Beechenbrook Part 4

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Oh! sirs!--there lurks a fiercer foe, Than this that treads your soil, Who springs from unseen ambuscades, To drag you as his spoil.

He drugs the heedless conscience, till, No wary watch it keeps, And parleys with the treacherous heart, While fast the warder sleeps.

He captive leads the wavering will With specious words, and fair, And enters the beleaguered soul, And rules, a conqueror there.

Will ye who fling defiance forth, Against a temporal foe, And rather die, than stoop to wear The chains that gall you so,--

Will ye succ.u.mb beneath a power, That grasps at full control, And binds its helpless victims down In servitude of soul?

Nay,--act like brave men, as ye are,-- Nor let the despot, sin, Wrest those immortal rights away, Which Christ has died to win.

For Heaven--best home--true fatherland, Bear toil, reproach and loss, Your highest honor,--holiest name,-- The soldiers of the Cross!

VIII.

"My Dougla.s.s! my darling!--there once was a time, When we to each other confessed the sublime And perfect sufficiency love could bestow, On the hearts that have learned its completeness to know; We felt that we too had a well-spring of joy, That earthly convulsions could never destroy,-- A mossy, sealed fountain, so cool and so bright, It could solace the soul, let it thirst as it might.

"'Tis easy, while happiness strews in our path, The richest and costliest blessings it hath, 'Tis easy to say that no sorrow, no pain, Could utterly beggar our spirits again; 'Tis easy to sit in the sunshine, and speak Of the darkness and storm, with a smile on the cheek!

"As hungry and cold, and with weariness spent, You droop in your saddle, or crouch in your tent; Can you feel that the love so entire, so true, The love that we dreamed of,--is all things to you?

That come what there may,--desolation or loss, The p.r.i.c.k of the thorn, or the weight of the cross-- You can bear it,--nor feel you are wholly bereft, While the bosom that beats for you only, is left?

While the birdlings are spared that have made it so blest, Can you look, undismayed, on the wreck of the nest?

"There's a love that is tenderer, sweeter than this-- That is fuller of comfort, and blessing, and bliss; That never can fail us, whatever befall-- Unchanging, unwearied, undying, through all: We have need of the support--the staff and the rod;-- Beloved! we'll lean on the bosom of G.o.d!

"You guess what I fain would keep hidden:--you know, Ere now, that the trail of the insolent foe Leaves ruin behind it, disastrous and dire, And burns through our Valley, a pathway of fire.

--Our beautiful home,--as I write it, I weep, Our beautiful home is a smouldering heap!

And blackened, and blasted, and grim, and forlorn, Its chimneys stand stark in the mists of the morn!

"I stood in my womanly helplessness, weak-- Though I felt a brave color was kindling my cheek-- And I plead by the sacredest things of their lives-- By the love that they bore to their children,--their wives, By the homes left behind them, whose joys they had shared, By the G.o.d that should judge them,--that mine should be spared.

"As well might I plead with the whirlwind to stay As it crashingly cuts through the forest its way!

I know that my eye flashed a pa.s.sionate ire, As they scornfully flung me their answer of--fire!

"Why harrow your heart with the grief and the pain?

Why paint you the picture that's scorching my brain?

Why speak of the night when I stood on the lawn, And watched the last flame die away in the dawn?

'Tis over,--that vision of terror,--of woe!

Its horrors I would not recall;--let them go!

I am calm when I think what I suffered them for; I grudge not the quota _I_ pay to the war!

"But, Dougla.s.s!--deep down in the core of my heart, There's a throbbing, an aching, that will not depart; For memory mourns, with a wail of despair, The loss of her treasures,--the subtle, the rare, Precious things over which she delighted to pore, Which nothing,--ah! nothing, can ever restore!

"The rose-covered porch, where I sat as your bride-- The hearth, where at twilight I leaned at your side-- The low-cushioned window-seat, where I would lie, With my head on your knee, and look out on the sky:-- The chamber all holy with love and with prayer, The motherhood memories cl.u.s.tering there-- The vines that _your_ hand has delighted to train, The trees that _you_ planted;--Oh! never again Can love build us up such a bower of bliss; Oh! never can home be as hallow'd as this!

"Thank G.o.d! there's a dwelling not builded with hands, Whose pearly foundation, immovable stands; There struggles, alarms, and disquietudes cease, And the blissfulest balm of the spirit is--peace!

Small trial 'twill seem when our perils are past, And we enter the house of our Father at last,-- Light trouble, that here, in the night of our stay, The blast swept our wilderness lodging away!

"The children--dear hearts!--it is touching to see My Beverly's beautiful kindness to me; So buoyant his mein--so heroic--resigned-- The boy has the soul of his father, I find!

Not a childish complaint or regret have I heard,-- Not even from Archie, a petulant word: Once only--a tear moistened Sophy's bright cheek: '_Papa has no home now!_'--'twas all she could speak.

"A stranger I wander midst strangers; and yet I never,--no, not for a moment forget That my heart has a home,--just as real, as true, And as warm as if Beechenbrook sheltered me too.

G.o.d grant that this refuge from sorrow and pain-- This blessedest haven of peace, may remain!

And, then, though disaster, still sharper, befall, I think I can patiently bear with it all: For the rarest, most exquisite bliss of my life Is wrapped in a word, Dougla.s.s ... I am your wife!"

IX.

When fierce and fast-thronging calamities rush Resistless as destiny o'er us, and crush The life from the quivering heart till we feel Like the victim whose body is broke on the wheel-- When we think we have touched the far limit at last, --One throe, and the point of endurance is pa.s.sed-- When we shivering hang on the verge of despair-- There still is capacity left us to bear.

The storm of the winter, the smile of the Spring, No respite, no pause, and no hopefulness bring; The demon of carnage still breathes his hot breath, And fiercely goes forward the harvest of death.

Days painfully drag their slow burden along; And the pulse that is beating so steady and strong, Stands still, as there comes, from the echoing sh.o.r.e Of the winding and clear Rappahannock, the roar Of conflict so fell, that the silvery flood Runs purple and rapid and ghastly with blood.

--Grand army of martyrs!--though victory waves Them onward, her march must be over _their_ graves: They feel it--they know it,--yet steadier each Close phalanx moves into the desperate breach: Their step does not falter--their faith does not yield,-- For yonder, supreme o'er the fiercely-fought field, Erect in his leonine grandeur, they see The proud and magnificent calmness of LEE!

'Tis morn--but the night has brought Alice no rest: The roof seems to press like a weight on her breast; And she wanders forth, wearily lifting her eye, To seek for relief 'neath the calm of the sky.

The air of the forest is spicy and sweet, And dreamily babbles a brook at her feet; Her children are 'round her, and sunshine and flowers, Try vainly to banish the gloom of the hours.

With a volume she fain her wild thoughts would a.s.suage, But her vision can trace not a line on the page, And the poet's dear strains, once so soft to her ear, Have lost all their mystical power to cheer.

The evening approaches--the pressure--the woe Grows drearer and heavier,--yet she must go, And stifle between the dead walls, as she may, The heart that scarce breathed in the free, open day.

She reaches the dwelling that serves as her home; A horseman awaits at the entrance;--the foam Is flecking the sides of his fast-ridden steed, Who pants, over-worn with exhaustion and speed; And Alice for support to Beverly clings, As the soldier delivers the letter he brings.

Her ashy lips move, but the words do not come, And she stands in her whiteness, bewildered and dumb: She turns to the letter with hopeless appeal, But her fingers are helpless to loosen the seal: She lifts her dim eyes with a look of despair,-- Her hands for a moment are folded in prayer; The strength she has sought is vouchsafed in her need: --"I think I can bear it now, Beverly ... read."

