University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
WALDE-WARREN.

Far up towards the headwaters
of one of the tributaries
of the Cumberland river,
and not many leagues distant
from that portion of the Cumberland
mountains which divides
the state of Tennessee,
there is a wild, beautiful, romantic
valley. This valley
is about three miles in extent,
oval in shape, with the breadth
of a mile and a half in the
centre, closing up at either
end by the peculiar curve of
the hills which environ it, and
leaving just sufficient space
for the passage of the stream
alluded to, and a traveled
road which winds along its
banks and slightly cuts the
southern base of the projecting
eminences. About central
way of this valley, is a quiet,
picturesque village, of neat
white houses, overlooked by
the mountains, and as rural
and sequestered as one could
wish to find. This village occupies
both sides of the
stream, which is spanned by
an arched wooden bridge, beneath
which the waters
sparkle, foam and roar, as
they dash over a rocky bed,
and dart away with the frolic-someness
of youth. In fact
the stream itself may not inappropriately
be likened to a
youth just freed from the
trammels and helplessness
of infancy, when budding
strength begins to give buoyancy,
independence, ambition,
and love of wild adventure;
for, nurtured among the
mountains, and fed to a good
estate, it has burst from the
control of parental nature, and
now comes hopping, skipping
and dancing along, with childish

playfulness—occasionally
sobered for a moment as it
glides past some steep overhanging
cliff, like a youth full
of timid curiosity on entering
a place of deep shadow—but
in the main, wild, merry and
sportive—laughing in the sunshine—rollicking,
gamboling,
purling and roaring—now
playing hide and seek among
the bushes, and now rushing
away, with might and main,
to explore the world that lays
before it, unconscious that
aught of difficulty may lie in
its path.

The village in question consists
of some thirty or forty
buildings, the majority of
which are private dwellings.
That white structure which
stands a little back, on rising
ground, near the base of the
northern hills, crowned with a
neat, modest cupola, and which
seems to overlook the place
with a kind of calm, parental
affection, is the village church;
and that pretty little building
near it, with a lawn and some
shade trees in front, is the
village school-house. On the
right of this again, you see
the pastor's cottage, with its
trellissed windows, its flowery,
vine-creeping, shrubbery
yard, enclosed by white palings,
and its beautiful garden
in the rear—all looking so
rural, so cheerful, so calm, so
quiet, as if in keeping with
the sacred calling of him
who tenants it. On the opposite
side of the road, lower
down, near the bridge, is a
house of entertainment, with
its sign swinging and creaking
between two up-right
poles in front, its blazonry a
deer hunt, which corresponds
with its appellation, the White
Deer Inn. Just beyond this
inn, is a store—a little further
on a blacksmith, a shoemaker,
a tailor, a wheelwright, a cabinet
maker, and so forth, which
comprise nearly all the mechanical
trades of the village.
There are, besides, a number
of dwellings which we need
not specify, scattered along
the hard, smooth road, which
forms the only street of the
place.

Some quarter of a mile
above the village, on the opposite
side of the stream, are
a grist-mill and a saw-mill,
the dam for which, stretched
across the afore mentioned
stream, can be seen from the
bridge, and adds an artificial
waterfall to the otherwise picturesque
beauty of the valley.
Near these mills—the one
above and the other below—
are two dwellings, whose peculiar
architecture indicates
two periods in their existence,
namely, a rude new-territory
erection of early times with
modern improvements. And
such is their history. They
were the first buildings ever
put up in this valley, and belonged
to two families of settlers,
who removed hither
from Virginia, near the close
of the eighteenth century,

when all around was a wilderness.
The names of these
families were Waldegrave and
Warren; and as they were
sole and equal proprietors of
the valley—having together
purchased it from Government—and
as the village was
equally founded by each, they
resolved to blend their names,
and at the same time perpetuate
them, by giving it the appropriate
title of Walde-Warren—a
name which it bears
at the present day, though we
warn the reader he will not
find it on any map of the
State.

