Among the Mercenaries, popularly known as Hessians, employed
by England against America during the war of our
Revolution, was Gottfried Brückmann. He was, properly
speaking, a Waldecker, having been born in Pyrmont, an inconsiderable
city of that principality. From what we know of
his history, he seems to have shared largely in the passion for
music, which distinguishes many of his countrymen. To this
also he added a thirst for literary acquisition. But, being a
peasant by caste, he encountered not a few obstacles in these
higher pursuits. He became bellows-boy for the organ in the
church of his native town, and availing himself of chanceopportunities,
he attained some skill on that instrument.
He played well on the harpsichord, flute and violin. In
the French language, at that time so much in vogue
among the Germans, he became a proficient. Nevertheless,
he fretted under the governmental yoke that was laid so
oppressively and haughtily upon the necks of that class of the
people to which he belonged. His conduct exposing him to
suspicion, he fled into the region of country described as the
Hartz Mountains. Whatever of romance, literature, poetry,

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

descended into the mass of the population; whatever of
legendary tale or cabalistic observance was cherished by the
common heart; whatever of imaginative temper, ideal aspiration,
or mystic enthusiasm has ever characterized any portion
of his countrymen; Brückmann possessed; and in the vicinity
where he now found himself, there was a supply of objects
fitted to animate the strongest sentiments of his being, and
scenes and associations that were congenial with his inclinations; —
forests of oak and beech, fir and pine; every kind
and conformation of rock; birds of all descriptions; cloudpiercing
hills, unfathomable chasms; lakes embosomed in
mountains; waterfalls; mines and smelting-houses, with the
weird and tartarean look of the workmen and their operations;
gorgeous sunsets; dense and fantastic fogs; perennial
snows: points of local and traditionary interest; the Altar
and Sorcerer's Chair, the seat of the festival of the old Saxon
idol, Crotho; the grottoes Baumanshole and Bielshole; a cave
reputed, at the time, to have no termination; wildness, irregularity,
terror, grandeur, freedom and mystery, on every side.
In addition, were little villages and clusters of houses in
valleys embowered in forests, and overshadowed by mountains,
into one of which Brückmann's wanderings led him, that of
Rubillaud, through which runs the Bode. Here in the midst
of almost inaccessible rocks and cold elevations, he found
fruit-trees in blossom, fields green with corn, a small stonechurch
surmounted with a crucifix, a May-pole hung with
garlands, around which the villagers were having their Whitsun
dances. In this place he remained awhile, and was
engaged as a school-teacher for children, the parents of whom
were chiefly miners. Here, as we subsequently learn, he
became warmly attached to one of his pupils, Margaret Bruneau,
daughter of the Pastor of Rubillaud, who was a
Lutheran. In her he found tastes and feelings like his own.
With her he rambled among mountains, penetrated caves,
sang from rocks; and had such an intercourse as tended to
cement their affection, and prosecuted whatever plans were
grateful to their natures. But in the midst of his repose, came
that cruel and barbarous draft of the British Crown on the
German States. Some of the inhabitants of Rubillaud, who
were subjects of the King of Hanover, were enlisted in this
foreign service. Requisition was made on several provinces
then in alliance with England, Brunswick, Hesse Cassel,
Hanau, Anhalt and Waldeck; and on Brückmann's native
town, Pyrmont. The general league formed among these

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

princes against the peace and liberty of their people, would not
suffer that Brückmann should escape. He was seized, as if
he had been a felon, and forcibly taken to Rotterdam, the
place of embarkation. The reluctance with which this body
of levies contemplated the duty to which they were destined,
will be understood when it is told, that they were obliged to
be under guard on their march to the sea-coast; that many of
them, bound hand and foot, were transported in wagons and
carts; some succeeded in deserting; others making the attempt
were shot. Brückmann, for some instance of insubordination,
received a wound at the hand of his own Captain, from
which he never entirely recovered. Swords ruled souls.
Their avaricious and tyrannical lords let them out as slaves,
and had them scourged to their tasks. Brückmann and Margaret
parted in uttermost bitterness of spirit, and with the
fondest expressions of love. They wafted their adieus and
prayers to each other across the bridge of the Bode, over
which he was rudely snatched, to see her in this world no
more forever.

We shall not follow him through the fortunes of the war;
but hasten to its close, when he was stricken and overwhelmed
by the news of Margaret's death. A strong bond, and perhaps
the only one that attached him to his native country, was
broken; and, in common with many of his countrymen, he
chose to remain in America after the peace. These Germans,
such as survived,—more than eleven thousand of their
number having perished during the war,—scattered themselves;
some joined the settlements of their brethren in Pennsylvania,
some pushed beyond the Ohio, some were dispersed
in the New England States. Brückmann took up his abode
in New York. Those who returned to Germany he bade
plant Margaret's grave with narcissus, rosemary and thyme,
and visit it every Whitsun Festival with fresh flowers; while
he would hallow her memory with prayers and tears in his
own heart. He was disappointed in purpose, forsaken in
spirit, broken in feeling. Contrary to the usual maxim, he
loved those whom he had injured, and was willing that whatever
of life or energy remained to him should be given to the
Americans, while he remembered the land of his birth with
sorrow, upbraidings and despair.

Owing to our numerous and profitable relations with France
at this time, the French language had arisen in the popular
estimation, and was in great request. He would teach it, and
so earn a livelihood, and serve the land of his adoption.

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

Music too, the musical spirit of Margaret and of his native
country, that which survives in the soul when everything else
is prostrate, came over him. He would live again in song.
He would recall the scenes of the past. Margaret would
reappear in the tones of their love and their youth; her spirit
would echo to the voice of his flute; in song, like night, they
would meet again; by an invisible pathway of melody they
would glide on to the grave. Poor Brückmann! Poor
America! What with his deficiency in our tongue, and his
former services against our liberties, he obtained but few
scholars. Superior and more agreeable Frenchmen were his
rivals. Music! How could we pay for music, when we could
not pay our debts? The crescendo and diminuendo were
other than of sound our people had to learn. He grew
sicker at heart, his hopes had all fled, and his spiritual visions
seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer. He sat by the narrow
window of the small unlighted room he rented, in the night,
and played on his flute to the darkness, the air, the groups of
idle passers by, to memory and to the remote future whither
his visions were flying, and the fair spirit of his reveries had
betaken herself. Yet he had one and not an unconcerned
listener, and perhaps another. These were Jane Girardeau
and her father. Mr. Girardeau had discovered the sound of
the music proceeding from the hill behind his house, and his
daughter listening to it. He called her in; she would go up
to the chamber window, and repeat her curiosity. He ordered
her to bed; she would creep from her room, and sly into the
street that she might hear it. He detected her, rebuffed her,
and locked her into her room. “Can you indulge such extravagance?”
was the language of Mr. Girardeau to his
daughter. “Can you yield to such weakness? Will you
waste your time in this way? Shall I suffer in you a repetition
of all your mother occasioned me? Will you hazard
your reputation? Why will you so often break my commands,
and thwart my wishes? Shall I be compelled to resort to
harsh measures? Are you growing so perverse that moderation
is of no avail? I will have none of this. You are impudent,
beastly.”

His daughter ill brooked all this. To the mind of her
father, she was rash, reckless, turbulent, obstinate, wasteful,
inordinate, selfish, lavish, insensible. She was lavish, but only
of her heart's best affections; she was rash, not in head, so
much as in impulse; she was insensible, but only to the demands
of lucre; she was troubled, not turbulent; she was

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

inordinate, for no want of her heart had ever been supplied;
she was selfish in the sense of obeying her nature, while she
disregarded the behests of stupidity and meanness.

