CHAPTER IV. THE RIDE.
When Eugenie was borne by the two female
slaves from the library of General Washington, she
was conveyed into the family sitting-room. Mrs.
Washington, with an exclamation of surprise at so
singular an intrusion, received, with mingled wonder
and sympathy, her lifeless form into her arms, and,
aided by her astonished maids, soon restored her
to animation. On opening her eyes and beholding
strangers gazing upon her, she faintly closed them
again, and, with a slight shudder, whispered the
name of Burton.
Struck with her youth and remarkable beauty,
Mrs. Washington affectionately strove to sooth her.
The tender and maternal tones of her voice at
length inspired the invalid with confidence; and,
raising her eyes gratefully to her face, she smiled
and warmly pressed her hand in silence. Although
anxious to receive an explanation of so extraordinary
an incident, the lady, with instinctive delicacy, forbore
questioning the servants, who, however, were
equally ignorant, or to seek a solution of the mystery
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from the lips of the lovely stranger herself. Nevertheless,
her eyes turned frequently and expectantly
towards the door, as if she looked for the entrance
of her husband, and, consequently, the gratification
of her curiosity.
When the door closed on Major Burton, who,
with a flashing eye and angry brow, had departed
so abruptly, General Washington entered the sitting-room,
every trace of the scene in which he
had borne a part having disappeared from his majestic
brow. With his face softened by benevolence
and compassion, he approached the sofa on which
Eugenie reclined, passive and with her nerves unstrung,
on the sustaining arm of his lady, who sat
beside her with maternal solicitude beaming in her
matronly and beautiful countenance.
“My dear general,” she said, as her husband approached,
“what lovely vision is this? Do make
me wise, for I have most perseveringly conquered
my woman's nature, though I had not much longer
claimed the victory had you not appeared as you
did. Who is this gentle creature?”
Sending the servants away, he in a few words
informed her of the events which had transpired.
After much kind entreaty, they at length learned
from the lips of Eugenie herself the whole of her
ingenuous tale—from the orphan state in which her
infancy was exposed to her seclusion in the convent
and romantic escape, with the story of her
love, and, ultimately, her arrival in New-York.
The naïve and artless manner with which, while
seated beside them, she told her tale, carried with
it conviction of its truth to their minds and hearts.
“I have then done Major Burton injustice by
my suspicions,” replied the general; “I will seek
an interview and atone for it. He should have told
me this.”
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“And would you have believed him?” inquired
Mrs. Washington.
“Most certainly. However faithless Burton
may be with the sex you so eminently adorn, Mary,
in his intercourse with men I believe him the soul
of honour.”
“What a singular structure of society,” said Mrs.
Washington, musingly; “that honour, like a medallion,
should have a reversed face for our poor sex!
But, my dear George, what shall be done with our
sweet nun?” she added, smiling, and playfully kissing
the embarrassed Eugenie; who, after concluding
her tale, with her face trustingly hidden in the
mantle of her kind friend, and with a throbbing
heart and bewildered senses at the strange situation
in which she was placed, sat silently awaiting
her destiny without the power either to think or act
for herself.
“Give the one to whom she is so devoted the
right to protect her.”
“What, Burton? Never, George!”
“And why not, my Mary? It is an affair of the
heart; though Burton may not be worthy of so fair
a gem, 'twill be the only way to secure her happiness;
for you know your devoted sex will love, even
if they love unworthily. And it may be the means
of saving my young aiddecamp from wrecking his
bark in the very harbour of life. There is nothing
like matrimony to cool youthful blood.”
“Upon my word, general, you are in a very complimentary
mood to-night. My dear Eugenie, you
see what these husbands think of us. The general
would use you as they say they do the tame elephants
in the East, and make you a trap to catch
this wild Burton and sober him down. Now what
do you answer, my sweet nun?”
“My dear, kind madam, I have no will of my
own. I have been imprudent, and will cast myself
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wholly upon your goodness. But oh, bid me not
forget him!” she added, with timid earnestness.
“That he loves you not, dearest Eugenie, is evident,
not only from his silence, but from his habits
since his return from Quebec. Try and forget
him, my love; but, if you cannot, I will see that
you are made happy your own way.”
