University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
SON OF A BACK-WOODS-MAN.

George Washington Willoughby was the
child of Nature, and his greatest delight the contemplation
of her sublime and romantic features.
This taste was derived from the very source which
gratified it, the rude and majestic scenery which
surrounded the isolated residence of his childhood.

Every thing was wild about him, except the
domestic animals in his father's inclosures. The
scream of the eagle and the roaring of cataracts
were sounds familiar to his infantile ear. The
whipperwill's melancholy notes lulled him to repose,
and the warbling of the mock-bird awoke
him in the morning. The wild goats were seen
browsing on the sides of the mountain, and the
timid deer brushing through thickets of chesnut
and sycamore. On one hand rose an almost impenetrable
forest, on the other rolled the waves
of an inland ocean. Here flowed a tranquil river,
and there dashed an impetuous water-fall.

The son of Major Willoughby was a stranger
to the weak indulgences and pernicious luxuries
which enervate the systems and ruin the constitutions
of half the infantile race. Fed on plain
but wholesome viands, he murmured not for
dainties of whose existence he was ignorant.
Health bloomed in his cheeks—pleasure sparkled

in his eyes—strength and elasticity were displayed
in his limbs. Every step was a bound—
every movement, agility. He was an infant
Hercules.

In disposition he was a compound of contrarieties.
With all his father's enthusiasm and daring
enterprise, he had no small portion of his mother's
gentleness, combined with an obstinacy
which belonged to neither. Any opposition that
encountered this spirit, served only to increase
its inflexibility. His ardor always rose in proportion
to the strength of the obstacle which opposed
it. One thing alone could divert him from
the pursuit, and that was a conviction of its impropriety;
and he possessed so much intuitive veneration
for the opinions and authority of his father,
that he generally yielded an immediate assent
and obedience.

The natural objects which surrounded him, almost
unrivalled for their wild magnificence, were
native to him, for he had no recollection of having
ever seen any other. Rocky mountains,
craggy steeps, and frightful precipices, were
subjects of his earliest contemplation, and had
at length become as familiar to his footsteps as
the umbrageous vistas of his father's garden.
He would climb the most rugged promontory that
overlooked the lake, leap from rock to rock, and
fearlessly rest on the brink of unfathomable
chasms. With a curiosity ardent as his perseverance,
he delighted in exploring untrodden recesses,
and penetrating every excavation he discovered.
In ascending the tallest tree, he rivalled
its native squirrel, and the finny inhabitants of
Erie were scarcely more familiar to its waves.
He caught birds for his sister, and killed rattle-snakes

for his diversion. He would angle for
fish, shoot teal with his bow, and swim like a
spaniel for his game.

His amusements were diversified by the seasons.
When the earth was covered with the
snows of winter, he coursed down the hills in his
sled, or swept the glossy surface of the lake on
his skates.

In all these health-giving exercises his father
most freely indulged him. They promoted mental
activity, and increased corporeal vigor. While
they imperceptibly begat in his mind the conceptions
of lofty enterprise, they secured to his person
the requisite powers for execution.

It is possible, however, that the solitude of his
situation, connected with the wild ferocity of nature
around him, might have too strongly marked
the lineaments of his character, had it not already
imbibed a trait that corrected the bias. This
was his taste for literature, and eagerness for intellectual
acquirements. Ever submissive to parental
counsel, there arose no difficulty in arranging
a plan for the enjoyment of both his favorite
pursuits, by making each alternately a relaxation
from the other. When his lesson begat lassitude,
athletic diversions relieved. When exercise
wearied, study afforded repose. His constitution
was too mercurial for indolence, either of mind
or body: one or both were perpetually in motion.

The education and recreations of the lovely
Amelia, (who was two years older than George)
were not dissimilar to those of her brother. She
did not indeed accompany him in all his daring
excursions, but she would run, wrestle, pitch
quoits, shoot the bow, and skate with him.
Their scholastic exercises were the same, with

the exception of a few feminine accomplishments
taught by their aunt. They loved each other
tenderly, and were never so happy as in interchanging
some little offices of kindness. George
would climb trees to plunder birds-nests for Amelia;
and Amelia gathered flowers to make nosegays
for George. He selected the richest clusters
of wild grapes to regale her, or shook the black
mulberries from their branches, while she held
her apron to receive them.

