EPILOGUE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE MS.
So it ends, my simple old chronicle; my poor dim-colored
picture of the men and women, habitudes and costumes
of the days of the Revolution.
'Twas an unknown land, and a forgotten generation which
I attemped to describe; the terra incognita of old Virginia;
the race of giants, looming now, as it were, through mists,
or the smoke of battle; the race which played such a great
and noble part in the drama of those days which tried men's
souls.
I wished my pages to embody, if that were possible,
some of the secret influences which bore on great events—
to paint the humble and unnoted source of the great stream
of revolution, ever increasing, and, at last, overthrowing
all which stood before it. To paint, too, the gallant youths
and lovely maidens—their gay love encounters, in the old,
old, days—their sorrows and joys—their sighs and their
laughter—their whispering voices, heard still, as we read
the yellow old letters of the far away Past! What is it
that comes up before the page as we read? Is it a ghostly
laughter, a glimmer of bright eyes, a beautiful shadow of
something flitting and impalpable, as delicate as a reverie or
dream? I read the dim words, and lay down the sheet,
and think, with smiles, of the gallant protestations of gal
lants long dead—as dead as the maidens whom they toasted
long ago. Damon is gone this many a day, and Celinda
sleeps with the roses. The Philanders and Strephons, the
Mays and the Cynthias are “white as their smocks,” or
their ruffles—and so cold!
Whither have you flown, O maidens of a dead generation?
There was a time when you smiled and sighed;
when your frowns or your laughter plunged the gallants
into misery or exuberant delight. Will you come no more
back if we call to you, and sigh for you? Will you still remain
silent and cold when we adjure you?
Alas! yes. For you are the stars of another generation.
It is fourscore years since you shone in the skies—you will
shine no more to the eyes of mortals. You have crumbled
to dust beneath emerald sward; from your white maiden
breasts grow flowers. You played your merry parts beneath
the old colonial skies, and then went away to heaven;
and now we, your descendants, in another age, read of your
happy faces with such pensive smiles—ponder so wistfully,
as we follow the old story—the story which chronicles the
beauty and goodness of the dear, dead maidens of the Past!
But I am dreaming. I look on the landscape from my
shady old porch, and only see the faces of Bonnybel and
her lover—of Blossom, and Tom Alston, and Kate Effingham.
I linger still in the haunted domain of my memory,
or my fancy, if it please you. I press the warm hands,
hear the musical voices; but they die away as I listen. The
colors all fade—the laughter is hushed—no more the gay
jest rings careless and free—'t is a company of ghosts which
I gaze at; fading away into mist.
A glimmer—a murmur—they are gone!
