at 
 this I was puzzled. I did not want the deed, still less 
 did I want it to pass into Arthur's hands. I said, 
 "Very good, sir," and sitting down again, wrote a 
 receipt, and, calmly signing my own name, gave it 
 to him. He did not look at it, but folded and in- 
 dorsed it, and threw it into the little red leather 
 trunk on the table. 
 
 I went away to my aunt's without more delay, a 
 much-astounded man. The good lady was no less 
 astonished. We read the deed over with care, but 
 its legal turns and its great length puzzled us both, 
 and at last my aunt said : 
 
 "Let me keep it, Hugh. It is a queer tangle. 
 Just now we can do nothing, and later we shall see. 
 There wiU be needed some wiser legal head than 
 mine or yours, and what wiU come of it who can 
 say ? At all events, Mr, Arthur has it not, and in 
 your fathei-'s condition he himself will hardly be able 
 to make a competent conveyance. Indeed, I think he 
 will forget the whole business, I presume Master 
 "Wynne is not likely to return in a hurry." 
 
 In the beginning of April General Arnold married 
 our beautiful Margaret Shippen, and took her to the 
 new home. Mount Pleasant, above the shaded waters 
 of the quiet SchuylkiU. Tea-parties and punch- 
 drinking followed, as was the custom. 
 
 Mr. Arnold, as my aunt called him, after a fashion 
 learned in London, and also common in the colonies, 
 gave his bride Mount Pleasant as a dowry, and none 
 knew— not even the fair Margaret— that it was hope-
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 431 
 
 lessly niortgagred. Hither came gnests in scores for 
 a week after the marriage to drink tea with madam, 
 the men taking puiu-h upstairs with the groom, wliile 
 the women waited below, and had cakes and gossij), 
 in whieh this winter wa^s i-ieh enough to satisfy tliose 
 of all j)arties. 
 
 It was a year of defeat, and again the weaker folk, 
 like Joseph Warder and some much better knoANTi,— I 
 mention no names,— were talking of tenns, or, by 
 their fij*esides with a jug of Hollands, were critieising 
 our leader, and asking why he did not move. Mean- 
 while the army was as ill off as ever it had Ijeen since 
 the camping at Vjdley Forge, while the air here in 
 the city was full of vagixe rumours of defection and 
 what not. I was of necessity caught in the vortex of 
 gaiety which my cldef loved and did much to keep 
 up. He liked to see his aides at his table, and used 
 them as a pai-t of the excessive state we thought at 
 this time most unseendy. 
 
 I remember well an afternoon in April of this 
 year, when, the spring being early, all manner of 
 green things were peeping forth, while I walked to 
 and fro in the hall at Mount Pleasant, that I might 
 receive those who called and excuse the absence of 
 the host. I wandered out, for as yet none came to 
 call. The air was soft like summer, and, sweeter 
 than birds overhead or the fragrant arbutus on the 
 upland slopes, came Darthca in virgin white, and a 
 great hat tied under her chin with long breadths of 
 blue ribbon. My aunt walked with her from licr 
 coach, and close after them came a laughing throng
 
 432 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 of men and women, for the most part of the gover- 
 nor's set. There was bad news from the South, which 
 was by no means unwelcome to these people, if I 
 might judge from their comments. My aunt walked 
 with them in silent wrath, and after I had met them 
 at the door, turned aside with me and bade me go 
 with her on the lawn, where the grass was already 
 green. 
 
 " I have held my tongue," she said. " These people 
 have neither manners nor hearts. I told Mr. Shippen 
 as much. And where does your general get all bis 
 money ? It is vulgar, this waste. Look ! " she said ; 
 " look there ! It is well to feed the poor after a 
 wedding; I like the old custom; but this is mere 
 ostentation." It was true; there was a crowd of 
 the neighbouring farm people about the detached 
 kitchen, eager for the food and rum which I saw 
 given daily in absurd profusion. My Aunt Gainor 
 shook her head. 
 
 " It will turn out badly, Hugh. This comes of a 
 woman marrying beneath her. The man may be 
 a good soldier, — oh, no doubt he is, — but he is not a 
 gentleman. You must get away, Hugh." Indeed, 
 I much desired to do so, but until now had been de- 
 tained, despite repeated applications to my chief. 
 
 My aunt said no more, but went into the house, 
 leaving me to await the coming of the many guests, 
 men and women, gentlemen of the Congress, with 
 officers in uniform, who flocked to this too hospitable 
 mansion. I had just heard from Jack, and the con- 
 trast shown by his account of the want of arms,
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 433 
 
 clothing:, ami food seemed to me most sad when I re- 
 fleeted upon the extravaganee and useless excess I 
 had seen throughout the winter now at an end. I 
 did not wonder at niv aunt s aiiu:er. Her fears were 
 but the vague antit;ipations of a wL>e old wonuin 
 who had seen the world and used good eyes and a 
 sagacious brain. How httle did she or I dream of 
 the tragedy of dishonour into which the mad waste, 
 the growing debts, the bitterness of an insulted and 
 ambitious spirit, were to lead the host of tliis gay 
 house! 
 
 As I turned in my walk I saw the general dis- 
 mount, and went to meet him. He said : " I shall 
 want you at nine to-night at my quarters in town— 
 an errand of moment into the Jerseys. You must 
 leave early to-morrow. Are you well horsed?" 
 
 I said yes, and was, in fact, glad of any more ac- 
 tive life. Before nine that night I went to head- 
 quarters, and found a number of invitations to dine 
 or sup. It may amuse those for whom I ^mte to 
 know that nearly all were yrrit on the white backs 
 of j»laying-eards ; but one from Madam Arnold was 
 printed. I .^at down, facing the open doorway into 
 the general's room, and began to wTite refusals, not 
 knowing how long I might be absent. 
 
 Presentlj' looking up, I saw the general at his 
 desk. I had not heard him enter. Two candles were 
 in front of liiin. He was sitting witli his cheeks rest- 
 ing on his hands and his oll)ows on the desk, facing 
 me, and so deep in f liought that I did not think fit to 
 interrupt him. His large, ruddy features now were 
 
 2S
 
 434 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 pale and sombre, and twice I saw him use his kerchief 
 to mop his brow as if it were moist from overlieating. 
 
 At last he called me, and I went in. His forehead 
 and the powdered hair about it were in fact wet, like 
 those of a man who is coming out of an ague. In- 
 deed, he looked so ill that I ventured to ask after his 
 health. He rephed that he was weU. That infamous 
 court-mai'tial business annoyed him, and as to Mr. 
 Reed, if there were any fight in the man, he would 
 have him out and get done with him— which seemed 
 imprudent talk, to say no more. 
 
 " Captain Wynne," he went on, " early to-morrow 
 you will ride tlirough Bristol to the ferry below 
 Trenton. Cross and proceed with aU haste to South 
 Amboy, At the Lamb Tavern you will meet an 
 officer from Sir Henry Clinton. Deliver to him this 
 despatch in regard to exchange of prisoners. He 
 may or may not have a letter for you to bring back. 
 In this package are passes from me, and one from 
 Sir Henry Clinton, in case you meet with any Tory 
 parties." 
 
 "I shall be sure to meet them in west Jersey. 
 Pardon me, sir, but would it not be easier to pass 
 through our own lines in the middle Jerseys ? " 
 
 " You have your orders, Mr. "Wynne," he replied 
 severely. 
 
 I bowed. 
 
 Then he seemed to hesitate, and I stood waiting 
 his wiU. " The despatch," he said, " is open in case 
 it becomes needful to show it. Perhaps you had 
 better read it."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 4:55 
 
 Tliis sounded uunsual, but I opened it, and read 
 to the etfeet that the exchanges woukl go on if Sir 
 Henry did not see fit to tdter his fornier projtosal, but 
 that some time might ehii)se before the lists on our 
 side were made out. '• Tlie officer charged with this 
 letter will be unable to give any further information, 
 as he has no ])owei'S to act for me. 
 
 '•1 have tlie honour tt) be 
 
 '' Your obedient, humble servant, 
 *' Benedict Arnold, 
 " Major-General in ccmDHand of 
 PhUaddphia (oul the ire^fern Jerseys." 
 
 I looked up. '-Is tliat all?" 
 
 " Not quite. If it cliance that no officer appears to 
 meet you at Amboy, you will return at once." 
 
 Very glad of relief from the routine of rather dis- 
 tasteful duties, I rode away at dawn the next day up 
 the Bristol road. I was stopped, as I supposed I 
 should be, by a small band of Torj' partisans, but 
 after exliiliiting my British pass T was permitted to 
 proceed. Between Trenton and Am])ov I met a party 
 of our own horse, and had some trouble until I 
 allowed their h'ader, a stuj)id lout, to read my open 
 despatch, wlien he seemed satisfied, and sent on two 
 trooiKTs with me, whom I h-ft near Amboy. 
 
 At the inn I waited a day, when a ketch appeared, 
 and an officer, stepping a.»<hore, came up from the 
 beach to meet me. I saw, as he drew near, that it 
 was Arthur WNTine. 
 
 *' Glad to see you," lie cried, iii a tpiite hearty way.
 
 436 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " It is an unexpected pleasure. Andre was to have 
 come, but he is ill. He desires his regards and par- 
 ticular compliments." 
 
 Was I always to meet this man when I was so 
 hampered that to have my will of him was out of the 
 question? I said the meeting could not be unex- 
 pected, or how could Andi*e have known ? At this I 
 saw him look a bit queer, and I went on to add that 
 the pleasure was all on his side. 
 
 '■'■ I am sorry," he returned. 
 
 Not caring to hear further, I said abruptly: "Let 
 us proceed to business. Here is a despatch for Sir 
 Henry. Have you any letter for me ? " 
 
 " None," he replied. 
 
 " Then I am free to go." 
 
 "Pardon me; not yet," he said. "I beg that for 
 once you wiU. hear what I in person have to say. I 
 have been greatly misrepresented." 
 
 " Indeed ? " 
 
 " Yes. Pray be patient. I meant to write to you, 
 but that has been difficult, as you know." 
 
 " Of course. And what have you to say, sir ? " 
 
 "You have misunderstood me. There have been 
 reasons of difference between us which, I am happy 
 to say, are at an end for me." He meant as to 
 Darthea. " I made a mistake in the prison such as 
 any man might have made. I have been sorry ever 
 since. I made an effort to arrest you in the garden ; 
 I did my duty, and was glad you escaped. If you 
 are not satisfied, a time may come when I can put my- 
 self at your disposal. Our present service and our
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 437 
 
 relationship make me hope that you may never 
 desiiv it" 
 
 He was qiiict, cool, and perfectly master of himself. 
 It did not suit him to luive a break with uie, and I 
 well knew why. It would end all cluuice of his future 
 intercourse with my father, and why he did not ^^^sh 
 this to happen I now knew pi-etty well. 
 
 I said, " Mr. Wynne, tlie arrest is a small matter. 
 Thanks to Miss Peniston and to Major Audr^, it 
 (;mne to nothing." At my use of Darthea's name I 
 saw him frown, and I went on : 
 
 "Yon have lied about the prison, sir. If Mr. 
 Delaney, who heard you ask my name, were here, I 
 should long ago have exposed you and your conduct 
 to aU who cared to hear. You were shrewd enough 
 to pro^'ide against the possibility of my telling my 
 own stor}'. I can only hope, at no distant day, to 
 have the means of unmasking a man who- -why, I 
 know not— has made himself mv enemv. Then, sir, 
 and always I .'^hall hope to ask of you another form 
 of satisfaction." 
 
 " Cousin Ilugh," he returned, " I shall be able to 
 prove to you and to Mr. Delaney, when he can be 
 found, that you are both mistaken. I trust that you 
 will not for so slight a reason see fit to disturb my 
 pleasant relations with your father." They were, I 
 thought, profitable as well as pleasant. 
 
 " I shall use my judgment," said I. 
 
 ''I am sorr}'. I hoped for a more agreeable end- 
 ing to our talk. Good-evening." And ho walked 
 away.
 
 43^ Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 Before nightfall of the day after I was again at 
 home, and had made my report, little dreaming of the 
 innocent part I had played in a sorrowful drama, nor 
 how great was the risk I had run. Concerning this 
 I was not made clear for many a day. I had carried 
 a letter which was not what it seemed to be, but was 
 reaUy a means of satisfying Clinton that Arnold in- 
 tended to betray us, and had accepted his terms. Had 
 this been known when the great treason came, I 
 should no doubt have got into serious difficulties. The 
 unreasoning storm of anger which followed General 
 Ai'nold's treachery spared no one who was in any 
 way involved, and no appearance of innocence would 
 have saved even so loyal and blameless a soldier as 
 I from certain disgrace. 
 
 I have at times wondered that a man to outward 
 seeming so kindly and so plainly attached to me as 
 Arnold apparently was should have used me for such 
 an en-and ; but he who could value lightly the respect 
 and friendship of Washington and Schuyler may 
 have had few scruples as to the perUs to which he 
 might expose a simple officer like myself. Who bore 
 his later missives no one knows. I have never 
 thought, as some do, that any Eve was active in the 
 temptation which led to the dark treachery of the 
 saddest hour of that weary war. Arnold's first 
 downward step was taken months before he knew 
 Margaret Shippen, as Sir Henry Clinton's papers 
 have now most clearly shown. 
 
 Of my personal regret as to Arnold's disgrace I 
 have said little in these pages, and shall say but little
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 439 
 
 more. His generosity may have been but a part of 
 his lavishness in all directions ; but this was he who 
 for ve;irs cared liberally for the destitute children of 
 his friend Wan-en after liis death at Bunker Hill ; 
 and this was he who, as Schuyler has told me, saved 
 the life of the soldier who had just shot him on the 
 field at Saratoga. Surely tlie good and the bad ai*e 
 wonderfully mingled in our humanity ! 
 
 Early in June of 79, and after repeated requests 
 on my ptu-t to rejoin my regiment, I received orders 
 to report to the colonel in command of the Third 
 Pennsylvania foot, then lying at Ramapo, New 
 York. I took leave of my people, and, alas! of 
 Darthea, and set out with a number of recruits. I 
 was glad indeed to be away. Darthea was clearly 
 unhappy, and no longer the gay enchantress of un- 
 numbered moods ; neither did my home life offer me 
 comfort or affection. 
 
 If, however, I looked for acti\'ity in the army, I 
 was greatly mistaken. Sir Henrj' held New York ; 
 our own poojdo had the Jerseys. A great chain of 
 forts limited the movements of the British on the 
 Hudson. Our general seemed to me to have a 
 paralysing influence on whatever British commander 
 wa-s matched against him. As it had })een with Gage 
 in Boston and with Howe in Philadelphia, so was it 
 now with Clinton in New York. From Danbuiy in 
 Connecticut to Elizal)eth in New Jersey, a thin line 
 wat^;lied the pent-up enemy, who to seaward was 
 guarded by a great fleet. N<ti-th of the Potomac he 
 held New York alone, but on the frontier a savage
 
 440 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 contest raged, and in the South the war everywhere 
 went against us. 
 
 Occasional skirmishes, incessant drill, and a life 
 of expedients to shelter, clothe, and feed my men, 
 filled the tedious -wdnter of '79 and '80, but affords me 
 nothing of interest to add to tlie stoiy of my life. In 
 August General Arnold passed through our forces to 
 take command of the forts at West Point, having de- 
 clined a command in the field on account, as he said, 
 of continued suffering from his wounded leg. I fear 
 it was a mere pretence. 
 
 We were lying about Middlebrook, New Jersey, 
 when, a few days later, Colonel Alexander Hamilton 
 came to my quarters, evidently much amused. He 
 said the videttes had captured a batch of letters, 
 mostly of no moment, but some too mischievous to 
 be let to pass. 
 
 ''Here," he said, "is one which concerns you, 
 Wynne. You need have no scruple as to the read- 
 ing of it. It has much entertained the mess of the 
 headquarters guard." 
 
 He sat down with Jack and a pipe to keep off the 
 Tory mosquitos, while I fell to reading the letter. 
 The same buzzing Tories were busy about me also 
 with bugle and beak, but when, as I glanced at the 
 letter, I caught Darthea's name on the second page, 
 I forgot them and hesitated. "StiU," thought I, 
 "others have read it, and it may be well that I 
 should do so." It was no longer private. I went on 
 to learn what it said. It was from Miss Franks in 
 New York to some young woman of her set in my
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 441 
 
 own city, but to whom was not clear, as an outer 
 cover seemed to have been lost or cast away. 
 
 " My dear Pussy," it begau : " I hope you will 
 get this despite the rebels, else you will lose much 
 that is usefiU in the warfai e ^vith our dear enemy, 
 the unfair sex." After this was an amusing record 
 of the latest modes and much about jjjowns, j)in- 
 cushion hoops, and face-patchos. '' Also the gentle- 
 men of New York wear two watches, which with you 
 is not considered genteel, and the admiral has intro- 
 duced the fashion of dining by c^mdle-Ught at four. 
 It is very becoming, I do assure you. 
 
 " How is the pretty boy-captain ? Does he still 
 blush T " This was clearlv Jack, but who was Pussv ? 
 "And Mr. Wvune— not Darthea's Mr. Wynne, but 
 the perverted Quaker -snth the blue eyes ? " It was 
 plain who this was. 
 
 " Darthea's captain— but I must not tell tales out 
 of school;— indeed he needs to be dealt with. Tell 
 the ^\ntch if she ivill stay among the R. R.'s— which 
 is what we call them— Ragged Rebels it is— she 
 must look to suffer. I am not as sure she does. Oh, 
 these men ! Between us, there is a certain Olivia 
 
 L who is great friends with Mr. Wynne. 8he 
 
 hath a winning air of artless youth. I am j)leased t« 
 hear from mij colonel, whom you must soon know, 
 that we shall soon be with you in our dear Philadel- 
 phia, an<l Mr. (i. W. hoeing tobacco, or worse, poor 
 man. Dear me ! I have quite lost my way, and must 
 look back. 
 
 •' I can fancy Darthea weeping. She hath small
 
 442 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 need It is my way to love to tease whom I love, and 
 the more I do love the more I do love to tease. I can- 
 not believe any would be false to Darthea, nor 
 is he, I am sure ; but thou dost know (as Mistress 
 "Wynne's Captain Blushes would word it. *■ Thou ' 
 and ' thee ' are sweet. I would I had a Quaker lover) 
 — thou dost know that the she who is here is always 
 more dangerous than the she who is there. That is 
 Darthea, dear. 
 
 " I forgot to say stays is wore looser, which is a 
 mercy 5 also the garters must be one red and one 
 blue." 
 
 When, amused, I read a bit to Jack, he declared 
 we ought to read no more, and if he had been of the 
 mess which did read it, he would have had reason out 
 of some one. Indeed, he was angry-red, and begin- 
 ning to twitch in his queer way, so that I feared he 
 would bring about a quarrel with Mr. Hamilton, 
 who knew neither woman and was still shaking with 
 laughter. 
 
 I liked it no better than Jack did, but he had said 
 enough, and I shook my head at Hamilton as I lay 
 on the floor of the hut behind Jack. Mr. Hamilton, 
 who was a very model of good breeding, and despite 
 his vivacity never forgot what was due to others, said 
 at once : " I ask pardon, Mr. "Warder. I did not know 
 either of the ladies was known to you. Had I been 
 aware, no one should have read the letter." 
 
 Then Jack said he had been hasty, and hoped Mr. 
 Hamilton would excuse him. 
 
 " There is nothing to excuse, Mr. Warder j but I
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 443 
 
 must tell you the rest, for it much doliofhted his Ex- 
 cellency. It is but a madcap accouut of how Miss 
 Frauks tied oiu* own colours all over jNIt. Andi'6's 
 black poodle, and let him loose at a ball the De 
 Laucevs had in honour of Sii* Henrv Clinton. Our 
 Excellency says it is a pity we had not captm-ed the 
 fail* lATiter. That is as near to a jest as he ever 
 comes, but he can enjoy our staff nonsense for all 
 his gravity. I leave you the letter; you may like 
 some day to deUver it. I hope we shall move soon. 
 This camp life is devilish dull. And here is the 
 Bntish mouse in a hole and won't come out, and our 
 serious old cat a- watching. Lord, the patience of the 
 man ! Come over and see us soon, Mr. Warder, and 
 you too, Wynne." 
 
 "I wish Miss Darthea had the letter. But she 
 never can have it now," said I. 
 
 "Hardly," says Jack, blushing sweetly. I think 
 the garters were on his mind. 
 
 Early in August Jjick's command was sent to join 
 the army on the Hudson, and, as I learned later, was 
 camped vrith tli»* bulk of our forces about the former 
 seat of the Tappan Indians, among the old Dutch 
 farms. These clianges of tro()j)s from place to place 
 were most peq)lexing to us, who did not comprehend 
 the game, and were now at Hartford, and a month 
 later at p]lizabeth in the Jerseys. ]\Iy own regiment 
 had seen httle service beyond tlie Jersey line, and was 
 willing enough to get out of reach of those summer 
 pests, the mosquitos. We were soon gratified.
 
 XXV 
 
 N the 20t}i of September I was desired by 
 my colonel to conduct two companies 
 from Newark, where we lay, through the 
 gap at Ramapo, New York, to the main 
 army, which at this date was camped, as 
 I have said, about Tappan. Being stout and well, I 
 was glad to move, and glad of a chance to see the 
 great river Hudson. We were assigned camp-ground 
 back from the river, on a hill slope, in a long-settled 
 country, where since early in the seventeenth century 
 the Dutch had possessed the land. Having no tents, 
 on arriving we set to work at the old business of hut- 
 building, so that it was not until the 26th of Septem- 
 ber that I had an idle hour in which to look up Jack, 
 who lay somewhere between Tappan and the river. 
 It was, as usual, a joyous meeting, and we never 
 did less lack for talk. Jack told me that he was 
 ordered on an unpleasant bit of business, and asked 
 if I could not get leave to go with him. Orders were 
 come from West Point to seize and destroy all 
 periaguas, canoes, and boats in the possession of the 
 few and often doubtfully loyal people between us 
 and King's Ferry. He had for this duty two sail- 
 
 444
 
 Hugh W^vnne : Free Quaker 445 
 
 rigged dories vrith slide-keels, and would take two 
 soldiers in each. 
 
 Upon his representing niy skill as a sailor, and the 
 need for two oflficers, I was allowed to turn over my 
 command to the junior oaptiiiu and to join Jack. 
 
 We set off on the 27th of September -vnth prov- 
 ender and two small tents, and went away up the 
 river with a fine wind. The water was a dull gi'ay, 
 and the heavens clouded. The far shore of Dobb's 
 Fern.' and TaiTytown was already gaily tinted with 
 the hues of the autumn, and to south the bleak gray 
 lines of the Palisades below Sneedon's Landing lay 
 sombre and stern under a sunless sky. One of my 
 men was a good sailor, and I wjis thus enabled to 
 spend most of the day in Jack's boat. 
 
 I mention all these details because of a curious 
 coincidence. I said to Jack— I was steering— that I 
 had had since dawn a feeling that some calamity 
 was about to happen. Now this was, as I recall it, 
 a notion quite new to me, and far more like Jack 
 himself. He laughed and said it was the east wind. 
 Tlien aft<?r a pause he added : " I was trying to recall 
 something I once heard, and now I have it. This 
 waiting for an i<lea is like fishing in the deo[) waters 
 of the mind : sometimes one gets only a nibble, and 
 ooraetimes a bite ; but I have my fish. It was Dr. 
 Rush who told me that the liver was the mother of 
 gho.sts and presentiments. When I told him I was 
 afflicted with these latter, he put on his glasses, 
 looked at mc, and said I was of a presentimcntal 
 temperament"
 
 44^ Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " And he was right," said I, laughing. Then Jack 
 declared the weather was sorry enough to account 
 for my notion. I made answer, as I remember, that 
 I was not subject to the rule of the weather-cock, 
 like some fellows I knew, nor to thinking I was 
 going to be shot. This shut up Jack for a while, and 
 we got off on to our own wise plans for capturing 
 Sir Henry and all Ms host. 
 
 At last we ran ashore at a settled point called 
 Nyack, and thence we went to and fro wherever we 
 saw the smoke of men's homes. We broke up or 
 burned many boats and dugouts, amid the lamenta- 
 tions of their owners, because with the aid of these 
 they were enabled to take fish, and were ill off for 
 other diet. We had an ugly task, and could only 
 regret the sad but inexorable necessities of war. 
 
 We camped ten miles above Tappan, and next 
 day, near to dusk, got as far as King's Landing, 
 having pretty thoroughly attended to our ungracious 
 task. 
 
 As the tall promontory of Stony Point rose before 
 us, dim in the evening light, we talked of Wayne's 
 gallant storming of this formidable fort, and of his 
 affection for the bayonet, which, he said, was to be 
 preferred to the musket because it was always loaded. 
 
