CHAPTER XXI

AROUND THE TAVERN'S FLAMING GRATE

Around the tavern's flaming grate, The rafting done and the hour late, The raftsmen sit and laugh and sing, Or 'bove the conversation's din, Keep time with feet to violin, On which the lively strains are played, Of Devil's Dream or White Cockade.

"Right--Right--t!--Halt! Left--Left! Halt!"

Loud and clear rang out the voice of the raft pilot, so loud and prolonged that even the roar of rushing waters and the wild lashing of wind among the tree laden banks were not able to overcome the stentorian commands.

It was a rough night in the wilds of western Pennsylvania. The rain had descended steadily for three days, and now the Lycamahoning had arisen from its ordinary rippling tranquillity into a boisterous, turbulent onrushing tide. Raftsmen had been constantly busy throughout the winter, felling the gigantic pines and firs, squaring them with their great broad axes, and then with the aid of hickory saplings and pins and bows of the same tough material, lashing them securely one against the other, rafting them in for the cruise down the river to the Ohio. The first flood had come, and so violent was its nature that many a hardy raftsman had added additional bulyokes and hawsers to his rafts, fearing the loss of his winter's labour. The night had set in stormy and dark. The clouds that had covered the face of the heavens for the greater part of the week had grown in intensity, and had been belching down their floods with renewed violence. The wind had arisen, softly at first, and then augmenting into a small tornado, charging through the acres of treetops that added additional sombreness to the murky night, until beaten to madness with the invisible storm weapons and stung with the drenching rain, tree fought with tree, lashing themselves with their wooden arms into an agony of conflict.

"Who in the name of common sense can be running timber on a night like this? He is either a madman or an imbecile," so thought rather than said a horseman who had paused on the road to listen to the shouts. He placed his hand up over his brows, shielding his view from the drenching rain, and stared, from his elevation, out over the roaring stream. There was a flash of lightning, illuminating the yellow foam-flecked flood and out in the centre a raft, long and heavy, yet tossed like a feather on the rolling flood waves. There were two figures at the great rear oar, one of whom was the pilot, one figure in the centre with a coil of rope in his grasp, and at the front oar-running backward and forward, leaping on the great oar handle to jerk its cumbersome blade from the stream, running it back to the opposite side, plunging it in the flood once more, and with handle overhead pushing with might and main,--were six figures, seeming in the distance like the dancing forms of a puppet show, whose various motions were controlled by the dark form of the pilot in the rear. The flash of lightning passed away in a roll of thunder, and all was wrapped in darkness again.

"Left! Left!"

"Halt!"

"Left! Left!"

The raft was rounding a curve in the stream.

"Left! Left! Push! Push, with a will. More backbone to it, boys! Once more and a glass of toddy at Burke's for each man! Left! Left! Now then! Heave to it! With all your might! Halt! Don't let it pull you off! Hold on to her!" bawled the raft pilot.

"Again! Left! Left!"

"Halt!"

"Now then, Tom! Jump for it!"

"Run out the rope!"

"Snub! Snub!"

"There, ease up, Tom! Take the next tree!"

"All right," bawled a voice from the shore.

