 | THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. The soldier's bride and other tales |  |
THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE.
Love's like a dizziness,
It winna let a puir boddy
Gang about his business.”
A few years ago, that part of the state of New
York which lies along the main route from the
Hudson to the western lakes, presented an agreeable,
but eccentric, diversity of scenic beauty,
combining the wildest traits of nature with the
cheerful indications of enlightened civility and rural
comfort. The desert smiled—but it smiled in its
native beauty. The foot of science had not yet
wandered thither; nor had the ample coffers of a
state been opened, to diffuse, with unexampled
munificence, over a widely spread domain the
blessings of industry and commerce. The beautiful
villages scattered throughout this extensive region,
exhibited a neatness, taste, and order, which would
have been honourable to older communities. Between
these little towns lay extensive tracts of
wilderness, still tenanted by the deer, and enlivened
by the notes of the feathered tribes. Farms, newly
The traveller, as he held his solitary way
among the shadows of the forest, acknowledged the
sovereignty of the sylvan deities, whose sway seemed
undisputed; but from these silent shades he emerged
at once into the light and life of civilised society.
Such were the effects produced by an industrious
and somewhat refined population, thrown among
the romantic lakes, the fertile vallies, and the boundless
forests of the West.
The war of 1812, while it exposed the feeble
settlements of the frontier to the danger of hostile
incursions, produced life and bustle, where, before,
all had been silence and repose. Multitudes of men
penetrated the quiet recesses of the forest, and
pitched their tents by the peaceful waters, whose
murmurs had heretofore mingled harmoniously with
the songs of the native melodists. The drum, the
trumpet, and the fife—the clash of arms, and the
heavy reverberations of artillery—the rumbling of
wheels, and the voices of men—all that is discordant,
and all that is inspiring, in the sounds of war,
burst upon the repose of the wilderness. In these
regions, however, such terrific indications lasted
but for a moment,—the gust of war, like the summer
cloud sporting its forked lightnings as it swept
along, rolled onward, to develop all its awful splendour,
and destructive energy, on the distant field of
battle.
In the spring of the year 1814, a company of
Erie, marched through this sequestered country.
Upon a delightful evening, late in the month of May,
they arrived at one of those pretty villages to which
I have alluded, upon the borders of a small lake.
This little band consisted of about ninety newly
enlisted men, commanded by a single officer, whose
youthful appearance indicated that his military
career had as yet been brief. The vicinity of a
comfortable hamlet, and the signs of civility and
plenty, were peculiarly grateful to the weary soldiers,
who had toiled on their march from the dawn,
until near the close of an unusually sultry day. If
not “tired of war's alarms,” they were oppressed
with its fatigues. Emerging from the bosom of the
monotonous forest, whose loneliness and silence had
become tiresome, they halted on a small eminence,
and gazed upon the scene before them. There
were groups of cottages embowered in shrubbery,
and a few edifices of higher pretensions, but less
picturesque; and there was the village church,
white as the driven snow, pure and spotless as the
purpose to which it was devoted—with its pointed
spire directing the soul to another world. The beams
of the evening sun glittered over the blue waters
of the lake, and the surrounding objects threw
their long shadows upon its tranquil mirror. The
lake itself, buried among the hills and woods, indented
with bays and promontories, was so beautifully
romantic, that even the rugged soldiers seemed
delightful shores.
Their own appearance was far less imposing.
Fatigued with toil, covered with sweat and dust,
their clothes soiled, their shoes worn with travel—
they seemed to bend beneath the weight of their
knapsacks, as they stood leaning upon their arms.
Upon such occasions, however, the military rule
is to put the best foot foremost—particularly if
there be any fair ladies in the case—and the officer
prepared to march through the village with all
convenient eclat.
An unpractised observer would have smiled to
see how much importance was given to the arrangement
of a little band of jaded recruits, previous to
their exhibition in a secluded hamlet. But what
soldier triumphs not in the conquest of a female
heart?—where is the martial spirit that is not
elated with the smile of beauty? Churlish indeed
would be the leader, who should fail in the observance
of a customary homage to the fair, even of a
village. Not so our officer—he determined that
every heart in the hamlet should beat to the music
of his drum—and cheerily issued his orders. The
stragglers are called in, and the ranks closed. The
systematic order of parade takes place of the looseness
of the march. The soldier, whose weary
limbs seemed incapable of further exertion, now
appears to inhale new life; his nerves are braced,
his form erected, and his arms grasped with vigour.
sends forth his shrillest notes—the word is given,
and the body moves forward with a firm and rapid
step. The piercing sounds, wafted over the lake,
announce the approach of the military strangers.
The villager quits his work to stare—the enraptured
children rush to join the cavalcade—the ladies
forsake the tea-table, and fly to the windows to admire
“the handsome fellows”—and the soldier is
rewarded for his momentary exertion; conscious
that he has excited a vivid interest which will not
be forgotten—at least within the next twenty-four
hours. In the rear comes the baggage-wagon loaded,
followed, and preceded, by men, women, and children—the
sick, the weary, and the lame. But
even these are not without their pride. The poor
soldier with his knapsack at his back—his child on
one arm, and his wife leaning upon the other, feels
himself as much
In the day and hour of danger,”
The young officer led his command proudly
through the village, and selected a retired spot on
the margin of the lake for his encampment.
Arrived at the welcome place of rest, a new scene
of bustle ensues. The officer marks off the ground
for his camp, and surrounds it by a line of sentinels.
The pleas of fatigue are not allowed to interfere
with the established rules of discipline, and all are
canvass, which are to protect them during the
night. The wagons discharge their multifarious
burthens, and each reclaims his own. The tents
are pitched in a regular line, with technical accuracy.
Parties are despatched to procure water,
and wood, and straw. The fires are kindled in the
rear of the encampment; the business of cooking
commences, and cheerfulness reigns throughout.
The sly jest, the loud laugh, and the martial song,
resound. Satisfied with the present enjoyment,
the careless soldiers soon forgot their past fatigues,
and took little thought of the toils that awaited them.
There was one who regarded this scene with
intense interest. Mr. Pendleton, the commanding
officer, was a young gentleman of sense and feeling.
