The coronal a collection of miscellaneous pieces, written at various times |
THE RIVAL BROTHERS.
A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION. |
 | The coronal |  |
THE RIVAL BROTHERS.
A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION.
“It is a fearful tale—yet true.”
It was in the middle of one of the most
delightful days in June, that I commenced
a short journey, which led me through the
cool sequestered forests on the eastern shore
of Massachusetts. Few things are more enchanting,
than to saunter through the woods
during a summer's noon. Nature, enjoying
the deep tranquillity of a most voluptuous repose,
the gay warbling of the birds, changed
for that occasional twitter which speaks the
full enjoyment of their tiny hearts, more
plainly than the rich burst of their morning
song; the very butterflies, like gay coquettes,
weary of conquest, closing and spreading
their gorgeous wings in languid indifference;
the deep shade; the drowsy splendour mantling
the distant hills; all these bring to me a
delicious sense of quiet existence, which no
other scene produces.
During my ride, every thing tended to
heighten this feeling to the utmost. I could
not mistake that I was in the land of my fore-fathers.
Even Nature bears the aspect of
those venerable heralds of our freedom; and
Time, while he has led wealth, taste, and fashion,
through all our favoured land, has passed
by these secluded spots with religious awe,
and scarcely brushed the antiquated scene
with noiseless wing. The faces you meet
are as a title-page, on which “by-gone days”
are written; the children have the reverential
demeanour of the olden time; the sea-breeze
murmurs through the wood, with more
of psalmody than song; and the very moss-grown
stones have an air of Puritan sanctity.
My companion was one with whom I was
too familiar to strive to be agreeable; and
they, who cannot be eloquent when effort is
unnecessary, may forever despair of the power.
Conversation is always delightful when
the thoughts spring spontaneously from the
tongue, attended with all the contagious exhilaration
of wit and talent; but it is even
more delightful, when catching its tone from
new charms from the scene around,
and new interest from the circumstances under
which we enjoy it. Such a conversation
I was at this moment listening to from my
companion, and every instant with increasing
pleasure. It was suddenly interrupted by
the appearance of one of the most frightful
and loathsome-looking objects my eyes ever
beheld. The lofty and projecting forehead,
and the bold, rigid contour of the head, all indicated
the possession of prodigious power;
and the “spark of hell burning in his eye,”
proved that power had been exerted for the
prince of darkness. He was clothed in the
squalid and tattered drapery of exceeding
poverty; and deeply had age graven upon
his iron visage the lines of guilt and passion.
The painter and the sculptor could not have
found a more fitting personification of pestilence
or crime.
At the sight of us, he darted into the woods
with that instinctive aversion which ever
leads the fallen spirit to shun a purer nature.
My companion knew him well; and at my
life. As nearly as I can recollect, they are
contained in the following story.
Among the numerous families who worshipped
the Lord in the beauty of holiness,
in 1776, few, even in the days of primitive
devotion, were more blameless in life and
conversation, than those of Eliphalet Warner
and Lois Leslie. Their dwellings joined
each other; and their children had grown up
together, healthy and beautiful, as the trim
shrubbery around their doors. Frances, the
only daughter of the widow Leslie, was the
sweetest little wild-flower that ever breathed
fragrance on this sinful world. Seldom
has nature blended in one countenance two
such striking characteristics of loveliness.
Mildness was the prevailing expression; and
it was not until we had looked again and
again upon her large blue eye, that it revealed
its depth of meaning. Thought was
there, not in the grandeur of beaming inspiration,
but tranquil as a waveless lake, pure
as the intelligence of angels, and joyous as
infancy in its happy dreams. There is a
It comes from the sun of a world brighter
and holier than our own. The painter, the
poet, the sculptor, have never embodied it;
and nature, with all her radiance, her bloom
and purity, affords no metaphor. The mother,
faded and care-worn, was still such a
one as, once seen, could not easily be forgotten.
Her face manly, but not masculine, in
its outline, and energetic in its expression,
indicated the possession of vehement feeling;
but its serious and somewhat severe aspect,
told that youthful enthusiasm had been
checked by many sorrows, and that the waves
of affection, repressed on every side, had
worn a channel deep into the soul. An only
son, the stay and staff of her old age, recently
returned from the American camp, exhausted
by long and painful illness, completed
the number of their affectionate household.