 "We of our State had most of that glory," said 
 Jack ; " and all our best generals, save the great chief, 
 are men of the North," which was true and strange. 
 
 We had at this place a strong force of horse and 
 foot, and here we meant to pass the night with some 
 of our officers, friends of Jack's.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 447 
 
 It was quite dark, wlieu, ninuing: in with a free 
 sheet, we came close to a large barge rowed by 
 six men. As we approached I lieard a stern order 
 to keep off, and recognised in tlie boat, where were 
 also amied men, Major Tallmadge, whom I knew. I 
 called to him, but as he only repeated his order, I 
 answered, "Very well, su';" and we di'ew in to the 
 shore some humh-ed feet away. 
 
 Jack said it was queer ; what could it mean ? We 
 walked toward the small blockhouse in time to see 
 Tallmadge and several soldiers conduct a cloaked 
 prisoner into the fort. A little later the major came 
 out, and at once asked me to excuse his abruptness, 
 sjiying that he had in charge Sir Henry Clinton's 
 adjutant-general, wlu) had been caught acting as a 
 spy, and was now about to be taken to Tappan. I 
 exclaimed, " Not Major Andre ! " 
 
 "Yes," he returned,- "Andr^. A bad business.'' 
 And I was hastily told the miserable stoiy of Ar- 
 nold's treason and flight. I turned to Jack. " There 
 it is," said I. " \Vhat of raj* presentiment ? " He was 
 silent. " You know," T added, " that to this man I 
 owed my life at the Misdiianza ball; here he is in 
 the same trap from which his refusal to aid my 
 cousin saved me." I was ton-iblv distres.sed, and at 
 my urgent desire, in jihu-e of remaining at the fort,, 
 we set out after supper, and pulled dovm the river 
 against the flood-tide, while my unfortimatc friend 
 Andr6 was burned away to Tappan, guarded by a 
 strong escort of light horse. 
 
 We reached Sneedon's Landing about 5 a. m., and
 
 448 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I went up with Jack to his hut. Here I got a bit of 
 uneasy sleep, and thence set off to find Hamilton; 
 for the whole staff, with his Excellency, had made 
 haste to reach the camp at Tappan so soon as the 
 general felt reassured as to the safety of West 
 Point. 
 
 I walked a half-mile up a gentle rise of ground to 
 the main road, about which were set, close to the old 
 Dutch church, a few modest, one-story stone houses, 
 with far and near the cantonments of the armies. 
 At the bridge over a noisy brook I was stopped 
 by sentries set around a low brick building then 
 used as headquarters. It stood amid scattered 
 apple-trees on a shght rise of ground, and was, as I 
 recall it, built of red and black brick. Behind the 
 house was the little camp of the mounted guard, and 
 on all sides were stationed sentinels, who kept the 
 immediate grounds clear from intrusion. For this 
 there was need ; soldiers and officers were continu- 
 ally coming hither in hopes to gather fresh news 
 of the great treason, or curious as to this strange 
 capture of Sir Henry Clinton's adjutant. General 
 ofiicers came and went with grave faces; aides 
 mounted and rode away in haste; all was excite- 
 ment and anxious interest, every one asking ques- 
 tions, and none much the wiser. With difficulty I 
 succeeded in sending in a note to Hamilton along 
 with Jack's report. This was nigh to nine in the 
 morning, but it was after midday before I got a 
 chance to see my friend. 
 
 Meanwhile I walked up and down in a state of
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 449 
 
 such afritation aiid distress Jis never before nor since 
 have I known. Wlien I had seen Major Tallmadge, 
 he knew but little of tliose details of Arnold's treason 
 which later became the property of all men -, but he 
 did teU me that the correspondence had been carried 
 on for ISir llonry by Andre in the name of Ander- 
 son, and this brought to my mind the letter which 
 the Quaker farmer declined to surrender to me at the 
 time I was serving as Arnold's aide. I went back 
 at last to Jack's hut in the valley near the river and 
 waited. I leave Jack to say how I felt and acted that 
 day and evening, as I lay and thought of Andr6 
 and of poor Margaret Shippen. Arnold's wife : 
 
 ** Never have I seen my dear Hugh in such trouble. 
 Here was a broken-hearted woman, tlie companion 
 of his cliildhood ; and Andre, wlio, at a moment which 
 must have called uj>on his every instinct as a soldier, 
 held back and saved my friend from a fate but too 
 likely to be his own. Hugh all that evening lay in 
 our hut, and now and then would break out declar- 
 ing he must do something; l>ut what he knew not, 
 nor did I. He was even so ma<l as to think he might 
 j»hin some way to assist Andrr to escape. I Hstonod, 
 hut .';aid notliing, being assured from long knowledge 
 that his judgment would corrnct tlie influence of the 
 emotion which did at first seem to disturb it. 
 
 "Now all this miserable business is over, I ask 
 myself if our chief would have tried to buy an Eng- 
 lish general, or if so, would I or Hugh have gone 
 on such an errand aw Andrei's. To be a spy is but 
 a simple duty, and no shame in it; })ut as to the 
 39
 
 450 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 shape this other matter took, I do not feel able to 
 decide." 
 
 Still later he adds : 
 
 " Nor is my mind more fuUy settled as to it to-day ; 
 some think one way, some another. I had rather 
 Andre had not gone on this errand with the promise 
 of a great reward. Yet I think he did believe he was 
 only doing his duty." 
 
 After an hour or more of fruitless thinking, not 
 hearing from Mr. Hamilton, I walked back to head- 
 quarters. Neither in the joy and pride of glad news, 
 nor when disaster on disaster f eU on us, have I ever 
 seen anything like the intensity of expectation and of 
 anxiety which at this time reigned in our camps. The 
 capture of the adjutant-general was grave enough ; 
 his fate hung in no doubtful balance ; but the feehng 
 aroused by the fall of a great soldier, the dishonour 
 of one greatly esteemed in the ranks, the fear of what 
 else might come, all served to foster uneasiness and 
 to feed suspicion. As the great chief had said, whom 
 now could he trust, or could we ? The men talked in 
 half- whispers about the camp-fires ; an hundred wild 
 rumours were afloat ; and now and again eager eyes 
 looked toward the low brick church where twelve 
 general officers were holding the court-martial which 
 was to decide the fate of my friend. 
 
 It was evening before the decision of the court- 
 martial became generally known. I wandered about 
 all that day in the utmost depression of mind. 
 About two in the afternoon of this 29th of Septem- 
 ber I met Hamilton near the creek. He said he had
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 451 
 
 been busy iill day, and was free for an hour ; would 
 I come and dine at his quai'ters? What was the 
 matter ■with me? I was glad of a chance to speak 
 freely. We had a long and a sad talk, and he then 
 learned why this miserable affair affected me so 
 deeply. He had no belief that the court could do 
 other than condemn Mr. Andre to die. I asked anx- 
 iously if the chief were certain to approve the sen- 
 tence. He replied gloomily, "As sui-ely as there is a 
 God in heaven.'' 
 
 I could only wait. A hundred schemes were in 
 my mind, each as useless as the others. In fact, I 
 knew not what to do. 
 
 On the 30th his Excellency signed the death-war- 
 rant, and, all hope being at an end, I determined to 
 make an effort to see the man to whom I beheve I 
 owed my life. "WTien I represented the matter to 
 Mr. Hamilton and to the Marquis de Lafayette, I put 
 my request on the ground that j\Ir. Andre had here 
 no one who could be called a friend, excepting only 
 myself, and that to refuse me an interN-iew were 
 needlessly cniel. I wrote my application with care, 
 the marquis, who was most kind throughout, charg- 
 ing himself with the business of ])laeing it favourably 
 before our chief. The execution had been ordered 
 for October 1, but, upon receipt of some communica- 
 tion from Sir Henry Clinton, it was postponed until 
 noon on Octol>er 2. 
 
 On the 30th I rode out into the hills back of Tap- 
 pan, and tried to compose myself by my usual and 
 effective remedy of a hard ride. It was useless now.
 
 452 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I came back to my friend's quarters and tried to read, 
 finding a stray volume of the " Rambler " on his table. 
 It was as vain a resort. 
 
 Never at any time in my memory have I spent two 
 days of such unhappiness. I could get no rest and 
 no peace of mind. To be thus terribly in the grip 
 of events over which you have no control is to men 
 of my temper a maddening affliction. My heart 
 seemed all the time to say, " Do something," and my 
 reason to reply, " There is nothing to do." It was 
 thus in the jail when my cousin was on my mind; 
 now it was as to Andre, and as to the great debt I 
 owed him, and how to paj^ it. People who despaii* 
 easily do not fall into the clutches of this intense 
 craving for some practical means of relief where 
 none can be. It is the hopeful, the resolute, and such 
 as are educated by success who suffer thus. But why 
 inflict on others the stoiy of these two days, except 
 to let those who come after me learn how one of 
 theii" blood looked upon a noble debt which, alas ! 
 like many debts, must go to be settled in another 
 world, and in other ways than ours. 
 
 Hamilton, who saw my agitation, begged me to 
 prepare for disappointment. I, however, could see 
 no reason to deny a man access to one doomed, when 
 no other friend was near. Nor was I wrong. About 
 seven in the evening of the 1st, the marquis came in 
 haste to find me. He had asked for my interview 
 with Mr, Andre as a favour to himself. His Excel, 
 lency had granted the request in the face of objec- 
 tions from two general officers, whom the marquis
 
 Hugh \\'ynne: Free Quaker 453 
 
 did uot luuuo. As I thuiiked him he g:ave me this 
 order : 
 
 " To Major TaJlmadge: 
 
 " The beai'er, llw^h. "Wynne, Esq., Captain, Second 
 Company, Third Ke«jrimeut of Pennsylvania foot, has 
 herewith jx^rmission to visit Major Andre. 
 
 "Geo*^ Washington. 
 
 "October 1, 1780." 
 
 I went at once— it was now close to eight in the 
 eveninj; — to the small honse of one Mabv, where the 
 prisoner was kept. It Avas but an hundred yards 
 from his Excellency's quarters. Six sentries marched 
 to and fro aroimd it, and within the room two officers 
 remained day and night witli drawn swords. My 
 pass was taken at the door of the house, while I 
 waited on the road without. In a few minutes an 
 officer came to me with Major Tallnuidge's compli- 
 ments, and would I be pleased to enter? 
 
 I sometimes think it strange how, even in partic- 
 nlai's, the natural and other scenery of this dark 
 drama remains distinct in my memor}', uiuiffected by 
 the obliterating influence of the years which have 
 effaced so much else I had been more glad to keep. 
 
 I can see to-day the rising mo<>n, the yellowisli 
 road, the long, gray stone farm-house of one story, 
 with windows set in an irregular fnime of ])rifkwork. 
 The door opens, and I find myself in a short hall, 
 where two officers sahile as I pas.s. My conductor 
 says, "Tliis way, Captain "Wynne," and I enter a
 
 454 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 long, cheerless-looking apartment, the sitting-room 
 of a Dutch farm-house. Two lieutenants, seated 
 within at the doorway, rose as I entered, and, salut- 
 ing me, sat down again. I stood an instant looking 
 about me. A huge log fire roared on the hearth, so 
 lighting the room that I saw its glow catch the bay- 
 onet tips of the sentinels outside as they went and 
 came. There were a half-dozen wooden chairs, and 
 on a pine table four candles burning, a bottle of 
 Hollands, a decanter and glasses. In a liigh-backed 
 chair sat a man with his face to the fire. It was 
 Andre. He was tranquilly sketching, with a quill 
 pen, a likeness of himseK.^ He did not tui-n or leave 
 off drawing until Captain Tomlinson, one of the 
 oiScers in charge, seeing me pause, said: 
 
 " Your pardon, major. Here is a gentleman come 
 to visit you." 
 
 As he spoke the prisoner turned, and I was at once 
 struck by the extreme pallor of his face even as seen 
 in the red light of the fire. His death-like whiteness 
 at this time brought out the regular beauty of his 
 features as his usual ruddiness of coloiu' never did. 
 I have since seen strong men near to certain 
 death, but I recall no one who, with a serene and un- 
 troubled visage, was yet as white as was this gentle- 
 man. 
 
 The captain did not present me, and for a moment 
 I stood with a kind of choking in the throat, which 
 came, I suppose, of the great shock Andre's appear- 
 ance gave me. He was thus the first to speak : 
 
 1 My acquaintance, Captain Tomlinson, has it.
 
 Plugh \\'ynne: Free Quaker 455 
 
 *• Pai'don me," he said, as he rose ; " the name 
 escaped me." 
 
 •• Mr. Hugh Wyuue," I said, gettiug myself pulled 
 together— it was much needed. 
 
 " Oh, Wynne ! '' he cried quite joyously ; " I did 
 not know you. How delightful to see a friend ; how 
 good of you to come ! Sit down. Our aecommoda- 
 tions are sUght. Thanks to his Excellency, here are 
 Madeu-a and Hollands ; may I offer you a glass ? " 
 
 '' No, no," I said, as we took chairs by the fire, on 
 which he cast a log, remarking how cold it was. 
 Then he added : 
 
 '•Well, Wjnine, what ean I do for you?" And 
 then, smihng, "Pshaw ! what a thing is haljit ! What 
 can I do for you, or, indeed, my dear Wynne, for any 
 one ? But, Lord ! I am as glad as a child." 
 
 It was all so sweet and natural that I was again 
 quite overcome. " My God ! " I cried, " I am so sorry, 
 Mr. Andr^» ! I came down from King's Ferr}' in 
 haste when I heard of this, and have been three days 
 getting leave to see you. I have never forgotten 
 your great kindness at the Mischianza. If there 
 be any service I can render you, I am come to 
 offer it." 
 
 He smiled and said: "How strange is fate, Mr. 
 Wynne ! Here am I in the same sad trap in which 
 you might have been. I was thinking this very 
 evening of your happier escape." Then he went on 
 to tell me that he had instantly recognised me at the 
 ball, and also — wluit in my confusion at the time I 
 did not hear— that MLsb Peniijton had cried out as
 
 456 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 she was about to faint, " No, no, Mr. Andre ! " After- 
 ward he had wondered at what seemed an appeal to 
 him rather than to my cousin. 
 
 At last he said it would be a relief to him if he 
 might speak to me out of ear-shot of the ofi&cers. I 
 said as much to these gentlemen, and after a moment's 
 hesitation they retired outside of the still open door- 
 way of the room, leaving us freer to say what we 
 pleased. He was quiet and, as always, courteous to 
 a fault ; but I did not fail to observe that at times, 
 as we talked and he spoke a word of his mother, his 
 eyes filled with tears. In general he was far more 
 composed than I. 
 
 He said : " Mr. Wynne, I have writ a letter, which 
 I am allowed to send to General "Washington. Will 
 you see that he has it in person ? It asks that I may 
 die a soldier's death. All else is done. My mother 
 — but no matter. I have wound up my earthly affairs. 
 I am assured, through the kindness of his Excellency, 
 that my letters and effects will reach my friends and 
 those who are still closer to me. I had hoped to see 
 Mr. Hamilton to-night, that I might ask him to de- 
 liver to your chief the letter I now give you. But 
 he has not yet returned, and I must trust it to you 
 to make sure that it does not fail to be considered. 
 That is all, I think." 
 
 I said I would do my best, and was there no more 
 — no errand of confidence — nothing else? 
 
 " No," he replied thoughtfully ; " no, I think not. 
 I shall never forget your kindness." Then he smiled 
 and added, "My 'never' is a brief day for me,
 
 Huj^h Wynne: Free Quaker 457 
 
 Wynne, unless God permits us to remember iu the 
 world where I shidl be to-morrow." 
 
 I hardly reeull what answer I made. I was ready 
 to cry like a ehild. He went on to bid me say to the 
 good Attorney-General Chew that he had not for- 
 gotten his pleasantbospitalities, and he sent also some 
 amiable message to the women of his house and to 
 my aunt and to the Shippens, speaking with the 
 ease and unrestraint of a man who looks to meet 
 you at dinner next week, and merely says a brief 
 good-by. 
 
 I pr.,mised to charge myself with his messages, 
 and said at last that many officers desired me to ex- 
 I)ress to him their sorrrow at his unhappy situation, 
 and that all men thought it hard that the life of an 
 honest soldier was to be taken in place of that of a 
 villain and coward who, if he had an atom of honour, 
 would give himself up. 
 
 " May I beg of you, sir," he returned, " to thank 
 these gentlemen of your army t 'Tis all I can do ; 
 and as to General Arnold — no, Wynne, he is not one 
 to do that ; I could not expect it." 
 
 Before I rose to go on his errand I said, — and I was 
 H little embarrassed,— " May I be pardoned, sir, if I 
 put to you a (piite personal (piestiou ? " 
 
 " A.ssuredly," he returned. '' What is it, and how 
 can a poor devil in my situation oblige you?" 
 
 I said: "I have but of late learned that the ex- 
 changes were all .settled when I met my cousin, 
 Arthur Wynne, at Araboy. Could it have been that 
 the letter I bore had anytliing to do with this treason
 
 45 S Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 of General Ai-nold? Within a day or two this 
 thought has come to me." 
 
 Seeing that he hesitated, I added, " Do not answer 
 me unless you see fit ; it is a matter quite personal 
 to myself." 
 
 " No," he replied ; " I see no reason why I should 
 not. Yes, it was the first of the letters sent to Sir 
 Henry over General Arnold's signature. Your cousin 
 suggested you as a messenger whose undoubted posi- 
 tion and name would insure the safe carriage of 
 what meant more to us than its mere contents seemed 
 to imply. Other messengers had become unsafe ; it 
 was needful at once to find a certain way to reply to 
 us. The letter you bore was such as an officer might 
 carry, as it dealt seemingly with nothing beyond 
 questions of exchange of prisoners. For these rea- 
 sons, on a hint from Captain Wynne, you were se- 
 lected as a person beyond suspicion. I was ill at the 
 time, as I believe Mr. Wynne told you." 
 
 " It is only too plain," said I. " It must have been 
 well known at our headquarters in Jersey that this 
 exchange business was long since settled. Had I 
 been overhauled by any shrewd or suspicious officer, 
 the letter might weU have excited doubt and have 
 led to inquiry." 
 
 " Probably ; that was why you were chosen— as a 
 man of known character. By the way, sir, I had no 
 'share in the selection, nor did I know how it came 
 about, until my recovery. I had no part in it." 
 
 I thanked him for thus teUing me of his having 
 no share in the matter.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 459 
 
 " You were ordered," he continued, " as I recall it, 
 to avoid your main army in tlie Jerseys ; you can 
 now see why. There is no need of further conceal- 
 ment." 
 
 It was clear enough. " I owe you," I said, " my 
 excuses for intruding a business so personal." 
 
 "And why not? I am glad to serve you. It is 
 rather a relief, sii*, to talk of something else than my 
 own hopeless Ciise. Is there anything else ? Pray 
 go on ; I am at your service." 
 
 " You are most kind. I have but one word to add ; 
 Arthur Wynne was— nay, must have been— deep in 
 this business?"' 
 
 " All, now you have asked too much," he replied ; 
 "but it is I who am t(» blame. I had no right to 
 name Captain Wynne." 
 
 " You must not feel unea^sy. I owe him no love, 
 Mr. Andr6 ; but I will take care that vou do not 
 suffer. His suggestion that I should be made use of 
 put in peril not my life, but my honoiu*. It is not 
 to my interest that the matter should ever get noised 
 abroad." 
 
 '• I see," he said. " Your cousin must be a strange 
 person. Do with what I have said as seems right to 
 you. I shall lie— or rather," and he smiled quite 
 cheerfully, " 1 (idi content. One's grammar forgets 
 to-morrow sometimes." 
 
 His ease and quiet .seemed to me amazing. But 
 it was getting late, and I said I must go at once. 
 
 As I was in act to leave, he took my hand and said : 
 " There are no thanks a man about to die can give
 
 460 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 that I do not offer you, Mr. Wynne. Be assured 
 your visit has helped me. It is much to see the face 
 of a friend. All men have been good to me and kmd, 
 and none more so than his Excellency. If to-morrow 
 I could see, as I go to death, one face I have knoMTi 
 in happier hours — it is much to ask — I may count on 
 you, I am sure. Ah, I see I can ! And my letter— 
 you will be sure to do your best ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said, not trusting myself to speak further, 
 and only adding, " Good-by," as I wrung his hand. 
 Then I went out into the cold October starlight. 
 
 It was long after ten when I found Hamilton. I 
 told him briefly of my interview, and asked if it 
 would be possible for me to dehver in person to the 
 general Mr. Andre's letter. I had, in fact, that on 
 my mind which, if but a crude product of despair, I 
 yet did wish to say where alone it might help or be 
 considered. 
 
 Hamilton shook his head. "I have so troubled 
 his Excellency as to this poor fellow that I fear I can 
 do no morCo Men who do not know my chief cannot 
 imagine the distress of heart this business has caused. 
 I do not mean, Wynne, that he has or had the least 
 indecision concerning the sentence ; but lean teU you 
 this— the signature of approval of the court's finding 
 is tremulous and unlike his usual writing. We will 
 talk of this again. Will you wait at my quarters ? 
 I wUl do my best for you." 
 
 I said I would take a pipe and walk on the road 
 at the foot of the slope below the house in which 
 Washington resided. With this he left me-
 
 Hugh\\Vnne: Free Quaker 461 
 
 The night was clear and beautiful ; from the low 
 hills far and near the eani}) bugle-cidls and the sound 
 of hoi-ses neighing filled the air. Uneasy and restless, 
 I walked to and fro up and down the road below 
 the little farm-house. Once or twice I fancied I saw 
 the tall figure of the chief pass across the window- 
 panes. A hundred yards away was the house I had 
 just left. There sat a gallant gentleman awaiting 
 death. Here, in the house above me, was he in whose 
 hands lay his fate. I pitied him too, and wondered 
 if in his place I could be sternly just. At my feet 
 the little brook babljled in the night, whOe the camp 
 noises slowly died away. Meantime, intent on my 
 purpose, I tried to arrange in mj^ mind what I would 
 say or how plead a lost cause. I have often thus pre- 
 airanged the mode of saying what some serious 
 occasion made needful. I always get ready, but when 
 the time comes I am apt to say things altogether 
 different, and to find, too, that the wisdom of the 
 minute is apt to be the better wisdom. 
 
 At last I saw Hamilton approa<'liing me through 
 the gloom. " Come,"' he said. " Uis Excellenc}' will 
 see you, but I fear it will be of no use. He himself 
 would agree to a change in the form of death, but 
 Generals Greene and Sullivan are strongly of opinion 
 that to do so in the present state of exasperation 
 would be unwLse and imijolitic. I cannot say what 
 I should do were I he. I am glad, Wynne, that it is 
 not I who have to decide. I lose my sense of the 
 equities of life in tlu* face of .so sad a business. At 
 least I woidd give him u gentleman's death. The
 
 462 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 generals who tried the case say that to condemn a 
 man as a spy, and not at last to deal with him as 
 Hale was dealt with, would be impolitic, and unfair 
 to men who were as gallant as the poor fellow in 
 yonder farm-house." 
 
 " It is only too clear," I said. 
 
 " Yes, they are right, I suppose ; but it is a horrible 
 business." 
 
 As we discussed, I went with him past the sentinels 
 around the old stone house and through a hall, and 
 to left into a large room, 
 
 "The general sleeps here," Hamilton said, in a 
 lowered voice. " We have but these two apartments ; 
 across the passage is his dining-room, which he uses 
 as his of&ce. Wait here," and so saying, he left me. 
 The room was large, some fifteen by eighteen feet, 
 but so low-ceiled that the Dutch builder had need to 
 contrive a recess in the ceiling to permit of a place 
 for the tall Dutch clock he had brought from Hoi- 
 land. Around the chimney-piece M^ere Dutch tiles. 
 Black Billy, the general's servant, sat asleep in the 
 corner, and two aides slumbered on the floor, tu'ed 
 out, I fancy. 1 walked to and fro over the creaking 
 boards, and watched the Dutch clock. As it struck 
 eleven the figure of Time, seated below the dial, swung 
 a scythe and turned a tiny hour-glass. A bell rang ; 
 an orderly came in and woke up an aide : " Despatch 
 for West Point, sir, in haste." The young fellow 
 groaned, stuck the paper in his belt, and went out 
 for his long night ride. 
 
 At last my friend returned. " The general will see
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 463 
 
 you presently, "Wynne, but it is a useless errand 
 Give me Amli-e's letter." With this he left me aj^ain, 
 and I continued my impatient walk. In a quarter 
 of an hour he eame back, " Come," said he ; " I have 
 done my best, but I have failed as I expected to fail. 
 Speiik your mind fi-eely ; he likes frankness." I wont 
 after him, and in a moment was in the fai'ther room 
 and alone with the chief. 
 