After a long and interesting conference, it was
decided that Eugenie should be removed on the
succeeding afternoon to a friend's villa about a
league from the town, on the shore of Kip's Bay,
a small inlet of York Island formed by the encroachment
of the East River, there to remain until
the Canadian party should be ready to set sail
for Charleston, when, provided that, in the interim,
Major Burton made no honourable overtures, it was
decided she should leave the city with them, and
think of him no more. All this Eugenie assented
to; and, although she promised to forget Burton if
he proved unworthy of her, she nevertheless felt
she should remember him so long as she lived.
It was further decided that her Canadian friends
the same night should be informed of the intentions
of their protegée, for whom they felt no kindred interest.
By daybreak the ensuing morning Burton was
on horseback. Giving at the gate strict charge
to Zacharie to remain, and inform him, on his return,
of whatever might transpire during his absence,
he rode off, and visited several of the military
posts in the execution of the last orders to be
delivered to him as aiddecamp of General Washington,
and then galloped to the quarters of General
Putnam. The residence of this officer was a large
square edifice of brick, two stories in height, at the
corner of Broadway and the Battery, its windows
looking out upon lawns and trees, the bay with its
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green and fortified islands, and the shores of Long
Island and New-Jersey stretching away to the south
and east. The morning was cloudless, and the
heat of the summer sun was lessened by a breeze
from the bay. Detachments of soldiers, the sun
glancing on helmet and steel, were parading, with
drum and fife, and banners waving, on the green
between the mansion and the water; horsemen
were riding at full speed over the field, and the occasional
note of a bugle swelled clearly on the air.
The British fleet lay at anchor far down the Narrows,
and the harbour was dotted with barges and
light boats coursing in every direction. But none
of these attracted the attention of the young officer
as he dashed up, his horse foaming with his
morning duties, to the front of the edifice which
was for the present to become his quarters. Objects
more brilliant and enticing drew his eye and
demanded his homage. Before the door was an
equestrian party, consisting of two or three ladies
in hat and plumes, mounted on small, graceful ponies;
a young officer, with his foot in the stirrup, in
the act of striding a spirited charger, richly caparisoned
with military saddle and housings; and the
figure of General Putnam himself, seated on his
warhorse, the whole cavalcade just ready to move
up Broadway, in which direction the young ladies
had already began to canter their horses.
“Good-morning, Major Burton,” said the general,
in a cheerful and welcome tone of voice, as our
hero reined up; “you have joined us just in time.
We have ladies under escort, you see, and comely
lasses they are; so you'll be just in your element.”
“I am honoured, general, by such an opportunity
of—”
“There is no honour about it; we are to have a
gallop as far as Bloomingdale, where I have some
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army business to transact, and these ladies have
volunteered to be my escort. So we will press you
at once. Take charge of Miss—but I had best
make you acquainted with the lady. Miss Ney, I
have the honour of presenting to your acquaintance
and tender mercies my young friend and aiddecamp
Major Burton. My daughters you already know.
Now, major, be careful you are not converted to
toryism on the ride. I have seen the time,” he
archly added, “when a pair of black eyes—but,
never mind; let us forward.”
The young officer's eyes, as he rode up, had
been instantly arrested and fixed by the graceful
figure and haughty beauty of the fair equestrian;
and as he was thus unceremoniously presented to
her, he bent profoundly in his saddle, until his
plume mingled with the mane of his courser, and
then, elevating his person, he was about to address
her, when the report of a piece of artillery on the
green caused her fiery horse to rear and plunge fearfully.
She firmly kept her saddle, but, not having
sufficient strength to manage him, he would
have bounded away had not Burton, who was in the
act of assuming his cavalier's station at her side,
compelled his horse, with the quickness of lightning,
to clear the space between them. Seizing her rein,
he held it securely in his grasp, while, at the same
time, he threw his arm around the young lady to assist
her in retaining her seat.
“Gallantly done, my good cavalier, and prettily,”
exclaimed General Putnam, who, though already
in advance, had beheld the act as he turned
round at the firing; “did I not say you were in
your proper element? Well, it would be long before
a pretty girl would get into danger if I were
beside her. Oh, you are a lucky dog, Burton.
Take care of your heart, Miss Ney; he will lay
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close siege to it, depend upon it. I'faith, 'tis a
worthy prelude, this passage of arms at first sight!
Ha! ha! ha!”
