“I know what you are thinking, Archibald,” said
my father: “and I cannot blame you. You have not
forgotten my words, when the Declaration of Independence
was read to us—have you?”

“No Sir!” said my brother, his pale face growing
still paler, and his slender form shivering with the
depth and excess of some inward and unknown feeling—
and then added, in a manner that awed me, as much
as if a dumb creature had suddenly found his tongue—
for such had been the melancholy, deep and solemn
abstraction of his nature, from the age of about eighteen,
that we had learnt never to attempt any conversation
with him, leaving him alone and unmolested to
his thought, as a poor distempered creature, whom it
was a pity to worry in his humours:—and now, when
he broke out upon us, much after the following fashion,
our amazement held us speechless; and that of my
father was dashed with a feeling of shame, that even I
could see, for the red blood shot over his temples, and
up through his bald forehead, showing that he felt the
rebuke of Archibald—even to his old heart.

“No Sir! I have not forgotten it;” said my brother,
standing motionless before him—“And I did believe
that not one of this house would ever forget it. But
now!—now in the time of his tribulation, when all
that is dearest to us, our home and Country, is about
to be laid waste with fire and sword,—they that have
sworn to stand by George Washington, though Heaven
itself rained fire upon their heads—(your own words
Sir)—are the first to abandon him—withhold their succour—
drive off their cattle to the woods—bury their
provisions—and refuse the currency of the country—
nay more!—the first, to quail at the sound of cannon—
the first to lay their hands upon their own children,
and say, you shall not fight the battles of your country.”—
He faltered, as he concluded, and when he had
done, and the echo of his own words came back loudly
to him from the ceiling, he started—and looked about
him, with a troubled air, for a moment, and then put
his thin hands to his forehead and buried them slowly

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

in his rich brown hair, as if astonished at the sound
of his own voice.

Nor were we less so—my cousin Arthur and I exchanged
two or three glances, and the fire streamed
from his black eyes, as he ran up to Archibald, and
seized him by both his hands, and shook them, for a
whole minute, as if he would shake them off, trying two
or three times, but in vain, to speak—and at last
turning away, and wiping his eyes—without uttering
a word.—

“Archibald,” said my father, rising majestically,
and coming forward to meet him, “it is hard to abide
the upbraiding of a child, our own child, our youngest
born”—

Archibald's head drooped, and the red heat went all
over it—like the light of a furnace.

—“Yet it is harder,” continued my father, “to
bear that of our own heart”—(laying both of his hands,
emphatically, upon his left breast, as he spoke)—“what
would you have me do?”

It was a whole minute before Archibald replied, and
his chin worked up and down, all the while of his
preparation, and a mortal lividness overspread his
face, while his long, dark eyelashes gave an animated
sadness and shadow to his beautiful eyes—and when he
did reply, it was, by lifting his head, slowly, to our
father's, planting his foot, and compressing his folded
arms upon his chest, as if to keep down a rebellion
there—

“Shall I speak the truth?” said he; “assuredly”
answered my father, while Arthur pressed up to me,
and whispered,—“what possesses the creature?—is
that Archibald—the weak, peevish boy?”—I shook my
head; I knew not what to think of it.

“Well then,” continued Archibald, in a voice that
was just audible? `You ask me what I would have you
do? I answer thus. Sell all that you have. Give all
that you have to your country. Shoulder your knapsack,
put another upon John, (he always called me
John), and another upon me; let each of us take his

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

course through the country, and collect as many as he
can, of the stout yeomanry—and then go before George
Washington, and tell him to be of good cheer, for,
come what will, we, at least, will abide with him to
the death.”

My father shook his head, but embraced Archibald,
and kissed his white forehead a dozen times at least,
before he answered.

“I am proud of your spirit, Archy,” said he—“but
I cannot say much for your wisdom. What!—in
the darkest time of our trial, when the bravest of all
the land are hiding themselves in dismay, shall I be
the first to let out my whole blood, at once, in desperation!”

“Yes—Yes!—now is the time!—father—now!
even now!” cried Archibald, pressing upon him.
“One such example would electrify the country! What!
would you stand by, and see our little army beaten,
man by man, and wait for a miraculous interposition
of Heaven, for their relief? No! my father! give but
the signal—here are four of us already, and before tomorrow
night, I will put my head upon the issue, that
I carry forty more with me, on the way to Washington's
camp. Do this—and before the winter is gone,
he will have turned upon his enemy, and beaten him
back into his hiding places—what say you, shall we
buckle on our blankets?”

As he said this, he took down an old rifle that lay
athwart the smoked pannel work, over the fire place,
and leant upon it, with a face all on fire—but my
father put out his spirit immediately, with a smile, as
he said—

“No, my boy, Washington would hardly thank me
for an army of such striplings.”

Archibald bit his lip.

“Three of us” said he, “are stout men—you, and
John, and Arthur—and—”

“Arthur may do as he pleases;” said my father,
“and as for John—from this moment, he hath my consent
to shoulder his musquet—”

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

“And join the army!” shouted Archibald, leaping
from the floor—“O, do let me go with him—I—I—I
am not very strong, but I can—”

“No, Archibald, I cannot part with you. Your
constitution is too delicate.”

“The best way to harden it, father,” said he—
“Your temper too unsocial and passionate—”

“The best way to cure that—”

“Silence!—I will not hear another word upon the
subject. John may depart whenever he pleases, and,
if Arthur will go, he may have his choice of the horses,
and I will furnish both, as well as money can do
it, with equipments—but as for you, I will not part
with you. They are strong handsome fellows, and
will work their way through the battle, I'll warrant
them, but as for you, the first thing that I should hear
of you, would be, that you had been run away with
by your own horse, or trodden to death in the onset—
no—You shall be a minister, Archibald—a minister of
the Gospel.”

Archibald looked at him, a moment, as if—I hardly
dare to say what, for he was the most affectionate creature
in the world, and till that hour, I had never heard
him speak a loud word in the presence of my father—
he had always set apart by himself, musing all the
day long, over some history, or drawing:—but it did
appear to me that, all at once, his soul felt new
strength, and that, before the sound of my father's voice
had died away, declaring that he should be a minister of
the gospel—he had determined to be torn in pieces,
first, by wild horses—but he bowed his head reverentially,
to my father, (who left us for awhile,) and went
into the darkest corner of the room;—where he stood
for a whole hour, without opening his lips.

“Well Jonathan,” said my father, returning—“what
say you—when will you go?”

I felt my heart stop—partly with shame, and partly
with fear—till he repeated the question, and I saw
Archibald's eyes flashing, impatiently, for my answer—

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

“whenever you please, Sir,” said I—though I would
have given the world to be out of the affair.

“Tomorrow then,” said Arthur “rubbing his hands.
The sorrel mare for me—Hobson's choice for you—
and the next morning at day light, hourra for the
camp!”—

I have determined not to disguise one feeling of my
heart, nor one thought of fear, my children; for I
would have you know me thoroughly; and, therefore, I
must own to you that I wondered at the enthusiasm of
Arthur, and would have given my right hand, that
the proposition had not been made: but I was ashamed
to appear less of a man than Arthur, who was a whole
year younger, and therefore, I answered stoutly,
“Tomorrow be it then”—

My father embraced me, and there was a look of
encouragement in the face of my brother, that made
me run up to him; when he caught my hand, and
wrung it with all his might, while the tears rushed
into his eyes—and he said, “O brother, would God
that I were as strong and handsome as you.”

Arthur arose to go.

“No, my lad,” said my father, “you will take a
bed with me to-night, and tomorrow, go round to
your acquaintances, with Arthur and Archy---they
shall both go with you---and bid them good bye---I
will take care, to represent the matter rightly to your
uncle. It is really time, that we did something. I am
ashamed of myself. Our cause must perish, if all
abandon it, as I have done. No, I will mount and
ride, tomorrow, through all the neighbourhood, and
never rest, till I have stirred up some of our substantial
men---for they are the most backward, after all---
they have nothing to gain, and much to lose---and they,
like me, have been lying by, to see the sun break out,
before they go abroad. No!---it shall not be so another
day. I will go to them myself, and if that doesn't
work upon them, I will let the minister loose---ha!
Archy, what say you---silent?---well, well, I like your
contemplative spirit---so fond of study.”

