said, had been at the greatest expense and had suf fered the most extreme hardships in planting the country; they had freely spent their blood and treasure in defending it against savage natives and foreign aggressors; and all this had been done for the honor and glory of the motherland. He himself had endured hardships and been environed by perils, and it would be like giving up his life to surrender the patent and privileges so dearly bought and so long enjoyed.

Argument of this kind was wasted on Sir Edmund. Remonstrance and appeal were alike in vain. It was the charter he wanted, not long-winded excuses, and he fumed and fretted while the slow-talking members wasted the hours in what he looked upon as useless argument.

Night had been drawing near on his entrance. Darkness settled upon the Assembly while the debate went on. Lights were now brought in,—the tallow candles of our colonial forefathers, and placed upon the table around which the members sat. By this time Sir Edmund's impatience at their procrastination had deepened into anger, and he demanded the charter in so decided tones that the reluctant governor gave orders that it should be produced. The box containing it was brought into the chamber and laid upon the table, the cover removed, and there before their eyes lay the precious parchment, the charter of colonial liberty.

Still the members talked and procrastinated. But it is not easy to restrain the hound when within sight of the game which it has long pursued. Before

the eyes of Sir Edmund lay that pestiferous paper which had given him such annoyance. His impatience was no longer to be restraired. In the midst of the long-drawn-out oratory of the members he rose and stepped towards the table to seize the object in dispute. At that critical instant there came an unexpected diversion. During the debate a number of the more important citizens had entered the room, and stood near the table round which the members sat. Suddenly, from the midst of those people, a long cloak was deftly flung, with such sure aim that it fell upon the circle of blazing candles, extinguishing them all, and in a moment throwing the room into total dark

ness.

Confusion followed. There were quick and excited movements within the room. Outside, the crowd which had assembled set up a lusty cheer, and a number of them pushed into the chamber. The members stirred uneasily in their seats. Sir Edmund angrily exclaimed,

"What means this, gentlemen? Is some treachery at work? Guard the charter! Light those candles instantly!"

The attendants hastened to obey; but haste in procuring light in those days had a different meaning than now. The lucifer-match had not yet been dreamed of. The flint-and-steel was a slow conception. Several minutes elapsed before the candles again shed their feeble glow through the room.

It

With the first gleam of light every eye was fixed upon the box which had contained the charter. was empty! The charter was gone!

Just what Sir Edmund said on this occasion his tory has not recorded. Those were days in which the most exalted persons dealt freely in oaths, and it is to be presumed that the infuriated governorgeneral used words that must have sadly shocked the pious ears of his Puritan auditors.

But the charter had vanished, and could not be sworn back into the box. Where it had gone probably no one knew; certainly no one was willing to say. The members looked at one another in blank astonishment. The lookers-on manifested as blank an ignorance, though their faces beamed with delight. It had disappeared as utterly as if it had sunk into the earth, and the oaths of Sir Edmund and his efforts. to recover it proved alike in vain.

But the mystery of that night after-history has revealed, and the story can now be told. In truth, some of those present in the hall knew far more than they cared to tell. In the darkness a quick-moving person had made a lane through the throng to a neighboring window whose sash was thrown up. Out of this he leaped to the ground below. Here people were thickly gathered.

"Make way," he said (or may have said, for his real words have not been preserved), "for Connecticut and liberty. I have the charter."

The cheers redoubled. The crowd separated and let him through. In a minute he had disappeared in the darkness beyond.

Sir Edmund meanwhile was storming like a fury in the hall; threatening the colony with the anger of the king; declaring that every man in the chamber

should be searched; fairly raving in his disappoint. ment. Outside, the bold fugitive sped swiftly along the dark and quiet streets, ending his course at length in front of a noble and imposing oak-tree, which stood before the house of the Honorable Samuel Wyllys, one of the colonial magistrates.

This tree was hollow; the opening slender without, large within. Deeply into this cavity the fugitive thrust his arm, pushing the precious packet as far as it would go, and covering it thickly with fine débris at the bottom of the trunk.

"So much for Sir Edmund," he said. "Let him now rob Connecticut of the charter of its liberties, if he can."

Tradition-for it must be acknowledged that this story is traditional, though probably true in its main elements-tells us that this daring individual was Captain Joseph Wadsworth, a bold and energetic militia-leader who was yet to play another prominent part in the drama of colonial life.

As for the Charter Oak, it long remained Hartford's most venerated historical monument. It became in time a huge tree, twenty-five feet in circumference near the roots. The cavity in which the charter was hidden grew larger year by year, until it was wide enough within to contain a child, though the orifice leading to it gradually closed until it was hardly large enough to admit a hand. This grand monument to liberty survived until 1856, when tem pest in its boughs and decay in its trunk brought t in ruin to the earth.

What followed may be briefly told. The charter