Jane had rebelled under the iron jurisdiction of her father.
Like the hidden fires of the earth she broke out wherever she
could find vent. She was held down, not subdued. She was
too elastic to flatten, too spiritual to stagnate. She rebounded
with a wild recoil. Her fits of anger, or sallies of spirit,
whatever they might be called, were frequent and energetic.
As she grew older, she became more sensible of her degradation
and wrongs, as well as more capable of redressing them.

She was the only child of an ill-assorted marriage. She
became of some service to her father. Her personal beauty
was an attraction to customers, and he valued her aid as shopgirl.
She presided over the department of the store devoted
to the sale of fancy goods, which, obtained in various ways,
afforded enormous profits, and became an item of trade,
that, notwithstanding her father's extensive and multifarious
business, he could not well forego. She was also a good accountant
and book-keeper. Brückmann was straitened for
means. His quarterly rent was due. He would make one
effort more; and that perhaps the most dangerous for a poor
man; he would borrow money. He knew of the broker near
by, he knew his reputation for great wealth. He had no
friend, no backer. He obtained a certificate from the parents
of one of his scholars, to the effect that he was believed to be
an honest man. He presented himself at the store of Mr.
Girardeau. Jane was there; she recognized in him the fluteplayer,
whom she had sometimes seen in the streets, or at his
window. Brückmann was a Saxon throughout; his eyes were
full blue, his complexion was light and fair, his hair was of a
sandy brown, thick and bushy. Dejection and disappointment
were evidently doing their work upon him. His face had
grown thin, his eyes were sunk, and his look was that of a
sick man. He addressed Mr. Girardeau in broken English.
“Speak in your own language,” said the latter gentleman,
“I can understand you.” He stated briefly his object. Mr.
Girardeau looked at the note, and replied in German, “Hard
times, Sir, hard times; securities scarce, liabilities uncertain,
business dull, great losses abroad, foreigners do not appreciate
our condition.” He then proceeded to interrogate Brückmann
on his business, circumstances, prospects. There were two
listeners to the answer, father and daughter, both intent, but
in a different manner. The old gentleman ordered Jane away

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

while he transacted a little private business. She retreated to
the back part of the store where she persistingly stood; and it
was obvious, although the stranger spoke in his own tongue,
she comprehended what he said. From one thing to another
Brückmann was led to recite his entire history; his birth, his
retreat to Rubillaud, his interest in Margaret, his enlistment,
his service in the war, Margaret's death, his present method
of support. Mr. Girardeau replied, in brief, that it was not
in his power to accommodate him. The agitation of Bruckmann
was evidently intense at this repulse; and there seemed
to be aroused a corresponding sympathy of distress in the
heart of Jane. The story of the stranger interested her, it
took strong possession of her imagination. As he left, her
thoughts followed him with that most agonizing sense of powerless
compassion. Could she but see him, could she but
speak with him, she would bestow upon him her condolences,
if she could offer him no more substantial aid.

Jane studied day and night how she might encounter the
unhappy stranger, the enchanting musician. To perfect her
for his purposes, her father allowed her to do a little business
in her own name. These earnings, ordinarily devoted to
some species of amusement or literary end, she now as sedulously
hoarded as increased. She discovered where Bruckmann
had some pupils in a private family. Thither, taking
her private purse, she went; sought her way to his room, and
seated herself among the scholars. She heard the recitation,
and the remarks that accompanied it. She discerned the
originality of Brückmann's mind, as she had formerly been
interested in the character of his sensibilities. He spoke in
a feeble tone, but with a suggestive emphasis. She knew well
the causes of his depression. He sang also to his pupils one
of his native hymns, she admired its beauty and force, and
perhaps more the voice of the singer. She stayed behind
when the scholars left. He spoke to her. She replied, to his
surprise, in his own language, or something akin to it. She
told him who she was, that she had heard his story, that she
compassionated his wants, that her father was abundantly
rich, and that from her own earnings she had saved him some
money. She pressed upon him her purse, which neither delicacy
demanded, nor would necessity allow that he should
refuse. She told him how much she had been interested in
his history; she desired him to repeat it. “Tell me,” said
she, “more about Margaret Bruneau.” He related as much
as the time would permit.

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

She was reproached, she was maledicted by her father, on
her return, although he knew not where she had been. An
Idea had seized her, and for that she was willing to sacrifice
everything. It had neither shape, nor color, nor definition, nor
end. She thought of it when she went to bed, she dreamed
of it, she awoke with it. She would see the stranger. She
went again to his school-room. She walked with him on the
Parade. “Tell me,” she would say, “more about Margaret.
How old was she? How did she look? How did you love
her? Why did you love her?” He would repeat all he had
said before and discover new particulars each time.

“Were her parents rich or poor?” asked Jane.

“Poor,” replied Brückmann.

“Happy, happy Margaret! O if my father were poor as
the sheerest mendicant I should be happy.”

“You may be able to do much good with your money,
sometime or another.”

“I see nothing before me but darkness and gloom,” replied
Jane. “My father,—you know what he is. My dear, dear
mother, too fond of her child, too opposed to her husband, too
indulgent, too kind,—she has gone from my love and my
approach forever. I may be in the midst of affluence, I am
cursed, blighted by a destitution such as you know nothing of.
Gold may be my inheritance, my prospects are all worthless,
fearful, sombre. You say you will meet Margaret in
heaven!”

“Speak freely with me,” said Brückmann, “I love to hear,
if I cannot answer. Margaret and I often talked of what we
could not comprehend. We strove to lift each other up, even
if we made no advance. She had a deep soul, an unbounded
aspiration. We sang of heaven, and then we began to feel it.
We were more Sphinxes than Œdipuses. Yet she became
Heaven to me, when there was none in the skies. She was a
transparent, articulate revelation of God.”

“How I should love Margaret!” said Jane to him one day.
“What was the color of her hair? like yours?”

“No,” replied Brückmann; “as I have told you, she was
not of German origin. Her ancestors came from Languedoc
in the Religious Wars. She was more tropical in her features,
and perhaps in her heart, than I. She had black hair and
eyes, she resembled you, Miss Girardeau, I think.”

“How I wish I could see her!” replied Jane. “You say
she does come to you sometimes?”

“Yes,” said Brückmann,” and since I have known you she

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

comes more frequently, more clearly. My perishing heart had
scarce power to evoke her. My song became too faint a
medium. You have revived those visions, those refreshing
communions.”

“Then I am happy,” said Jane; “I knew not that I had
such a power. You, sir, know not the misery of being able to
make no one happy. I torture my father, I plague Simon. I
am of use to no one. And my poor self answers not for
itself.” * * * * *

“How could you, Mr. Brückmann —”

“Call me not that,” he said, interrupting her, “call me
Gottfried, as Margaret always did.”

“Then you must do the same by me,” she replied, “you
must call me Jane; though no one does but father and Simon.
But if you will call me so, I shall forget that any one else ever
has. I was going to ask how you came to fight against our
poor country?”

“I never did,” he said, “my heart and soul were with the
Americans. I was forced into the work. I was bayoneted to
the lines. My musket shared the indisposition of its owner,
and shot at random. Wounds that had been spared by those
against whom I was arrayed, were anticipated by my own officers.
Often staggering under the effects of a blow received in Germany,
when I attempted to escape, have I been drawn out
against those, so called, my enemies; and at this moment am
I sensible of the pain.”

“Yet you might have been killed in battle,” said she,
“and I, poor, ridiculous, selfish me! should never have seen
you.”