And slowly the great raft, a hundred and twenty feet long and forty wide, swung in from the flood after two trials had been made to break the speed. Closer and closer to the bank, away from the force of the current, until alongside she was safely secured with a double hawser, a prisoner under the guardianship and control of two massive oaks. The immense oars were swung clear of the water and their handles lashed to the centre-pieces. Up over the creek bank, stumbling through thick underbrush and over fallen trees, came the hardy crew and at length gained the turnpike. The weather in the meantime had grown colder and the rain changed to falling snow. The wind had fallen in its violence. Onward stumbled the crew, then at length up a slight elevation, through a covered bridge, and the lights, twinkling through many small windows, flashed before their eyes. It was the town of Burgtown, famed for its two rows of log houses, each having an upper story, and doubly famed for its renowned hotel of sawn timber and its hospitable but talkative host; famed also for the scholarship and mystery surrounding its founder. Scholarship and mystery! Yes, scholarship, for no one could withstand the logic of the Reverend Mr. Burg, and his tall, dark form, his deep eyes with their unfathomable look, was enough to awe even the stoutest. Mysteriousness? Yes, mysteriousness, for he had come in the night and had gone in the night. He was like Melchizedek in one respect, no one knew his father or his mother, no one knew his birthplace, and no one knew his end. There was a story rife among some of the town people that he had been guilty of some unministerial conduct in the neighbourhood of Standing Stone, thought it best for him to put the Alleghenies between himself and his old location, and had accordingly travelled with more speed than elegance to the Lycamahoning, where with the aid of a ploughline he had plotted and laid out the town. He was gone before the settlers that poured in became fully acquainted with him. Two years had elapsed since then and people remembered little of him with the exception of Peter Burke, the tavern keeper, and it seemed that Burke's knowledge increased with the years, and Burg became in the annals of his mind a demigod, a sort of modern Romulus, whose figure and deeds became larger and mightier as they reached into the dimness of the past.

The raft pilot, followed by his men, entered the door of Burke's place. The roaring fire of logs in the great stone chimney was most welcome to them after their night of toil. They made a picturesque group as they stood stamping the mud and snow from their long-legged logging shoes and brushing the great, soft flakes from caps and homespun wamuses. The majority of the eight were stout, ordinary-looking young men, with something of the air of the woods in their manner and appearance. The pilot was an exception. He was of medium height and stoutly built, with an intelligent face, lighted up with keen, sharp, grey eyes, that flashed in merriment in repartee, and that were even cunning and penetrating at times. He was the American product of the "canny" Scotchman, a Scotch American.

Along one side of the public room ran the rude bar counter with a few homely bottles and jugs, and near them, his rounded form a living advertisement for his wares, one eye smiling a welcome, the other, which was squint and cross-eyed, gazing unwinkingly, blankly, out of the window as if trying to penetrate the darkness, was the form of the tavern keeper.

"Supper for eight?" asked the tavern keeper.

"Aye, ye ken that," answered the raft pilot.

Peter Burke, with a rolling motion, tumbled off to a rear door which he swung wide.

"Supper for eight rafters," he bawled.

"Arright," squeaked a distant, feminine voice.

"Hallo, Hugh," said a deep voice from a corner near the flaming fireplace.

"Hallo yerself," said the pilot.

"What led you to pilot on a night like this, when the creek is getting higher and higher. I thought a raftsman ought to know that the proper time to raft is when the flood is falling, not rising."

"Not always," said the pilot, and then added, "Is that you, Bill?"

"Yes, it's I, sure enough."

"Well, you're school-master and I'm raft pilot; every man to his own calling, and I suppose every man ought to know best what to do in his own calling; yet you'd criticise me for running timber on a rising flood."

"There are little things in all trades that most everyone ought to know. I was riding to the Burg when I heard your shouts on the raft and I wondered what ill-witted fellow was running on a rising flood on a night like this."

"Don't think it science, eh?" a little nettled to be called ill-witted.

"No. Every one ought to know that when the stream is rising it is higher in the centre than it is on the sides and when falling higher on the sides than in the centre. Hence by due process of ratiocination,"--the school-master paused to give the large, scholarly word due emphasis--"you must run on a falling flood."

"That's what 'tiz to be a scholard," muttered the tavern keeper, admiringly.

"Aye, science and scholard," snorted Hugh Lark, the pilot; "and I suppose if you had a raft on a sand bar, you'd wait for a falling flood and jack it off with a hoisting jack, eh?"

There was a roar of laughter from the crowd of raftsmen, and Hugh smiled, his good humour once more restored.

"Oh, in that case it's different, but that's a single exception," said Professor Bill, in some humiliation.

"No single exception. Suppose ye had a raft tied up above the island or down under the hill, would ye run on a rising or wait for a falling flood?"