The cavalcade now moved up Broadway at a
round pace, General Putnam and his eldest daughter
taking the lead, followed by Major Burton and
Isabel Ney, the younger maidens being escorted by
the artillery officer before mentioned, while an orderly
sergeant, two or three mounted privates, and
a negro servant brought up the rear. They proceeded
along the avenue, exchanging salutations
with occasional passengers on the sidewalk, or
with ladies drawn to the windows by the tramping
of horses. Their ride, for the first half mile, was
lined with the stately residences of the wealthy
and great, each standing by itself, within its enclosure
of lawn or parterre. After they had passed
the angle where the Boston road turned off to the
right, the dwellings became less frequent and substantial.
Instead of imposing brick edifices bearing
the index of wealth and fashion, they saw around
them houses of an humbler description, such as linger
about the skirts of large towns, the abodes of
the poor and labouring classes, each dwelling, what
with pigs and children of equal cleanliness, broken
panes and slatternly females, appearing like a farmhouse
in dishabille.
Leaving this suburban quarter, they came into the
open country, and cantered forward with that exhilaration
of spirits which the fresh morning air and
the sight of green fields is calculated to bestow.
Isabel Ney was in the highest vein of spirits. Her
wit and humour, and bewildering beauty, speedily
captivated her companion. As now they traversed
an open common, now threaded a dense forest, and
now wound along the bank of the river through dell
and dingle, the susceptible Burton abandoned
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himself to the exquisite enjoyment of the moment, and
quite forgot that Eugenie de Lisle or Caroline Germaine
ever had existence. Isabel Ney alone occupied
his eyes, his thoughts, his imagination.
Isabel, who had arrived in a continental barge
from “the Kills” the evening previous, ostensibly
from Elizabethtown, but, as the reader is aware,
really from Staten Island, had heard General Putnam,
at the breakfast table, speak of a gallant
young officer who was that day to be attached to
his staff and received into his family, and the lively
description given of him had excited her curiosity.
When the handsome horseman was presented
to her as the expected stranger, she was immediately
struck with his fascinating address and fine Castilian
style of face, lighted up with an eye, the brilliancy
of which she thought had never been surpassed;
and from the moment he seized and restrained
her terrified horse, and so gracefully, yet naturally
encircled her waist, although she blushingly
expressed gratitude for his services, she felt a
deeper sentiment than could spring from this emotion.
With this prepossession in his favour and
his own meteor-like passions, an acquaintance approaching
a confidential nature was soon established
between them.
They had insensibly fallen behind the party as
they advanced into the country, at one time drawn
aside by an eminence which promised a prospect of
the distant city to the south and of the surrounding
country, or at another galloping away to explore
a romantic glen, or, perhaps, linger for a few moments
on some green, rock-girted peninsula, to gaze
upon the Hudson and the ships-of-war lying far
below; so that, when within little more than a
mile of the rural village of Bloomingdale, the cavalcade
had ridden quite out of sight.
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They now came to a retired peninsula, nearly
encircled by inlets of the river, and which left
only a narrow grassy path to connect it with the
mainland. Scarcely an acre in area, it formed
a romantic amphitheatre of smooth sward; two
noble oaks stood in the centre, and it was bordered
by a fringe of willows and water-oaks. It was a
spot in which Scottish superstition would have believed
fairies to hold their nightly gatherings. Secluded
from the road, it had only an opening to the
north by a natural vista through the foliage. As
this lovely spot burst upon their sight, they simultaneously
reined up their horses, then spurred to
the tempting, hedge-bordered isthmus, which invited
them to penetrate its recesses. They gazed
around for a few moments in silence, and interchanged
glances betraying that mutual pleasure experienced
by cultivated minds when surveying nature
in her lovelier aspects.
At length the eyes of Isabel rested on the summit
of a distant cliff on the opposite side of the
river, crowned with a fortress. After gazing upon
it steadily for a moment, she turned carelessly to
her companion, and said, pointing with her ridingwhip,
“Canst tell me, Major Burton, as every tree and
rock, every hill and hollow on this lovely island
seem known to you, what fortress frowns on yonder
eminence?”
“Fort Lee, Miss Ney. One of the lions that
guard the pass to the Highlands.”
“Ah! I have heard of it. A stronghold of you
rebels, hey?” she said, archly. “But where, pray,
is the other lion?”