“Nor I you,” he rejoined; “I know not which is the most
indebted.”

It cannot be supposed these interviews were had without
greatly provoking the indignation of Mr. Girardeau. He
noticed the frequent, and sometimes protracted absences of his
daughter; he traced them to the indigent German, whose
application for money he denied, to the villanous musician
that had given him so much annoyance. His passion had no
bounds. He ceased to expostulate; he raved, he threatened;
he shut Jane into her chamber, he barred the door, he declared
he would starve her. As Jane had never learned filial obedience,
so she had not disciplined herself to ordinary patience.
Even in matters that concerned her interest and happiness
most vitally, she was impetuous, inconsiderate. She could
bear imprisonment, she could bear starvation, she could bear

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

invective and violence; she could not endure separation from
Brückmann. She had, in respect of him, new and joyous sensations,
enchanting her whole existence. She looked on him as
a superior being. She felt that he alone could understand her,
appreciate her, sympathize with her. She felt that of the mass
about her, he only seemed to have a common nature with her.
She thought not of his poverty, or his dejection. She thought
only of his soul into which she could pour her own. She was
eager for him, as a child for its mother's breast. His love for
Margaret Bruneau only heightened his value in her eyes. He
seemed for his devotion to Margaret Bruneau, purer, greater,
diviner. He and Margaret constituted to her mind a delightful
company. She entered a magic circle when she came into
their communion. She became one of a glorious trio. Then
she saw herself interpreted and resembled in Margaret; and
she acted as a conjuration to bring that delightful vision from
the shades. Brückmann she assisted, encouraged, enlivened;
she rendered him more hopeful, more happy. And she herself
had no life, except as he was able to explain that life. His
soul seemed to respond to hers, and her own grew serener and
stiller as it received that response. “He, too, will suffer,”
she said to herself, “if he sees me not. His own heart will
break again. Margaret will come to him no more;” and
every thought of his uneasiness or suspense vibrated, like a
fire, through her.

Mr. Girardeau waited to see some tokens of his daughter's
repentance and amendment, but none appeared. The more
completely to secure his purposes, he instigated a prosecution
against Brückmann, on the score of debt, and he was thrown
into the City Jail. The old gentleman then approached his
daughter, apprized her of what had befallen her friend, and
announced his final decision. He told her if ever she saw
Brückmann again, if ever she communicated with him by word
or letter, he would turn her into the streets, he would close
his doors upon her forever, he would disinherit her, and cast
her off to utter shame, destitution and wretchedness. With
whatever tone or spirit this sentence may have been distinguished,
and there could be no mistake as to its general
purport, its effect on Jane was scarcely perceptible. Her die
was cast, her resolution taken. She undid the fastenings of
her room, she escaped into the street. Going to the Jail, she
obtained access to the cell and was locked in with Brückmann.
Through his drooping heart and wasting frame he received
her with a bland, welcome smile. She fell at his feet, and

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

poured herself out in a torrent of tears, her swollen heart broke
in sighs, sobs and convulsions. His kindness reassured her,
and she told him what had transpired. “But,” she continued,
“Gottfried, I must see you, I must be with you, I cannot live
away from you, I die without you. Existence has not the
faintest charm, not a solitary point of interest, if I am separated
from you. You have awakened within me every dormant
and benumbed faculty. You have spread over time the
hues of a higher being. You have given back to my soul the
only answer it ever received; with your eyes I have looked
into myself and discovered some beauty there, where before
was only a deep and frightful chaos. In a world of shallowness
and stupidity you alone have anticipated, understood,
valued me. I repose on you as on the breast of God. You
have introduced me to an elevated communion; you have
welcomed me to the participation of yourself and Margaret;
you have inspired me with a desire to know more of the laws
of the spirit's life. For all this I have made you no return.
I am little, how little, to you. You owe me nothing, I owe
you everything.”

“Jane,—” said he.

“Do not interrupt me now,” she continued. “Let my poor
soul have its say. It may be its last. I have now no home
on earth but you. May I remain with you? May I hear your
voice, look into your eyes, be blessed and illumined by your
spirit?”

“Is it possible,” said Brückmann, “that your father will
never relent? He needs you, his own fortune is under obligations
to you.”

“You know not my father,” was the decisive reply. “He
is fixed, inexorable, as the God he serves. I look to you, or
to vacancy, to nought, to the sepulchral abyss of my own
soul, to the interminable night of my own thoughts. To be
poor is nothing, to be an outcast is nothing; to be away from
you is worse than all calamities condensed in one blow. Do
not be distressed, my good Gottfried. I will not embarrass
you. Gottfried—I will marry you—I do embarrass you. I
do distress you—I will not. No! I go away—I leave you—
Farewell, Gottfried!”

“Stay!” replied he, “do not go away.”

“Speak to me,” she said. “Chide me, spurn me. I can
bear anything. I will not stir, nor wince, nor weep. I can
stiffen myself into insensibility. I will sit here unmoved as a
curb-stone. Speak, Gottfried, speak, if you kill me.”

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

“Jane,” said he, calmly but kindly, “you have nothing
to fear from me, we have nothing to fear from each other.
We know each other too well to be alarmed by surprises, or
perplexed at disclosures. We have no secrets to keep or to
reveal, no hopes to indulge or disappoint. Our natures are
bared to each other; our several destinies too well understood;
a word, the faintest expression of a wish is sufficient.
You know Margaret, I need not —”

“No, Mr. Brückmann, you need not—”

“Call me Gottfried. Margaret called me Gottfried. You
must never call me anything else.”

“Oh,” said she, “if I could do Margaret's least office for
you, if I could ever remind you of her! And this assimilates
me nearer to her. It gives me a prerogative, which, with all
my rashness, I should hardly otherwise dare to claim. But
you need not speak to me of her. I know all about it, and
you, and her. Yet, not as a beggar, not as a friend, not as
one who has the slightest demand on your notice, yet, I say,
obeying an impulse which I know how neither to control nor
define, but which is deep as the central fires of my being, I
ask for entrance, for a home, in that which you are, for fellowship
with you and all your life. Tell me more of Margaret;
I will grow up into her image; I will transmute myself to her
nature. You shall have a double Margaret; no, not double,
but one. Nay, if needs be, I will go out of myself; I will be
the servant of you both. Call me your child, your and Margaret's
child, your spirit-child, and so love me. And when
we get to Heaven, you may do what you will with me. Sure
I am, I shall never get there if you do not take me. I cannot
sing, as you say she could. But my soul sings. If my larynx
be inelastic, I can describe with my sensations as many octaves
and variations, as you on your flute; and with your nice
ear perhaps you could hear some pleasant strains. Away
from you, I am all discord, a harsh grating of turbulent
passion.”

“Have you thought,” asked Gottfried, “how we should be
situated. This prison is my home now, and I have no better
prospect for the future.”

“I have enough in my purse,” said Jane, “to release you.
You can teach as you have done. I perhaps could give instruction
in the more popular branches.”

“Dear Jane!” said he, “you are dearer to me than all on
earth beside. But how fade all earth-scenes from my thought!
I feel myself vanishing into the spirit-world. Daily I perceive

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

the hand of destiny lying more heavily upon me. Hourly
invisible cords are drawing me away. The echoes of my song
sound louder and louder from the shadowy shore.”

“Ah, dearest Gottfried!” said she; “if you die, I will die
too. I cannot live without you; I cannot survive you; I perish
with you. I will be absorbed with you into the Infinite.
All your presentiments I share.”

