manners of the capital, and Arles was the miniature Rome of Gaul. It is suggestive to seat one's self upon these solid granite seats, where, eighteen hundred years ago, some haughty Roman prætor, wrapped in his purple toga and preceded by grave lictors and followed by cringing slaves, sat with his straight-nosed wife and looked placidly on while gladiators were butchering each other in the arena below.

The day is fair, and we wander out beyond the walls of the city. A lovely picture is stretched around us; the sun shines down on the quiet French town, the stately historic castles, and the deep majestic woods that hid in their bosom alike the crime and despair of the erring Norma, the beauty of the "four daughters of Raymond Béranger, every one of whom became a queen,' and the loves of many a Provencal youth and maiden whose names are not known to fame. The birds sang above us amid the dense foliage of those shadowy avenues that used to echo with the bay of hounds, the ring of horses' hoofs, the mellow notes of hunting calls, when through these sunny glades the gay courtiers of King Bozon, Count Béranger, and Duke Charles, had ridden for the pleasure of the Chasse and the Curée. Beautiful was the picture now; what must it have been when the luxurious, jeweled, tiara-crowned city reposed in her stateliness and pride on the river's bank like Cleopatra on her couch, when scholars and troubadours made the name of Provence known far and wide, and all that gay human life that from Cæsar to the twelfth Louis held their rendezvous, their fêtes, and their sports in Arles and her royal forests?

The Provencal literature which did so much in smoothing away the iron prejudices and customs of the dark ages, and opening a path for the nobler periods which succeeded its own, has left but little of its genius worthy of our esteem. Poetry was the great art cultivated, and it was amatory poetry. Love and gallantry were the subjects which the troubadours generally chose, although they produced a few satires which are keen and spirited. But no romances of chivalry, and hardly any tales are found among their works. The gaisaber, or "Gay Science," as that literature was called, according to the doctrines of which love was the principle of all virtue and of all glory, lit up, however, with a blaze of glory, all southern Europe for two hundred years. At the

Even

courts of Arles, of Toulouse, and the Norman courts of England and Sicily, in Spain, and among the Guelph princes of Northern Italy, swarmed a multitude of lyrical poets, many of whom have had their names handed down to posterity. kings and nobles did not scorn to court the tender muse, and it was considered as essential in the training of a knight, that he could compose a canso, and accompany the same by the music of his flute as that he should be able to couch a lance in the tourney. Richard Cœur de Lion, invincible paladin as he was, prided himself more for his skill in minstrelsy than he ever did for all his brave and gallant deeds performed in the joust or on the battle-field. Nor was the kingly Plantagenet the only one who did so.

Possessing a flexible and harmonions language, the Provencal poets invented a variety of metrical arrangements perfectly new to the nations of Europe. Almost every length of verse, from two syllables to twelve, and the most intricate disposition of rhyme, were at the selection of the troubadours. Commanding such a choice of poetical sounds, the Provencal poetry possessed some rare advantages. Yet there is little of it which has come down to us that gives us any poetical pleasure. There is a deficiency of imagination and of vivid description which is not generally wanting in the works of true genius even in the rudest periods of society. Metrical compositions are in general the first literature of a nation, and we know of no instance where so little skill and learning is exhibited in the early attempts of nations yet in their infancy as in the poetry of Provence. Even in the poetry of sentiment, the favorite province of the Troubadours, there is very little of natural expression, and consequently our interest is seldom aroused. Nor could we deem those fantastical solemnities styled "Courts of Love," where poetical advocates, under the arbitration of certain ladies, debated ridiculous questions of metaphysical gallantry, as much calculated to create any genuine excellence. Poetry, in her noblest form, is a child of solitude and reflection; how then could we expect to find her here in the gay whirlpools of fashion and life, where her chiefest votaries were knights and ladies whose names were not always above reproach? The great reputation, however, acquired by the troubadours, and the panegyrics lavished upon them by Dante, Petrarch, and the other Italian poets, could

kind is easily deluded by exaggerated sentiment in poetry, they depended for their influence and celebrity. Vapid and uninteresting as most of their productions appear to our intellectuation, they exerted a mighty sensation in their own age, and left a permanent influence on the state of European poetry. It is well to measure the influ ences on the present of such past creations.