Ardent, romantic, and ambitious, the path of life
was bright before him. The world to him was, as
yet, a world of novelty; he gazed with delight upon
nature and on man, and dreamed of still greater
enjoyments to be gathered in the bright career imprinted
upon his young and glowing fancy. He
had thrown his limbs on the grass, and reclining at
full length, watched the unruffled still waters of the
lake, and the sun-beams trembling among the tops
of the tall trees. As he dwelt upon the quiet landscape,
contrasting it with the tumult and the dangers
which beset the path of ambition, certain hopes
arose unconsciously in his bosom, picturing the
scenes of bliss and repose that might reward a youth
lake, like the one before him, a cottage embowered
with roses and honey-suckles, and a pair of soft
blue eyes, beaming love and gladness over all.
Then turning to observe the careless mortals who
acknowledged his command, a sense of the responsibility
of his station recalled his fleeting ideas.
The encampment was now surrounded by the
villagers, who had eagerly collected to behold a
spectacle, which, in our peaceful country, is happily
of rare occurrence. The old and young of
either sex were there, decked in the flaunting hues
of rustic finery; and there were belles and beaux,
and all the beauty and fashion of the hamlet.
“Good day, Mr. Corporal,” said the village
blacksmith to a non-commissioned officer, who was
leading out a watering party. The corporal considered
himself on detachment, and being fond of
the dignity of a separate command, returned the
salutation with an air of awkward condescension.
“Bound for Canada, eh! corporal?” continued
the blacksmith, “Well, that's your sort—but where
do you strike first? Quebec or Montreal?”
“Can't tell; we hav'n't determined yet.”
“Close as a vice, eh!—that's the way with you
military men—well, well, keep your own counsel,
only mind you hammer the rust off them are British.”
“Let us alone for that,” said the corporal, “we
shall give a good account of them before long.”
“That's your sort, corporal,—strike while the
tories and fellows that won't fight;—but I say, Mr.
Corporal, can't you jist give us a small idee, a bit
of a hint like, where you are going?”
“Can't indeed—don't know, 'till we take a peep
at the red coast—but you'll hear of us somewhere
along the lakes.”
“Ah! that's your sort, corporal! Kingston, York,
Fort George.—I see you know how to hit the right
nail on the head—I guess I know what's what!
Now my advice to you is—”
“After we dispose of them there small places,”
said the corporal, “we shall take Quebec.”
“Right, right,” said the sable politician, “that's
jist my way—knock off all my small jobs first, and
keep the heavy ones to the last; but I say, corporal,
don't let them outwit you, as they did old
Hull.”
“They'll not catch old birds with chaff; we shall
be wide awake, and duly sober—” “And 'live as a
coal, eh! well, that's your sort,—jist my way, I'm
always—”
Here the corporal marched off with his party, to
the infinite chagrin of the loquacious smith, who,
turning to an old woman who had put on her spectacles
to see the soldiers, and had listened, with
ears and mouth open, to the preceding dialogue—
“You see how it is, Mrs. Chatterglib,” said he,
“we pay these fellows our money, and can't get a
word out of them; they've no more gratitude than
fellows, howsomever.”
“Nice young men, indeed!” said the old woman,
“more 's the pity—poor souls, they'll all be murdered!”
“Oh, bless you, no! they'll bear as much hammering
as my anvil, and never mind it.”
The villagers had nearly all retired, when Mr.
Pendleton observed a young female lingering
beyond the line of sentinels; and believing that
neither solitude nor silence is ever voluntarily
chosen by the fair sex, he thought that it would be
a praiseworthy act of gallantry, to relieve her from
both by his presence and conversation. Approaching
with that easy air of familiarity which soldiers
feel at liberty to assume towards rustic beauties,
he discovered her to be a beautiful blue eyed girl
of sixteen, whose neat person and agreeable features
at once conciliated kindness. She wore a
plain dress of domestic cotton, and the office of a
bonnet was performed by one of those homely
combinations of pasteboard and muslin, commonly
called a sun-bonnet, which shelters head, face, neck,
and shoulders, from sunbeams and admiring glances
—unless a lady happens to have a very pretty face,
in which case it is commonly thrown back. The
garb of the fair stranger was coarse and plain, but
there was an air of unstudied neatness throughout
the whole economy of her person, that added a
charm to her beauty, which mere finery could not
her innocent and unsophisticated face on her hand
in an attitude of deep abstraction, and gazing at
the camp with that earnestness of curiosity, which
is excited in inexperienced minds by the first sight
of an unusually interesting object. Hers was not
that idle glance attracted by gaudy colours, which
the poet meant when he said
with delight at the actual presence of a spectacle
which had mingled in her dreams, and warmed
her fancy. The unexpected approach of the young
officer covered her face with blushes, but an instant
restored her to self-possession, and she replied to
his salutation with a frankness which taught him to
respect her confiding simplicity. Pendleton became
interested, and entered upon the business of entertaining
the lovely stranger, with a singleness of
purpose that soon banished restraint; and ere the
young enthusiasts had time to reflect that they were
strangers, they were unconsciously strolling around
the camp in easy conversation.
The youthful maiden gazed with delight upon all
she saw. The tents were wonderful! the uniforms
beautiful! the drum delightful! and the soldiers,
sweet fellows, were, no doubt, every man of them
an Adonis in the eyes of the romantic girl. Sweet
are the dreams of youth, when fancy gilds with her
deformity under an imaginary charm! Such were
the visions of the pretty rustic as she beheld, for
the first time, a display, however humble, of “the
pomp, pride, and circumstance of glorious war,”—
a display against which no female heart has ever
yet been proof. Every sentinel was, in her eyes,
a knightly hero, glowing with patriotism, and courage,
and honour; and their commander, of course,
a very Washington. Her eye rested, with an
admiration truly feminine, upon the gaudy ornaments
of the young chieftain; the glittering epaulet,
the gilded sword-knot, and the scarlet sash, were
gayer and richer toys than her unpractised eye had
been accustomed to behold; but they assumed a
nobler value in her estimation, as the undisputed
insignia of rank and merit, and as she gazed upon
that young officer, her admiration was mingled
with a softer sensation, which thrilled every nerve
and artery with a new and undefinable delight.
The officer marked the delirium of the sensitive
girl, but was not coxcomb enough to be vain of the
homage which he was conscious he owed to his
profession, his dress, and his command, and shared
with the humblest comrade in the ranks; and which
even his little bandy-legged bugler, who was breathing
forth his choicest holiday notes in an adjacent
thicket, had contributed to inspire. His own emotions
were of a varied, but not unpleasant character.
Here was a young and beautiful girl, evidently of
curiosity by visiting a camp, with no other protector
than her own innocence. Her entire
ignorance of the impropriety of the step she had
taken, was in itself interesting—so artless! so fearless!
