University of Virginia Library

LEGEND NINTH.
WASHINGTON IN LOVE.

There is a Legend which should never be
told, save in the calm of the summer twilight,
when the drops of the shower yet sparkle on
the leaves, and the setting sun shines out from
the west, while the east displays a rainbow on
its clouds. Then when the glory of the rainbow,
set upon the eastern cloud, seems to call to
the declining sun, shining in great splendor,
from the clouds that hang above his rays —
when there are drops like diamonds on every leaf
— when the air is fragrance — and one heavenlike
glimpse of sunset and rainbow, looks in
upon the world, ere the storm and blackness of
night comes over us — then let us tell a strange
Legend of the wild wood, in the days of old.

And yet I am afraid to tell this Legend.
It has lingered so long about my heart — been
in my dreams so long — come to me like music
that bursts over still waters through midnight
stillness — that I am loth to write it down
in words. Afraid that my pen cannot do justice
to its simple pathos; that its joy and its
tears, will find in my words no voice, worthy
of their intensity and love.

One summer evening when the sun was low,
an old man sat in front of his cabin door.

That cabin stood in a hollow or glen, which
extended through the virgin forest from north
to south, with a glimpse of blue sky at either
extremity.

It was a one-storied fabric, built of huge
logs, and hidden under the boughs of the great
trees. The roof, the timbers, everything but
the rugged door, was hidden by boughs and
vines. So that rugged door looked not so
much like the entrance of a cabin, as a mass
of rough boards, set in branches and leaves.

Some gleams of fading sunlight came from
the sky above — from either extremity of the
glen — and spread a pool of light before the
old man's door.

Shut out from the world, three hundred
miles at least from white civilization, hidden in
this nook of the Alleghanies, this old man sat
on the side of a fallen log, and with light playing
around him — while the other part of the
glen was in shadow — he seemed thinking of
other days, of his youth, or of the graves of his
People.

It is no image of the imagination that I
would paint to you. An actual old man, enduring,
suffering — dying by inches — in the
awful solitude of the forest, in the year 1754.

A tall frame, gaunt and grim with age, and
looking like a skeleton, encased in hunting
shirt, leggins, and mocassins. A withered
face, browned by wind and sun, with the
sinews of the bared throat as prominent as
cords, and the wrinkled forehead contrasted with
scanty flakes of snow-white hair. His limbs
crossed, his large hands laid on his knees, the
old man gazes into the shadows of the forest,
and seems like the Pilgrim of the old story,
who sat him down one day, and waited patiently
until Death came by.

Upon the log which supports the old man,
we behold a rifle, with stock of dark mahogany,
and mountings of silver. It is much
worn, indeed it has seen forty years of service.

For this aged man, now sitting alone in the
forest, presents to us a stern embodiment of
that wondrous race of men, who penetrated
the great forest of Pennsylvania, at least one
hundred years in advance of their race, and
made the Indian mode of life their own,
gathering food with their rifles, and sometimes
feeling a great consciousness of God's Presence,
even in the midnight of the wilderness.

But the hunter is old now, very old; ninety
years are upon him with their snows.

The hand that once was strong, is now
weak as any child's. The foot that once
scaled the mountain, and trod without fear, the
verge of dizzy chasms, now trembles in the
little journey from the log to the cabin door.

And he will die alone in the wilderness!

From no wilderness of Red Brick, will his
soul escape to his God. But gloriously from
the dead solitudes of the wilderness, that soul
will leave the shattered frame — cold and stiff
upon the log — and wing its way through the
virgin air to Eternity.

“Ninety years!” the old man murmurs —
and is still again. It is a long time to contemplate;
longer to feel like ice in your veins,
and winter in your soul.

And from the cabin-door, there steals on tip-toe
a form, which by its very contrast, made
the old age of the Hunter more deeply venerable.

A young girl, clad in a coarse skirt which
reaches to the knee, her limbs covered with
leggings, her feet with mocassins.

