Chapter 1

Produced by Annie McGuire

* * * * *

VOL. I.--NO. 16. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR CENTS.

Tuesday, February 17, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

* * * * *

GENERAL PRESCOTT AND THE YANKEE BOY.

BY BENSON J. LOSSING.

General Prescott, commanding the British forces on Rhode Island in 1777, was a petty tyrant, imperious, irascible, and cruel. He would command citizens of Newport who met him on the streets to take off their hats in deference to him, and if not obeyed, he would knock them off with his cane. If he saw a group of citizens talking together, he would shake his cane at them, and shout, "Disperse, you rebels!" For slight offenses citizens were imprisoned and otherwise ill-treated. This unworthy conduct made the people despise and hate him. His tyranny became unbearable.

Prescott's summer quarters were at Mr. Overing's house, on the borders of Narragansett Bay, a few miles from Newport. On a warm but showery night in July, 1777, Lieutenant-Colonel Barton, with a few resolute men, went down the bay from Providence, in a whale-boat, landed near Prescott's quarters at about midnight, secured the sentinels, entered the house, and ascended to the door of his bedroom in the second story. It was locked. A stout colored man who accompanied Barton, making a battering-ram of his head, burst open the door. The General, in affright, sprang from his bed, but was instantly seized, and without being allowed to dress himself, was conveyed to the boat, and taken quickly across the bay to Warwick. Thence he was sent, under guard, to Washington's head-quarters in New Jersey.

In the spring of 1778 Prescott was exchanged for General Charles Lee, and returned to Rhode Island. Soon afterward the British Admiral invited the General to dine with him and his officers on board his ship, then lying in front of Newport. Martial law yet prevailed on the Island, and men and boys were frequently sent by the authorities on shore to be confined in the ship as a punishment for slight offenses. There were several on board at that time.

After dinner the free use of wine made the company hilarious, and toasts and songs were frequently called for. A lieutenant remarked to the Admiral, "There is a Yankee lad confined below who can shame any of us in singing."

"Bring him up," said the Admiral.

"Yes, bring him up," said Prescott.

The boy was brought into the cabin. He was pale and slender, and about thirteen years of age. Abashed by the presence of great officers, with their glittering uniforms, he timidly approached, when the Admiral, seeing his embarrassment, spoke kindly to him, and asked him to sing a song.

"I can't sing any but Yankee songs," said the trembling boy.

"Come, my little fellow, don't be afraid," said the Admiral. "Sing one of your Yankee songs--any one you can recollect."

The boy still hesitated, when the brutal Prescott, who was a stranger to the lad, roared out,

"Give us a song, you little rebel, or I'll give you a dozen lashes."

This cruel salutation was innocently met most severely by the child, when, encouraged by kind words from the Admiral, he sang, with a sweet voice and modest manner, the following ballad, composed by a sailor of Newport:

"Twas on a dark and stormy night-- The wind and waves did roar-- Bold Barton then, with twenty men, Went down upon the shore.

"And in a whale-boat they set off To Rhode Island fair, To catch a redcoat General Who then resided there.

"Through British fleets and guard-boats strong They held their dangerous way, Till they arrived unto their port, And then did not delay.

"A tawny son of Afric's race Them through the ravine led, And entering then the Overing house, They found him in his bed.

"But to get in they had no means Except poor Cuffee's head, Who beat the door down, then rushed in, And seized him in his bed.

"Stop! let me put my clothing on!" The General then did pray; 'Your clothing, massa, I will take; For dress we can not stay.'

"Then through rye stubble him they led, With shoes and clothing none, And placed him in their boat quite snug, And from the shore were gone.

"Soon the alarm was sounded loud: 'The Yankees they have come, And stolen Prescott from his bed, And him have carried hum.'

"The drums were beat, sky-rockets flew, The soldiers shouldered arms, And marched around the grounds they knew, Filled with most dire alarms.

"But through the fleet with muffled oars They held their devious way, And landed him on 'Gansett shores, Where Britons held no sway.

"When unto land the captors came, Where rescue there was none, 'A bold push this,' the General cried; 'Of prisoners I am one.'"

