University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Campbell.

But the time, at length, arrived, when the
spirit of Meredith could no longer resist the
call of his country. The battle of Bunker's
Hill, fortunate and glorious for the arms of
America, awakened in the minds of her youth
a military ardour which drove them in thousands
to her standard. This was greatly increased
by the appointment of Washington to
the command of her armies. Many who were
before timid, now became resolute, and felt
confidence in the final result of the struggle,
since they saw that their undisciplined and ill-appointed
levies, could resist the veteran soldiers
of Britain, and that they had now obtained
a leader in whose consummate skill
they could repose the most implicit reliance.

Animated with the martial feelings which
had thus become so prevalent among the patriots
of the day, Meredith felt desirous of proceeding
at once to the head quarters of Washington
and offering his services. His mother's entreaties

and his uncle's remonstrances, however,
had, as yet, influence sufficient to prevent this.
But he could not be altogether an idle spectator
of his country's struggle. Bands of tories became
active in the neighbourhood of the Brandywine,
and the whigs found it necessary to arm in
their own defence. This afforded an opportunity
for Meredith to become active. He raised
a band of partizan volunteers, self-clothed and
self-armed in defence of the district. To this,
his friends made but little opposition, in the
hopes that such indulgence might satisfy his
wishes, and prevent him from leaving home to
join the regular army.

Meredith and Harris now became avowed
enemies. A coolness had for some time existed
between them, arising at first from a cause not
connected with politics, although their political
differences, now that they had sundered, tended
no doubt to widen the breach.

Meredith had become attached to a young
lady of Philadelphia, the niece and heiress of
an elderly, infirm gentleman, named Lewis.
He had first met with her at the Yellow-Springs,
where she attended her uncle, who was making
trial of the waters for his health. It was
on an August afternoon. Meredith had some
errand in the vicinity of the Springs. He rode
slowly on a narrow path, through a thick wood,
which led, by a shorter course, than the main

road, to the place he wished to visit. He was
within a quarter of a mile of the Springs, in
a lonely dell, hidden by tall and dark trees,
where all was silent and solitary, when he heard
a female voice scream for help. It proceeded
from the close woods on his left, which he
could not penetrate on horseback. He dismounted,
and dashing through the brush-wood,
in a moment burst into a small glade, when
he saw a stout fierce-looking man in the act of
robbing an elderly gentlemen, while a young
lady, on her knees, was imploring the ruffian
for mercy. The approach of Meredith was,
however, more effectual than her entreaties,
for on the instant of his appearance, the robber
fled, having made booty of only a small purse
containing a few guineas, which the lady in
her fright had presented to him in the hope of
preventing further violence.

“Ah! it is the scoundrel Fitzpatrick!” exclaimed
Meredith. “He has too long escaped
the gallows!” He was about to pursue the ruffian;
but the tones of the sweetest voice he had
ever heard, arrested his attention. “Oh! help
—help to save my uncle, or he will die!”
were the words that thrilled to his heart, and
stopped his pursuit of Fitzpatrick.

He hastened to the gentleman. He found
him lying on the ground with his countenance
discoloured, his eyes swollen, and his whole

frame making a convulsive effort for the recovery
of breath. The lady had unbound his
cravat, and from her, Meredith learned that the
robber, in making his attack, had seized the
old man by the throat and nearly strangled
him. Meredith raised the sufferer in his arms,
and he soon recovered sufficiently to permit being
conveyed to his lodging at the Springs.

This incident produced a commotion in the
feelings of Meredith which he never before
experienced. It was not the exultation of rescuing
a lady and gentleman from robbery, nor
the alarm produced by the dangerous condition
in which the gentleman was found, that so
strangely agitated him. It was a more endearing
and sweeter sensation than such circumstances
could inspire. It was the delight with which he
beheld the bewitching looks of Harriet Lewis,
for so was this beautful being named; the rapture
with which he listened to her grateful
words uttered in tones sweeter than the honey of
music to his heart.—Was he in love? He knew
not. It might be so. Yet how could it be?
He knew too little of this fascinating lady to
warrant such a serious feeling as love. But certainly
there was something delightfully strange
in the effects of her presence upon his sensations.
Nay; reflecting upon her, in her absence,
produced in his heart emotions of pleasure
which it had never before experienced;

emotions in which it now became his chief
luxury to indulge. If it was not love, what
then could it be? It was a feeling of delight
in meditating on her—a feeling of rapture in
conversing with her—a passion—in fact, he
could not long conceal it from himself; it was
the divine passion of love that had, with all
its intensity, seized upon his young and ardent
heart.