And asked not for more her blessings to crown. Her boy's merry voice was a song in her ear, His misshapen words oft moved her to smile, For more than he knew her heart he could cheer, Could more than he knew the dull moments beguile. When night o'er the world its shadows had spread, She laid him to rest and covered him warm; And if the storm-wings but rustled o'erhead, She doubled the folds above his dear form.

Still tenderer grew her motherly care,

When pallid he lay, and wasted and weak; Nor would she her toils and vigils forbear,

Till roses of health rebloomed on his cheek. Her boy was her hope. She looked to the time When all her fond love he well would repay, When forth he would stand a man in his prime, And be to her age a comfort and stay.

Ah, hope is a bud which never may bloom;

Though love's sleepless eye may watch o'er it keep, Yet some hidden bane its life may consume,

And leave the wrung heart to wonder and weep.

The son is a man, tall, hardy and hale,

The mother is old and feeble of limb;

He leaned upon her when slender and frail,
O surely she now may lean upon him!

Alas, there are hearts akin to a stone,

Hearts where compassion no softness has shed; So stony is he, for, cheerless and lone,

In life's roughest ways he leaves her to tread. She misses him now! How sad is the thought

That the paths of his youth are spurned by his feet, That mocking the wisdom which once he was taught, He loves the low place where the sensual meet.

Alas, he is there, and pleasing his lips

With cups more inflamed than innocence knows; Is there, while his mother is searching for chips, With cold-reddened hands beneath the loose snows. Rich with a few chips, she turns to her room, And rouses her fire with sedulous pains, To relieve, if she may, the chill and the gloom, And urge the lag blood along her old veins. We know the great Father in heaven is good, For freely his gifts he scatters below, And did men but order their lives as they should, Along in their ways how blest they might go! No, not to God's works, their friction or flaws, May man their unrest or sufferings trace; The evils they bear find ever their cause

In follies, in errors, or sins of the race.
See thousands, by lusts of the flesh overborne,
Pursue the sure road to sorrow and pain;
See thousands, though voices may warn them, and warn,
Yet lift the vile cup, and drain it, and drain.
While others, whose cheeks never burn with a blush,
Deal out the strong draughts to all who will pay;
And evils, as floods from full fountains rush,

Break forth over homes, and flow far away.
What mystery shadows these human affairs!
O where is the man whose wisdom can tell,
Why God with all sin so patiently bears,

Why earth is so like a province of hell!
How oft a hard lot to virtue is dealt,

A blot on her name, a shaft in her breast!
While guilt, the terrors of conscience unfelt,
Goes gaily along, unsmitten and blest.
While some proudly move with hands full of gold,
Or leisurely sit by their fire's full glow,

How many in want, enfeebled or old,

Must glean their scant wood from under the snow!
There sure is some shore, though yet out of sight,
Where all the dark things which puzzle us here
Shall brighten to proofs of wisdom and might,
And be to all eyes illumined and clear.
Then woe to the souls that cleave to the wrong,
And woe to the souls on others that prey!
For just is our God, though silent so long,
Yes, vengeance is his, and he will repay!

When Penn arrived at Upland with his party of Friends, they were hospitably received and entertained by Governor Robert Wade. On this occasion Penn addressed his friend Pearson, one of his own Society who had accompanied him in the ship Welcome, and said:

"Providence has brought us here in safety. Thou hast been the companion of my toils; what wilt thou that I should call this place?" To which Pearson replied: "Chester, in remembrance of the city from whence I came."

Among the first buildings of importance erected in the place was that occupied by Robert Wade as his residence, but subsequently used by the Assembly of Pennsylvania during its meetings at Chester. It was afterwards known as the Essex House.

Here Governor Penn met his fellow-colonists, and with them projected the future plan for the settlement of the country. Here he was bountifully received on his return from England, and the old Essex House was famous as the headquarters of the Governor and the seat of Government. All vestiges of the old structure have long since passed away. It stood about two hundred yards from Chester Creek, near the banks of the Delaware, and on a plain about fifteen feet above tide-water. Skirting the river bank stood a number of lofty pine and walnut trees. gable-end of the Essex House pointed on the Delaware, and the southwest end pointed on Essex street; its back piazza was on a line with Chester Creek, which separated the house and farm from the town of Chester.