 A huge fire of logs blazed on the great kitchen 
 hearth, and at a table covered with maps and papers, 
 neatly set in ordiT, the general sat writing. 
 
 He looked up, and with quiet courtesy said, "Take 
 a seat. Captain Wynne. I nuist be held excused for 
 a little." I bowed and sat down, while he continued 
 to write. 
 
 His pen moved slowly, and he paused at times, and 
 then went on apparently with the utmost delibera- 
 tion. I wa.>* favourably placed to watch him without 
 appearing to do so, his face being strongly lighted 
 bv the candles in front of him. He was dressed with 
 his usual care, in a buff waistcoat and a blue-and-buff 
 uniform, with powdered hair drawn back to a queue 
 and carefully tied with black ribbon. 
 
 The face, with its light-blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, 
 and rather hea\y nose above a strong jaw, was now 
 grave and, I thought, .stern. At least a half-liour 
 went by before he pushed back his chair and looked 
 up. 
 
 I am fortunate as regards this conversation, since 
 on my return I set it down in a diary which, how 
 ever, ha^s many gaps, and is elsewhere incomplete.
 
 464 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " Captain Wynne," he said, " I have refused to see 
 several gentlemen in regard to this sad business, 
 but I learn that Mr, Andre was your friend, and I 
 have not forgotten your aunt's timely aid at a mo- 
 ment when it was sorely needed. For these reasons 
 and at the earnest request of Captain Hamilton and 
 the marquis, I am willing to hsten to you. May I 
 ask you to be brief f " He spoke slowly, as if weigh- 
 ing his words. 
 
 I replied that I was most grateful — that I owed it 
 to Major Andre that I had not long ago endured the 
 fate which was now to be his. 
 
 "Permit me, sir," he said, "to ask when this oc- 
 curred." 
 
 I replied that it was when, at his Excellency's 
 desire, I had entered Philadelphia as a spy ; and then 
 I went on briefly to relate what had happened. 
 
 " Sir," he returned, " you owed your danger to 
 folly, not to what your duty brought. You were 
 false, for the time, to that duty. But this does not 
 concern us now. It may have served as a lesson, 
 and I am free to admit that you did your country a 
 great service. What now can I do for you ? As to 
 this unhappy gentleman, his fate is out of my hands. 
 I have read the letter which Captain Hamilton gave 
 me." As he spoke he took it from the table and 
 deliberately read it again, while I watched him. 
 Then he laid it down and looked up. I saw that his 
 big, patient eyes were overfuU as he spoke. 
 
 " I regret, sir, to have to refuse this most natural 
 request ; I have told Mr. Hamilton that it is not to
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 4O5 
 
 be thought of. Neither shall I reply. It is not fit- 
 ting that I should do so, nor is it necessary or even 
 proper that I assign reasons which must already be 
 plain to every man of sense. Is that all?" 
 
 I said, " Your Excellency, may I ask but a minute 
 more T '' 
 
 " I am at your disposal, sir, for so long. What is it ?" 
 
 I hesitated, and, I suspect, showed plainly in my 
 face my doubt as to the propriety of what was most 
 on my mind when I sought this inter\iew. He in- 
 stantly guessed that I was embarrassed, and said, 
 with the geutk>st manner and a slight smile : 
 
 '• Ah, Mr. Wynne, there is nothing which can be 
 done to save your friend, nor indeed to alter his 
 fate ; but if you desire to say more do not hesitate. 
 You have suffered much for the cause which is dear 
 to us both. Go on, sii*." 
 
 Thus encouraged, I said, " If on any pretext the 
 execution can be delayed a week, I am ready to go 
 with a friend"— I counted on Jack— "to enter New 
 York in disguise, and to bring out General Arnold. 
 I have been his aide, I know all his habits, and I am 
 confident that we shall succeed if only I can control 
 near New York a detacliment of tried men. I have 
 thought over my plau, and am willing to risk my life 
 ui>on it." 
 
 " You propo.se a gallant venture, sir, but it would 
 be certain to fail; the .service woidd lose another 
 brave man, and I should seem to have been wanting 
 in deci.^ion for no just or assignable cause." 
 
 I was profoundly disappointed ; and in the grief 
 
 M
 
 466 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 of my failure I forgot for a moment the august 
 presence which imposed on all men the respect 
 which no sovereign could have inspired. 
 
 "My God! sir," I exclaimed, "and this traitor 
 must live unpunished, and a man who did but what 
 he believed to be his duty must suffer a death of 
 shame ! " Then, half scared, I looked up, feeling 
 that I had said too much. He had risen before I 
 spoke, meaning, no doubt, to bring my visit to an 
 end, and was standing with his back to the fire, his 
 admirable figui-e giving the impression of greater 
 height than was really his. 
 
 When, after my passionate speech, I looked up, 
 having of course also risen, his face wore a look 
 that was more solemn than any face of man I have 
 ever yet seen in all my length of years. 
 
 " There is a God, Mr. Wynne," he said, " who pun- 
 ishes the traitor. Let us leave this man to the 
 shame which every year must bring. Your scheme 
 I cannot consider. I have no wish to conceal from 
 you or from any gentleman what it has cost me to 
 do that which, as God lives, I believe to be right. 
 You, sir, have done your duty to your friend. And 
 now may I ask of you not to prolong a too painful 
 interview ? " 
 
 I bowed, saying, " I cannot thank your Excellency 
 too much for the kindness mth which you have 
 listened to a rash young man." 
 
 " You have said nothing, sir, which does not do 
 you honour. Make my humble compliments to 
 Mistress Wynne."
 
 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 467 
 
 I bowed, and, backinEr a pace or two, was about 
 to leave, when lie said. '• Permit ine to detain you 
 a moment. Ask Mr. Harrison— the secretary— to 
 come to me." 
 
 I obeyed, and then in some wonder stood still, 
 waitinir. 
 
 " Mr. Harrison, fetch me Captain W}-nne's papers." 
 A moment later he sat down again, ^vrote the free 
 signature, " Geo' Washington," at the foot of a parch- 
 ment, and gave it to me, saying, " Tliat boy Hamilton 
 ha>ibeentroul>lingme foramonthabontthisbusiness. 
 The commission is but now come to hand from 
 Congress. You will report, at your early conve- 
 nience, as major, to the colonel of the Third Penn- 
 sylvania foot ; I hope it will gratify your aunt. Ah, 
 Colonel Hamilton," for here the favourite aide en- 
 tered, '• I have just signed Mr. Wynne's commission." 
 Tlien he put a hand affectionately on the shoulder 
 of the small, slight figure. "You will see that the 
 orders are all given for the execution at noon. Not 
 less tlian eighty files from each vnug must attend. 
 Bee that none of my staff be present, and that this 
 hou.se be kept closed to-morrow until night. I .shall 
 transact no business that is not such as to ask in- 
 Btant attention. See, in any case, that I am alono 
 from eleven until one. Good-evening, Mr. Wynne ; 
 I hope that you will shortly honour me ■with your 
 company at dinner. Pray, remember it, Mr. Ham- 
 ilton." 
 
 I boieed and went out, oven'omc with the kindli- 
 ness of this great and noble gentleman.
 
 468 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " He likes young men," said Hamilton to me long 
 afterward. "An old officer would liave been sent 
 away with small comfort." 
 
 It was now late in the night, and, thinking to com- 
 pose myself, I walked up and down the road and at 
 last past the Dutch church, and up the hill between 
 rows of huts and rarer tents. It was a clear, starht 
 night, and the noises of the great camp were for the 
 most part stiUed. A gentle slope carried me up the 
 hiU, back of Andi-e's prison, and at the top I came out 
 on a space clear of these camp homes, and stood 
 awhile under the quiet of the star-peopled sky. I 
 lighted my pipe with help of flint and steel, and, walk- 
 ing to and fro, set myself resolutely to calm the storm 
 of trouble and helpless dismay in which I had been 
 for two weary days. At last, as I turned in my walk, 
 I came on two upright posts with a cross-beam above. 
 It was the gallows. I moved away horror-stricken, 
 and with swift steps went down the hiU and regained 
 Jack's quarters. 
 
 Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October 
 I shall say very little. A too early death never took 
 from earth a more amiable and accomplished soldier. 
 I asked and had leave to stand by the door as he 
 came out. He paused, very white in his scarlet coat, 
 smiled, and said, "Thank you, Wynne; God bless 
 you ! " and went on, recognising with a bow the 
 members of the court, and so with a firm step to his 
 ignoble death. As I had promised, I fell in behmd 
 the sad procession to the top of the hill. No fairer
 
 Hugh \\'^vnne : Free Quaker 469 
 
 scenj could a man look upon for bis last of earth. 
 A Icng raoge of hilk rose tc the nor^lnvard. On 
 all si'les D'^ar taid far, was ^L' ole?" jOur ot tlv 
 autumu-tinted woods, and to west the land swejit 
 downward i)ast the headquarters to whei-e the elitTs 
 rose above the Hudson. I <an see it all now— the 
 loveliness of nature, the waitiiig thousands, mute and 
 pitiful. I shut ray eyes and prayed for this passing 
 soul. A di'athfid stillness came upon the assembled 
 multitude. I heard Colonel Seammel read the sen- 
 tence. Then there was the rumble of the cart, a low 
 murmur broke forth, and the sound of moving steps 
 was heard. It was over. The great assemblage of 
 farmers and soldiers went away strangely silent, and 
 many in tears. 
 
 The effort I so earnestly desired to make for the 
 capture of Aniold was afterward made by Sergeant 
 Cliampe, but failed, as all men now know. Yet I am 
 honestly of opinion that I should have succeeded. 
 
 Years afterward T was walking along the Strand 
 in London; when, looking up, I saw a man and 
 woman approaching. It was Arnold with his wife. 
 His faee was thin and wasted, a countenance writ 
 over with gloom and disappointment. His masculine 
 vigour was gone. Cain could have borne no plainer 
 marks of vain remorse. He looked straight liefore 
 jiiin. As I crossed the way, with no desire to meet 
 him, I saw the woman look up at him, a strange, 
 melancholy sweetness in the pale, worn face of our 
 ouce beautiful Margaret. Her love was all that time
 
 470 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 had left liim; poor, broken, shunned, insulted, he was 
 fast going to his grave. Where now he lies I know 
 not. Did he repent with bitter tears on that gentle 
 breast? God only knows, I walked on through the 
 crowded street, and thought of the words of my great 
 chief, " There is a God who punishes the traitor."
 
 XXVI 
 
 HE long winter of 1780 and 1781, with its 
 rliansreful fortunes in the South, went 
 by ^^^thout alteration in mine. There 
 were constant alarms, and leaves of 
 absence were not to be had. We drilled 
 our men, marched hither and thither, and criticised 
 our leaders over the winter camp-fires, en\'ying the 
 men who, under Williams, Marion, and Morgan, were 
 weeping my Lord Cornwallis uncomfortably busy in 
 the Carolinas. By the end of January we knew with 
 joy of the thrashing Tarleton got at the Co^^ens, 
 and at last, in April, of the fight at Guilford. It 
 began to dawn on the wiseacres of the camp-fires why 
 we were now here and now there In fact, we were 
 no sooner hutted than we were on the march, if there 
 were but the least excuse in the way of a bit of open 
 weather, or a Tor\' raid. 
 
 Sir Honr\' was k('j>t in doubt as to whether our 
 chief meant for New York from the north or from 
 Jersey, and wlu-ii at last lie began to suspect t'lat it 
 was not a city but an army which he inteuded to 
 strike, it was too late. Our l)ia\ u old hawk, so long 
 half asleep, as it looked, had begun to flutter his 
 wings, and to contemplate one of tliose sudden swoops
 
 472 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 upon his prey wliicli did to me attest the soldier of 
 genius within this patient, ceremonious gentleman. 
 He was fast learning the art of war. 
 
 At last, as I have said, even we who were but 
 simple pawns in the game of empire knew in a mea- 
 sui-e why we had been thus used to bother and detain 
 this unlucky Sir Henry, who had failed to help Bur- 
 goyne, and was now being well fooled again, to the 
 ruin of Lord Cornwallis. 
 
 But all of this was chiefly in the spring. The winter 
 up to February was sad enough in our waiting camps, 
 what with low diet, desertions, mutinies, and the 
 typhus fever, which cost us many more men than 
 we lost in battle. It brought us at last one day the 
 pleasure of a visit from the great physician, Benjamin 
 Rush, now come to Morristown to see after the sick, 
 who were many. 
 
 This gentleman was a prime favourite with my Aunt 
 Gainor, although they had but one opinion in com- 
 mon, and fought and scratched like the far-famed 
 Irish cats. I think, too, the doctor liked your humble 
 servant, chiefly because I admired and reverenced 
 him for his learning and his unflinching love of his 
 country. 
 
 At this time we lay about Morristown in New 
 Jersey. There was to be a great ball on the night of 
 the doctor's arrival. And just now, when his delicate 
 features appeared at the door of our hut, Jack and I 
 — for Jack was with me for a day— had used the 
 last of our flour to powder our hair, and Jack was 
 carefully tying my queue.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 473 
 
 "Good-evening:, ]\Iaster Hugh, and you, John 
 "VTarder. Ciui I have a bite?'' 
 
 "\^'e gave a shout of welcome, and offered him a 
 herring— veiy dried it was— and one of Master Baker 
 Ludwick's luird biscuits. He said we were luxm-ious 
 scamps with our powder, until we explained it to be 
 the end of a rather mouldy bag of meal. He thought 
 powdering a fine custom for young doctors, for it 
 gave them a look of gray hair and wisdom ; and he 
 was, as usual, amusing, eynied, and at times bitter. 
 
 "\\'hen we were seated and had his leave for a pipe, 
 he told us there was now constant good news from 
 the South, and that General Greene seemed to be 
 somehow doing well, losing fights and winning 
 strategetic victories. Probably it was more by luck 
 than genius. By and by Gates would be heard from, 
 and then we should see. On which my uauglity Jack 
 winked at me through the fog of his pipe smoke. 
 
 '• And why," said the doctor, '* does your general 
 keep so qui*?t ? Was an array made to sit still ? " 
 
 I could not but remind him that the only lucky 
 winter campaign of the war had been made by his 
 Excellency, and that it was not usually possible to 
 fight in the cold season ; not even Marlborough could 
 do that. I was mo.st respectful, you may be sure. 
 
 He assured me that our general would never end 
 the war; for in revolutions it was not thev who be- 
 gan them who ever did bring them to auspicious 
 ocmclu.sions. Our general, the doctor went on to tell 
 us, was a weak man, and soon all woidd be of this 
 opinion.
 
 474 - Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 As lie spoke I saw Hamiltou in the doorway, and 
 I made haste to present him to the doctor. 
 
 The young aide said modestly that he must venture 
 to differ as to our chief. He was a man dull in talk, 
 not entertaining, given to cautious silence, but surely 
 not weak, only slow in judgment, although most de- 
 cisive in action. 
 
 " No great soldier, sir," said the doctor, " and never 
 will be." 
 
 " He is learning the business, like the rest of us, 
 Dr. Rush. 'T is a hard school, sir, but it is character 
 that wins at last ; may I venture to say this man has 
 character, and can restrain both his tongue and his 
 own nature, which is quick to wrath," 
 
 " Nonsense ! " cried the doctor. '' The whole coun- 
 try is discontented. We should elect a commander- 
 in-chief once a year." 
 
 In fact, many were of this strange opinion. Ham- 
 ilton smiled, but made no reply. 
 
 I saw Jack flush, and I shook my head at him. I 
 thought what was said foolish and ignorant, but it 
 became not men as young as we to contradict the 
 doctor. It was Rush who, in 77, with Adams and 
 others, sustained Gates, and put him in the Board 
 of War, to the bewilderment of affairs. How deep 
 he was in the scheme of that officer and Conway 
 and Lee to displace our chief none know. My aunt 
 insists he had naught to do with it. He was an 
 honourable, honest man, but he was also a good, 
 permanent hater, and sustained his hatreds with a
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 475 
 
 fine escort of rancorous words, where Jack or I would 
 have been profane and brief. 
 
 The cabal broke up with Lee's trial, and when 
 Cadwalader shot Conway through the mouth, and, 
 
 as he said, stopped one d lying tongue, it did not 
 
 change our doctor's ^'iews. When he and Dr. Ship- 
 pen, who was no Tory like the rest of his family, 
 quaiTolled, as all doctors do, Rush preferred charges, 
 and was disgusted because his Excellency approved 
 tlie acquittal ^nth some not very agreeable comments. 
 I tliink he never forgave the slight, but yet I liked 
 him, and shall ever revere his momorv as that of a 
 man who deserved well of his countrv, and had the 
 noble courage of liis profession, as he showed amply 
 in the great yellow-fever plague of '93. 
 
 Ht* told me of mv father as still much the same, 
 and of my Aunt Oainor, and of Darthea, who, he 
 thought, was troulilod in mind, although why he 
 knew not. She had long since ceased answering the 
 messages we sent her through my aunt. Mr. Warder, 
 he told me later, had given up hi-; suit to Madam 
 Peni.ston, and was now an oiTtspoken Wliig. The 
 lady was disposed to seek refuge again with her De 
 Lancey cousins in New York, but Darthea was ob- 
 stinate, and not to be moved. And so we got all the 
 gos.sip of our okl town, and hoard of Mrs. Arnohl's 
 having been ordered to leave, and of how the doctor, 
 like our own Wayne, had alwavs distrusted her hus- 
 band. Indeed, we had a.sked a thousand questions 
 before we let the doctor get to my bed, and we our-
 
 47^ Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 selves, pulling on onr sherry- vallies, a kind of over- 
 alls, to protect our silk stockings from the mud, were 
 away to the baU. 
 
 Despite our many cares and former low diet, we 
 danced till late in the night; the good people of 
 Morristown contriving, I know not how, to give us 
 such a supper as we had not had for many a day. I 
 had the pleasure to converse, in their own tongue, 
 with Comte de Roehambeau and the Due de Lauzun, 
 who made me many comphments on my accent, and 
 brought back to me, in this bright scene, the thought 
 of her to whom I owed this and all else of what is 
 best in me. 
 
 It was indeed a gay and pleasant evening. Even 
 our general seemed to forget the anxieties of war, 
 and walked a minuet with Lady Stirhng, and then 
 with Mrs. Greene. Very quiet and courteous he was, 
 but not greatly interested, or so it seemed to me. 
 
 Again in May we were in motion, now here, now 
 there ; and, with a skirmish or two, the summer was 
 upon us. Meanwhile, as I have said, things went 
 more happily in the South. 
 
 Greene, continually beaten, was ever a better sol- 
 dier; and at last, early in this summer of '81, my 
 Lord Cornwallis, driven to despair by incessant foes 
 who led him a wearisome and fruitless chase through 
 States not rich enough to feed him, turned from the 
 "boy" Lafayette he so much despised, and finally 
 sought rest and supplies on the seaboard at York- 
 town, while the " boy general," planted in a position 
 to command the peninsula at Malvern Hill, sat down
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 477 
 
 to intrench and watch the older nobleman. I have no 
 wish to write more history than is involved in my own 
 humble fortunes, and I must leave those for whom 
 I ^\Tite these memoirs to read the story of the war 
 on other pacres than mine. Enough to say that when 
 his Excellency was sm*e of the French fleet and knew 
 of liis lordship's position, he made one of those swift 
 decisions which contrasted strangely with his patient, 
 and even elaborate, businesslike fashion of attending 
 to all the minor affairs of life. Nor less secret and 
 subtle was the way in which he carried out his plan 
 of action. Leaving a force at West Point, he swept 
 in haste through the Jerseys. 
 
 Even the generals in immediate command knew 
 notliing of his real intention until vre were turned 
 southward and hurried through the middle colonies. 
 Then all men knew and wondered at the daring, and, 
 as some thought, the rashness of this movement. 
 Sir Henry had been well fooled to the end, for now 
 it was far on in August. 
 
 At Trenton I received an appointment which much 
 amazed me. The army of our allies was marching 
 with us. De Grasse, with a great fleet, was off Chesa- 
 peake Bay ; despatches were coming and going daily. 
 His Excellency had little knowledge of the French 
 tongue, and had suffered for it in his youth. P.Ir. 
 Duponceau, of the Marquis de Lafayette's staff, was 
 competent in both French and English, but, save one 
 other officer, no one of his Excellency's staff spoke 
 and wrote French well ; and this aide was, as a con- 
 sequence, much overworked.
 
 4/8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 Seeing this difficulty, whicli occasioned much con- 
 fusion, the Due de Lauzun suggested that I be asked 
 to serve as a special aide-de-camp. I believe I owed 
 this chance, in part, to Lafayette, and also to the fact, 
 stated elsewhere, that I had had the fortune to be 
 presented to the duke at oui' famous ball in Morris- 
 town, where he was pleased to talk with me in 
 French. 
 
 My appointment reached me on August 29. His 
 Excellency was then with us at Trenton, despatching 
 couriers, urging haste, and filling all men with the 
 great hope which his audacious action excited. 
 
 I was ordered to turn over my command, to join 
 his Excellency's headquarters staff at Philadelphia, 
 and there to report to Colonel Tilghman as extra aido- 
 de-camp with the brevet rank of lieutenant-colonel. 
 A note from Hamilton, now with his regiment, con- 
 gratulated me, and related the cause of my unlooked- 
 for promotion, 
 
 "Would you see what my lifelong friend Jack had 
 to say? 
 
 "I thank God for the happy fortune which has 
 again fallen to Hugh. Had it not been for his as- 
 siduity in youth, and the love and respect he bore 
 his mother, he would never have come by this pro- 
 motion. Thus God rewards us for that we do "wdthout 
 thought of profit." Alas ! my dear Jack, those French 
 lessons were sometimes but ungratefully learned. 
 
 Early on September 2, ha\ing boiTOwed a horse 
 from one of the staff, I was ferried over the Delaware, 
 and, once across the river, pushed on in haste to my
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 479 
 
 own dear. city. I found the French abont to enter 
 the toyra, 
 
 I had left home in 1777 a raw vouth, and it was 
 not without a sense of just pride that I returned a 
 lieutenant-colonel at twenty-eight, having, as I felt, 
 done my country honest service. 
 
 Our allies halted in the suburbs to clean off the 
 dust, and as they began their march I fell in beside 
 De Lauzuii. They made a T)rilliant show in neat 
 white uniforms, colours flying and bands playing. 
 Front street was densely crowded, and at Vine they 
 turned westward to camp on the common at Centre 
 Square. As they wheeled I ])owed to the French 
 gentlemen, and kept on down Front street to Arch, 
 soon halting before my aunt's door. The house was 
 closed. All had gone forth to welcome the marcliing 
 troops. I mounted again and rode down Second 
 street to my own home, left my horse at the stable, 
 and, seeing no one, passed into the sitting-room. My 
 father was seated at the open window, but to see him 
 dismaved me. He rose with an uneasv look as I 
 went toward him. lie was so wasted that his large 
 features stood out gauut and prominent. His clothes 
 hung about him in folds, and his vast, bony frame 
 was like a rack from which thev seemed readv to fall. 
 
 I caught him in my arms, and kissed his shrunken 
 cheeks, utterly overcome at the sight of this sj)lendid 
 body in ruins. Moanwhile he stayed quite passive, 
 and at last pnslied me off and looked at me steadily. 
 
 *' It is Hugh," he said. " Thy mother will be glad 
 to see thee."
 
 480 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I was shocked. This dehision of my mother's 
 being alive greatly increased the grief I had in seeing 
 this wreck of a strong, masterful man. 
 
 I said something, I hardly know what. He re- 
 peated, " Thy mother will be glad to see thee. She 
 is upstairs— upstairs. She is with thy little sister. 
 Ellin has been troublesome in the night." 
 
 After this he sat down and took no more notice 
 of me. I stood watching him. The dead alone seemed 
 to be alive to him : my mother, and the little sister 
 who died thirty years back, and whose name I heard 
 now from my father for the first time in all my life. 
 As I stood amazed and disturbed at these resurrec- 
 tions, he sat speechless, either looking out of the 
 window in a dull way, or now and then at me with 
 no larger interest. At last, with some difficulty 
 as to finding words, he said : '' Thy mother wearies 
 for thy letters. Thou hast been remiss not to 
 write." 
 
 I said I had written him, as indeed I had, and with 
 regularity, but with never an answer. After this he 
 was long silent, and then said, '' I told her it was but 
 for a week thou wert to be away. She thinks it 
 more." The long years of war were lost to him, and 
 as though they had not been. 
 
 I made a vain effort to recall him to the present 
 and the living, telling him of the army and the war, 
 and at last asked news of my aunt. He soon ceased 
 to hear me, and his great head fell forward, the gray 
 locks dropping over his forehead, as he sat breathing 
 deeply and long.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 481 
 
 I found it a som- spectacle, and after gi\ing some 
 ordt-rs to Tom I went away. 
 
