University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

If a heroine is worth anything, she is worth a description;
and it just now occurs to us that we have
not as yet intimated even the colour of Jane Hammond's
eyes, for which omission we beg pardon of that
fair young maiden, and all our readers. After the departure
of John, she returned home with her father,
filled with sad forebodings. The colonel lighted his
pipe, and, soothed by that unequalled teacher of philosophy,
fell into a glorious reverie, in which he conceived
the abstract idea of a great improvement in
ploughshares. The daughter also fell into a reverie,
but it was not about ploughshares. She sat so perfectly
still, in such a careless, yet becoming attitude,
that we shall take the opportunity to sketch her
likeness.

Her seat was at the low window of an old fashioned

house, built by the colonel's father, of whom, were we
inclined to make the most of a small capital of invention,
we could say enough to tire the patience of any
reasonable reader. We might, moreover, fill up a page
or two with a description of the house, together with
the chairs, tables, chests of drawers, andirons, bedding,
and bedposts; but will spare our readers for the present,
promising them faithfully, that if, in the course of
this work, we are hard pushed for something to say,
they shall have such an inventory as would suffice for
an auctioneer's sale. At present, however, there is
metal more attractive before us.

The window where Jane sat, looked out on the windings
of the little stream through its paradise of green
meadows, in the distance of which might be caught a
glimpse of the old stone house, with its moss covered roof
and rugged chimneys, where now dwelt, in lonely solitude,
the aged grandparents of her adventurous lover.
A dark spot in the grey obscurity of evening alone indicated
its precise position, and fancy supplied the rest.
Her arms were crossed on the window-seat, and being
somewhat raised, discovered a waist fashioned by nature
beyond all the art of the most expert Parisian
artiste. Above this taper miricle, one might detect,
beneath her folded arms, the swelling graceful outline
of a gently heaving bosom, which insinuated, not disclosed,
the hidden snows, and gave rise to dim, yet
glowing visions of things unseen, the secret shrines of
lowly adoration. Her head bent gracefully forward,
and somewhat depressed, indicated something like a
latent enthusiasm, mingled with hope and apprehension,
and this attitude brought the silken tresses of her

chestnut hair partly over her forehead and eyes. No
one could ever tell the colour of those eyes; for as the
tints of a summer landscape are perpetually varying in
the shade and sunshine, so did the various emotions of
her heart, and the inspirations of her mind, forever vary
the seeming colour of her eyes. Whether black, or
brown, or gray, remains a question to this day undecided,
and those few who remembered her in the days
of her youth, often disputed on the subject, without
ever agreeing. No one was, however, so disputatious
as to question the hue of her long eye-lashes, as everybody
agreed they looked for all the world like changeable
silk.

For the rest, her figure was the exact counterpart
of that of the lady the reader most admires, and her
features seemed to have come together by accident.
But it was one of the happiest accidents in the world;
for it produced, somehow or other, a face so irregular,
yet so charming, as to distance the happiest conceptions
of painting or poetry. Its beauty, or rather its
loveliness—for she could not be called beautiful—consisted
in that indescribable, inimitable mystery, called
expression, and never failed to attract the sympathies
of all who knew her, from its various parts to the delightful
whole. The face of Jane was, however, composed
of legitimate materials; a pair of cherry lips,
inlaid with two rows of polished ivory, whence issued
the balmy breath of spring; a dimpled cheek that rivalled
the aforesaid cherries; a delicate, lady-like nose
and chin, and a general contour divested of the slightest
traces of commonplace vulgarity. But I forbear
to say more, lest, peradventure, I should fall in love

with the picture I am drawing. Suffice to say, that
her voice, both in speaking and singing, was so soft,
so exquisitely musically melancholy, when serious, so
inspiring, when gay, that when she spoke or sung, no
echoes ever replied, for they all died away in listening.