The

Robert Wade owned all the land on the side of the creek opposite Chester, extending back some distance up the stream. The Chester side was originally owned entirely by James Sanderland, a

into the country a considerable distance. Sanderland was a prominent Episcopalian, and founder of the old St. Paul's Episcopal Church of Chester. A monument of fine sculpture of that time was erected to his memory at his death in 1692. None of his descendants are now living.

On the same spot was erected a monument commemorative of the first "A. M." of Pennsylvania. The following is the inscription:

"Here lieth Paul Jackson, A.M. He was the first who received a degree in the College of Pennsylvania; a man of virtue, worth, and knowledge. Died 1767, aged 38 years."

Paul Jackson was the ancestor of Dr. Samuel Jackson, of Philadelphia, and brother-in-law of Hon. Charles Thomson. He is spoken of as one of the best classical scholars in his time; and took part in the Braddock Expedition.

The brick house owned by John Hart, in which the first Assembly of Pennsylvania was held, was in after years used as a cooper's shop. It was a one and a half story structure located near the creek. The oaken chair in which Governor Penn sat, as Chief of Assembly, was long after preserved in the family of Colonel Frazier.

At the mill seat on Chester Creek was originally located the first mill in the country, and was erected by Richard Townsend, who brought the materials from England. The iron vane was preserved many years after the old mill had passed away. The initials represent the original partners who owned the mill: "William Penn, Samuel Carpenter, and Caleb Pusey." The date 1699, of the erection of the structure, was also inscribed on the vane.

W. P.

S. C. C. P.

1699.

Near the site of the old mill stood the residence of Richard Townsend, a low stone building of rude finish, one story high. In its day it was considered a dwelling of no mean pretensions.

Not far from this locality, which was known as "Ridley Creek Mills," was a rock upon which was cut the date and initials, "J. S., 1682," marking the spot where John Sharpless, the original settler, erected a temporayy hut, immediately after his arrival in that year.

We have evidence in the following petition issued in 1700, of the ambitious expectations of the early inhabitants of Chester, looking forward to the growth and thrift of the town:

"Whereas, Chester is daily improving, and in time may be a good place, we pray that the Queen's road may be laid out as direct as possible, from Darby to the bridge on Chester creek.'

This paper was signed by ninety of the inhabitants of Chester and vicinity.

Jasper Yates, a son-in-law to Sanderland, erected, in 1700, “an extensive granary, which received much of the grain from Lancaster and Chester Counties."

Scon after the first colonists arrived by the Factor, in December, 1681, the Delaware was frozen over at Chester where they located. Several ships arrived in the spring of 1682.

It was during the early "Councils of Brotherly Love," which convened at Wade's house, at Chester, which were participated in by representatives from all the families of Friends which had settled in the vicinity, that the project of a great town, or "City of Brotherly Love," was inau

gurated; and that locatlon was primarily the centre at which it was proposed to found the great metropolis. But Chester Creek could not compete with the Schuylkill; and it was declared that Philadelphia, which had been planned by William Penn, was the more eligible spot, and "that it seemed appointed by its two rivers and other conveniences for a great town."

Penn, in a letter of instructions to one of his agents, concerning the plan of Philadelphia, says: "Let every house be placed, if the person please, in the middle of its plot, as to the breadthway of it, so that there may be ground on each side for gardens, or orchards, or fields, that it may be a green country town, which will never be burned, and always be wholesome."

A family named Preston, living in Bucks County, relate that one of their ancestors witnessed the arrival of William Penn, an account of which he gives in the following language:

"When the ship in which Governor Penn arrived from England came up to the Neshameny, he was met by the Indians. The masts of the ship struck the trees of Levade's Hill (where subsequently the navy yard was located). The white settlers and Indians joined in preparing a bountiful feast for the Governor and his family. William Penn walked with the Indians, sat down with them on the ground, and ate with them roasted acorns and hominy. This pleased the Indians so much that they began to show how they could hop and jump. Penn, much to their delight and amusement, then joined with them in jumping, and he beat them all.”