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

I heard something fall, and turning to where he
stood, saw that the book, which he had been holding, had
fallen from his hand, but he did not appear to observe
it.

“No!” continued my father, “we must be ready
to begin the next campaign, with spirit, or the devil
will be to pay—one bold, manly effort, and we shall
down with our invader to the dust—tomorrow, I
will throw open my barn, and stable, and corn houses,
and let the first foraging party, that will, empty them
all—and set fire to the ruins. I will never complain
more!—what say you Archy?—will that do!—come,
come, cheer up—you shall stay by your old father and
mother, and comfort them, while Jonathan is cutting
and slashing at the enemy—so, hourra for independence!”

“Hourra! hourra!” shouted Arthur, swinging the
old rifle round his head—“hourra for independence!”

My voice followed his, but so faintly, that it sounded
like an echo, only—while Archibald merely locked
his hands, and uplifted them, to heaven—much to the
delight of the old gentleman, who winked at us, and
smiled, as if it were some timely revelation from above---
“yes! yes!---said he---he was made for a minister.”

CHAP. III.

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

Never, in all my life, did I pass such a night as that,
which followed the conversation that I have just related.
I know not whether I was born with a more
timorous heart than other men; but I have been ready
to believe, when I have seen their indifference to matters
of life and death, where we have stood together, ankle
deep in blood—their cold, phlegmatick, habitual disregard
of what made my heart feel, sometimes, as if it
were turning to stone within me, and my flesh crawl—
that they were fashioned originally, and by constitution,
of sterner material than myself—and yet, I have
seen Archibald too, pale as death, in the awful stillness
that preceded the first shot, while they went on,
immoveable and solid as a phalanx of machinery,
with no sweat upon their foreheads, no prayer upon
their lips, no knocking at their ribs.—What then should
I think? His courage was indisputable—yet he was
abundantly more agitated than myself.—However, not
to anticipate, there were a thousand apprehensions,
natural to an inexperienced country lad, like myself,
about to abandon the roof of his father, mingled and
dashed too, with some pleasant and adventurous feeling,
common, I dare say, to the high in blood, whatever
may be their courage;—but there were some perils—
some, that the terrour of, would not let me sleep. The
small pox was in the American army, and its ravages
were tremendous, as we were told, and believed:—add

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

to this, that Cornwallis had just moved upon our frontiers,
with the design of effecting a junction between
his army and that of Sir Henry Clinton, then in possession
of New York.—Their forces, exceeding fifty
five thousand men, were well known to be admirably
appointed, and altogether superior to ours.
Arnold had been beaten—and we had just lost the
command of the lakes—and Fort Pitt, too, had fallen.—
several perilous changes had been made in the Staff—
General Schuyler and Gates were at loggerheads—
Washington himself, was losing a part of his popularity—
and they were intriguing to set him aside, not
by a dismissal, but by passing a vote of censure upon
him, which they knew the great man would not brook—
the army had dwindled to nothing, by the folly and
madness of short enlistments, and literally, nothing at
all had been done, on our part, during the campaign—
nothing experienced, but a series of defeat and humiliation,
which no human being could have held up against,
except George Washington.—

—Such was the state of affairs at this time;
and if you add to these facts, which were painful and
disheartening enough, to intimidate and bow the bravest,
the ten thousand rumours and exaggerations perpetually
afloat—the fact that we were safer under the
protection of the enemy than of our own countrymen—
the different appearance of our tatterdemalions, half
naked, half armed, and half starved, from their invaders,
a gallant, and dazzling army with banners
and trumpets,—and the offer of pardon and mercy,
just made by Sir William Howe, at the head of thirty
thousand veterans, offers which were not only made
to, but were accepted far and near, by the dastardly
gentry (for the poor held out—in their nakedness and
poverty, to their last breath)—and the threat, constantly
reiterated, that all the prisoners of war would
be hung for rebels and traitors, and never exchanged—
you will not wonder that my heart was heavy at the
thought of what I was about to encounter.

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

However, the night wore away, at last, and never
did the morning light break in upon me with such
influences; my blood danced in my body, and before I
had been out in the wind an hour---a fine, frosty air,
with a few stars, yet visible, and the bluest sky that I
ever saw, above me, I do believe that I could have
gone into battle, with less terrour than I had heard the
proposal to go, ten or twelve hours before. Such is
the steadying effect of contemplation; such is it, to be
prepared—and such the strengthening of God's breath,
when it blows down from the mountain upon us, before
sun rise. It would revive a dead man—I have sometimes
thought, when I was galloping away before it,
for life and death, almost:---but Arthur appeared the
same frank, cordial, carcless fellow, in the morning,
that I had always found him. He was one of them,
that take whatever happens, in this world of commotion
and trial, as a sort of thing, not to be troubled about.

“Well, John,” said he, clapping me on the shoulder,
retreating about forty yards, and levelling his rifle at
my head, “let me see if you can stand fire?”

I started, in good earnest, for it went off, and the
ball whistled, through my head, I thought, for a moment---but
it certainly passed very near me.

“Better than you, cousin, I am sure!” said I, forgetting
my consternation, in looking at the sudden
change, and frightful expression of his face.

“Gad a mercy!” he cried—“whew!”—stopping a
moment to see if I would fall, and then running up to
me, and feeling all about my head, like a delirious
creature, for a minute or two—“bless my heart and
soul!—whew!—well how do you feel?—d—n that
rifle—it goes off, without touching the trigger—it only
jarred in my hand.”

“Yes!” said I, rising forty fold in my own estimation,
to find that I was so little discomposed by an accident,
that had well nigh settled the campaign with
me, forever and ever—and shaken poor Arthur's courage
into dust—“yes—but if you do not aim better

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

than that, when you get among the Virginia riflemen—
Morgan's men—they'll—”

“Don't talk to me---don't talk,” cried Arthur, choking
with joy and terrour—while his black eyes actually
ran over, and he trembled, from head to foot.

“Well” said Archibald, joining us with a prouder
step than common, “you are harnessing, for the war,
I see, my brave brother; and you too, cousin Arthur—
have you made up your minds, never to return—never
to lay down your arms—never! never! till—ha!
what's all this—by heaven, it cannot be”—(catching
Arthur by the arm, and turning him partly round, for
he was stooping, as if to tighten the girth of his horse,
but had remained there rather too long a time for the
impatient temper of Archibald)---“tears!---tears upon
the face of Arthur Rodman!”

“Yes” cried Arthur---“and tears had well nigh
been upon your face too, my lad.”

Archibald shook his head, and smiled.

“O, you may smile---any body can smile---but if you
had seen your brother shot through the head, I am
inclined to think that—”

“What were you firing at?” said my father, leaping
over the fence, near where we stood, and standing,
all at once, by our side.

Arthur, though I attempted to avoid it, immediately
told him; and as he did, I could perceive the under
lip of Archibald, violently compressed, and his brow
knitting with emotion—but my father did not change
countenance.

“And how did he bear it?” said he—“like a lion!”
cried Arthur, striking his hands together—“he only
turned upon me, and chided me for my bad shot.”

“Not so bad a shot, neither,” said Archibald, putting
his hand to my face—“an inch or two more, and
the hall would have done your business—you will have
to get a lock shorn, on the other side of your head.”

