University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAMING.

In the good old times — and we are too apt to suppose that
all old times were good in comparison with our own present; —
an absurd notion, natural to all persons who are beginning to
get old themselves;— in the good old times, supper was a repast
of great significance, and not a little state with all who
claimed to derive from an English original. Our baron did not
abridge in any degree the solemn importance of the meal.
But we are not disposed to catalogue on the present occasion
the good things on table. Our novelists, following Walter Scott,
have indulged in such details ad nauseam; and in reporting the
attractive varieties of viands, which provoked the appetites of
their dramatis personæ, they have too frequently taken away
all the appetites of their readers. There is, in all the Bull family,
a great desire to see a well-spread table. It would seem
that cold baked meats could even be a source of warm delight
to mere spectators of the feast; and charity dinners will still be
honored with the presence of numbers, who scan eagerly the
performances of voracious urchins whom they feed from the
hands of benevolence. Whether it is that they delight to see
how well hunger can feed, or that their pleasure arises from the
unwonted display of plum-pudding charities — a feast one day
in the year, in marvellous contrast to the famine of the other
three hundred and sixty-four days — is a question which the ascetic
philosopher may decide for himself, the point is one which
shall not interfere with our story. For a like reason, we shall
content ourselves with saying simply that the supper table at the
Sinclair Barony, on the present occasion, was, as usual, amply
spread, and with a sufficient variety to pacify the hunger of any
dragoon officer in any service — a class of the military in respect
to whom the appetite is said always to be of proverbial excellence.

There were meats cold and warm, breadstuffs of
wheat, rice, and corn; toasts and cakes; and — luxuries rarely
beheld by American eyes at this period — hot cups of tea and
coffee, sent out their aromatic sweets at every plate upon the
board. The young lieutenants, Cordes, Mazyek, and Postell,
were invited to be sharers in the feast; while, under Willie
Sinclair's directions, the whole body of dragoons were provided
with a smoking supper at their bivouac in the great avenue.

Carrie Sinclair presided as hostess; her brother officiating in
the place of the baron, whose game leg required cushions, and
a table to himself. But he sate close at hand, and mingled
cheerfully in the conversation and the feast, as became the proprietor.
And the gentlemen feasted with a due sense of the
merits of the viands; and Carrie was kept busy in the lady-like
employment — which a true lady can make so graceful —
of adjusting the degree of cream and sugar to those cups, “which
not inebriate,” but cheer. And, excepting the clatter of plates,
knives and forks, there was silence round the table “for a
time.”

But the first vigorous workings of appetite over, the chat
began; and soon the great silver tray, with its finely cut crystal,
was set on the table, six goodly bottles, each with some
choice French or Spanish liqueur. This constituted, in those
good old times, a necessary feature of a planter's supper-table,
as essential as the tea and coffee; and sometimes the lady condescended
to sip of the celestial blue, or red, or amber drops, at
the entreaty of the gentlemen — i.e., be it remembered, when
it could no longer be disguised from a scandalous, and prying
world, that the aforesaid lady had fairly reached that certain
age, about which there can be no certainty. We suppose it
hardly necessary to say that Carrie Sinclair was still in profound
ignorance of the peculiar virtues of any of the said liqueurs.
Her father, however, had the tray handed him, and filling
one of those tiny glasses, which were specially appropriated to
these fine cordials, he sent the tray round to the several guests.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “do me honor in a glass of cordial —
I am happy to see you here.”

They drank. A bugle sounded from without, and the young
lieutenants rose, and with courtly bows, took their leave, with

looks that would have lingered still. But the duty was a strict
one. St. Julien alone remained with the colonel, Willie Sinclair,
and Carrie; and a pleasant but casual conversation followed,
which our space will not suffer us to put on record. In
this conversation St. Julien mingled sparingly; but what he
said, was, as usual, marked by a quiet grace, good sense, and
propriety, which insensibly had its effect upon the veteran. At
length Carrie rose and left the room for the parlor. St. Julien
kept his seat for a while, then followed her. Seeing this, his
old twinge of jealousy returned, like a twinge of the gout to the
foot, and troubled the soul of the veteran. He hallooed for
Little Peter to wheel him into the parlor also, but Willie Sinclair
arrested the movement.