Mr. Warner, a rigid, but kind-hearted old
man, had long been deprived of the partner
of his youthful days. It was strange for one
apparently so harsh in his nature, but though
neighbour, and though his eye lighted up
with all a father's joy when Frances stood
before him in her loveliness, yet his thoughts
were ever with her who slept his last sleep;
and the old man lived in the bosom of his family,
estranged from all others save the widow
and her charming daughter. Two sons were
all that remained to him, and they were a most
striking instance of dissimilarity of character,
produced by the same education, and the
same habits of life. That intellect differs in
native vigour in various individuals, and is
strong in any peculiar department only from
the accidental direction of attention, has been
abundantly proved; but supposing the mind
to be thus bent by circumstances and situation,
how hard it is to trace the hidden
causes, which create in the same family such
various modifications of moral purity and
mental force.
Joseph and William Warner looked as unlike
each other as they really were in pursuits
and inclinations. Joseph was dark,
lowering, and designing; with eyes deeply
brows, like the fiery balls of a tiger hidden
in the clefts of a precipice. William's
complexion was likewise dark, but his expression
was extremely noble and ingenuous,
and his face had much of fresh youthful
beauty. Joseph was a furious Tory; William
a firm and decided Whig. Both were the
declared lovers of their fair neighbour; and
both had been told by her judicious mother
to wait for more peaceful times, and until
maturer years should enable her to judge
discreetly and decide wisely. In habits of
unreserved intimacy with both—treated as a
cherished sister by William, and the alternate
object of the most headstrong love, and
the most taunting jealousy of his fiery brother—it
seemed for a long time doubtful how
the balance would turn.
I know not why it is, but impetuosity, ardour,
and lordliness of manner, are usually
exceedingly attractive to woman. It is, I
believe, simply that worship of power, which
exists in every human mind. The same
principle that prostrates the soul before nature
art in its magnificent desolation, bows it down
to the might and energy of man. Some have
said that the fearless and unprincipled have
readiest access to the female heart, merely
because they are so; but they know little of
woman's character who say or think this. If
the unprincipled obtain superior influence, it
is because boldness is mistaken for strength,
and moral insanity for intellectual vigour.
To the timid eye of Frances, a character
torn and convulsed by contending passions
seemed to have a fearful grandeur. Her
reason told her that William was a thousand
times more fitted to make her happy, but
imagination hovered round the image of Joseph,
and veiled its darkness with her own
seraph wings. Her gentle nature shrunk
from his ferocity, and she dreaded an influence
which she always found tumultuous
and exciting; but, like the bird charmed by
a rattlesnake, the greater her fear the more
powerful the attraction. Such was her state
of feeling on the evening we choose to present
her to our readers; and that night was
The sergeant of a recruiting regiment was
among them, and every one was awaiting the
result of the draughts with painful anxiety.
Young Leslie, dying for the cause in which
his young comrades were about to engage,
turned restlessly on his pillow, watching for
the entrance of William Warner, with all the
eagerness that weakness and lassitude would
allow; and Frances and her mother, attending
to his wants, and glancing at the window
every time a cloud flitted across the declining
sun, betrayed the same inquietude. At
length the silence was interrupted by the
entrance of William. Mother and daughter
sprang forward to meet him; and the invalid
fixed a most piercing look upon him. Not a
word was spoken—but he felt what they
would ask, and covering his face with both
his hands, he exclaimed, “I am!” The
sick man groaned deeply; Frances burst into
a flood of tears; and the matron, with a
firm countenance, but a bursting heart, clasped
his hand warmly as she said, “Well, none
but our God will be left to guard us now.
of Hosts. These are solemn times. Men
must act, and women must endure.” “Oh,
if I could but act!” exclaimed the invalid;
“oh, my bleeding country! that ever my
arm should be weak at an hour like this.”
“But, my dear William,” said Frances,
“will it be very long before you return to
us?” “It may be very long,” he replied;
and his heart swelled almost to breaking,
when he looked on the fair creature, and
thought of the chance of battle. Before he
could add more, his elder brother abruptly
pushed before him. “There are others going,
as well as you, sir,” exclaimed he,
glancing at the tearful Frances, and eyeing
William with the most malignant expression
of jealousy and scorn. “Where,” asked the
astonished widow;—“To the British camp,”
was the surly reply. Young Leslie made a
violent exertion to rise upon his elbow, but,
exhausted with the effort, sank upon his pillow,
with an expression in which indignation
and pain were contending for victory.