The boy, with the resolute nerve of a man, And a voice which he holds as serene as he can, Takes quietly from her the letter, and reads:--

"Dear Madam,--My heart in its sympathy bleeds For the pain that my tidings must bear you: may G.o.d Most tenderly comfort you, under His rod!

"This morning, at daybreak, a terrible charge Was made on the enemy's centre: such large And fresh reinforcements were held at his back, He stoutly and stubbornly met the attack.

"Our cavalry bore themselves splendidly:--far In front of his line galloped Colonel Dunbar; Erect in his stirrups,--his sword flashing high, And the look of a conqueror kindling his eye, His silvery voice rang aloft through the roar Of the musketry poured from the opposite sh.o.r.e: --'Remember the Valley!--remember your wives!

And on to your duty, boys!--on--with your lives!'

"He turned, and he paused, as he uttered the call-- Then reeled in his seat, and fell,--pierced by a ball.

"He lives and he breathes yet:--the surgeons declare, That the balance is trembling 'twixt hope and despair.

In his blanket he lies, on the hospital floor,-- So calm, you might deem all his agony o'er; And here, as I write, on his face I can see An expression whose radiance is startling to me.

His faith is sublime:--he relinquishes life, And craves but one blessing,--_to look on his wife!_"

Beechenbrook Part 3

If you are looking for Beechenbrook Part 3 you are coming to the right place. Beechenbrook is a Webnovel created by Margaret Junkin Preston. This lightnovel is currently completed.

She dares not to stir with a question, _her_ woe, One word,--and the bitter-brimm'd heart would o'erflow: But speechless, and moveless, and stony of eye, Scarce conscious of aught in the earth or the sky, In a swoon of the heart, all her senses have reeled,-- But she prays for endurance,--for here is the field.

The flight and pursuit, so hara.s.sing, so hot, Have drifted all combatants far from the spot: And through the spa.r.s.e woodlands, and over the plain, Lie gorily scattered, the wounded and slain.

Oh! the sickness,--the shudder,--the quailing of fear, As it leaps to her lips,--"What if Dougla.s.s be here!"

Yet she frames not a question; her spirit can bear Oh! anything,--all things, but hopeless despair: Does her darling lie stretched on the slope of yon hill?

Let her doubt--let her hug the suspense, if she will!

She watches each ambulance-burden with dread; She loots in the faces of dying and dead: And hour after hour, with steady control, She bends to her task all the strength of her soul; She comforts the wounded with pity's sweet care, And the spirit that's pa.s.sing, she speeds with her prayer.

She starts as she hears, from her stout-hearted boy, A wild exclamation, half doubt and half joy:--

"Oh! Surgeon!--some brandy! he's fainting!--Ah! now The colour comes back to his cheek and his brow:-- He breathes again--speaks again--listen!--you are 'An orderly'--is it?--'of Colonel Dunbar?'

'He fought like a lion!' (I knew it!) and pa.s.sed Untouched through the battle, 'unhurt to the last?'

--My father is safe,--mother!--safe!--what a joy!

And here is Macpherson,--our barefooted boy!"

Poor Alice!--her grief has been tearless and dumb, But the pressure once lifted, her senses succ.u.mb: Too quick the revulsion,--too glad the surprise,-- The mists of unconsciousness curtain her eyes: 'Tis only a moment they suffer eclipse, And words of thanksgiving soon thrill on her lips.

To Beechenbrook's quiet, with tenderest care, They hasten the wounded, wan soldier to bear; And never hung mother more patiently o'er The couch of the child, her own bosom that bore, Than Alice above the lone orphan, who lay Submissively breathing his spirit away.

He knows that existence is ebbing; his brain Is lucid and calm, in the pauses of pain; But his round boyish cheek with no weeping is wet, And his smile is not touched with a shade of regret.

No murmur is uttered--no lingering sigh Escapes him;--so young,--yet so willing to die!

His garment of flesh he has worn undefiled, His faith is the beautiful faith of a child: He knows that the Crucified hung on the tree, That the pathway to bliss might be open and free: He believes that the cup has been drained,--he can find Not a drop of the wrath that had filled it,--behind.

If ever a doubt or misgiving a.s.sails, His finger he puts on the print of the nails; If sometimes there springs an emotion of fear, He lays his cold hand on the mark of the spear!

He thinks of his darling, dead mother;--the light Of the Heavenly City falls full on his sight: And under the rows of the palms, by the brim Of the river--he knows she is waiting for him.

But the present comes back;--and on Alice's ear, Fall whispers like these, as she pauses to hear:

"Only a private;--and who will care When I may pa.s.s away,-- Or how, or why I perish, or where I mix with the common clay?

They will fill my empty place again, With another as bold and brave; And they'll blot me out, ere the Autumn rain Has freshened my nameless grave.

Only a private:--it matters not, That I did my duty well; That all through a score of battles I fought, And then, like a soldier, fell: The country I died for,--never will heed My unrequited claim; And history cannot record the deed, For she never has heard my name.

Only a private;--and yet I know, When I heard the rallying call, I was one of the very first to go, And ... I'm one of the many who fall: But, as here I lie, it is sweet to feel, That my honor's without a stain;-- That I only fought for my Country's weal, And not for glory or gain.

Only a private;--yet He who reads Through the guises of the heart, Looks not at the splendour of the deeds, But the way we do our part; And when He shall take us by the hand, And our small service own, There'll a glorious band of privates stand As victors around the throne!"

The breath of the morning is heavy and chill, And gloomily lower the mists on the hill: The winds through the beeches are shivering low, With a plaintive and sad _miserere_ of woe: A quiet is over the Cottage,--a dread Clouds the children's sweet faces,--Macpherson is dead!

VII.

'Tis Autumn,--and Nature the forest has hung With arras more gorgeous than ever was flung From Gobelin looms,--all so varied, so rare, As never the princeliest palaces were.

Soft curtains of haze the far mountains enfold, Whose warp is of purple, whose woof is of gold, And the sky bends as peacefully, purely above, As if earth breathed an atmosphere only of love.

But thick as white asters in Autumn, are found The tents all bestrewing the carpeted ground; The din of a camp, with its stir and its strife, Its motley and strange, mult.i.tudinous life, Floats upward along the brown slopes, till it fills The echoing hollows afar in the hills.

'Tis the twilight of Sabbath,--and sweet through the air, Swells the blast of the bugle, that summons to prayer: The signal is answered, and soon in the glen Sits Colonel Dunbar in the midst of his men.

The Chaplain advances with reverent face, Where lies a felled oak, he has chosen his place; On the stump of an ash-tree the Bible he lays, And they bow on the gra.s.s, as he solemnly prays.

Underneath thine open sky, Father, as we bend the knee, May we feel thy presence nigh, --Nothing 'twixt our souls and thee!

We are weary,--cares and woes Lay their weight on every breast, And each heart before thee knows, That it sighs for inward rest.

Thou canst lift this weight away, Thou canst bid these sighings cease; Thou canst walk these waves and say To their restless tossings--"Peace!"

We are tempted;--snares abound,-- Sin its treacherous meshes weaves; And temptations strew us round, Thicker than the Autumn leaves.

Midst these perils, mark our path, Thou who art 'the life, the way;'

Rend each fatal wile that hath Power to lead our souls astray.

Prince of Peace! we follow Thee!

Plant thy banner in our sight; Let thy shadowy legions be Guards around our tents to-night."