She seemed really to believe, in downright
earnest, that men were her fellow creatures and
brethren, and not wicked knaves lying in wait to
devour helpless women; and that the plumed warriors
of the nation were bound to be good soldiers
to a lady, as well as to a lord. But what struck
him most, was the native intelligence, vivacity, and
romantic turn of mind, which gave energy and ease
to the language and manners of a peasant girl, who
had received nothing from the hand of art. She
said little, but her soft eye was lighted up with
intelligence, and there was eloquence in every
expression of her delighted features. That she was
uneducated, and unaccustomed to society, was very
evident; but her manners were neither bashful nor
vulgar—neither polished nor forward,—they had a
certain natural ease, which was the result of innocence
and self-respect. Perhaps the excited feelings
of that evening, banishing ordinary associations,
and giving a higher tone to the spirit, added an air
of elevation to manners naturally chaste and simple.
Be all this as it may, a handsomer or happier couple
than this, has seldom been seen on the green sward;
and never did two hearts mingle more artlessly
together.
Passing at length in the rear of the camp, they
came in front of the guard-tent, near which a prisoner,
in chains, lay extended on the ground guarded
by a sentinel. The maiden gazed a moment upon
the unfortunate man, and then, in a tone of horror,
exclaimed, “Oh William! William! it is he! it is
he!” The prisoner, whose eyes had been cast to
the ground as his officer approached, raised them
on hearing this exclamation, and displayed a youthful
countenance, pale with disease, and deeply
marked with grief and shame. An expression of
anguish sat upon his face; his eyes were sunk, his
dark locks, long and tangled, hung over his woworn
features, his person was clad in miserable
rags—and his whole appearance was haggard, and
forlorn. Without moving from his reclining posture,
he extended one hand to the weeping girl, and
with the other shaded his pallid features. The
maiden had dropped on one knee beside him, and
as the tear rolled down her cheek, she seemed like
virtue bending to intercede for crime. For a few
minutes both were silent; and the officer, respecting
the sacredness of their feelings, ordered the sentinel
to remove a short distance, and was himself retiring
when he was overtaken by the distracted girl.
In a few words she had learned the crime and the
fate of the hapless youth. He had forfeited his life
by desertion! “Save him! Pardon him!” she exclaimed
in frantic accents, as she threw herself at
the feet of the officer, “Oh! pardon him for mercy's
was some time before Pendleton could command
himself sufficiently to attempt a reply, while the
agitated girl continued to reiterate with all the
heart-rending energy of grief. “Oh! do—do—pardon
him, pardon my brother!” At last he succeeded
in explaining to her, that he possessed no
discretionary power over the fate of the unhappy
youth, who must be tried by a court-martial, and if
convicted could only be rescued from death, by the
mercy of the commanding general.
“Then,” said the girl, with the calmness of determined
resolution, “I will go to him!”
“Impossible!” said Pendleton, “the head-quarters
of the army are at Buffalo the distance is
more than a hundred miles—too far for an unprotected
girl to venture.”
“What have I to fear?”
“Every thing—fatigue, danger, insult—evils
which you are too young, too innocent, to dream
of—too weak to repel.”
“An orphan girl, seeking to save a brother's life,
and to rescue the gray hairs of an aged widow from
sorrow, will find support;—heaven will protect
me!”
“It cannot be—it must not be,” said Pendleton,
“you have neither strength to endure the toils of
the journey, nor courage to surmount the difficulties
which would beset your path.”
“Oh, I can endure a great deal, for those I love.”
“Your love must be great, and your faith strong,
if they could bear your spirit up through all the
perils of a lonesome road, and a licentious camp.
Let me beseech you not to think of such an adventure.”
“Ah! sir,” replied the ardent girl, “if you knew
the pious mother of that young man—if you could
hear the fervent prayers which she puts up daily
and almost hourly for her only son, the darling and
stay of her old age, you would not think any peril
too great that could bring her peace and comfort.
Oh! I will do any thing—risk any thing to soothe
the bitterness of her affliction!”
“After all,” continued the officer, “your success
will be doubtful. It is uncertain when a court-martial
will sit; it may be in a few days, or it may
not be for many months; the general will not interpose
his authority until the evidence has been examined,—and
at last he may not grant your petition.”
“Oh, he must grant it, he surely will—if he is a
merciful man, if he is a father, he cannot refuse it.”
“He is a father, and a merciful man, and I think
he will pardon your brother; but he is a soldier,
true to his duty, and rigid in his discipline, and
may think it improper to do so. You must remain
with your mother to comfort her; trust to me the
care of your brother's interest; I will be his advocate,
and, if possible, procure his pardon.”
“Will you promise that?” demanded the girl
eagerly.
“I promise it most solemnly.”
“Thank you—thank you; I knew you could not
be so hard-hearted as to see my brother perish.”
Pendleton smiled as he repressed the obvious
compliment, which would have told her how little
generosity it required to become the advocate of
one who was dear to her. But he took her hand
and pressed it, as she added,
“As you hope for mercy, remember your promise.”
“I will both remember, and perform it religiously.”
“Then I will trust you,” said she, “farewell!”
She returned to the forlorn youth, and after a
few minutes' conversation, retired. Pendleton would
have accompanied her home, as the evening shades
were now closing in, but bounding away with the
fleetness of a deer, she was soon lost in the surrounding
shades.
Long before the first gray streak illumined the
horizon on the following morning, our little camp
was awakened by the inspiring notes of the reveillé.
Every soldier has felt the charm of this inspiring
music. Whether it be that the tunes adapted to
this purpose are remarkably sweet, or that the hour,
when all else is still, is peculiarly propitious, or
that hearts soothed by sleep, and minds unoccupied
by thought, are more open to the reception of
once heard the melodious strains which usher in
the military day, never forgets their delightful impression.
Now the gladsome notes floated over
the quiet waters, and the cheerful echoes enlivened
the surrounding shores. The events of the preceding
evening, had added another link to the chain
of romantic associations in the mind of Pendleton;
and as he stood with his arms folded, leaning against
a tree, upon the spot where he had parted with the
fair stranger, he felt his heart softened by new and
peculiar emotions.
Another interesting feature in this scene was the
assembling of the troops, to the morning roll-call.