 I leai'ued later that my father never went out, 
 but sat at the window all day with his pipe, drawing 
 on it as if it were lighted, and heeding neither the 
 friends who still came to see him nor the vacant days 
 which went by. I had lost my father, even that little 
 of his true self he had let me see. 
 
 I went thence and reported to Colonel Tilghman 
 at the City Tavern, where his Excellency had alighted, 
 and after performing that duty made haste to see 
 my aunt. 
 
 There I foimd the love and tender welcome for 
 which I so much yearned, and I also had news of 
 Darthea. She, my aunt said, was well and still in 
 the city, but out of spirits; as to that "villain," my 
 cousin, my Aimt Gainor knew nothing, nor indeed 
 Mistress Peniston much. Letters were difficult to 
 get through our lines, and if he or Darthea still wrote, 
 my aunt knew no more than I. Wlien I told her in 
 confidence of the errand on which, at my cousin's 
 prompting, General Arnold had sent me, she ex- 
 clauned : 
 
 " Could he have wished to get you into trouble ? 
 It seems incredible, Hugh. I hope you may never 
 meet." 
 
 "Aunt Gainor," said I, "to meet that man is the 
 dearest wish of my life." 
 
 " The dearest ? '' 
 
 " Not quite," said I, " but it yriR be for me a happy 
 hour."
 
 482 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " Then God forbid it, Hugh j and it is most unlikely. 
 You must go and see Darthea. 1 suppose you wiU 
 hardly tarry here long— and get your epaulets, sir. 
 I want to see my boy in his uniform. Bring Mr. 
 Hamilton here, and the French gentlemen. Fetch 
 some of them to dinner to-moiTow." 
 
 Then she kissed me again, and told me how strong 
 and well I looked, and so on, with all the kind pret- 
 tiness of affectionate speech women keep for those 
 they love. 
 
 As I knew not when we should leave, nor how 
 busy I might be while still in the city, I thought it 
 well to talk to my aunt of my father's sad condi- 
 tion, and of some other matters of moment. Of the 
 deed so strangely come into my possession she also 
 spoke. It seemed to be much on her mind. I still 
 told her I cared little for the Welsh lands, and this 
 was true. Nevertheless I discovered in myself no 
 desire to be pleasant to Mr. Arthur Wynne, and I 
 began to suspect with my aunt that more than Dar- 
 thea, or stupid jealousy, or the memory of a blow, 
 might be at the bottom of his disposition to injure me. 
 
 It may seem strange to those who read what a 
 quiet old fellow writes, that I should so frankly con- 
 fess my hatred of my cousin. Nowadays men He 
 about one another, and stab with words, and no one 
 resents it. Is the power to hate to the death fading 
 out ? and are we the better for this ? It may be so. 
 Think of the weary months in jail, of starvation, 
 insult, and the miseries of cold, raggedness, filth, and 
 fever. Think, too, of my father set against me, of
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 483 
 
 the Mischianza business,— but for that I blame him 
 not,— aud, last, of his involving me in the \'ile net of 
 Arnold's treason. I could as soon forgive a snake 
 that had bit me as tliis reptile. 
 
 *'Mi'. Jjunes Wilson has the deed," said my aunt; 
 "and of that we shall learn more when Mr. Corn- 
 wallis is took, and you come home a general. And 
 now go and see Darthea, and let me hear how many 
 will be to dine, and send me, too, a half-dozen of 
 good old -vNine from my brother's cellar— the old 
 "Wynne Madeira. Decant it with care, and don't 
 trust that black animal Tom. ' Mind, sir ! " 
 
 Darthea lived but a little way from my aunt's, and 
 with my heart knocking at my ribs as it never had 
 done at sight of levelled muskets, I found my way 
 into Mistress Peniston's parlour, and waited, as it 
 seemed to me, an age. 
 
 It was a large back room with an open fireplace 
 and high-backed chairs, daw-toed tables l)are of 
 books or china, with the floor polished like glass. 
 Penistons and De Lanceys, in hoop and hood, and 
 liberal of neck and bosom, looked down on me. It 
 was all stiff and formal, but to me pleasantly familiar. 
 Would she nevor come? 
 
 Tlien I heard a slow step on the stair, and the rustle 
 of skirts, and here was Darthea, pale and grave, but 
 more full in bud, and, I thought, more lovely in her 
 maturing womanhood. 
 
 She paused at the doorway, and made as it were 
 to greet me witli a formal curtsey, but then— how 
 like her it did seem !— ran forward and gave me both
 
 4.84 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 her hands, saying : " You are welcome, Mr. Wjoine. 
 I am most glad to see you. You are all for the 
 South, I hear. Is it not so ? " 
 
 I said yes, and how delightful it was to be here if 
 but for a day or two ; and then, being pretty vain, 
 must tell her of my good fortune. 
 
 " I am glad of my friend's success, but I wish it 
 were with the other side. Oh, I am a mighty Tory 
 yet," shaking her head. "I have seen your Mr. 
 Washington. What a fine man ! and favours Mr. 
 Arnold a trifle." 
 
 " Fie for shame ! " said I, pleased to see her merry ; 
 and then I went on to tell her the sad story of Andre, 
 but not of what he told me concerning Arthur. The 
 tears came to her eyes, although of course it was no 
 new tale, and she went white again, so that I would 
 have turned the talk aside, but she stopped me, and, 
 hesitating a little, said : 
 
 "Did that miserable treachery begin when Mr. 
 Arnold was in the town?" 
 
 I said it was thought to have done so. For my 
 own part, I believed it began here, but just when I 
 could not say. "But why do you ask?" I added, 
 being for a reason curious. 
 
 For a little she sat still, her hands, in delicate white 
 lace mittens, on her lap. Then she spoke, at first not 
 looking up. " Men are strange to me, Mr. Wynne. 
 I suppose in war they must do things which in peace 
 would be shameful." 
 
 I said yes, and began to wonder if she had divined 
 that Arthur had been deep in that wretched plot. I
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 485 
 
 do not know to this day. She kept her counsel if 
 she did. Women see through us at times as if we 
 were ghiss, and theu again ai'e caught by a man-trap 
 that one woidd think uuist be perfectly visible. 
 
 " And was poor Peggy Shippen in it ? " 
 
 "Oh, no ! no ! " I replied. 
 
 " I am glad of that ; but had I been she, I woidd 
 never have seen him again— never ! never ! To think 
 of life A\'ith one who is as black a creatm-e as that 
 man I "* 
 
 '' But, after idl, he is her husband." I wanted to 
 see what she woidd say. 
 
 "Her husband! Yes. But a husband without 
 honour ! No ! no ! I should have to respect the man 
 I loved, or love would be dead— dead ! Let us talk 
 of something else. Poor Peggy ! Must you go ? " 
 she added, as I rose. " Tliis horrid war ! We may 
 never meet again." And then quickly, "How is 
 Captain Bhi.shes, and shall we see him too?" 
 
 I tliought not. Already the army was making 
 for Chester, and so toward the Head of Elk, " No ; 
 I mu.st go." On this .she rose. 
 
 " Is it the same, Darthea, and am I to go away with 
 no more hope than the years have brought me ? " 
 
 " Why," she said, colouring, " do you make it so 
 hard for me— your friend?" 
 
 "Do I make it hard?" 
 
 " Yes. I used to say no to men, and think no more 
 of the thing or of them, but I am tr«)ul)l('d ; and tliis 
 awful war ! I am gi-owii (jkh'r, and to hurt a man — a 
 man hke you — gives me pain as it did not use to do."
 
 486 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 "But you have not said no," said I ; " and I am an 
 obstinate man." 
 
 " Why will you force me to say no ? Why should 
 I? You know well enough what I think and feel. 
 Why insist that I put it in words ? It were kinder 
 — not to ui'ge me." 
 
 It seemed a strange speech. I said I did not 
 understand her. 
 
 " Then you had better go. I am engaged to Mr. 
 Arthur Wynne, sir. I have had no word of him for 
 a year, and can get no letter to him." 
 
 I might have given her Miss Franks's letter, and 
 poured out to her the story of his treachery and 
 baseness. I may have been wrong, but something 
 in me forbade it, and I preferred to wait yet longer. 
 
 '^ Shall I get you a letter through the lines ? I 
 can." 
 
 "You are a strange man, Mr. Wynne, and an 
 honest gentleman. No, you cannot do me this ser- 
 vice. I thank you." 
 
 " Then good-by ; and it is love to the end, Darthea." 
 
 " I wish you would go," she said faintly. 
 
 *' Good-by," I repeated, and rose. 
 
 " Come and see me some day when you can,— not 
 now, not this time,— and do not think ill of me." 
 
 " Think iU of you ! Why should I ? " 
 
 "Yes! yes!" 
 
 I did not understand her, but I saw that she was 
 shaken by some great emotion. Then she spoke : 
 
 " I have given my word, Mr. Wynne, and I do not 
 lightly break it. Perhaps, like some men, you may
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 487 
 
 think that women have no such sense of honour as 
 men beUeve to be tlieii*s." 
 
 " But do you love him, Darthea 1 " 
 
 " He is not here to answer you/' she cried, looking 
 up at me steadily, her eyes ablaze. "Nor will I. 
 You have no right to question me — none!" 
 
 " I have every right," I said. 
 
 " Oh, will you never go away 1 " And she stamped 
 one little foot impatiently. '' If you don't go I shall 
 hate you, and I— I don't want to hate you, Hugh 
 Wynne." 
 
 I stood a moment, and once more the temptation 
 to tell her all I knew was sti'ong upon me, but, as 
 she said, Arthur was not hero ; first I must tell him 
 face to face, and after that God alone knew what 
 might come. I must tell him, too, with such proof 
 as neither her love nor his subtlety could gainsay. 
 And when this hour came — what then ? If I killed 
 him, — and I meant to, — what of Darthea? That 
 would end my slender chance, and yet I knew myself 
 so surely as to be certain that, when the hour came, 
 no human consideration would be listened to for a 
 moment. I could hate in those days, and I did. If 
 I had had the assured love of Darthea, I should per- 
 haps have hesitated ; but not having it, I only longed 
 once to have that man at the point of the sword. It 
 is all very savage and brutal, but in those my young 
 days men loved and hated as I do not think they do 
 of late. It was a strong and a chok'ric generation, 
 l»ut we did some things for which the world should 
 thank us.
 
 XXVII 
 
 Y the 7th of September Marquis Lafayette 
 was holding the neck of the peninsula of 
 York. A more daring man than Corn- 
 wallis would have tried a fall with this 
 army, but he waited for a fleet to relieve 
 him, and behold ! none came save that of De Grasse. 
 By September 26 sixteen thousand men were added 
 to those of the marquis, and lay about Williamsburg. 
 Our quiet old hawk had my lord in his clutches, and 
 meant no long delay. 
 
 Not to be in advance of the army, his Excellency, 
 who left Philadelphia before us, lingered a few days 
 on the way to visit the home he had not seen for six 
 long years, and we of the staff followed him the day 
 after. Both in town and on the march through Del- 
 aware I was occupied as I had never been in my life. 
 The French marched with us, and to keep things 
 straight duplicate orders in both tongues were 
 needed, and there were notes, letters, and despatches 
 to be done into French or English. An aide who 
 spoke French fluently was apt to be in the saddle 
 whenever his pen was not in use. 
 
 The Hfe was to me of advantage, because I came 
 daily into contact with officers, young and old, who 
 
 488
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 489 
 
 had seen the finest company in Europe, and from 
 whom there was much to learn. It is Chastellux, I 
 think, who has said that Mr. Washington possessed 
 the charm of such manners as were rai-e among our 
 officers. With these gentlemen, our allies, the -way of 
 doing every Httle act of the life of society seemed to 
 have been studied and taught, until these gracious 
 and amiable forms were become, as one may say, a 
 part of the man. 
 
 No wonder they found us clumsy fellows. Too 
 many of our gentiy were not in the wai-, or were 
 opposed to it. Many regiments were strangely of- 
 ficered, and this, as Graydon says in his memoirs, 
 was espeeiidly the case as to the Xew England troops. 
 But a man with no manntrs and with brutal habits 
 may fight as well as a marquis. 
 
 Now toward the close of the war, if we were still 
 as to looks but a Falstaffian contingent, the material 
 in men and officers had been notably sifted, and was 
 in all essential ways fit for the perilous service to 
 wliieh we were about to address ourselves. 
 
 At Blount Vernon we camped— we of the staff- 
 in and out of the house, and were bountifidly fed, 
 nor did I ever see his Excellency more to advantage 
 than here. He personally looked after our wants, 
 and lost for a time much of the official reserve with 
 which he guarded himself elsewhere. 
 
 At table after dinner he was in the habit of asking 
 one of his aides to propose toa.sts for him. The day 
 before we left, as we were about to rise from talkie. 
 Colonel Tilghuian said, " One more toast, with your
 
 49° Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 permission, Excellency," and cried out, "My Lord 
 Cornwallis, and may he enjoy the hospitalities of 
 our army." 
 
 Our host laughed as he rarely did, saying, "We 
 must first catch our fish, Mr. Tilghman." 
 
 I ventured to say, "He is in the net already." 
 
 His Excellency, looking round at me, said gravely, 
 " Pray God the net hold good ! " After I had offered 
 the toast of Lady Washington's health, and our 
 thanks for the pleasant days of rest and good cheer, 
 he left us, desiring Mr. Tilghman to see that we had 
 wine enough. 
 
 On the 14th we reached Williamsburg. The army 
 rapidly came in by divisions, French and American. 
 Before the 25th we had from the fleet cannon and 
 intrenching-tools, and all our available force was to 
 hand. 
 
 I can make clear in a few words the situation of 
 the enemy. The peninsula of York lies between the 
 James and the York rivers. On the south bank of 
 the 'latter sits the little town of York. Seven re- 
 doubts surrounded it. The town was flanked right 
 and left by deep ravines and creeks falhng into the 
 York River. Intrenchments, field-works, and abatis, 
 with felled trees, lay to landward. 
 
 Gloucester Point, on the opposite shore of the river, 
 was well fortified, and before it lay a small force of 
 British war-ships, the channel being obstructed lower 
 down by sunken vessels. The French fleet held the 
 river below the town, and we the peninsula. 
 
 On the night of the 25th, after a brief visit to the
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 491 
 
 fleet, OTir chief lay down in the open nnder a mnl- 
 bL*rn,--tree with one of its roots for a pillow, and slept 
 wt'Il, as was audible enough to uswho lay at a distance. 
 
 That night his lordship abandoned his outworks 
 and drew within the town. We seized these lines 
 next day, losing Colonel Seammel, formerly of the 
 staff, in whose amusing songs and gay talk our chief 
 had used to take much pleasure. On the 28th the 
 armies marched twelve miles down the peninsula, 
 and camped two miles from the town, driving in the 
 pickets and some parties of horse. 
 
 By October 1, the weather being fine, we had com- 
 pleted a half -moon of ir.trenchments, resting at each 
 wing on the river. Two advanced redoubts we thi-ew 
 up were severely cannonaded, so as to interrupt the 
 men at work. 
 
 His Excellency, somewhat anxious, came out of his 
 tent, and calling Mr. Tilghman and me, who were 
 writing, rode forth, followed by his faithful black 
 Billy, whom we used to credit with knowing more of 
 what went on tlian did we of the staff. ISIr. Evans, 
 a chaplain, was fain to see more of the war than con- 
 cerned him, and came after us. As we approached, 
 Billy, riding behind me, said as the cannon-shot went 
 over us : 
 
 " Dem redcoats is p'intin' us mighty well." 
 
 Then a shot riiiochetted, striking the ground in 
 front and covering us with dust. Mr. Evans, who 
 was standing by, and had now seen quite enough of 
 it, said, "Wo sluill all be killed," and then looked 
 ruefully at his new beaver, well dusted and dirty.
 
 492 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " You had better carry that home to your wife and 
 childi'en," said the chief. '' This is not the place for 
 you, sir." 
 
 Neither was it much to my own liking, and I was 
 not sorry when we rode back. 
 
 Ou the night of the 9th of October his Excellency 
 put a match to the first gun, and for four days and 
 nights a furious cannonade went on from both sides. 
 
 Late on the night of the 10th Jack came to my 
 tent, and we walked out to see this terrible spectacle, 
 climbing a little hill which lay well away from our 
 lines. For a time we were quite alone. 
 
 A monstrous dome of smoke hung over the town. 
 Now and then a gust of sea wind tore it apart, and 
 through the rifts we saw the silver cup of the moon 
 and the host of stars. We lay long on the hillock. 
 I suppose the hour and the mighty fates involved 
 made us serious and silent. Far away seventy can- 
 non thundered from our works, and the enemy's 
 batteries roared their incessant fury of reply. 
 
 Presently I said, " Jack, how still the heavens are, 
 and under them this rage of war ! How strange ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Jack ; " once I said something of this 
 tranquilness in the skies to our great Dr. Frankhn. 
 He is very patient with young fellows, but he said 
 to me : ' Yes, it is a pleasing thing, even to be wrong 
 about it. It is only to the eye of man that there is 
 calm and peace in the heavens ; no shot of cannon 
 can fly as these worlds fly, and comets whirl, and 
 suns blaze; and if there is yonder, as with us, war 
 and murder and ravage, none can say.' It all comes
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 493 
 
 w 
 
 back to me now," said Jack, " and I thought to tell 
 you." 
 
 '• It is a terrible sight," said I, as the gi-eat tumult 
 of sound grew louder. " Let us thank God the cause 
 is a just one." 
 
 " And there are the stai*s again," said Jack, " and 
 the moon." And we were silent once more, watch- 
 ing the death-struggle of a failing cause. 
 
 Our own mad world was far other than at peace. 
 The great bombs rose in vast ciu'ves overhead, with 
 trails of light, and, seeming to hesitate in mid-air, 
 exploded, or fell on town or ship or in the stream 
 between. As we looked, awe-struck, hot shot set fii'e 
 to the "Chai-on," a forty-four-gun ship, nigh to 
 Gloucester, and soon a red rush of fire t"wining about 
 mast and spar rose in air, hghting the subhme spec- 
 tacle, amid the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, 
 and multitudinous iuexpUcable noises, through which 
 we heard now and then the wild howl of a dog from 
 some distant farm-yard. 
 
 At last the war-ship blew up, and a wonderful 
 strong light liglited tlie town, the river, aud the camp. 
 As it fell the dog bayed again, a long, sharp, waver- 
 ing cry. 
 
 This seemed to me to impress Jack Warder more 
 than anything else in this din of war. He said now 
 and again, " There is that dog," and wondered what 
 the beast tliought of it all. It is curious upon what 
 the minds of men fix on grave occasions. I meant 
 to ask Jack why he si)oke over and over of the dog 
 when before us was the bloody close of a great his-
 
 494 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 toric tragedy : a king liumbled ; a young republic at 
 sword-point with an ancient monarchy. 
 
 It seemed to me a man's mind must grow in the 
 presence of such might of events. The hill, a half-mile 
 from the lines, was a good vantage-ground whence 
 to see and hear. Jack and I smoked many pipes, and, 
 as he was not for duty in the trenches, lay here most 
 of that cool October night, wrapped in our cloaks. 
 Sometimes we talked; more often we were silent, 
 and ever the great cannon roared from trench and 
 bastion, or were quiet awhile to let their hot lips cool. 
 
 Once Jack fell to talk of how he and I were changed 
 from the quiet Quaker lads we had been, and did I 
 remember our fii-st fight, and Colonel Rupert Forest, 
 and Master Dove? That greater master. War, since 
 then had educated and broadened us. He was more 
 philosophic than I, and liked thus to speculate ; but 
 of Darthea he said never a word, though we spoke 
 of many things that memorable night. 
 
 At last, when it was near to dawn. Jack jumped 
 up, crying, " Oh, confound that dog ! " He had, 
 what I never had, some remnant of the superstitions 
 of our ancestors, and I suspect that the howl of the 
 poor beast troubled him. I guessed at this when he 
 said presently, " I suppose we shall have to carry the 
 place by storm." 
 
 " Now don't tell me you will get hit," said I. " You 
 always say that. There are enough dead men to set 
 every dog in Virginia a-howling." 
 
 Jack laughed, but I had shamed him out of any 
 desire to repeat his predictions of disaster, and with
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 4Q5 
 
 tlie signtil-rockets in air, aud the resoundiug thunder 
 of this storm of war ever ri:>iug and falling, we went 
 at last to our tents. 
 
 For two or three days liis Excellency kept me busy ; 
 but since, except every thii-d or fourth day, Jack had 
 no active work, his diary at this time is very fully 
 kept. I see from its i)ages that he tliought over and 
 over in this leisure of what we had so largely dis- 
 cussed on that night when we lay upon the hill. 
 
 *' October 11," I find written.—" Hugh and I had a 
 long talk over our own lives. It is a good thing and 
 wise at times to take stock, as merchants say, of one's 
 self and of one's friends. Indeed, if a man could 
 contrive a mond likeness of his inner self such as he 
 nuiy have of his body, and this at different ages, it 
 were an interesting and perhaps, too, a useful thing. 
 It might much suiijrise him as the years went on. 
 I think of myself as not so changed as Hugh. I am 
 indeed more shy. As time goes on I aiTange to hide 
 It. I am less ambitious. Duty seems to me more 
 and more a thing wliich I must do by rea.son of habit, 
 that being strong with me owing much to the con- 
 stant example set by my friend's life. If I have in 
 me something of the woman's nature, as Mistress 
 "WjTine used to declare, I do not now so much disUke 
 the notion. It may explain wliy, as I mature, noth- 
 ing in life seems to me so greatly to be desired as the 
 love of my fellows. If I think a man I esteem has 
 uo affection for me, I will fetch and carry to get it. 
 Thank God I need not for Hugh. For him I would 
 give my life, should he want it, and what more can
 
 A.g6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 a man do for his friend? Yes, there is a greater 
 test, but of that I need not think, since she does not 
 love me, nor ever could I think to win her love. 
 
 "My Hugh is a big handsome fellow nowadays, 
 builded to be of the bigness of his father, but cleaner 
 fashioned, from early use of his muscles. He has 
 the strong passions of these hot Welsh, but is disci- 
 plined to control them, though not always. He is 
 more serious of late, and has thoughts which surprise 
 me, and show that his mind has grown. I used to 
 think he was too abrupt with people, but he has a 
 gift I have not— the power to captiu'C the fine ways 
 which these French gentlemen possess, so that nowa- 
 days he has quite lost the stiff ways in which we 
 were brought up. But this art I have not, nor ever 
 shall have." 
 
 Now all this is more or less true, and as I have 
 said whatever was ill of myself, I like to let another, 
 if a too partial judge, say of me, for the flattery of 
 our blood, what may one day pleasure my children 
 to read. 
 
 On the night of the 12th of October our second 
 parallel was opened by Baron Steuben's division, in 
 which was Jack's command. It brought us within 
 three hundred yards of the enemy's works. Here 
 our people, while at the labour of digging, were 
 greatly annoyed by the flanking fire of two redoubts, 
 one on each side, and lying nearly as far out to right 
 and left as were now our advanced trenches. 
 
 On the 18th Colonel Tilghman came to ask me to 
 write the needed orders for an assault on these two
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 497 
 
 redoubts. He told me tliat Marquis Lafayette had 
 asked that his o^vu aide-de-camp, Captain Gimat, 
 should lead the stomiiug-pai'ty of xVmerieaus from 
 the troops for duty ou the 14th, but Lieutcuaut- 
 Colonel Ilamiltou had insisted ou his owu right to 
 this honourable risk, he being, on the day set for the 
 assault, in command in the trenches. 
 
 This oflBcer, my lifelong friend, had, in February 
 of '81, resigned from the staff, of which resignation 
 too much has been said. It in no way affected the 
 regard for him which oiu' chief entertained, and the 
 occasion of his leaving the staff was not one, I 
 thought, to justify my friend in so doing, as indeed 
 I made bold to tell him. 
 
 He had now written a spirited letter to our chief, 
 claiming the right of command, as he had that day 
 the tour of duty in the trenches. His Excellency, 
 with his strong sense of justice, had decided in Mr. 
 Hamilton's favour, and it was thus settled that he 
 should head our assaulting column, and the marquis 
 have command of tlie whole detachment, which was 
 to be made up of picked men from the divisions for 
 duty in our works. 
 
 I wrote the required orders, and set them forth in 
 the orderly-book. The same day toward nightfall 
 Jack appeared at my tent. He said his company 
 was selected to be of the assault, atlding with a fine 
 colour and very cheerful, that here in a packet wei-e 
 letters he had writ to his father and to my Aunt 
 Gainor, and here, to(i, another— this with a little hesi- 
 tation—for Mi.ss Darthea. 
 