"I would most assuredly wait for a falling flood, and--"

The school-master was interrupted by a chuckle from Hugh, and broad grins from his assembled men.

"I've no doubt that ye would, but you'd find your raft a-scattered all the way twixt here and Pittsburgh. Why, mon, there's ne'er a hawser made that can hold a raft in those positions in a rising flood. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"

Professor Bill Banks, or Professor Bill, as he was commonly known, was silenced. The last remark and the quotation from Shakespeare had put him to rout. He flushed and kept his eyes on the fire. The raftsmen were delighted. There was nothing they enjoyed so much as a tiff between Bill and their pilot. Professor Bill was the most learned man of the neighbourhood. Since the exodus of the Reverend Burg he had held the pre-eminence. He was the leader, and there was none to dispute with him with any fair show of success except Hugh, the pilot. Hugh had invariably come off second; here he had achieved first honours. Hugh was well read in a number of subjects, but his knowledge was only such as he could find by perusing history, in which indeed he was a fair scholar, and the topics of the day.

"Was stuck, Hugh?" asked the tavern keeper, with some new measure of respect.

"Aye, yesterday the creek was full of floating timber and we stuck on a sand bar. There were no rafts behind to shove us off and we had to wait for a greater flood. We wouldn't have stuck if Tom, there, hadn't lost his head."

Tom, a great hulking fellow, looked a trifle sheepish.

"You see," continued Hugh Lark, "I was up at the crosscut and in making the bend, I was just gitting the raft pinted when he was afraid we'd strike and tear up. He bellowed like a bull, 'We'll strike, we'll tear up, some un run out a rope and tie up.'"

"It war pretty nigh striking, though," muttered Tom, in some apology.

"Nonsense! Why, there were fully fifteen feet of water on either side. How could we strike or even run out and tie up when we had nothing to run on but water? The rain had stopped for an hour or two and we were getting on fine. The flood was a-carrying us on with a good speed. The banks were slipping by as if they were running the other way. The front men were dipping occasionally, but they hung on to the oar. Then come the bend. I could see it a hundred yards before we come to it, the water a-swirling and a-twisting like a yallow ribbon and then disappearing from sight behind the trees. 'Left, men, left,' I shouted. Then Tom lost his head. He let go the oar, and the oar being too much for the other chaps, and being afeared of being yanked into the flood they let go too, and the next minute came the thud of grounding. I saw that it was a-coming and braced myself, hanging on to the oar. But the fellows in front, how they tumbled! They were around Tom in the centre, a-galleyhooting and shouting. I never had such a crew of numbskulls. When the grounding came they tumbled over each other like nine-pins."

Supper was announced and the hungry raftsmen wended their way to the eating department, a plain long room, ceiled with pine, and adorned with sundry prints of "Babes in The Wood," and "Red Riding Hood." The table was a heavy wooden affair, evidently the result of home labour; the provisions with which it was plentifully laden were of the class found in every woodsman's home, viz., pork, beans, corn bread, burr-wheat bread, and home-made syrup.

A split log, the level side up, the rounded side down, into which were inserted several hickory legs, served in lieu of chairs, and seated upon this, the hungry raftsmen fell to with a will.

Meantime the public room was occupied by the tavern keeper and Professor Bill Banks. Professor Bill was apparently thirty years of age. He had a high forehead, blue eyes, a mass of dark hair overhanging his ears, and a prominent Roman nose. The nose seemed to give great strength to his features, as also did his chin. He was clad in the customary tail coat, tight pantaloons with straps, neckerchief, and over all towered his tall "nail keg" silk hat. Professor Bill was attired for a special occasion. He was going to visit, ostensibly, the father of a certain rustic damsel, and had stepped in for his mail. The talk with the pilot nettled him, for in an argument he liked to show his superiority, as he was the recognised great man of letters in the place. The talk was not the only thing that disturbed and ruffled his feelings. His horse had inadvertently stepped into a washout on the road, and had fallen so lame that it was utterly impossible for him to proceed.