But the less we say of her education and accomplishments,
the better, perhaps, for our heroine. She
possessed neither piano, harp, or lute, nor could she
have played honest men to sleep with them, had they
been in her possession. Yet still she possessed the
very soul of harmony, and an ear so nice and delicate,
that an old German musician once said of her, that
had not Apollo got the start of her, she would have
certainly become the goddess of music. Tradition
says, that she used to sing some old Scottish ballads
with such pathos and expression, as often brought iron
tears from the eyes of the old continental, who was
fond of hearing her of a calm summer evening. One
of these, which she used to sing about the time she
believed John was a deserter, has been preserved, and
ran as follows:

The mother of Jane was a clever, sensible woman,
and the example of a mother is of more consequence
to a daughter, than all the boarding-school discipline
in the world. Jane had also occasionally spent some
time in the city, before it became the head-quarters of
the British army, and her manners, though partaking
of rural simplicity, were not altogether rustic. There
was nothing vulgar about her, but she was not at all
fashionable, nor had she acquired any fashionable accomplishments.
But in all that becomes a woman—a
gentle and reasonable woman—in all the little arts
and acquirements that contribute to the happiness of
the domestic fireside, and make women ministering
angels, she was by no means wanting.

Her mind was pure and simple, her understanding
excellent. Nature had done much for her, by bestowing,
in great perfection, the faculty of deriving knowledge
from everything she saw or heard. All wisdom
is not locked up in books. There is wisdom to be derived
from the works of the Creator; from exhibitions
of human character, the daily routine of human actions;
and all that we see in nature or the social state,
contributes to awaken the mind and expand the intellect.
Imagination, thought, reflection, and comparison,
are all rich sources, from whence is derived the

nurture of the mind; and thus it not unfrequently
happens, that the brightest specimens of genius seem
to leap into life full formed, like Minerva from the
brain of Jove. They are not so, however. They
have studied in the fruitful region of their minds, and,
as certain animals are said to do, grown fat on their
own nutriment. Those who derive their materials
from books, suffer others to think for them; while
those who have no other volume to consult, but that
of nature and experience, generally decide with a sagacity
which often makes the learned stare, and sets
philosophy to inventing new theories. Our heroine
had been principally educated in this school, and the
result will be best tested by the standard of her future
conduct.

On arriving at home, John found the old farmer
hard at work in his garden, and now and then pausing
to admire his currant-bushes, which were his choicest
favourites; the young handmaid was milking the cows
to the tune of Barbara Allen; and the old dame preparing
breakfast, which consisted entirely of the products
of their own labour. They were all too patriotic
to drink tea, even if it could have been procured;
and as for coffee and sugar, they had become traditionary
in the family. Such was the scarcity of the
most ordinary conveniences of life, that, in many
places, thorns were substituted for pins by the women
of the interior country. Had it not been for Mangham,
the pedlar and tinker, who sometimes paid a visit to
this quarter, there would have been no stitching for
lack of needles.

“Well, for the landsake!” exclaimed the little maid,

as John rode up on his gallant charger, “where did
you get that fine horse?”

“Oh! I found a mare's nest with eight fine colts in
it, and took this one for my share.”

“You be fiddled,” retorted the little maid, “I don't
believe a word on't. You've turned Cow Boy, and
been robbing some of the poor people down below.”

“Ah! John, John!” said the old dame, shaking her
head. At the same time, the grandfather coming up,
demanded rather harshly, where he got that animal?
whether he came honestly by him, or had plundered
some poor farmer like himself? and declaring, if such
were the case, he should carry him back if it cost him
his life. This imputation called out the lad, and he
at once vindicated himself by detailing the adventure
of the preceding night, drawing the attention of his
auditors to the gash in his forehead, which caused the
good woman to exclaim—“Thank heaven, it is no
worse! You might just as well have been killed as
not;” meaning, that the one was just as likely as the
other.

“And so you won the nag in fair fight, John?” said
the old man.

“Yes, sir; I paid for him with my blood, and that's
better than continental money any day.”

“Well, go and turn him out in the long meadow;
there is grass up to his eyes.”

“Not yet, sir; I must first carry a message to the
colonel.”

“A message—ah! I reckon you have made a mistake,
John. You mean the colonel's daughter.” But
John heard him not; he was cantering away towards

the portly mansion of the old continental. It was rather
an early hour for a visit, but country people don't
know the extreme impropriety of disturbing young ladies
in their morning dress.