“That fortification thrown up on this side the
river, some four miles above us, and directly opposite
Fort Lee.”
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“I see it now, crowning a wooded eminence.
You call it Fort Washington, I believe, after your
leader. They are, I doubt not, two noble warders,
well armed and fitted for their duty. I judge,
Major Burton,” she playfully observed, and bowing
gracefully to her cavalier, “that, from the specimen
I have already seen of rebel gentlemen, yonder
rock-guarded fortress has officers better suited to a
lady's taste than the dull automatons of Percy's staff.
What gallant rebel chief may command there?”
“A brave and excellent soldier, Colonel Morgan;
but one who cares less for beauty's eyes than ball
and steel; a bold soldier, but, perchance, rather a
rude lover.”
“Say you so? Then will I have nothing to say to
him,” she said, with lively determination. “Canst
not give me a more tempting portrait of your brotherofficers?
No doubt, among so large a garrison, there
are some gallants worthy a lady's glance. How
many soldiers,” she added, carelessly, and as if without
aim, “may its garrison number?”
“About two thousand. But dost think of laying
siege to it, Miss Ney, that you number the forces
so closely?” he said, smiling.
“Heighhe! I cannot say,” she replied, with the
air of a vain beauty; “I have taken such a fancy to
rebels this morning,” added she, glancing towards
him with eyes in which he thought irony and passion
were mingled, “that I think I shall lay siege
to some of their hearts. But I dare say these
stubborn rebel hearts it would be harder to make
capitulate than even their frowning fortress.”
“Not so, I think, Miss Ney,” he said, tenderly;
and then, with something of the soldier's enthusiasm,
replied, “the lines and outworks of yonder
fort are drawn quite across the island; the ground,
you see, is naturally strong; the fortifications
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admirable; and although, perhaps, not sufficient to
resist heavy artillery (however its officers' hearts
may be defended),” he added, meeting the brilliant
artillery of eyes that played with effect into
his own heart as he spoke, “it is, nevertheless,
in condition to resist any attempt to carry it by
storm. The garrison consists of the best American
troops in the army, and in the commanding
officer the greatest confidence is placed.”
“Truly,” rejoined the young lady, in a lively
tone, after having listened to his words thoughtfully
and with a marked attention, that would not have
escaped the observation of Burton had not his
senses been banqueting in the glance of her eye
and blinded by her captivating beauty; “if you
rebels have hearts as strongly fortified as your
forts, I may as well save my credit, and neither
lay them siege nor assay them by storm. I'll warrant
me Fort Lee hath both her walls and hearts
less defended.”
“There are there gallant officers whose hearts
would soon yield to force so irresistible as that
Miss Ney would bring against them.”
He spoke with a devotion and fervour in his tone
that did not escape her; and although, as a woman,
she was flattered by the silent, yet eloquent homage
of his eyes and manner, she nevertheless resolved,
with that strength of mind which could control
every emotion, and even bridle a passion so subtle
as love, and make it the slave of her will, to profit
by her power, and, while she controlled him as her
admirer, if not her lover, also to make use of him
as the instrument of her dangerous mission. Time
will unfold the success of her policy. Edward Burton,
she was yet to learn, was no ordinary lover.
“You have, no doubt, been at Fort Lee, which appears
as if nature had intended it for the guard to the
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Highlands? Is it as impregnable as it looks from
here?” she quietly asked, appearing at the same
time as if her whole attention was engaged in soothing
her spirited pony by patting him on the mane.
“I have frequently visited it. It is equally strong
with Fort Washington; but, the two fortresses being
dependant on each other, its evacuation would,
no doubt, follow the capitulation of the former.
Neither of them alone could command the river.”
“Nor both together, I should think,” said the
maiden, bending her brows, and directing a steady
and observing glance towards them. “They are
too high and far from the river to guard its pass. I
could as easily,” she added, with animation, her
natural spirit breaking out, “sail between them in
a good and well-appointed frigate, as I can canter
between the hedges that border the avenue we just
came through, and with as little danger.”
The young soldier watched her flashing eye and
almost stern aspect as, with the mien of a youthful
Minerva, she spoke on warlike themes so foreign
to her youth and sex. With a kindling eye he
gazed upon her, bewildered between wonder at the
strange and fierce energy of her spirit, admiration
of her lofty beauty, and the devotion of an ardent
lover.