"Hear of Big Paddy's accident?" asked the tavern keeper, wishing to promote a better feeling.

"No," curtly said Bill.

"Ha! Ha! He!" cackled the tavern keeper, "it war amusin'."

"Come, cease those asinine cachinations and explain," said Bill, with some irritation.

"Yer a great scholard, Bill," said the tavern keeper, in some admiration at this flow of erudite language, "but when ye'd speak highly of me, I'd wish ye could use plainer words. Well, big Paddy and his uns are a-building a new church in the burgh, and they were all a-drinking of rye to make the work go lively. Big Paddy would always do the heaviest work. At last there war the heavy corner stone to lift off the wagon, and none could roll her down. Paddy were nigh full when the stone come. Ha! Ha! He!" and the tavern keeper went off into another cackle of laughter, his cross-eye blinking with tears of merriment, and his protuberant stomach laughing in sympathy. "Ha! Ha! He!" and he went off into another cackle that threatened to strangle him.

"If it's your whiskey that made him ridiculous, I do not wonder, for its the most catholicon panacea for the diminution of intelligence and propagating of blatant puerility and asinine imbecility extant. Witness yourself for an example." Bill was becoming sarcastic.

"So 'tiz, so 'tiz," said the tavern keeper, highly pleased. "I say, Professor, what a high larnt person ye are; now--do ye,--do ye think ye could write that daoun?"

"Why?"

"I could git it printed on a sign and it 'ould look grand-like. I'd be much 'bleeged to ye, Bill," said Burke, earnestly.

Professor Bill smiled good humouredly, and asked, "Well, about Paddy?"

"Oh, he looked at 'em all a-tugging at the stone, for it war a whopper, and then he ups and says, 'Let be, now, let the auld man have a chance,' and with that he grabbed a-hold of it. He pulled it off, but it war too much for him, and it come down kerflop on his foot. There war an uproar and the big paddies and little ones come a-running up and screaming and shouting: 'And are ye hurted now, Daddy? And--and--and are ye hoorted now, Pappy? And are ye hoorted now, grand-daddy?' Big Paddy war mad. 'Tare and hounds,' said he, 'trow a stun like that on a man's fut and ask if he war hoorted, ye spalpeens.'"

The tavern keeper went off into another cackle of laughter, and the school-master feebly joined in.

The rafting crew now returned from the supper-room and gathered around the flaming open fireplace. Rafting stories followed each other in rapid succession, Hugh Lark seeming to have the greatest fund. Clay and corncob pipes were brought out from various pockets and soon wreaths of smoke began to dim the atmosphere.

"Hear of old Jim Handy's trip?" asked one after Hugh had told a rather exciting story.

"No," said Hugh.

"Let's hear it," said the others.

"Jim had ne'er been on the water and thought it would be a nice thing for him to go on a trial trip. He had allers said that the land war good enough fer him, and that he would ne'er trust himself to nawthing but solid land. Some of the boys up on the Big Lycamahoning, that were cutting timber fer him, up and began talking of the funny times they had down at the mouth, the dancing and the parties. And then they begun to talk of the ride down, just as easy as riding a good hoss. The old man had a powerful set of rafts to run, and he saw one after another go down the stream and the fellows cherry and 'parently enjying the ride. They got him so worked up over the ride, and the good times they had, that he decided to go, too, on the last raft. They told him that all he would have to do would be to stand in the centre and perhaps they could make a chair fer him to set on. The old man war tickled with the idea. On the river they told him they could put up a regular shanty on the raft and it would be like travelling in a coach, and then he would have a chance to see Pittsburgh. The old man had never seen Pittsburgh and it war the capping argument. Then some fool fellow told him of the dams and the going under the water five or six feet when the raft would plunge over the shoots. The fellows told him that they could fix that all right. They would make a high wooden horse fer him to sit on when they would take the shoots. That fixed him. Last week the raft war ready to make the trip. They had a slanting pole fixed in the centre, and a seat up at the top where the old man could sit in the dry when the raft would plunge under. It went all right till they come to the big dam. Then as they war making fer the shoot and were fairly in it, all the fellows at the front oar dropped it and run up the pole after the old man. The old man hollered to them that they would break it down, but they didn't keer. Up they went, and just as they were plunging under, the pole broke, and down tumbled the old man with all the others. The raft war oak and sunk dead, like lead. It went to the very bottom and then rose again. The old man hung on and so did the others, but he was mad, a-cussing and swearing and spitting water like a water dog. It war a sight to see."

