University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Harley.

The promulgation of the Declaration of Independence,
although a bold, was an extremely
prudent and well-timed measure. Without its
encouraging tendencies, the numerous disasters
which befell the American arms during the
subsequent five or six months, must have occasioned
the most resolute friends of the popular
cause to give it up in despair. After the loss
of the great battle of Long Island, a series of
defeats reduced the combatants for freedom to
the mere skeleton of an ill-supplied and much-suffering
army, harassed and pursued from
place to place, by a victorious, numerous, and
well-appointed foe.

This was that period of desponding prospects
which is emphatically said to have tried
men's souls. The most sanguine began to
despond, and in thebosoms of the timid, hope
was extinguished. The noblest cause for which
a people ever fought, depended entirely on the

firmness and management of one man, aided
by only the remnant of an army of harassed,
wearied and worn-out fugitives, so ill-appointed
that they had not clothing sufficient to defend
them from the severity of an inclement winter.
But that man was Washington, and those fugitives
were THE HEROES OF SEVENTY-SIX,
who soon became the conquerors of Trenton
and Princeton, and snatched, by their hardy
valour, the cause of their country—the cause
of man—from the brink of ruin. Even after
these brilliant achievements had shed their
cheering influence over the cause, the horizon
became again darkened by the disasters of
Brandywine and Germantown, and the country's
necessities called aloud to her sons for
sympathy and succour.

By none was the call more keenly felt than
by Henry Austin; and his ardour at length received
the sanction of his father. This ardour
was participated by many of the patriotic
youth of the settlement; and he was enabled
to collect a generous band of about fifty volunteers,
who enrolled themselves beneath his
command for the purpose of joining the army
under Washington. As the day of his departure
drew near, his patriotism had to contend
with the force of a powerful passion which
swayed his bosom as strongly as ever it swayed

the bosom of man. This passion was love—
love for Agnes Norwood, whose image had
become, from the first moment he beheld her,
entwined with his very existence. Day and
night was she the subject of his meditations.—
Her charms were the delicious food of his
imagination; and he felt as if he could live no
where, with satisfaction, but in her presence.
And she had long since acknowledged a mutual
love. Many and sweet were the hours of
romantic fervour they had passed together since
that acknowledgment took place. Their attachment
was sanctioned by their parents. Henry
appeared to Mr. Norwood just such a husband
as he could wish for his daughter, and
Mr. Austin rejoiced in the happy fortune
which had gained for his son the affections of a
female so fair and so worthy as Agnes Norwood.
For one reason in particular, he rejoiced
in the circumstance. He hoped that her
charms would have sufficient influence to retain
him at home, and check his patriotic eagerness
to embark in the dangers of war. And, indeed,
these charms had been sufficient for this
purpose, until Henry heard of the depth of his
country's misfortunes, and the encreasing
gloom which, after the battle of Germantown,
overshadowed her cause. His sense of
duty then came in aid of his patriotism, and
he resolved to make a mighty effort to break
the fascinations of love and the enjoyments of
home, in order to serve a cause in the success
of which he felt so strongly interested. Yet
so powerful was his passion, that after he had
procured his father's consent to join the army,
and had even organized his band of followers,
his heart almost failed him, and he became irresolute
in his determination to leave, even but
for a season, the dear object of his soul's desire.

While under the influence of this feeling he
visited her. He found her in her father's parlour.

“I come, my Agnes,” said he, “to state
that your fascinations have conquered. Love
has prevailed.—Patriotism, duty, desire of
glory—all, all have yielded to my dread of
separating from thee. I have decided to remain
with thee. I feel I have done wrong:
but, O! for charms like thine, who would not
relinquish every thing? If my feelings were
known, the severest would forgive my error.”

“Henry,” said she, “what do I hear!—
Wilt thou refuse thy arm to thy country in her
distress?—But, perhaps, thou art right: we
may be happy here, although liberty should
be driven from the land!”

“What! Agnes,” he exclaimed, as if her
tone, rather than her words, had caused a forgotten

feeling to startle his mind, “what sayest
thou? Could we be happy as slaves?”

“Yes; with love like ours, even in slavery
we might be happy! But, Henry, self-abasement,
such a mind as thine could not endure.”