“Joseph,” said his brother, in a tender,
good father this dreadful blow.” “Take
care of your own concerns, Mr. Morality,”
answered the renegade; “the old man ought
to be proud of a red coat in his family.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed William, “are not
burning towns—gushing blood—a father
struck to the earth in his old age, by a British
officer;—are not all these enough to
rouse you to a sense of outraged rights? I
should glory to die in such a cause.” “God
grant you may have your wish, brave brother
of mine,” answered he, with a look of the
most bitter hatred. Frances shrunk from
him, as from a fiend. He had never before
dared to unveil his depravity to her view;
and her mother, though she well knew him
to be fierce and ungovernable, was thrilled
with horror at his demoniac expression.
Finding himself an object of distrust and abhorrence,
and trying in vain to exert his accustomed
power over Frances, he left them
at an early hour, without deigning to say one
word of kindness or exculpation. Imagination
thus rudely driven from the hold which
clung to the excellent William, with a
tenderness, which Frances had never before
experienced for him. Mrs. Leslie had not
suspected her predilection for Joseph; for
deep and passionate love is seldom unreserved
in its nature; and the ready smile of frank
affection which she ever bestowed upon William,
might well have been mistaken for feelings
deeper than they really were. Beside
the love they all bore him, their hearts were
naturally softened towards one just about to
engage in a doubtful and bloody cause; and
the young man returned to his home that night,
more than blessed in the conviction that the
dangers which surrounded him had awakened
affection where he most wished to awaken it.
When Frances entered Mr. Warner's
house the ensuing evening, she found the old
man seated at his door, in a high wicker
backed chair. Beside him lay a heavy,
brazen-hilted sword, on which his eye rested
with a sort of uneasy abstraction. At the
sound of her voice, he raised his head, and
gave one of those beaming looks of welcome,
“You've said a kind farewell to my boy,”
exclaimed he, “and blessing on you for it.
He will go forth to his duty with a lighter
heart.” “And Joseph, he is gone too?” said
she, blushing slightly. “Name him not!” replied
the old man, with sternness in his voice
and manner. “He has quarreled with his father,
curst the best of brothers, and last night
left us, without one farewell, to join the
hateful oppressors of his country.” “I have
always thought,” said Frances, in an agitated
tone, “that his words were more wicked than
his intentions.” “I have hoped so, till of
late,” replied he, “and it is even now hard
for a father's heart to believe in the guilt of
a son; but do you know, my child, that when
I told him he did not deserve the sword of
his ancestors, and that I should give it to his
younger brother, he cursed me to my face,
and would have stabbed William to the heart.
Oh! he is black with crime. Wo be to all
who have part or lot with him.”
The sound of distant drums here interrupted
the conversation. It grew nearer and
equipped, and worse disciplined, band came
upon the sight; yet women and children, the
aged and infirm, welcomed them with more
heartfelt gratitude, and deeper respect, than
has often been given to the glittering pageantry
of military despots. Who, that saw
that wretched troop of young patriots eagerly
marching to join the standard of Washington
and the youthful La Fayette, would have
believed that, ere half a century had elapsed,
the aged La Fayette would have been welcomed
in the flourishing capital of New-England,
with all the magnificence of wealth,
“the pomp and circumstance of war!” Who
could have believed that the infant, then
presented at Freedom's altar, there to be
baptized in blood and tears, would so soon
have been a giant among the nations?
The music, loud, rapid, and merry, spoke
the cheerfulness of the departing regiment;
but when the dwelling of Mr. Warner and
the widow Leslie came in view, by one unanimous
impulse the music ceased, the march
stopped—and dividing to right and left, they
Warner. There were peculiar reasons why
these houses were dear to them all. There
was young Leslie, who had gone forth at the
loud call of his country's distress as healthy
and buoyant as they—and how had he returned?
To send forth the soul in one agonizing
bound of the field of battle, had few
terrors for youthful enthusiasm; but the
stoutest hearts shuddered at days of wearisome
sickness, and the slow progress of loathsome
decay. Then there was the venerable
father of Warner, whose sage counsels were
the oracles of the village, and whose intrepid
spirit had given nerve and sinew to them all.
There was the widow Leslie, who always
had a smile, as cheerful and encouraging as
if the last stay of her old age was not about
to be reft from her in this hour of need.
Then there was Frances, so lovely, so beloved,
bringing the strongest claim that can
be brought to the heart of man—that of helpless
beauty and unguarded innocence. Therefore
it was that, while mothers, sisters and
infant brothers, were looking from every door
their last farewell. Often, during their brief
march, they had stopped to give their little
ones a parting kiss, and to receive the prayers,
tears, and blessings of those who were
near and dear. But now they paused for the
last time; and they paused, too, where every
thing conspired to make their last adieu more
agonizing.