Through the aisles of the forest, far-stretching and dim As a cloister'd Cathedral, the notes of a hymn Float tenderly upward,--now soft and now clear, As if twilight had silenced its breathing to hear; Now swelling, a lofty, triumphant refrain,-- Now sobbing itself into sadness again.

The Bible is opened, and stillness profound Broods over the listeners scattered around; And warning, and comfort, and blessing, and balm, Distil from the beautiful words of the Psalm.

Then simply and earnestly pleading,--his face Lit up with persuasive and eloquent grace, The Chaplain pours forth, from the warmth of his heart, His words of entreaty and truth, ere they part.

"I see before me valiant men, With courage high and true, Who fight as only heroes fight, And die, as heroes do.

Your serried ranks have never quailed Before the battle-shock, Whose maddest fury beats and breaks Like foam against the rock.

Ye've borne the deadly brunt of war, Through storm, and cold, and heat, Yet never have ye turned your backs Nor fled before defeat.

Behind you lie your cheerful homes, And all of sweet or fair,-- The only remnants earth has left Of Eden-life, are there.

Ye know that many a once bright cheek Consuming care, makes wan; Ye know the old, dear happiness That blest your hearths,--is gone.

Ye see your comrades smitten down,-- The young, the good, the brave,-- Ye feel, the turf ye tread to-day, May be to-morrow's grave.

Yet not a murmur meets the ear, Nor discontent has sway, And not a sullen brow is seen, Through all the camp to-day.

No Greek, in Greece's palmiest days, His javelin ever threw, Impelled by more heroic zeal, Or n.o.bler aim than you.

No mailed warrior ever bore Aloft his shining lance, More proudly through the tales that fire The page of old romance.

Oh! soldiers!--well ye bear your part; The world awards its praise: Be sure,--this grandest tourney o'er,-- 'Twill crown you with its bays!

But there's sublimer work than even To free your native sod; --Ye may be loyal to your land, Yet traitors to your G.o.d!

No Moslem heaven for him who falls, A bribed requital doles; And while ye save your country,--ye, Alas! may lose your souls!

No glorious deeds can urge their claim,-- No merits, entrance win,-- The pierced hand of Christ alone, Must freely let you in.

Beechenbrook Part 2

If you are looking for Beechenbrook Part 2 you are coming to the right place. Beechenbrook is a Webnovel created by Margaret Junkin Preston. This lightnovel is currently completed.

"I turn a deaf ear to the scream of the wind, I leave the rude camp and the forest behind; And Beechenbrook, wrapped in its raiment of white, Is tauntingly filling my vision to-night.

I catch my sweet little ones' innocent mirth, I watch your dear face, as you sit at the hearth; And I know, by the tender expression I see, I know that my darling is musing of me.

Does her thought dim the blaze?--Does it shed through the room A chilly, unseen, and yet palpable gloom?

Ah! then we are equal! _You_ share all my pain, And _I_ halve your blessedness with you again!

"Don't think that my hardships are bitter to bear; Don't think I repine at the soldier's rough fare; If ever a thought so unworthy steals on, I look upon Ashby,--and lo! it is gone!

Such chivalry, fort.i.tude, spirit and tone, Make brighter, and stronger, and prouder, my own.

Oh! Beverly, boy!--on his white steed, I ween, A princelier presence has never been seen; And as yonder he lies, from the groups all apart, I bow to him loyally,--bow with my heart.

"What brave, buoyant letters you write, sweet!--they ring Through my soul like the blast of a trumpet, and bring Such a flame to my eye, such a flush to my cheek,-- That often my hand will unconsciously seek The hilt of my sword as I read,--and I feel As the warrior does, when he flashes the steel In fiery circles, and shouts in his might, For the heroes behind him, to follow its light!

True wife of a soldier!--If doubt or dismay Had ever, within me, one instant held sway, Your words wield a spell that would bid them be gone, Like bodiless ghosts at the touch of the dawn.

"Could the veriest craven that cowers and quails Before the vast horde that insults and a.s.sails Our land and our liberties,--could he to-night, Sit here on the ice-girdled log where I write, And look on the hopeful, bright brows of the men, Who have toiled all the day over mountain, through glen,-- Half-clothed and unfed,--would he doubt?--would he dare, In the face of such proof, yield again to despair?

"The hum of their voices comes laden with cheer, As the wind wafts a musical swell to my ear,-- Wild, clarion catches,--now flute-like and low; --Would you like me to give you their Song of the Snow?

Halt!--the march is over!

Day is almost done; Loose the c.u.mbrous knapsack, Drop the heavy gun: Chilled and wet and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fires amidst the snow.

Round the bright blaze gather, Heed not sleet nor cold,-- Ye are Spartan soldiers, Stout and brave and bold: Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe, Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow.

Shivering midst the darkness Christian men are found, There devoutly kneeling On the frozen ground,--

Pleading for their country, In its hour of woe,-- For its soldiers marching Shoeless through the snow.

Lost in heavy slumbers, Free from toil and strife; Dreaming of their dear ones,-- Home, and child, and wife; Tentless they are lying, While the fires burn low,-- Lying in their blankets, Midst December's snow!

Come, Sophy, my blossom! I've something to say Will chase for a moment your gambols away: To-day as we climbed the steep mountain-path o'er, I noticed a bare-footed lad in my corps; "How comes it,"--I asked,--"you look careful and bold, How comes it you're marching, unshod, through the cold?"

"Ah, sir! I'm a poor, lonely orphan, you see; No mother, no friends that are caring for me; If I'm wounded, or captured, or killed, in the war, 'Twill matter to n.o.body, Colonel Dunbar."

Now, Sophy!--your needles, dear!--Knit him some socks, And send the poor fellow a pair in my box; Then he'll know,--and his heart with the thought will be filled,-- There is _one_ little maiden will care if he's killed.

The fire burns dimly, and scattered around, The men lie asleep on the snow-covered ground; But ere in my blanket I wrap me to rest, I hold you, my darling, close,--close, to my breast: G.o.d love you! G.o.d grant you His comforting light!

I kiss you a thousand times over!--Good night!

V.

"To-morrow is Christmas!"--and clapping his hands, Little Archie in joyful expectancy stands, And watches the shadows, now short and now tall, That momently dance up and down on the wall.

Drawn curtains of crimson shut out the cold night, And the parlor is pleasant with odours and light; The soft lamp suspended, its mellowness throws O'er cl.u.s.ter'd geranium, jasmine and rose; The sleeping canary hangs caged midst the blooms, A Sybarite slumberer steeped in perfumes; For Alice still clings to her birds and her flowers, Sweet tokens of kindlier, happier hours.

"To-morrow is Christmas!--but Beverly,--say, Will it do to be glad when Papa is away?"

And the face that is tricksy and blythe as can be, Tries vainly to temper its shadowless glee.

"For _you_, pet, I'm sure it is right to be glad; 'Tis a pitiful thing to see little ones sad; But for Sophy and me, who are older, you know,-- We dare not be glad when we look at the snow!

I shrink from this comfort, this light and this heat, This plenty to wear, and this plenty to eat, When the soldiers who fight for us,--die for us,--lie, With nothing around and above, but the sky; When their clothes are so light, and the rations they deal, Are only a morsel of bacon and meal: And how can I fold my thick blankets around, When I know that my father's asleep on the ground?

I'm ashamed to be happy, or merry, or free, As if war and its trials were nothing to me: Oh! I never can know any frolic or fun,-- Any real, mad romps,--till the battles are done!"

And the face of the boy, so heroic and fair, Is touched with the singular shadow of care.