It was very true—my hair was loose and flying in
the wind, and the ball, diverted from its aim, by the
jar of the piece, as it fell into Arthur's hand, had cut

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

away one of the heaviest locks, as if it had been shorn
with a razor. My blood thrilled—and I felt sick at
the heart, for a moment—and if I had been alone, I
should have fainted, I dare say, while I thought of my
narrow escape; but eventually, it was a happy thing
for me, perhaps, one of the happiest, for it gave others
a great opinion of my self-command, and finally,
produced a like opinion in myself. Nay, to this very
incident, in a great measure, I believe, may be attributed,
the reputation, that I subsequently obtained, of
being one of the most intrepid fellows in our regiment—
for I have always observed, that, when a report has
once gone abroad, people rarely think of enquiring
into the origin, or authority of it; so that it would
be no difficult matter, I believe, for any man to put
his own character, in what form he pleases, out into
the world; and, after a time, they that were vociferous
in defence of his virtues, would forget that he,
himself, was the author and origin of all that related
to them. “Say that you are not afraid of the devil,”
said Arthur, to our sergeant, one day, “and by and
by, it will become your general reputation—every
body will swear, that you are not afraid of the devil,
and forget who told him so—nay, fight to prove it—
for such is man's nature; enlist him to report a doubt
ful affair, and it is ten to one, that he exaggerates in
proportion as he is distrusted, until at last, he is
willing to spill his blood in proof of it!—another good
effect is, that the man himself, at last, begins to believe
that other people know him better than he knows
himself---and he really becomes, what they say he is---
not afraid of the devil!”

At last, we breakfasted altogether, my dear mother
at my right hand,—a mournful, but manly and noble
sorrow was in the countenance of my father—a more
tender and passionate one, in the light hazle eyes of
my mother,—and, in all the rest, that kind of unwillingness
to be either silent or talkative, which
characterises young hearts, when they are among them
that mourn—without being able to understand or

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

comfort them.—We swallowed our milk (for coffee was unknown
to us then)—but left the food untasted—and
then, with an occasional word or two, that sounded
abruptly upon the ear, as if spoken in a wrong place,
unpreparedly, as in a sick chamber, or house of
prayer—we mounted our horses.

“You will beat up for recruits,” said my father,
“during the day, and return to us at night—tomorrow
we shall try to set you both off in good earnest.”

Archibald came to me, and took the bridle in his
hand for a moment, as I was turning away—and then
let it go again, reluctantly, as if he had intended to
bid me a farewell,—but his heart had failed him—

“But Archy—how is this?” said my father, “Do
you not go with them?”

“No Sir”—said Archibald, throwing down his eyes,
“my horse might run away with me, you know.”

My father laughed—“no, my boy, you are the
better horseman of the three—if not the best of the
county, and I would trust you to break a colt, that
I would not trust many a rider to cross, after you had
subdued him.—I did not mean to mortify you—I only
desired to make you feel that you were comparatively
helpless.”

“I did feel it father;” said Archibald—walking
away.—

“Well, well,—never mind it son. The stud is your
own. Take your choice, and follow them, if you will,—
or go with me to the muster—or take your own way,
and, if you think you can succeed, go among the lads
of the neighbourhood, and see how many you can
bring in.”—

His eyes flashed fire, I remember, as we set off at
full gallop, for the high road; and, in less than twenty
minutes, we saw him, stretching like a hunter over a
distant elevation; after which—for he only took off
his hat, stood up in the stirrups, for a moment, and
waved it without stopping—after which, we saw no
more of him, till about nine that evening, when he
came suddenly upon us, with nearly twenty well

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

mounted young fellows, upon the best horses in the country—
rattling at his heels, like so many mad devils—they
almost rode us down,—for, with all our efforts, we had
been able to muster but five.

`How he sits!' cried Arthur, pointing to him, as
he rode leisurely about, while we were all trying
to form.—The moon shone gallantly upon us, and
really, had there been a trumpet there, and an enemy,
we should have given a good account of him, notwithstanding
our inexperience, and wretched equipment.—
Indeed, there is a natural feeling of the heart,
a proud pulse, about men always, who ride well, and
are well mounted, though they are alone, in the daylight;—
but when there are thirty more of them, thundering
along at full gallop, under a broad blue sky,
and a clear star light—though they were day labourers
on foot, there would be a swelling of the heart,
warlike and hazardous I am sure, like banditti at
least, if not like well trained cavalry.

“I am thinking,” said Archibald, leaping his horse
at full speed, over a ditch, where all the others halted
and boggled—and joining us—“I am thinking that,
if we ride over to the plain, yonder,—the musterground— —
that we may spend an hour or two,
profitably, in manœuvring against tomorrow—”

Arthur smiled, but, in that spirit of fellowship, which
all men have, under excitement, we rode on, renewing
our acquaintance with some of the horsemen about us,
and making it with such as were strangers—they
were fine fellows indeed, and when we were afterward
counted off into fours, and sixes, and the order was
given to gallop,—I thought that I had never seen so
handsome a troop of yeomanry.

Archibald had ridden hard, I am sure, that day, for
the mettlesome creature that he rode, kept throwing
down her head, and snorting continually, when she
stopped, as if hurt in her wind.

“My friends,” said Archibald—the moon shone full
upon his white forehead, as he uncovered it, and wiped
away the sweat,—“it is now time to separate. Let us

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

meet tomorrow, at twelve on this spot, each prepared,
to return no more—or to return victorious—I said us—
I do not mean it. It is not in my power to be with
you, except perhaps, as I have already told you, to
bid you God speed. But before we part, if you are
willing to spend half an hour, and your horses are not
fatigued, I will show you what little I know of the
cavalry exercise; so that you will be enabled, at least,
to enter the camp, with an air of respectability.”

The proposition was agreed to, and he threw us
into line; counted us off into sections; wheeled in and
out, gallopped, and charged. I was truly astonished at
the result. Before we parted, our horses would rein
as steadily into line, and wheel, with as much precision,
almost of themselves, as if they took a pride in it—
and subsequent experience has proved to me that they
do; for many a wild one have I seen broken to the line,
in a single drilling.

We then separated, all to our different homes, for
the night;—When Arthur, who had been riding at our
side, in silence, for about half an hour, suddenly
wheeled from the road, with a laugh, leaped a low
stone wall, and dashed away to our left—

“At twelve precisely,” said I calling after him——
“aye! aye.—At twelve!”—he answered, flourishing
his sword in the star light.

Archibald reined up for a moment, and looked after
him, in surprise—“not the way to his uncles?”—
said he—

“No,” I replied, well knowing where he had gone.—
“I believe not”—

Archibald looked at me for a moment, as if about
to speak—but he did not, and then put a head for
some time.—

“What say you,” said he, abruptly—“shall we ride
over to Arnauld's.”—

“By all means,” I cried, leaping forward and
abreast of him, it is only a mile or two—and I should
like to see Lucia, before I go.”—

“Lucia!—Yes,” said Archibald, stooping over the
neck of his horse and feeling the curb—“it would be

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

well, you are a favorite there brother; and it would
be rather unfriendly to go away for so long a — brother
your stirrups are too long—shorten them—you
can never sit firmly in that way—throw your feet
home.”

“Pho, pho—how should you know better than I.”
“I do know better than you, brother; and it matters
not how I know it—if you do not ride with short stirrups,
and your feet home, you are perpetually in danger
of losing your seat, and your stirrup.”

“But suppose I should be thrown?”—

“You cannot be thrown. You must not look to
such an event as possible. I was never thrown.”—

“I beg your pardon.”—said I—

“Never!” he replied, warmly,—“once or twice
the horse fell with me.”—

“And suppose that your feet had been home then,
what would have become of you?”—

“They were. I grant brother, if you are thrown,
that it is more dangerous; but then you are not the hundreth
part so likely to be thrown as—ah! musick!”—

We were now passing the windows; a long row of
which, with the curtains up, were all illuminated.
Archibald put his hand gently upon mine, for a minute,
and sat listening.

“By heaven!” said I—“there never was such a
voice upon earth.”—

But he said nothing—he only drew a long breath,
and turned aside his face—

There was Lucia, lolling upon the sofa, and singing
away, with all her heart and soul, as if her very breath
were melody—so sweet and natural was the modulation
of the tone.

“How very beautiful!” said I—dazzled by her
brightness, as the fire light shone upon her eloquent
countenance, and gave to the whole of it, the hue of,
like a lighted transparency.

Archibald made no reply, but threw himself from
the saddle, and struck the gate with his whip handle.
The sound immediately ceased, and some tokens of

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

alarm were given, for hands were busy in letting
down the curtains of the room, all round; and it was
some minutes before we were admitted—but then—O!
our welcome, was that of the heart.