And yet you never saw a form at once so
lithe and so blooming in its outlines — you
never heard a step so gentle and yet so active
— you never saw a brown face like hers,
illumined by so pure a soul, or shadowed by
chesnut hair so rich and flowing!

She came behind the old man gently, and
laid her hands upon his white hairs, and
placed her smooth cheek against his withered
face.

It was like an embodied dream.

The withered cheek beside the clear brown
face of youth, the eyes dim with age, contrasted
with eyes large, black and brilliant;
while hair telling of ninety winters swept
the chesnut curls which scarcely indicated
nineteen summers.

It was a touching sight — to see the old man
clasp her hands within his own, while his
uplifted eyes, brightened into life again, as he
perused the wild beauty of her face.

And as the evening hour deepened into
night, they conversed together, the aged man,
and the young maiden. Talked low and long
of that strange life in the forest — of the books
which cheered the lonely hours of the winter's
night — of one Book which opened a path, even
through the silence of eternal solitudes, from
the lone heart to its God. Of the Hunters,
rude men of the forest, who often came to the
cabin door with stores of corn and venison —
and now and then a garment or some luxury
of civilized life — for the old Hunter and his
grand-child, Marion.

“But grandfather, you have often promised
to tell me of my father and mother,” said the
girl resting her hands upon his white hairs —
and of the Home in which they dwelt, far
away from the woods — near cities and gardens,
such as we see described in books. I
am but young, grandfather, — but you have
passed many long years in the forest. Tell
me, I beseech you, the story of your life, and
of my own.”

A shadow fell upon the old Hunter's face.

“Lo, Marion,” he said abruptly — “there
are histories my child, which should never be
told, save as confessions, made by white lips,
in the hour of death. Your father — your
mother!” he shuddered, and shrunk away
from her hands and cast his eyes to the sod.

The girl stood silent and trembling, her
bosom swelling beneath its coarse vestment;
her large eyes full of light and tears.

The sunshine tinting the mazes of her chesnut
hair, fell strong and vivid, upon his agitated
face.

“You thrust me from you” — said Marion
— “This is not well, grandfather. In all the
world I have no friend but you.”

He extended his withered hand.

“Come hither” — his voice was tremulous
and broken — “sit by my side. Seventeen
years ago, I came to this place, and bore you
in my arms — a babe whose eyes had hardly
seen one year of life. I reared this cabin for
you Marion — to you, and to your life, I devoted
what remained of mine own. By day I
hunted among the hills, while you remained
alone within our cabin. And at night, beside
our fire, we sat together — you learned to read
— the great world of books was opened to
your eyes. And before my sight you blossomed
into life, until the old Hunter, would look into
your face at times, and wonder whether you
were not an Angel, sent by God, to cheer the
gloom of his cabin, and with your Presence
lighten up the lone forest glen.”

The old man paused, and wiped the moisture
from his eyes.

“Ask me of this — of your own history —
of the blessing you have been to me, in my
hours of pain — and I will speak freely. But
rather wish me dead at your feet — rather pray
that the lightning may strike these gray hairs
— than to ask me to relate the History of the
Past. The Past! That awful shadow which
rests upon my history, ere I brought you to
the glen, seventeen years ago!”

The old man rose abruptly, and with unsteady
but hurried steps sought the cabin door.
He disappeared beneath its shadow.

The girl remained near the fallen log, her
finger placed upon her moist red lip, her eyes,
burthened with tears, cast to the earth.

And while her bosom swelled with vague
thoughts — thoughts strange and mingled in
their hues — at once oppressive and lightened
by gleams of joy — she strayed absently over
the sward, toward the northern extremity of the
glen.

A wondrous life had been hers. Reared in
the lone forest, the Great World had come to
her, only as the memories of a half-forgotten
dream.