As the music played they were seen creeping unwillingly
from their tents, a various group, some
half-clad, and some in uniform. Gradually disposing
themselves, they formed a line in front of the encampment,
the non-commissioned officers passing
about, or posted at intervals, with lights, which shed
a glare over this little band, while every surrounding
object was involved in gloom. As the music
ceased, the officer advanced to superintend the
calling of the roll; a deep silence prevailed during
the performance of this duty, and at its conclusion
the orderly sergeant announced that the men were
“all present.” Then the camp fires were kindled,
and the morning meal was despatched while daylight
yet lingered beyond the distant hills.
Orders were now given to prepare for the march.
rapid step, cheerily played “the general;” a merry
march to which a yankee poet has adapted the
homely strain,
Strike your tents and march away;
All the way to Hackensack,
Each with knapsack at his back?”
were seen packing their knapsacks and loading the
wagons. Then the pins which distend the tents,
and confine them to the ground, are drawn up, the
tent-poles are supported by the hands of men stationed
in the front and rear, the music concludes
with a long ruffle, and as the last stroke falls upon
the drum, every tent sinks at the same instant, and
the whole encampment disappears. The tents and
camp equipage are loaded in the wagons, and the
soldiers, now in full uniform, parade with arms.
The column is formed, a lively march strikes up,
and the party moves off cheerfully, to commence
the toils of a new day.
Arrived at the head-quarters of the army, Pendleton
did not forget his promise. William Benson
was soon brought before a court-martial, arraigned
for desertion, and pleaded guilty. In vain
Pendleton advised and entreated him to recall the
honest confession—in vain the president of the
court humanely admonished him that by this plea
he abandoned all defence, and sealed his own doom.
further than to repeat the fatal plea. But his generous
officer did not abandon him to his fate. Presenting
himself before the commanding general, he
proved by incontestible evidence that the unhappy
youth was a minor, who had been entrapped at an
unguarded moment, by the devices of an artful recruiting
sergeant; and then frankly related the manner
in which he had become interested in his fate.
This eloquent appeal came home to the bosom of
the brave commander in chief, who not only pardoned
the culprit, but directed his immediate discharge
from the service.
Language is too feeble to describe the change
produced on the unhappy youth by this intelligence.
He had wholly resigned himself to despair; grief
and shame had worn him down to a mere skeleton,
and the almost certain decree, which doomed him
to an ignominious death, had plunged him into a sullen
apathy. To part with life was painful, but its
possession had become a burthen; and he had viewed
all the proceedings against him with stupid indifference.
The rapidity with which his fate was hurrying
to a crisis, left no time for that gradual process by
which the mind is inured to guilt, and hardened
against punishment and shame. With a heart still
tenderly awake to the ardent emotions of generous
youth, and glowing with the lively hopes and fears
of that sanguine age, the rapid transition from innocence
to sin, from sin to death, filled his imagination
images of pain until it became stupified with anguish.
He had nothing to sustain him in his
affliction—neither the soldier's pride, nor the Christian's
fortitude. He could not feel the former, for
he had deserted his country; nor the latter, for he
had forsaken his God. His young heart clung to
the world whose pleasures it had just begun to
taste—but the world seemed all to have abandoned
or condemned him. Of the friends of his youth,
not one was here—the lips that used to pray for
him seemed silent—few pitied and none consoled
him; he was surrounded by those whose profession
taught them to consider his crime unpardonable,
and himself a degraded poltroon, part traitor and
part coward, whose very presence was pollution.
He had no consolation in his own reflections, for
these pictured the agony of a widowed mother,
whom he had abandoned—the vices of a brief but
wicked life—the pangs of a public and shameful execution.
But when the news came that the forfeit of his
crime was paid, that he was no longer a disgraced,
forsaken man, no longer a condemned malefactor,
but was freed at once from guilt, and bondage, and
death, his heart leaped with joy, his whole frame
swelled with gladness, and all his benumbed faculties
sprung at once into vigour. The world was
again bright and glowing—his crimes and his misfortunes
were forgotten—his latent virtues came
his bosom, pouring streams of bliss around his newly
awakened senses. Gratitude was not the least
vivid of his pleasurable sensations. He refused to
quit his benefactor; and having sent the glad tidings
of his release to his aged parent, remained with
Pendleton as a volunteer, determined to wipe the
stains from his character on the field of battle.
He fought by the side of his young commander
on the field of Chippewa. The battle took place
on the margin of the Niagara river, on an extensive
plain, which had once been covered with fine
farms, but now, forsaken by its inhabitants, and desolated
by war, it exhibited only a barren waste.
The river at that place begins to acquire some of
that terrific velocity, with which it rushes over the
awful precipice three miles below, creating one of
the greatest natural curiosities in existence; the
noise of the cataract is heard, and the column of
foam distinctly seen from the battle ground. On
the other side the field is bounded by a thick forest,
but the plain itself presented a level smooth surface,
unbroken by ravines, and without a tree or bush to
intercept the view, or an obstacle to impede the
movements of the hostile bodies, or to afford to
either party an advantage. From this plain the
American camp was separated by a small creek.
In the full glare of a summer sun, on the morning
of the fifth of July, the British troops were seen advancing
towards our camp, across the destined field
and gilded ornaments, exhibiting a gay and gorgeous
appearance—their martial music, their firm and
rapid step, indicating elastic hopes and high courage.
The Americans, inferior in number, were
hastily put in motion to meet the advancing foe;
they crossed a small rude bridge, the only outlet
from the camp under a heavy fire of the enemy's
artillery; and moved steadily to the spot selected
for the hot engagement. The scene at this moment
was beautiful and imposing. The British line,
glowing with golden and crimson hues, was stretched
across the plain, flanked by pieces of brass ordnance,
whose rapid discharge spread death over the
field, and filled the air with thunder; while the
clouds of smoke enveloping each extremity of the
line, left the centre only exposed to the eye, and extending
off to the river on the one hand, and the
forest on the other, filled the whole back ground of
the landscape. The Americans were advancing in
column. They were new recruits, now led for the
first time into action, and except a few of the officers,
none of all that heroic band had ever before
seen the banner of a foe. But they moved steadily
to their ground, unbroken by the galling fire: and
platoon after platoon wheeled into line with the
same graceful accuracy of movement which marks
the evolutions of the holiday parade, until the whole
column was deployed into one extended front; the
officers carefully dressing the line with technical
and the faithful precision of its movements,
the subordination of strict discipline, and the steady
coolness of determined courage. Now the musketry
of the enemy began to rattle, pouring bullets
thick as hail upon our ranks. Still not a trigger
was drawn, not a voice was heard on our side, save
the quick peremptory tones of command. General
Scott rode along the line, cheering and restraining
his troops:—then passing from flank to flank to see
that all was as he wished, he wheeled his steed into
the rear of the troops and gave the command to
“fire!” A voice was immediately heard in the
British ranks,—supposed to be that of their commander,—exclaiming,
“charge the d—d Yankees!
charge the d—d Buffalo militia! charge! charge!”