“Oh, my dear, dear friend,” cried Lucia, running
to Archibald, and putting her hands into his—“how
glad I am that you are here.”

“Why so?”—said he, colouring a little.

“O”—she answered—“O”—her pleasant, dark,
hazle eyes, with lashes, black as death, were shaded,
for a moment, with embarrassment—“we have been
terrified, this afternoon, with some stories about a
troop of horse, in the neighbourhood.”

“But you seem to have forgotten Mr. Oadley,”
said her elder sister Clara, a remarkably pale, tall
girl, with a serious cast of countenance, with very
bright eyes, incessantly in motion.

Lucia, coloured to the temples, and stepping forward,
her superb person just losing its girlishness,
for the graver beauty of womanhood—“I pray Mr.
Oadley, to pardon me,” she said; “I have always
been more intimate with his brother, as he knows well,
and when I see him, there are so many feelings of the
old school-fellow, at my heart, that I am half inclined
to forget both our ages in a game of romps!”

Her sister smiled, a little scornfully, I thought;
and her mother, one of the most truly beautiful women
of the age, immediately set all matters right, by shaking
her finger at Lucia—and welcoming, with her
accustomed gracefulness and ease—her “caro amico!”

“I am really glad that you have come—separate from
the pleasure that your company always gives to us,
on account of this report, and the absence of my husband.”
“Absent?” said I—but before I could say
more, a look from Archibald cut me short.

There was a momentary embarrassment in all our
faces—for I dreaded to mention, that I had seen him
within an hour or two; and still less, would I have
told her, where—for there was something, rather

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

mysterious—and, as my father thought, dangerous in the
movements, and authority of Mr. Arnauld—but it soon
wore off, and we joined, pleasantly, in conversation.

“I heard your voice, I believe,” said Archibald,
looking at Lucia, “as we approached.”

“Mine!”—she answered, with surprise—“a—
laughing, I suppose?”

“No—singing—your favourite air.”

“O, no—that was Clara's.”

Archibald and I exchanged a look with each other,
and smiled. Here had been one of those delusions, at
which men may laugh, if they will, but which are
strangely mortifying to them, after all. We had
united, heretofore, in our condemnation of Clara's
voice, chiefly, I dare say, because we had not often
heard it, and when we had, only by stealth or accident;
yet, to night, in the depth of our feeling, we had
mistaken it for that of her sister, which was, undeniably,
the richest, sweetest, and most passionate of all the
country—we!—no, how do I know that he was deceived?

“One song,” said my brother, “Miss Lucia, and
we will then leave you.”

“A strong temptation!” she said, softly, to me,
looking through her abundant, dark hair—“shall I?”

“O, certainly!” I answered, “I have come on purpose
to hear one more of—”

“Why, what is all this?” said her mother, glancing
at Archibald—“your countenance, is more than commonly
serious. Has any thing happened?”

“My brother,” said Archibald, “will join the army,
to-morrow.”

“The army!—gracious heaven!”—said Clara, and
then checked herself, while the blood darkened her
whole forehead.

“And your brother”—said a faint voice to me—I
looked up, and saw the face of Lucia, near mine,
exceedingly pale—and her white hand, raised—“will
he go with you?”

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

I shook my head, and her hand fell—the next moment,
I saw her sitting back, as far as she could, with
her eyes upon a book; but occasionally, they turned
timidly aside, to the face of my brother, who sat, in
his usual mood, studying the fire, with his under lip
working, and shadows flitting, now and then, over his
intensely white forehead, as if the thoughts of his heart
took wing, one after the other.

His revery was profound, and undisturbed, till the
clock struck, and he started upon his feet—and began
buttoning up his coat, to depart.

“You will not leave us to-night?” said the mother.
Clara, walked up to me, as pallid as ever—and the
book fell from Lucia's hand.

“Madam,” answered my brother, “if you have
any apprehension remaining, we certainly shall not—
one of us (Lucia, moved near to him, and Clara, to
me, as he continued) one of us will remain.”

She shook her head.

“Well then, both of us will remain,” said Archibald,
drawing up his chair to the corner, and entering
into conversation, as if his thought were any where in
this world, but in that room.

“But why do not you join the army?” said Mrs.
Arnauld to him.

Archibald turned slowly round, and smiled rather
bitterly, I thought; and Lucia sat more erect, for
awhile—and then leaned forward, as if to catch every
word, and tone, and look.

“For two or three reasons,” said Archibald, firmly

—“In the first place, I am not twenty-one—not my
own man—in the next place, I am to be a parson—
a parson!—and, finally, I am so weakly a creature,
that I might be run away with, by my horse—or trampled
to death, by the foot—excellent reasons, Madam;
are they not?”

I could perceive, that Mrs. Arnauld looked astonished,
and Lucia terrified; and I---I confess, that I
should have been equally so, had I not seen the late

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

developement of his character, before my father; for
his irony was a naked blade---it went to the heart.

Here Lucia's hair fell---and she consumed ten minutes,
at least, in adjusting it, all the time keeping her
beautiful eyes turned in the direction where he sat,
with his fingers playing, involuntarily, upon the next
chair, without moving a limb, or uttering a sound.

On the whole, it was a melancholy evening; such as
I should not desire to pass again, under any circumstances.
It was saddening to my heart; oppressive to
my spirits; and, when I thought of the possibility;
nay, of the probability, that we might never all meet
again, in the same room, it was with difficulty that I
could refrain from expressing a sorrow, and apprehension,
that would have been unmanly.

At last we parted---“Farewell, Madam,” said I—
“I shall not see you in the morning.”

“Heaven bless you!” she replied, cordially pressing
my hand. “May God be with you, in battle and
in sleep—night and day—bien bon soir.”

“Amen!” said some one faintly, at my side;—it
was Clara—I turned to offer her my hand, but some
unaccountable timidity—took sudden possession of me,
and I could not—I gave it to Lucia—who burst into
tears.

I was astonished—what was there to affect her so
deeply, more than her sister? why at all?—might it not
be that her heart was full before, to running over,
and that she was glad of any pretence to discharge the
fountain of tears.—

“Farewell,” said I again—“farewell!”—

Clara put her hand upon my arm—as I passed her—
but instantly withdrew it, and when I looked, she had
turned away her face, so that I could not tell if it were
designedly done or not:—but I lay awake, I know,
many a long hour, sleepy as I was, that night, endeavouring
to reconcile such an accident, with her habitual
reserve, and lofty, severe rectitude of deportment.—It
could not be—no—Clara Arnauld was not a woman to

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

feel at the heart—and least of all—for such a man as
I—uninformed—inexperienced and—

We were in our saddles by early day light, the next
morning, and trotted slowly, past the windows of the
chamber, where we knew that the young ladies slept—
a white hand stirred the curtain—nothing more—I
could have sworn that it was Clara's—but on looking
into Archibald's eyes—I was sure that he thought it
Lucia's.

Alas! it was the hand of neither—it was that of a
man—a man!—what!—said I, half audibly, in the bed
chamber of—the next moment, I saw that it was Mr.
Arnauld himself, evidently wishing to see us, without
being seen himself, for he hastily disappeared, and the
next minute, the curtain of another window fell, suddenly,
as if some one had just left it—after all then,
my heart was right—it was she!---

“What a charming creature she is!” said I, half
unwilling to interrupt the solemn stillness of our
ride.

“Yes,” said my brother---“full blooded”---but
reining his beautiful mare about, so as to see her
blood red nostrils, through which her breath issued,
like a bright vapour, for a whole yard, upon
the cold air—“but she was sadly put to it yesterday,
and I feared for her wind—not blown I hope, but—

“O, I understand you, now,” I replied, completely
puzzled for a moment, “you are always thinking of
your mare.”

“Aye brother!—what else have I to think of? she
knows me—see!”

As he spoke, he loosened the rein for a moment:—
the fire flashed from her wild eyes, and she shot by me
like an arrow.