She had heard of a place, half a day's journey
from the cabin, called Fort Duquesne;
once, with her grandfather, she had visited
“a settlement” far away in the woods, and
seen for the first time in her life, the face of a
white woman. Oftentime the red man had
paused at the cabin door, but not with a thought
of harm, for the old Hunter Abraham, dwelling
thus alone, with this beautiful child — was
sacred in his eyes — protected by the Great
Spirit, who sends good angels to guard withered
Age and brown-haired Orphanage.

Even the backwoodsman, who mingled the
vices of civilization and the hardy virtues of
savage life, respected the Home of the old
man, and looked upon the beautiful Orphan as
a sacred thing.

Thoughts and memories, like these, glided
into the mind of Marion, as she wandered over
the sward, toward the northern extremity of
the glen.

At last, she started back with affright — for
she advanced to the brow of a crag — one step
farther — and she would have been dashed to
pieces, in the abyss, which yawned below.

That crag, terminating the glade, commanded
a wide horizon to the north and west.

A horizon of mountains, framing immense
masses of forests, through whose depths of
summer green, two winding rivers shone like
liquid silver in the setting sun.

Marion looked below and shuddered. From
the chasm beneath great trees arose, but a
hundred feet of granite intervenes between their
summit and the summit of the rock.

To the west she looked, and the flush of
sunset, tinged her brown cheeks and chesnut
hair, with light and rapture.

A blue canopy, with only one cloud — and
that was in the path of sunset, unfolding its
white breast, to the gaze of the dying Day.

But from afar — over the waste of woods,
and near where the mingling rivers shone —
came glimpses of a vision, which stirred the
maiden's heart with awe and wonder.

Glimpses of armed men, whose burnished
weapons, shone in the sunlight, like fire-flies
through the gloom of night. Armed men, in
ranks and columns, marching under banners,
with horsemen riding in their midst. Now
she saw them slowly ascend a hill, which rose
suddenly from the forest — soon they were lost
to sight — but at length came into view again,
dotting the slope of a wide meadow, with points
of dazzling light.

On the brow of the crag, clinging with one
hand to a sapling, whose leaves swept her dark
hair, while the other shrouded her eyes from
the sun, the Maiden stood gazing with indefinable
wonder, on the march of the unknown
army.

Not until the sun went down, and darkness
wrapt the landscape, and the chill mist, wandered
a like ghostly form, through the glen, and
before the cabin door, did the forest girl retreat
from the verge of the crag.

Within the cabin, a pine-torch, inserted in a
crevice of the logs, above the hearth, flung a
ruddy light.

The cabin was but one spacious room, with
two couches, of deer-skin, standing in opposite
corners — walls of log — rudely constructed
hearth — and floor as rude, sprinkled with pine
branches and fragrant moss.

Their evening meal was past, and a slight
fire burned on the hearth, for the atmosphere

of the night — although it was a mid-summer
night — was damp and chill.

The old man was seated on his bench, leaning
his elbows on his knees, and resting his
cheeks in his hands; his grand-child stood
near a shelf, her lifted hand grasping a book,
and her face turned over her shoulder, towards
his motionless form.

The light played in flashes over the moss-covered
floor, and tinted with radiance the
dark logs which formed the cabin floor.

“But when I die,” said the old man, as if
thinking aloud — “And there are not many
days left to me — when I die, what will become
of — you?”

The girl was about to answer, when the
door opened with a crash, and a harsh voice
was heard —

“Why I'll take keer of her, old Abr'am. I
promise you that! I think o' settlin' in these
clearin's somewhere, and I'd jist like to have
a little woman o' that shape and complexion,
fur my cabin.”

The old man knew the voice; the sound of
its accents seemed to penetrate his blood. He
started to his feet, and fell back again with a
shudder.

The arm of the girl lifted to reach the book,
was palsied in the action — her face, turned
over her shoulder, grew deathly pale.

Meanwhile the intruder advanced to the centre
of the floor, and stood in the glow of the
hearth-side.

