remembered with an affection, that every springtime renewed.

One afternoon in April, 1791, two men were standing talking opposite to
the entrance gates of this pleasant place. They were Captain Joris Van
Heemskirk, a member of the Congress then sitting in Federal Hall, Broad
Street, and Jacobus Van Ariens, a wealthy citizen, and a deacon in the
Dutch Church. Van Heemskirk had helped to free his own country and was
now eager to force the centuries and abolish all monarchies.
Consequently, he believed in France; the tragedies she had been enacting
in the holy name of Liberty, though they had saddened, had, hitherto,
not discouraged him. He only pitied the more men who were trying to work
out their social salvation, without faith in either God or man. But the
news received that morning had almost killed his hopes for the spread of
republican ideas in Europe,

"Van Ariens," he said warmly, "this treatment of King Louis and his
family is hardly to be believed. It is too much, and too far. If King
George had been our prisoner we should have behaved towards him with
humanity. After this, no one can foresee what may happen in France."

"That is the truth, my friend," answered Van Ariens. "The good Domine
thinks that any one who can do so might also understand the Revelations.
The French have gone mad. They are tigers, sir, and I care not whether
tigers walk on four feet or on two. WE won our freedom without
massacres."

"WE had Washington and Franklin, and other good and wise leaders who
feared God and loved men."

"So I said to the Count de Moustier but one hour ago. But I did not