The boy was frequently interrupted by roars of laughter at Prescott's expense, which strengthened the child's nerves and voice; and when he had concluded his song, "I thought," wrote a gentleman who was present, "the deck would go through with the stamping." General Prescott joined heartily in the merriment produced by the song, and thrusting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a coin, and handed it to the boy, saying,

"Here, you young dog, is a guinea for you."

The boy was set at liberty the next morning, and sent ashore.

CLIMBING A MOUNTAIN THREE MILES HIGH.

The ice-bound peak of the Alps known as the Matterhorn, situated between Switzerland and Italy, forty miles northeast of Mont Blanc, and twelve miles west of Monte Rosa, towers skyward nearly 15,000 feet, presenting an appearance imposing beyond description. The peak rises abruptly, by a series of cliffs which may properly be termed precipices, a clear 5000 feet above the glaciers which surround its base. There seemed to the superstitious natives in the surrounding valleys to be a line drawn around it, up to which one might go, but no farther. Within that invisible line good and evil spirits were supposed to exist. They spoke of a ruined city on its summit wherein the spirits dwelt; and if you laughed, they gravely shook their heads, told you to look yourself to see the castles and the walls, and warned you against a rash approach, lest the infuriate demons from their impregnable heights should hurl down vengeance for your audacity.

Previous to 1865 several attempts had been made by daring tourists to reach its summit, but no one got beyond 13,000 feet, the remaining 2000 feet being generally regarded as inaccessible. But in the year just mentioned a little party of hardy English climbers accomplished the ascent. The achievement was made, however, at the cost of four human lives.

The story, as told by one of the leaders of the party, Mr. Edward Whymper, who had already made seven unsuccessful attempts, is an exciting one.

The ascent was made in July, in company with Lord Francis Douglas, Mr. Hudson, Mr. Hadow, and three guides. On the first day they did not ascend to a great height, and on the second day they resumed their journey with daylight, as they were anxious to outstrip a party of Italians who had set out before them by a different route. Difficulty after difficulty was surmounted. The higher they rose, the more intense became the excitement. What if they should be beaten at the last moment? The slope eased off; at length they could be detached from the rope which bound the party together; and Croz and Mr. Whymper, dashing away, ran a neck-and-neck race, which ended in a dead-heat. At 1.40 P.M. the world was at their feet, and the Matterhorn was conquered. Hurrah! They had beaten the party of Italians, whom they saw on the southwest ridge, 1250 feet below, and who did not prosecute the ascent farther. For an hour the successful climbers revelled in the scene which lay at their feet. There were black and gloomy forests, bright and cheerful meadows; bounding water-falls and tranquil lakes; fertile lands and savage wastes; sunny plains and frigid _plateaux_. There were the most rugged forms and the most graceful outlines; low perpendicular cliffs and gentle undulating slopes; rocky mountains and snowy mountains, sombre and solemn, or glittering and white, with walls, turrets, pinnacles, pyramids, domes, cones, and spires. There was every combination that the world can give, and every contrast that the heart could desire.

Alas! their naturally triumphant feeling of pleasure was but short-lived. They had commenced their descent, again tied together with ropes. Croz, a most accomplished guide and a brave fellow, went first; Hadow, second; Hudson, as an experienced mountaineer, and reckoned as good as a guide, third; Lord F. Douglas, fourth; followed by Mr. Whymper between the two remaining guides, named Jaugwalder, father and son. They were commencing the difficult part of the descent, and Croz was cutting steps in the ice for the feet of Mr. Hadow, who was immediately behind him. A few minutes later a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte Rosa Hotel, saying that he had seen an avalanche fall from the summit of the Matterhorn on to the Matterhorngletscher. The boy was reproved for telling idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw: Michel Croz had laid aside his axe, and in order to give Mr. Hadow greater security, was taking hold of his legs, and putting his feet one by one into their proper positions. "At this moment," says Mr. Whymper, "Mr. Hadow slipped, fell against him, and knocked him over. I heard one startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr. Hadow flying downward; in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord F. Douglas immediately after him. All this was the work of a moment. Immediately we heard Croz's exclamation, old Peter and I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit; the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as one man. We held; but the rope broke midway between Jaugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas. For a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding downward on their backs, and spreading out their hands, endeavoring to save themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the Matterhorngletscher below--a distance of nearly 4000 feet in height. From the moment the rope broke, it was impossible to help them. So perished our comrades."