“We will be married,” said Gottfried. “We yield to the
Immortal Love. We rise to the empyrean of pure souls.
With you the past is nearer to me, the present more cheerful,
the future more hopeful. We shall all of us live a trebled
life. I have ever loved you; I will still love you; you deserve
my love. Margaret too will love you; and the Heaven-crowned
shall bestow her blessing on the Earth-worn.”

Jane procured his release from prison, by paying debts and
costs of suit. They went to the house of the Rev. Dr. —
a very kind and benevolent old clergyman, by whom the marriage
ceremony was performed, the wife and daughter of the
Rector being present as witnesses. They knelt on a couch
for an altar, her long black hair, gathered loosely about her
temples, and descending down her clear marble neck, her dark
eyes, a crimson flushing her face, contrasted with his light
thick hair, deep blue eyes, and flickering pale face; both subdued,
and somewhat saddened; yet the evening light of their
souls, for such it seemed to be, came out at that hour and shed
over them a soft, sweet glow. The old man blessed them,
and they departed.

They sought lodgings in a quarter of the city, at some distance
from their former abode. Brückmann was enabled to
form a small class in French. If female education, or the employment
of female instructors, had been as common in those
days as at the present time, Jane might have directed those
powers with which nature had enriched her, to some advantage.
She secured, in fact, but a solitary pupil, and that one
more anxious to be taught dancing and dressing, than to advance
in any solid acquisition. She found a more satisfactory
as well as promising task in perfecting Brückmann in the English
language. This difficulty once surmounted, she fancied
he would be able to pursue his practice to any desirable extent.
So five or six months passed away. — Whether it was the seeds of
disease constitutionally inherited, the effect of disappointment,
want, heart-ache, he had been called to endure, the internal
progress of his wound, or his own presentiments, acting upon an
imagination sufficiently susceptible—Brückmann fell sick. He

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

lay upon his bed week by week. Jane abandoned everything
to take care of him.

“Jane,” said he, “I must die.”

“I know it,” said she, “you told me you should soon die.
I believed it then, I am prepared for it now.”

“Voices,” he added, “are calling me away.”

“I know that too,” she replied; “I hear them.”

“An inward force propels my spirit from me.”

“Yes,” said she, “I feel it.”

She bent over him, not as over a sick and dying man, but a
convalescing angel. He seemed to her not to be wasting to
skin and bones, but to spirit and life. His eye brightened, his
smile was sweeter, as he grew paler and thinner.

“I wish you would sing to me, Jane?”

“I am full of music and song,” she said, “can you not hear
me? All that you have ever played, or sung, or spoken, leaps,
trills, is joyous, within me. Do you not hear a soft chanting?”

“Yes,” he replied; “it sounds like the voice of Jesus and
Margaret.”

“How glad I am our little Margaret is to have her birth-place
in song!” said Jane. “She feeds on melodies.—Yet if I
should die before her birth, will she die too? Tell me, Gottfried.”

“I think her spirit will go with ours,” he replied.

“Then we could train and nourish and mould the undeveloped,
unformed spirit in Heaven. And our other Margaret will
be there to help us bring up the little Margaret.—Will Jesus
bless our child, as you say he blessed the children of olden
time?”

“Yes,” replied Gottfried. “He died for all, and lives to give
all life.”

“I shall not need to make her clothes?”

“You had better do that, Jane, we may both survive her birth.”

In this exigency, their private funds having become well
nigh exhausted, she repaired to her father's house to procure
some articles of her own, out of which to prepare clothing for
the expected child. By a back entrance she ascended to her
old chamber, where, as the event should prove, Mr. Girardeau
detected her, and drove her off. At this moment, as she retreated
through the store, Nimrod, who in the mean time had
succeeded to the place of the deceased Simon, saw her, as has
been related in the previous chapter. Here also these two
episodical branches of this memoir unite.

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

When Nimrod learned from Mr. Girardeau who the woman
was, how she stood related to him, and what were her fortune
and condition, we may naturally imagine that his curiosity,
always restive, always errant, would be more than usually
aroused. A new object presented itself; he must pry into it.
Having ascertained the place of Jane and Gottfried's residence,
being out of an errand, he made bold to enter the house, and
knock at their door.

“Ax your pardon marm,” he said, shuffling into the room, as
Jane opened the door, and the sick man lay on the bed before
him; “hope I don't intrude. I sarve at Master Girarders, since
Simon's dead. I am the fellow what see you running out of
the store like a duck arter a tumble-bug. What was you so
skeered for? I wouldn't a hurt you any more than an old
shoe. I guess the old gentleman an't any better than he should
be—”

“Young man!” said Jane breaking in upon him, “whoever
you are, we have no connection with Mr. Girardeau.”

“Yes—marm,” said Nimrod, who nothing daunted, approached
the bed. Gottfried rose a little, with his wan beautiful
face. Jane, paler if possible, and more beautiful, held
her arm under his head, and her dark, loving eyes brimmed with
tears, the nature of which Nimrod could not understand.

“I vum,” said he, “I'm sorry. What is the matter? If the
Widder was here she would cure him in a wink. Won't your
Dad let you go home? Won't he give you a limb to roost on?
I tell you what it is, he's close as a mink in winter; he's hard
as grubbing bushes. I don't guess he's so poor.”

Jane, remembering her father's servants in Simon, who was
a perfect creature of his master, if at first she was annoyed
by the familiarity of Nimrod, or was suspicious of his motives,
soon perceived that his manner was undisguised and rusticity
sincere. She was led to question him as to himself, who he
was, &c. He gave her his real name, and that of his parents.
In fact he became quite communicative, and rendered a full
description of his family, their residence and mode of life. He
was pleased with his visit, which he promised to repeat, and
whenever he had a chance, he dropped in to see his new found
friends. As our readers will have anticipated the result of this
story of Gottfried Brückmann and Jane Girardeau, we shall
hasten to its close. When Mr. Girardeau became apprised of
the real situation of his daughter, he manifested deep disturbance
of spirit. He addressed himself anew to Nimrod. “That
girl,” said he, “is a runaway, a spendthrift, a wanton. She is

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

about to have a child, the fruit of her reckless, ruinous misconduct.
That child may do me an injury, a great injury.
The offspring of that viper may turn upon me with the malignity
of the mother. That child must be watched. You know,
Mr. Foxly, we are identified in interest. You know if I let
you go, or you me, we both fall. That child must be watched.
Do you understand?”

“That wa'nt in the bargain when I came to live with ye,”
replied Nimrod. “I must have a little more, a little of the
ready.”

Nothing could be more opportune to Nimrod. He was now
at liberty to prosecute his visits to Jane and Gottfried at his
leisure. Whatever money he obtained from Mr. Girardeau,
eked out by his own scant purse, he applied to their necessities.
He felt himself to be of more consequence than he had ever
been before, and although he exercised his function rather
pragmatically, he made himself greatly useful. Brückmann
grew more feeble; Jane approached the period of her child's
birth.

“Nimrod,” said she a few days before that event, “we are
going to die.”

“No, no,” he rejoined. “He'll give up the ghost as sure
as wild geese in cold weather. But you will come out as
bright as a yaller bird in Spring.”

“We must die — I shall die,” she continued, hardly noticing
what he said, having become quite used to his manner.
“We have loved, tenderly loved, if you know what that
means.”