“Self-abasement! Agnes? What abasement
is there in preferring thy love to all things? In
preferring thy society to that of soldiers; thy
beauteous presence in this valley, to the clamours
of a camp?”

“It is preferring the indulgence of selfish
wishes, to the performance of duty. Henry,
canst thou not see how that would produce
self-abasement?”

“True, Agnes! I see it.”

“Couldst thou endure the torments of such
a degraded feeling?”

“No, Agnes! I fear not easily. But thy
smiles would be my recompense, my relief,
my unfailing comfort.”

“But could I smile if thou wert unhappy?
Or could I comfort thee, if thou hadst lost thy
own esteem?”

“Ah! I feel thy words, my beloved! Thou
art the angel of my protection.—My own esteem!—I
shall not lose it. I will do my duty.
Assist me, Agnes! strengthen me with thy
counsel. Enable me to leave thee for a time,

that I may fly to the post of duty, and be worthy
of thy love.”

“When thou shalt do so, Henry, I will esteem
thee—nay, if possible, I will love thee
more than now!”

He caught her hands rapturously. “Thanks
to thee, my only love!” he said, “thou hast
saved me from my weakness. Thou shalt esteem,
as well as love me. My country needs
me. I will do my duty!”

“Although our separation, Henry, should
break my heart, I would not be the means of
detaining thee from thy duty. Thy departure
to the busy world where thou mayest forget
me, or to scenes of danger where thou mayest
be slain—O! Henry, such thoughts distract
me.—Yet—yet, thou must go—thy country
calls, and what is my happiness, or even thine,
that we should indulge it at her expense?”

“Agnes, I could worship thee for such sentiments.
I will leave thee for my country's
sake. Heaven will protect thee in my absence
in recompense of thy virtue.—And I too shall
win favour from above for the severe sacrifice
I now make in obedience to the calls of duty.—
But forget thee, didst thou say? No, not for a
moment, Agnes, shall thy image be absent
from my recollection—thy loveliness from my

heart. But, my beloved, can we not unite before
my departure? Methinks, I could go
with less sorrow and reluctance, could I call
thee my own?”

“Henry, dost thou allude to marriage?—
We are both young—too young, perhaps.—But
let our fathers decide.—Return here at six this
evening. I will reflect on the subject. I will
consult my father. Do thou consult thine.”

Henry's father did not approve of his son's
marriage under present circumstances. “I
confess,” he said, “that Miss Norwood is in
all respects worthy of you. Your having
placed your affections on her affords me great
satisfaction. But you are now going on a toilsome
and dangerous pursuit. I should wish
you to go single and untrammelled with domestic
cares, so that your new profession may
receive your whole devotion, by which means
you will be more likely to command success.
But should disaster happen to you; should you
be wounded or slain, (casualties which, I trust,
Heaven will avert,) it will be enough that I and
my family be made miserable. Why expose
another family to the same hazard of sorrow,
by needlessly connecting yourself with it in
marriage? Should you marry, you do not propose
remaining at home to enjoy your wife's
society. You would make her your wife to

abandon her after the ceremony, and expose
her to the risk of becoming an early widow.
Is this love, or is it selfishness? But you say,
you wish only to secure her fidelity? Has she
not owned her attachment, and promised constancy
in return for your's? And do you doubt
her truth? You cannot. It would be a feeling
unworthy of the lover of Miss Norwood.”

Henry was struck with his father's observations.
He felt that it would be sweet to call
Agnes his own. But it would be unjust to
expose her as his wife to the distress of any
accident that might befall him in the war.
True, she loved him, and were he unfortunately
to fall, even though unmarried to him, she
would grieve with a sincere and deep sorrow.
But would not that sorrow sooner end in the
maid than in the wife? At all events, he
would not at the present, urge the marriage,
since his father disapproved of it, unless Mr.
Norwood's opinion should be more favourable
towards it, which he did not venture to expect.

Henry judged rightly of Mr. Norwood's
opinion. That gentleman, anxiously alive for
his daughter's welfare, thought that her marriage
with so young a man on the eve of his
departure from the settlement, and on a hazardous
pursuit, would be extremely imprudent.

“Let a few years roll on,” said he to Agnes.

“This tempestuous period will pass by,
and happier times may bless the land with
peace and freedom and prosperity. Henry
and you, my daughter, will be still young
enough to engage in the cares of the marriage
state, and I shall then be happy in joining your
hands and giving you my blessing.”

