University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The first act of our hero, on being alone with his
father, was to inquire if he had despatched the letter
left in his hands, and he learnt, with deep regret, that
it had been sent by a young man who was returning
home, his term of service being expired. His road
carried him past the door of Colonel Hammond, and
as such opportunities seldom occurred, the captain had
availed himself of this, by committing the letter to the
care of the young soldier. It was now probably in
the hands of Jane, who was weeping over his fate,
and perhaps despising his treachery.

The thought was, if possible, more bitter, than were
his feelings when he stood a disgraced soldier, in the
presence of the whole army, with half a dozen muskets
levelled at his heart. He at once entreated his
father to procure him leave of absence for three days,
which having received, he mounted his horse on the

instant, and galloped away, in hopes of overtaking the
bearer of the letter before he reached the home of
his heart. It was now evening, towards sunset, and
the distance some five and twenty miles; but his steed
was staunch, the rider, a lover, on his way to his mistress,
and the people on the road, when they saw him
darting along, said to each other, “that soldier is either
a deserter, or a messenger from head-quarters!” Leaving
him to travel by himself, we shall precede him to
the residence of the old continental, where he will, no
doubt, arrive in good time, if his horse holds his wind,
and the rider does not break his neck by the way.

After parting with her lover, as described in a previous
chapter, Jane sought relief from the indulgence
of her bitter-sweet anxieties, where it is always to be
found, in the performance of our duties to ourselves,
and to others. The habit of being useful, is a glorious
habit; it is like mercy twice blest, for it contributes
equally to our own happiness, and that of all within
the sphere of its exercise. It is impossible to resist
the cheering, reviving influence arising from the consciousness
of doing good to our fellow-creatures, from
motives of affection or duty; and they who seek a
balm to their own sufferings, will always find it in
alleviating those of others. This truth most especially
applies to women, and above all, to those who
are placed by accident or fortune above the necessity
of daily labour. These are ever most prone to become
the unresisting victims to that tender weakness which
seems to constitute the very nature of the sex, and
under whose despotic sway they are so apt to sink
into a state of useless imbecility, which makes them a

burden to themselves, a blight to the domestic fireside.
A hopeless attachment, the loss, or recreancy
of one they love, often becomes a consuming canker,
eating into the heart by its own wilful indulgence, and
only the more incurable from the absence of all efforts
to effect a cure. Novels and romances, for the most
part, administer to this fatal weakness, by inculcating
that it is both refined and praiseworthy; and that no
female can aspire to the dignity of a heroine, who
possesses force of mind, or strength of principle, to sacrifice
a selfish weakness at the shrine of her social
and domestic duties. In the moral code of romance,
the indulgence of excesses in any other passion is a
crime, while those of love partake of something almost
divine, and appertain to beings of a superior
order, who are not to be judged by the standard of
morals or religion.

The good sense, good habits, and good principles of
Jane, preserved her from sinking under the enervating
influence of a feeling, whose highest and noblest exercise
is in stimulating to greater efforts of virtuous
heroism. It cannot be denied, that on the day she
parted from John, there was less appearance of order
in the arrangement of the parlour, and a little more
dust on the mahogany than usual. The testy old continental,
moreover, complained that his pipe was in
one corner, his tobacco-box in another, and nothing in
its right place. On his retiring for the night, Jane
was roused from a painful reverie by a tremendous
explosion of wrath from the old gentleman. It seems
his night-cap was not where it should be, there was no
pillow-cases, and the entire order of the bed-clothes

totally subverted, the sheets being where the blankets
ought to have been. “Thunder and Mars! what is
all this? Jane—Jane, I say, come here this minute,”
roared the colonel, as the feathers stuck in his ear,
and the wool tickled his nose.

The love-stricken damsel hied to his room, and a
blush mingled with a smile, as she discovered the occasion
of this outcry.

“Look,” exclaimed the wrathful old continental,
“look here, you baggage, I might as well have a shoe-brush
or a curry-comb at my nose, and a straw in my
ear—I'm worse off than at the siege of old Ti, when
I slept under a rye-stack and was half-choked with
the beards. What a plague has come over you, Jane?
Oh! ah! now I recollect—hum—come, kiss me, Jane,
—I know what you were thinking of, when, for the
first time in your life, you forgot your old father.” A
reconciliation took place, and the grievances of the
colonel were speedily redressed; but Jane remembered
the lesson, and he was never afterwards annoyed by the
absence of his night-cap, or the shoe-brush and curry-comb
under his nose.