The fellow burst into a laugh that was echoed by the others.

"If he had been a-riding that sixty-foot stick that you rode, Hugh, he would been scared worse, eh," said one of the rafters.

"Tell us the story, Hugh," said others.

"It were not much," said Hugh. "A sixty-foot stringer war torn off by one of the rocks in the Rough Water. I thought we ought not to lose it, and so gave the rear oar into the hands of my assistant and jumped for it. I landed clear in the centre of the stick as it slipped behind me. The raft was going faster than the stick. How do ye account for that, Bill?" asked Hugh, pausing in his narrative.

"Very easy," said Bill. "The timber stick did not give so much surface for the force of the current as the raft. Hence the raft went the faster of the two. But the stick?" inquired Bill, who was also interested.

"Well, I landed as I said in the centre of the stick, then slipped down on my hands and knees, and began to guide it. Sometimes it would roll and I would have to roll with her to keep on top. Then I had to watch lest I should get jammed against the rocks. I jumped off several times to avoid being squeezed, and swum back again. Once I got atween the stick and the rocks and she was a-coming for me. I dived under it, come up on the other side, and that's what saved me from certain death. I couldn't catch up to the raft and so I rode the stick all the way to the river, where the raft was awaiting for me. That was all there was to it. It was an exciting time, though."

There were murmurs of admiration from the assembled raftsmen and then more tales followed. Rafts torn up in the rough water, raftsmen drowned though expert swimmers, deeds of rescue, and things of a similar nature followed in rapid succession. The home distilled liquor was used sparingly, and finally the fiddle was brought forth and music enlivened the public room. White Cockade, Devil's Dream and others followed, the raftsmen keeping time with their heavy boots and sometimes by dancing. One of the younger raftsmen executed a woodman's fling in a creditable manner, encouraged by the handclapping of the others and the occasional shouting in tune with the melody "Heigh ho--de-do, de-do, de-do, de-do!"

In the midst of the revel the door was opened and two strangers entered. They had evidently been riding far, for their garments showed the trace of hard travel. The one who appeared to be the spokesman was tall, well proportioned, with a tangled mass of auburn hair, more tangled by the pelting storm without, and a beard trimmed in the Vandyke style and of the same hue as his hair. The other was a giant in size, standing fully six feet six inches, and broad in proportion. He had the dark hair and features of the Celt.

The tavern keeper was all hospitality. Room was made for them around the flaming fire log and their clothes, damp with the storm, were soon drying. There was a lull in the conversation of the raftsmen, the fiddle had been consigned to its place o'er the chimney piece.

"Can we get supper?" asked the one with the red beard.

The tavern keeper nodded and added, "Certain, and a good one at that," and going to the rear door he bawled to the cook, "Supper fer two gents."

"Arright," squeaked the distant, feminine voice.

"Our horses must be fed and stabled also," said the same gentleman. The tavern keeper gave the necessary directions to a tow-headed boy, who disappeared into the outer darkness.

"And 'ere," thundered the larger of the two strangers, as he opened the door after the boy, "see that you rub the horses down well and give them a good bed, and a warm mash."

The giant returned to the fire and stood before its pleasing blaze.

"You uns kin sign yer names when ye git warm." It was the tavern keeper that spoke, and the travellers, taking the hint, moved over to the soiled record book and added their names to the few already inscribed there. Peter Burke, tavern keeper, scrutinised the names carefully with his good eye, while the other seemed to be studying the appearance of the strangers. One of the raftsmen leaned over to Hugh and whispered in his ear that to be cross-eyed was a wonderful talent for the tavern keeper; he could read the names on his book and size up the people at one and the same time.