The American general ordered his men to “support
arms!” The British rushed forward with bayonets
charged; but they were struck with amazement
when they beheld those whom their commander had
tauntingly called militia, standing motionless as statues:
their muskets erect, their arms folded across
their breasts, gazing calmly at the hostile ranks advancing
furiously with levelled bayonets! It was a
refinement of discipline rarely exhibited, and here
altogether unexpected. The Americans stood until
the enemy approached within a few paces:—until
the foemen could see the fire flashing from each
other's eyes—and each could read the expression
of his adversary's face; then, deliberately, as the
and fired,—and the whole line of the enemy
seemed annihilated! Many were killed, many
wounded, and some, rushing madly forward with a
powerful momentum, fell over their prostrate companions,
or were thrown down by the weight of succeeding
combatants. In one instant the ground
lately occupied by that gallant line, was covered
with flying Britons; in another, a second line had
advanced to sustain the contest, while the broken
fragments of the first were rallied behind it. The
“Buffalo militia” were now the assailants, advancing
with charged bayonets. Then it was that the
young American chiefs, who led that gallant host,
displayed the skill of veterans, and the names of
Scott, Jessup, Leavenworth, M`Niel, and Hindman,
were given to their country to adorn the proudest
page of its history. Five-and-thirty minutes decided
the contest, and the retiring foe was pursued,
and driven to his fortress. None who saw, will forget
the terrific beauty of that scene—the noble appearance
of the troops—the dreadful precision of
every movement—the awful fury of the battle—its
fatal severity—its brief continuance—its triumphant
close!
As the victors returned from the pursuit of the
retreating enemy, a scene of intense interest was
presented. They traversed the field which a few
minutes before had sparkled with the proud equipage
of war. There had been gallant men and gay
drums, and trumpets, and the wild notes of the
bugle, stirring the soul to action. There had been
nodding plumes and beating hearts, and eyes that
gleamed with valour and ambition. There too had
been impetuous chiefs emulous of fame, dashing
their fiery steeds along the hostile ranks; and there
had been all the spirit-stirring sounds and sights,
that fill the eye, and the ear, and the heart of the
young warrior, giving more than the poet's fire to
his entranced imagination. What a change had a
few brief moments produced! Now the field was
strewn with ghastly heaps of bloody and disfigured
forms; with the wounded, the mutilated, and the
dying. The ear was filled with strange, and melancholy,
and terrific sounds; the shouts of victory had
given place to groans of anguish, the complaints of
the vanquished, the prayers or the imprecations of
the dying. Here was one who called on heaven to
protect his children; another raved of a bereaved
wife; a third tenderly aspirated some beloved name,
consecrated only by that tie;—while others deprecated
their own sufferings, or pleaded piteously for
the pardon of their sins. Here were those who
prayed ardently for death, and some who implored
a few moments more of life. Complaints of bodily
pain, and confessions of unrepented crime burst
from the souls of many in heart-rending accents;
while some, as they gazed upon the fast flowing
crimson torrent, wasted the brief remains of breath
careless prodigality of existence. Many gallant
spirits there were, on that ensanguined plain, who
prayed silently; and some who dared not pray, and
yet scorned to murmur. Their compressed lips
bespoke their firmness; their eyes wandered wildly
and wistfully over the bright scene that was fading
before them, and they grasped fervently the hands
of those who mournfully bade them farewell. Last
of all were seen those, in whom the soldier's enthusiasm
overpowered every other sensation, who
smiled at pain, and welcomed victory even in death.
The actors in this scene seem to have multiplied;
for those who had occupied but a small space,
when marshalled in compact bodies, were now
scattered widely over the plain. At one spot was
a group of men, at another a heap of mutilated bodies;
all around were broken carriages, and the
carcasses of men and horses. The distinctions of
rank and country had ceased with many. The
British grenadier and the American rifleman slept
in death together; the limbs of the common sentinel
were thrown across the body of his officer. The
soldier, slightly hurt, supported his desperately
wounded enemy; the dying Englishman reclined
his head upon the lap of the bleeding American;
and the American threw his exhausted frame into
the arms of the vanquished Briton. Every one demanded
help from the nearest hand, or afforded it
where it seemed most necessary. The sullen pride
victors, alone distinguished their deportment.
“What wonderful infatuation! What a paradox
in human nature!” exclaimed Pendleton, as he
surveyed this scene. “Strange, that men with
common feelings, with humane and generous propensities,
without any personal animosity, should be
arrayed in deadly hostility! Equally strange, that
in a moment they should forget their enmity, in the
kindly interchange of friendship and benevolence!
Such are the effects of national ambition, such the
fatal consequences of war!”
Proud as our young soldier felt of his own exertions
he viewed the field of battle with the most
painful emotions. His were the generous sensations
of a noble mind, which could not gaze unmoved
at human misery; time could never have
familiarized his heart to these bloody scenes of
death.
But it was his fate to witness again, and again,
the awful splendour of the battle. He was present
on that eventful night, when the thunders of war
mingled with the roar of the mighty cataract. The
battle was long doubtful, and bloody. The Americans,
opposed to superior numbers, fought with
desperate perseverance; leader after leader was
carried wounded from the field, or fell at his post;
and our little army, triumphant at last, purchased
victory with the loss of half its force.
Pendleton shared the glory of the siege at Fort
weeks the unceasing assaults of a potent army;
when every day was employed in warfare, and the
repose of every night broken by the roar of artillery.
He witnessed the horrors of that night, when
the foe, with imprecations of vengeance and vows
of extermination, rushed upon our ramparts, determined
to destroy or perish. He saw the effects of
that tremendous explosion which filled the air with
fragments of human forms, with lightning glare
illuming the lake, the ramparts, the forest, and the
plain:—and in short he shared the dangers and the
honour of the brilliant campaign of 1814, in which
four successful battles were fought with a foe of
superior force, and not a single reverse experienced.
Our young soldier had now seen the world, and
he had gained distinction. At the conclusion of the
war he resigned his commission, and returned to
his friends, bearing with him a severe wound, the
witness of his services. He was received with open
arms. Banquets were made in honour of his arrival.