Picture to yourself, a form six feet and more
in height, with long limbs, lean bony arms,
narrow shoulders and shrunken chest, and a
thin scraggy neck, supporting a small head,
covered with masses of red hair. A face with
harshly moulded features, small eyes deep
sunken, prominent nose and bulging brow. A
costume made of fragments of military uniform,
and backwoodsman's attire — a short green
coat laced with gold, breeches of deer-skin,
boots of dark leather, a belt, powder-horn, and
spurs. One hand resting on a rifle, the other
grasping the hilt of a hunting knife.

Such was the intruder; a man notorious
among white and red men — among British
and French, as a dead shot and a reckless
bravo. In the course of a few years he had
been seen fighting on all sides; now at the
head of a band of Indians; now in the ranks
of the Provincial soldiers; and a year before,
at the battle of the Great Meadows, he had
been prominent among the French, who attacked
the little band of young Washington.

His real name, tradition tells us, was Michael
Burke; but the cognomen by which he was
named among the Indians, effaced his proper
designation. More in regard to his disposition
and the color of his hair, than to any rule of
natural philosophy — we presume — he was
called simply —

“The Red Wolf!”

And it was this title shricking from the lips
of the girl, and murmured by the old man,
which elicited a grim smile from the bravo
himself.

As he stood gazing into the fire, old Abraham
made a quick and stealthy sign to his grand-child.
She saw and comprehended that brief
gesture. It meant —

“Bring me my rifle!”

The rifle stood beneath the shelves on which
her books were placed. She seized it, was
darting forward, when the Red Wolf wheeled
suddenly round, and interposed his ungainly
form, between the girl and her grandfather.

“Ra-a-ly it makes me laugh!” he cried, devouring
the beauty of that young face, with a
coarse stare — “Why the gal's a-goin' to battle
surely! Which way my purty robin, with
that shootin' iron? You look so nice, and so
bright about the eyes, that I think I must e'en
have a kiss” —

He advanced — the girl, frightened and pale,
sank back, still grasping the rifle.

“Marion!” the old man cried — “Do not
let go the rifle. Remember — there is neither
mercy nor humanity about this man. Keep
the rifle girl, and —”

The old Hunter started to his feet, and
stood behind the bravo, his features animated
by an intensity of hatred and disgust.

“Oh, yer thar, are ye'!” — and the Red
Wolf turned his head over his shoulder, and
saluted the old man with a hideous grin — “I
remember you last in the fight of the Great
Meadows. I do. For I aimed at your topknot
no less than ten times. I did. In a
minnit you and I — will have a talk together,
but now —”

He turned toward the girl, uttering an oath.

The young maiden still leaned for support

against the wall, clutching the rifle with her
hands, but between the bravo and the girl, there
stood a young man in the garb of a Provincial
soldier, whose remarkable free and commanding
form, enchained at once the eyes of Marion
— of Abraham — and “the Red Wolf.”

And this young man, standing so calmly,
between the bravo and the girl, his chapeau in
one hand, a pistol in the other, simply exclaimed:

“You had better retire Michael. The soldiers
are waiting for you at the foot of the glen.
Go! And tell them to push on without delay
— I will join them on the road.”

And the Red Wolf, without a word, slunk
to the cabin door and was gone.

No words can picture the surprise manifested
on the faces of the old man and his
child. With a simultaneous glance they remarked
the costume and appearance of the
stranger.

He was clad in a blue coat, trimmed with
silver lace; he wore military boots, a belt,
sword and pistols. His countenance, very
pale, and marked by features at once regular,
intellectual, and full of calm dignity, was
lighted by large grey eyes.

“Why Abr'am don't you know me. Forgotten
so soon! Only a year ago you fought by
my side, in the battle of the Meadows — have
I passed from your memory already?”

And the young man advanced and extended
his hand — the old man grasped it warmly —

“Colonel!” he ejaculated, “Surely God has
sent you hither!”