To her father's opinion Agnes bowed implicitly.
In all that concerned herself, his
opinion was her creed, his will was her law.
When Henry according to appointment visited
her that evening, she stated to him the objections
made by her father to their marriage
under present circumstances. He saw them in
their full force, and he admitted them, and forbore
to press his suit for immediate happiness;
although, when he beheld her loveliness in all
its blooming graces before him, he internally
deplored the untoward circumstances that withheld
him, for a time, from the possession of
such charms.

That evening, towards twilight, the lovers
walked out together along the banks of the
Sharon. It was the eve of Henry's departure.
His company of volunteers were assembled in
the village, in readiness to march the next
morning. Had his marriage, therefore, taken
place, short, indeed, must have been his stay
with his bride. This consideration, in some

measure, reconciled him to the disappointment.

“Oh Agnes,” said he, “I was certainly too
inconsiderate in the wishes I expressed, for if
thou wert made my own, I feel that I could not
leave thee, and my duty should be neglected.”

“Indeed,” she replied, “I am persuaded
that the postponement of our nuptials, is both
prudent and proper. If Providence shall hear
my constant prayers, and restore thee to thy
friends in more propitious times, our union
will then have the sanction of our parents, and
the joy of that hour will not be blighted by the
grief of separation.”

They had now reached the entrance of the
village church. They observed the door partly
open. They concluded that it had been left so
by the negligence of some person employed in
making repairs inside. They entered the holy
place. All was still and silent as the interior
of the graves that surrounded it. Who has
ever visited a temple of the Divinity, built with
hands, when devoid of worshippers, without
being impressed with a sensation of the awful
solemnity that pervades the sacred edifice. It
is a feeling as if we were in the immediate presence
of the Supreme of all things, surrounded
by his ministering angels—for we imagine, or,

at least have sensations skin to the imagination,
that such a place can never be unoccupied; and
since human worshippers are absent, their
place must be filled and their functions performed,
by invisible intelligences of a higher
and more holy order.

The lovers felt, that if they were not surrounded
by such intelligences, they were altogether
without witnesses of their fervent expressions
of mutual fondness and never-ending
constancy.

“Oh! my beloved,” said Henry, “it is not
any fickleness of thy mind I dread; for I believe
that thou art all truth and sincerity. But
events may occur in my absence severely to
try thy faith. Forgive me, therefore, if I wish
it secured by some solemn vow. Become my betrothed—plight
thyself to me within this solemn
shrine of God, and before that holy place from
whence thy father's lips have so often poured
forth pious instruction, and promulgated
the obligations of our holy faith. In the name
of love, and for the sake of my peace of mind
when I shall be afar off, let me entreat thee, to
kneel with me in this sacred temple, where it
may be long before we again meet, and, in the
awful presence of Him to whom the place is
consecrated, let us pledge to each other unwavering
faith, and eternal love—let us swear

that in wedlock neither of us shall ever pledge
our vows to any other.”

They knelt, they caught each other's right
hands, and before God and his angels, they
swore the oath of betrothment, and sealed it
with a fervent kiss. That moment a voice
suddenly but sweetly said, “Heaven has registered
that vow. Oh! ye Betrothed! let it
never be broken!”

The lovers started to their feet in confusion;
but conscious of no sin, they felt no alarm.
They looked round, and beheld standing behind
them the “Hermit of the Woods.”

“Pardon my intrusion,” said he, “it was
not intentional. The door was open. I entered.
I approached too near before I perceived
you, to withdraw without disturbing
you. I, therefore, remained silent till your
vows were passed, when I thought it better to
discover myself than run the hazard of being
discovered by you. I have long known your
loves.—I have now witnessed your betrothment—but
fear nothing. I am your friend,
and your secret is safe.”

“Good Rodolph,” said Henry, “we know
you are our friend—we have effectually experienced
your friendship. What you have seen
and heard, you were sent by Heaven to witness.
We, therefore, murmur not at your

presence. But in this holy place and sanctified
moment, we crave thy blessing.”

“May the great Being who rules above, and
who is worshipped here, bless you, my children.
May he watch over you when far
asunder, and in other days bring you together,
that you may redeem the vows you have pledged
this evening, and under happy auspices, fulfil
your Betrothment!” He said and departed.