Sophy ceases her warbling, subdues her soft mirth, And draws her low ottoman up to the hearth:

"But, brother, what good would it do to refuse The comforts and blessings G.o.d gives us, or use Them quite with indifference, as much as to say, We care not how soon they are taken away!

I am sure I would give my last blanket, and spread My pretty, blue cloak, at night, over my bed,-- (Mamma, you know, covers herself with her shawl, Since we've sent all our blankets,)--but, then, it's too small!

Would Papa be less hungry or cold, do you think, If _we_ had too little to eat or to drink?

So I mean to be busy,--I mean to be glad; Mamma says there's time enough yet to be sad; I'll work for the soldiers,--I'll pray, and I'll plan, And just be as happy as ever I can; I've made the grey shirt, and I've finished the socks:-- So come, let us help,--they are packing the box."

How grateful the task is to Alice! her cares Are quite put aside, and her countenance wears A look of enjoyment as eager, as bright, As Santa Claus brings little dreamers to-night; For Dougla.s.s away in his camp, is to share The daintiest cates that her larder can spare.

The turkey, well seasoned, and tenderly browned, Is flanked by the spiciest _a la mode_ "round;"

The great "priestly ham," in its juiciest pride, Is there,--with the tenderest surloin beside; Neat bottles, suggestive of ketchups and wines, And condiments racy, of various kinds; And firm rolls of b.u.t.ter as yellow as gold, And patties and biscuit most rare to behold, And sauces that richest of odors betray,-- Are marshalled in most appetizing array.

Then Beverly brings of his nuts a full store, And Archie has apples, a dozen or more; While Sophy, with gratified housewifery, makes Her present of spicy "Confederate cakes."

And then in a snug little corner, there lies A pacquet will brighten the orphan boy's eyes; For Beverly claims it a pleasure to use His last cherish'd h.o.a.rdings in buying him shoes.

Sophy's socks too are there; and she catches afar-- "There's _somebody_ cares for me, Colonel Dunbar!"

What subtlest of essences, sovereign to cheer-- What countless, uncatalogu'd tokens are here!

What lavender'd memories, tenderly green, Lie hidden, these grosser of viands between!

What food for the heart-life,--unreckon'd, untold-- What manna enclosed in its chalice of gold!

What caskets of sweets that Love only unlocks,-- What mysteries Dougla.s.s will find in the box!

VI.

The lull of the Winter is over; and Spring Comes back, as delicious and buoyant a thing, As airy, and fairy, and lightsome, and bland, As if not a sorrow was dark'ning the land;-- So little has Nature of pa.s.sion or part In the woes and the throes of humanity's heart.

The wild tide of battle runs red,--dashes high, And blots out the splendour of earth and of sky; The blue air is heavy, and sulph'rous, and dun, And the breeze on its wings bears the boom of the gun.

In faster and fiercer and deadlier shocks, The thunderous billows are hurled on the rocks; And our Valley becomes, amid Spring's softest breath, The valley, alas! of the shadow of death.

The crash of the onset,--the plunge and the roll, Reach down to the depth of each patriot's soul; It quivers--for since it is human, it must; But never a tremor of doubt or distrust, Once blanches the cheek, or is wrung from the mouth, Or lurks in the eye of the sons of the South.

What need for dismay? Let the live surges roar, And leap in their fury, our fastnesses o'er, And threaten our beautiful Valley to fill With rapine and ruin more terrible still: What fear we?--See Jackson! his sword in his hand, Like the stern rocks around him, immovable stand,-- The wisdom, the skill and the strength that he boasts, Sought ever from him who is Leader of Hosts: --He speaks in the name of his G.o.d:--lo! the tide,-- The red sea of battle, is seen to divide; The pathway of victory cleaves the dark flood;-- And the foe is o'erwhelmed in a deluge of blood!

The spirit of Alice no longer is bowed By the troubles, and tumults, and terrors, that crowd So closely around her:--the willow's lithe form Bends meekly to meet the wild rush of the storm.

Yet pale as Ca.s.sandra, unconscious of joy, With visions of Greeks at the gates of her Troy, All day she has waited and watched on the lawn, Till the purple and gold of the sunset are gone; For the battle draws near her:--few leagues intervene Her home and that Valley of slaughter, between.

The tidings and rumors come thick and come fast, As riders fly hotly and breathlessly past; They tell of the onslaught,--the headlong attack Of the foe with a quadruple force at his back: They boast how they hurl themselves,--shiver and fall Before their stout rampart, the valiant "Stonewall."

At length, with the gradual fading of day,-- The tokens of battle are floated away: The booming no longer makes sullen the air, And the silence of night seems as holy as prayer.

Gray shadows still linger the beeches among, And scarce has the earliest matin been sung, Ere Alice with Beverly pale at her side, Yet firm as his mother, is ready to ride.

With sympathy, womanly, tender, divine,-- With lint and with bandage, with bread and with wine,-- She hastes to the battle-field, eager to bear Relief to the wounded and perishing there: To breathe, like an angel of mercy, the breath Of peace over brows that are fainting in death.

Beechenbrook Part 1

If you are looking for Beechenbrook Part 1 you are coming to the right place. Beechenbrook is a Webnovel created by Margaret Junkin Preston. This lightnovel is currently completed.

Beechenbrook.

by Margaret J. Preston.

I.

There is sorrow in Beechenbrook Cottage; the day Has been bright with the earliest glory of May; The blue of the sky is as tender a blue As ever the sunshine came shimmering through: The songs of the birds and the hum of the bees, As they merrily dart in and out of the trees,-- The blooms of the orchard, as sifting its snows, It mingles its odors with hawthorn and rose,-- The voice of the brook, as it lapses unseen,-- The laughter of children at play on the green,-- Insist on a picture so cheerful, so fair, Who ever would dream that a grief could be there!

The last yellow sunbeam slides down from the wall, The purple of evening is ready to fall; The gladness of daylight is gone, and the gloom Of something like sadness is over the room.

Right bravely all day, with a smile on her brow, Has Alice been true to her duty,--but now Her tasks are all ended,--naught inside or out, For the thoughtfullest love to be busy about; The knapsack well furnished, the canteen all bright, The soldier's grey dress and his gauntlets in sight, The blanket tight strapped, and the haversack stored, And lying beside them, the cap and the sword; No last, little office,--no further commands,-- No service to steady the tremulous hands; All wife-work,--the sweet work that busied her so, Is finished:--the dear one is ready to go.

Not a sob has escaped her all day,--not a moan; But now the tide rushes,--for she is alone.

On the fresh, shining knapsack she pillows her head, And weeps as a mourner might weep for the dead.

She heeds not the three-year old baby at play, As donning the cap, on the carpet he lay; Till she feels on her forehead, his fingers' soft tips, And on her shut eyelids, the touch of his lips.

"Mamma is _so_ sorry!--Mamma is _so_ sad!

But Archie can make her look up and be glad: I've been praying to G.o.d, as you told me to do, That Papa may come back when the battle is thro':-- He says when we pray, that our prayers shall be heard; And Mamma, don't you _always_ know, G.o.d keeps his word?"

Around the young comforter stealthily press The arms of his father with sudden caress; Then fast to his heart,--love and duty at strife,-- He s.n.a.t.c.hes with fondest emotion, his wife.

"My own love! my precious!--I feel I am strong; I know I am brave in opposing the wrong; I could stand where the battle was fiercest, nor feel One quiver of nerve at the flash of the steel; I could gaze on the enemy guiltless of fears, But I quail at the sight of your pa.s.sionate tears: My calmness forsakes me,--my thoughts are a-whirl, And the stout-hearted man is as weak as a girl.