"You uns travelling fer?" asked one of the raftsmen.

"No, sir," laconically responded the red-headed one.

"Come from Kittanning?" said another.

"Yes, sir."

"How's election news down there, and what's opinion on John Quincy Adams?"

"Adams seems to be very popular, and Jackson has a good following."

"Adams will carry the day, no doubt," said the pilot.

"He'll not can do that," muttered some one in dissent. Whereupon there followed a small debate on the merits of the two candidates for Presidential position.

"Up here 'lectioneering?" inquired a third, turning to the strangers again.

"I calculate you are from the west, stranger," said Hugh Lark.

"You've struck it partly," laughingly said the red-headed stranger, and then apparently tired of answering questions, added, "We're here from Louisiana and are here prospecting."

Curiosity, instead of being appeased, was instantly aroused. A sharp look flashed into Hugh's eye as he scrutinised them.

"Wall," said the tavern keeper, "I allers said thar war something in these hills. What ye think 'tiz, stranger, gold?"

"No, we're prospecting for character."

"Karakter," said the tavern keeper, musingly, "I ne'er hearn tell of that metal afore."

"Don't think there's much about here?" asked the red-headed stranger, with just the shadow of a smile.

"Not as I knows of," and the tavern keeper rubbed his head in doubt.

Professor Bill snorted in disgust.

"Look here, stranger, we have more character, good sterling character, in this section than our dotard friend informed you of."

Peter Burke, tavern keeper, looked pleased at this compliment. To be called a friend of Professor Bill's and a friend, too, with that "high larndt word ahead of it!" If Professor Bill was a drinking man he would have set up a glass to Bill then and there free.

"Character, sir!" continued Bill. "We sent forth the most stalwart characters during the Revolution, though not from this immediate neighbourhood, yet from Western Pennsylvania--Captain Brady, the Indian fighter, and scores of others. Hugh Lark, there, can tell you of his father, Captain Ande Lark, the sharpshooter, who performed prodigies of valour in many a hard fought field."

"Aye," said Hugh, "'tiz all true."

"And didn't they hold the Britishers down at Concord and Lexington, Yorktown and Stony Point?" continued Bill.

"Aye, all ken they did that," said Hugh.

"And what was it for?" said Bill, getting oratorical. "The tyrant oppressed us; taxed us without representation; quartered soldiers on us in times of peace, and seized the patriots' powder and ball. Then, sir, the American eagle screamed in wrath and the noble characters, Washington, Putnam, Morgan, Green, Brady, Lark, and hundreds of others went forth to war, to battle valiantly for the cause of freedom and shed their blood for the rights of man. Even in the humbler walks of life sterling character was demonstrated. The ploughboy, the woodsman, the tradesman, the farmer, all left their habitations, and with their old flint-locks over their shoulders sped to the defence of their nation's life and honour. This country was won by the stout courage of the colonial fathers, and their stout-hearted sons to-day have within their breasts the same doughty heroism that dominated the republic in that day. Yes, but a few years ago, the War of 1812 made lucid that fact. Lundy's Lane, Fort Meigs, Thames River,--who has forgotten them? Character! The country is full of it, sir."

"So 'tiz, so 'tiz," interjected the tavern keeper; "Professor Bill's high larndt and orter know."

"And," said Bill, "should the tocsin of war sound once more, the temple of Janus be closed, and strife with bloody claws sweep like a dragon over the land, should even all Europe band together against us, send their fleets to harass our waters, their hirelings to devast our land, they would find how patriots could contend for the heritage of their ancestors, how they could battle against the iron heel of oppression, and victory again would ultimately crown the American arms. All, because of her brave characters."

"Thas so; Bill's a scholard and orter know," said the tavern keeper, nodding sagely.