The gentlemen were prodigal of their welcome
and their wine; the ladies were equally
generous in tea and compliments. Many a lovely
cheek glowed in his presence. True, the church
bells did not ring—no splendid sword solicited his
acceptance—nor did any public body notice the
prowess of a subaltern; but in that little circle
dearer to him than all the world, his laurels bloomed
as freshly as those which decked his general's
streets for weeks to catch a glimpse of Brown or
Scott, were satisfied with having seen Captain Pendleton,
who, though not so celebrated, was younger
and handsomer, and withal, had fought as desperately
as either of those distinguished chieftains.
Invited, flattered, and admired, the heart of the
young soldier swelled with pleasure, and he felt
that he had not lived in vain.
But this could not last for ever. It soon became
necessary for Pendleton to choose another profession;
for happily, in our country, few men are willing,
and still fewer are able, to live in idleness. He
chose the law; but it was long before his military
habits could be changed for the labour of severe study,
and the quiet of civil pursuits. The martial life is
full of interest: its changes are numerous and abrupt;
it affords many pleasures, it excites proud and
lofty emotions; it enlivens, ennobles, and awakens
the soul with generous feelings and novel associations;
its honours, its dangers, its hardships, its privations,
arouse the highest energies of manhood,
and elevate the mind with the consciousness of
meritorious achievement. Even its hours of repose
are filled with engagements that refine, and hopes
that elevate. It has little to do with what we call
the business of life; the affections are not blunted,
nor the mind degraded, with the selfish views, the
servile employments, the sordid speculations, of
worldly men. The heart and the imagination enter
career full of interest to the young mind; and they
who have entered into the magic circle of its enchantments,
imbibed its ardour, felt its vicissitudes,
and achieved its laurels, return with an almost invincible
reluctance to the sober pursuits of common
life. Pendleton felt continually the absence of
those inspiring emotions, those high hopes, and gay
dreams, that had kept his soul continually soaring
above mortality. His delicacy shrunk from the
collision of grovelling ideas and gross employments;
and his thoughts often revelled in visions of “the
plumed troop and the big wars.” Among these
day-dreams, the adventure of the peasant girl was
not forgotten. It was a green spot upon his memory—a
delightful subject of reflection. The beauty,
the innocence, the courage of that lovely maiden,
were deeply imprinted on his heart, and he often
wished she had been born in a higher station.
Three years had now rolled away since the occurrence
of the events described in the commencement
of this tale. Pendleton's wound, which had
but lately healed, and his confinement at a sedentary
occupation, had produced a delicate state of
health, which rendered his studies irksome and injurious;
and he resolved to try the fashionable
remedy for all complaints, fresh air and exercise.
His dissipated senses had scarcely recovered from
the exhilarating effects of the scenes and feelings
which I have described, and his mind became
on his journey. Blackstone and Coke
were in his head; but his heart was occupied with
banners and bugles, and lakes and hills, and blue
eyes and rosy lips. With these sensations he retraced
his former steps. His eye wandered with
new delight over the precipitous shores of the
Hudson, he participated in the amusements of
Ballston and Saratoga, and lingered with mournful
pleasure along the banks of the Ontario. He revisited
the scenes of warlike contention, and the
graves of his former companions. He gazed with
fresh emotion on the stupendous cataract, and
strolled over the dilapidated ramparts of Fort Erie,
mingling with the gay and fashionable tourists who
now lounged in safety over the spots which he had
seen peopled with a military array. He beheld
industrious husbandmen, smiling cottages, and rich
harvests, where he had seen a depopulated waste,
and desolating armies. The change from smoking
ruins, and deserted fields, to the delightful scenes
of rural industry, was too enchanting not to produce
a deep impression, and he turned his steps
homeward with chastened feelings, and a mind
glowing with virtuous resolutions. Convinced that
true glory may be attained in the bosom of a
peaceful community, and that true happiness exists
only in the domestic circle, he resolved to seek
tranquillity in the practice of usefulness and virtue.
Why was it that Pendleton, during a few days
of his tour, had eagerly solicited his friends to procure
him letters to persons residing at B— although
he took no other letters, and in his wanderings
rather avoided than sought society? Why, having
procured these important credentials, did he take
a different route, loitering at various points of interest,
and only touching at B— on his return?
And why did he then keep those letters in his pocket,
and shrink from society more sedulously than
before? “The young gentleman was in love,” says
a fair reader. Perhaps so, but remember, madam,
I do not assert it. As a faithful historian, I
am bound only to relate facts, leaving it to philosophers
and young ladies, who are versed in such
matters, to reconcile these seeming contradictions.
B— was the same village in whose vicinity Pendleton
had met the blue-eyed sister of William
Benson. Established at the inn, he wandered
about the neighbourhood, without any settled purpose,
and with feelings which were, perhaps, imperfectly
developed to himself. The villagers
wondered who this silent stranger could be, who
did nothing but draw pictures, and play on the
flute, and stroll over the hills. Some thought he
was an engineer, sent to trace the route of the new
canal; others believed him to be a British spy, and
a few insisted that he was an emissary, employed
in some mighty political conspiracy. Their curiosity
and suspicion became troublesome, and it was
letter of introduction to Mr. Sandford, an opulent
gentleman in the neighbourhood, who accidentally
dined, on some public occasion, at the inn where
he lodged. Mr. Sandford received him with great
cordiality, kindly reproached him for having so
long concealed himself, and insisted on Pendleton's
becoming his guest, during the remainder of his
stay in that country. This our young officer declined,
but accepted an invitation to dinner on the
ensuing day.
One of Pendleton's amusements had been to row
a light skiff over the beautiful lake which I have
described. Its waters were clear as crystal, and
the smooth sheet, though narrow, was several miles
in length—shaded with forests, and encircled with
hills, which sometimes pushed their bold promontories
far into the limpid tide, and then receding,
allowed the water to extend its bays deep into the
forest. Pendleton became enamoured of these
solitudes, where he roved unseen and undisturbed;
and every day saw his little bark gliding over the
glassy surface. Sometimes he caught fish and
threw them back into the water, and often, in the
secluded recess of a bay or inlet, he played upon
his flute, and listened to its echoes. There was
one spot which particularly attracted his attention.
It was a place where the towering hill seemed to
have been reft asunder by some convulsion of nature,
opening a deep gulf through which the
with rocks, and overhung with precipices. Trees
and bushes springing from the crevices covered the
rocks with verdure, partly concealing their abrupt
projections, and casting on the silent water below
a deep shade.