The bodies of three of the men who thus miserably perished were afterward recovered; but that of Lord Francis Douglas was never again seen. It was a melancholy ending, and may well excite a feeling of surprise that so many brave and useful men can thus be found year by year hazarding their lives for what is in many cases no higher purpose than that of pleasure or sport.

THE GOLD DIGGINGS OF IRELAND.

Although Ireland is not generally regarded as one of the gold-producing countries of the world, gold has been found there in paying quantities, especially in the county of Wicklow.

Tradition commonly attributes the original discovery of the Wicklow gold mines to a poor school-master, who, while fishing in one of the small streams which descend from the Croghan mountains, picked up a piece of shining metal, and having ascertained that it was gold, gradually enriched himself by the success of his researches in that and the neighboring streams, cautiously disposing of the produce of his labor to a goldsmith in Dublin. He is said to have preserved the secret for upward of twenty years, but marrying a young wife, he imprudently confided his discovery to her, and she, believing her husband to be mad, immediately revealed the circumstance to her relations, through whose means it was made public. This was toward the close of the year 1795, and the effect it produced was remarkable. Thousands of people of every age and sex hurried to the spot, and from the laborer who could wield a spade or pickaxe to the child who scraped the rock with a rusty nail, all eagerly engaged in the search after gold. The Irish are a people possessed of a rich and quick fancy, and the very name of a gold mine carried with it ideas of inexhaustible wealth.

During the interval which elapsed between the public announcement of the gold discovery and the taking possession of the mine by the government--a period of about two months--it is supposed that upward of two thousand five hundred ounces of gold were collected by the peasants, principally from the mud and sand of Ballinvally stream, and disposed of for about ten thousand pounds, a sum far exceeding the produce of the mine during the government operations, which amounted to little more than three thousand five hundred pounds.

The gold was found in pieces of all forms and sizes, from the smallest perceptible particle to the extraordinary mass of twenty-two ounces, which sold for eighty guineas. This large piece was of an irregular form; it measured four inches in its greatest length, and three in breadth, and in thickness it varied from half an inch to an inch; a gilt cast of it may be seen in the museum of Trinity College, Dublin. So pure was the gold generally found, that it was the custom of the Dublin goldsmiths to put gold coin in the opposite scale to it, and give weight for weight.

The government works were carried on until 1798, when all the machinery was destroyed in the insurrection. The mining was renewed in 1801, but not being found sufficiently productive to pay the expenses, the search was abandoned. There prevails yet, however, a lingering belief among the peasants that there is still gold in Kinsella, and only the "lucky man" is wanting.

THE STORY OF THE SUMMER BOARDER, MOSES, AND THE TWO VISITORS.

BY THE FAMILY STORY-TELLER.

I warn you, said Family Story-Teller, looking round upon the family circle the next evening, that this is a story of mistakes. It will be a hard story to follow, and unless you pay close attention, you will forget which is Evelyn and which is the other girl, and why it was that Mrs. Stimpcett thought her boy Moses had broken his leg. I mean, of course, Mrs. Stimpcett of the village of Gilead.

Mrs. Stimpcett's summer boarder, Mr. St. Clair, was forgetful. He liked well to gaze at a brook, a pond, the clouds, the blue sky, the flowery fields, and often he forgot to stop doing so, and kept on gazing when it was meal time, or bed-time, or some other time.

Mrs. Stimpcett took also another summer boarder, a rich lady of the name of Odell. Mrs. Odell was tall, and slim, and pale, and in her cap, just above her forehead, was set in a row three pink muslin roses. Mrs. Odell was silly enough to be proud of being rich, and stingy enough to like to save her own money at other people's expense.