The road was a very dangerous one, encumbered
with trees and rocks, roots, stumps, and broken
all up, with the feet of heavy cattle; so that I held my

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

breath for a moment, till I saw him rein her short, as
if upon a pivot, without stopping.

“By heaven, Archibald, how did you teach her
that?”---said I, coming up with him.

He laughed, but there was a mournfulness in the
sound; as there was, even in the warm flush upon his
pallid front, and the arrowy brightness of his intensely
blue eyes---they were not the symptoms of
health or happiness.

“I'll tell you brother---I was reading some time
since about the Arabian horses; and, when we get to
a better place, I will shew you that there is no such
mighty matter, in stopping at full speed, or mounting
and dismounting, at a gallop.—But what were
you speaking of---brother?” “Of the most charming
creature in the world,” said I, feeling every word that
I uttered---

“Yes, yes, brother”---responded Archibald---stooping
on the off side of his mare, and turning the stirrup,
for his foot; “yes---but I cannot well bear to talk of
her now”---

But, I replied, unwilling to let the conversation die
away so soon---we were just approaching the highest
ground in the neighbourhood, from which we could
have a view of twenty miles all about us---“I do not
like her coquetry.”

“What!”---said Archibald, abruptly---“no,” I
“nor that womanish pedantry and continued---.”—

“Affectation!”---said he, rivetting his eyes upon me,
in astonishment---“what the devil do you mean?
John?”

“O---I do not hope to convince you of it, such a
favourite as you are”---(He coloured to the eyes)---and
that vile habit of sprinkling all she says, with poetry,
and French and Italian---a smattering of”---

“I'll tell you what, brother,” said he, riding up to
me---“I can't put up with this. I told you once before,
that I did not like to talk upon the subject---and I tell

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

you once more---and once, for all---that I won't put up
with it---”

I was amazed---we stopped our horses, and faced
each other, for a moment, upon the very summit of the
elevation---“are you mad?” said I---“one would think
that you were in love with her---(the fire streamed
from his eyes)---take care what you are about-- that
husband is not the gentlest of men, or the most forgiving;---
nor will he be the more likely to treat you
gently for your passionate adoration of his wife, because
he is the greatest profligate of the country.”---

“Husband! wife!”---said Archibald---impatiently,
and stooping from the saddle---“what are you talking
about?”---

“Of Mrs. Arnauld,” I replied.

He drew a long breath, and reached me his hand,
with a smile that went to my heart---“I am a little
absent, I believe,”---said he---“you know that I am
apt to be thoughtful, and just now”---(he appeared to
forget himself, for a moment, in another revery---but
started again, at the sound of two or three shot, that appeared
to be fired in the valley below:---when the mare
plunged suddenly, and had well nigh dislodged him
on the spot.

“She had well nigh broken your neck then, brother,”
said I—looking about for the sportsmen, who, I
supposed, were out after game; but I could see nothing;
not even the smoke of their pieces—yet they sounded
very near to us.

“I deserved it,” said he, reining her up firmly, and
adjusting himself to the seat—“tame as she is, I ought
never to forget what she has been—a horseman will
always mind saddle, rein and stirrup, (no matter what
he is upon) as if he expected to be run away with, every
moment—Ha!—another, that!—the game must
be well up this morning.”

“That was a pistol shot” said I—“O yes, I
dare say it was,” he answered;—“our troop are
amusing themselves at a mark. But you were speaking
of her affectation;—I am sorry for it on some

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

accounts; she is so truly charming in every other
respect—and then, it cannot have escaped you, that our
good mother is a little sore of late in her rivalship,
for I have caught her more than once, throwing in,
with a laughable unluckyness, some of the wretched
French that she has picked up at Madam Arnauld's.”

“You are severe upon Mrs. Arnauld,” said I—“too
severe; I only complain that she will not consent to
talk her mother tongue—not that her French and
Italian are wretched.”

“But they are,” said my brother.

“Oh! no; she has been familiar with them both—
and—”

“Pho!—Not a word of either did she ever pronounce
properly in her life.”

“But how do you know?” He coloured again—I
never saw any body blush so readily as he could, about
that time. Every emotion of his heart sent the blood
all over his face, as if he had been a bashful young
girl, on horseback, in male attire.—“Not of my own
knowledge, to be sure,” said he—but I have seen
Lucia hold down her face, a hundred times, when her
mother threw in a word or two of some other language—
and though I know nothing of either, yet I am persuaded
that all the mother knows of French or Italian,
has been gathered from the daughters. Beside, how
different their manner and pronunciation—they never
introduce a word of either language, unnecessarily;
and you might live with them for a whole year, without
suspecting that they knew a word of any but their
own, were they not led into it by some stratagem of
their mother, when strangers from the city are there—
or by the accomplished elegance of their father—
the profligate!—or by actual necessity: and their
pronunciation too, is so firm and neat, as if they
were not conscious of speaking in any but their
mother tongue.—Beside, I have not forgotten the look
of approbation that—that—Miss Lucia bestowed on
me once, when I said that he who had any thought,
could always express it; that the use of foreign

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

phrases was a proof of poverty, rather than opulence;
of ignorance rather than superiority:”

“Her mother was not there, I hope,” said I—

“O, no—gracious God! brother, what is that?—is
not that our house?”

I turned in the direction where he pointed—and
beheld a black smoke rising, as from the ruins of
some farm house, given to massacre and pillage by the
damnable Hessians.

“No, brother, that is not our house—but—let us
ride on—who knows what may have happened?”

We started at full speed, and were just on the top of
a second hill, where we could see a clear road before
us—when we heard shot after shot fired, behind us—and
the next moment, a horseman dashed headlong over the
side of a distant hill, pursued at their topmost speed, by
at least a dozen men in the royal uniform.—“Follow
me, brother!” cried Archibald, striking the rowels
into his mare, and galloping directly to the spot—

“Madman!” I shouted—“come back! rein up, rein
up!—where are your arms?”—

He heeded me not, his hat flew off, and it was in
vain for me ever to think of overtaking him. What could
I do?—there were noises and shouting all about me,
it appeared—and I could see, every now and then,
somebody dashing out of the far wood, or down a hill,—
as if the whole country were in alarm—

Yet I prest on, at the top of my speed, to the brow
of the hill—just in season, to see the horseman that was
ahead, wheel short upon his first pursuer—and exchange
a shot with him, when, it appeared to me, that
their pistols almost touched: the latter kept on, sitting
bolt upright—and the former drew out his sword and
came immediately upon St. George, without looking
behind him—and then—finding that he was not pursued-gave
a cut in the rear, and wheeled—and looked at his
enemy—who passed on a hundred yards, at least—after
receiving the shot, and then fell, dead, from the saddle.

Down came his comrades then, with a loud outcry

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

upon the conqueror; but, with a presence of mind that
dismayed me, he wheeled upon them, a full dozen as
they were, and leaped a broad ditch, exchanging cut
after cut, as he passed, and giving point, with a precision
that I never saw equalled at the ring; it was
then that I saw his object---two only of the squadron
could follow him---and there was Archibald, on the
other side, shouting with all his might, as if succour
were at hand---“come on, boys! come on!”---The
troopers reined up, and loaded their pistols---and I,
desperate with apprehension, rode round to join my
brother, designing to pass by the dead man and make
prize of his sword---and his pistols too, if possible,
for about a hundred yards from where he lay, his horse
had tumbled, and was yet struggling in his furniture:
but I had not gone half way to the place---though the
flanks of my poor horse ran down with blood, and I
thought that I never should get to it---when there was
another shout, a clashing of swords, and a rapid discharge
of pistols—and the same moment, Archibald's
mare darted by me—the bridle broken, and stirrups
ringing—O!—I never shall forget that pang—
`poor Archibald!' I cried, and the next moment,
I heard the trampling of hoofs at my side.

It was Arthur!—pale as death—bloody—and covered
with sweat—

`Your father!!' said he—`your father!'—

`What of him!' I cried, blinded and thunderstruck,
with a new fear.—

`Ride, for life and death, ride!'—he answered, in a
voice so changed that I scarcely knew it,—but I could
not obey him.—I could not—I threw myself from the
saddle—plucked the sword from the dead hand of the
horseman—and rode to the spot where I had seen Archibald
last.