One afternoon Pendleton drew out his pencil,
and attempted to sketch the features of this lonely
spot. He sat in his boat, which was moored near
the entrance of the recess, and was looking earnestly
on the precipice opposite to him, when a
female form issued from behind a projecting rock,
and stood for a moment on the verge. Soon as
her eye fell on the enraptured artist, whose gaze
was rivetted ardently upon her, she fled. Pendleton
remained immoveable with surprise, his fascinated
glance fixed upon the spot from which the
apparition had disappeared;—for in that fleeting
vision he recognised the long lost, long cherished
form of Benson's sister! He soon recovered his
self-possession, and pursued the lovely fugitive, but
after diligently exploring the rocks and bushes for
hours, returned without having found the least
trace of a footstep. Pendleton began to inquire
seriously whether his fancy had not deceived him.
The features of that lovely girl were deeply engraven
on his heart; her form was often present in
his sleeping and his waking dreams, and now, when
his imagination was heated in the attempt to portray
a wild landscape, and the “poet's eye in a fine
image of one fondly recollected might indeed
have intruded into the picture. Such was Pendleton's
conclusion as he resumed his oars and returned
homeward over the silent waters.
This incident occurred a few days previous to
his introduction to Mr. Sandford, and might have
strengthened the desire he now felt to mingle in
society. More than once he had remarked the
romantic beauty of Mr. Sandford's residence on the
shore of the lake. The house was small, but elegant,
surrounded by a lawn, which extended to the
water's edge, shaded with tall trees, and embowered
in shrubbery. The gardens and all the grounds displayed
a refined taste. Once or twice, when his
little voyages had been delayed until a later hour
than ordinary in the enjoyment of a moonlight scene,
he had poised his oars to listen to the tones of a
piano, and the dulcet strains of a female voice, issuing
from that lonely dwelling. All these circumstances
were so much in unison with the feelings of
Pendleton, that he went to Mr. Sandford's, elated
with pleasing anticipation. This will be the more
readily believed when it is added that the mansion
of Sandford was near to that fairy alcove where
he had seen the apparition of the fair rustic.
His reception was quite as agreeable as he had
expected. The house, the furniture, and the library,
with every appearance of opulence, afforded evidence
also of taste and liberality; Sandford was
beautiful and accomplished woman. The beauty
of this interesting female formed but a small part of
her loveliness; her manners were engaging, her
voice musical, her conversation sensible and easy—
but when she sung there was a fascination in the
soft fire of her eye, a melody in her voice, a feeling
gracefulness in her expression, which added new
charms to the poet's happiest thought. Pendleton
gazed upon the bright vision with a pleasure so intense
that it became almost painful. It was not
alone because this lovely woman was young, and
fair, and blooming—that her voice was music, and
her eye poetry, and her step grace,—nor because
she was surrounded by roses and honeysuckles, and
all “the blest charms of nature”—nor yet, that his
own heart was softened into the proper mood to
receive the tender impression: all these things conspired
to entrance the senses of our hero—but there
was a cause paramount to all these which fixed his
enchanted gaze, and made his heart palpitate with
tremulous delight. In this accomplished woman he
discovered a striking likeness to the peasant girl
whose image he had so long treasured in his bosom!
Perplexed with a coincidence so wonderful, he returned
to his lodgings that night, with a heart burthened
with anxious thought.
Scarcely a day now passed which did not find
our hero at the house of Mr. Sandford, and his visits
seemed to be as acceptable as they were frequent.
welcome as cordial as at first. Young hearts soon
mingle together; youth has none of that repulsive
coldness which makes confidence the growth of
long acquaintance. There are certain affinities in
human bosoms, certain influences which seem to
operate imperceptibly by attraction, as the magnet
impels the metal, and draws kindred spirits into
contact and communion. The hearts of Pendleton
and Louisa mingled as kindly as portions of the
same element. They sang and played together, or
strolled about the green lawn, or sat under a large
elm which threw its branches over the surface of
the lake. Sandford often joined them, and if he
saw, he did not disapprove, their growing predilection.
Whatever might have been formerly the case,
Pendleton was now certainly in love; and he enjoyed
the emotions of that delightful passion without
alloy. Still the likeness which he had observed
at his first visit, haunted his imagination, and as he
studied every accent and movement of Louisa Sandford,
the peasant girl often recurred to him. Sometimes
a tone of her voice would strike some chord
of his heart, and awaken a thrilling sensation, and
sometimes a gesture recalled so vividly the graceful
attitudes of Benson's sister, that Pendleton could
scarcely contain his emotions.
“And pray why did not the love-sick gentleman
make some enquiry after the fair incognita?
Here he has been lounging about a village inn, or
using any exertions to discover his lady love—and
now he is hanging over Miss Sandford's piano, distracted
with doubt, when, by putting a simple question
to her, he might at once remove his uncertainty?”
My dear madam, I could give you a score of good
substantial reasons, in support of the conduct of my
young friend; but I am happily relieved from the
necessity of offering any by the fact which has just
been developed, that he was in love, which accounts
for all inconsistencies. Had Captain Pendleton
pursued the course which you have suggested,
he would have acted with what the law
calls “ordinary prudence;” but then, madam, he
would have behaved very unlike a lover, whose
duty it is to arrive at the knowledge of his heroine's
character and circumstances by the most circuitous
methods, remaining long ignorant of what is known
to all the rest of the world, and opening his eyes
to full conviction only in the blessed state of
matrimony. Besides, had he gone soberly in pursuit
of his love as a gentleman seeks a lost spaniel,
or sought information at every door, as a yankee
pedlar hunts for old iron—he should never have
been hero of mine; for not only would his conduct
have been most un-heroical, but his search would
in all probability have been successful, and this
tale would never have been written. But moreover
the very consummation which I have just
Pendleton. His fancy had so long cherished a delightful
vision, that he shrunk instinctively from a
developement which might dissolve the airy fabric.
Three years might have made a vast change in the
fate of this fair girl. She might be dead, or, dreadful
thought! she might be married! He might find
her digging potatoes, or driving a cart, or rocking a
cradle! Some great clodhopper might have sipped
the nectar from those rosy lips, which would have
charmed an anchorite; he might find her blowing
the bellows of a grim blacksmith, or waxing the
ends of a jolly shoemaker's thread! Besides, he was
not only a modest man, but possessed a mind of
refined delicacy, which suggested that Benson's
mother might think he came to claim her thanks, or
his sister might imagine he sought a reward, for the
service he had rendered the friendless youth. In
short, I could recount a thousand ingenuous feelings
which operated to produce indecision; but as nine
tenths of my readers would pronounce them nonsensical,
and they will readily suggest themselves to
the other tenth, I shall pass them over.