I shall not sentimentalize upon the state of
Meredith's feelings at this time, however
tempting the opportunity may be to the writer
of a history like this, which professes to detail
the impulses, as well as the actions of the characters
that form its subject. My work is limited
to certain bounds which must not be exceeded;
and as the events to be related are
numerous, I must be frugal of the space allotted
to impulses and sentiments.

During the ensuing three weeks, at the termination
of which, Mr. Lewis recovered sufficiently
to be able to return to Philadelphia,
Meredith found, or fancied he had found, business
sufficient to require his continuance at the
Springs. But when the sound of his Harriet's parting
words, had died upon his ears, he discovered
that the Springs were intolerably dull, and that
he had no longer any business to detain him
there. He soon, however, made a pretence
for visiting the city; and, as Harris proposed

to accompany him, for the transaction of some
affairs arising from letters he had just received
from England, he could not with propriety
refuse his society.

They were on horseback, and riding on a
tolerably good road, in a gay conversable humour,
when the subject of gallantry to the ladies
happening to be introduced, Harris abruptly,
as if suddenly recollecting some forgotten
piece of intelligence, observed, “By the bye,
Edward, you had a most enviable adventure
lately at the Yellow Springs: and quite a romantic
business too, I understand.”

“To what do you allude?” asked Edward
in some confusion. “Oh! oh!” replied Harris,
“if it be a mysterous affair, I beg pardon for
adverting to it. Really I heard a month ago
of your vanquishing the robber; and have had
many surmises and conjectures to account for
your being so close-mouthed on the subject.”

“How you received your information,” said
Edward, “I know not. But you have received,
at least part of it, incorrectly. I had no combat
with a robber, and therefore could not
vanquish one.”

“Come, come—no evasions!” returned Harris.
“If you did not literally subdue the rogue,
you put him to flight, which is much the
same thing; and you had the chivalric delight
of rescuing venerable age and distressed beauty

out of his hands. Now you see I know something
about the matter!”

“Since you know so much, your curiosity,
Mr. Harris, ought to be at rest, for you can
have lost but little from my silence on the subject.”

“True, I know the most of your adventure
with the robber. But, of course, from your
own information only can I become acquainted
with the progress which the fair lady's
charms have made on your heart. Pray, now
be candid and open-minded for once, and let
me know whether she has really smitten
you?”

“Sir,” replied Edward, impatiently, “since
your mirth has driven you into the scoffing
vein, I have no objection to be personally
your butt. But I would remind you of the
impropriety, and caution you against the imprudence
of mingling with your jests, any allusion
to a young and respectable female.”

“Oh! a truce with such gravity! I have no
wish to offend. But if my cousin, Edward
Meredith, cannot tolerate from me, a little familiar
levity, where on all this wide continent
of sulky and touchy humours, may I venture
to indulge a jest?”

“Among your intrusive countrymen, perhaps,
whose overbearing conduct has latterly
proved that they have no great consideration

for the rights or the feelings of others. It is
therefore to be presumed that they can have
but little for their own. Their insensibility in
these matters, may enable them to bear with
patience what they so readily inflict upon
others.”

“Come, come, my dear fellow, you are too
warm. My countrymen have nothing to do with
the question. In what manner have I offended
you?”

“By speaking flippantly of a young lady I
esteem.”

“Upon honour, I intended her no disrespect.
How could I? I know nothing in reference
to her but what is respectable. Besides I have
myself some interest in maintaining her credit
for respectability, since, according to a discovery
I have just made, I believe I have the
honour to be her relation.”

“Her relation! How! What have you discovered
concerning her?”

