CHAPTER I

THE HOME OF CORNELIA MORAN


Never, in all its history, was the proud and opulent city of New York
more glad and gay than in the bright spring days of Seventeen-Hundred-
and-Ninety-One. It had put out of sight every trace of British rule and
occupancy, all its homes had been restored and re-furnished, and its
sacred places re-consecrated and adorned. Like a young giant ready to
run a race, it stood on tiptoe, eager for adventure and discovery--
sending ships to the ends of the world, and round the world, on messages
of commerce and friendship, and encouraging with applause and rewards
that wonderful spirit of scientific invention, which was the Epic of the
youthful nation. The skies of Italy were not bluer than the skies above
it; the sunshine of Arcadia not brighter or more genial. It was a city
of beautiful, and even splendid, homes; and all the length and breadth
of its streets were shaded by trees, in whose green shadows dwelt and
walked some of the greatest men of the century.

These gracious days of Seventeen-Hundred-and-Ninety-One were also the
early days of the French Revolution, and fugitives from the French
court--princes and nobles, statesmen and generals, sufficient for a new
Iliad, loitered about the pleasant places of Broadway and Wall Street,
Broad Street, and Maiden Lane. They were received with courtesy, and
even with hospitality, although America at that date almost universally
sympathized with the French Republicans, whom they believed to be the