Jane, who had passed the first part of the night in
thinking, the last, in dreaming, was up betimes in the
morning, looking as fresh and blooming as a rose-bud,
in spite of her anxieties, for she had a clear conscience,
and that is a great consolation in all troubles.
She happened, for some mysterious purpose, to be
looking towards a certain old stone house, which was,
indeed, rather a picturesque object in the gray morning
hour, with its sharp, mossy roof, and the blue smoke
ascending to the skies, from the rugged chimney, and
while thus occupied, saw a horseman ride briskly up
the little knoll, dismount at the door, and, after a brief
parley, disappear within. The distance was too great
to distinguish who it was, in the obscurity of the dawn,
and the sight threw her into a trepidation which caused
her heart to flutter strangely. It could hardly be John,
for he, she knew, had gone forth on foot, and suddenly
the thought shot across her mind that it was some
messenger of ill news either from John or his father.
Gradually, however, as is usual in such cases, all her
apprehensions at length centered on the object nearest
her heart; and in this painful state she remained, gazing
wistfully in that direction, when suddenly she saw
the stranger come forth, mount his horse, and dash
along the road that ran beside the stream leading to
the residence of the old continental. Her throbbing
heart whispered that something strange had happened,
and she retired from the window into her chamber,

afraid of hearing it too soon. Here, in a few minutes,
she could distinguish the clattering of horses hoofs,
and—she could not help it—her curiosity led her to
the window again, where all doubts and fears were
at once dispelled by a discovery which we leave to
the sagacity of the world.

It happened, unluckily for our hero, that at the precise
moment of his riding up to the house, the old continental
was in a very bad humour, owing to the failure
of one of his pet inventions. In going the rounds,
as was his daily custom, he discovered that a valuable
pup, with a pedigree equal to that of a blood-horse, or
a noble lord, standing at the head of the list in the
royal calendar, had been caught in one of his infallible
mole-traps, whereby one of his legs was so much
injured that the poor animal could scarcely drag himself
along. The colonel partly consoled himself by
calling the puppy a great blockhead, but his afforded
him only partial relief, and he continued sorely disturbed
in mind.

“Thunder and Mars! what brought you here this
time in the morning?” asked he, gruffly, of John.
“Didn't I tell you not to show your face here again
till— But, hey! Why, blood and fire! what have
you got that rag tied about your pate for? and how
did you come by that fine horse, hey?”

“How is my dear Jane, sir?”

“What's that to you, puppy? Get out, you stupid
cur!” and here the colonel turned upon the wounded
dog, who was howling most dolorously, and, lifting up
his lame leg, was just on the point of giving him a
benediction, when the poor dumb thing gave him such

a piteous look, that his heart smote him, and he turned
his wrath once more on friend John, exclaiming—

“I say, what's that to you, sir? and how dare you
call my only daughter your dear Jane? But why
don't you answer me? What is the matter with that
fool's pate of yours, and where did you get that
horse?”

“I purchased him in fair fight, and at his full value,
sir. He cost me this cut across the forehead.”

“What—what—hey! Johnny! Come, dismount,
and tell us all about it; but mind, none of your bragging,
you young dog.”

John dismounted, accordingly, and entered the house,
expecting to meet Jane; but that discreet damsel still
remained ensconced in her chamber, where, in our
opinion, she heard and saw all that was passing below.
Our hero was mortified and disappointed at
finding the room empty. Nay, he ventured to insinuate
to the colonel, that, as he could not afford to tell
the story twice over, he should await the appearance
of the young lady, who might very naturally feel
some little curiosity. The old continental called him
a conceited puppy, but finally surrendered, yielded to
his desire to hear the adventures of the sky-larkers,
and forthwith commanded the attendance of his
daughter. She came, clad in all the bloom of a
spring morning, adorned in woman's choicest livery—
blushes and smiles; she gave her soft hand to John,
and returned his pressure with something, which the
vanity of the youth interpreted into a contraction of
her rosy fingers; something neither passive nor yet

active, but which thrilled his heart, and caused him
to look down on all creation.

“There, now, confound your impudence!” cried the
colonel; “give us a full and true account of your last
night's frolic. Sit down, Jane, where he can't see you,
or the puppy won't know what he is saying.”