From that time she rallied herself to the performance
of her daily duties, and never indulged the weakness
of her heart, except in the sober leisure of a twilight
evening, or in the repose of darkness, when she
often lay awake amid the dead silence of the midnight
hour, thinking over past times, and anticipating
the future, with mingled hope and apprehension. On
Sabbath-days, she said her prayers and read her Bible,
whose simple, yet lofty eloquence, and touching tenderness,
often went to her heart, and awakened those

feelings which lie dormant in every human bosom.
But the favourite portions of the old continental were
those of a warlike character, on which he banqueted
with peculiar satisfaction, criticising the military
movements with infinite discretion, and excepting to
the whole system of ancient tactics, which he could
do without impeaching his orthodoxy, for he stoutly
maintained that not one of the commanders could lay
claim to inspiration. He swore by Thunder and Mars,
that if he had commanded at Jericho, he would have
defied all the rams' horns in the universe; and as for
Sampson's jaw-bone, it would not have cut much of a
figure at old Ti.

There were churches at a distance of a few miles,
but seldom, if ever, in these disastrous times, was the
simple song, or the voice of the preacher, heard to
break on the calm of the Sabbath-day. There, the
swallows built their nests; the windows and doors
were broken, and all within was silence and desolation.
Scarcely a solitary traveller was seen on the
high roads, for the business of life had resolved itself
into the work of death and destruction. The rustic
temple of the muses, the deserted school-house, no
longer resounded with the hum of the gabbling fry,
issuing from the mimic Babel, nor was the sonorous
voice of the big master—checking their blunders, or
reprehending their misdemeanors, or encouraging their
successful efforts at murdering the language—now,
the king's English no more—ever heard by the solitary
traveller who happened by chance to wander
that way. Instead of the deep traces of those boyish
gambols, which whilome marked the site consecrated

to teaching the young idea how to shoot, rank weeds
had overgrown the spot, such as deform the face of
nature, and give sure token of idleness, neglect, and
desolation. Religion, law, and learning, had fled before
the fierce whirlwind of war, or only nestled at
the domestic fireside in fear and trembling. In recalling
these fearful and melancholy times, an old relic
of the revolution once said to us—“We lived without
law or gospel; we were paying the price of liberty
with our substance and our lives.”

The sequestered spot we have heretofore described,
of all the surrounding country had alone hitherto escaped
the ravages of war; but none could tell how
soon his turn would come to share the fate of his
neighbours, for it seemed decreed by Omnipotent wisdom,
that as all were to partake in the blessings of
freedom, so all must, sooner or later, pay their portion
of the purchase. It was now verging towards the
spring, but no signs of its approach appeared to soften
the grim visage of winter. The day was Sunday,
and the evening hour had come early as is its wont in
that season of the year. The fire crackled cheerfully
in the capacious chimney of the old continental, which
was innocent of all modern improvements, or economical
contrivances for persuading people to freeze on
philosophical principles. An old pointer lay on one
side of the fireplace, and a venerable cat luxuriated
on the other, each having occupied the spot where
they now reclined of a winter evening, from time immemorial,
and acquired a prescriptive right by long
undisturbed possession. Once, and once only, within
the memory of man, had old Boss, as he was called,

either in that spirit of usurpation which seems inseparable
from all created beings, or from sheer absence
of mind, taken possession of the corner consecrated
to the venerable pussy. But “he got his bitters” with
a vengeance. Cats and women, are said to carry the
ten commandments at their fingers' ends, and poor
Boss suffered the consequences of this new exposition
of the law and the prophets. He never after attempted
an invasion of neutral rights, and from that time
peace and good-will presided at the domestic fireside.

The old continental and his daughter were seated
before the blazing hickory fire, one smoking his pipe,
the other with her head, and it may be, her heart, full
of something that shrouded her face in sadness. The
cat sneezed three times in quick succession, and the
colonel thereupon confidently predicted a snow-storm,
adding, “Come, Jane, bring out the old Bible, and
read me the story of little David and Goliah.” Jane
obeyed, and brought forth the venerable volume. It
was a family heirloom, such as is seldom seen in these
days, when Bibles have become so plenty and so cheap,
that they have almost lost their reverence, and we
ourselves have seen their sacred leaves appropriated
to the most unseemly purposes. For this reason, we
shall describe this old relic, and because it is associated
in our memory with all that is venerable in
piety, all that is commendable in unaffected simplicity.