Mrs. Odell had a six-year-old niece named Evelyn, a pale, delicate little girl, who lived in the city, and this Evelyn was coming to Gilead to visit her aunt Odell. She was coming in the cars to Mill Village in care of the conductor, and her aunt Odell was to send a carriage to the station to fetch her to Gilead. If the carriage was not there when the cars arrived, she was to stay with the station-man till it should arrive. I trust my story is plain thus far.

It happened that Mr. Stimpcett was going to Mill Village that same day, to get some corn ground, and Mrs. Odell, though it would take him very far out of his way, asked him to go round by the station and get Evelyn. This would save hiring a carriage.

Now Mr. St. Clair thought it would be a pleasant thing to go to mill, and asked if he might go in the place of Mr. Stimpcett. Mr. Stimpcett said, "Oh yes, if you will be sure to bring back the meal." So Mr. St. Clair went to mill; and Moses Stimpcett, a boy about nine years old, went with him, for the sake of the ride, and to see his aunt Debby, who lived not far from the mill.

They set off soon after the hour of noon. Moses wore his Zouave cap, and his second-best summer clothes, and Mr. St. Clair wore a black alpaca coat, a blue neck-tie tied in a bow, a broad-brimmed straw hat, a white vest, and white trousers. Moses drove the horse, and they reached the mill without accident. While the miller was taking in the corn, Moses bought a roll of lozenges at a store near by, and as he came out with them a man passed that way, leading a small but valuable dog. Said this man to Moses, "I wish you would hold my dog while I step into the mill;" and Moses took the string.

Mr. St. Clair hitched his horse a little way from the mill, and then said to Moses, "When the man takes his dog, you can go to your aunt Debby's. I will call for you there, after I have been to the station and got the little girl." Mr. St. Clair then walked up the bank of the stream to see the waters flow.

Moses led the dog along to the mill, and leaned against the building awhile; then sat down on a barrel. Soon the barrel began to move. The reason of this was that it stood on an elevator. Moses had not noticed that the barrel stood on an elevator. First he wondered what the matter was, and second, he thought he would jump; but by that time the barrel was quite a way off the ground, and, besides, he was troubled by holding the string of the dog, and the lozenges. The barrel rose higher and higher, and when the little dog found himself swinging in the air, he kicked and yelped, and jerked the string so that Moses was obliged to let it go, and also to drop the lozenges, for he had to grasp the barrel with both hands. The dog fell, and broke one of his legs. [Please remember that it was the _dog_, and not Moses.] Moses and the barrel were taken in at the third story. A traveller passing through the place heard of this elevator accident, and told of it that afternoon at a house in Gilead. But this person understood that it was the _boy_ who broke his leg--"a Stimpcett boy," he said, in telling the news. Mrs. Stimpcett heard of it soon after milking-time; but this will be spoken of farther on in the story.

Mr. St. Clair walked far up the bank of the stream, and when he came back, the miller told him that his bag of meal had been put into his cart. He went out, and seeing a cart with a bag of meal lying at the bottom, he stepped in, and drove around to the station.

Now this cart which Mr. St. Clair took belonged to a man who came from Cherry Valley. Here, you see, was a mistake. But Mr. St. Clair not only took the wrong cart, he took the wrong little girl, as will now be told. He drove in haste to the station, knowing he had staid too long walking up the bank of the stream. On the platform of the station sat a roly-poly, chubby-cheeked little girl, with a carpet-bag and a heavy bundle. He asked her, "Are you waiting for some one to come for you?" "Yes, sir," she answered. "All right," said Mr. St. Clair; and he helped her into the cart. I hope you understand that this very fleshy child was not Evelyn Odell. She was Maggie Brien. Maggie Brien lived with her grandmother, not far from the station. Her mother did the cooking in a family two miles away, and she had promised to send that day for Maggie to come and make her a visit, and Maggie was sitting on the platform waiting for the man to take her.