“Not yet, my dear father, if you please. I must have some
serious talk with you, and this is probably the only chance we
have, for you will soon retire, and I shall have to leave the
Barony before you are awake in the morning.”

“Why so soon, Willie.”

“I have a great deal to do to-morrow, sir, and shall have to
ride fast for the next three days, to accomplish the various
tasks assigned me.”

“This reminds me, Willie, that I have a subject of very serious
talk with you. Why, sir, are you in this ungentlemanly
disguise. If you have a military command, why reject the uniform,
which, whether I approve the cause or not, is on the face
of it significant of an honorable military service. In this disguise,
my son, you endanger life and honor equally. It increases
tenfold the horror and anxiety which I feel in consequence
of your present connection. I now tremble — not, sir,
that you may be slain in battle — for this is not necessarily a
dishonoring fate, though you perish in an improper cause — but
with the dread, sir, that a son of mine may be destined to a
felon's death.”

“The risks of war are always various, as they are always
serious, my father. In the performance of important duties,
such as the heart as well as head acknowledges, we are not
suffered to pick and choose between them. You are right in
supposing that I incur some extra risks in addition to those of
mere battle; but the end which I aim at is of such vital importance

to our cause, that I am compelled to shut my eyes to its
superior perils. Of course, I can not tell you what these duties
are. I trust, however, that this week will end the peculiar service
in which I am now engaged, and I shall then resume my
command in the fields of open warfare. Let this suffice; a
single week or two will be sufficient for my purposes.”

“But in that week or two, Willie — in that short period of
time — what may not happen! Oh! Willie, my son, greatly
as you have vexed and disappointed me in the course you have
thought proper to pursue, I will forgive you all, if you will only
cast off these mean disguises, and appear in your proper character.
Now that I see your present employment, the horrible
picture of the cord and scaffold are ever before my eyes. Remember
André!”

The son was touched at the sudden show of feeling in the old
man. His eyes filled. He took his father's hand.

“Believe me, sir, no one more bitterly regrets than myself
that any act of mine should give you pain, or startle you with
a moment's apprehension. I trust, sir, that I feel I would gladly
die to make you happy. But my opinions and sentiments
involve a duty of performance, and one duty has inevitably
grown out of another. It will end soon — this, the most painful
and perilous part of it — and you shall then be relieved from
all farther anxiety on this score.”

“You have passed without a flag, within the British posts,
Willie — you meditate doing so again.”

“I can tell you nothing, sir, upon the subject. It is only
proper that you should know nothing — not because it would
harm our cause, but as it would make your relations somewhat
awkward in any future meeting with the officers of the British
army.”

“Oh! do not heed me in this matter.”

“I must heed everything, equally on your account, my own,
and that of the service in which I am engaged. Let us now
talk of a subject which more immediately concerns yourself and
my sisters.”

“What do you mean, Willie?”

“You will all have to leave the Barony, sir, and the sooner
you do so the better. This region will shortly become the active

scene of war. Here will be the shock of the contending
armies. The whole country between the Santee and the Edisto
will constitute but one vast theatre of action, more or less employed,
and for a period more or less prolonged; and every spot
of this precinct will be traversed alternately by conflicting
armies. They will rock to and fro over the country, and the
bloodiest trials of strength may take place at your very door.
Of course, all will be confusion, insecurity, and absolute danger.
Neither party will be able to afford protection against the lawless
bands that hover along the track of armies, and snatch at
spoil whenever it offers. You can not desire to linger in such a
region, under such circumstances; and my counsel is that you
remove, within a week if possible, across the Santee, and take
up your abode with Aunt Malcolm.”

For a moment the old man was confounded. When he recovered
himself, he said:—

“And, pray, from what reasons do you gather the prospect
of war in this neighborhood?”

“It is almost inevitable. Here the British general will be
required to make his last stand.”

“Pshaw! the old story! Do you hope to make me believe
any such nonsense, when I know that my Lord Rawdon has
relieved Ninety-Six, and has driven your blacksmith commander
out of the country.”