 33
 
 49^ Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 I laughed, and said I was a bad person to be his 
 executor, as I meant in some way to contrive to be 
 of the party ; how, I did not yet know. He begged 
 me not to risk mj'self on a business out of my Hue 
 of duty, but I was firmly set as to the matter, and he 
 went away more serious than I thought worth while. 
 In fact, I was tired of the every-day sameness of 
 staff-duty and incessant letter- writing. 
 
 Later in the evening I was sent for to the tent of 
 his Excellency. I found him with the Comtes de 
 Deuxponts and de Rochambeau. I was wanted to 
 act as interpreter. Although his Excellency could 
 comprehend what was said, he possessed no such 
 knowledge of French as to be able to speak it. 
 
 The business was soon despatched, and as I lin- 
 gered, the general asked what other matter needed 
 attention. Upon this I replied that I greatly de- 
 sired to be of the storming-party. 
 
 He returned, " I presume of course, sir, that you 
 are not for duty on the 14th ? " 
 
 I said, "No." 
 
 "Then your business is with the staff. I am un- 
 willing to permit gentlemen to step aside out of 
 their work." He spoke in his usual deliberate man- 
 ner, and with a certain sternness such as he well 
 knew how to assume. 
 
 I saluted, but stood still a moment, and then said, 
 " I trust, Excellency, that I have fulfilled my duties 
 to your satisfaction." 
 
 " Entu-ely. I should have made it plain to you 
 had it been otherwise."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 499 
 
 " And I have never asked a favour of your Exeel- 
 leucy. I have been twice wounded, have had no 
 home leave for four years, and have spent five 
 months in a Bntish jail." 
 
 I saw a faint sniiU' ronie over his gn'ave face, 
 '' You boys are all alike. Here is Colonel Hamilton 
 in a rage beeause the nuirquis would have given his 
 plaee to Captain Gimat, and now it is an obstinate 
 Welshman must go and get into mischief. I wish 
 the whole army had your spii'it, sir." 
 
 I ventured to observe that Colonel Armand had 
 been permitted to serve as a volunteer, and that I 
 had hoped that I too should l)e allowed a like 
 favour. 
 
 His Excellency smiled, and returned, "As a vol- 
 unteer, Mr. Wynne— well, as a volunteer. Ask Colo- 
 nel Hamilton. I trust that is satisfactory. Ai*e the 
 onlers and detail all made out ? " 
 
 I said yes, and, thanking him, went away. 
 
 Colonel Hamilton, whom I saw early on the 14th, 
 was as much surprised at the result of my request 
 as was I, and was plea.'^ed to say he should be glad 
 of my company, and would I be on hand in the 
 trenches ])efore dark ? 
 
 The French of the old regiment D'Auvergne, 
 which that night won the right to be called D'Au- 
 vergne sans farhf, were to cArry the redou])t to the 
 right of the enemy's line. The Baron de Yiomenisle 
 wa.s to lead them. Gimat was to have a chance 
 W'tli us. 
 
 "There are Connecticut men, and Massachusetts
 
 500 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 and Rhode Island men, with a reserve from Penn- 
 sylvania. The North has the whole business," said 
 Hamilton, " and your friend Warder has the luck 
 to be with us." 
 
 The redoubt Number Ten on the enemy's left, and 
 nearest the river, fell to us, and Hamilton by no 
 means meant that we should be later in the work 
 than our allies. 
 
 I am forced to be thus particular because, although 
 in God's providence I knew it not, I was about to 
 pass through another crisis of my adventurous life. 
 Before dusk I was in the trenches, and lying down 
 amid a crowd of silent men. Hamilton walked to 
 and fro among them, seeing that all were ready, and 
 at last tied a piece of surgeons' bandage around my 
 left arm, a precaution also taken as to the men that 
 they might be distinguished in the darkness from 
 the enemy. 
 
 Pioneers with fascines and ladders were a little 
 later put out in front of the trenches, and with them 
 the sappers and axemen under Captain Kirkpatrick. 
 Within the crowded trenches and behind them the 
 detachment of four hundred men lay ready. 
 
 It was cold, and a drizzling rain would have made 
 it needful, under ordinary circumstances, to keep 
 the pans of the muskets dry; but all loads were 
 drawn, and the marquis meant to trust to the bayonet 
 alone. Jack was afoot, and in his gay fashion was 
 saying something merry to his men. I heard the 
 marquis cry, " Silence ! " in queer English, and down 
 the line I could hear officers repeating his order.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 501 
 
 For a little while till was still. 
 
 " Good-by," said my Jack. His hand was damp, 
 and shook. 
 
 " You dear old idiot ! " said I. 
 
 It wtis now close to eight, and of a sudden our 
 cannon cea^scd. I dmily saw, a few yards away in 
 the deep trench, the marquis looking back toward 
 GUI' camp. The enemy, glad, I dare say, of a chance 
 to cool their guns, also stopped hiing. I wished to 
 heaven this horror of waiting were over. 
 
 Then a rocket rose high in aii* over our camp. 
 " Ready, men ! " said Hamilton, while I drew my 
 long Hessian blade. 
 
 Six bombs in quick succession rose and went over 
 us. I heard the marquis cry out, ^'£n avant! For- 
 ward ! " 
 
 '' Fonvard, sappers ! " cried a voice in front. 
 
 " Come along, boys ! " ciied Jack. And not giving 
 the sappers more than time to scramble up, we were 
 off in a s"v^Tft rush through the darkness. Tlie 
 quickly fonned line broke u'regularly, as we ran 
 over the space between us and the abatis, the sap- 
 pers vainly trjnng to keep ahead. 
 
 As we rushed forward, my legs serving me well, 
 I saw that they in the redoubt knew what was 
 coming. A dozen rockets went up, Bengal fires of 
 a sudden lighted their works, a cannon-shot went 
 close to my head, and all pandemonium seemed to 
 break loose. 
 
 At the stockade, an hundred feet from their 
 works, our men pushed aside the sappers, and tore
 
 502 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 down the rude barrier, or tumbled over it. They 
 were used to fences. Here Gimat was hurt, and 
 Kirkpatrick of the pioneers, and a moment later 
 Colonel Barber. 
 
 The hundred feet beyond were passed at a run, 
 and the men with fascines cast them into the ditch. 
 It was already haK fuU of the wi-eck the cannon had 
 made in the earthwork. We jumped in, and out ; it 
 was all mud and water. Ladders were set against 
 the parapet, but the slope was now not abrupt, having 
 been crumbled away by our guns, so that most of us 
 scrambled up without delay. I saw Captain Hunt 
 fall, the enemy firing wildly. If Sergeant Brown 
 of the Fourth Connecticut, or Mansfield of the For- 
 lorn Hope, were first on the parapet, I do not know. 
 Hamilton got by me, and I saw him set a foot on the 
 shoulder of a man, and jump on to the top of the 
 redoubt. Why more or all were not kiUed seems to 
 me a wonder. I think if the enemy had been cooler 
 we had been easily disposed of. I saw the girl-boy 
 leap down among the bayonets, and we were at once 
 in a hurly-burly of redcoats, our men with and after 
 us. 
 
 For a little there was fierce resistance and a furi- 
 ous struggle, of which I recaU only a remembrance 
 of smoke, red flashes, yells, and a confusion of men 
 striking and thrusting. A big Hessian caught me 
 a smart thrust in the left leg— no great hurt. An- 
 other with his butt pretty nearly broke my left arm, 
 as I put it up to save my head. I ran him through, 
 and felt that they were giving way.
 
 Hueh^^v^ne: Free Qiuikcr co 
 
 j> 
 
 To left and right was still a mad struggle, and 
 what with the Bengal fires still blazing, and a heap 
 of brush in flames at one side of the redoubt, there 
 was light enough to see. Near about me was a clear 
 space, and a pause such as occurs now and then in 
 such a scrimmage. There were still men who held 
 back, and to whom, as I pushed on, I called, " Come 
 on ! We have them ! " A great wind from the sea 
 blew the smoke away, so that it was easy to see. As 
 I called out to the men who hesitated on the outer 
 slope, as some will, I heard before me a voice cry, 
 " This way, men ! " and, turning, caught sight of the 
 face of Arthur Wynne. lie too saw and knew me. 
 He uttered an oatli, I remember, crying out, "At 
 last ! " as I dashed at him. 
 
 I heard ahead of me cries for " Quarter ! quarter ! " 
 The mass of striving men had fallen back, and in 
 fact the business was at an end. I saw Jack run 
 from my left t<iward me, but he stood still when he 
 saw what was happening, and instantly, as he came, 
 Arthur and I crossed swords. "\Miat else chanced 
 or who else came near I knew not. I saw for the 
 time only that one face I so hated, for the heap of 
 brush in the work was still lilazing. 
 
 As is true of ever}' Wynne I ever knew, when in 
 danger I became cool at once. I lost no time, but 
 pres.sed him hard with a glad sense that he was no 
 longer my master at tlie game. I meant to kill 
 him, and as he fell back I knew tliat at last his hour 
 had come. I think he too knew it. lie fenced with 
 caution, and was as cool as I. Just as I touched
 
 504 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 him in the right shoulder I felt a wounded Hessian 
 clutch my leg. I fell squarely backward, my cousin 
 lunging savagely as I dropped. I had been done 
 for had not Jack struck up his blade as I lay, call- 
 ing out: 
 
 " Coward ! " 
 
 I was up in a moment, pretty savage, and caught 
 sight of my Jack fencing with my man, as calm as 
 if we were in old Pike's gallery. As I stood pant- 
 ing—it was but a moment— I saw Jack's blade whip 
 viciously round Arthur's and pass through his 
 breast, nearly to the guard. 
 
 My cousin cried I know not what, fell to one side, 
 and then in a heap across a dead grenadier. 
 
 "Better I than thou," cried Jack, blowing hard. 
 " He wdll play no more tricks. Come on ! " 
 
 With a glance at my enemy I hurried past him 
 over dead and wounded men, a cannon upset, mus- 
 kets cast away, and what not. 
 
 " This way, Wynne," said the marquis. " C'estfini ! 
 Get those fellows together, gentlemen." 
 
 Our men were huddling the prisoners in a corner 
 and collecting their arms. A red-faced New Hamp- 
 shire captain was angrily threatening Major Camp- 
 bell, the commander of the redoubt, who had just sur- 
 rendered. Colonel Hamilton struck up the captain's 
 blade, or I do believe he would have killed the major. 
 He was furious over the death of Colonel Scammel, 
 who was greatly beloved, and had been killed by 
 Hessians after having given up his sword. 
 
 It was over, and I went back to see what had
 
 THE DUEL 
 
 Page 504 
 Huyh yVpnnt
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 505 
 
 become of Arthur. He was alive, and having 
 dragged himself to the inner wall of the redoubt, 
 was now seated against it. Jack soon found a lan- 
 tern, and bv its liirht we looked at Arthur. He was 
 covered with blood, but was conscious, and stared 
 at me with dull eyes, without power to say a word. 
 
 " Take care of him. Jack," said I, and went away 
 down the crumbled slope and through the broken 
 abatis, while overhead the bombs howled with un- 
 earthly noises and the cannonry broke out anew. 
 
 I was still angry that I had not killed the man, 
 and went off to my tent in no very happy state of 
 mind, so tired in body that I could not sleep for 
 hours. 
 
 iSavs Jack, " October 15. — I cau never cease to be 
 thaukf id that, when we had them driven like scared 
 sheep into tlie far side of the redoubt, I ran back to 
 see what had become of Hugh. It was but a minute 
 I had missed him, and when I saw him slip I had 
 only just time to catch that devil Arthur "Wynne's 
 Vdade. He was used in old days to play with me 
 like a child, but either I am ])ccome more skilful or 
 he was out of practic^e, for I knew pretty soon that 
 he was delivered over to me, and had small chance 
 to get away unhurt. If my friend had killed him, — 
 and that was what he meant, I fear,— would Dartliea 
 ever have married Hugh? I know not, but it has 
 been ordered otherwise. There was indeed a way 
 opened, as Friends say. A nice Quaker I am 
 Ix'come ! " 
 
 I was not of his ofjinion that night. Just before
 
 506 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 reveille I feU into a broken slumber. I awakened 
 in a sweat, having- dreamed that I had put a sword 
 through my cousin, and was troubled that Jack 
 was to tell Darthea. Thus it came to my mind 
 —dulled before this with anger and unsatisfied hate 
 —that I had made a fortunate escape. The morn- 
 ing brought wisdom. I was beginning to think 
 that all was not well between Darthea and Arthur 
 Wynne, and that to kill him would do anything but 
 add to my chances with a woman so sensitive, nor 
 Would it much improve matters that liis deatli had 
 come out of the unhappy chances of war. 
 
 When in happier mood I began to dress at dawn, 
 I found my left arm veiy stiff and sore. I must 
 have been much distracted overnight not to have 
 felt it, and not to have seen that I was seriously 
 bruised ; my breeches were starched stiff with blood 
 from a baj^onet-priek. Jack's quarters were on the 
 extreme right, and as soon as the lines broke after 
 morning driU I rode over to find him. 
 
 He told me that Dr. Rush was come to camp the 
 day before with other siu'geons, and that Arthur 
 was in a tent and cared for by our good doctor, who 
 informed Jack that his sword had traversed the right 
 lung, but had not gone through, as it seemed to me 
 it must have done. The doctor thought he might 
 possibly get over it. Out of his affection for my 
 aunt he would see that Arthur had such care as she 
 would desire for one of her kin, but was it not a 
 most unfortunate accident? 
 
 "I assured him," said Jack, "that it was most
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 507 
 
 lamentable, but might have been worse— as I in- 
 tended it should be," added Jack, with a grin. He 
 then asked me had I heard of that good Free Qua- 
 ker, Colonel Ft)rest, who had taken Major Campbell, 
 saying, "I advise tliee to surrender, or thou wilt 
 
 repent it, d thee!" to the delight of Hamilton,- 
 
 who must tell his Excellency that night, having 
 supped with him on his return. 
 
 I made haste to write to ni}' aunt, and was able to 
 send our letters North with the general's despatches 
 to Congress. I said nothing of my own encounter 
 with -iVi'thur. but made mention of Jack's affair as 
 one of the chances of war. 
 
 Dr. Rush dressed my arm, and I went back to 
 dnty with the member in a sling, and aching like 
 mad. His Excellencv, seeing mv condition, asked 
 me if my right arm was in good order, but made no 
 reference to the left. After I took his commands for 
 the morning he said, seeing me limp, "Were you 
 much hurt ? " 
 
 I said, " No ; I ran against something sharp in the 
 bastion." 
 
 He smiled, and that was the end of the matter. 
 Fair women and brave men were to his Excellency's 
 liking. 
 
 This was my last of active warfare. The marquis 
 tried his liand at a sally, and made ready too late to 
 get away over the York River ; but tlie sally came 
 to nothing, and the belated effort to run to .still less. 
 
 I neglected to say that the Fnnch, having come 
 to the abatis, waited in line while the pioneers used
 
 508 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 their axes to clear it away. Meanwhile, thanks to 
 too good discipline, they suffered severely. As we 
 rushed the whole thing, we lost far less. "It was 
 very fine and en regie" said Hamilton, " but I like our 
 way better." And so, I think, do I. 
 
 The good doctor liked to come to my staff tent in 
 those days, to talk to me or to others. He seemed 
 to think it necessary to inform me of my cousin's 
 state, and I dare say thought me cool about him. 
 
 " And if, doctor, I had stuck him through the left 
 side ? " said Jack, lying at ease on a bearskin in my 
 tent. 
 
 " In that case," said our doctor, in a quite profes- 
 sional way, '^ the heart or the great arteries had like 
 enough been pierced." 
 
 " And what then ? " asked Jack of the doctor, who 
 was sitting on the camp-bed. 
 
 " Probably death would have occurred." 
 
 On this Jack looked up with those innocent eyes, 
 and, pushing back the blond locks, said: "It is a 
 great thing to know anatomy. If only I had made 
 a little study of that science. Dr. Rush, I might have 
 had better success at this pig-sticking business we 
 call war." The sly humour of the fellow set Hamil- 
 ton to laughing, but the doctor did not smile. 
 
 " It might have been better for Hugh's cousin," he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes," said Jack, sweetly ; " perhaps." 
 
 As they talked I was automatically putting into 
 fine French a letter of his Excellency to Comte 
 d'Estaing, and I took in readily what was passing.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 509 
 
 WTieu Jack said, " Perhaps," I cried out, " It would 
 be a fine thing, doctor, to have all this saving know- 
 ledge on both sides, so as to know where not to hurt 
 one another." 
 
 Hamilton was on the side of Dr. Rush. " It were 
 more to the pm-pose," he said, " to sit down and not 
 to go to wai- at all." This was set forth demurely, 
 the colonel seeing how serious a dose our fun was 
 for the gi'eat physician, who did somewhat lack the 
 capacity to discover the entertainment to be found 
 in this manner of jesting. 
 
 He returned gi'avely that this was his opinion, 
 and tliat liad he liis way, war and drinking of spirits 
 should alike cease. 
 
 To this we agreed in part as one man, for of war 
 we were tired enough. As to the other matter, we did 
 not mention it. To think of such a revolution was too 
 astonishing in those days, nor have we come to it yet. 
 
 After that the doctor discussed Arthui-'s case "with 
 much learning and e\'ident satisfaction. I might 
 like in a day or two to see Captain Wynne. I was 
 of opinion that it would do him harm, and when the 
 great doctor said, '*' Perhaps, perhaps,'' Jack began 
 discreetly to talk war, and asked where was General 
 Gates. 
 
 But bj' this time our doctor had become cautious. 
 His favourite commander was dismissed ^\'ith a 
 word or two, and so our chat ended, Mr. Hamilton 
 and the pliysician going awaj' together, each plojised 
 with the otlier, and, despite some differences in pol- 
 itics, to remain lifelong friends.
 
 5 1 o Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 On the 17tli of October, the Marquis Cornwallis 
 having had a stomach full of fighting, and ha\dng 
 failed of his schemes to get away across the York 
 River, beat a parley, and after some discussion 
 signed the articles of capitulation. The soldiers 
 were to remain prisoners in Vu'ginia and Maryland, 
 the officers were to return to Europe upon parole. 
 The beaten army at two on the 19th came down the 
 road between the French and our lines, with the 
 colours in their cases, and the bands playing a Brit- 
 ish march ; for it is of the etiquette of such occasions 
 that the captiu'ed army play none but their own 
 tunes. Some wag must have chose the air, for they 
 marched by to the good old Enghsh music of " The 
 World Turned Upside Down"; such must have 
 seemed sadly the case to these poor devils. 
 
 As I was of the staff, I was privileged to see well 
 this wonderful and glorious conclusion of a mighty 
 strife. Our chief sat straight in the saddle, with a 
 face no man could read, for in it was neither elation 
 nor show of satisfaction, as the sullen ranks came 
 near. 
 
 At the head of the line rode General O'Hara. He 
 paused beside our chief, and begged his Excellency 
 to receive the excuses of my Lord CornwaUis, who 
 was not well enough to be present, wliich no one 
 believed nor thought a manly thing to do. 
 
 His Excellency bowed, trusted it was not very 
 serious, but would not receive General O'Hara's 
 sword. With quiet dignity he motioned him to 
 deliver it to Major- General Lincoln, who now had
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 51 i 
 
 these grateful ameuds for the misfortune of having 
 had to surrender his own gt)od Lhide at Charleston. 
 
 After this the long aiTay of chagrined and beaten 
 men went by, and, returning to York, were put under 
 guard. 
 
 A day or two later a letter of my aunt's informed 
 me of the disorder my father's condition had brought 
 about on his tobacco-plantation in Maryhmd. This 
 caused me to ask for leave, and, with the under- 
 standing that I might be recalled at any time, I re- 
 ceived permission to be absent two months. 
 
 I set out on November 5 for Annapolis, with two 
 horses and my ser\'ant. Arthur Wynne, being 
 found unfit to go to Europe with the rest, was 
 taken a week later by our doctor on a transport 
 to the Head of Elk, and thence by coach to Phila- 
 delpliia. There, as I heard, tlie doctor took liim to 
 liis own liouse, much amazed tliat Mistress Gainor 
 would not receive him. Arthur won the good doc- 
 tor, as lie did most people, and, despite all expecta- 
 tions, was said to be mending fast, being much 
 petted by the Tory ladies ; but if Darthea had seen 
 him or not I did not then learn. 
 
 My affairs in Maryland, where we had many 
 slaves and large interests, kept me busy until near 
 the clo.se of December, when I set out to rejoin the 
 staff in Philadelphia, my leave lieing up. 
 
 During this winter of \sl and 'S2 my duties were 
 light, and except to write a few despatches daily, 
 and to atttmd his Excellency on occasions of festivity, 
 I had little to do save to look after my father's affidrs.
 
 5 1 2 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 It is now fit that I return to the narration of such 
 things as immediately concern my personal interests. 
 Arthur Wynne was able to ride out by the end of 
 January, as I heard, for I did not chance to see him. 
 My father remained much as he had been for a year. 
 
 Darthea, to our great surprise, on Captain Wynne's 
 return became desirous to yield to her aunt and 
 to go to New York. My aunt said she would get 
 them a pass through our lines in the Jerseys ; but 
 this proving difficult, they stayed in and about 
 the city, spending much time at their old home in 
 Bristol. Darthea was so clearly unwilling to see 
 me that I was fain to give it up, and accept what 
 I could not better. When I said I was sorry she 
 wished to go away, my Aunt Gainor replied that 
 I was a fool, and would never be anything else. 
 I asked why, but she was away from my question 
 at once, and went on to tell me what officers were 
 to dine with her that day, and did his Excellency 
 like Madeira? and why was her doctor so fond of 
 quoting Mr. Adams's letters from Holland, where he 
 now was on a mission, with his na^ty sneers at 
 Virginians and Mr. Washington ? She gave me no 
 time to reply. Indeed, this and much else I saw or 
 heard in those days was quite beyond me. 
 
 My aunt's way of dismissing a question she liked 
 s not was to pour out matters which were quite irrel- 
 evant, when to stop her was altogether past hope. 
 I had learned to wait. She, at my desire, made Jack 
 her aid in her affairs, as I was fully occupied with 
 my father's neglected business. Now, too, she was
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 513 
 
 busy finding Ja<?k a wife, and would tell nie all about 
 it, striding to and fro, and with vast shrewdness and 
 humour discussing the young women we knew. 
 
 " Cat " Ferguson Avas very humble, and the Chews 
 in great favour vrith his Excellency. I was fain 
 to dismiss my wonder as to Darthea, and, unable to 
 recur to the question I had asked, I went away to 
 headquarters in the great Chew house in Thii'd 
 street. 
 
 The town was gone wild with feasting and din- 
 ners, and as the general liked his staff to attend 
 him, I had more of these engagements than I cared 
 about. 
 
 Arthur, still weak and on parole, lingered; but 
 why he did not get permission to go to New York, 
 as had been easv, I coidd not well understand. 
 
 In February, '82, I came home to my father's one 
 morning at an earlier hour than usual, and to my 
 surprise heard my cousin's voice. 
 
 " I fear, sir, I am not unders" .od. I came for the 
 deed you promised me." 
 
 My poor father, a huge, wasted framework of a 
 big man, was looking at him with lack-lustre eyes. 
 He said, " ^ly wife will be with us presently. "Wilt 
 thou stay for dinner?" 
 
 1 went in at once, saying, " I am more than 
 amazed, sir, to see you here. As to the deed you 
 would have st^)len— " 
 
 " What ! " he cried. 
 
 "I said 'stolen,' sir. As to the deed j'ou woidd 
 have stolen from a miui too feeble in mind to guard
 
 514 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 his own property, I have only this to say " (amid con- 
 stant duties it had gone from my mind) : " 1 shall 
 put no obstacle in the way of your seeing it." 
 
 " I have no other pui-pose," he said quietly — '' none. 
 To you I could not go, and, sii", if you choose to 
 consider my effort in any other light than an honest 
 one, I have no more to say. We have enough causes 
 of difference without that." 
 
 " Quite enough," said I, I was beginning to lose 
 grip of my patience. " Quite enough. That they were 
 not settled long ago an accident alone prevented." 
 
 "I am not, sir, in a way fitly to answer you. 
 Neither is this a place nor a presence for this dis- 
 cussion." 
 
 '^ At least we can agree as to that," said I ; " but I 
 did not seek it. At my own leisure I shall have to 
 ask you certain questions wliich, as a gentleman and 
 a man of honour, you will find it hard to answer." 
 
 "I fail to comprehend," he returned, with his 
 grand air, looking all the better for his paleness. 
 
 I said it was not now needful that he should, and 
 that in future he would understand that he was no 
 longer a welcome guest. 
 
 " As you please," he said. 
 
 I thought he showed little anxiety to hear at 
 length what was in my mind. 
 