“I am on my way to join the main body of
the army under Braddock. You know our
destination — Fort Duquesne! Two weeks
ago I was left with the rear, prostrated by a
fever, from which I am only half recovered.
A few moments since passing near your cabin,
I was attracted by the sound of voices; I tied
my horse before the door, and to my astonishment
found the `Red Wolf' here —”

“But will he not return?” gasped the old
man — “Or plan some act of treachery —”

“No danger, Abr'am,” returned the young
man with a smile — “He is true to the side
that pays best. Last year he was French —
they paid best. Now he is retained by our
General, as Guide, Spy, and so forth. He
leads our rear division through the woods.
He will be faithful so long as there is a purse
before him, and a loaded pistol at his temple.”

A harsh sound was heard — the young man
turned, and for the first time seemed conscious
of the presence of the forest girl. The rifle
had fallen from her grasp. She leaned for
support against the wall, her arms folded, and
her cheek pale and red by turns.

“My grand-child!” said the old man, and
he repeated the name of the young officer.

As the girl advanced, and took the proffered
hand of the Colonel, and in her simple way
bade him welcome to that forest home, he gazed
upon her face — into her eyes — with a long
and absent glance. A glance which mingled
admiration and reverence. Admiration for a
face and form so beautiful, reverence for a soul
so chaste and pure, as that which lighted her
large eyes.

And the girl gazed without shame upon the
noble form and handsome face of the young
officer, and when she spoke, her voice was
low, musical, and full of delicate intonations,
her language the speech of a pure and educated
woman.

For a while the young man gazed in her
face — long, intently — while the thought half
escaped his lips —

“So beautiful, and in this forest, by the
hearth of a dying old man!”

His reverie was broken by the old man's
voice —

“Colonel you will stay with us to-night.
You are not yet sufficiently strong to bear the
fatigues of the march. You will remain —
will you not, and pursue your way tomorrow?”

The young man gazed around the cabin
with a smile —

“I am afraid the person of a rude soldier
like myself, might inconvenience you. Thanks
friend Abr'am for your kind offer, but I must
be on my way to-night. There will be a
battle before many days, and I would not, for
any consideration, be absent from its danger
and glory.”

And while he spoke to the old man, his
eyes were fixed upon the girl, his heart possessed
by an overwhelming wonder —

“This beautiful maiden, dwelling in the
wild forest, alone with a dying old man!

There is a mystery here. Last year I saw him
at the battle; ah! I remember — he spoke of
a grand-child then, who awaited his return
home. And when he dies, she will be left
alone! An Orphan — young — friendless —
cast upon the mercy of the world!”

This Thought did not rise to his lips, but it
absorbed his soul. The light of the torch disclosed
a sight by no means without interest or
beauty.

These young forms, the one embodying all
that is pure in maidenhood — the other, the
courage and thought of young manhood —
while the old man, with withered frame and
white hairs, looked like an image of old Time,
gazing upon Youth and Hope.

“In an hour,” said the Colonel, “I must be
on my way —”

The old Hunter swept aside the hide of a
buffalo, which hung along one side of the
cabin. An aperture like a doorway was disclosed.
Taking the pine knot in his hand,
Abraham exclaimed —

“Come hither, my friend. Let me converse
with you alone.”

And followed by the young Colonel, he lead
the way through the passage, into a large
chamber, with high walls and lofty ceiling.
The floor, the walls, the ceiling, were white as
Parian marble. And as the old man stood beneath
the lofty arch, and raised the glaring
torch, its light fell upon the most beautiful
flowers and fruit — all fashioned out of stone
by the hand of nature — looking like the
ghosts of dead lilies and roses.

The young officer stood motionless and
wonder-stricken.

“Do not wonder,” said old Abraham —
“Our cabin is built on the side of a hill, and
before the mouth of the Great Cavern, which
pierces the womb of the mountain. Colonel
I have brought you here, so that you may
listen to the words of a dying man.”

There was a solemnity, a sadness, in the old
man's tone, which pierced the heart.

“I will listen,” murmured the Colonel.