“He did not drive him far, sir, and the game is reversed.
Lord Rawdon is even now in full retreat.”

“Impossible, sir! Impossible!”

“But true, nevertheless. Ninety-Six is abandoned; and in
proof of the acknowledged incapacity of the British forces to
hold the country, the loyalists of Ninety-Six district are now on
the march; men, women, children, goods, and chattels, under
Cruger's escort, seeking a last refuge within the walls of
Charleston.”

“Not a word of this will I believe.”

“On my honor, sir, it is all true. Lord Rawdon's successes
were wholly momentary. The arrival of three fresh regiments
at Charleston — not destined for service here — enabled him to
make a rapid march for the relief of Ninety-Six. That duty
done, he feels himself unable to retain the post he has relieved.

His only hope was to save the garrison, and cover the exodus
of the loyalist inhabitants. His force is inadequate for more.”

“But there will be new regiments from Great Britain.”

“That is impossible. Her resources are exhausted; and
these troops that have come out from Ireland are not to be
relied on. I am able to assure you, that their officers are
scarcely able to keep them in subjection, and numbers desert
daily. I do not deceive you in anything. But, whether the
British receive re-enforcements or not — whether they recover
their power, or not — this region is doomed to be the theatre of
war! The armies will ravage it; and you may judge, for
yourself, from the events of this day, what will be the security
of your family, when the marauders shall become hundreds,
where there are now but scores. Hundreds lurk in the wake,
and upon the wings, of both armies, whom neither army can
catch or control. Let me entreat you, sir, to be warned in season,
and to retire from the region till it is relieved from the
presence of both armies. A month or two of absence will suffice.
The British will be compelled to take shelter in Charleston
before Christmas.”

A smile curled the lip of the veteran. His son saw it, and
hastily continued:—

“Do not, my dear father, suffer your intense loyalty to betray
your understanding. I do not deal in prophecy, but in
simple fact, of which your own reason may assure you at any
moment. Look at the state of the case. You have seen the
British recently abandoning post after post; contracting their
sphere of operations; relieving a post merely to leave it to the
enemy; withdrawing from their homes a whole community, as
no longer able to protect them; hiring foreign mercenaries;
unable to rely upon their Irish subsidies, now almost the only
source upon which they can count for any; and under continual
apprehension in Charleston, their chief garrison, which betrays
either their timidity or their conscious weakness.”

“Oh! that is because Charleston is entrusted to such a dirty
scoundrel as Balfour.”

“No, sir! Balfour is a selfish and dastardly rogue, but he
has not neglected the interests of his king, though he has
grievously mistaken them. He could do no better with the

means allowed him. His means are now exhausted. Rawdon's
are exhausted. Rawdon is an able man, one of the ablest of the
British army, but he is sick of the service, and he foresees its
disasters. He is now claiming to be an invalid—”

“Sir, I tell you, my Lord Rawdon is in as fine health as any
man I ever saw. Remember, it is not three weeks since I had
him at my board.”

“And yet I tell you, that my Lord Rawdon will retire to
Europe, on the plea of ill health, as soon as he gets back to
Charleston.”

“Prophecy again, Willie.”

“You will see. I know all their secrets. I have given you
the true history. But, there can be no doubt, that Rawdon is
in full retreat. Suppose, sir, that, within a week, you hear this
news confirmed by other authorities — will you then retire to
the hills of Santee? I do not ask you to believe me, though
you surely know that I could never deceive you. But if other
proofs reach you, sir, will you not then see and feel the necessity
of putting my sisters and yourself in a place of safety?”

“But what will my flight — for such it will be — what will it
argue to my Lord Rawdon?”

“Nothing more than a common prudence — having reference
to the safety of women and children. Lord Rawdon knows
your loyalty — knows that, in your situation, you can not be a
combatant. Nay, ask himself, and he will tell you, put these
girl-children out of the way of the two opposing armies.”

After a pause the old man said:—

“I will think of it, Willie. I will think of it. But let us
join Carrie.”