 Meanwhile, as we spoke, my father looked va- 
 cantly from me to him and from him to me, and at 
 last, his old hospitable instincts coming uppermost, 
 he said, '' Thou hast not asked thy cousin to take 
 spirits, Hugh."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 515 
 
 Arthur, smiliug sadly, as I thought, said:"Thauk 
 you, none for ine. Good-day, Cousin Wynne,'' and 
 merely bowing to me, he went out, I ceremoniously 
 opening the door. 
 
 I had Siiid no more than I intended to say ; I was 
 resolutely bent upon telling this man what he seemed 
 to me to be and ^ehat I knew of his baseness. To 
 do this it was needful, above all, to find Delaney. 
 After that, whether Darthea married my cousin or 
 not, I meant that she should at last know^ what I 
 knew. It was fair to her tliat some one should open 
 her eyes to tiiis man's character. When away from 
 her, hope, the friend of the absent, was ever with 
 me ; but once face to face with Darthea, to think of 
 her as by any possibility mine became impossible. 
 Yet from first to last I was firm in my purpose, for 
 this was the way I was made, and so I am to this 
 day. But whether I had loved her or not, I should 
 have done my best out of mere friendship to set her 
 free from the bonds in which she was held. 
 
 I had heard of Delaney as being in tlie South, but 
 whether he had come out alive fi-om the tussles be- 
 tween ^Morgan, Marion, and Tarleton, I knew not. 
 On asking Colonel Harrison, the general's secretary, 
 he told me he thought he could discover his where- 
 abouts. Next day he called to tell me that there 
 was an officer of the name of Delaney at the London 
 Inn, now cjilled "The Flag," on Front street, and 
 that he had been asking for me. I had missed him 
 )jy five minut*'s. He liad called with despatches 
 from Major-Generai Greene.
 
 516 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 To my joy this proved to be the man I wanted, 
 nor was it surprising that he should thus luckily 
 appear, since the war was over in the South, and a 
 stream of officers was passing through Philadelphia 
 daily to join the Northern army. 
 
 For a moment he did not know me, but was de- 
 lighted when I named myseK. 
 
 I said I had no time to lose, and asked him to 
 meet me at my aunt's in the afternoon. I much 
 feared that Ai*thur would get away before I was 
 ready to talk to him. 
 
 Delaney had received my last letter and had an- 
 swered it, but whither his reply went I cannot say. 
 At all events, he had lingered here to find me. "When 
 we met at my Aunt Gainor's that afternoon, it took 
 but a few minutes to make clear to her the sad tale 
 of Arthur's visit to the jail. 
 
 My friend had no sooner done than the old lady 
 rose, and began as usual to walk about, saying : "You 
 will excuse me ; I must think of this. Talk to Hugh." 
 What there was to think of I could not see. 
 
 Delaney looked on amused, and he and I chatted. 
 She was evidently much disturbed, and while the 
 captain and I talked, I saw her move a chair, and 
 pick up and set down some china beast. At last 
 she said : " Come in at nine to-night, Mr. Delaney. 
 I want to think this over. I have still much I desire 
 to ask you. It deeply concerns my nephew in a way 
 I cannot now explain to you. May I have the priv- 
 ilege of another half -horn* ? " 
 
 Delaney bowed.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 517 
 
 "Of course I do not want you, Hugh," she added. 
 
 When you have known a woman as long as I had 
 known my aunt, there are sometimes hints or warn- 
 ings in her most casual expressions. When my 
 aunt said I was not wanted that evening I knew at 
 once that she was meditating something out of the 
 common, but just what, I did not think to ask my- 
 self. My Aunt Gainor was all her life fond of what 
 she called inventing chances, a fine phnise, of which 
 she was proud. In fact, this sturdy old spinster 
 liked to interfere authoritatively in the affairs of 
 men and women, and believed that for this she had 
 a special talent, which in f.ict she discovered no in- 
 clination to bury ; but what now she had in liand to 
 do I knew not. 
 
 She was deeply grieved for a season to find that 
 her plans went awi-y, or that men were disappointed, 
 or that women would not go her way. " Wlien she 
 hurts you," said Mrs. Ferguson, " she is like a child, 
 and has a dozen silly devices for doctoring your 
 wounds. We have fought many tinu^s, and made 
 up as often. There is no real malice in her," which 
 was true. 
 
 Jack Warder once remarked in liis lively way that 
 Mistress W\Tine had a richlv coloured character. I 
 fear it may have looked at times very black to some 
 and ver}" rose-tinted to others, but assuredly never 
 gray in its tones, n(»r other than positive. 
 
 With me she took all manner of liberties, and 
 with Darthea too, and if ever she were in doubt if it 
 were well U) meddle in our affairs I know not. A
 
 5 1 8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 vast richness of liuman love and an urgent desire of 
 rule lay underneatli the life she showed the out^er 
 world of quadrille and dinners and gossip. 
 
 When she hurt us, or, as Darthea said, broke her 
 china in trjdng to wash it, she fell back on our love 
 with a quite childlike astonishment that what was 
 come out of affection should give rise to resentment. 
 
 "With a slight puzzle in my mind I went away 
 with Delaney to dine at the London Coffee-house, 
 which now showed our own new flag, where so often 
 I had passed in under the cross of St. George. 
 
 " We have a new St. George now," said Mr, John 
 Adams, in one of those ill-natured letters to Dr. 
 Eush which filled my aunt with rage. '^ Sancte 
 Washington, era pro nobis." The Massachusetts 
 statesman admired our grave and knightly St. 
 George, but there are those who cannot fly a kite 
 without the bobtail of a sneer — which is good wit, I 
 think, but not my own ; it was Jack said that, 
 
 Wlien Delaney left me to call again upon my 
 aunt, I little dreamed of what part she meant him 
 to plaj'. He left the town early next day, and had 
 it not been for Jack I should not for a long while 
 have known fully what an hour brought forth. 
 
 "On the afternoon of February 28 of this 1782," 
 says Jack's diary, "I got a note from Mistress 
 Wynne asking me to see her on business at nine. 
 I found with her, to my pleasure, the good felloAv 
 Delaney, and was able to thank him for the service 
 he had done us all in his noble care of Hugh. We 
 talked over our battles, and presently comes in
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 519 
 
 Dai*tliea, whom now we see but rarely, for reasons 
 best kno^vn to herself. 
 
 "I do believe Huirli has given up his love-affair 
 as a thing: quite liopeless, and no wonder. I think 
 she still sees tliat rascal of an English captain, and 
 perhaps he will not have her keep up a closer friend- 
 ship with such as uo longer desire his own acquain- 
 tance. 
 
 "Mr. Delaney was, like all men, charmed with 
 Miss Peniston, and the talk went on busily enough, 
 the young woman in good spu'its and the captain 
 most amusing. 
 
 " By and by he spoke quite naturally of the hor- 
 roi-s of their life in the provost's prison, and upon 
 this Darthea, becoming of a sudden seriously atten- 
 tive, listened with fixed gaze. Our hostess, seeing 
 her chance, said; ^ I meant to ask you more of that 
 to-day, but mj' nephew hates even to hear of it. 
 How long were vou there?' 
 
 " ' I was taken at Germantown like Mr. WjTine, 
 and was kept until June. After W}Tine nearly 
 killed that rascal, Cunningham, things were worse 
 than ever.' 
 
 "'And was ITugli so veiy ill?' 
 
 " ' He could not have been wor.se to live at all.' 
 
 "'And was there no inspection amid.st all those 
 horrors? Do you suppose Sir William knew noth- 
 ing of them ? I can hardly credit that.' 
 
 " Darthea looked round at Mistress W\Tine. She 
 had been unusually silent. Now turning to Delaney, 
 she said, with slow articulation; 'I also am curious.
 
 520 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 Mr. Delaney. "We heard many nimours and some 
 unpleasant facts. Could Sir William Howe have 
 known? I cannot think it.' 
 
 " * But he must, after the inspections, and there 
 were three to my knowledge,' 
 
 " ' Indeed ? ' said Mistress Wynne. * 'T is most 
 strange ! ' 
 
 " Delaney hesitated, not liking, I suppose, to men- 
 tion Arthur, her cousin, of whose close relation to 
 Darthea, however, he was not aware. 
 
 " ' And one,' Mistress Wynne went on, ' was, I hear, 
 made by our kinsman.' 
 
 " ' Yes,' said Delaney, ' and that did certainly amaze 
 me. Captain Wynne—' 
 
 " ' Captain Wynne ! ' exclaimed Darthea, and, turn- 
 ing her head, she looked sharply at Mistress Wynne 
 and then at me. I think that Delaney, being un- 
 familiar with her habits of speech, did not notice 
 how strange was the tone in which she added, '■ We 
 all know Mr. Arthur Wynne.' 
 
 " ' Indeed ! ' said Delaney ; ' but of course I might 
 have known that.' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes ! I interi'upted you. Pray, go on ; it is 
 most interesting.' 
 
 "'Very,' said Mistress Wynne. And now I saw 
 what a wicked trap our spinster-fox had laid for poor 
 Darthea. Delaney, a bit puzzled, glanced at me. I 
 made no sign. It must not stop here. 
 
 " ' It is a queer story, Miss Peniston, and not much 
 to the credit of his Majesty's officers.' 
 
 " ' What next ? ' said Darthea.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 521 
 
 "'Oh, the tale is l>rief and bnitcol. I -was seated 
 on the straw one day, with Hugh's head in my lap, 
 putting: water on his forehead and trying to quiet 
 hira, when the turnkey eame in with an English 
 officer. This gentlenian*lo(»ked about him at the few 
 left alive, asked carelessly who broke the window- 
 panes, and then suddenly seemed to notice Hugh. 
 He asked who was this poor devil. The turnkey said, 
 '* Name of Wynne, sir," Then the captain stood still 
 a moment, staring at us, and, as if curious, bent down, 
 asking me what Hugh was saying. Now my poor 
 friend wai> muttering over and over, " Dorothea ! 
 Dorothea!"— some woman's name, I suppose, but 
 what woman he never told me.' 
 
 "At this I saw Darthea flush, but perhaps remem- 
 bering that Mr. Delaney might know her only as 
 Miss Peniston, which was the fact, she controlled 
 herself and said quickly : 'He asked his name? Are 
 you sure he asked his name? Could there have 
 been no mistake?' 
 
 " Delaney looked the surprise he no doubt felt, 
 and replied, ' Yes ; of that I am sure.' 
 
 " * Do you think,' said Darthea, ' he knew how ill 
 Mr. Hugh Wynne waa ? ' 
 
 " ' Certainly ; I heard the turnkey tell him that a 
 day or two would see Hugh in tlie potter's field with 
 the rest. The doctor had said as much. This was 
 true ; he ha<l told me it was useless for him to return, 
 and indeed I thought so too. They buried a half- 
 dozen a day. When told that this man Wynue had 
 jail-fever, the captain seemed in haste to leave. At the
 
 522 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 door lie turned and took another look at Hugh, and 
 then went out. I asked his name next day, but the 
 turnkey laughed, and said it was none of my busi- 
 ness. I had a fancy that the inspector desired to 
 remain unknown. I was sure of this when, a few 
 days after, I described the officer to Hugh, who was 
 then quite himself. When Hugh said at last, ''Had 
 he a scar over the left eye? " and I said he had, Hugh 
 cried out in a rage that it was his cousin, and would 
 talk of nothing else for days. I fear there can be no 
 doubt that the inspecting officer was Captain Arthur 
 Wynne.' 
 
 "'Horrible!' exclaimed Mistress Wynne. 'In- 
 credible ! ' 
 
 " ' Yes; it seems to me a quite inconceivable thing, 
 but I am certain, though the man looked a gentle- 
 man all over.' 
 
 " ' He looked a gentleman all over,' said Darthea, 
 with strange deliberateness of speech. 
 
 "This while Mistress Wynne sat drawn up, her 
 face set, and one hand moving on the arm of the 
 chair, just the same queer trick her brother had. As 
 for me, I watched Darthea. It was a merciless plot, 
 and may have been needed; but in truth the way of 
 it was cruel, and my heart bled for her I loved. 
 
 " As she spoke her tones were so strange that Mr. 
 Delaney, who was clearly but an innocent though 
 sharp tool, said: 'I beg pardon. Miss Peniston. These 
 sad stories are too dreadful to repeat. Miss Wynne 
 would have it — ' 
 
 "But Darthea was now quite lost to the common
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Qmiker 523 
 
 •ways of life. She went on like a person questioning 
 herself, as it sonnded to nie. ' Arthm* Wynne asked 
 his name. Is that so ? ' 
 
 " Delaney siiid, * Yes,' now, as I saw, quite ti'oubled, 
 and wishing himself out of it, I dove say. 
 
 " ' And he knew ho was in rags, starved, d}-ing, 
 and lie left him ? ' continued Dai'thea. ' He left him 
 —to die.' 
 
 "'Yes; but—' 
 
 "'No matter. I must hear all— all!' she cried 
 sharply— ' all ! I am the person most concerned.' 
 
 *' * Darthea ! ' then exclaimed Miss Wvnne, alarmed, 
 I suppose, at her wild manner and breaking voice. 
 
 "But Dai-thea went on. 'This is my business, 
 madam. You are sure, sir? Tiiis is no time to 
 trifle. I — I am— I must know ! I must know ! Woidd 
 you say this to Captain Wynne were he here ? An- 
 swer me, sir ! ' 
 
 " * Certainly I would, ^liss Peniston.' 
 
 "'Mistress Wynne,' said Darthea, rising, 'I have 
 been brought here to let a stranger see my— my 
 weakness. It is j)lain. Did you think I could hide 
 it, madam ? Pardon m(», sir. You have done me a 
 cruol .'^erA'iee. I — I thank you. I bid you good- 
 evening, Mi.<tress Wynne. Was there no other way, 
 no kinder way, to tell me? Will you take me home, 
 Jack? I— I am tire<l.' 
 
 "We had all risen with her at the beginning of 
 this last speech, I troubled, ISIiss Wynne very red, 
 and only fit to siiy over and over, 'Darthea ! Darthea ! * 
 Mr. Delaney annoyed, and lacking knowledge of the
 
 524 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 situation; all of us awkward and confused save 
 Darthea, who passed out into the hall, followed by- 
 Miss Wynne, and saying, as she went forth, ' I will 
 never forgive you, madam, never ! never ! You are 
 a wicked old woman ! I shall never speak to you 
 again. I did not think it.' 
 
 " I walked in silence beside her to Mrs. Peniston's 
 home. ' Thank you. Jack,' said she, in a sweet, low 
 voice. 'You did not know, did you, of this sad 
 story ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, dear lady, but of this disgusting plot, no.' 
 
 " ' But why did you, who are my friend, and Mr. 
 Hugh Wjame, and all of you, leave me in the dark 
 as to this— this man?' 
 
 " I said quickly that it was not well to have told 
 her until Mr. Delaney could be found. He had but 
 just now come. She had seemed to trust Captain 
 Wynne's story; Hugh's was but the hearsay of a 
 man just out of a deadly fever. We had waited. 
 
 "As I spoke, she stood with her calash bonnet 
 fallen back, clear to see by the full moonlight, and 
 looking with intent face across Arch street, as it 
 might be with envy of the untroubled dead of gen- 
 erations who la}^ around the meeting-house. As I 
 ended, she said: 
 
 " * I have been a fool, Jack, but I loved him ; indeed 
 I did. Is there more ? I know Hugh hates him. Is 
 there more?' 
 
 " ' Too much, too much, Darthea,' I said. 
 
 " ' Then come in. I must hear all— all.' And she 
 knocked impatiently.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Qiiiiker 525 
 
 " Pi*eseiitl)' we vrere in the parlour. ' Fetch a light/ 
 she said to tlie black who opened for us. When we 
 were aloue and seated, she said qnietly : ' Jack, you 
 are my only friend. I do trust you — oh, entirely. 
 Now what is it ? I nuist know all. Why has Hugh 
 Wynne been silent? It is not like him.' 
 
 '' ' I have already told you why. Partly because, 
 Darthea, you wore away, or would not see us. That 
 you know. Partly because Hugh had only his own 
 word to give ; but this I have told you.' 
 
 " * Yes, yes,' she cried ; ' but what else ? ' 
 
 " ' I think,' said I, ' knowing hira well, that Hugh 
 meant, when once he had Delaney's evidence, to tell 
 his cousin face to face, and so force him to release 
 you.' 
 
 *• ' That is my business, not his,' she broke in. 
 'What has Hugh Wynne to do with it? Am I a 
 chUd?' 
 
 " ' It had been the kinder and the manlier way,' 
 said I. * Now tliere is no need ; but Hugh wiU be 
 furious with his aunt.' 
 
 '" I am glad of that. Wliat else is tliere 1 You 
 are hiding something.' 
 
 " < There was that scene in the garden, Darthea.' 
 
 " She coloured at this. * Yes, I know ; but there 
 were reasonal)le excuses for that, and no one had 
 time to think.' 
 
 "'Two people had, Darthea.' 
 
 " ' We will let that pass. Jack. Don't play with 
 
 me.' 
 
 • Then, driven to the wall, so to speak, I told her
 
 526 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 of the sad revelation Andre had made to Hugh, and 
 how, being Hugh's enemy, Arthur had been base 
 enough to involve him in an affair which might have 
 been his ruin, 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' she said, ' I see 5 but who could know, 
 or who think to use such knowledge ? ' 
 
 " I was taken aback at her seeming to have any 
 doubt. I coldly set myself to tell her of Arthm-'s 
 double dealing about the estate, and of how he 
 had made Hugh's father believe he was minded 
 to consider the ways of Friends, and at last of how 
 he had borrowed money and had set poor Hugh's 
 half-demented father against him. I did not spare 
 her or him, and the half of what I said I have not 
 set down. The Arnold business I did return to, see- 
 ing that it struck her, or seemed to, less than it did 
 me j for to my mind it was the worst. 
 
 "'Darthea,' I said, 'how could a man of honour 
 or even of good feeling put any gentleman in such 
 peril of worse than death ? There were Tories enough 
 to have done his shameful errand. But oh, dear 
 Darthea, to suggest to send on such business an open, 
 frank enemy, — his cousin too, — that was too bad for 
 the lowest and vilest ! ' 
 
 " '■ Hush ! ' she said, ' I know enough. You have 
 been both brave and good. You are the best man I 
 know. Jack Warder, and the kindest. I wish I loved 
 you. I am not worthy of you. Now go away.' 
 
 "I obeyed her. and this was so far the end of a 
 miserable affair. What Hugh will say to Miss W}Tine, 
 God knows. I have given a thorough rascal Ms
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 527 
 
 dnes : h\tt I cannot do tliis and not tell him to his 
 face what I have said behind liis back. 
 
 '• This was at night, bnt I had no better counsel in 
 the morning. 
 
 "I went to find Mr. Delanej', but he was gone, 
 ha^^ng. as I lieard later, put on i)aper what he had 
 seen and heard in the Provostry."
 
 XXVIII 
 
 HEN," continues Jack, " I found Delaney 
 had gone away, I was in a quandary. 
 I by no means desired to go alone to 
 see Captain Wynne. At last I made 
 up my mind to ask Hugh. If there 
 came a quarrel it should be mine. I resolved there 
 should be no fight if I could help it, and that there 
 might be trouble if Hugh were first to see his cousin 
 I felt sure. The small sword was out of the ques- 
 tion, but the pistol was not. I intended no such 
 ending, and believed I had the matter well in mj'- 
 own hands. When I found Hugh at the quarters I 
 told him quietly the whole story. 
 
 " That he was in a mad rage at his aunt I saw. I 
 hate to see Hugh smile in a certain way he has, with 
 his lips set close. He said nothing save that he 
 would go with me, and that I was altogether in the 
 right. He was reluctant to promise he would leave 
 me to speak alone, but at last I did get him to say so. 
 " Mr. Arthur Wynne was alone in his room at the 
 inn, and would see us. He was wi-iting, and turned 
 from his table, rising as we entered. He looked red 
 and angry, in a soiled dressing-gown, and I thought 
 had been drinking. He did not ask us to be seated, 
 
 528
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 529 
 
 and we remained standing until onr unpleasant t^dk 
 came to a close. 
 
 "He said at once, 'My good cousin, I presume I 
 owe to vou the note I have had from Miss Peniston 
 to-day.' 
 
 " ' You do not,' said Hugh, not looking at aU dis- 
 pleased. 
 
 '• ' Indeed T I liad hoped you had come to offer me 
 the only sjitisf action in life youi* shinders have left 
 me. !My health is no longer such as to forbid the use 
 of a pistol.' 
 
 " * Pardon me,' said I, * this is my affair, and not 
 Mr. "Wynne's. I have had the lionour of late to hear 
 Mr. Delaney relate what pa.ssed in the jail.' 
 
 " * Have you, indeed ? An old story,' said Arthur 
 "Wynne. 
 
 " * None the less a nasty one. I had also the plea- 
 sure to tell ^liss Peniston that you suggested to the 
 traitor Arnold to use my friend's kno^\^l loyalty as 
 a safe means of getting to Sir Heniy Clinton a letter 
 •whi<^h wa.s presuina})ly a despatch as to exchange of 
 prisoners, but was really intended to convey to Sir 
 Henry the news that the scoundrel Arnold was will 
 lug to sell his soul and betray his country.' 
 
 " ' "Who told you this nonsense ? ' said the captain, 
 coming toward us. 
 
 "'Major Andr^*/ said I. 'You may have my 
 friend's word for that.' 
 
 " * It is a lie ! * he crir d. 
 
 •* ' Men about to die do not lie, Mr. Wynne. It is 
 
 true.' 
 34
 
 530 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 " The man's face changed, and he got that slack 
 look about the jaw I have heard Hugh describe. To 
 my astonishment he did not further insist on his 
 denial, but said coldly, ' And what then ? ' 
 
 " ' Nothing,' said I. ' Having told what I knew to 
 a woman, I had no mind to have you say I had 
 slandered you behind your back. That is aU.' 
 
 " ^ Is it, indeed ? And which of you will give me 
 the honour of youi- company to-morrow ? ' 
 
 '' ' Neither,' said I. ' We do not meet men like you.' 
 
 " His face flushed. ' Coward ! ' he said. 
 
 " ' If I am that,' said I, pretty cool, and shaking a 
 little after my siUy way, ' you know best, and will 
 remember, I fancy, for many a day. Good-morning, 
 
 sir.' 
 
 " On this he cried out, ' By ! this shall not 
 
 pass ! I— I will post you in every inn in town, and 
 my cousin too. No man shall dare—' 
 
 " ' Stop a little,' said Hugh. ' If it comes to that 
 I shall know what to do, and well enough. I have 
 no desu-e to put my own blood to open shame, but 
 if this matter goes further, I shall publish Mr. De- 
 laney's statement, and that, sir, will close to you 
 every gentleman's house here and in London too.' 
 
 " ' And shall you like it better to have it known 
 that you were General Arnold's agent ? ' 
 
 " I saw Hugh's face lose its quiet look, and again 
 he smiled. ' In that case,' he said, ' I should teU my 
 own story and Mr. Andre's to his Excellency, and 
 then, my good cousin, I should kill you like a mad 
 dog, and with no ceremony of a duel. You warned
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 531 
 
 me once when I was a mere boy. It is my turn now. 
 As there is a God in heaven, I will do as I have 
 said.' 
 
 " ' Two can play at that game,' said Arthur. Hugh 
 made no reply. 
 
 '' And on this we left the man standing, and went 
 forth without another word. 
 
 " 'I think his fangs are drawn,' said Hugh. And 
 indeed that was my opinion. I made up my mind, 
 however, that at the least unpleasant rumour of any 
 kind, I woidd take such a hand in the matter as would 
 save Hugh from ha^'ing to go to extremities." 
 
 With the date of a week or so later I find added : 
 " The man thought better of it, I dare say, when the 
 di-ink wore off; how much of his folly was due to 
 that I cannot tell. It was plain that my dear Dar- 
 thea had let him go at last. Was it because her sweet 
 pitj' distressed her to wound a man once dear that 
 she was held so long in this bondage ? or was it that 
 absence, said to be the enemy of love, was, in a 
 woman of her sense of honour, a reason why sho 
 should not break her word until she had a more full 
 as.surance of being right? 
 
 " I think he slowly lost his place in the heart won 
 when Darthea was younger, and perhaps earned 
 awav bv vain notions, which lost value as time went 
 on. Such men have for the best of women a charm 
 we cannot understand." 
 
 I have left Jack to tell a part of my life which I 
 am glad to leave to another than I. I heard no 
 more of my cousin except that he had made up
 
 532 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 his mind to go home under his parole. This did not 
 fill me with grief. I had the sense to know that for 
 many a day Darthea were better left alone. 
 
 My Aunt Gainor had recovered from the remorse 
 which, as usual with her, followed upon some futile 
 attempt to improve the machinery of other folks' 
 fates. In fact, although Darthea closed her doors 
 upon Mistress Wynne and would on no account see 
 her, my aunt was already beginning to be pleased 
 with the abominable trap she had set, and was good 
 enough to tell me as much. 
 