Jane obeyed, by getting partly behind the open door,
whence she ever and anon looked out, like the sun
from behind a cloud, and as often as this happened,
John forgot what he was saying. As he proceeded,
her feelings became deeply interested; and when he
came to relate the particulars of the midnight contest,
she left her retreat, placed herself close by his side,
clasped his hand, and listened, with dewy eyelids,
while her bosom swelled with deep emotion. When
he had finished, she rose, rapidly quitted the room,
and when a few minutes after, she returned, her eyes
were inflamed with weeping. She brought a cambric
handkerchief, which, we regret to say, was not fringed
with Brussels lace, and gently removing that of the
daughter of Ira Tebow, bound it about his forehead.
It was some time before John could get this handkerchief
again; and when, at last, he requested its return,
as a keepsake from that poor girl, Jane exclaimed, as
she gave it him—“Lord! what a fuss you make about
an old bandana handkerchief, John!”

“Is all this true, John?” said the colonel, “real matter
of fact, like my exploit at old Ti?”

“Did I ever tell you a falsehood, colonel?”

“No, John, I'll say that for you. You are always
impudent enough, to speak out fairly, when you might
sometimes better hold your tongue. I believe every

word you've said; and now, Thunder and Mars! I'll—
faith, I've a great mind—hem—hum—ha—no, not so
cheaply as that, either,” quoth the colonel, muttering
to himself.

“What were you saying, sir?” asked John.

“Nothing—at least, nothing that concerns you to
hear—that is to say— But, John, what did Colonel
Phil say to you when he heard the story?”

John handed him the testimonial of that gallant officer,
which the colonel read, occasionally exclaiming
at intervals, “Good! good!” with particular satisfaction.
When he had finished, he returned the paper,
and spoke as follows:

“Well, John—but, Jane, what the deuce are you
doing with papers belonging to other people, hey?
But as I was going to say, John, this is a pretty good
beginning, but it don't come up to old Ti yet, by a
great deal, my boy. However, as I said, it is a pretty
good beginning. Six Yagers killed, two wounded
prisoners, and a fine horse, all at the expense of a cut
over the eye. Dog cheap, John—cheap as dirt—a
good beginning, certainly, as I said before, but it must
not be the end. Hold your tongue, sir!”

“I was not speaking, colonel,” said John, smiling.

“Yes—but you were just opening your mouth to
speak; and you, young madam, don't be looking at
me as if you'd eat me. Young man,” and the old continental
drew himself up with ineffable dignity, “this
is a mere flea-bite; such things as these happen every
day in war-time, and are never recorded in history.
You must be in the chronicles, sir. Thunder and
Mars! you must place yourself on a par with me, before

I give you my daughter, my money, my lands, and
improvements. You must get a timber leg, have one
arm sliced off, or lose an eye, or you must have a few
bullet-holes through you—”

“Oh! father!” cried Jane.

“Be dumb, madam, and listen to what I am saying.
You must figure in broad daylight, and in sight of
armies; you must win the gratitude of your country;
you must descend to posterity; and, more than all
this, you must receive the approbation of the great
Washington. When you have done this, all I have
shall be yours, and not before, on the honour of an old
continental.”

Ah! father!” cried Jane, “you will never be satisfied
till you send him to his grave. Last night he escaped
by miracle. A little more, and that cut would
have been fatal. John—dear John!” exclaimed she,
passionately, “give me up—I am not worth the price
of such a purchase.”

“No, dearest Jane! The contract is made, and
shall be fulfilled, if heaven spares me life and opportunity.
I mean to strive for you and my country, and
if I fall, I shall die for love and liberty!”

“What a cruel situation is mine!” the tears trickling
down her cheeks. “I can only look for happiness
through the perpetual risk of losing it forever. But
I will not discourage you with my fears. The women,
like the men of my country are ready to sacrifice
everything to its freedom.”

“There spoke the daughter of an old continental,”
cried the colonel. “Kiss me, my girl—and you too,
John, talk like a brave fellow. Thunder and Mars!

I've a great mind to put an end to all this. But no—
not yet—not yet. But I tell you what—you may go
and take a walk together, if you will promise not to
runaway. I give you an hour to say all you have to
say, while I go and visit that infernal mole-trap, and
mend this ridiculous puppy's leg, who makes more
rout, by half, than if he'd lost his head. Away with
you—remember, only one hour.”