“In a few days — perchance — in a few
hours, I will be dead. To you I will confide
a secret which I never entrusted to living man.
Listen to a fatal Revelation —”

And as the young officer sank upon a seat
of stone, with that solemn Chapel of Nature
all around him, the old man's voice broke the
stillness, and awoke the echoes of the place.

For an hour, Marion, seated near the fire,
awaited the re-appearance of Abraham and the
young stranger. We will not picture her
thoughts, but her large bright eye was forming
air-castles among the coals which glared on the
hearth; her bosom rose and fell; maybe a
vision of the old man, dead, and his grand-child
alone in the world, passed over her soul.

And even amid her waking dreams, she
heard the tones of the old man, breaking low
and murmuring from the Cavern Chapel.

The hour passed, the old man and the
Colonel came forth from the Cavern Chapel,
and Marion, looking up, saw that the face of
the young man was very pale — that there
were tears in his eyes.

“Good night, my friends —” his voice was
hurried and broken — “Abraham I have promised,
and will obey. When the Battle is
over — if God spares my life — I will come
this way on my return home, and attend to
your last request.”

He took the hand of Marion — pressed it
warmly — gazed upon her with a look which
filled her with wonder — then grasped the
hand of the old Hunter, and passed rapidly to
the door.

But even on the threshold he staggered and
fell.

It is no fiction that we are writing; weakened
by disease, worn down by fatigue — every
faculty of his soul roused into action by the
Revelation of the old man — the strength of
the young soldier gave way at last, and like a
dead man he fell to the floor.

When they raised him from the floor, the
forest girl and the old man together, he was
chilled and fevered by turns; his eye unnaturally
bright and vacant, his cheek now
pale as a shroud, and now fired as with a
living flame.

And all the night long, extended upon the
old man's couch, he struggled with the madness
of fever, now telling them to bring his
horse, so that he might ride to battle — now
starting up with livid lips and glaring eyes,
and shouting forth the words of the battle
charge — and sinking at last into a half dreamy

slumber, with the name of “Marion!” on his
lips.

And sometimes the young girl, watching by
his couch — cooling his fevered brow with her
hand — shuddered as she heard the words of
the old man's “Revelation” on the tongue of
the delirious soldier.

Morning came; still the sick man was
racked by pain and tortured by delirium.
And while the old man prayed by his bed, the
young girl wandered forth and gathered certain
plants, commended by the rude Indian's lore,
and prepared a potion, which gave sleep —
oblivion — to the young Virginian.

The day wore slowly away, and the horse
of the soldier, tied to a tree and fed by the old
man, neighed wildly, as if to arouse his master,
and call him from his bed to the scenes of
the battle.

Towards evening the sick man unclosed his
eyes. Was it a Dream? — the beautiful form
that hovered near his bed? A glimpse of sunlight
stole through the opened door, and
illumined the beautiful face of the Watcher —
the sad, tender eyes, centred upon the pale
brow of the soldier — the young face, blooming
with youth, and shadowed by luxuriant
chesnut hair.

For a long while the sick man did not speak.
He feared to break the spell which held the
beautiful Dream so near his bedside.

At last endeavouring to recall his wandering
thoughts, he asked —

“How long have I been ill?”

The maiden started at the sound of his
voice —

“Since last night,” she answered, remarking
with undisguised joy, the healthy brightness
of the speaker's eye.

“It is then the Eighth of July — ” he cried,
with an accent of the deepest regret — “And I
am here, when the army are winning laurels.
Ah! the Spy has left my soldiers in ignorance
of my visit to this place; they have gone on
without me — they are now with Braddock.
Abr'am my friend, I must away!”

The old man answered his call; while the
girl stood apart, they conversed together.

He rose, and although still weak, discovered
that he was strong enough to mount his horse.
He hastily resumed his coat, his sword and
pistols, and stood ready to depart.

“Farewell, Marion!” he said, extending his
hand, “In my delirium I dreamed of a Good
Angel, watching by my bed, and placing her
hand upon my brow. It is a Dream no longer,
for I am awake, and the Good Angel is still
before me. Farewell! When the Battle is
over and Fort Duquesne won, I will see you
again.”