“Are all of England's maidens so skilled in the
science of war, and wear they all such bold hearts
as are oftener hidden beneath steel corslet than a
silken spencer?” he said, with playful irony.
“England is a warlike land,” she replied, heedless
of his tone of raillery; “her sons are brave and soldierly,
and it becomes not her daughters to be indifferent
to themes which fill a father's, a brother's, or
a lover's bosom. The casque and corslet can become
woman's brow as well as man's, if history
tell us truly.”
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“Fair lady,” said the cavalier, bending low, “wilt
take horse and armour, and join our banners in the
field? Myself and a score of lances, at least, will
serve under your banner.”
“Fit knights, I would swear!” she answered,
piqued at his raillery, and curling her beautiful lip
with derision, “and but too well honoured by being
led to the charge by a woman.”
“Your sex, fair lady,” he continued, in the same
vein, “has led knights and caused battles without
number, from the days of the Egyptian sorceress
until now. Verily, 'twere no such strange thing for
those who pit armies in the field to take the lead in
the mischief they have set on foot.”
“Bravely spoken and courteously, most gallant
rebel,” she replied, laughing. “Is such the incense
you colonial gentlemen are wont to offer to our sex?
But hark you, rebellious sir; all that you have told
me about yonder frowning lines will not tempt me
to lay siege to either heart or wall connected with
them. Canst not, fair and valorous sir, point me
out a worthy mark for my artillery? I am strangely
belligerant this morning, with breathing this rebel air
and keeping rebel company, and feel as if I could
take off a score of rebel heads without mercy.”
As she spoke her features were animated with the
conscious power of beauty; and while she thus discoursed,
with a freedom that appeared to despise
the little arts of her sex, whom, in love, Nature has
taught by art to conceal art, her voice and manner
exerted an irresistible charm upon Burton. Suddenly
yielding to her fascinating influence, he leaped
from his horse, and dropped gracefully on one knee
before her.
“Lady,” he said, laying his hand on his heart,
and speaking in a low and earnest tone, that seemed
as if either subdued by the power of love or artfully
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modulated to suit his purpose, and assuming the
respectful air of a lover who trembles between hope
and fear, “behold at your feet both the heart and
head of a rebel knight, who yields himself a slave
to your beauty, rescue or no rescue!” and low he
bent his head as if awaiting his sentence.
“Rise, Sir Knight,” she said, gayly, while the
heightened colour of her cheek and the trembling
emotion of her lip, as she spoke, betrayed a depth
of feeling which she in vain sought to disguise beneath
the lightness of her words and manner; “I
herewith figuratively strike off thy head,” playfully
laying her riding-switch upon his shoulders, “or
dub thee my dutiful knight, as it may best please
thee. Thy heart I will not despoil thee of.”
“Lady,” he continued, still kneeling, with his
eyes pleadingly uplifted to hers, and full of the devotion
of love, “thou hast cruelly spared my life
if thou wilt not grant me that which alone can
make life endurable.”
“Name, then, thy wish, sir,” she replied, after
some hesitation, turning away her eyes from his
eloquent glance, in which all his heart beamed, even
under the mask of mockery, while maidenly expectation
flitted across her face in deepening blushes—
for at such a moment the woman could not be altogether
subdued.
“In gratitude for the life thou hast bestowed, fair
lady, deign to accept the heart which was also offered
with it.”
“Nay, Sir Knight, if thou canst not live without
thy head, how canst thou live without thy heart?
Solve me that mystery,” she rejoined, with something
of her natural humour and spirit.
“With all humility,” he replied, bowing to the
stirrup, till his lips nearly touched the slipper that
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half concealed her symmetrical foot, “I trust to
your generous nature to supply its place.”
“Of a truth, fair sir, 'tis a modest trust. You
rebels must think English maidens carry a brace of
hearts beneath their spencers, to supply some wandering
cavalier's lacking.”
“Not so, lady,” pursued the kneeling lover; “but
we are taught to believe England's maidens are too
generous to take a poor cavalier's heart away and
leave him none in return.”
“Whose heart, then, will suit thee, Sir Suppliant?
I trust thou couldst not think I'd give thee a
sound loyal one in exchange for a rebel's. Admit
treason into my bosom, and adorn thee with a heart
as loyal as ever throbbed in Briton's breast! In
sooth, thou art as modest in thy individual 'quests as
thy greedy Congress in her wholesale demands.