He was safe—thank heaven, he was safe—his forehead
was cut a little—and the blood was running down
his naked arms—this is all that I remember—for a bugle
sounded, in our rear—the fellows halted in chase, one
after the other, like a line of videttes—and seeing

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

horsemen mustering in all directions, obeyed the call, and
abandoned the chase.

`There!' said I—throwing a sword to Archibald,
as he stood over the stranger, wrapping up his wounds,
with the shirt that he had torn off from his own body—
`there!—follow, to the farm! follow for life and
death!'

I then set off, with a feeling of horrour and darkness,
that I cannot pretend to describe. I set off for
my father's—I arrived. It was a ruin! I fell from the
saddle. The place that I had left, but the morning
before—the house—the house—it was one pile of ashes
and fire.—Nothing but the chimney, and one of the
roughcast ends were left standing—the very barns
and out houses were a heap of smoking cinders—the
hay and grain, at every blast of wind, sending up a
rush of sparkles, with a sudden blaze, like powder.

I was bewildered for some moments—unable to feel
or to understand the nature of the calamity that had
befallen us—till, on looking about, I saw the skeleton,
of two or three half consumed bodies in the fire. I
know not what gave me the strength for such a desperate
attempt, but I leaped into the burning ashes, up to
my knees, and dragged out—merciful powers!—what I
feared were the last remains of my own father and
mother—but no—that horrour was spared to me—they
were Hessians—they were covered with leather—and I
fell down upon my knees and thanked heaven for it! but
still I persisted in the search, till my boots and clothes
were literally burnt from me, and I was choked and
blinded by the loathsome smoke of the bodies.

CHAP. IV.

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

“Aye! down to the dust with them! slaves as they are!”

My father was alive—thank heaven! my father was
alive!—my poor mother too—O, my children, would
that you could understand me, without the use of language—!

`This comes,' said my father, sternly, to Archibald,
who stood before him, holding Arthur by the hand—
`of your disobedience. Had you returned last night—
as you promised—'

`How many were they?' said Archibald—`twenty
when they broke in'—said my father—baring his
brawny arm to the shoulder—it was gashed to the bone
in a dozen or more places—`twenty!—but they left us
with less than half able to sit their horses—two
more of you—and we would have made mince-meat of
the rascals—d—n them.—'

I looked at him, awestruck at the preternatural expression
of his wrath—and wondered at the melancholy,
dreadful aspect of my mother—

`Mary—Mary—said Archibald—gasping for breath;
did she come—was she there—ah!'

My father put him aside—my mother shook from
head to foot, and Arthur dropped Archibald's hand,
and stood—Oh! how altered, since the las night—
immoveable as a dead man.

Archibald was the first to speak—`she is dead then,
I—I hope,' said he.

`Aye—dead—dead, in her innocence—blessed one!'
said my father, as if his heart were breaking. `Then
thank God! thank God!' said Archibald—while Arthur

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

locked his hands, and lifted them, devoutly, to the skies;
and my mother, as if touched by some horrid thought all
at once—threw herself into my father's arms, and buried
her face in his bosom—he repulsed her, and shuddered—
and then, as if wondering at himself, embraced
her, for a whole minute, in silence—and then led her
away—while she covered her face with her hands—and
moved like a woman, that God hath more than widowed—
her very attitude was that of desperation and
horrour.—

Archibald took out his watch, with a calmness that
awed me—bent the sword upon which he leant, so that
the hilt almost touched the floor---exchanged a look,
the import of which I did not suspect, till his absence
had began to alarm us---with Arthur---and stepped out
of the room.

We were at Mr. Arnauld's---I had forgotten to tell
you how it was brought about---but there it was---and
there was the wounded officer too---the handsomest fellow
that I ever saw in my life---lying in the same
apartment.

`My excellent neighbour,' said Mr. Arnauld, entering,
booted and spurred---followed by his beautiful wife,---
`there is my hand---this outrage is not to be borne---
henceforward, I am an American---heart, blood and
pulse---there is the royal protection! (tearing a paper in
pieces, and throwing it into the fire, indignantly, as
he spoke)---there let it be!---no peace with the tyrants---
no quarter! I have been a friend of the royal cause---
a friend of Sir Henry Clinton---and that paper,
signed by himself, and Sir William Howe---whose gallant
brother died in my arms, when I was a fellow
soldier with him, years and years ago---that paper contained
the royal word, the plighted honour of these
scoundrel commissioners, that, not only my household
should be spared from pillage, but yours---nay, do not
frown, my friend---I knew your sturdy and inflexible
nature too well, to attempt compounding with it---I hope
that you will forgive me---your name does not appear—
but no matter—there lies the protection, it was a trap,

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

a mere trap to lull us into security—the Hessians
cannot read it---and henceforward'—locking his hands,
`I will depend upon no other but that of God, and my
own right arm--I---' (his eye fell upon Arthur, whom he
had not seen before.)

He faltered—and I was not a little startled at the
manner of Arthur, who stood, looking at him awhile,
with his arms folded, lips compressed, and an appalling
fixedness of eye; and then left the room.

Mr. Arnauld, took the hand of his wife—`Louisa,'
said he, `make my peace with that young man'—he
has saved the life of your husband—I will not say how—
but his life, and something, dearer to him than his
life, Arthur Rodman, spared to him—saved to him.'

`How, Robert?' said Mrs. Arnauld.

`I cannot well bear to relate it,' said her husband—
`but you know my temper—I—enough, for the present,
that he saved me from a crime—the young and
innocent, from death—and, when deeply, unalterably
wronged, and I was helpless at his feet, shook me from
him, to the dust.'

His wife, understood him, but too well; and her eyes
ran over, as she turned away her face.

`Arnauld!' said my father, in a terrible voice, `are
you the man?'

`I am'—was the reply, as he stood fearlessly before
him.

`God forgive you!' said my father, `poor Mary!'

`Mary!' said Mrs. Arnauld, glancing at her husband—
`not Mary Austin?—what mean you?'—`Oadley,
' said Arnauld, going up to him, with a look of
deep terrour, `I dread to hear your reply—you are not
a man to be lightly disturbed—what has happened to
the poor innocent?'

There was a silence of half a minute; during which,
we all stood, looking at each other.

`She is dead,' said my father.

`Dead!—God forbid—how!—how in Heaven's
name?—tell me—tell me, Oadley!'

`She had discovered, before you saw her, last night,

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

that you were a married man—she had determined to
meet you once more; upbraid you for your perfidy,
and throw herself at the feet of Arthur Rodman—poor
Arthur. That led to the encounter between you—
that brought her to my house, last night—that—'

Arnauld staggered away from us, as my father continued,
and his wife sunk into a chair, and buried
her face in her hands.

`Last night, Sir—she—she was destroyed.'

`May they be accursed, forever and ever! may the
hottest lightnings of Heaven—the—'

`Rash man!'—cried my father, sternly, `how
dare you kneel down, before your own wife, and call
the lightnings of God upon men---soldiers---untrained
and undisciplined ruffians, who would but have done,
what you meditated---you, Arnauld---a father and a
husband---you! who should have been the first, having
daughters of your own, to spill your blood, for the
protection of sorrow, and innocence, and helplessness---
you!---the destruction of the loveliest creature, that
was ever infatuated with a villain.'

Arnauld, arose; and but for me, would have struck
my father.

`That, in my own house!' cried he, black in the
face with passion, and frothing at the mouth.