He hastened to the door; his horse, a dark
bay, stood pawing the earth, beneath an oaken
tree.

He was in the saddle, his tall form, looking
magnificent in the light of the setting sun; his
cheek still pale, but his eye bright and flashing.

And the white-haired man stood near the
stirrup, and at his back came the brown-haired
girl, her large eyes raised to the warrior's face.

“How far is it to the confluence of the
the Monongahela and the Yohiogeny? Braddock
was to encamp there the night before he
advanced upon Fort Duquesne.”

The old Hunter gave him directions, in relation
to a short path through the wilderness —

“You will reach it ere midnight, Colonel —
God go with you,” he said.

The soldier ere he put spur to his steed,
bent over the saddle, and fixing his gaze upon
the face of the maiden, lifted her hand to his
lips.

“Farewell!” he said, and his steed bounded
down the glen. The tall form of the rider rose
between the gaze and the sky, flushed by the
declining day.

The maiden stood near the white-haired
man, following that warrior form with her
eyes, until the horse and the rider went together
into the shadows.

“He will return when the battle is over,”
said Marion, like one awakening from a
dream.

That night, where the waters of the two
rivers mingle, Braddock standing among the
veterans of his host, pressed the young soldier
by the hand, and joyfully exclaimed —

“Welcome, Washington! We are only
fifteen miles from Fort Duquesne — we will
rest there to-morrow!”

To-morrow!

The battle was over.

It was the Tenth of July, 1754, and seven

hundred corses, lay beneath the scalping knife,
near the banks of the Monongahela.

The French and Indians were holding festival
among the dead; the white man had his
dance and his wine, and the red man, his harvest
of scalps — all among the dead of Braddock's
field.

And through the wilderness, over the very
path where an army eager for battle, sure of
victory, passed two days before, fled the dismayed
wreck of twelve hundred warriors.

A young soldier, stood on a crag, which
overlooked a valley, and commanded a glimpse
of the distant Monongahela. Two horses had
fallen under him in the battle; the third had
died of fatigue in the terrible flight; and the
fourth — a while horse, worthy of his rider —
was tied to a neighbouring tree.

This soldier standing upon a crag, with arms
folded, and lip pressed between his teeth,
looked down — and saw the wreck of Braddock's
army whirl beneath him, like a torrent
suddenly undammed.

Men without arms, men faint with wounds,
men dying on the road, and stretching their
hands in vain to their brothers — this was part
of the sight which he saw.

But the full terror, and confusion and panic
of that flight, who can paint?

And there borne in a tumbril, which was
rudely jolted by the irregularities of the road,
Braddock, the General, was slowly dying, devoured
at once by pain and remorse.

His folly had sacrificed seven hundred men.

No wonder that the brow of the young soldier
darkened, no wonder that his bosom
heaved, as he saw this miserable wreck of an
army, whirl by, without purpose or aim, save
to place mountains and rivers between its living
and the fatal field on which its dead men lay.

The blue uniform of the young soldier was
marked by bullets and stained with blood. He
had dared the fiercest peril, shared the darkest
danger of the fight — his ears were filled even
now with the shrieks of the dying.

But in the fight the Face of a beautiful Girl
had been near him — hovering now on the
white mist — now smiling from the dark cloud.
Her Memory had never forsaken his heart.
And the story of her life, and of the life of her
People — told by the old Hunter in the Cavern
Chapel — had made its impression on his soul.

“When the Battle is over I will return!”

And now he was returning — from no victorious
field — from the Acaldema of the West —
the glen in which the Hunter's cabin stood
was not one hundred yards from the crag; he
had stolen from the retreating army for a brief
hour; he would visit the cabin, and join his
comrades near midnight.

Leaving his horse by the tree, he hurried
down the rock, he drew near the glen.

How visions of the future rose before him in
that hurried and lonely walk!