At that moment, Carrie was heard singing in the piazza, and
no doubt St. Julien was her companion — perhaps her only one.
He had had an excellent opportunity. The old baron thought
of this. He had another twinge, almost like one of the gout, as
he recollected how long they had been left together. Little
Peter was again put in requisition — and the veteran, chair and
cushions, were wheeled from the supper-room into the parlor,
and from parlor to piazza, where they certainly found St.
St. Julien and Carrie alone together. Little Lottie, tired out,
had been carried off to bed.

There was nothing suspicious in the appearance of the two
who occupied the piazza on the appearance of father and son.
They were not particularly near each other, and neither of
them betrayed any confusion. But the old man still had
twinges, and, what with the reflection that “the Frenchman”
— as old Sinclair still persisted in calling St. Julien — had
enjoyed a most excellent opportunity which he could scarcely,
as an old soldier, be supposed to have neglected, and the startling
and totally unexpected intelligence, as disagreeable as
startling, which his son had revealed to him, the veteran was
just as querulous as he could be within gentlemanly limits.
St. Julien heard quietly the growlings of the senior, and said
nothing. Willie Sinclair was as playful as if neither war, nor
rebellion, nor treachery, were in the land, and Carrie laughed
as light-heartedly at his badinage as if her lover were not sitting
within six feet of her.

“The worst of your gout, my dear father,” said Willie —
“and I suppose it is the case with other gouty persons — is
that you not only feel pain, but that you do not sympathize
with pleasure. Now, sir, sitting here in the delicious balmy
softness of this breeze, with the moon just rising over that pine
forest, everything so calm, so soft, so delicious, it is wonderful
that anything — care, pain, fear, doubt, apprehension — should
leave us totally insensible of the prospect — the scene — the
sweet serenity and heaven-like peace, over earth and heaven.
The heart ought to soften insensibly, the fancy become lively,
the whole soul winged and rising in sympathy with the rich,
pure, delicious nature, every pulse of which just now seems to
respond in exquisite harmony. Who thinks of strife now —
who remembers the past conflict, or the past danger? It seems
sinful, indeed, that we should not forget. “Sufficient for the
day is the evil thereof;” and let the Future bring its own mission
of mischief, without sending expresses to bring in the intelligence.”

And, sooth to say, the scene was very sweet and beautiful —
so calm, so serene; the pines slumbered, or only murmured to
the zephyr — the moon, meanwhile, hallowed all their tops with
the softest effulgence — in the blue heavens, large masses of
white, creamy clouds floated away slowly from the approaching

orb of night,— but not so fast, but that they momently put on
fresh robes of silver, and grew themselves to glories as they
swept away with their long trailing garments of softest lustre.
Down the long dark avenue, the few fires kept up by the dragoons,
grew gradually dim, in the increasing light of the moon,
which covered the shadowy foliage with its own brightness, and
now began to scatter a thousand droplets, which, falling through
the thick evergreen tops, lay upon earth like so many bright
pearls imploring to be gathered. Hardly a sound was heard to
break the delicious serenity of the scene; save now and then a
murmur from the remoter part of the encampment, where groups
of the dragoons kept wakeful in merry chat or song, beguiling
their watch as they could with the small resources of a volunteer
soldiery. Occasionally, the faint cries of a hound in the
forest, hunting con amore, or crying for a lost master, added to
the picturesque sweetness of the night.

“Let no one disparage our plain country, as wanting in scenic
beauty,” said Willie Sinclair, “when we possess such blue skies,
such delicious moonlight, such vast plains of verdure, tree striving
with tree for the embrace with light and air; such a wilderness
of shrub and flower; shrubs that give out odor as you
crush them, flowers that woo your every step with bloom and
beauty as you go, and birds that sing in clouds, with a gush of
voices that tell only of summer buds and blossoms, and summer
fancies. Ah, Carrie, shall the time ever come when there shall
cease to be a glory for our eyes in yonder moon — when the
bloom shall pass away from the forest, and the perfume from
the flower, and we shall only pursue our way among walks of
winter, our feet among the dead, to find the vista ending only
in a cheerless grave?”

“A sad thought! and this is not the season for sad thoughts,
Willie. You are here to-day and gone to-morrow. Do not
sadden our moments now, by gloomy fancies.”