“Yes — marm,” replied Nimrod. “If I am a Ponder and
you live in the city, you need'nt think we are as dull as millers
that fly right into your links, and never know whether they
are singed or not. When I have been by uncle Bill Palmer's,
that lives at the Ledge, as you go up to Dunwich, and seen his
Rhody out there, jolly! she has gone right through me like an
ear-wig; it sticks to me like a bobolink to a saplin in a wind.
I an't afeered of the old Harry himself, but I vum! I never dare
to speak to Rhody. But you great folks here don't care anything
about us, no more than Matty Gisborne, and Bet Weeks
down among the Settlers.”

“Yes I do care for you,” said Jane; “you have been very
kind to us. I know not what we should have done without
you. But we are really going to die. It has been foretold that
we should.”

“Oh yes,” said Nimrod, relapsing into a more thoughtful

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

mood, “I remember. I heard a dog howl in the streets the
other night, and I dreamed of seeing monkeys, and that is sartin
death.”

“You must bury us, Nimrod,” continued Jane. “And you
must promise one thing, to take care of our child. Its name is
Margaret, you must call it by no other. You will contrive
means to take it to your own home, the Pond. You are poor,
you say, that is the greatest of blessings. Your house is apart
from the world. Your little brother Chilion, you say, would
love it as his own sister. Now promise us, Nimrod, that you
will do all we desire.”

Nimrod not only promised, but volunteered a declaration
having the full weight of an oath, that her wishes regarding the
child should be studiously fulfilled. At this crisis they were
also visited by a daughter of the clergyman who married them;
she having become informed of their state, sought to minister
to their needs. Brückmann died as he had presaged. “Farewell,
Jane!” he said. “Yet not farewell, but, follow me. I
kiss you for the night, and shall see you in the morning. The
sun fades, the stars glow, brighter worlds await us. We go to
those who love us.” Nimrod bent reverently over the dead
form, that did perhaps what life itself could never have done,
made of the strong man a child, and tears gushed from his eyes.
Jane knelt calmly, hopefully by his side, kissed his lips, and
smoothed the bright curling locks of his hair. Nimrod, assisted
by the clergyman before mentioned, and some of Bruckmann's
countrymen that remained in the city as servants, bakers,
or scavengers, and could do little more for their old friend
than bear him to his grave, saw him decently buried. The
wife and daughter of the clergyman were with Jane at that period
which she had anticipated with so much interest. Her
hour came, and as she had predicted, a girl, the “little Margaret”
was born. She lingered on a few days, without much
apparent suffering or anxiety, blessed her child, and melted
away at last in the clouds of mortal vision. The child was
taken in charge by those ladies who had kindly assisted at its
birth. Mr. Girardeau, who had exhibited ceaseless anxiety,
as well as glimpses of some unnatural design, during these
events, the progress of which he obliged Nimrod carefully
to report, ordered the child to be brought to his house. His
language was, that “it must be put out of the way.” It was a
dark night; Mr. Girardeau, availing himself of a weakness of
his servant, plentifully supplied him with liquor. He also
threatened him, in case of disobedience, with a legal

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

prosecution on the score of his smuggling connections. Nimrod, sufficiently
in drink to make a rash promise, started for the child.
But apprehensions of some dark or bloody deed came over him;
the recollection of his solemn vows to the mother of the child
upbraided him; the spectral shadows cast by the street-lamps
startled him. He remembered the smuggling vessel which had
made another trip, and was about to return. The child was
delivered to him, and in place of going back to his master, he
made directly for the sloop, which was even then on the point
of sailing. The captain and crew, however serviceable they
might be to Mr. Girardeau's interest, cherished little respect
for his character, and Nimrod had no difficulty in enlisting
their aid for his purposes. We need not follow him all the
way to the Pond; or recite the methods he adopted to sustain
and nourish the child. On his way up the river he found
plenty of milk in the cabin. Leaving the vessel, he spent one
night in the shanty of an Irishman, whose wife having a nurseling
at her side, cheerfully relinquished to Margaret one half
of her supply. In one instance he found a sheep which he made
perform the maternal office. One night he slept with his charge
in a barn. On the third evening he reached his home. The
family were all abed; his father and mother, however, were soon
ready to welcome their son. Surprise was of course their first
emotion when they saw what he had with him. He recounted
the history of the child, and his purpose to have it adopted in
the family. The course of his observations on the subject was
such, as to allay whatever repugnance either of his parents may
have felt to the project, and they became as ready to receive
the child as they might have been originally averse.

“Call up Hash and Chilion,” said Pluck. “The child must
be baptized to-night.”

“Wait till to-morrow, do Dad,” said Nimrod. I guess she
needs something to wet her stomach more than her head.”

“Fix her something woman, can't wait.”

His wife prepared a drink for the child, while Nimrod aroused
his brothers. Chilion, then a boy, seven or eight years
old, held a pine-torch that streamed and smoked through the
room. Mistress Hart supported the child, while Nimrod and
Hash stood sponsors. The old man called her Mary. “No,
Dad,” interposed Nimrod, “it must be Margaret.”

“No! Mary,” replied his father, “in honor of my esteemed
wife. Besides, that's a Bible name, and we can't liquor up on
Margaret. Yours is a good name, and you never will see
cause to repent it, and there is Maharshalalhashbaz; that I

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

chose because it was the longest name in the Bible; I wanted
to show my reverence for the book by taking as much of it as
I could; and Chilion's is a good one too; all Bible names in
this family.”

“I tell you no, Dad, she must be called Margaret,” repeated
Nimrod.

“Do call her Margaret,” said Chilion.

“Well, well,” replied Pluck, “we will put it to vote. — Three
for Margaret, I shall call her Mary, and Hash goes for Peggy.
We won't break heads about it, if we do we shan't the bottle.
So here goes for Margaret and Mary.”

The family, severally and collectively, laid themselves under
strict injunctions to keep the history of the child a secret, and
to regard it as their own. Mr. Hart and his little son Chilion
were glad enough to receive it on its own account; Mistress
Hart, if for no other reason, in consideration of the money
Nimrod represented he would get from its grandfather, a reflection
that prevailed with Hash also. The secluded position
of the family rendered it possible indeed for children to be born
and die without exciting observation. Their neighbor, the
Widow Wright, was the only person from whom they had cause
of apprehension. It was presumed, however, to be an easy matter
to bring her into the arrangement of secrecy, which was accordingly
done by an oath sealed with a small douceur. In
behalf of the child were enlisted both the Widow's superstition,
and her avarice. What might befal her son Obed, then six or
seven years of age, she knew not. So Margaret was only spoken
of as a child of the Pond. When Obed asked his mother
where the little baby came from, she said it dropped from an
acorn-tree.

Such is the origin of Margaret, who a few months later has
been phantasmagorically introduced to our readers.

We might add, in conclusion of this chapter, that Nimrod,
the next year, made a visit to New York, and sought an interview
with his old Master. The disappointment, chagrin and
displeasure of the latter were evidently great. Their conference
was long and bitter. In the result, Nimrod declared in a
cant phrase that he would “blow” on the old gentleman, not
only as a smuggler, but as a murderer, unless he would settle
on the child a small annual sum, to be delivered at sight. To
such a bond Mr. Girardeau was obliged to give his signature.
He asked where the child was, but on this point Nimrod kept
a rigid silence.

CHAPTER XIII. RETURNS TO MARGARET, WHO ADVANCES IN CHILDHOOD AND KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD.