“Come to me, William,” said the old man,
in a clear, firm tone. The youth stepped
forward, and lowering his hand on his rifle,
kneeled at his father's feet. “My son,”
continued he, “here is the sword of your
brave old grandfather. It did deadly execution
in the French war; and his hand
was clenched around it in his dying hour.
It is an heir-loom in the family, and should
have been given to my oldest boy; but”—
his voice choked, and for a moment the veteran
covered his face with his hands, and
rested on the hilt of the weapon. “Farewell,
my son, my only son,” continued he, in
a trembling voice, “I can go down to my
grave alone. The God of Israel bless thee,
of peril.” The young soldier pressed his father's
hand with a convulsive grasp, gave
one long, one lingering, farewell to the spot
where his beloved Frances stood by the side
of her mother, and fearing to trust a single
word, hastily rejoined his companions. There
was not a dry eye among them; and when
they came directly in front of Mrs. Leslie's,
all involuntarily uttered a shuddering groan.
James Leslie had entreated to be bolstered
up in his chair, to take a last look of his
youthful associates. There he sat, pale,
wasted, and agonized with pain; his head
reposing upon his mother's bosom, and his
sister standing beside him like a seraph at
the couch of the dying. An unnatural intensity
of light poured from his eyes, and he
raised his hand in a faint attempt to make a
victorious flourish, as he exclaimed, “God
will give us the victory.” He started up,
with one sudden bound of anguish—his head
sunk on his shoulder—the glazed eyes remained
fixed on the youthful band before
him; but they saw no longer.
To the young soldiers there was something
dreadfully attractive in the rayless look of
the corpse before them. It seemed as if the
very dead urged them onward. William
would have given his life to have returned
for a while to his friends, to aid and sooth
them in this dreadful trial; but a longer time
than usual had already been allowed to the
indulgence of personal feeling, and the officers
were impatient of delay. The music
struck up; and amid sobs, and groans, and
tears, with brave but lacerated hearts, they
bade a long farewell to their humble homes.
Sad, sad indeed, was the dwelling of the
widow Leslie on the ensuing day. Alas!
how little do we appreciate the courage of
our fathers, and the fortitude of our mothers,
at the soul-trying period of our revolution.
In all scenes of public distress, woman is
compelled to make exertions, not the less
painful, or the less difficult, because they
are not performed on the public theatre of a
sympathising world. To fasten the knapsack
round a father's neck, to fill the cartridges
of a beloved husband, and see him go
for bread, and his desolate home is left at the
mercy of the ravager; to have none left to
dig the grave of an only son, and to consign
him to the cold, damp earth, wept over only
by the aged and the helpless, require no ordinary
effort of human strength. Yet such
were but every-day scenes, during our desperate
struggle for independence. Mrs. Leslie
bore her sorrows with even more firmness
than distinguished most women of that period.
True, she was staid, and sometimes
melancholy, like one who had left behind
her all the verdant spots in the wearisome
desert of life; yet she was ever active in her
duties, ever ready to sympathise in the griefs
and anxieties of others. The voice of Frances
lost nothing of its melodious kindness,
and the matrons of the village looked on her
light step with as much pride as they had
in the happy days of her childhood; but a
shadow had passed over the sunshine of her
face, and when she smiled on her mother, it
was in the deep sadness of anxious love.
Months passed away. The far-off din of
echoes. In the new state of the
country, and at that troubled period, all communication
between the army and their
friends was difficult and dangerous. Nothing
was known of Joseph since his abrupt departure.
Whether he had actually joined the
British forces, or merely secreted himself
from his infuriated countrymen, remained
doubtful. William had not been seen or
heard of, since the thrilling look of tenderness
and pity which he gave to Frances, as she
stood by the side of her lifeless brother; but
morning and evening, fervent prayers for his
safety arose from the lips of those by whom
he was so deservedly beloved. Left to the
quiet communion of her own spirit, Frances
found that her affection for him had taken deep
and vigorous root. Each succeeding day increased
its power; for it is one of the strangest
perversities of love, that absence strengthens
it far more than constant presence. The memory
of his devotedness to her and her widowed
parent was associated with every thing
around her; and each day, some deficiency
in their household comfort reminded them of
promptly supplied their wants. A thousand
nameless attentions, trifling in themselves,
but invaluable to a woman's heart, crowded
upon her memory. She sent him a letter,
in which this state of feeling was most frankly
expressed; and when one tedious week after
another passed away, she gave herself up to
the conviction that it had never reached him.