The walk lasted more than an hour. They rambled
under the stately elms, and plane trees, that overshadowed
the clear murmuring stream, and now began to
exhibit the many coloured tints of autumn. The maples
and sumach, already displayed their scarlet foliage,
most beautiful in decay; the hardy brood of autum
nal flowers were on the wane, and the blue-birds, the
meadow-larks, and the robins, were collecting in flocks,
preparing for the sunny regions of the south. There
was a sober, calm serenity, almost bordering on melancholy,
in the aspect of the earth and skies; a soothing
gentleness in the murmurs of the stream, and the
soft whisperings of the dying leaves, which ever and
anon, smitten by the frost, fell in spiral eddies to the
ground, or dropt into the brook, apt emblems of some
dear and well remembered companion, on his way to
the home of all the living, the region of eternal suffering
or eternal rest.

Every object around them was calculated to awaken
and foster the purest and tenderest emotions of the
heart, and the impression that their parting now, might
be to meet no more, imparted a deep solemnity to the
feelings by which they were inspired. Love, engrossing,
overpowering love, filled all their hearts—prompting

a thousand innocent endearments, such as at a
time like this, may be claimed without assurance, and
granted without indelicacy. The silent solitudes of
nature are not the promoters of the guilty passions; it
is where the human race herd together in crowds, amid
all those luxurious seductions, appealing to the senses
and the imagination, through every avenue of the heart,
that the passions become epidemical, spreading like
contagion from one to another, until the entire mass
becomes diseased and corrupted. There is no incitement
to sensuality in the charms of nature; no seduction
in her music; no mischief in her smiles; no luxurious
facination in the rich bounties she pours out
with such a lavish hand; and they who would secure
to themselves the cheapest, the purest, and the most
enduring source of innocent enjoyment, should cherish
in their inmost heart a feeling of admiration for that
stupendous and beautiful fabric, which more than any
other work of his hand, displays the wisdom, the goodness,
and the omnipotence of the great Architect of the
universe.

At length, after rambling a considerable way, their
tongues often silent, but their eyes and hearts discoursing
in the silent language of mutual love, Jane asked
with a hesitation exquisitely feminine, “is it not time
to return?”

“Not yet, dearest. Remember it may be long before
we meet again. I do not wish to work on your apprehensions,
or alarm your tenderness, in order to tempt
you to exceed your father's permission. But when I
go away now, it is with a determination to be absent
a long while. I will not deceive you, dearest Jane.

I am going to offer my services to Washington; to
fight by the side of my father, and if necessary, to die
with him in defence of my country. It is only in this
way I can make myself worthy of your heart and
hand.”

“I was going to entreat you to stay with us, but I
will not. No, dear John! whatever I may suffer, or
whatever may happen to you—you shall go. It must
never be said of an American woman, that there lived
one who loved herself so well, that she forgot her
country in times like these. At least, it shall never
be said of me. Are not the peaceful farmers and
their sons fighting for liberty, almost without clothing,
or food, or shelter of any kind, and with nothing to
sustain them but the love of freedom, their confidence
in a good cause, and in the wisdom and virtue of
Washington? and shall their mothers, wives, and
daughters, be wanting to their glorious duty? No,
John! no, dear—dearest John! Go—fight and die, if
more martyrs are required. You may fall, and be
buried no one will know where, without any to tell
of your courage and devotion—without any memorial
to mark the spot where a nameless man died for his
country. But you will live in my heart while I live;
and, whatever sorrows may fall to my lot, will be
soothed by the pride of having been dear to the heart
of one who loved his country better than his mistress.
Go—and may heaven protect you!”

The effort was too much for the gentleness of woman,
and at the conclusion of this heart-stirring appeal,
her whole spirit dissolved in tenderness. She
cast herself on his bosom, sobbed with convulsive

heavings, and looking him in the face, with a mixture
of contending emotions, she exclaimed, “Go—serve
your country—her claim is greater than mine!”

They walked rapidly towards home, without exchanging
another word. John took leave of the old
continental, mounted his horse, and their farewell
was conveyed in a silent look which was never forgotten.