It was a heavy folio, the binding of which seemed
emblematical of the eternal word which it enveloped.
The back was covered with hinges of massy silver, so
contrived, that the book opened and shut with perfect

ease, when the clasps of the same metal in front were
unloosed; and at each corner were spacious ornaments
of rich silver open work, extending over a
large portion of the covering. All these ornaments
were of exquisite workmanship, in a fine old Doric
taste, and finished with infinite labour. Assuredly,
there is something like affinity between such lasting
and massive volumes, and the eternal truths they inculcate.
The casket seems worthy the jewels it contains,
and the superior reverence of our forefathers
for religion, may be estimated, in some degree, by the
stateliness of their Bibles, as well as the care they
took to preserve them. In those times, the Bible was
a precious inheritance, bequeathed from generation to
generation—a memorial of pious ancestors, whose
hands had often turned its leaves, whose souls had derived
precious nurture from its sacred fountain. But
we are falling into the fashion of the time, and mingling
eternal truths with worldly fictions.

Jane continued to read, and the colonel to make his
comments, until the good gentleman, as was too often
his custom, fell into a doze, and began talking to himself
in a broken series of disjointed fragments, beyond
all comprehension. These were, however, only momentary
wanderings, and coming to himself, with a
snort, accompanied by a start, he opened his eyes, exclaiming
at the same time:

“By the way, as I was saying,” he had not said a
word on the subject, except, perhaps, in his sleep, “as
I was saying, have you heard from that puppy, John,
since he went away?”

“No, father,” repeated she, with faltering lips, and
twinkling eyes.

“Thunder and Mars! can't the fellow write?”

“But what is the use of writing, sir, when there is
no way of sending a letter? you know, father, there
is no post running now, and I have not seen a single
traveller pass since he went away.”

“What—you have mounted guard and kept a good
look-out, hey?”

“I don't deny it, sir, for I own I am anxious to hear
from him. I think of going over to-morrow to his
grandfather's to inquire, if you have no objection.”

“Not I, Jane. But I dare say he is sick enough of
his bargain, by this time. Thunder and Mars! Jane,
if you only knew what a soldier's life is. Nothing
but marches and countermarches—guns, drums, and
wounds, powder, grape-shot, fire, fury, hunger, thirst,
cold, and the deuce knows what besides. I should'nt
be surprised if the fellow had deserted by this time,
or died of the home-sickness, not I.”

“O, father! how can you say so? such is not the
picture I draw, in the midst of my fears. I think I see
him animated by love of his country, and the hope—
the hope you have given him—preparing himself, by
never ceasing efforts, to win the prize, humble as it
is; animating and inspiring his companions in arms
to do all, dare all, in the cause of mankind. I know
him better than you do, sir, and something tells me that,
as I heard him once say to his grandfather, his name
will yet ring among his fellow-soldiers. I fear for his
life, but not for his honour. Little as is my value, he
will win me, or die.”

At this moment, the sound of horses' feet was heard
rapidly approaching, and, as if by an uncontrollable
influence, Jane ran to the door, which eagerly opening,
she looked out amid the starless night, where
nothing could be seen but the drifting snow, which
now began to fall, and nothing heard but the wind
moving among the leafless branches of the trees.
Immediately a voice exclaimed:

“Is Colonel Hammond at home?” It was not the
voice she wished to hear, but one she had never heard
before. At length, however, she answered:

“He is—will you come in, sir?”

The stranger entered, and was welcomed by the
colonel in the homely old-fashioned style of those days.
The colonel, by way of entering wedge, after the
guest was seated by the cheerful fire, observed it was
a stormy night, and the traveller assented; for, no
one not troubled with the spirit of contradiction, would
have thought of contesting such a self-evident proposition.
A short silence ensued, but as every one
knows that the appetite for news is innate among
country-people, and more especially among our countrymen,
the old continental at length inquired of the
stranger if he was from head-quarters. He replied
in the affirmative, adding, that he was on his way
home, having served out his time, and that the storm
had obliged him to claim shelter for the night, if he
could be accommodated where he was. The old continental
assured him of a hearty welcome, and ordered
his horse to the stable, while Jane was in a great
fit of the fidgets. Her lips parted more than once,

as if to speak, but closed again, only breathing a deep
sigh.

“How are things getting on at head-quarters?” at
length asked the colonel.

“Bad enough,” replied the stranger. “The soldiers
are almost destitute of food and clothing, and some
have become discontented, not to say disaffected. A
few of them have been plotting desertion, and mutiny,
and one, a young fellow from this neighbourhood,
has been condemned to be shot; and, now I
think of it, I've got a letter from him to this young
woman.”

Saying this, he fumbled in his pocket, and drawing
forth a letter, handed it to Jane, who received it with
trembling hand, and cheeks white as the snow falling
without. Her heart grew sick, almost to fainting,
and she stood supporting herself by a chair, with the
letter in her hand. At length, venturing to look at it,
she recognised the writing, and sliding from her hold,
sunk down on the floor, helpless, though not insensible.
With mingled feelings of sorrow and indignation, the
colonel, assisted by the stranger, raised up and supported
the blighted blossom, muttering, at intervals,
to himself, “my poor Jane! my God, she is dying!”
and “Thunder and Mars! what a cowardly young
rascal, to desert his country!”