I've been proud of your fort.i.tude; never a trace Of yielding, all day, could I read in your face; But a look that was resolute, dauntless and high, As ever flashed forth from a patriot's eye.

I know how you cling to me,--know that to part Is tearing the tenderest cords of your heart: Through the length and the breadth of our Valley to-day, No hand will a costlier sacrifice lay On the altar of Country; and Alice,--sweet wife!

I never have worshipped you so in my life!

Poor heart,--that has held up so brave in the past,-- Poor heart! must it break with its burden at last?"

The arms thrown about him, but tighten their hold, The cheek that he kisses, is ashy and cold, And bowed with the grief she so long has suppressed, She weeps herself quiet and calm on his breast.

At length, in a voice just as steady and clear As if it had never been choked by a tear, She raises her eyes with a softened control, And through them her husband looks into her soul.

"I feel that we each for the other could die; Your heart to my own makes the instant reply: But dear as you are, Love,--my life and my light,-- I would not consent to your stay, if I might: No!--arm for the conflict, and on, with the rest; Virginia has need of her bravest and best!

My heart--it must bleed, and my cheek will be wet, Yet never, believe me, with selfish regret: My ardor abates not one jot of its glow, Though the tears of the wife and the woman _will_ flow.

"Our cause is so holy, so just, and so true,-- Thank G.o.d! I can give a defender like you!

For home, and for children,--for freedoms--for bread,-- For the house of our G.o.d,--for the graves of our dead,-- For leave to exist on the soil of our birth,-- For everything manhood holds dearest on earth: When _these_ are the things that we fight for--dare I Hold back my best treasure, with plaint or with sigh?

My cheek would blush crimson,--my spirit be galled, If _he_ were not there when the muster was called!

When we pleaded for peace, every right was denied; Every pressing pet.i.tion turned proudly aside; Now G.o.d judge betwixt us!--G.o.d prosper the right!

To brave men there's nothing remains, but to fight: I grudge you not, Dougla.s.s,--die, rather than yield,-- And like the old heroes,--come home on your shield!"

The morning is breaking:--the flush of the dawn Is warning the soldier, 'tis time to be gone; The children around him expectantly wait,-- His horse, all caparisoned, paws at the gate: With face strangely pallid,--no sobbings,--no sighs,-- But only a luminous mist in her eyes, His wife is subduing the heart-throbs that swell, And calming herself for a quiet farewell.

There falls a felt silence:--the note of a bird, A tremulous twitter,--is all that is heard; The circle has knelt by the holly-bush there,-- And listen,--there comes the low breathing of prayer.

"Father! fold thine arms of pity Round us as we lowly bow; Never have we kneeled before Thee With such burden'd hearts as now!

Joy has been our constant portion, And if ill must now befall, With a filial acquiescence, We would thank thee for it all.

In the path of present duty, With Thy hand to lean upon, Questioning not the hidden future, May we walk serenely on.

For this holy, happy home-love, Purest bliss that crowns my life,-- For these tender, trusting children,-- For this fondest, faithful wife,--

Here I pour my full thanksgiving; And, when heart is torn from heart, Be our sweetest tryst-word, '_Mizpah_,'-- Watch betwixt us while we part!

And if never round this altar, We should kneel as heretofore,-- If these arms in benediction Fold my precious ones no more,--

Thou, who in her direst anguish, Sooth'dst thy mother's lonely lot, In thy still unchanged compa.s.sion, Son of Man! forsake them not!"

The little ones each he has caught to his breast, And clasped them, and kissed them with fervent caress; Then wordless and tearless, with hearts running o'er, _They_ part who have never been parted before: He springs to his saddle,--the rein is drawn tight,-- And Beechenbrook Cottage is lost to his sight.

II.

The feathery foliage has broadened its leaves, And June, with its beautiful mornings and eves, Its magical atmosphere, breezes and blooms, Its woods all delicious with thousand perfumes,-- First-born of the Summer,--spoiled pet of the year,-- June, delicate queen of the seasons, is here!

The sadness has pa.s.sed from the dwelling away, And quiet serenity brightens the day: With innocent prattle, her toils to beguile, In the midst of her children, the mother _must_ smile.

With matronly cares,--those relentless demands On the strength of her heart and the skill of her hands,-- The hours come tenderly, ceaselessly fraught, And leave her small s.p.a.ce for the broodings of thought.

Thank G.o.d!--busy fingers a solace can find, To lighten the burden of body or mind; And Eden's old curse proves a blessing instead,-- "In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou toil for thy bread."

For the bless'd relief in all labours that lurk, Aye, thank Him, unhappy ones,--thank Him for work!

Thus Alice engages her thoughts and her powers, And industry kindly lends wings to the hours: Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear, And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,-- Half shame and half pa.s.sion;--what would she not dare Her fervid compatriots' struggles to share?

It irks her,--the weakness of womanhood then,-- Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men!

She feels the hot blood of the nation beat high; With rapture she catches the rallying cry: From mountain and valley and hamlet they come!

On every side echoes the roll of the drum.

A people as firm, as united, as bold, As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold, Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might, And swear on their altars to die for the right!

The clangor of muskets,--the flashing of steel,-- The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,-- The waving of banners,--the resonant tramp Of marching battalions,--the fiery stamp Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,-- The blast of the bugle,--the hurry, the shout,-- The terrible energy, eager and wild, That lights up the face of man, woman and child,-- That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers; Did ever we dream that such times would be ours?

One thought is absorbing, with giant control,-- With deadliest earnest, the national soul:-- "The right of self-government, crown of our pride,-- Right, bought with the sacredest blood,--is denied!

Shall we tamely resign what our enemy craves?

No! martyrs we _may_ be!--we _cannot_ be slaves!"

Fair women who naught but indulgence have seen, Who never have learned what denial could mean,--

Who deign not to clipper their own dainty feet, Whose wants swarthy handmaids stand ready to meet, Whose fingers decline the light kerchief to hem,-- What aid in this struggle is hoped for from them?

Yet see! how they haste from their bowers of ease, Their dormant capacities fired,--to seize Every feminine weapon their skill can command,-- To labor with head, and with heart, and with hand.

They st.i.tch the rough jacket, they shape the coa.r.s.e shirt, Unheeding though delicate fingers be hurt; They bind the strong haversack, knit the grey glove, Nor falter nor pause in their service of love.

When ever were people subdued, overthrown, With women to cheer them on, brave as our own?

With maidens and mothers at work on their knees, When ever were soldiers as fearless as these?

June's flower-wreathed sceptre is dropped with a sigh, And forth like an empress steps stately July: She sits all unveiled, amidst sunshine and balms, As Zen.o.bia sat in her City of Palms!

Not yet has the martial horizon grown dun, Not yet has the terrible conflict begun: But the tumult of legions,--the rush and the roar, Break over our borders, like waves on the sh.o.r.e.

Along the Potomac, the confident foe Stands marshalled for onset,--prepared, at a blow, To vanquish the daring rebellion, and fling Utter ruin at once on the arrogant thing!

How sovran the silence that broods o'er the sky, And ushers the twenty-first morn of July; --Date, written in fire on history's scroll,-- --Date, drawn in deep blood-lines on many a soul!

Reigning Beauty Chapter 2

If you are looking for Reigning Beauty Chapter 2 you are coming to the right place. Reigning Beauty is a Webnovel created by Elaine Yang. This lightnovel is currently ongoing.

The leader of the geishas nodded and tapped a bamboo tube, ushering in a young woman in a golden dress, whose face was covered with a red sash. Her steps were dainty yet ethereal, and while her face was not visible, her dancing was magical. It was as if she flew in front of the various court officials and the emperor, all while pouring fragrant wine for each guest. Some officials even stood up, so amazed were they by her performance.