Ignorant of the world, and innocent as the
lambs they caressed, they scarcely knew that
such a thing as misery existed. The melancholy
cast of their father's habits was imperceptible to
them, because they saw nothing but his kindness.
He never, in their presence, conversed on past
afflictions, but merely imparted enough to give
them a vague idea that they had a mother in heaven,
whom they should one day see, if they continued
to be good children. Though a firm believer
in revealed religion himself, he did not
think it his duty to perplex the unformed minds of
his children with creeds and catechisms which
they could not comprehend. The plain precepts
of practical piety, he was most careful to inculeate,
with the great fundamental truths of theology;
but always insisted that the human mind
should be in some measure matured before theology
itself was studied as a science.

Though Willoughby acted as tutor to his children,
he was careful to assume none of that chilling
austerity which too often damps the ardor of
infantile genius, or cramps it in the iron fetters of
terror. He studied with them, and treated them
more as companions than pupils—he was their
friend and adviser. But his commands, though

always mildly uttered, were as immutable as the
laws of Persia. The mandate once passed his
lips, the most implicit obedience was expected,
and (after a few practical illustrations of the penalty)
never expected in vain.

A natural aptitude to learn, soon made their
tasks a pleasure which they would not have willingly
relinquished. Amelia was conscious of
being in advance of her brother, yet, to encourage
his application, she generously affected to be
in the rear; and while she pretended to ask him
for information, was imperceptibly furnishing him
with new ideas. Thus he profited by her instruction,
while his feelings were spared the pain of
discovering it.

One source of enjoyment, to George in particular,
was the recital of their father's adventures,
to which they would listen with the most greedy
attention, while the various sensations they produced
in their tender minds, were visibly reflected
from their expressive little countenances.

When the soft twilight of evening had suspended
the various duties of the day, the season
of social converse commenced. On an ample
platform, before the door, the whole family would
assemble, and while the major was enjoying his
pipe, the children would entreat him to renew the
interesting subject. Perhaps the moon would be
just entering upon a pure field of unclouded
azure, spangled with myriads of glittering constellations.
The tenants of a neighbouring fen
would be murmuring their loves, while some solitary
owl uttered her complaints to the woods.
No scene could be better adapted to the subject.
The whole party could distinctly hear the rushing
of that very stream which received the corses of

many who fell in the battle he was describing.
The nightly howl of the wolf and catamount, at
times, saluted their ears; and the narrator had reposed
where a watch-fire alone kept those monsters
aloof. The shuddering Amelia, with an
exclamation of terror, clung closer to her affectionate
aunt.

The flashing eyes of her brother betrayed the
tire that was kindling in his bosom. It burst
forth:

“My dear father, when I am grown a man,
shall I not fight for freedom too?”

His hand was extended—his cheeks glowed—
his attitude was supplicating. His father gazed
on him a moment with delight, then snatched him
in his arms, and pressed him to his heart.

“Yes, my dear boy! for that was you granted
to my prayer—for that did I devote you to my
country before I knew of your birth. If its
freedom be again in danger—if her rights should
be once more trampled on by tyrants—go, in
God's name; and may you wield the sword of
Washington with as much ardor and success as
your father has done.”

George almost shouted with joy, and strutted
along the platform with the deportment of a hero.
But Amelia wept with terror, flew from her aunt
to her brother, and clinging round his neck, begged
him to relinquish the dreadful design. “If
you should go to these wicked wars, (she sobbed
out) what will become of me! You will be
killed, or lose your-limbs, and poor Amelia will
break her heart.”

“Be not alarmed, my love;” interrupted her
delighted father; “I hope we are to enjoy many
years of peace and happiness before another

hostile weapon is drawn. Banish your fears—
your brother shall not be taken from you.”

With this assurance she returned to the side of
her aunt, and tranquillity was again restored to
her bosom.