“I will not! Come! I will be generous. You have not
heard me sing for a long time, and I have a new song, made by
our partisan troubadour, gallant George Dennison.”

“What! have you a poet too among your rapscallions?” demanded
the veteran colonel.

“Ay, sir, and it is perhaps an argument in favor of our cause

that we can boast so good a poet as George Dennison, since the
poets have been always patriots.”

“If so, Willie, your cause is lost: for our army boasts of
Major André and Henry Barry,” quoth the colonel.

“Say nothing of poor André, father,” said Carrie Sinclair.

“No! no! And the less said of Harry Barry as a poet, perhaps
the better. I should be sorry to do so much wrong to
Dennison's muse as to subject her to a comparison with that of
the little major. But you shall hear how our own Georgie
sings. He makes his own music, by the way, as well as the
words, and is an improvisatore. The song which I now give
you was struck off at a heat, one night, over the supper-table
of Captain Porgy, while we lay on the Great Pedee. We had
Colonels Maham and Singleton at supper, and half a score besides.
I admit that the poet's inspiration did not come till
supper was quite over, and the Jamaica in free circulation.”

“Well, leave off the long preface and begin,” said the baron.
“I confess, Willie, I not only wish to hear you sing once more,
but I am curious to see what sort of a poet you keep in your
rebel tents.”

Willie Sinclair tried and tuned the guitar in a few moments,
then sang the following lyric in a fine, powerful voice, and with
considerable taste and spirit:—

“And it is such stuff as this that satisfies your patriotism, is
it? It is worthy of the Jamaica which inspired it. Why,
Willie, it has not even the merit of decent rhyme. How do
you make `from thee' and `upon thee' correspond? And what
a gross license is taken in making `mistress' and `hist'ries'
rhyme! Shocking! The fellow must be an Irishman, I
fancy.”

“He is of the stock, at all events. But you must not be too
exacting about the rhymes in a song, where much liberty is
usually allowed. Have you seen the poems of the new Scotch
poet, a lad named Burns, a mere peasant, who is astonishing
the British people by his native melodies? Dennison has several
of them, and they are very sweet and simple, and withal
very touching, but the verses are just as rude, and free and
easy, as those of Dennison; not a whit better in respect to
rhyme; but that does not materially hurt them for singing, and
a little rudeness may be always permitted where the measure is
correct, and where the sentiment is good. Besides, this of Dennison
was an absolute outgushing at the moment — an improvisation
— and I hold it to be a wonderful proof of the spontaneous
merit of the minstrel.”

“Pooh! pooh! there is no such thing as improvising English
poetry. I have no doubt he made it by dint of repeated hammering
in his private workshop, and his chief merit is in memorizing

it well. They say that Sheridan does the same thing in
his epigrams and speeches. But I have had enough of your
backwoods genius. British poetry is good enough for me, and
will serve our purposes for the next hundred years. I must go
to bed. Mr. St. Julien, you take a bed with us of course, and
we shall see you in the morning.”

“No, sir! I am obliged to you, but I must not indulge in
any such luxury now. I will share the night with my dragoons.
I am sorry to add, sir, that we shall ride at dawn.”

“Well, sir, be at home here while you stay. Your friend will
do the honors. Good night, sir. Willie, you will see me before
you retire?”

“Yes, sir: I will help you now to your chamber.”

“No! no! Little Peter is better able to do that. He knows
just how to manage it. Carrie, my child.”

She flew to him, and kissed him fondly.

“I will visit you when Willie does, father.”

“Very good; only do not be too late.”

When the old man had retired, Willie Sinclair proposed a
walk to his sister and St. Julien, through the encampment of
the dragoons, who skirted the avenue in groups, their horses all
being tethered to the trees on the lower side. As they appeared,
the bugler of the corps, a fellow of no small merit in his
department, stealing off to the end of the avenue, welcomed
them with a plaintive German air, the long-drawn melancholy
notes of which chimed harmoniously with the hour and the
scene. By the failing camp-fires and the slowly-rising moon,
the picturesque of the bivouac was greatly enlivened and
increased.