 For three days after Jack had informed me as to 
 the drama my aunt had planned I stayed away from 
 her, being myself in no very happy state of mind, 
 and unwilling to trust myself. When at last, of a 
 Saturday afternoon, I came in on Mistress Wynne, 
 she got up from her accounts, which she kept with 
 care, saying at once : " It is a week since you were 
 here, sir, and of course I know why. That long- 
 tongued gh'l-boy has been prating, and your lordship 
 is pleased to be angry, and Darthea is worse, and will 
 not see me because I had the courage to do what you 
 were afraid to do." 
 
 " Upon my word. Aunt Gainor," said I, " you are 
 a little too bad. I was here four days ago, and have 
 I said an impatient word? If I was angry I have 
 had no chance to say so." Nor had I. 
 
 " Then if you are not angry you ought to be." She 
 seemed to me bigger than ever, and to have more 
 nose than usual. " You ought to be. I made a fool 
 of myself, and all for you; and because I have
 
 Hu^h Wynne: Free Quaker 533 
 
 burned my fingers in pulling your goose out of the 
 fire, you must get into a passion. You have no need 
 to smile, sir. I suppose it were finer to say chestnuts, 
 but a goose she is, and always will be, and I love her 
 like a child. Your soft-hearted Excellency was to 
 see me last week, and saying that he had no children, 
 I, that have no right to any, said I was as ill off, and 
 we looked at each other and said nothing for a little, 
 because God had given to neither the completeness 
 of life. Is he stem, sir? I don't think it. We 
 talked of General Ai-nold, and of poor Peggy his 
 wife, and as to all this he was willing enough, and 
 frank too. De.'^pite Dr. Hush and ^Mr. Adams, he 
 can talk well when he has a mind to. But when I 
 said a word of poor Andre, I had better have kept 
 my tongue quiet, for he said quickly : ' ^Mistress 
 W^^me, that is a matter I vdU. never hear of willingly. 
 I a.«5k your pardon, nuidam.' I coidd do no more 
 than excuse my want of thought, and we fell to dis- 
 cussing tol)acco-gro^ving." 
 
 " But what more of Darthea ? " said I, for jdl the 
 generals in the world were to me as nothing com- 
 pared with one little woman. 
 
 " Oh, there is no more, except that I am unhappy. 
 I vnW never again l>e kind to anybody. I am only a 
 miserable, useless old maid." And here she began to 
 cr\', and to wet a fine laee handken^hief. 
 
 Just now comes in saucy Mi.ss ]\Iargaret Chew,— 
 we call her Peggy,— and is rather Ihistered by my 
 aunt in tears. " O Mistress Wynne," she says, " I ]>eg 
 pardon. I—"
 
 534 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 '' What for ? " says my aunt. " My Manx cat has 
 eaten the raspberry jam. That is all." Whereon we 
 laugh, and the little lady, being pretty-spoken, says 
 she wishes she was Mistress Wynne's cat, and while 
 my aunt dries her eyes goes on to say, "Here is a 
 note for you to dine with us and Mr. Wasliington, 
 and I was bid write it, and so I did on the back of 
 the queen of hearts for a compliment, madam," and 
 with this she drops a curtsey. 
 
 My aunt, liking beauty and wit combined, kissed 
 her, and said she would come. 
 
 This diversion cleared the sky, which much needed 
 clearing, and Miss Chew being gone away, my aunt 
 detained me who would willingly have followed her. 
 
 After that I comforted her a little as to Darthea, 
 and said she could no more keep up being angrj^ than 
 a June sky could keep cloudy, and that, after all, it 
 was just as well Darthea knew the worst of the man. 
 I related, too, what Jack had told, and said that now 
 my cousin would, I thought, go away, and we— thank 
 Heaven ! — be quit of him forever. 
 
 "And yet I must see him once," she said, "and 
 you too. I have put that deed in the hands of James 
 Wilson, and he has taken counsel of oui- friend Mr. 
 Attorney-General Chew." 
 
 "I suppose you are right. Aunt Gainor," said I. 
 " The man is bad past belief, but he has lost Darthea, 
 which is as much punishment as I or any could de- 
 sire. I think with you this estate business should 
 some way be settled, and if it is to be his, I have no 
 mind to leave the thing in doubt, and if it be mine
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 535 
 
 or mv father's, I for one do not want it. I have 
 enough, and no Tsish to muddle away my life as a 
 TTelsh squii-e.'' 
 
 "We shall see," Siiid my aunt, not at all of my 
 opinion, as I readily perceived. " We shall see. He 
 sluill have justice at our hands, and James Wilson 
 will be here at four to-morrow, and you too^ Hugh, 
 whether you like it or not." 
 
 I did not, and I said so. She had WTitten my 
 cousin that she desired to see him concerning the 
 deed. ^V^K*t]ler from interest, or what, I know not, 
 he had replied that he would be with her at half- 
 past four. 
 
 Thus it happened that I was to see Arthur Wynne 
 once more, and indeed I felt that my aunt was right, 
 and that it were as well all our accounts with this 
 man were closed. Just how this would come about 
 I knew not yet, but closed they should be ; as to that 
 I was fully ad\'ised in my own mind.
 
 XXIX 
 
 |T four punctually arrived my friend the 
 famous lawyer. He was not a hand- 
 some man, but possessed a certain dis- 
 tinction, which he owed to a strong face, 
 well-modelled head, and a neatly pow- 
 dered wig, the hair being tied back, after the fashion 
 of the bar, in a black queue-bag with, at the end, a 
 broad black ribbon. He took the snuff my aunt 
 offered, carefully dusting the excess off the collar of 
 Ms brown velvet coat, and sat down, saying, as he 
 took some papers from a silk bag, that it was alto- 
 gether an interesting and curious question, this we 
 had set before him. And why had we held this deed 
 so long and said nothing ? 
 
 I told him of my father's and my grandfather's 
 disinclination to open the matter, and why and how 
 the estate had seemed of little worth, but was now, 
 as I believed, more valuable. 
 
 Hearing this he began to question my aunt and 
 me. He learned from our replies that at the time 
 I got the deed from my father none but my parent 
 had any clear idea of what this old family compact 
 meant, but that now we were in possession of such 
 facts as enabled us to understand it. I then went on
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 537 
 
 to make plaiu tliat my aunt was full of the matter, 
 ami eager, but that I had uo iueliuatiou at auy time 
 to euter ou a long and doubtful litigation in another 
 country. 
 
 To myself I confessed that I desii-ed no immediate 
 settlement until I saw what iVi-thm* meant to be at. 
 It was one more hold ou a scamp still able to do me 
 mischief. If it was clearly his father's estate and 
 not oui-s, he should soon or late be relieved of any 
 possible doubt this deed might stiU make as to ques- 
 tions of title. 
 
 A\Tien j\Ii'. "Wilson turned to my aunt he found a 
 more warlike witness. She dehghted in the prospect 
 of a legal contest. 
 
 " When a child," she said, '' I used to hear of my 
 father's having consented to make over or give away 
 to his brother "\\'illiam an embarrassed estate, and 
 that the crown officers were in some way consenting 
 parties to the agreement, my father engaging him- 
 self to go to America when let out of jail. 
 
 " There is no doubt," she went on, " that "Wj-ncote 
 was under this arrangement legally transferred by 
 my father to his next brother. Our Welsh cousins 
 must have tliis convej-ance. It seems, from the deed 
 you have examined, that privately a retrausfer was 
 made, so as, after all, to leave my father possessed of 
 his ancestral estate. If ever he chose to reclaim it 
 he was free to do so. The affair seems to have be- 
 nome more or less kno\\Ti to the squires in tliat part 
 of Merionetlisliire. William was, we presume, un- 
 willing to take an unfair advantage of his brother's
 
 538 HughWjmne: Free Quaker 
 
 misfortune, and lience the arrangement tlius made 
 between them." 
 
 "You state the case admii'ably," said the lawyer. 
 " And what else is there ? " 
 
 " But little. Letters of affection and esteem came 
 and went at long intervals. I recollect hearing bits 
 of them, but cannot say if the estate matter were ever 
 mentioned. After William's death the correspon- 
 dence may or may not have ceased. His brother 
 Owen came into the property without interference, 
 raid, dying, left a young son, Owen, who is still alive. 
 His son Arthur, Captain Wynne, is to be here to- 
 day. There are personal matters involved, into which 
 there is no need to go. The Welsh branch is no 
 doubt desirous in some way to clear the matter ; but 
 having held the estate for a century, they are, we may 
 presume, not very eager to give it up. In justice 
 to Owen Wynne, I may say that it is probable that 
 because of a long minority he only began, as I think, 
 a few 3^ears ago to have any doubt as to his title. I 
 may add," my aunt went on, " that Captain Wynne 
 came and went during the war, and that only of late 
 has this deed turned up." 
 
 " And your brother is quite unfit to help us ? ** said 
 Wilson. 
 
 "Yes; and unwilling if he were able." 
 
 "I see, madam, I see; a difficult business." 
 
 " And this deed ? " said my aunt ; " you were about 
 to speak of it." 
 
 " It is," he replied, " a simple act of sale for one 
 shilling, a reconveyance of Wyncote from William
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quakei 539 
 
 10 ITugh. tlie date October 9, 1671. It is in order, 
 aud duly witnessed." 
 
 "WeU?" 
 
 '• As to its present value, Mistress W}ime, there is 
 a consensus of opinion between the Attorney-General 
 and myself." 
 
 " That is to say, you agree," said my aunt. 
 
 '' Precisely, madam. It is our belief that the lapse 
 of time has probably destroyed the title. There is 
 no annexed trust, on William's part, to hold for his 
 brother's use, and the length of undisputed, or what 
 we lawyers call adverse, jiossession — something lil^e 
 an hundi'ed years or more — seems to make it impos- 
 sible for my friends to oust the present holder. Am 
 I clear?" 
 
 " Too clear, sir," said my aunt. " Is that all ? " 
 
 " No ; I said, ' seems.' There are other questions, 
 such as the mention of the matter in letters. If the 
 succeeding brothers in letters oi* othorAnse from time 
 to time acknowledged the rights of Hugh Wynne, 
 that might serve to keep alive the claim ; if, too, it 
 can be proved that at any time they paid over to 
 Hugh or his son, your brother, nuidam, rents or dues, 
 as belonging to these American claimants, this too 
 would serve to give some validity to your present 
 claim. It is a question of dates, letters, and of your 
 pos.ses8ion of evidence in the direction of repeated 
 admis.sions on the i)art of the Welsh holders." 
 
 My Aunt Guinor was at once confident. Search 
 should be made. She had some remembrance in her 
 childhood of this aud that. In fact, my aunt never
 
 54*^ Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 admitted the existence of obstacles, and commonly- 
 refused to see them. Mr. Wilson shook his head 
 dubiously. " There seems to have been negligence 
 or a quite culpable indifference, madam. The time 
 to be covered by admissions is long, and the statutes 
 of 32 Henry VIII. and 21 James I., 1623, do, I fear, 
 settle the matter. The lapse in the continuity of 
 evidence will be found after the death of Hugh. 
 Twenty years will suffice, and I am forced to admit 
 that your claim seems to me of small value. It was 
 simply an estate given away, owing to want of the 
 simplest legal advice." 
 
 " Wait until I look through our papers," said my 
 aunt. *' We are not done with it yet, nor shaU be, if 
 I have my way, until the courts have had a chance 
 to decide." 
 
 ''It win be mere waste of money, my dear lady. 
 Now, at least, you can do nothing. The war is not 
 over, and when it is, none but an English court can 
 settle the title. I confess it seems to be a case for 
 amicable compromise." 
 
 " There shall be none— none," said my aunt. 
 
 "And we aro just where we began," said I. 
 
 " Not quite," he returned. " You may have a case, 
 but it seems to me a weak one, and may lie in 
 chancery a man's lifetime. I, as a fi-iend as well as 
 a lawyer, knowing you have no need of the estate, 
 hesitate to advise you to engage in a suit of eject- 
 ment. I should rather counsel— ah, that may be Mr. 
 Wynne." 
 
 It was a clamorous knock at the haJl door, which
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 541 
 
 caused Mr. Wilson to cut short his advice with the 
 statemeut that it \Yould need longer discussion, and 
 that tliis must be the other party. 
 
 It was, in fact, my cousin, who was set down in a 
 chair, as I saw by a glance through the window. 
 When Jack and I had seen him at his inn he had 
 been a little in hquor, and wore a sort of long chintz 
 bedgown wrapper, with his waistcoat buttoned awry 
 —not a veiy nice figure. lie was now Arthur Wynne 
 at his best. He stood a moment in the doorway, as 
 beautiful a piece of manliood as ever did the devil's 
 work. His ta^te in all matters of dress and outer 
 conduct was beyond dispute, and for tliis family 
 meeting he had apparently made ready with unusual 
 care. Indeed this, my last remembrance of Ai'thur 
 W}Tine, is of a figure so striking that I cannot resist 
 to say just how he looked. His raiment was costly 
 enough to have satisfied Polonius; if it bore any 
 relation to his purse, I know not. It was not " ex- 
 pressed in fancy," as was that of the macaroni dandy 
 of those early days. He knew })etter. As he stood 
 he carried in his left hand a dark beaver edged with 
 gold lace. His wig was small, and with side rolls 
 well powdered, the queue tied with a lace-bordered 
 red ribbon. In front a full Mechlin lace jabot, \nth 
 the white wig above, set his regular features and 
 dark skin in a frame, as it were, his paleness and 
 a look of'mohinclioly in the eyes helping the natu- 
 ral ]>eauty and distinction of a face high bred and 
 haughty. Tlic white silk flowered waistcoat, the 
 bunch of gold seala below it, the claret-tinted velvet
 
 542 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 coat and breeches, tiie black silk clocked bose with 
 gold buckles at ankle and knee, and a silver-hilted 
 dress-sword in a green shagreen sheath, complete my 
 pictm-e. I wish you to see him as I saw him, that in a 
 measure you may comprehend why his mere personal 
 charms were such as to attract and captivate women. 
 
 He came forward with his right hand on his heart 
 and bowed to my aunt, who swept him a space-fiUing 
 curtsey, as he said quite pleasantly, " Good-afternoon, 
 Cousin Gain or ; your servant, Mr. Wilson." To me 
 he bent slightly, but gave no other greeting. It was 
 aU easy, tranquil, and without sign of emban-assment. 
 As he spoke he moved toward the table, on wliich 
 Mr. Wilson had laid his papers and bag. Now, as 
 alwaj's, a certain deliberate feline grace was in all 
 his movements. 
 
 '^ For a truth, he is a beauty/' said my Aunt Gai- 
 nor after our meeting was over. " And well-propor- 
 tioned, but no bit of him Wynne. He has not our 
 build." Nor had he. 
 
 " Pray be seated," said my aunt. " I have asked 
 my friend and counsel, Mr. James Wilson, to be 
 present, that he may impartially set before you a 
 family matter, in which youi- father may have inter- 
 est. My nephew, Hugh Wynne, is here at my earnest 
 solicitation. I regret that Mr. Chew is unable, by 
 reason of engagements, to do me a like favour. Mr, 
 Wilson will have the kindness to set before you the 
 natui'c of the case." 
 
 Misti-ess Wynne, sitting straight and tall in a high 
 cap, spoke with dignified calmness.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Qiuiker ^43 
 
 "At yoiir service, madam," said the lawj'er, look- 
 ing Arthur over with the quick giauce of a ready- 
 observer. Before he could go ou to do as he was 
 bidden I found my chance to say, " You will be so 
 good, Mr. Wilson, as to state Mr. Owen Wynne's case, 
 as well as our own, with entire frankness ; we liave 
 no desire to wrong any, and least of all one of our 
 blood." 
 
 "I think I understand vou fullv," said Wilson. 
 " A deed has been put in the hands of Mr. Attorney- 
 General Chew and myself, and as to its value and 
 present validity an opinion has been asked by Mis- 
 tress Wynne and her nephew." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Arthur ; " is not my Cousin 
 John tlie proper person to consider this question V " 
 
 ''Assuredly," rotiumed Mr. Wilson, "if his state 
 of mind i)ermitted either his presence or an opinion. 
 No interests will be affected by his absence, nor can 
 we do more than acquaint those who are now here 
 with what, as lawj'ers, we think." 
 
 " I see," said Arthur. " Pray go on." 
 
 " This deed seems to convey to my client's gi-and- 
 father— that is to sav, Mistress Wynne's father— 
 certain lands situate in Merionethshu'e, Wales. I 
 understand that you, sir, represent the present 
 holder." 
 
 "I am," said Arthur, "the son of the gentleman 
 now in po.ssessi(»n of Wyncote, and have full j)ermis- 
 sion to act for him. If, indeed, you desire further 
 U) learn on what authority—" 
 
 " Not at all, not at all," interposed WUsou. " Your
 
 544 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 presence suffices ; no more is needed. This meeting 
 commits no one." 
 
 "I was about to ask the date of this document," 
 said Arthur. 
 
 " Certainly ; here it is." And so sajdng the lawyer 
 spread the deed out on the table. " It is a convey- 
 ance from William Wynne to Hugh of that name ; 
 the date, 1671, October 9 ; the witnesses are Henry 
 Owen and Thomas ap Roberts. It is voluminous. 
 Do j^ou desire to hear it ? " 
 
 " No ; oh no ! What next ? " 
 
 "We believe," continued the lawyer, "that this 
 deed has ceased to have effect, owing to lapse of time 
 and the appearance— pray note my words— the ap- 
 pearance of undisputed ownership by the younger 
 branch. Neither is there any trust to hold the 
 estate for Hugh ; it is a mere conveyance." 
 
 "There can be, of course, no doubt," returned 
 Arthur— " I mean as to a century of unquestioned 
 possession." 
 
 " I am not secure as to the point you make," said 
 Mr. Wilson, courteously. "I cannot now decide. 
 I am asked to state the matter impartially. My 
 clients wish justice done to all, and will take no 
 unfair advantage. It may be you have no case. 
 There may have passed frequent letters on both 
 sides, admitting the claim or reasserting it, and thus 
 keeping it alive. Rents may have been paid. Facts 
 like these may open questions as to the length of 
 undisputed holding. Only your own courts can de- 
 cide it, and that with aU the evidence before them."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 545 
 
 " I am obligred by your frankness/' said ray cousin. 
 " I had hoped to see the matter tuUy settled." 
 
 "That will never be," said my aunt, " until I have 
 carried it through every court in Eughind." 
 
 " As you plejise," replied Arthur. 
 
 " Mr. Wynne," said I, " while my father lives we 
 shall do nothing; nor even afterward, perhaps. 1 
 do not want the money, nor the old home. What is 
 done may depend much on your own actions, sir." 
 I had no desire to lose tliis hold on him. As I spoke 
 I saw him look up astonished, as was also, I thought, 
 the lawj'er, who knew nothing of our quarrels. 
 
 " If," said I, " you had come to us frankly at first, 
 and stated wliv vou came, we should have said what 
 I now say. No, I should have said far more. I 
 behove this ends the matter for the present." My 
 aunt lifted her hand, but I added, " I pray you let it 
 rest here, aunt," and for a wonder she held her peace. 
 
 Arthur, too, seemed about to speak, but his worse 
 or better angel, I know not which, prevailed, and 
 quietly saluting us all, he rose and took his leave. 
 
 " We shall see when this war is over," said my 
 aunt, taking the deed. " Many thanks, Mr. Wilson ; 
 I should like to have your opinion in writmg." 
 
 *'I shall send it in a week or two. Mr. Arthur 
 
 Wynne set*nis to have come over, as I judge from 
 
 what he said, with autliority to act for his father. 
 
 Why he did not at once relate his errand I cannot 
 
 Bee. Had you had no deed it would have closed the 
 
 matter. If he found you had one he would have 
 
 been only in the position he is now in to-day." 
 35
 
 54^ Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 "I fancy lie may have been fearful and over- 
 cautious, not comprehending the nature of those he 
 had to deal with," said I. " You must have known 
 him as I do, Mr. Wilson, to understand his actions. 
 I was sorry you did not let him tell us what powers 
 he really had. I was curious." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I interrupted him. It was a mistake." 
 And so saying he rose. 
 
 "It shall not rest here," said my aunt. "Some- 
 thing shall be done." And on this I too went away, 
 declining further talk. 
 
 When Arthur came over to learn what he could 
 as to their title to Wyncote, he failed to see that we 
 were people whom no prospect of gain could lead 
 into the taking of an advantage. He thus lost the 
 chance a little honest directness would have given 
 him. When later my father threw in his way the 
 opportunity of absolute security as to the title, the 
 temptation to get secretly from him a legal transfer, 
 or— God knows— perhaps the power to destroy the 
 deed, was too much for a morally weak and quite 
 reckless nature. I was the sole obstacle, or I seemed 
 to be. We loved the same woman ; she had begun 
 to doubt her English lover. If I had died he had 
 become assured, not only of the possession of Wyn- 
 cote, but of being ultimately my father's heir. 
 
 Of this Jack writes : " Here was a whole brigade 
 of temptations, and he could not stand it. He would 
 have broken that tender heart I loved. God help me ! 
 I think I should have killed him before he had the 
 cruel chance."
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 547 
 
 If to tlie estate and other TV'orldly baits was 
 addt'd the remembrance of the blow a mere boy 
 gave, I do not know. It is certain that at last he 
 hated me, and as sure that I had as little love for 
 him.
 
 XXX 
 
 ARLY in March of 1782 Jack and I con- 
 eluded that the war was over, or was to be 
 but a waiting game, as indeed it proved. 
 After some thought over the matter we 
 both resigned, and as it was desired to 
 lessen the hst of of6.cers, we were promptly released 
 from service. 
 
 On March 22 his Excellency rode away from town 
 under escort of Captain Morris's troop of light horse. 
 I went along as far as Burlington, being honoured 
 when I left by the personal thanks of the general, 
 and the kind wish that I might discover it to be 
 convenient to visit him at Mount Vernon. 
 
 April "v^'as come, and we gladly turned again to 
 the duties which awaited us both. His Excellency 
 had gone to watch Sir Guy Carleton penned up in 
 New York. Congress wrangled, our gay world ate 
 and danced, and the tardy war fell to such slackness 
 that it was plain to all a peace must soon come, 
 although we were yet to see another winter pass 
 before the obstinate Dutchman on the EngHsh 
 throne gave up a lost game. 
 
 In July my father died of a sudden afflux of blood 
 
 548
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 549 
 
 to the head ; find although he was blooded by Dr. 
 Rush several times, never was so tiw bettered as to 
 speak to me. O11I3' once, as I am told is not rare, 
 he so revived when in the very article of death as 
 to look about and say, thinking my hand in Ids was 
 my mother's, that she must not grieve for him. 
 
 Alas ! he had been as one dead to me for many a 
 year. I wore no black for him, because I was and 
 am of the opinion of Friends that this custom is a 
 foolish one. My aunt, was ill pleased at mj' decision, 
 and put herself and all her house in mourning. 
 None the less, for my part, did I regret, not so much 
 the natural, easy death, as the sad fact it seemed to 
 fet<jh back so plainly, that from my youth up here 
 were two people, neither of them unkindly or ill 
 natured, who were all through life as completely 
 apart as if no tie of a common blood had pledged 
 them to affection. 
 
 I saw— I can see now— the gray and drab of the 
 great concourse of Friends who stood about that 
 open grave on Arch street. I can see, too, under 
 the .shadow of his broad gray beaver, the simple, 
 sincere face of James Pemberton, my fathei^'s 
 lifelong friend. He spoke, as was the custom of 
 Friends, at the grave, there l^eing no other cere- 
 mony, an omission of which I confess I do not 
 approve, ^luch moved, he said: 
 
 " Our friend, John Wynne, departed this life on 
 the 23d of July of this year [being 1782]. For many 
 years he hatli carried the cross of afllicting sickness, 
 and hath unceasingly borne testimony to the doc-
 
 550 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 trine and conduct nplield of Friends. He was a 
 man of great abilities, and, like our lamented William 
 Penn, of an excellent gravity of disposition, without 
 dissimulation, extensive in charity, having neither 
 malice nor ungratefulness. He was apt without 
 forwardness, yet weighty, and not given to unseemly 
 levity. The wise shall cherish the thought of him, 
 and he shall be remembered with the just." And 
 this was all. One by one they took my hand, and 
 with my Aunt Gain or I walked away. I closed the 
 old home a day or two later, and went with my 
 aunt to her farm. 
 
 I had not seen Darthea for many a day. " Let 
 her alone," said my aunt. I think Jack was often 
 with her; but he knew to hold his tongue, and I 
 asked no questions. At last, a week after the fu- 
 neral, I recognised her hand in the address of a 
 note to me. I read it with a throbbing heart. 
 