A brief note did, however, at last arrive. It
contained merely violent protestations of unalterable
attachment, and besought her to
meet him, between the hours of six and
seven, in an adjoining wood. It stated that
life and death depended on her secresy, and
that even her mother must not know of the
interview.
“Why is this mystery,” thought Frances,
as she read and re-read the singular epistle.
“Probably he has stolen from military duty,
and detection would be death,” said she to
herself, “yet surely my mother might know
of it.” All her conjectures ended in the
supposition that William had some good reason,
and that she ought to comply with his
imagination. William had, from his cradle,
been to her as a brother; and to distrust
him was like dreading contagion in the pure
balmy air she had breathed from childhood.
At an early hour she was seen passing
through the village,—her little, well-known
gypsy-hat lightly resting on a profusion of
glossy hair, beautiful as a “shower of sunbeams.”
She had given a parting kiss to her
mother and Mr. Warner, with a joyousness
for which they could not account; and as
her slender little figure passed along like a
vision of light, the neighbours all remarked
that her smile was brighter, and her step far
more buoyant than usual.
Evening came and she returned not. The
fears of the anxious mother increased to
dreadful intensity. At last a traveller told
of horrible screams which he had heard from
the wood. A large band of old men, women,
and children, suddenly collected, and hastened
to the spot he indicated. Alas! the hand
of violence had cut her down in her youth
and beauty! The lovely face, still and pale
look which last passed over it; her long, fair
hair was tangled in the shrubbery; and the
sword, which had been a farewell present to
her lover, lay all bloody at her side. Those
who heard her mother's shriek, carried the
remembrance of it to their graves. She had
endured much, but her burden was mightier
than she could bear. She never smiled after
she had looked upon that fearful sight. Her
short life was but protracted agony; and before
three months had elapsed, she slept by
the side of her murdered daughter.
There needed no sybil to point out the
assassin. When the light of their lanthorns
first fell on the lifeless being so dear to them
all, the wretched father of William Warner
clasped his hands in convulsive agony, and
groaned out, “Oh! Joseph, Joseph!” And
he indeed it was, whose guilty hands had
thus madly torn the beauteous one from life,
and its most enchanting hopes. His hatred
of a brother, whose excellence he would not
imitate, had been greatly increased by the
transfer of the sword to him, and by a parting
him and Frances. Deservedly surpassed
in his father's affections, and rivalled
in his passionate love, his haughty spirit was
goaded to the utmost. The night he left
them, he swore to his own soul a deep and
sure revenge. He sought the American
camp in the character of a spy; he obtained
access to the barracks of the unsuspicious
William, and seizing the fatal sword, which
had so much embittered his malice, he aimed
a death-blow at his only brother. A struggle
ensued, and William was well nigh proving
victorious, when in the voice of his earlier
years he exclaimed “William!” The sword
dropped at his feet; he seized it; and before
his brother had recovered from his consternation,
Joseph had gone beyond recall.
This adventure a little softened his ferocious
nature; and perhaps the dreadful resolution
he had taken would never have been
kept, had not an American been brought into
the enemy's camp, under the imputation of
carrying important papers to the rebels; but
Frances's letters by these means came into
and rage, he again swore the horrid vow.
We have already told how she was decoyed
into his presence. It matters not what
were the insults and the heart-cutting words
he heaped upon her. It was a shocking detail,
and I would fain spare the repetition of
it. Suffice it to say, he talked, with fiend-like
malignity, of love crossed and ambition
thwarted; he reproached her with broken
promises and disappointed hopes; and when
she refused to pollute her soul with false
vows, he sealed his oath with blood!
William lived to hear the agonized tidings.
He lived, too, again to spare his wicked brother,
when his sword flourished over him in
the tumult of battle; but ever after that, he
seemed to rush upon his death. After one
of the sanguinary conflicts which immediately
preceded our independence, he was found
dead in the very centre of the British army.
His father lived to extreme old age, as
happy as the sympathy of his countrymen,
and a firm trust in the Rock of Ages, could
make one who had passed through such a
the death of Frances Leslie; but the depraved
wretch survived them all; and it is not
many years since he was seen seated on the
road side in Plymouth county, as we described
him at the commencement of our
story.
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