But more than all was he perplexed by the likeness
between the sister of Benson, and the daughter
of Sandford. His heart often whispered that they
were the same. But how could that be? The one
a poor girl, clad in homespun, the daughter of a
widow, the sister of a common soldier; the other
an elegant woman, the only and the darling child of
to dissolve an illusion which identified these two
dearly cherished objects; but he became satisfied
at last, though the one had long animated his fancy,
it was the other who now warmed his heart.
One day as they sat together, Pendleton, resolving
to solve the riddle which perplexed him, took
from his pocket-book a miniature of the fair rustic
which he had drawn from memory, and presented
it to Louisa. A beam of joy suffused her face, as
she caught a first glimpse of the features of the portrait,
which was changed to astonishment as her eye
fell upon the dress. She cast an embarrassed
glance at Pendleton, and again viewed the picture
with tremulous confusion. For a few minutes
both were silent—it was an interval such as many
lovers have known, in which a single glance speaks
volumes in a single moment—and the secret thoughts
of the heart bursting forth from the eyes, the cheeks,
and the lips, are eloquent in every feature—when
the most interesting of all questions is asked and
answered in timid looks, the doubts of years removed,
and the blissful arrangements made for a
life of happiness, by the silent language of the eye.
That moment has fled with the rapidity of thought,
and the lovers remain abashed with the delightful
truth which has flashed upon them, the maiden
covered with conscious blushes, and the youth
gazing with unrestrained rapture at his bright conquest!
At length, to dispel an embarrassment which was
becoming irksome, Pendleton said, “I will relate
the history of that portrait—it is the memorial of a
firstlove, and displays the features of one who has
long possessed my affections.” Then assuming a
mock heroic air, and a gay tone, he proceeded:
“You must know that once upon a time, when I was
a young officer, and wore a fine uniform, and had a
tall white feather in my hat, I marched at the head
of my company, one fine summer's evening, through
a pretty little village like that beyond the water,
and encamped by a beautiful lake like that before
us, and a lovely little girl in a homespun cotton
frock and a white muslin sun-bonnet, with the
sweetest blue eyes in the world, exactly like—yours
—came to the camp to see me—”
“Oh no! no!—not to see you!”
“Well, well—I took the visit to myself, escorted
her round my camp, fell in love with her,—and—
drew her picture; or rather she left her own picture
on my heart, from whence I took this copy.”
“And what then?” enquired Louisa, timidly assuming
a little of the archness of her lover.
“Why then, like a silly swain, I dreamed of her
for three years.”
“And then like an inconstant swain, forgot her!”
“No! no! forget her I shall never—I came to
B— to seek her, and I trust I have found her here;
my eyes have long been deceived, but my heart cannot
be mistaken; you are—you must be she!”
“Nay—” said Louisa, as he would have taken her
hand, “if this portrait exhibits the likeness of your
beloved, you must seek her in the cottage of Mrs.
Benson.”
“Mrs. Benson! surely I did not mention that
name!”
“Then I have betrayed myself!” said Louisa;
and she turned to fly, when the tete-a-tete was interrupted
by the approach of Mr. Sandford.
The embarrassed maid soon retired, leaving the
gentlemen together, and Pendleton, full of the subject,
opened his whole heart to Mr. Sandford disclosing
all the particulars which I have narrated.
That gentleman listened with emotion, and then
replied, “Your confidence demands equal frankness
from me. I will at once explain the riddle which
has perplexed you. After the death of Louisa's
mother, I unguardedly contracted another marriage
which proved unfortunate. Louisa, then a mere
child, was treated unkindly by her step-mother, who
prevailed upon me to remove to the city of New
York, leaving my daughter to the care of Mrs.
Benson, who had long been a domestic in my
family, and whose husband was the manager of my
farm. To them I entrusted this mansion and all
my affairs here. I engaged in commercial speculations,
and in the dissipations of a city life, I am
mortified to acknowledge that I neglected and almost
forgot my daughter. My only excuse is, that
I was confident she was in the hands of kind and
clad like a rustic, and permitted to run wild over
the country. Mrs. Benson, however, though too indulgent,
was a pious and sensible woman, and
reared Louisa with sound principles, upon which I
have since been able to engraft an excellent education.
When I became a widower a second time, I
returned to my farm, and found Louisa, shortly
after you saw her, a wild rustic. She had originally
a fine mind, and having had access to my library, it
was not altogether unimproved, and since that time
I have spared neither pains or expense in her education.
During the war Benson died, and his son
ran off and enlisted. Mrs. Benson was deeply
afflicted by this event, and Louisa, who felt a filial
tenderness for her, and regarded William as a brother,
strove all in her power to comfort the wretched
parent. She happened to be in the village when
your company passed through, and was impelled by
strong love for her old nurse, to visit the camp
under the vague hope that William might be there.
You know the rest—and you will not think it
strange, considering her extreme youth, that her
ardent feelings prompted her to be forward in the
service of those who were justly so dear to her.
Your name was of course known to us, from having
heard it often mentioned by William Benson, who
rents a small farm from me, and at your first visit
we more than suspected that you were the same
person of whom we had heard so much; Louisa
to your camp, but believing that you did not recognise
her, she begged me to keep the secret.”
“There is no reason,” exclaimed Pendleton,
“why Miss Sandford should wish to conceal a circumstance
which does her so much honour.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” said Mr. Sandford,
smiling, “that both of you have acted up to the
most approved canon of romance, and that you deserve
the credit of having done what few others
would do in the same situations.”
“There are few,” replied the lover, “who are
capable of imitating the example of Miss Sandford;
my highest ambition is to possess the hand of one so
highly gifted.”
“You will have to ask her for it, then,” said the
gratified parent, “you have had my consent for
some time, and I know you are too good a soldier to
ask any assistance in gaining hers.”
I need not draw the veil from the happy scene
that ensued. They were seen that evening gliding
arm in arm among Louisa's jessamine bowers, their
cheeks shaming the rose, and their eyes dancing
with pleasure; but as they never told me what
passed, I must leave the reader in the same ignorance
in which I find myself. They were married. Among
the happy faces which appeared at their wedding,
none were decked with brighter smiles than those
of William Benson and his widowed mother; and
among the joyful hearts, none were more truly
happy than the gallant officer and his lovely bride.
| THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. The soldier's bride and other tales | |