OH! hadst thou never shared my fate, More dark than fate would prove, My heart were truly desolate

Without thy soothing love.

But thou hast suffered for my sake,
Whilst this relief I found,
Like fearless lips that strive to take
The poison from a wound,

My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret,

To think more happy thou hadst been
If we had never met!

And has that thought been shared by thee?
Ah, no! that smiling cheek

Proves more unchanging love for me
Than labored words could speak.

But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;
Though known in days of past delight,
We knew not half their worth.
How unlike some who have professed
So much in Friendship's name,
Yet calmly pause to think how best
They may evade her claim.
But ah! from them to thee I turn,
They'd make me loathe mankind;
Far better lessons I may learn

From thy more holy mind.
The love that gives a charm to home
I feel they cannot take:
We'll pray for happier years to come,
For one another's sake.

RETREAT.

THE plan adopted by the Dominie's party had been scrupulously carried out, and at the same time so secretly, that not a rumor of their approach had reached the camp of the Mohawks. Their reverend leader had two objects in his mind: Firstly, as he would have said himself, to prevent any communication between the North and the South through Brandt's aid. It was reported that the lady spy was a young man in woman apparel, who had succeeded in making his escape by the way of the Round Top. Every member of the Consistory present said "he must be prevented." "The he jade!" said the roused pastor; "we must skin her this time."

"Aye, aye, minister," said Grant; "skin for skin, as the Scripture says; and fegs, sir, your name is Skinniman; but it's no easy putten saut on a mouse's tail."

"We must keep the rascal from getting on board the ship and secondly, my brethren, deliverance of the captives. If we can drive the savages back, well and good after that; let us try."

There were some who insinuated concerning the officers on parole, as if they were on a pretended hunt; but the Dominie would not allow a word to be spoken against their honor; and when any one whispered suspicion of Clarence, the good man got so angry that all were glad to hold their peace except Mat Van Deusen, who wanted to know more of those "paper things that had such power."

As to Clarence, who did not appear till the close of the chase, there was before him a daring course, which he did not hesitate to pursue. He entered into the circle that morning, resolved to follow the chief robber, and either thwart him or die. The attention of Clifford was early arrested to the movements of his mysterious countryman. The experienced soldierly air of the youth, who held his head up so firmly, and the manner in which he stepped from stone to turf, put him on the alert. Perhaps the features of Clarence might recall an image discovered by his conscience of late

follow, though it spoke of vengeance. Once he was upon the point of demanding of Clarence who he was, and why he followed him, when some call in the chase diverted him from his present aim. When the hunters made their first stop, the two did not meet in the bed of the cascade. During the second part of the chase, Clarence was not so successful in keeping Clifford in view. That wily sinner had more persons to watch than one. The two Indians, Kiskataam and his foil, had made a sudden turn around the corner of a rock, and being suspicious of treachery during these two days past, Clifford followed them at full speed, coming up to them just in time to take the captive out of their hands, and to meet his own reward. When Clifford and Clarence did meet, it was to scowl that fierce frown which proud men, whether victors or defeated, send out upon each other when hate burns freely, but which passed over Clarence's face the moment he saw his sister safely out of the traitor's hands.

The division under Van Vechten fell back, so as to release the captives taken off by force from the Vlatts, while that under Salisbury drew away to the west, so as to intercept the Mohawk on his retreat. The moment he perceived the treachery of Clifford, and found out that Miss Clinton, whom they had been waiting for so long, was not the daughter of the rebel Clinton, but of the great soldier, his men were ordered to the west through Katrina Montour's country. The red men, impatient of delay, were already on the road, and their chief only remaining behind that his mind. might be fully satisfied, when the war-whoop of his tribe was sounded with the nona-retreat.

Salisbury, who had posted his men on the side of a rising ground which looked to the southwest, lay down, quietly waiting the van of the enemy. The orders were "do not rise till the party has passed at least half through; then take him in the flank. Keep your ears open for the word."

The Dominie, who came up to this party, after surveying their position, insisted that the space before them gave the Indians too good a chance for