Of these two families it becomes
our province more particularly
to speak than of any
others of the valley, as certain
events connected with
their history forms the subject
of our present story. Archer
Waldegrave, and Horatio
Warren were both born in
the same year, and within a
mile of each other. They
were townsmen, play-mates,
schoolmates, and, from youth
up, sworn friends. They differed
in their tastes and dispositions
only so much as nature
requires to make two
distinct characters harmonize.
Two persons exactly alike do
not experience that pleasure
in each other's society, which
is felt when one finds in the
other peculiarities and qualifications
he does not himself
possess. Nature is made up
of contrast and variety; and
these are the aliments of the
human mind, without which
it would languish and become
imbecile.

Partly by accident and
partly by design, the two
friends were married on
the same day, and together
spent their honeymoon. As
both were now of age, and
had been given a fair start in
the world, they resolved to
settle in some new country,
and together spend their days.
To make short a long story,
they purchased the Walde-Warren
valley, and removed
hither, bringing with them
some ten or twelve slaves.

It is not our purpose to detail
the progress of the settlement
thus begun. Years
rolled on, and the rude log-cabins
of early times were,
without being demolished,
gradually converted into the
two large mansions already
pointed out to the reader. And
in every respect were these
two mansions so much alike,
that to see one was to see
both. Both had lawns in
front, running down to the
road, enclosed by palings, and
set out with shade trees.
Both had fine gardens in the
rear, and orchards, and farms
stretching away to the enclosing
hills, which farms were
worked by negroes.

At the precise period our
story opens—and we must
date back some twenty-five
or thirty years—both Waldegrave
and Warren were very
wealthy. Without a legal copartnership,

they had ever
acted as if one existed, in the
division of property. Thus
they had purchased together
the entire valley, and then
divided the lands in as equitable
a manner as was possible
for them to do at the time;
but there was an understanding
between them, that if at
any future period the one
should find his division more
valuable than that of his
friend, an equivalent should
to that friend be rendered;
and this verbal agreement had
been as faithfully regarded as
if it had been the very letter
of the law. Time had brought
other settlers to Walde-Warren,
and their purchases had
increased the value of the remaining
lands; but not equally,
as regarded the owners;
for Waldegrave now found his
division the most valuable,
and saleable; but at every
such sale, he was punctilious
and scrupulous in giving Warren
his share.

The village, small even at
the present day, had not been
rapid in its growth—it was
too far inland, and inaccessible
for that. It had sprung into
existence slowly, gradually;
and though it never bore any
similitude to the mushroom,
like many frontier settlements
we could name, still, what it
gained one year it retained
the next, and was never known
to retrograde.

Small as it now is, it was
smaller, though scarcely less
beautiful, at the time of which
we write. The house of devotion
was then there, for it
had been jointly erected some
years previously by Waldegrave
and Warren. The
school-house was also there,
the inn, the bridge, the store,
the mills, and several dwellings;
and though some of the
mechanical branches named
have since been added to the
place, there was even then a
pleasant variety of honest,
useful trades. Take it all in
all, it was a cheerful little
place, full of kindness and
hospitality, as every stranger,
who chanced to sojourn there
for never so brief a season,
could testify. It seemed as if
the true fraternal feeling existing
between the proprietors
of Walde-Warren valley, had
thrown an air of goodness
over the village—had imparted
itself to every one who
came in contact with them.

Men may preach what they
will—it is practice alone
which tells upon the heart.
Our passions, like our feelings,
gain or lose by sympathy.
Vice cannot flourish where
virtue prevails. Place a vicious
man in a strictly moral,
religious community, and he
can no more exist there a bad
man, than a fish can live out
of its native element. He
must either quit that community
or reform; for the examples
of goodness he must daily
witness, coupled with an absence
of sympathy for, and an