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

Military Trainings we have alluded to as a sort of New
England Holiday. Pluck, taking with him Margaret and Hash,
Chilion and Bull, went down to the village at an early hour.
The Green flowed with people, soldiers, men, women and children.
Portions of the horse-sheds were converted into booths
for the sale of liquors, fruits and bread; wheelbarrows and
carts were converted to the same use. An angle of the Meeting-house,
Mr. Smith, the Tavern Keeper at No. 4, appropriated
for his peculiar calling. Pluck engaged himself as tapster
in one of the horse-sheds. Margaret, having orders not to
go home, till her father returned at night, sat with Bull on the
grass near the Meeting-house by the side of some other boys
and girls, who all moved away when she approached. Tony's
beat of the troop was the signal for the soldiers to assemble.
They were first marched to the south front of the church,
when prayer, as usual, was offered by Parson Welles, standing
on the steps. “O Lord God,” for thus he prayed, “we thank
thee that thou hast raised up a defence to Israel, whereby thou
hast cut off the mighty men of valor, and the leaders and captains
in the camp of the king of Assyria. We humbly beseech
that thou wouldst send prosperity, that thou wouldst be an
enemy to our enemies, and destroy all them that afflict our
soul. Let the gates be lifted up, and the Lord, the Lord strong
and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle, come in. And now O
God, we fall down upon our knees before thee, for and in behalf
of thy cause, name, people and interest, that in this day
are so deeply designed against by the serpent and his seed, and
from this black cloud of tumult and confusion among the nations,
wilt thou bring forth the accomplishment of those promises
thy people are so earnestly looking after and waiting for.”

The old man was fervid and earnest. His massive white
wig fluttered in the wind, his venerable form was bent over
his ivory-headed cane. Some of the people were moved to
tears.

The soldiers were then drawn into a line for inspection. The

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

Captain was Jonas Hoag; 1st. Lieutenant, Eliashib Tuck, from
the Mill; Corporal, Joseph Whiston, a Breakneck; Chilion
Hart, fifer; and Tony Washington, drummer. Their equipments
presented hardly so uniform and symmetrical an aspect as
appears in the militia of our day. There had been, however,
a gradual improvement from the primitive array of Colonial
times; when the troops were made up of pikemen, bowmen,
and musketeers with match-locks. Miles Standish, and his
puritan coadjutors, was dressed in a coat of mail, on his left
arm he bore a target, in his right a rapier or broadsword, iron
gloves shielded his hands, an iron helmet with a visor covered
his head and face, his breast was plated with iron. In this
Livingston Company many wore three-cornered hats, shadbellied
coats, shoe and knee buckles. Some retained the identical
dress of the late war. The children who may read this
memoir, and we hope there are many such, do not fancy that
our Revolution was fought in cocked-hats and small-clothes!

Among the spectators, seated on the grass under the eaves
of the Meeting-house, were several, whose wounds and infirmities,
contracted during the war, rendered them muster-free.
There were six or eight of this description; one had lost a
leg, another an arm, one had survived a shot through the groin,
one had pined away on insults, blows, hunger and cold in the
Jersey prison-ships, and bringing home his stark skeleton, became
a town pauper. Another one, whose name was Alexis
Robinson, having the side of his face shot away, and with one
eye and ear, losing a moiety of his senses, and failing besides
in his earnings, the certificates of which he always carried, by
the depreciation of the currency, was also provided for by the
town. These severally had hobbled out to see the training.

To these must be added certain soldiers of an earlier date.
Prominent among whom, was lame Deacon Ramsdill, leaning
with his left hand on a smooth crooked mountain-laurel cane, and
having his right folded over his narrow wrinkled face, perpetually
endeavoring to suppress a good-natured but somewhat undiaconal
smile, a risible labitur et labetur, that spirted out like
water between his fingers, and ran through the channels of his
cheeks, all around his eyes, and even back to his ears. At the
age of sixteen, in 1755, he was engaged in what is known as
the expulsion of the Acadians, or French neutrals, from Nova
Scotia; in 1757 he was at the surrender of Fort William Henry;
and in 1759 was with Gen. Wolfe at the battle on the Plains of
Abraham, where he received a wound in his leg. There was
also his brother Deacon, Hadlock, of a more Pythagorean

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

temper, who was engaged in the Spanish war, and served under
General Wentworth in the atttack on Carthagena, 1740, and
afterwards was in the defeat of General Braddock, 1755.

Nor would one forget to notice the children on this occasion
whose chief business consisted in buying gingerbread,
pitching coppers, watching the exercises and following
the steps of the soldiers; or to be reminded of a difference in
their habits between this and “good old Colony times,” when
the Legislature conceiving “that the training up of youth to
the art and practice of arms will be of great use; do therefore
order that all youths within this jurisdiction, from ten years
old to the age of sixteen years, shall be instructed by some
one of the officers of the band, upon the usual training days,
in the exercise of arms, as small guns, half pikes, bows and
arrows.”

Captain Hoag was an accomplished disciplinarian, esteemed
such at least by his contemporaries. His hair was powdered,
his coat faced with blue, on his hat appeared a large white
cockade, his waist was ornamented with a scarlet sash, his
shoulder rounded off with a silver epaulette, and silver lacings
graced his yellow buck-skin breeches. But what more peculiarly
distinguished him was the badge of the order of the
Cincinnati, a gold medal with the spread eagle, and blue
ribbon hanging from his coat buttons. “Attention! At this
word,” said he, giving instructions designed for the younger
members of the company, “you must be silent, moving neither
hand nor foot. To the Left, Dress! You will turn your
heads briskly to the left, so as to bring your right eye in the
direction of your waistcoat buttons.” “Handle Cartridge!”—
“Prime!” — “Shut Pan!” — “Draw Rammer!” — “Ram
down Cartridge!” — “Return Rammer!” — “Cock Firelock!” —
“Take aim!” — “Fire!” “At this word, Fire,”
continued he, “you will pull the trigger briskly, then return
to the priming position, the muzzle of your fire-lock directly
in front, the left hand just forward of the feather-spring, seize
the cock with the thumb and forefinger of the right hand.”
After the inspection and manual drill, the soldiers were
marched and countermarched over the Green.

There came also to the training, Master Elliman, who exempt
by his profession from arms, and had always ranked as a
Tory, nevertheless made it a point to appear at these times, as
it would seem to air his antipathies. If he encountered
Pluck, well; but this morning he saw one whom he more
fancied, Margaret, sitting with her dog.

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

“How do you enjoy it?” said he.

“Very well,” was the reply. “I love to see them.”

“Sævit toto Mars impius orbe.”

“I do not understand that.”

“I know you do not. You will by and by.”

“Chilion plays so on his fife, and Tony drums so well,—it
is almost as good as dancing; only the girls and women don't
go with them. See how they follow Chilion round just like
the dancers! Why don't they dance? How slow they
step!”

“It is not Chilion they follow,” replied the Master, “it is
that little laced android with a long knife in his hand, and a
lackered bunch on his shoulder. But here are Deacons
Ramsdill and Hadlock, αξιοι πρεσδυτεροι εχχλησιας του εου χαι
Livingston, and our broad-brimmed nay nay and yea yea android,
Anthony Wharfield. Salvete, Deacons; God bless thee,
Friend Anthony. Miss Margaret Hart, Friend Anthony.”

“How does thee do? sister Margaret;” said the latter.

“A Pond gal!” said Deacon Hadlock.

“What on arth are you doing with that little critter?” said
Deacon Ramsdill. “Larnin the young pup new tricks?”

“The dog that trots about will find a bone,” said Deacon
Hadlock.

“Qui vult cædere canem, facile invenit fustem,” responded
the Master.

Bull, whether that his name was used too freely, or from an
old habit in the presence of strangers, began to growl.

“Lie still,” said Margaret.

“There, you see the Scripter fulfilled. Soft words turn
away wrath,” said Deacon Ramsdill, with his right hand on
his mouth striving in vain to curb his laughter.