Just as some men wanted to get closer to her, Nongyue leapt up and shook her sleeves, tumbling out rainbow-colored sashes, which swirled around her as she danced.

Unlike other geishas, this woman's style was feminine yet powerful. The gentle swaying of her sleeves were like swipes of sharp swords, yet without menace, turning each strong wave into a gentle breeze.

She danced faster and faster, as if she had turned into a golden cloud enveloped by rainbows. The audience was utterly enchanted.

"Who knew there was such amazing dancing? This Nongyue is really something else!" Emperor Qi clapped and told his servants to reward the dancer.

When she finished dancing, Nongyue stepped forward and bowed toward Emperor Qi. "I hope my humble dancing pleased you."

Everyone clapped and praised the geisha; only Bingqiu seemed a little numb and didn't react.

"No need to bow. Here, I'll tip you well. Come—"

When Emperor Qi was stepping off his throne, his body seemed to be out of control and he swayed.

"Lord, are you all right?" His servants a.s.sumed he had over-imbibed and hurried to support him. But within seconds, his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth all gushed black blood, shocking everyone present.

"Father! What's happening? Why is everyone standing around? Get the doctor!" Qi Huaiyi rushed forward to catch his falling father, wiping off the blood on the older man's face with a handkerchief. Emperor Qi was already unable to talk. He was slurring his words with pale lips, and his facial muscles were twitching.

  "Huaiyi, you . . ." He collapsed into his son's embrace, trying to touch him with the last of his energy, but his limbs wouldn't work. He stopped breathing.

"The Emperor is gone. It seems he was poisoned . . ." Nongyue seemed to understand what had happened as she whispered to Qi Huaiyi.

"What?" Qi Huaiyi remembered how his cousin Qi Huaixin had offered his father the wine earlier. Enraged, he grabbed Qi Huaixin's collar and tried to stab him with a knife.

Qi Huaixin was quick to react, slashing his right palm across Huaiyi's wrist so the knife fell. Then he broke his wine gla.s.s on the ground and shouted, "Qi Huaiyi, how dare you? You wanted to be number one, so you poisoned your own father and want to kill me?"

His yelling turned the whole banquet into a hornet's nest. Everyone gathered around them in a tight circle, and several military officials protected him like stoic mountains.

"Nonsense! My father drank the poisoned wine you offered and that's why he died. But you're accusing me?" Qi Huaiyi looked indignant as he gave orders to a servant. "Use a silver hairpin to test the wine in front of everyone. We'll see who is really guilty!" 　　

The servant dipped a silver hairpin into the leftover goblet of wine, but when the hairpin was removed it was still shiny. Huaixin frowned. He ordered someone to grab the handkerchief from his cousin's hand and wiped it off on the hairpin. The hairpin turned black!

"You, Qi Huaiyi, are indeed evil! Poisoning your own father for power? The heavens will not forgive you! C'mon, grab him!"

"You're the evil one! You pretended to respect my father but really wanted to overthrow him! Why didn't Ling Ruosong come today? He's probably working for you, too. You're the ones worth our scorn!"

Instantly the banquet turned into a slaughter as knives swung back and forth and bodies fell to the floor. geishas, servants, and officials were terrified as they tried to flee, only to be met with even more military officials and soldiers outside the banquet hall. The only people protecting Qi Huaiyi were Ling Bingqiu, two military officials, and six close servants.

"You must go,prince! We'll cover you!"

Qi Huaiyi watched his underlings being cut down in pools of blood, but he couldn't seem to take a single step. It was as if he was numb.

"What are you waiting for? Let's go!" Someone shoved him hard in the back, awakening him from his stupor; he tried to run.

The person was Ling Bingqiu, the elderly official who had no fighting experience. At the moment, though, he carried a long sword and stood guard in front of Qi Huaiyi.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ling, I . . ." Qi Huaiyi gritted his teeth, afraid to look back. Before he could run out the door, a knife pierced his heart. When the knife was pulled, bright red blood spattered onto his face.

Qi Huaiyi collapsed in front of the killer, whose face he didn't get to see. One of his eyes was open in desperation, while the other closed. Plum flowers in the courtyard blew every which way, covering his face and body, making it hard to tell what was flower and what was snow. The white was soon stained red with his blood.

Ling Bingqiu hurried to tend to Huaiyi, yelling as he looked up. "You rotten son, how could you collude with Qi Huaixin to kill the emperor and his son?"

Ling Ruosong sheathed his knife and laughed without mirth. "Father, you used to be pretty smart; why are you so stupid now? Prince Huaixin is a good leader, and he has already agreed to marry his sister, Princess Huaili, to the second prince of Fanling Kingdom. After getting Guimian, and controlling Fanling, too, he can rule everything. It's a good idea that you pledge your allegiance to Prince Huaixin now. He likes talent, and you could still have a nice post in his reign."

Reigning Beauty Chapter 1

If you are looking for Reigning Beauty Chapter 1 you are coming to the right place. Reigning Beauty is a Webnovel created by Elaine Yang. This lightnovel is currently ongoing.

Humans lived in the world not to enjoy happiness but to bear witness to brutality.

 There was no heaven to be found, only people fighting to live on the battlefield of blood and tears. Even if it took their last bit of strength, they still searched for heaven inside their soul.

 In the Kingdom of Shuanghua, it was snowing in the city of Shuofang. The snow, as light as daffodils, fell silently without a trace.

The number of pedestrians didn't seem to decrease on the streets, however, even in the early evening, and all the restaurants remained open. The doorways of the shops lining the streets were decorated with little pots of pine trees, their branches covered in glistening snow. The shopkeepers looked out from time to time, watching for other shops' closing times. Young women had red cheeks from the freezing weather, but still showed no intention of covering up. Whenever they pa.s.sed anyone on the street, they casually showed off their expensive jewelry.

Ever since Kingdom of Shuanghua defeated the neighboring Kingdom of Guimian, Emperor Qi Yixian had ordered feasts for everyone. The country welcomed its most festive time. The mansion of the court historian, a block away from the emperor's residence, replaced its stone lions at the entrance with two gold ones.

Inside that mansion, the newly appointed court historian, Ling Ruosong, sat next to a table and chatted with his new wife, Ji. He played with an intricate snuff bottle made of jade.

"My lord, are you really going to be Prince Huaixin's right hand?" Ji asked as she reached out her dainty hand to deliver one piece of tangerine to her husband's lips.

Ling Ruosong bit into the fruit and caressed his wife's soft cheeks. "It is smart to follow the times. The Kingdom of Guimian may be controlled by Shuanghua now, but the emperor is elderly, and his son Prince Huaiyi is not yet eighteen years old. He's a decent guy, but not as visionary as Prince Huaixin."

"You make it sound so easy. No matter how great Prince Huaixin is, a nephew is not a son, plus, the emperor is still alive. Court officials who support Prince Huaiyi are led by Official Ling, your father. You would fight your own father to support Prince Huaixin?"

"My lady, we're supporting Prince Huaixin in our weaker position now, but we're not just biding our time. Don't worry, the sun will break through the darkness soon; it's a matter of time before the holy light is upon us."

Ling Ruosong squinted his eyes and sniffed a piece of orange peel. He called for a maid to clean up and gave orders to another servant.

"Are the geishas from Liaoyuan Kingdom all here?"