“What a glorious sight must an encampment of a great army
be,” exclaimed Carrie, “an army, such as they see in Europe,
twenty or thirty thousand men, gayly caparisoned, helmets of
polished steel, plumes flaunting in air, silken and gorgeous banners,
and glittering harness.”

“Yes, indeed, Carrie; a magnificent spectacle. We can
show you no such sight in Carolina. But a dragoon charge
through an open pine wood, Carrie, is a sight also worth
seeing.”

“She may see something of the shock of armies here before

long,” was the remark of St. Julien. “I hope, Sinclair, that
you persuaded your father to remove to the Hills.”

“I tried to do it. I gave him all the reasons I could for it;
and you, Carrie, must follow up the counsel when I am gone.
Better, indeed, that you should affect a degree of apprehension
that you may not feel, so that you attain this object.”

“But is there really any danger of this?” asked the damsel,
in lower tones.

“Yes! nothing can be more probable. Within ten days the
two armies may cross bayonets on these very plains. I shall
urge upon him the removal of the family again to-night; but I
fear with no success. My father is not easily to be persuaded
that the British army is not fully able to give him security in
his own homestead; and to every argument which I offer he opposes
their invincibility. He supposes that all I say is the
result only of our presumptuous hopes and still more presumptuous
conceit. But here comes Little Peter, St. Julien, bringing
out a jug of Jamaica which I ordered for the use of your
troop. Have it shared among them, and then we will prepare
for sleep. I need more than I get; and the two hours that I
enjoyed on your bed this morning, Carrie, have only increased
my appetite for half a dozen more to-night.”

Little Peter now appeared. The jug of Jamaica was distributed
among the eager dragoons; and, while St. Julien
escorted Carrie toward the dwelling — an opportunity for the
lovers' leave-taking thus accorded, which we are sure was not
unprofitably employed — Sinclair found his way among the
dragoons, shaking hands with their best men, and showing himself
familiarly to all. The troop had been raised by himself,
and he knew the way to make himself popular with them.
When he rejoined his sister and St. Julien, they were again in
the piazza, the latter being ready to depart. The two separated
in silence; but there was a speech in the final squeeze of
the hand which he gave her, which had in it far more eloquence
than any words of tenderness.

St. Julien strolled out slowly to join his dragoons, while
Willie and his sister proceeded together to the chamber of the
father. It is needless that we follow them thither. We can
well conceive, by what we already know of the parties, the sort

of conversation that took place between them. Of course, Willie
reurged the removal of the family to the hills of Santee.

“No, no, Willie! If I go anywhere, I retire to the city!
If rebellion is to be triumphant, this country is no place for me!”

“You will think better of it. Our triumph involves no forfeiture
of those securities of law and liberty which make a
country precious to a people.”

“It does! it does! Once break down the barrier of rightful
authority, and there is an end to all security — all right —
all liberty! Then rapine and appetite will rage like wolves
throughout the land! But I will consider your suggestion. It
will be time enough when the two armies approach the neighborhood,
to determine. We shall have sufficient premonition
of the approach of the danger.”

“I am not so sure of that, sir; but I can say no more. Only,
sir, let me entreat that you be governed in what you do, by the
single consideration of what is due to the safety of the girls.”

“Surely, Willie, surely! I think of them only.”

And they wrung each other's hands and parted, Carrie accompanying
Willie to his apartments. They could hear a deep
sigh from the father's chamber after they had left it. Poor old
man! He had many foes to his own happiness to encounter in
his own prejudices. Such is always the danger, where a strong
will, tortured by conventional laws, is desirous of subduing the
most natural of human instincts. What to him were the fancied
rights of the German monarch of Great Britain, weighed against
the claims of his own children, and the sympathies with his native
soil? Nothing, really; but very serious obstacles, indeed,
when we consider the training, the teaching, and the whole experience
of his early life. It it this very sort of despotism, that
of convention and experience, however valuable in a thousand
respects, which make it so difficult for men, who have passed
the middle period of life, to learn or to appreciate the new
truth — the inevitable necessity of progress. It is not that
they can not learn; it is because the task is so much harder to
unlearn! And old men rarely love to clear new lands; — they
prefer to manure the old.