The smitten maiden recovered by degrees, and was
seated in the colonel's arm-chair, where, summoning
to her aid the pride and dignity of woman, or, perhaps,
the courage of despair, she opened the letter with a
firm hand, and began to read. As she proceeded, her
bosom heaved, her cheek became flushed, her eye

sparkled, and at the conclusion, she exclaimed “he is
innocent! father, he is innocent! and a just providence
will never suffer him to die the death of a traitor!
see here, dear father!”

The colonel took the letter, and read it attentively,
without a word. Then he stamped about the room
for a time, with his hands crossed at his back, while
ejaculating to himself something like the following
soliloquy:

“The young rascal! it is all a lie, from beginning
to end. What! six men all put their heads together
to swear away the life of an innocent man! I don't
believe a word of it, for it is impossible, but they must
have contradicted each other. It's a lie, a cowardly
lie! only to make Jane more miserable by lamenting
the young rascal after he's dead. And yet, I could
never believe this of John. He was always a bold,
frank, up and down lad, and nobody ever caught him
in a lie. I remember when the young rascal spoiled
my patent plough, by not knowing the philosophy of
it, and old Cæsar was blamed, he came forward like
a man, and took it all on himself. Hum—may be
what he says is true. Jane—my dear child, cheer up,
my little blossom. It will be good sleighing to-morrow,
and bright and early I'll drive to head-quarters. The
general will never deny an old comrade the life of an
innocent man.”

“You'll be too late, sir,” said the stranger, bluntly,
and without reflecting on consequences. “He was
shot this morning. I heard the volley fired as I passed
over the mountain.”

“He is dead then!” shrieked Jane, as sinking back

in her chair, she sat pale and still as a statue, while
not a single tear trickled from her eyes. She did not
faint, but her mind and body both remained benumbed
with the sudden shock. Her heart was cold, and her
brain unconscious of all but indistinct imagery flitting
about, as it were, without form or identity.

The stranger soon retired to rest, saying he should
be off by day-light in the morning, and the father and
daughter were left alone in their misery. It was now
waning towards midnight, and the storm waxed louder
and louder; the winds moaned bitterly, ever and anon
startling the freezing silence of the night, and almost
realizing the poetic fiction of the spirit of the storm,
riding the blast with desolation in his train. As they
sat in the hopeless silence of deep-rooted sorrow, Jane
was roused from the trance of grief, by what she imagined,
the trampling of a horse in the snow, amid
one of those pauses so frequently occurring in the
fiercest storms, when nature seems to stop her career
for a moment, to recover breath for more vehement
exertions. She listened with intense and eager anxiety,
but the sound was again lost in the loudness of
the storm. Another pause—and the tramping of footsteps
was heard on the piazza. This time the colonel
heard it too, and the first idea being that it was a
party of Skinners, tories, or Cow Boys, come to pay
him a visit, he seized his old rusty sword, which always
in these dangerous times, hung up in the sitting-room,
a memento of the siege of old Ti, as well as a
text for many a long rigmarole story of the old French
war. While stamping about with this formidable
weapon in his hand, Jane had ventured to the door

opening on the piazza, whence she returned borne in
the arms of a man covered with snow from head
to foot.

“Thunder and Mars! What does all this mean?”
exclaimed the old continental, advancing, sword in
hand.

“What, colonel, don't you know me?” exclaimed a
voice, which he recollected perfectly.

“Know you! by the memory of the immortal Wolfe,
it's John! But stand off, sir—none of your hand, sir,
and put down my daughter instantly, I command you,
sir. Don't touch the hem of her petticoat, you rascal,
till you've proved to me you don't deserve hanging.
The only daughter of Colonel Hammond must not rest
in the arms of a rascally mutineer, though he may
have been pardoned. But—hum—ha—yes—Thunder
and Mars! I forgot. I suppose you've proved your innocence,
hey? Well, by the Lord Harry, John, I'm
glad to see you for all that. Jane, confound you,
make haste and come to yourself, that I may hear all
about it; and John, mind, if you've run away from
justice, I'll have you tied neck and heels, and sent
back to-morrow. Make haste, Jane, I say; you think
I'm as patient as that obstinate old blockhead, Squire
Day.”

John placed Jane tenderly in the old arm chair, and
what he said to her in doing so is a mystery, but the
effect was magical. She opened her eyes, and lips,
too, exclaiming in tones of proud triumph, mingled
with glowing affection—

“I knew you were innocent of deserting your country!”