abhorrence of, any thing evil,
will as naturally work a
change as water runs down
hill. We believe that every
human mind, however depraved,
possesses, as an inherent
quality, in a greater or
less degree, a love of approbation;
and therefore, when
we find none to applaud us
for a bad action, we instinctively
seek to do a good one,
and vice versa. Every part
of the physical system seeks
sympathy with some other
part; and hence a disease
here shows itself there. So
with the mind. Sin is entailed
upon all born of woman; so
is disease and death; —but as
by cleanliness, temperance,
and frugality, we render the
body less liable to malady, so
by an upright striving we fortify
the mind against its sinful
inclinations. As one man,
by the peculiar organization
of his physical system, is more
liable to disease than another,
so is the mind of one more
than another prone to vice;
and in either case a more careful
watching, a more guarded
action, is necessary. Indulge
the body with excesses, and
it becomes diseased; and vice
is a disease of the mind, fed
by the passions. Our tastes,
both physically and mentally
speaking, are not natural, but
acquired; we eat as others
eat—we like what others like
—we do as we see others do.
The first mental faculty developed
in the child is imita
tion, and its proudest and happiest
achievement is to do exactly
what it has seen others
do. As it is taught, so will it
learn—as it is trained, so will
it grow up, for good or evil;
hence the importance, not
alone of precept, but of good
example. Think of this, ye
mothers of the rising generation!
Remember that on you,
mainly, rests the heavy responsibility
of the future conduct
of your offspring! In
proof of this assertion, you
shall take an infant and train
it to the most rigid abstemiousness,
to any faith, to any
principle of honor, and its
early education will become
as much a part of its inner
being as the air is of its outer
life—the one inseparate from
the other.

But we digress.

There was no wretchedness,
misery, drunkenness, or avarice,
in the vale of Walde-Warren—but
every where
cheerfulness, sobriety, frugality,
honesty, and good fellowship.
Each one was at peace
with himself, loved his neighbor,
feared God, and respected
the Sabbath. And all this
was the fruit of the noble example
of its founders.

But Providence, which
metes out blessings, likewise
metes out afflictions; and it
was ordained, doubtless for a
wise purpose, that the friends,
whose lives had so long run
parallel in prosperity and happiness,
should suddenly be

bowed with sorrow and anguish,
and that there should
be woe in the valley where so
long had been rejoicing.

Neither Warren nor Waldegrave
had been blessed with
children, but each with a
child—the former a son, the
latter a daughter. Each was
the pride of its parents, who
fondly looked forward to the
day when the two families,
who had always lived in such
pleasant harmony, might find
themselves united by other
ties than those of friendship.

At the date of our story, Arthur
Warren was about twenty-one,
and Marian Waldegrave
seventeen years of age.
For the last four or five years,
they had seen very little of
each other, both having been
kept away at school. They
had occasionally met at home
during the holidays; but then
there was so many friends to
visit, so many to call upon
them — for they were well
known for miles around—and
so many little things to see to
and occupy their time, that
they were rarely alone together.
As children, they
had been very partial to each
other, and had grown up
warm friends—but there had
never any thing passed between
them to warrant the
report that they would ever
be connected by a closer tie.
Still such a report had gone
abroad, and was universally
believed; for the wishes of
the parents on this point were
no secret; and it was reasonable
to suppose that parental
desires, and family interest,
would bring about a union in
every respect so equal. Perhaps
both Arthur and Marian
looked forward to such an alliance
when the proper time
should arrive; but be that as
it may, nothing had ever passed
between them on the subject
and neither had confirmed
or contradicted the rumor that
all was settled for such an
event.

The precise time chosen for
the opening of our narrative
—for what has gone before,
we consider merely introductory—is
the day fixed on for
the return of Arthur Warren.
He had just graduated at one
of our northern medical colleges,
and had written home,
that on the day in question, nothing
unforeseen preventing,
he expected to reach Walde-Warren
by the mail coach,
which thrice a week passed
through the village, and
should bring with him a
friend, a college chum, who
was on his way to his residence
in Alabama, but who
had consented to sojourn for a
few days at his father's house.
We will only premise in this
connection, that Marian Waldegrave,
having finished her
course of studies abroad, had
been at home some three
months, though she and Arthur
had not met for more
than a year. Our prelude finished,

we will now, forthwith,
enter upon our story.