"Patrick Henry was not the only one who said 'give me liberty or give me death.' The spirit of heroism is in the hearts of the American citizens. They breathe it in the very air. Mountains, trees, birds, and even the very beasts of the wild, proclaim alike the freeman's land. None can wrest it from us while there is a God and while Americans are true to themselves."

Professor Bill sat down amidst a round of applause from the admiring raftsmen, while the tavern keeper rubbed his hands in the keenest of pleasure.

"Bill," said one of the raftsmen, "ye'll hev to git that speech down fer the Fourth o' Jerly. That's the best speech we uns heard since the Senator talked in Indiana."

"So 'tiz," said the tavern keeper. "Bill's a scholard. I say, Bill, could yer write that daoun?"

"What's that?" inquired Bill.

"Why, about the eagle a-hollering like mad fer liberty and so on. Ye see, we uns are gitting a new brand of stuff with an eagle on it and it would look grand like to hev them words on, too."

"Aye, perhaps," said Bill with a smile, "but I wonder how they teach those events over in England. They must ignore them. Say, stranger, how do they teach in Louisiana those salient points of our national history?"

"What a scholard!" murmured the tavern keeper as he passed a drink to a newcomer.

"Concerning the salient points of American history," responded the red-bearded stranger, "they teach about the same as in this section, I surmise,--that is, local events are dwelt upon unduly and there is a tendency to glorify the victories and mitigate the defeats. The school children, there, know more about Jackson and the Battle of New Orleans than about Ross or Fort Meigs. In England the same thing obtains. Local events are prominent and the glorious things are magnified, while the dark, unhappy events are passed lightly over."

"Yes, so I thought. Now in this country, though, there is a tendency to do those things, yet national and international questions are fairly represented," said Bill.

The stranger shook his head in dissent.

"The very same thing is as prevalent in America as in England. The bright things are haloed and the dark obscured. The schoolboy gets but one side of the question at issue. History ought to be taught for the sake of truth and not for the sake of generating patriotism. Take the American Revolution. Children, here, are taught that England was a hateful tyrant, taxing us unreasonably, simply for the pleasure of showing the strong hand, and wantonly aggressive in destroying the patriots' powder and ball. Yorktown, Stony Point, and Saratoga are dwelt on. What American does not know those battles by heart and how feebly impressed on the American mind are the occupations of Boston, New York, Philadelphia, the Battle of Brandy-wine, the Long Island defeats, and the disasters in the South? Now a fair way would be to emphasise both sides of the war, the battles, and the causes. Causes are given in many American histories of the war, but they are American causes; the English are not mentioned. Would it not be foolish to war without a cause?"

"Well, what causes did Britain have for the war and her oppression?" said Bill, sharply.

"Many," said the red-bearded stranger, sharply. "Taxation, for instance, is not wrong in itself. The government of a country is supported by taxes. Britain sent quite a few armies to this country in the time of the French and Indian war to protect the colonies. Could the colonies, notwithstanding the bravery of her few colonial troops, have withstood the armies of France, Montcalm and the others, without aid? Hence the armies of Braddock, Amherst, Wolf and others. The home government was burdened with a debt that had been greatly for the protection and augmentation of the American colonies. Indeed, had that war not been; had Wolf not taken Quebec, the glorious United States would be only a narrow strip of country along the Atlantic seaboard. Even this part and other parts west of the Alleghenies would be French soil, and you would all be French citizens."

"The stranger must be a scholard, too," muttered the tavern keeper.

"And," continued the stranger warming up, "England, therefore, incurred a great debt and insured to America the territory to the Mississippi and even beyond partly. What benefit was this to the English citizen? Had he a right to pay it all? Ought not America a right to bear a part of the burden?"

"True," said Bill, thoughtfully, "but how about non-representation? Was it right to tax us without our consent?"

"Easily explained," resumed the stranger. "England herself did not have representation. Many parts, great cities, Manchester, Sheffield, and others had none. The House of Commons did not represent England. Was representation to be given to the colonies when it was denied to England herself?"