“Yes, yes,” said the colonel, “but the matter is not
quite so clear yet. He may be only pardoned, not acquitted,
and of the two, I'd rather for my part, he had
been shot outright; or he may have escaped, for aught
we know. Come, sir, let us hear the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth, before I decide whether to take
you by the hand or turn you out of doors. We know
from your letter all that happened up to yesterday;
let us hear the rest in as few words as possible. None
of your rigmaroles, John.”

Thus cautioned, the young soldier took up his story
where it had been left in his letter, and probably to
prevent Jane from jumping out of her skin, took fast
hold of her hand while he related the particulars. It
is out of our power to depict the feelings of that
amiable, excellent girl, during the recital; but this
we know, that whenever he came to a critical point
in his story, he felt a thrilling pressure of the hand
held captive in his own; that as the catastrophe approached,
that little soft hand trembled, and grew
cold; and that when he came to the lifting up the
sword, the tap of the drum, and the discharge of the
muskets, she looked in his face with agonized tenderness,
as if to see that he was yet alive. When he had
done, she drew her hand gently from his, and clasping
both her own together, exclaimed—

“The hand of Heaven was in it, and to Heaven all
our gratitude is due!”

“John,” said the old continental, “I shan't turn you
out in the snow, to-night, I believe. Give me your
hand, boy. Your honour is cleared. You have deserved
well of your country, and are worthy to be

my son-in-law. But—hum—not quite yet, though.
You've done nothing but escape by miracle from being
shot for doing your duty. You must do something
more than this according to our bargain.”

“I know it, sir. I mean to do more, if I am spared,
before another year goes over my head. I shall keep
my word, sir, and never claim my bride till I feel myself
worthy of the blessing.”

“Spoke like a true heart. But, Thunder and Mars!
John, now I think of it, I don't exactly comprehend
how the grandson of an old farmer came to talk and
act so much like a gentleman. I always thought such
things ran in the blood, but you seem to have got them
from nature.”

“And why not, sir? Let me tell you, Colonel Hammond,
that the same high and noble impulses lie dormant
in the bosom of the peasant as in that of the
king, and that nothing is wanting to awaken them to
life and action, but incitement and opportunity. Inspired,
as I am, by love and liberty—with such a prize
as this to gain, and such a cause as ours to defend—I
must be meaner than the dirt on which I tread, if I
don't become more than a gentleman.”

“I believe you are right, John, that is, so far as I
understand you; for may I be shot for mutiny, as you
came so near being, if you are not sometimes as deep
as that old blockhead, Squire Day, who half the time
can't make himself understood, and the other half
don't understand himself.” But there was another
auditor who understood, and gave him such a look as
he comprehended just as easily as he could distinguish

every feeling of her heart in the clear mirror of her
liquid eye.

The worthy old gentleman had delivered himself of
a succession of stupendous yawns, at the conclusion
of his last speech, and with him, the next step was
plump into the region of Morpheus. He always fell
asleep extempore, which, in our opinion, is a faculty
that makes amends for at least one-half the evils
which constitute the chief inheritance of mankind.
Let no one complain of his fate, while his nights are
refreshed by the dews of balmy rest, and happy
dreams. How the young couple employed the interval,
during which the old soldier was sleeping on his
post, is none of the reader's business, nor ours either.
All we shall disclose, is, that John was in the act of
telling his story the third time, when he was interrupted
by the colonel, who burst suddenly into an
eruption of expletives, which interrupted the thread
of his discourse, and startled Jane to such a degree,
that she snatched away her hand just as if something
had bit her.

“Thunder and fire!—Dash on, my boys! huzza for
old Ti! down with the Parley voux and the Indians!”
cried the old continental, starting up at the same time,
and breaking his pipe over John's head. “Ah! ah!
you copper-coloured caitiff, I think I've done your business,
hey?”

Awakened by the exertion, he rubbed his eyes,
stared about, and at length said, “By the Lord Harry,
I believe I've been napping.” Then looking at his
watch, and finding it was far towards morning, he
commanded them to seek the land of Nod—where

many a man, besides Cain, has found a wife in dreams,
—and soon the uproar of the storm without, combined
with the peaceful, happy feelings within, lulled them
all into a luxurious repose, during which, Jane dreamed
she was married to John, and that he turned out to be
his old grandmother. She awoke with the fright, and
finding the sun shone out brightly, arose, and commenced
the performance of her customary household
duties, with a heart as light and as pure as the flakes
of snow that were whirling about in the eddies of a
brisk northwester.