"Yes, sir, I've already settled all of them at the hotel. They're busy preparing for tomorrow night's banquet."　　"Very good. Give this message to Prince Huaixin and all the officials: Since I'm sick with a cold, I request that Prince Huaixin deliver the thousand-year-old ginseng to the emperor."

Ji looked at her husband and her lips delicately frowned. "Why aren't you going to the banquet? Are you afraid of being seduced by the gorgeous geishas of Liaoyuan?"

Ling Ruosong smiled and didn't answer. He blew out the candles on the table. Snow continued to fall outside, adding a sense of chill.

Less than ten li from Emperor Qi's mansion was a lavishly-decorated hotel that the emperor used to host all the artists and performers in town. Among the nine kingdoms, the Kingdom of Liaoyuan had a wealth of talented people. Many royals had marveled that they could die without regret if they only had the fortune of seeing the beautiful and enchanting Liaoyuan geishas.

On the evening of the banquet, Emperor Qi waited in the hall. The minute the stunning geishas appeared, before they even performed, he and his entourage were already mesmerized. When the show was halfway done, he coughed and touched his chubby chins, looking toward Ling Bingqiu, a court official.

"Official Ling, is your son Ruosong not here today?"

Ling Bingqiu was about to reply when a tall and richly-dressed young man stood up first, took out a box wrapped in red cloth and delivered it to Emperor Qi.

"Uncle, Ruosong told me to let you know that he is sick at home, and was afraid to come here and ruin the celebration. He asked me to deliver this gift for him. It's a thousand-year-old ginseng grown on a snowy slope, great for extending life and generating energy. Please accept it."

"Qi Huaixin, don't you have any manners?" a chubby young man said. "My dad was talking to Official Ling and not you."

"Huaiyi, what's your problem? Huaixin was just making a joke at the party. No need to make a fuss about it."

Seeing Emperor Qi scolding Huaiyi, his son, Huaixin smiled slyly and asked the servants to present his own gift to the emperor.

The eyes of Emperor Qi shone like stars when he opened the gift. "Isn't this my older brother's treasured wine? Red Plum in the Snow? Huaixin, your dad didn't want to share the wine with me when he was alive. You really understand Uncle." Huaixin nodded. "Uncle is too kind. My dad died way too young, so not sharing this wine—made with melted snow collected from plum trees on the mountain—was always his regret. Today is the fortieth anniversary of us having the wine, so I'm presenting it for him. I hope you get to enjoy it."

"Great, wonderful." Emperor Qi sipped the wine, his eyes moist.

"I, Huaixin, want to thank Uncle. I believe that my dad in heaven will be gratified. Today is the celebration of our kingdom getting Guimian Kingdom back. Please don't be melancholy. Enjoy the show."

Qi Huaixin bowed and returned to his seat.

The leader of the Liaoyuan geishas spoke. "Lord, the next performer is a geisha from our kingdom. Her name is Nongyue. Her face is not beautiful, so please pardon the red scarf on her face. I guarantee her dancing will satisfy you."　　Emperor Qi seemed intrigued. "Ugly but talented? I want to see this. Make her come out."

The Snow Image and other stories Part 9

If you are looking for The Snow Image and other stories Part 9 you are coming to the right place. The Snow Image and other stories is a Webnovel created by Nathaniel Hawthorne. This lightnovel is currently completed.

"Am I here, or there?" cried Robin, starting; for all at once, when his thoughts had become visible and audible in a dream, the long, wide, solitary street shone out before him.

He aroused himself, and endeavored to fix his attention steadily upon the large edifice which he had surveyed before. But still his mind kept vibrating between fancy and reality; by turns, the pillars of the balcony lengthened into the tall, bare stems of pines, dwindled down to human figures, settled again into their true shape and size, and then commenced a new succession of changes. For a single moment, when he deemed himself awake, he could have sworn that a visage--one which he seemed to remember, yet could not absolutely name as his kinsman's--was looking towards him from the Gothic window. A deeper sleep wrestled with and nearly overcame him, but fled at the sound of footsteps along the opposite pavement. Robin rubbed his eyes, discerned a man pa.s.sing at the foot of the balcony, and addressed him in a loud, peevish, and lamentable cry.

"Hallo, friend! must I wait here all night for my kinsman, Major Molineux?"

The sleeping echoes awoke, and answered the voice; and the pa.s.senger, barely able to discern a figure sitting in the oblique shade of the steeple, traversed the street to obtain a nearer view. He was himself a gentleman in his prime, of open, intelligent, cheerful, and altogether prepossessing countenance. Perceiving a country youth, apparently homeless and without friends, he accosted him in a tone of real kindness, which had become strange to Robin's ears.

"Well, my good lad, why are you sitting here?" inquired he. "Can I be of service to you in any way?"

"I am afraid not, sir," replied Robin, despondingly; "yet I shall take it kindly, if you'll answer me a single question. I've been searching, half the night, for one Major Molineux, now, sir, is there really such a person in these parts, or am I dreaming?"

"Major Molineux! The name is not altogether strange to me," said the gentleman, smiling. "Have you any objection to telling me the nature of your business with him?"

Then Robin briefly related that his father was a clergyman, settled on a small salary, at a long distance back in the country, and that he and Major Molineux were brothers' children. The Major, having inherited riches, and acquired civil and military rank, had visited his cousin, in great pomp, a year or two before; had manifested much interest in Robin and an elder brother, and, being childless himself, had thrown out hints respecting the future establishment of one of them in life.

The elder brother was destined to succeed to the farm which his father cultivated in the interval of sacred duties; it was therefore determined that Robin should profit by his kinsman's generous intentions, especially as he seemed to be rather the favorite, and was thought to possess other necessary endowments.

"For I have the name of being a shrewd youth," observed Robin, in this part of his story.

"I doubt not you deserve it," replied his new friend, good-naturedly; "but pray proceed."

"Well, sir, being nearly eighteen years old, and well grown, as you see," continued Robin, drawing himself up to his full height, "I thought it high time to begin in the world. So my mother and sister put me in handsome trim, and my father gave me half the remnant of his last year's salary, and five days ago I started for this place, to pay the Major a visit. But, would you believe it, sir! I crossed the ferry a little after dark, and have yet found n.o.body that would show me the way to his dwelling; only, an hour or two since, I was told to wait here, and Major Molineux would pa.s.s by."

"Can you describe the man who told you this?" inquired the gentleman.

"Oh, he was a very ill-favored fellow, sir," replied Robin, "with two great b.u.mps on his forehead, a hook nose, fiery eyes; and, what struck me as the strangest, his face was of two different colors. Do you happen to know such a man, sir?"

"Not intimately," answered the stranger, "but I chanced to meet him a little time previous to your stopping me. I believe you may trust his word, and that the Major will very shortly pa.s.s through this street. In the mean time, as I have a singular curiosity to witness your meeting, I will sit down here upon the steps and bear you company."

He seated himself accordingly, and soon engaged his companion in animated discourse. It was but of brief continuance, however, for a noise of shouting, which had long been remotely audible, drew so much nearer that Robin inquired its cause.

"What may be the meaning of this uproar?" asked he. "Truly, if your town be always as noisy, I shall find little sleep while I am an inhabitant."

"Why, indeed, friend Robin, there do appear to be three or four riotous fellows abroad to-night," replied the gentleman. "You must not expect all the stillness of your native woods here in our streets. But the watch will shortly be at the heels of these lads and--"

"Ay, and set them in the stocks by peep of day," interrupted Robin recollecting his own encounter with the drowsy lantern-bearer. "But, dear sir, if I may trust my ears, an army of watchmen would never make head against such a mult.i.tude of rioters. There were at least a thousand voices went up to make that one shout."