`Aye! in your own house, or any where---strike
me if you will!---broken hearted, as I am---my habitation
given to the flames---my wife---(I thought that
he would never finish the sentence)—my own wife,
the mother of my boys---the only companion of my
heart and soul, Arnauld---for I have been faithful to
her, and she to me; and we were hoping to have gone
down to our graves, at last, in our old age, untouched
by shame or dishonour—I—I— Aye! any where—
turn us, if you will, naked and homeless, upon the
cold world—shut your door against us, and see us
perish, as the wild beast should not perish, if her
young were with her—and still. I will repeat to you,
that—let it ring in your ears, at the day of judgment;
that Mary Austin died!—and, blessed be God, that she

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

did die!—more innocent, even in the locked arms of a
storming madman, than—'

`Tell me—tell me!—you know what I would say,
Oadley—tell me but that—that, Oadley, and I will
lay down my life at your bidding—forgive you—and—'

The tears gushed out of his eyes, and he sobbed like
a child, and stood with locked hand, waiting the reply.

`Yes, Arnauld,' said my father, I do understand
you—there is a feeling of humanity about you, yet.
Repent and be forgiven!—repent, and there is my
hand: Forever and ever, will I stand by you, and
your's—Mary Austin, died unprofaned.'

Arnauld fell upon his knees, buried his face in the
lap of his wife; shook all over, as with an ague;
pressed her hands, again and again, to his forehead,
and lips, and eyes, while her tears fell like rain upon
his face, through her dishevelled hair. O, it was a
sight for angels to dwell upon, with beating hearts,
and trembling lips. There was not a dry eye, among
us—the wounded stranger, himself, who seemed hardly
enough alive, to lift his noble face from the pillow,
lay there, with his eyes shut, and the tears trickling,
slowly, through their lashes.

`Let this never be mentioned,' said my father, in a
milder tone, turning to me; with a look of such solemnity,
that I felt it as a dying injunction.

Our attention was called off, by a distant shouting;
and soon after, a troop of horsemen came by the window,
in full gallop. Some of them, I recognized, immediately,
for the men that were to assemble at twelve---
It was near two, I found, and then, for the first
time, the cause of my brother's disappearance flashed
into my mind. My blood curdled—I knew his rash
spirit, and ran out to meet them. All my fears were
realized—he had met them—led them in person, after
the marauders, and, finally succeeded, in capturing a
party of the very rascals, that had burnt down our
house, the night before.

My father knew them immediately, and after
embracing Archibald, who was so weak, from one or

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

two flesh wounds, and his natural delicacy, that he
could hardly sit on his horse, began to move his arms,
as if he were about to take a terrible vengeance upon
some one.

`Are here all?—all?' said he impatiently; the
blood gushing from his nostrils.

`All that we met,' said one of the party, `except
the tallest, and one or two others, that we left upon the
ground.'

`And the scoundrel that Archibald shot, said a
second, because he happened to have a handkerchief
about his neck, that he thought was his mother's.'

`Had he a red collar?' said my father, catching
him by both arms—a red collar?—red?---red as blood?---
hey?'

`Yes, Sir,' was the reply, `Archibald's got the
handkerchief now.'

Archibald pulled it out of his bosom—it was wet
through and through, soaking in crimson—he turned
away, sick as death from it; it dropped from his
fingers—and he shuddered.

`That handkerchief! yes—yes, my brave boy—yes!
that was thy mother's—God bless thee for it!—God forever
bless thee!—thou little knowest what thou hast
done. Was it you—Archibald—was it you! did you
shoot him dead—dead, Archibald?”

My brother shook his head—looked at his red fingers—
and staggered to the wall.

`O thou!' cried my father, locking his old hands,
`thou the avenger of blood!--thou the judge of all the
earth..... blessed be thy name, that the son hath been
permitted to deal out thy retribution upon the man
that—O, my child!—my child! ask of me what
thou wilt!—lo, I am ready to do thy bidding.”

Archibald arose—fell upon his neck—and uttered
some low sounds.

`Yes my boy—my brave boy!—whenever you
please---and I will go with you—lead you, with my own
hands, into the presence of Washington—buckle a sword

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

upon my own thigh, and stand by you, as your soldier
and follower, to the last drop of my blood!'

Archibald could support it no longer---he fainted
away upon the spot.

`But where is Arthur!—look to him, John---the
must not be left alone'---said my father.

`Hearty as a buck,' said one of the horsemen---`dang
it! how he cut and slashed among 'em.'

`Did'nt he strike home?' cried a second catching his
hand.

`Home!' cried a stout yankee, who had just come
among us---`home? yes! that he did! the first blow set
that fellow's skull-cap a spinning, like a pewter plate--
and the next, brought him from his horse.'

`Fleshed to the hilt!' cried another, of a younger,
and better educated class. Would there had been more
of them!'

`But is he safe?' said my father---`Not a hair of his
head is hurt,' said the speaker---`he and Archy were
the first that came up with the chaps, taking their fire,
foolishly enough, as he said, himself, afterward, all
along, from right to left, as they passed:---and they
were clattering away, at a devil of a rate, before we
could get up---your d---d blood horses, farmer Oadley,
are too many guns for us.'

`In attack?' said his companion---chucking him
under the ribs---`well enough in retreat, hey?'

`Bob'---said one of the others---`did you see them
get a single blow at Rodman;'

`No---d-n'd a one dared to strike at him, after they
saw his face!'

`No wonder they were frightened!'—said the other—
`my bits chattered, when he passed us, at the heels of
that devilish mare of Oadley's;—he looked like a dead
man, broke loose in day light---and breaking his neck
to get back again.'

`He was in a fair way to get back again, dead or
alive, when I saw him last,' said the little fellow—`but
let us look him up.'

`Aye, do my brave lads,' said my father, `do, and

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

by tomorrow's sun I will be with you, and we'll raise
a regiment of such fellows, and see if that won't fix
'em.'

The motion of a hand, from the bed where lay the
wounded man, turned our attention.

I went to him,—he was very faint—`let them do
nothing rashly,' said he---`wait a few days—we shall
know by that time whether I am to live or die. If I live,
I'll carry you in myself—in style my lads—in style!—
if not—why—ah, that was an ugly cut, faith—I'll
tell you how to do it, for yourself—Don't go yet—Washington
won't hear a word of you—he is tired and sick
of your volunteering—your rabble gentry—coming and
going when they please—there's the damned Connecticut
light horsemen--they have just gone home, in a
body—the scampering rascals!—because he put them
on duty at night—pretty fellows!—I may thank them,
and their lubberly Colonel—whew!—for this cursed
job—I went to pick up my videttes—and—damn it, one
half of 'em were your sabbath-day troopers from Connecticut—
gentlemen! gentlemen! every one of them.
Got tired, and went home—they be damned!'

I could hardly keep from laughing, at the drollery of
his eyes, and tone—the strange mixture of levity and
seriousness about this stranger—he was certainly the
handsomest man that I ever saw—tall—well made—
square shouldered—full chest—and trod, after he was
well enough to walk, with such an air of authority,
that I felt like a boy in his presence.

But while I was listening to him—my father gave me
a sign, and left the room. I followed him, and he led
the way to a vacant lot, in the rear of the house. His
manner was solemn, beyond all that I had ever seen.

`Hearken to me!' said he,--`do not interrupt me,
my son. I have determined to go into the army. This
night's work was a judgment upon me. I shall return
no more to my home—it is dishonoured. I shall build
no other—none!—I could not well bear to sit round
the hearth of another. I shall leave your mother here—
she is prepared for it all. Go in, and comfort her—

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

the poor widowed creature—the broken hearted,
desolate woman! Before I sleep, I shall buckle a
sword upon my thigh—one that has been fleshed already,
to the hilt—to the hilt, Jonathan—And never will I
let go of it, till my heart is shattered—my Country
free—my wife avenged. That done, it matters little
what may become of me--I can come to her then—the
aged mourner--and lay my gray head down in her lap—
and die.'

`Father!' said I, catching at his hand, `speak to me—
what has happened?'

`Silence,' said he, `silence!—forget it—harmless
yourself, for the sacrifice. Ask no questions. Go and
comfort your mother.'

`But, Mary—may I ask what became of her?'

`She is dead,' he replied.

`I know that, father—but how?'

`How!—would you—unnatural boy—would you—
(he appeared to be choking)—I—I—'

`But what time did they come, father; and how
came Arthur there?'

