The Parks and Cemeteries 297 



ions. What care they if the roads be rough and the coaches 

 jolting, or that the ladies are riding on pillions? Are they not 

 on their way to the wedding of lovely Mary Philipse and 

 Colonel Roger Morris? 



Along the road comes the Yankee peddler with his pack, not 

 only of notions, but of news ; and he looks about him curiously 

 as he asks some negro slave or redemptioner his way to the 

 back door. And the faces look at him with equal curiosity — 

 he is so different from the stolid Dutch farmer or sturdy Eng- 

 lish yeoman they are accustomed to see. And then the 

 travellers increase in numbers; they seem to be in some sort 

 of order, though they are clothed in homespun and no two are 

 armed alike. Across the meadows to the distant ridges the 

 heads stretch their ears to catch the sound of the spade and 

 the mattock. Then, most woeful sight, they see the ranks of 

 tattered, shoeless, and dispirited men as they march sullenly 

 by from Long Island, Harlem Heights, and the forts below 

 on their way to Philipseburgh or White Plains. And during 

 these months, they have seen the noblest figure that has ever 

 passed before them, the great American leader, with Heath 

 and Lincoln and the rest of the gallant leaders of that dis- 

 heartened host. And then comes Charles Lee — is it any 

 wonder that some of the faces have assumed a sardonic expres- 

 sion that all the pleasant sights of more than a century have 

 been unable to change? 



Beneath the trees which they have seen grow from saplings, 

 gathers another multitude of men, with the red coat of the 

 British soldier, the tartan of the Scot, the green coat of the 

 German yager, the chasseurs of Emmerick, or the rangers of 

 Simcoe; and as Sunday comes around, they have heard the 

 British chaplain — our old friend Samuel Seabury, perhaps — ■ 

 ask divine grace upon all in authority, "and especially upon thy 