“So Friend Anthony gets rid of the wars, and trainings,
by his soft answers, I suppose,” said the Master.

“Not of paying,” responded the Quaker. “Ruth and I
were stripped of most we had, to support the troops.”

“See how God has blest you! What an army he is raising
for our defence,” said Deacon Hadlock, pointing to the
soldiers.

“What is that little man, with a long knife, doing to the
men?” asked Margaret.

“He is preparing them for war; he will prove a Joshua to
us,” said Deacon Hadlock, not so much, however, in reply to
Margaret, as to illustrate sentiments which he feared did not
sufficiently prevail with his friends.

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“I rather guess he's larnin them bagonets and hatchets to
make pretty free work with our legs,” said Deacon Ramsdill,
pressing down upon his cane.

“He is teaching the science of puppetry,” said the Master.

“He is teaching them to break the commandments of
Christ,” said the Quaker.

“What is it for? what for!” exclaimed Margaret, starting
up with some surprise.

“I can tell you all,” said Deacon Hadlock. “It is under
God, the defence of our lives, liberties and fortunes.”

“How many of our people were killed in the French war,
and in the last war!” said Deacon Ramsdill.

“How many of us were shut in the Jail yonder,” said the
Master.

“How many farms in this town were ruined,” said the
Quaker.

“What blunders are ye all making!” exclaimed Deacon
Hadlock. “It is our enemies that we expect to kill.”

“Who?” asked Margaret.

“Our enemies, I say.”

“Who are our enemies?”

“Those who injure us.”

“What, kill them?” said Margaret. “Now I wish Chilion
would bring his violin and make them dance. They wouldn't
kill one another then. Why don't he play Chorus Jig, and
set them to dancing.”

“Clear nater,” said Deacon Ramsdill; “I make no doubt
the gal feels just so.”

“Oh, Brother Ramsdill,” exclaimed Deacon Hadlock,
“how can you! What are we coming to! I was informed
you countenanced mixed dancing; that you told Bethia
Weeks, a church-member, there was no harm in it if she
didn't carry it too far. Here you are encouraging that sinful
amusement and opposing our military preparations! I do believe
the Lord has forsaken us indeed.”

“Behold your defenders, pro aris et focis,” exclaimed the
Master, directing attention to the soldiers. A difficulty had
evidently arisen. The Captain was seen running towards the
rear.

It will be remembered that Hash, the brother of Margaret,
had a difference with Zenas Joy, a Breakneck, at the Turkey
Shoot. We would also state that Zenas was engaged to
Delinda Hoag, a daughter of the Captain. On the parade
this morning, Hash's conduct had been very unmannerly

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

towards Zenas, so much so as to offend Captain Hoag, both officially
and personally; and he changed Hash's place, transferring
him to a platoon under command of Corporal Joseph
Whiston, also a Breakneck. Hash could not brook this, and
carried his resentment so far, as to strike his Corporal on the
march; an offence that Joseph sought to punish by a blow in
return. Obed, also, who was that day doing his first military
duty, became somehow involved in the affray. The music
ceased; order was lost. Several voices called for Deacon
Hadlock to interfere in his capacity as Justice of the Peace.
The soldiers speedily resolved themselves into a civil tribunal,
and Hash and Obed were equitably tried and sentenced, the
former, to twenty-four hours imprisonment in the Jail, and to
pay a fine of twenty shillings; the latter, to receive twentynine
lashes at the whipping-post. The culprits were immediately
taken to their respective dooms, followed by crowds
of people. Margaret, probably not understanding exactly the
nature of events, went slowly after. She heard the shrieks of
Obed, she forced herself through the large ring that was
formed about him. He was stripped to his skin, the blood
was running in red lines down his back, four or five blows
only had been inflicted; she ran forward and threw herself
about the culprit. The constable tried to wrench her off, she
clung with an almost preternatural grasp. He threatened to
lay the lash upon her. She told him he should not whip
Obed. Judah Weeks, brother of Isabel, set up a cry “For
shame!” Isabel herself, who was playing near by, began to
utter a loud lament, all the children raised piteous moans, the
older people became confused; in fine Deacon Hadlock himself,
hearing Obed's entreaties, consented to remit the balance
of the penalty. Margaret walked through the people, who
drew off on either side as she passed, her face and clothes
dabbled with blood. She went with Isabel to the brook and
washed herself; Isabel going into her house, which was near
by, fetched a towel to wipe her with, and asked her to walk in
and see her mother. Margaret said she must go back to her
brother Hash. The Jail-yard, constructed of high posts, was,
as we have said, on a line with the street, and when Margaret
returned she found boys and girls looking through the crevices;
an example that she imitated. Deacon Ramsdill approaching,
asked her if she wanted to go in; she replied that
she did. After considerable parleying, the Deacon was able
to obtain of the Jailer, Mr. Shooks, permission for her to
enter, with Bull, whom it was not an easy matter to keep out.

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

She found Hash in a small, dimly lighted cell, rolling and
blubbering on the floor. She aroused him, and he took her
in one arm, and held the head of the dog by the other, and
seemed very much pleased to have them with him. She said
she would stay all night, but he told her that would not be allowed.
She saw another man in the cell, who, Hash whispered
to her, was a murderer. She saw him sitting, muffled
like an owl, in his long, black beard, long tangled hair, dark
begrimed face, and ragged clothes. She went to him, he took
her in his lap, pressed her hard to his breast, and stroked her
hair. She called Bull, and he patted the dog's head. He said
he had a little boy about as old as she was, whom he had not
seen for a long time, and never expected to see again. She
gave him some gingerbread which she had in her pocket, and
he munched it greedily. Hash offered him a quid of tobacco,
whereat he seemed greatly delighted, and tears ran down his
cheeks. Margaret said she would bring some flowers the next
time she came to the village. He thanked her and said he
should be glad to see them, that he had not seen a flower for two
years. The door was opened, the Jailor entered, and Margaret
was ordered to leave. She crossed the Green to the Horse
sheds, where her father was employed selling liquors. He
seated her on a cider barrel, and gave her another piece of
gingerbread and cheese, which she ate with a good appetite,
as she had hardly eaten anything since morning. The day
approached its close, and the soldiers drew up to ballot for
officers, Captain Hoag's term of service having expired. In
the result, Lieutenant Eliashib Tuck was chosen Captain, and
all the subaltern officers advanced their respective grades, excepting
Corporal Joseph Whiston, whose name, for some reason,
disappeared from the canvass. Captain Tuck replied as
follows: “Fellow soldiers, I lack words to express my sense
of the honor conferred upon me, as unexpected as it is undeserved.
We live in a glorious era, one that eclipses all past time,
and will be a model for future ages. The close of the eighteenth
century is sublime as its meridian was grand. It were an
honor for a man to be born in this period, how much more so
to be honored by it! My brave compatriots! Military life is
the path to distinction, and the means of usefulness. An
immortal crown awaits the head of the hero! The Lion of
Britain we have bound, and the Unicorn of France shall ere
long bite the dust! Livingstonians! my blood is aroused,
my ambition fired to be at the head of such a corps! Your
fame has spread from Bunker Hill to Saratoga, from Genessee

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

to King's Mountain. I will lead wherever you will follow, I
will dare all dangers with your support.”