Mr. St. Clair took her, and drove from the station, thinking to go to Aunt Debby's and get Moses, and set off for Gilead; but while he was gazing up at the sky, the horse--which you will remember was not Mr. Stimpcett's horse--turned into a road which led to his own master's house at Cherry Valley. Mr. St. Clair had now the wrong horse and cart, the wrong meal, the wrong girl, and the wrong road. Presently the horse trotted up to the door of a farm-house, and stopped. Three heads of three young maidens popped out of three chamber windows, and a bare-armed woman, wiping her hands on her apron, rushed to the door. "Where is my husband?" she cried. "Is he hurt? Is he killed? Tell me the truth at once!"

"I assure you, madam," answered Mr. St. Clair, mildly, "that I have not seen your husband."

"Why, then, have you come with his horse and cart?" she asked.

"This horse and cart, madam," said Mr. St. Clair, still mildly, "belongs to Mr. Stimpcett, of Gilead."

"Do you think I don't know our horse and cart?" cried the woman, in an angry tone. "Besides, here's my husband's name on the bag--I. Ellison."

"I must have taken the wrong horse and cart," said Mr. St. Clair. "I will go back at once and find Mr. Ellison."

"The quicker the better," said the woman, as he turned the horse.

Just after Mr. St. Clair had passed from the Cherry Valley road into the mill road, a man came out of a wood path and sprang at the horse, crying, "Stop thief!"

"Where is the thief?" asked Mr. St. Clair, looking all around.

"You are the thief!" cried the man. "You have stolen my horse and cart."

Maggie Brien began to cry.

"Are you Mr. I. Ellison?" asked Mr. St. Clair.

"Yes, I am," said the man, angrily.

Mr. St. Clair explained his mistake, and gave up the horse and cart to Mr. I. Ellison. He then took Maggie's carpet-bag and heavy bundle, and walked all the way to Aunt Debby's.

By the time they reached Aunt Debby's it was nearly dark, and as for Moses, he was already travelling home in his father's cart. It happened in this way. Aunt Debby heard that Mr. St. Clair had been seen driving off, and knew he must have taken the wrong horse and cart, for Mr. Stimpcett's was still standing near the mill. Therefore, as Moses had already waited until after supper, she let him take his father's horse and cart and drive home behind a man with an ox team who was going by a roundabout way to Gilead.

Now as soon as Moses had driven off, Aunt Debby locked her doors and went to an evening meeting, so that when Mr. St. Clair came there on foot, with Maggy Brien and her bag and bundle, to find Moses, he found no one. He questioned some boys standing by a fence, and they told him that Moses had gone home in his father's cart, behind an ox team. Maggy Brien began to cry again. "Don't cry, dear," said Mr. St. Clair. "I'll hire a buggy."

He hired from the stable a buggy, a fast horse, and a driver, and away they started for Gilead, and reached Mr. Stimpcett's house at about half past eight o'clock in the evening. Moses had not arrived.

Mr. St. Clair found Mrs. Stimpcett, with her bonnet and shawl on, walking the floor, sobbing and sighing and wringing her hands. Grandma, also crying, was wrapping a bottle of the Sudden Remedy in a piece of newspaper.

"Oh, how _is_ Moses?" cried Mrs. Stimpcett. "_Will_ it have to be taken off?"

"Is not Moses here?" asked Mr. St. Clair, in a mild voice.

"Here!" cried Mrs. Stimpcett. "How can he be here, when he has broken his leg? I am going to him as soon as Mr. Stimpcett can borrow a horse."

Mr. St. Clair thought that Moses must have fallen from the cart on his way home; but before he had time to speak, Mrs. Odell came in.

"Where is my niece?" she cried. "Where is Evelyn?"

"Here she is," said Mr. St. Clair, presenting Maggie Brien.

"What do you mean?" shrieked Mrs. Odell. "That my niece? No! no! no! Oh, Evelyn! Evelyn! Evelyn! Dear child, where are you?"

Maggie Brien began to cry bitterly.

"Alas! what a wretch I am, to have made this mistake!" cried Mr. St. Clair. "But I'll find your Evelyn. I'll go for a horse. I'll take this child back. Don't cry, little girl. I won't rest till I find your Evelyn;" and he rushed from the house, almost knocking down several children in the passageway--the Stimpcett children; for Obadiah, Debby, and little Cordelia had been awakened by the noise, and had come down in their night-gowns.