 " Sir : I have heard of youi* great loss with sorrow, 
 for even though your father has been this long while 
 as one lost to you, I do think that the absence of a 
 face we love is so much taken from the happiness of 
 life. You know that your aunt hurt me as few could, 
 but now I am not sorry for what then befell. The 
 thought of death brings others in its train, and I 
 have reflected much of late. I shall go to see Mis- 
 tress Wynne to-day, and will you come and see me 
 when it shall appear to you convenient? I am for 
 a little at Stenton, with Madam Logan." 
 
 Would I, indeed ? My dear old Lucy, a little stiff 
 in the knees, carried me well, and seemed to share
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 551 
 
 my good Inniiour as I rode down the long road from 
 Cbcstuut Hill. 
 
 The great trees about the home James Logan 
 built were in full leaf, and under theii* shade a black 
 groom held two horses as I rode up. Darthea came 
 out, and was in the saddle before she saw me. 
 
 The rich bloom of health was again on her cheek, 
 and deepened a little as I went towai'd her. 
 
 I said I was glad to see her, and was she going to 
 my Aunt Gaiuor's? If so, and if it were agreeable 
 to her, the groom might stay. I would ride back 
 with her. Then Mrs. Logan, at the door, said this 
 would suit very well, as she needed the man to go to 
 town. After this we rode away under the trees and 
 up the Germantown road, Miss Peuiston pushing 
 her horse, and we not able on this account to talk. 
 At last, when I declared Lucy too old to keep up the 
 pace, the good beast fell to walking. 
 
 Soon we went by the graveyard where the brave 
 Euglislmian, General Aguew, lay ; and here Darthea 
 was of a mind to be told again of that day of glory 
 and defeat. At the mai'ket-house, where School-house 
 Lane comes out into the main street of German- 
 to^vn, she must hear of the wild strife in the fog and 
 smoke, and at last of how I was hurt ; and so we 
 rode on. Slie liad gotten again her gay spirits, and 
 was full of mirth, anon serious, or for a moment 
 sad. Op])osite Cliveden I had to talk of the fight, 
 and .say wliere were Jaek and SiUlivan and Wayne, 
 although Jack more concerned her. As we rode up 
 the slope of Mount Airy I broke a long silence.
 
 ^^2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " Darthea," said I, " is it yes, or always no ? " 
 
 "Will you never be contented?" she returned. 
 '•' Is n't it mean to say these things now ? I can't get 
 away. I have half a mind to marry Jack, to be rid 
 of you both." 
 
 " Is it yes or wo, Darthea ? " 
 
 "Yes," she said, looking me in the face. I am a 
 strong man,— I was so then,— but a great rush of 
 blood seemed to go to my head, and then I went 
 pale, as she told me later, and I clutched at Lucy's 
 mane. I felt as if I might fall, so much was I moved 
 by this gi*eat news of joy. 
 
 "Are you ill?" she cried. 
 
 " No, no," I said ; " it is love ! Thy dear love I 
 cannot bear. Thank God, Darthea ! " 
 
 "And do you love me so much, Hugh? I— I did 
 not know." She was like a sweet, timid child. 
 
 I could only say, " Yes, yes ! " 
 
 " Oh, Hugh ! " she cried. " How can you forgive 
 me ? But I am not like other women. My word — 
 you will know— and then you will forgive me." 
 Her eyes were full of tears, her face all aglow. 
 
 " There is— there never will be anything to forgive." 
 
 "But I was so foolish— and— I was so foolish." 
 
 " Let us forget, Darthea. I have thy love. God 
 knows it is enough." 
 
 " Thank you, Hugh. Don't speak to me for a lit- 
 tle, please." And under the warm August afternoon 
 sky we rode on at a foot-pace, and said no word 
 more until we came to my aunt's door. Then Dar- 
 thea slyly put on her riding-mask, and we went in.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 553 
 
 My aunt had her in her gri-eat arms in a moment. 
 The mask fell, and then my aunt held her off a little, 
 looked from her to me, and said, " Has he made you 
 cry, sweetheart ? He always was a fool. I am very 
 g:lad. You have made an old woman's heart sing 
 with joy. It is not your fault. Hugh's silly faee 
 ■was enough. Lord ! girl, how pretty you are ! Do 
 you suppose I never was in love ? I never was, but 
 I know the signs." Darthea, released, was pleased 
 enough to be let go up to my aunt's room. By and 
 by she came do^vn, saucy and smiling, and later 
 came Ja<?k, when my aunt, being too happy to hold 
 her dear old tongue, told him, while poor Darthea 
 looked at him \Wth a tender gra\dty I did not under- 
 stand. He went away very soon, saj-ing he had busi- 
 ness in to^vn, and this is what he writ that night : 
 
 " And so she will have my Hugh, and he the best 
 lady alive. I pray the good God to keep them from 
 all the sorrows of this world. If he love her as I 
 love her, she can ask no gi-eater love ; and he will — 
 he cannot help it. Now I will write no more. God 
 bless thee, Darthea ! " It was thus a gallant gentle- 
 man loved in tho.se stormy days. 
 
 And here, with this dear name, his records close, 
 and there is the date of August 1, 1782, and a line 
 drawn Tindernoatli. 
 
 The new relation soon to bo established between 
 ns of necessity })rought Madam Peniston and my 
 aunt int^ frequent council. There were matters of 
 dress to be considerately dealt with, and I was told 
 it must be six months before orders could be filled
 
 554 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 from France, England being just now out of the 
 question. Where the mysteries of women's gar- 
 ments are concerned a man hath no better resort 
 than to submit humbh', as to a doctor or a lawyer. 
 Here of a certainty knowledge is power, and as to 
 this matter, a man had best learn to conceal amaze- 
 ment under a show of meekness. 
 
 When I ventured to remonstrate Darthea looked 
 serious, and would I ever have fallen in love with 
 her unless she had laid snares of gown and ribbon, 
 and how was my love to be kept if for the future 
 there were not provided a pretty variety of such 
 vanities ? Even my Aunt Gainor refused to discuss 
 the question. I must wait ; and as this was the sin- 
 gle occasion known to me when she had declined a 
 hand at the game of talk, I began to perceive that 
 ignorance is weakness, and so at last, calmly con- 
 fessing defeat, I waited until those consulting chose 
 to advise me, the patient, of their conclusions. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Peniston had ceased to grieve 
 over the lost lover and the great estate— it never 
 was really great. 
 
 My aunt could not let go of the notion that we 
 must have a fight for Wyncote. This tendency to 
 become possessed by an idea, I came to see later, 
 was a family trait, of value if wisely kept in due 
 place, but capable, also, of giving rise to mischief. 
 My aunt, in some of her talks with Darthea's rela- 
 tive, heard of that good dame's past regrets at the 
 loss of a title and estate and a British lover, and of 
 how flattered we ought to be.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker ^^^ 
 
 I presume poor Madam Peuiston was well and 
 sharply answered; but it was not in my Aunt 
 Gainor not to boast a little of how we were the 
 elder branch, and of what might chance in the fairy 
 future. TMien Mrs. Penistou saw the deed, and was 
 told of the search my aunt was making for letters 
 to support our claims, she was too excited not to let 
 out enough to disturb Darthea, and this although 
 my aimt told Mrs. Penistou of my dislike of the 
 whole matter, and how it was never to be mentioned 
 or known to any imtil more evidence came to light. 
 Thus cautioned, she was just mysterious enough to 
 excite my quick-witted maid, who was as ciu'ious as 
 any of her sex. 
 
 Wlien of course she questioned me, and some 
 notion of the mischief on hand came thus to my 
 knowledge, I saw at once how it might annoy Dar- 
 thea. I said that it merely concerned a question 
 in di.spute between Arthur Wynne's family and my 
 ov^^l, and ought not, I thought, to be discussed just 
 now. The mere name of her former lover was 
 enough to silence her. and so I begged her to put 
 it a.side. She was willing enougli. I had happier 
 things on my own mind, :nid no present desire to 
 stir in the matter. In fact, I -s\'ished most earnestly 
 to keep it awhile from Darthea. How much she 
 knew I could not tell, but I was well aware that she 
 was, above all things, sensitive as to any roferonce to 
 Arthur Wynne. That she had once loved him Anth 
 the honest love of a strong nature I knew, and 
 Bomewhat hated to remember j but this love was
 
 ^^6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 dead, and if the sorry ghost of it haunted her at 
 times, I could not wonder. My aunt had once or 
 twice mentioned him casually, and each time Dar- 
 thea had flushed, and once had asked her never to 
 speak of him again. I meant soon — or more likely 
 later— to discuss the matter quietly with Darthea ; 
 for then, as always, I held to the notion that the 
 wife should have her share in every grave decision 
 affecting the honour and interests of her husband. 
 
 After this I spoke most anxiously of the matter 
 to my aunt, and entreated her to quiet Madam Pen- 
 iston, and to let the thing rest in my hands. This 
 she declared most reasonable, but I knew her too 
 well not to feel uneasy, and indeed the result justi- 
 fied my fears. 
 
 My aunt, as I have said, had gone wild a bit over 
 that deed, and when Darthea was not with her was 
 continually discussing it, and reading over and over 
 Mr. Wilson's opinion. I got very tired of it aU. 
 
 One night, late in October, I rode out from town, 
 and, after a change of dress, went into the front 
 room with the dear thought in my mind of her 
 whom I should see. 
 
 A welcome fire of blazing hickory logs alone lighted 
 up the large room, for my aunt hked thus to sit at 
 or after twilight, and as yet no candles had been set 
 out. As I stood at the door, the leaping flames, 
 flaring up, sent flitting athwart the floor queer 
 shadows of tall-backed ehaii*s and spindle-legged 
 tables. The great form of my Aunt Gainor filled 
 the old Penn chair I had brought from home, liking
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker ^^y 
 
 myself to use it. Just now, as usual, she was sittiug 
 erect, for never did I or any one else see her use for 
 support the back of a chair. At her feet lay Dar- 
 thea, with lier head in the old lady's lap— a pretty 
 picture, I thought. 
 
 Diirthea leaped \i\) to run to nie. My aunt said 
 nothing, not so much as *' Good-evening," but went 
 out, and in a minute or two came back, exclaim- 
 ing, in an excited way, that she had waited all day, 
 and now at last she had great news, and we must 
 hear it. 
 
 I was bewildered, until I saw she had in one hand 
 the deed and in the other a bundle of letters. Then 
 I knew what a distressful business was to be faced, 
 and that it was vain to cry " Stop ! " 
 
 *' Wliat is it ? " said Darthea. 
 
 " It can wait," said I. " I insist, Aunt Gainor." 
 
 " Nonsense ! The girl must know soon or late, 
 and why not now ? " 
 
 " I must hear, Hugh," said Darthea. 
 
 "Verj' well," I returned, as angiy with the old 
 ladv as ever I had been in all niv life. 
 
 "It is a thing to settle," cried Aunt Gainor, in her 
 strong voice. " We must agree— agree on it— all of 
 us." 
 
 " Go on," said I. And Darthea insisting, I said 
 nothing nior<', and was only concerned to be done 
 with it once for alL 
 
 "The war will soon end," said my aunt, "and 
 something must be done. These letters I have come 
 upon put a new face on the matter. I have not yet
 
 558 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 read all of them. But among them are letters to 
 your grandfather of great importance." 
 
 I was vexed as I have rarely been. "I never 
 doubted, Aunt Gainoi-, that in my grandfather's life 
 some acknowledgments may have passed ; but it is 
 the long lapse of time covered by my father's life 
 which will fail as to e\ddence." 
 
 " It shall not ! " she cried. " You shall be mistress 
 of Wyncote, Darthea. These letters—" 
 
 " I ? Wvneote ? " said Darthea. 
 
 '' Let us discuss them alone, aunt," I urged, hoping 
 to get the matter put aside for a time. 
 
 " No ; I will wait no longer. I am deeply con- 
 cerned, and I wish Darthea to hear." 
 
 " Why not refer it to Mr. "Wilson ? Unless these 
 letters cover far more of a century than seems likely, 
 they cannot alter the case." 
 
 " That is to be determined," said the old lady. " I 
 shall go to England and settle it there. You shall 
 be Wynne of Wyncote yet, sir." 
 
 " What ! what ! " cried Darthea. " What does all 
 this mean ? TeU me, Hugh. Why is it kept from 
 me?" It was plain that soon or late she must 
 know. 
 
 " My aunt thinks Wyncote belongs to us. There 
 is an old deed, and my aunt will have it we must go 
 to law over it. It is a doubtful matter, Darthea — 
 as to the right, I mean. I have no wish to stir it up, 
 nor to leave my own land if we were to win it" 
 
 I saw Darthea flush, and in a moment she was at 
 my aunt's side.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 559 
 
 " Stop ! " said I. " Remember, dear, I have not hid 
 it fi'oni you. I desired onlv that some dav vou and 
 I shoidd consider it alone and tranquilly. But now 
 there is no help for it, and you must hear. The 
 deed- " 
 
 '' Is this it ? " she broke in, taking the yellow parch- 
 ment off the table where my aunt had laid it. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said my aunt j " and you must bring 
 Hugh to his senses about it, my dear. It is a great 
 estate, and rich, and the old house— we have its pic- 
 ture, Darthea. IMadam Wynne of Wyncote, I shaU 
 come and visit you." The old lady was flushed, and 
 foolishly eager over tliis vain ambition. 
 
 Darthea stood in the brilliant firelight, her ej'es set 
 on the deed. " I cannot understand it," she said. 
 
 "I will send for candles," cried Mistress Wynne, 
 " and you shall hear it, and the letters too ; " and with 
 this she rang a hand-bell, and bade Ca?sar fetch lights. 
 
 I looked on, distressed and curious. 
 
 " And this," said Darthea, " is the deed, and it may 
 give you, Hugh— give us the lands?" 
 
 " But / do not want it," cried my aunt, gi-eatly 
 excited. " It is to be Hugh's. Yours, my dear child." 
 
 "If," said Darthea, speaking slowly, "the elder 
 brother dies, as he surely will before long, it will be 
 —it will be Arthur Wynne who, on his father's death, 
 will inherit this estate?" 
 
 " That i.s it," said my aunt. " But he shaU never 
 have it. It is ours. It is Hugli's." 
 
 My dear maid turned to me. "And it would be 
 ours, " said Daxthea, " if—"
 
 560 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " Yes," cried Miss "Wynne. " There are no ' if s.' " 
 
 "Do you want it, Hugh— these Welsh lands ?'* 
 asked Darthea. 
 
 I thought she looked anxiously at the deed in her 
 hand as she stood. "Not I, Dai'thea, and least of 
 all now. Not I." 
 
 "No," she went on; "you have taken the man's 
 love from him — I think he did love me, Hugh, in his 
 way— you could not take his estate j now could you, 
 Hugh?" 
 
 "No! "said I; "no!" 
 
 " Darthea, are you mad ? " said Aunt Wynne. 
 
 " I will not have it ! " cried Darthea. " I say I wiU 
 not have it, and it concerns me most, madam." I 
 had never before seen her angry. " Do you love me, 
 Hugh Wynne ? " she cried. " Do you love me, sir ? '* 
 
 " Dai-thea ! " 
 
 " Will you always love me ? " 
 
 " Dear chOd ! " I exclaimed. " What is it ? * 
 
 "Give me that deed," said my aunt. "Are you 
 crazy fools, both of you ? " 
 
 " Fools, Mistress Wynne ? " said Darthea, turning 
 from me, the deed still in her hand. " You are cruel 
 and unkind. Could I marry Hugh Wynne if he did 
 this thing ? Are there no decencies in life, madam, 
 that are above being sold for money and name ? I 
 should never marry him if he did this thing —never ; 
 and I mean to marry him, madam." And with this 
 she unrolled the deed, crumpled it up, and threw it 
 on the red blaze of the fire.
 
 H'.igh WVnne: Free Quaker 561 
 
 There was a fla?h of flame and a roar in the chim- 
 ney. It was gone in a moment, and oiu* Welj^h kinds 
 were so much smoke and eindei*s. 
 
 Mv aimt made a wild rush to rescue them, but 
 struck her head against the cliimney-shelf, and fell 
 back into a chair, crying, " You idiot ! you fool ! You 
 shall never marry him ! " 
 
 I picked up the slim little lady in ray arms, and 
 kissed her over and over, whilst, as she struggled 
 away, I whispered : 
 
 " Thank God ! Dear, brave heart ! It was well 
 done, and I thank you." 
 
 My aunt's rage knew no bounds, and I may not 
 repeat what she said to my Darthea, who stood open- 
 eyed, defiant, and flushed. 
 
 I begged the furious old lady to stop. A whirl- 
 wind were as easily checked. At last, when she could 
 say no more, my dear maid said quietly : 
 
 " \VTiat I liave done, Hugh sliould have done long 
 since. We are to live together, I trust, madam, for 
 many j'ears, and I love you well ; but you have said 
 things to me not ea.sy to forget. I beg to insist that 
 you apologise. For lighter things men kill one an- 
 other. I await, madam, your excuses." 
 
 It was a fine sight to see how this fiery little bit of 
 a woman faced my tall, strong aunt, who towered 
 above her, her large face red with wrath. 
 
 " Never ! " she cried, " I have been— it is I who 
 am insulted and put to shame, in my own house, by 
 a chit of a miss."
 
 562 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 " Then good-by," said Darthea, and was by me and 
 out of the house before I could see what to do or 
 know what to say. 
 
 " She is gone ! " I cried, " Oh, Aunt Gainor, you 
 have broken my heart ! " 
 
 "What did I say, Hugh?" said my aunt. I do 
 truly think she did not know what she had said ; and 
 now she was off and I after her, knocking over Csesar 
 and our belated candies, and out of doors after Dar- 
 thea. I saw her join her a few yards away, and did 
 wisely to hold back. I knew well the child-heart my 
 aunt carried within that spacious bosom. 
 
 What the pah* of them said I do not know. In a 
 few minutes they were back again, both in tears, the 
 whole wretched business at an end. I thought it 
 better to go away and leave them, but my aunt cried 
 out: 
 
 " Wait, sir ! I am an old ass ! If either of you 
 ever mention this thing again, I— I will wring your 
 necks, I make free to say that some day you wiU 
 both regret it ; but it is your affaii' and not mine. 
 Lord ! if Cat Ferguson ever comes to know it — " 
 
 " She never wiU," said Darthea ; " and we will love 
 you and love j'^ou, dear, dear mother, and I am sorr}' 
 I hurt you ; but I had to— I had to. If I was wise, 
 I know not ; but I had to end it— I had to." 
 
 Never before had I heard the sweet woman call my 
 aunt mother. She often did so in after-years. It 
 melted the old spinster, and she fell to kissing her, 
 sapng : 
 
 "Yes, I am your mother, child, and always will
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 563 
 
 be." But ever after I\Iistress Wynne was a trifle 
 afraid t)f my little lady, and there were no more such 
 scenes. 
 
 When my aimt wa*; gone away to bed, tliougli not 
 to sleep, I fear, my dear maid came and sat at my 
 feet on a cushion, and for a time was silent. At last, 
 looking up, she said, " Hugh, was I wrong to biu'u 
 it?" 
 
 Then I was silent a little while, but from the first I 
 was resolved to be ever outright and plain with my 
 lady, who was impulsive, and woidd need help and 
 counsel and goverament, that her character might 
 grow, as it did in after-years. I said : " Yes, Darthea. 
 It is better for me to tell you the simple truth. 
 It would have made no difference had the deed been 
 left undestroyed ; it would only have given 3'ou 
 tlie chance to know me better, and to learn that 110 
 consideration would have nuide me take these lands, 
 even had our title been clear. Now you have de- 
 stroyed my power of choice. I am not angry, not 
 even vexed ; but another time trust me, dear.'' 
 
 "I .'^ee! I see-!" she exclaimed. "What have I 
 done?" And she began to sob. "I was— was 
 wicked not to trust you, and foolish ; and now I see 
 Aunt Gainor had reason to be angry. But you are 
 good and brave to tell me. I coukl not have said 
 what you said ; I should have declared vou were riirlit. 
 And now I know it was weakness, not strength, that 
 made me do it. I shall pray God to forgive me. Kiss 
 me, Hugh; I love you twice as much as ever I did 
 ]>efore."
 
 564 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 
 
 When I had done her sweet biddino^, I said, "Dar- 
 thea, let us forget all this. Wrong or right, I at least 
 am pleased to have the thing at rest forever ; and, 
 wrong or right, I thank you. I was honest, Darthea, 
 when I said so ; and now good-night." At this she 
 looked me in the eyes and went slowly out of the 
 room, and, I fear, had no better slumbers than my 
 Aimt Gainor.
 
 XXXI 
 
 ARLY in February of 1783 we were mar- 
 ried by the Rev. William White, long 
 after to be our good bishop. Christ 
 Church was full of my old friends, my 
 Aunt Guinor in the front pew in a mag- 
 nijaeent costume, and Mrs. Peniston with Jack, very 
 grave of fa<,'e, beside her. As no De Lanceys were 
 to be had in our rebel town, Mr. James Wilson gave 
 away the precious gift of Darthea Peniston. We 
 went in mv aunt's chariot to i\Ierion ; and so ends the 
 long tale of my adventures, which here, in the same 
 old country home, I have found it pleasant to set 
 down for those who will, I trust, live in it when I 
 am dead. 
 
 In April, 1783, peace was proclaimed. In Novem- 
 ber of that year I heard from Colonel Hamilton that 
 our beloved general would, on December 4, take leave 
 of his officers, and that lie was kind enough to desire 
 that all of his old staff wlio wished should be present. 
 I was most ])1 eased to go. 
 
 In New York, at Fraunce's Tavern, near White- 
 hall Ferry, I found the room full of the men who 
 had humbled the pride of England and brought our 
 
 5^5
 
 566 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 
 
 great war to a close. His Excellency entered at 
 noon, and seeing about him these many companions 
 in arms, was for a little so agitated that he could 
 not speak. Then with a solemn and kindly expres- 
 sion of face, such as I had once befpre seen him wear, 
 he filled a glass with wine, and, seeming to steady 
 himself, said: 
 
 "With a heart full of love and gratitude, I take 
 my leave of you, most devoutly wishing that your 
 latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your 
 former ones have been glorious and honourable." 
 
 So saying, he drank his wine, and one after an- 
 other went by him shaking his hand. No word was 
 said, and these worn veterans of the winter camps 
 and the summer battle-fields moved out, and saw 
 their former general pass down, between lines of in- 
 fantry, to the shore. There he got into a barge. As 
 he was rowed away he stood up and lifted his hat. 
 All of us uncovered, and remained thus till he passed 
 from sight, to be seen no more by many of those who 
 gazed sadly after his retreating form. 
 
 There is an old book my grandchildren love to 
 hear me read to them. It is the " Morte d' Arthur," 
 done into English by Sir Thomas Malory. Often 
 when I read therein of how Ai'thur the king bade 
 farewell to the world and to the last of the great 
 company of his Knights of the Round Table, this 
 scene at Whitehall slip comes back to me, and I seem 
 to see once more those gallant soldiers, and far away 
 the tall figure of surely the knightliest gentleman 
 our days have known.
 
 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 567 
 
 My years go on in peace. We have enough— far 
 more than enough — for jill tlie wants and even for 
 the hixuries of life. It is late in the night, an<l 
 Christnuis-time, in the great stone house at Merion. 
 The noise of little ones— and thev are manv— has 
 ceased. I heai' steps and laughter in the hall. The 
 elder ones troop in to say good-night. There are 
 Darthea and Gainor, mothers of the noisy brigade 
 now in bed, and here is Hugh, the youngest, and 
 Jack, with the big build of his race. And soon all 
 are gone, and the house quiet. 
 
 I looked up where, under my dear Jack Warder's 
 face, which Stuart did for me, hangs Kn\q"»hausen's 
 long blade, and across it Jack's sword. Below, my 
 eye lights on the Hessian pistols, and the sword-knot 
 the gallant mai*qnis gave me. 
 
 I watch the crumbling fire and seem to see once 
 more the fierce stiiiggle in the market-place, the 
 wild fight on the redoubt, and my cousin's dark face. 
 The years have gone by, and for me and mine there 
 is peace and love, and naught a man in years may 
 not think upon with J03'. 
 
 Suddenly two hands from l)ehind are over my 
 eyes ; ah, well I know their tender touch I Says a 
 dear voice I hope to hear till life is over- and after 
 that, I trust— "Wliat are you thinking of, Hugh 
 Wynne ? ** 
 
 " Of how sweet you have made my life to me, my 
 darling.'' 
 
 " Thank God ! » 
 
 THE END.
 
 mil II III II II I II 1 1 II Mil 
 
 AA 000 282 242 / 
 
 CENTRAL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 University of California, San Diego 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 SEP 17 1973 
 
 
 SEP 1 3 RECq 
 
 
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 UCSD Libr.