Thou art a true rebel, as thy modesty would testify.”
She spoke these words in a tone of affected seriousness,
but so inimitably assumed that the lover
gazed upon her for an instant in doubt and hesitation
before he was convinced, by an almost imperceptible
smile playing in her eye and round her
mouth, that she felt not as she spoke. All at once
changing his manner and attitude, in which there
was more of sincerity than affectation, he seized her
hand, and, pressing it warmly to his lips ere she
could withdraw it, said,
“I will no longer disguise my feelings, nor
debase their sacred nature by this gay badinage.
Nay, curl not that queenly lip, and look not upon
me with a coldness which my heart tells me you
do not feel.”
“Which your vanity tells you, rather, you should
say, bold wooer,” she replied, smiling; “but, if you
will be so pressing, and it suits your humour to fall
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or affect to fall in love so soon, why, then, all that a
poor maiden like me can do,” she continued, with a
submissive air, which, however, her arch looks contradicted,
“is meekly to submit. So there is my
hand, and, if you will, my heart in it, in token of
submission to my fate; but not rescue or no rescue,
mark you, sir, for, if the humour take me, I fly
a free bird again.”
“Not if these arms can hold you, lady,” he exclaimed,
with passionate ardour.
“What, sir! you take a free license with your
speech! But mount, and let us follow my guardian,
who would be apt to cage me if he knew how wildly
we flew when beyond his call. Hark you, sir,”
she said, shaking her riding-whip at him as they
cantered over the grassy causeway that divided the
peninsula from the road, “be discreet, and let not
your eyes betray what has passed;” then adding seriously,
“'twill bring suspicion on you as an American
officer if 'tis whispered that you are in too
close confidence with the daughter of Major Ney.
We will be friends as inmates of the same family,
but, on thy knightly spurs, beware! no more!”
As they entered the village of Bloomingdale they
met their party on its return to town.
“'Tis well we have no Gretna Green on the
island,” said General Putnam, laughing, and addressing
them as they rode up, “or I should now
accost you as Brother Benedict, Major Burton.
Ha! Well, I have not so widely shot my random
shaft,” he continued, in a lively strain, as he observed
the colour mount to the brows of the young
officer, and marked the studiously averted head of
the young lady. “Well, there is nothing like the
country, with its snug hiding-places among the
green trees, for lovers. Ha! ha! ha! What say
you, major?”
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“I will not presume to dissent from your opinion,
general, my experience in this matter having been
more limited than your own.”
“Upon my soul, a modest reply! You are disposed
to make me a perfect pastoral! I am not
worthy to be the string to tie your bouquet in such
matters; and I will wager my best charger, that, if
Hymen has not been busy, Dan Cupid has not
been idle. But 'tis as natural for folks to love as
to hate at first sight, I suppose. But something
equally dangerous has been at work. You are by
this time either a brace of tories or a brace of
whigs. Ho! Miss Ney, you need not look so archly
with that demure countenance. You have not
been idle. I believe you have come here expressly
to convert my young officers to rank toryism.
If so, and it is proved on you, I shall hold you in
close bondage. Dost hear that, miss?”
“Truly do I,” replied the maiden; “and wonder
not, if you tremble at a poor maiden, that your rebel
officers are so ready to yield to British arms.”
“If all British arms were like thine,” replied the
general, gallantly, but dryly, putting a construction
on her words which she could not foresee that they
were susceptible of receiving, “there would not be
officer or soldier in camp by sunset.”
Isabel blushed, half angrily, and, without replying,
whipped her horse into a canter, while Burton,
having encountered a glance of sly intelligence from
the humorous general, galloped on and was soon at
her side. The party regained the city without accident
or adventure. Major Burton assisted Isabel to
alight before the mansion of General Putnam. As
she touched the ground he pressed her hand. The
slight pressure was returned with a smile strongly
partaking of the newly-awakened feelings in her
heart, and she glided past him into the house. He
-- 069 -- p157-344
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
was about to follow, when a footman placed in his
hand a note that had been left for him during his absence.
Hastily breaking the seal, he glanced at its
contents with a smile, then, remounting his horse,
galloped away in the direction of the headquarters
in Queen-street.
Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1838], Burton, or, The sieges. Volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf157v2].