He was young; he was brave; but twenty-three
years old, he had already won a name of
which the oldest warrior might be proud.

And even from the desolation of the wilderness,
he might gather a wild flower to bless
with its fragrance, his heart, his home.

This forest girl, Marion, dwelling in the
wilderness — alone with her grandsire — a
beautiful form, an angel face, linked with an
angel soul! Should she hold no influence on
his life? Where in all the world could he find
a heart so true, a soul so pure and virginal?

Pardon the young man for these wild reveries
— but he was young — the blood of early
manhood was in his veins — the dreams of
youth still blossomed about his heart.

“She is so beautiful,” he thought, as he
hurried along — “When the old man is dead,
she will be left alone in the world. Can I
leave her alone in the wilderness — can I desert
purity and tenderness, like hers, in the
hour of its loneliness? Ah — even now, it
may be, she weeps over the corse of her only
friend —”

With that thought he hurried on.

Before him, a tall rock rose in the sun — on
the other side of the rock lay the glen which
embosomed the cabin — the Home of Marion,
the forest girl.

“Ah — they are standing at the door, the
old man and the beautiful girl. I will behold
them as I stand at the foot of the glen. They
await me. They have looked for my coming
all day long.”

Thoughts like these crowded upon him:
his blood began to bound; he looked toward
the rock, and hastened onward.

He reached the rock, passed it, and looked
up the mountain glade!

It was bathed in sunbeams on one side;

wrapt in shadow on the other; he stood at its
southern extremity, and from its northern termination
caught a glimpse of the smiling sky.

But the cabin was not visible, for it stood
among the trees, buried — all save the rugged
door — by boughs and vines. Neither did he
behold the image of the old man, with the
dark-eyed girl standing near.

A hundred paces lay between him and the
cabin.

Do not smile at his violent agitation; do not
chide him for his wild enthusiasm, for the
Face of the girl is present with him now, as
he hurries on — he hears her voice as he heard
it in the delirium of fever — he resolves to
bear her from this forest dell, and show the
gay world what beautiful flowers are reared
by God, even in the howling wilderness.

He nears the cabin door —

And you will remember that the young
Virginian, in mere personal appearance, was
worthy of the proudest woman's love. He was
tall — well-proportioned — his face moulded
not so much after the “classic style,” but
moulded — as a face should be, which is intended
to express the manhood of a chivalric
heart.

He stands at last before the cabin door.
Framed in flowers, the face of the young girl
looks forth from the shadows — the withered
hands of the old man are extended in the act
of blessing him. No — No.

The flowers before that door are withered.
Blasted the flowers, the leaves — the very
boughs are green no longer, but stripped of
life, they fling their black limbs to the light.

Where the cabin stood two days ago, now is
only a pile of sightless and smoking embers!

It was a moment, such as do not occur to any
man twice in a lifetime.

He stood palsied, gazing upon the ruins and
the blackness, looking for some traces of a
living being — but unable to speak or move.

“Marion!” he said in a broken voice.

No answer came. A stillness like midnight
was upon the place.

The young soldier advanced — blackness
and ashes, nothing but ruins wherever he
turned.

The mouth of the cavern was before him.
The memory of the old man's Revelation came
back at the sight; he passed into the Chapel,
and saw the sunshine stealing over those
flowers and fruits of gold. But the Chapel
was vacant — no sound or trace of humanity.
It was like a tomb.

Deeper into the cavern the young man
passed — while he was gone, the night came
down — and when he came forth, his face
looked hollow, ghastly by the light of the rising
moon.

There was a single tress of brown hair
wound about the clenched finger of his right
hand.

He hurried away, he mounted his horse, he
joined the retreating army. But never from
his lips passed a word concerning the fate of
the old man or his child.

But when America became a nation, there
was in the cabinet of the President a sheet of
time-worn paper, encircling a faded tress of
hair, and bearing the superscription — “Marion,
July 11th, 1754.” That was the only
record left on earth of the

FIRST LOVE OF WASHINGTON.