A Negro hotelkeeper in a free city of the North views with disdain a Benedict Arnold in the colored camp who crosses the lines to a white hotel.

A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him.

So this was my future home, I thought! […] Backed by towering hills, the but faintly discernible purple line of the French boundary off to the southwest, a sky of palest Gobelin flecked with fat, fleecy little clouds, it in truth looked a dear little city; the city of one's dreams.

And now as other Fawkners use, I spring a mistresse, sweare, write, sigh and weepe: And the game kill'd, or lost, goe talk, and sleepe.