“Stay—stay! Do'nt be impatient. My discovery
is easily told. One of my letters from
England received yesterday, informs me that
David Lewis, Esqr. now of Philadelphia, formerly
a merchant in New York, is full cousin
to my mother—and moreover, from my said
mother, I have an introductory letter to the said
David Lewis, to deliver which in propria persona
is the motive of my present visit to the

city, and consequently the reason why you are
now troubled with my obnoxious company.”

“I claim no right to—”

“Nay, nay—no explanations. They are not
needed.—But permit me to observe, that I am
much mistaken, if your venerable acquaintance
is not the identical Mr. Lewis whom I am
about to visit as my relation, and of whose
niece, therefore, far be it from me to speak
flippantly.”

Meredith's reply was prevented by the sudden
appearance of a man wrapped in a large
cloak so as to conceal both his person and his
face, who hastily placed in his hand a small
packet, and without speaking, hurried back
into the woods from which he had issued.
Meredith opened the packet, and perceiving
the signature to a few roughly written lines,
he exclaimed,

“It is the outlaw, Fitzpatrick! Let us pursue
and seize him. Justice has been too long
defrauded of him.”

He was starting in pursuit, when Harris
caught the rein of his bridle, and checked his
movements.

“Meredith,” said he, “be not so rash. If
you now venture into that wood, I predict that
you will soon be a dead man. Fitzpatrick is
not there alone, or he would not have ventured
to expose himself to our view. Ha! hear
ye that!”

Loud huzzas, at that instant, rang through
the wood from evidently more than a dozen
voices, after which the sound of a solitary fife
was heard, moving gradually away to the air
of “God save the king.”

“You are right, Harris,” said Meredith;
“there is a band of tories there. I perhaps owe
my present safety to your royalism. But let
me read the outlaw's packet. Ha! in this fold
there is money; a twenty dollar bill, continental
currency.—But what says the scrawl.
“This is rebel money in which you have faith.
Give it to your sweetheart, Miss Lewis, for
the five guineas of gold I took from her. I
do not wish to rob a young lady, especially
when she is handsome; but I have use for the
gold, and if she can do any good with this rebellious
money, she is welcome. I should have had
no objection to have strangled the old fellow, because
they say he has a spice of whiggery in his
heart. Mr. Meredith, you have a good uncle
and a good mother; but I would warn you not
to tempt your fate, too far, by persisting in
open rebellion against the Lord's anointed.

“Your well wisher,
“James Fitzpatrick.”

“P. S. Tell Miss Lewis not to consider me
a common robber, but to forgive the fright I
put her into. I came by the twenty dollars
honestly, having compelled one of your militia

captains who was in pursuit of me, to stand
and deliver it.”

“Faith, an odd kind of honesty this. But
Fitzparick is certainly no common robber.”

“In my opinion,” said Harris, “he is an
honour to your country. He adheres manfully
to his allegiance; and opposes in his own singular
manner, the torrent of rebellious principles
which has overwhelmed the land, and
swept away all the ancient barriers of social
order and political subordination.”

“We only resist oppression!” exclaimed
Meredith, “we only contend for our rights.
If this be rebellion, nature and reason lend it
their sanction, and impose it on freemen as
an incumbent duty, in the performance of
which none but grovellers and cowards would
refuse to embark!”

“My dear Meredith,” said Harris, “you
are an enthusiast. I wish to Heaven you were
so in a good cause. But let us drop politics,
if you please. In these times they inflame the
blood too much. Is there any other subject in
the discussion of which we might engage with
less warmth of feeling and more coolness of
judgment?”

“I have little inclination for argument on
any subject at present,” replied Meredith.
“We are now approaching the vicinity of the
city, and I am desirous of entering it with unruffled
feelings.”

“Then a truce with hard words until some
fitter occasion,” said Harris; and the appearances
of the country through which they passed,
becoming, as they approached the city,
more and more diversified by cultivation, afforded,
during the remainder of their journey,
topics for conversation, on which they could
freely descant, and differ, and bandy jests, without
increasing the acrimony of their already
embittered feelings.”