"Very true," said Bill, uneasily, "but what about oppressive taxes?"

"Not much oppression. Americans admitted themselves that it was not the weight of the taxes, which were small, but the principle of the thing. The chief taxes were stamp and tea taxes and taxes of a similar nature. The burden was laid on the rich, mostly. The labouring man had little occasion for stamped paper. In reference to tea, tea was a luxury and not a necessity at that time. Is there much oppression in that? And about the seizing of powder and ball of the patriots, that's nothing more than the United States would do should the State of Pennsylvania gather up powder and ball to be used against the national government."

"Well, why did the American nation arise en masse in revolt, if they were not overly oppressed," persisted Bill.

"The American people did not arise en masse," responded the stranger. "There were thousands of citizens, wealthy and influential, on the King's side, until toward the middle of the war. Would it have been so easy for the British to take Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Charleston, if they were wholly in favour of Washington and the war? No. They would have burned their cities like the Russians did Moscow. Both sides ought to be taught in the study of history and a better grasp of truth would result. About non-representation, that was wrong and the Americans were partly justified in struggling against it. The English people are struggling for the same thing, to-day. They have no real representation, but will get it soon. It is much better, however, to win representation and liberty by peaceful means than by war."

There was silence for a moment, and then Professor Bill responded.

"Those are new ideas to me, and you have opened up a new channel of thought; but at least you will admit that our histories are substantially correct and fair in reference to the late war, the War of 1812. What right had England to prey upon our commerce and impress our seamen even though they were formerly Englishmen?"

"The preying upon commerce was piracy upon the part of England----"

"Good and well said," affirmed Professor Bill.

"The impressment of American seamen--Americans must handle the subject carefully or----"

"Or what?"

"They'll be trampling on their own laws and government. England claimed once an Englishman always an Englishman, naturalisation notwithstanding. American law, that is based on English to a great extent, is somewhat the same. A citizen of the United States cannot throw off his allegiance and unite with another nation without the consent of the United States. Witness the case of Murray and the _Charming Betsey_ in 1804, before the Supreme Court. In the case of Isaac Williams before the Circuit Court of the United States for the District of Connecticut, in 1797, it was decided that no member could dissolve the compact of citizenship except by consent of the United States, and there had been no consent on the part of the United States. These cases were of Americans who attempted to become citizens of the newly formed republics of South America. And yet we say England was wrong in taking American citizens, who had been formerly Englishmen, and had become naturalised Americans contrary to England's will. There is an apparent inconsistency in the matter, visible even to the dullest mind."

Professor Bill was silent and apparently in deep thought.

"You have travelled some," said Hugh Lark.

"Yes," said the red-bearded stranger. "My friend here and myself, during the last eight years have been travellers. We have been in Brazil and other American countries. That is why I remember the cases of the _Charming Betsey_ and Williams. The decision of the United States in those cases still rankles in the hearts of the people of the southern continent."

The raftsmen and school-master were eager for tales of adventure and strange countries, when the supper bell rang, and the two gentlemen disappeared into the long dining-room. After supper they retired, being thoroughly tired with the travel of the day.

"Who air those fellows?" asked one of the raftsmen.

The question was voiced by all in the public room.

The tavern keeper, obsequiously handed the record book to Bill, who read out for the benefit of all the following:

"Andrew Trembath, Esq., New Orleans."

"Richard Thomas, New Orleans."

"The one must be a lawyer," said Professor Bill, with a good bit of respect in his tones.

"Did you notice the silent one? What a giant in size he is? He'd make an oar fly, I'll wager, eh, Hugh?" said one of the raftsmen.

"Aye," said Hugh, meditatively.

"The one fellow is a Cornishman," said Bill.

"Whas that, Bill?" said the tavern keeper.

"A native of the southwest of England, a section noted for its minerals and seamen."

"How do ye ken that, Bill?" asked Hugh Lark.

"Because," said Bill,

"By Tre, Tri, and Pen, Ye may know the Cornishmen."