"May not a man have several voices, Robin, as well as two complexions?"

said his friend.

"Perhaps a man may; but Heaven forbid that a woman should!" responded the shrewd youth, thinking of the seductive tones of the Major's housekeeper.

The sounds of a trumpet in some neighboring street now became so evident and continual, that Robin's curiosity was strongly excited. In addition to the shouts, he heard frequent bursts from many instruments of discord, and a wild and confused laughter filled up the intervals.

Robin rose from the steps, and looked wistfully towards a point whither people seemed to be hastening.

"Surely some prodigious merry-making is going on," exclaimed he "I have laughed very little since I left home, sir, and should be sorry to lose an opportunity. Shall we step round the corner by that darkish house and take our share of the fun?"

"Sit down again, sit down, good Robin," replied the gentleman, laying his hand on the skirt of the gray coat. "You forget that we must wait here for your kinsman; and there is reason to believe that he will pa.s.s by, in the course of a very few moments."

The near approach of the uproar had now disturbed the neighborhood; windows flew open on all sides; and many heads, in the attire of the pillow, and confused by sleep suddenly broken, were protruded to the gaze of whoever had leisure to observe them. Eager voices hailed each other from house to house, all demanding the explanation, which not a soul could give. Half-dressed men hurried towards the unknown commotion stumbling as they went over the stone steps that thrust themselves into the narrow foot-walk. The shouts, the laughter, and the tuneless bray the antipodes of music, came onwards with increasing din, till scattered individuals, and then denser bodies, began to appear round a corner at the distance of a hundred yards.

"Will you recognize your kinsman, if he pa.s.ses in this crowd?" inquired the gentleman.

"Indeed, I can't warrant it, sir; but I'll take my stand here, and keep a bright lookout," answered Robin, descending to the outer edge of the pavement.

A mighty stream of people now emptied into the street, and came rolling slowly towards the church. A single horseman wheeled the corner in the midst of them, and close behind him came a band of fearful wind instruments, sending forth a fresher discord now that no intervening buildings kept it from the ear. Then a redder light disturbed the moonbeams, and a dense mult.i.tude of torches shone along the street, concealing, by their glare, whatever object they illuminated. The single horseman, clad in a military dress, and bearing a drawn sword, rode onward as the leader, and, by his fierce and variegated countenance, appeared like war personified; the red of one cheek was an emblem of fire and sword; the blackness of the other betokened the mourning that attends them. In his train were wild figures in the Indian dress, and many fantastic shapes without a model, giving the whole march a visionary air, as if a dream had broken forth from some feverish brain, and were sweeping visibly through the midnight streets.

A ma.s.s of people, inactive, except as applauding spectators, hemmed the procession in; and several women ran along the sidewalk, piercing the confusion of heavier sounds with their shrill voices of mirth or terror.

"The double-faced fellow has his eye upon me," muttered Robin, with an indefinite but an uncomfortable idea that he was himself to bear a part in the pageantry.

The leader turned himself in the saddle, and fixed his glance full upon the country youth, as the steed went slowly by. When Robin had freed his eyes from those fiery ones, the musicians were pa.s.sing before him, and the torches were close at hand; but the unsteady brightness of the latter formed a veil which he could not penetrate. The rattling of wheels over the stones sometimes found its way to his ear, and confused traces of a human form appeared at intervals, and then melted into the vivid light. A moment more, and the leader thundered a command to halt: the trumpets vomited a horrid breath, and then held their peace; the shouts and laughter of the people died away, and there remained only a universal hum, allied to silence. Right before Robin's eyes was an uncovered cart. There the torches blazed the brightest, there the moon shone out like day, and there, in tar-and-feathery dignity, sat his kinsman, Major Molineux!

He was an elderly man, of large and majestic person, and strong, square features, betokening a steady soul; but steady as it was, his enemies had found means to shake it. His face was pale as death, and far more ghastly; the broad forehead was contracted in his agony, so that his eyebrows formed one grizzled line; his eyes were red and wild, and the foam hung white upon his quivering lip. His whole frame was agitated by a quick and continual tremor, which his pride strove to quell, even in those circ.u.mstances of overwhelming humiliation. But perhaps the bitterest pang of all was when his eyes met those of Robin; for he evidently knew him on the instant, as the youth stood witnessing the foul disgrace of a head grown gray in honor. They stared at each other in silence, and Robin's knees shook, and his hair bristled, with a mixture of pity and terror. Soon, however, a bewildering excitement began to seize upon his mind; the preceding adventures of the night, the unexpected appearance of the crowd, the torches, the confused din and the hush that followed, the spectre of his kinsman reviled by that great mult.i.tude,--all this, and, more than all, a perception of tremendous ridicule in the whole scene, affected him with a sort of mental inebriety. At that moment a voice of sluggish merriment saluted Robin's ears; he turned instinctively, and just behind the corner of the church stood the lantern-bearer, rubbing his eyes, and drowsily enjoying the lad's amazement. Then he heard a peal of laughter like the ringing of silvery bells; a woman twitched his arm, a saucy eye met his, and he saw the lady of the scarlet petticoat. A sharp, dry cachinnation appealed to his memory, and, standing on tiptoe in the crowd, with his white ap.r.o.n over his head, he beheld the courteous little innkeeper. And lastly, there sailed over the heads of the mult.i.tude a great, broad laugh, broken in the midst by two sepulchral hems; thus, "Haw, haw, haw,--hem, hem,--haw, haw, haw, haw!"

The sound proceeded from the balcony of the opposite edifice, and thither Robin turned his eyes. In front of the Gothic window stood the old citizen, wrapped in a wide gown, his gray periwig exchanged for a nightcap, which was thrust back from his forehead, and his silk stockings hanging about his legs. He supported himself on his polished cane in a fit of convulsive merriment, which manifested itself on his solemn old features like a funny inscription on a tombstone. Then Robin seemed to hear the voices of the barbers, of the guests of the inn, and of all who had made sport of him that night. The contagion was spreading among the mult.i.tude, when all at once, it seized upon Robin, and he sent forth a shout of laughter that echoed through the street,--every man shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but Robin's shout was the loudest there. The cloud-spirits peeped from their silvery islands, as the congregated mirth went roaring up the sky! The Man in the Moon heard the far bellow. "Oho," quoth he, "the old earth is frolicsome to-night!"

When there was a momentary calm in that tempestuous sea of sound, the leader gave the sign, the procession resumed its march. On they went, like fiends that throng in mockery around some dead potentate, mighty no more, but majestic still in his agony. On they went, in counterfeited pomp, in senseless uproar, in frenzied merriment, trampling all on an old man's heart. On swept the tumult, and left a silent street behind.

"Well, Robin, are you dreaming?" inquired the gentleman, laying his hand on the youth's shoulder.

Robin started, and withdrew his arm from the stone post to which he had instinctively clung, as the living stream rolled by him. His cheek was somewhat pale, and his eye not quite as lively as in the earlier part of the evening.

"Will you be kind enough to show me the way to the ferry?" said he, after a moment's pause.

"You have, then, adopted a new subject of inquiry?" observed his companion, with a smile.

"Why, yes, sir," replied Robin, rather dryly. "Thanks to you, and to my other friends, I have at last met my kinsman, and he will scarce desire to see my face again. I begin to grow weary of a town life, sir. Will you show me the way to the ferry?"

"No, my good friend Robin,--not to-night, at least," said the gentleman. "Some few days hence, if you wish it, I will speed you on your journey. Or, if you prefer to remain with us, perhaps, as you are a shrewd youth, you may rise in the world without the help of your kinsman, Major Molineux."