Agreeably to custom, he then announced a treat. The
company was marched to the Crown and Bowl, and dismissed.
The citizens, old and young, thronged to the scene. Pluck,
leaving Margaret and his tapstership, joined in the general
exhilaration. Pails of toddy were brought from the bar-room.
The men drank freely, gave huzzas, and sang patriotic songs.
Ex-Corporal Whiston, however, and his particular friends, dignifiedly
indignant, withdrew, and went to the Store for their
entertainment. The old men drank, and the young men; boys
crept under the legs of the soldiers, and lifting the pails,
tugged at the slops; little children on their bellies lapped
the gutters, and sucked the grass, where the liquor fell.

The sun went down, clouds darkened the sky, and in swollen
masses drifted over the town. Solomon Smith, son of the
Tavern-keeper from No. 4, set a pine-torch in his stand, and
with knap-sack, shoulder-straps, and dangling priming wire
and brush, called around him as many as he could, while his
father went after the little boys whose coppers he exchanged
for rum. Lights broke out from the wheel-barrows and carts,
all over the Green, which rung with shouts and song, and the
tramping of feet. At the Store they drank and sung. But
the excessive use of alcoholic stimulants aggravates the ordinary
symptoms of good cheer, and produces effects which the most
considerate do not always foresee. Intoxication supervenes,
accompanied by a paralysis of the physical, or an inflammation
of the nervous system. Captain Tuck was borne dead-drunk
by his reeling soldiers, and laid on the floor of the bar-room.
Ex-Corporal Whiston with his friends sallied from the Store; a
brawl ensued between the two parties, and Deacon Hadlock,
interposing to quell the fray, was knocked to the ground.
Some were seized with nausea, and repaired for relief to the
Horse-sheds. Margaret was driven from her seat by Delinda
Hoag, who bore thither her espoused Zenas Joy. She went in
pursuit of her father. She stumbled over a little boy that lay
helpless on the grass. This was Aurelius Orff, whom his sister
Beulah Ann, and Grace Joy, who had been making a visit
to Hester, niece of Deacon Penrose, were looking after;
whereupon Grace called her a hoddy-doddy guzzletail, and
Beulah Ann gave her a smart push, as if to test her condition;
whereby she was brought in involuntary contact with Paulina
Whiston, who having grasped her brother, the ex-Corporal, by
the collar, was punching and twitching him to the shed where

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

their horse was tied. She had also slung over her shoulders
a pair of saddle-bags, filled with articles for which she had
been bartering at the Store. She helped her brother mount,
but he was too weak to retain his seat, and before she gained
the pillion, he fell to the ground. Margaret seized the horse's
bridle, and curbed the animal, while Paulina recovered her
brother. Lights blinked and glowed from booth to booth.
The black shadows of men showed unearthly, like demons in
a pit. Boys yelled their excitement, Indian-like, across the
Green. Horses breaking loose, plunged madly through the
crowd. Corporal Whiston's horse was frightened and tore
away. It began to rain, the clouds emptied themselves in torrents,
as it might seem to animate and refreshen the people,
but really to superadd a burthen on such as already had more
than they could carry, and bury those who were fallen deeper
in the soil. Margaret hurried she knew not where; she
slunk from the rain under a cart, but was thrust away by its
drunken owner and his drunken customers. She ran towards
the Tavern, that was full of men. A thick darkness had come
on, the lights on the Green were extinguished. The faint
glare from the Tavern discovered her standing out in the rain.
Solomon Smith, leaving his own now deserted and useless
stand, coming along, kindly took her with him into the house.
Men in various stages of intoxication, stood, sat, and lay in
the stoop, and in the bar-room. Through these Solomon led
her into the kitchen. Here was a parcel of men and women,
boys and girls, some drying themselves by the fire, some waiting
for the rain to hold up, some singing, laughing and drinking.
Here also was Tony with his fiddle playing to a company
of dancers; and Pluck, sitting on his hams near the fire,
with his full-orbed cabbage-head, swaying to and fro, beating
time with his arms and legs, and balancing in one hand a mug
of flip. “Ha! my little lady!” said he, catching Margaret
with a bounce into his lap, and holding her near the fire,
“won't you drink a little, now do drink a little. See how it
creams; don't be snuffy, Molly, none of your mulligrubs.
Here's blood now, Obed's blood on your pinafore. A brave
deed that; you must have something to take. It's training
day, and they don't come only four times a year. There's
Beulah Ann, she loves it as well as a calf likes to be licked.
Sweet pinkey-posy, it is as good for your wet clothes, as the
Widder's horse-radish for dropsy, ha! ha!” Whereat as he
was pressing the mug to Margaret's lips, Tony, reaching over
with his fiddle-bow, struck it from his hand into the fire. The

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blue blaze whirred up the chimney and darted into the room.
There was a cry of fire, and Mr. Stillwater, summoning himself,
lifted Pluck to his feet, and shoved him into the street. The
old toper anticipating some such issue of the day, agreeably
to custom, had taken Margaret with him to the village to be
conducted home by her at night. Margaret leading the way,
they ascended the hill, crossed the Pasture, and entered the
woods. The clouds hung low, and their floating skirts seemed
to be pierced and hetchelled by the trees. The rain had
thinned into a fine close mist. The path, to inexperienced
eyes, would have been absolutely indistinguishable. They had
threaded it before in similar darkness. They came to the
Brook, which, increased by the rain, flowed with a dismal
sound. They entered the ravine, that brought them now on a
level with the Brook, whose hissing waters rolled over their
feet. They attained the summit above, where the Tree-Bridge
lay. Pluck seemed terrified, and hesitated to cross. He sat
down, then extended his length on the grass, and ere long fell
asleep. Margaret would have been unwilling that her father
should go over, and was not sorry to have him stop; though
it was night, and rainy, and they were alone, and still a mile
from home. The rain-drops from the trees showered on her
head and lap, the grass was wet underneath her, and her
clothes were drenched with water. But of this she hardly
thought; what she more feared was the ways of her father in
his drunken sleep, his mysterious sufferings, his frenzied utterance,
his spasmodic agitation. This, and for this she feared;
she looked for it, and it came. She tried to quiet him, and
as she rubbed his arm he said she was a dove feeding him with
milk; and then he scratched and tore at his breast, which she
soothed with her hand, hot, rough, and hairy as it was; then
he said he was boiling in the still, and Solomon Smith was
holding the cap on; he shrieked and yelled till his roar exceeded
that of the Brook. Then he began to laugh wildly.
“Old Nick is turning the North Pole. There comes out of
the sea a whale walking on his tail; Parson Welles has got
astride of his gills with a riding stick, ha! ha! There
comes a star rolling on its five points, and next comes old
Suwarrow in his boots. Grind away, old fellow. Round, round
they go over the mountains, splash, splash across rivers. Can't
you hear the pismires laugh? There's St. Paul with a cat-o'nine-tails,
and Deacon Hadlock going to take me to the whipping
post. I'll be poxed, if you do. Hoa, Molly, Molly! help.”
He leaped from the ground, Margaret clung to the skirt of his

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coat. He broke away. “The Bridge! the Bridge!” he exclaimed.
“They can't catch me then!”

“Father! father!” she screamed in uttermost agony,
“you'll fall, you'll fall!” He slipped from the uncertain tree;
he struck the sides of the chasm, and dashed into the stream.
Aroused by the shock of the fall, and the stimulus of the
water, he called aloud for aid, as he was borne on by the dark,
invisible rush of the stream. Margaret then, for the first
time in her life, felt the shuddering, appalling sense of danger.
What could be done? She ran down the ravine, she seized
the struggling arm of her father, and detained him till by his
own efforts he was able to bring himself to his feet. In silence,
and sickness, and weariness, she fagged homewards; in darkest
dead of night she went to her bed as to her grave.