`Sit down, and listen to me.' There was a large
tree, uptorn, near us, and I obeyed—the roots were
before us, shooting about, and loaded with such a
quantity of soil, that nothing less than an earthquake,
one would have thought, had been able to disturb it.
I observed, that my father's eyes were fixed upon it,
and as he sat down, his lips moved.

`Even so!' said he, inwardly—`even so—even so!—
uptorn and prostrate in its old age!—it's head
in the dust... struck with barrenness... even so!—
the whirlwind, and the fire—they will have way;
and the sword too!—that shall have way!—the
widowed one, and the orphan—the broken hearted,
and the dying—the avenger of blood, hath his hand
upon the hilt—wo to them!—wo to them!—the grey
hair of the dishonoured matron—the tears of the
mother—the wailing, and shriek of the virgin—they
are in the wind—in the wind!—O, Lord God of Israel!—
the prayer of an afflicted people—Lo! the old

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

men are taking the field, and the aged, and abused
women are buckling their harness, with lamentation
and shame, upon their old fathers, and husbands!'

His voice died away, thrilling my blood like an imprecation.
I could see it working along in the wind,
like a cloud of pestilence. I was awestruck—the tremendous
repose of his countenance—the slow heaving
of his broad chest—and the idea of a man, already approaching
the age of sixty, about to abandon every thing
on earth, even to his wife,—and go out against the enemies
of America—all united to solemnize and confound
my feelings.—

A silence of some minutes followed, after which, he
proceeded to relate what had happened, charging me at
the same time, with a look that I shall never forget, not
to speak of the subject to my mother, nor to any body
else, not even to Arthur.

`About ten last night, or perhaps eleven, for we had
not been in bed long, I heared Arthur's voice at the door
and arose to let him in—there was a large fire burning
in the room, and I observed that he was so agitated,
that he could hardly speak. As he passed me, he put
something behind the door,—I went to see what it was,
while he continued walking, to and fro, in the room,
like a distracted man—`it was a sword.'

`Ah,' said I, recollecting his errand—`how did you
succeed? How many recruits?'

He did not appear to understand me. I repeated the
question, but he seemed to have forgotten all that had
passed.

`Who came home with you?' said I. He stopped
short—passed his hand over his forehead—`I do not
know, uncle,' said he, `upon my word, what you have
been saying—pray repeat it.'

`I heard your voice, long before you knocked,' said
I—`in earnest conversation with somebody.'

He coloured.—

`At first, I thought that people were whispering near
me—there were two voices, certainly—and then your
aunt, who had been listening too, observed that it was

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

the voice of people at a distance—coming up the wood,
`Soon after this you knocked. You look disturbed.'

`I am,' said he. `There is danger abroad. I came
to apprise you of it. I saw two or three horsemen in
the wood, about an hour since, with one stationed at a
distance, as if waiting for a reinforcement.'—

`Some foraging party, I suppose'—

`No, I should think not—they are not well enough
covered for that--Ha!'

We saw a bright flame arise then, all of a sudden,
in the direction of Mr. Ulster's—and the sparks rushed
up, into the very sky it seemed, like a whirlwind of
fire.

`Let us bar the windows, and door,' said Arthur—
`and be prepared for the worst,—it is the Hessians.'

`Yes,' I replied,--`and the boys, will be at hand soon—
I expect them every moment.'

He shook his head--`we cannot depend upon them,'
said he. `They have business elsewhere.'

We went about securing, as well as we could, the
windows and doors--and preparing our two men servants--placing
the women in the cellar—my wife,
Mary, and the three girls--and then sat down, to
await the result.

`What is the matter with Mary!' said I, `I thought
her a girl of more heart. How pale she is! she is
safer here than at home--and yet, I should be sorry to
have any ill befall her, under my roof. How is this,
Rodman?--you are strangely affected,' said I, seeing
him turn away his face--`look at me. What has happened
to you?'

`By heaven,' he answered, `I can bear it no longer—
dear, dear Mary!—uncle, you know, how long I
have loved her—how truly—and, how her affectionate
heart used to doat upon me—and—'

`Used to, Arthur—there is no change, I hope.'

`No change!' said he, `when Mary Austin goes
out of her bed, at night, to meet a man, in a lone wood—
away from mortal help—a married man!'—

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

I caught him by the arm—`Arthur Rodman—are
you mad?' said I,—`who has put this notion into your
head? It is a wretched, pitiful falsehood.'

`I saw it, uncle—I saw it—thank God, in time—I
heard her voice—I knew it—for I was riding ten miles
out of my way, just to hear Mary Austin's voice, once
more, before I went into battle; though, it were only
to say, as she used to, `heaven bless you, Arthur!—
good night, Arthur!' I was in high spirits—my blood,
bounded through my arteries—I had just left a troop of
young fellows; stout of heart, and true of hand; and
was happy—O, how happy! I heard a shriek—loud—
piercingly loud—it was a shriek, that could not be
mistaken. I happened to be armed, and I galloped in
a direct line, through the wood—by heaven, I thought
that I never should get to it, in this world; but, at
last, I did. There she was, yet struggling with the
villain, and, nearly overcome. I struck him to the
earth, and she fainted; but just as I was about driving
my sword through his accursed body—she—O that
women will forgive such things—things that shame men
to think of—she threw herself before me, clasped my
knees, and stayed the uplifted weapon.'

`I knew not what lulled me—whether it was the
broad moonlight; her utter helplessness; her abashed
eyes; and pale, speechless lips, or what; but, the
sword dropped from my hand, and the villain walked
off.'

`She still clung to me, not, I am sure, in tenderness
to me, but lest I should pursue him.'

`Who was he?' said I, to Arthur.

`I shall never utter his name, uncle,' said he; `I
have promised that, and, the secret shall die with me.'

`But, how came you here?' said I, to Mary.

She hid her face, and burst into tears. `Because,'
said she, at length—`but O, let us leave this place—
Arthur---let us go away—home, home—if you will not
abandon me!' I was unable to reply—and she told
me, what must have been true, that she had met him,
with the most innocent intention—that she had no

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

idea of the distance, to which he had beguiled her, or
the lateness of the hour—that she had consented to this,
as a farewell meeting—that she loved him—but, that
she had found he was a married man; and, she could
not bear to break his heart, as he had told her a thousand
times, it would, if she left him, till she had reasoned
awhile, with him. In short, uncle—the poor
creature, in the simplicity, and purity, and nakedness
of her own heart, had thrown herself, entirely into his
power; and, nothing saved her, but my happening to
hear that she would visit you to day; and, by coming
at the hour that I did---for—'

`Here there was a sound, as if a body of horsemen
were silently, surrounding the house,' said my father—
`a few minutes after, there was a loud knocking. I
looked out, and was accosted in a language, that I
could not understand—they were Hessians, I supposed;
and my blood ran cold, for they appeared to be numerous;
and their merciless nature was well known
to us—they were of the beleaguering rabble, that
formed the outposts, of the enemy, in their stupid ignorance
of our nature—taught to believe, that we are
savages; and, that if they were taken alive, they would
be roasted, and eaten.'

I could discover, from their gestures, that they
were determined to force an entrance—and, one of
them, a large, handsome man, levelled his pistol, two
or three times, at my head—and at last, irritated by
the delay, fired; but, the ball went wide of its mark.
The next moment, he fell—Arthur had put a bullet
through him. This was the signal for a general
assault. Some dismounted—some ran to the barn; the
leader, forbidding them to set fire to it, yet, lest the
neighbourhood should be alarmed—or, such, at least,
I took to be the meaning; for, one or two, who had
lighted matches in their hands, trampled them out.
They began to fire into the windows, with their pistols,
but with so little effect, man after man, falling
from their saddles, that they all dismounted, at last,
and made an attempt upon the door. Every moment,

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

I expected it to give way—the house rocked to its
foundation; but, we were ready to receive them, with
one heavy blunderbuss, three muskets, full of balls,
and half a dozen cutlasses---when Mary rushed in,
her hair all in disorder, shrieking, that she had seen
a face, at the back window; and, that they were
forcing their way, through the wood cellar, into the
part, where the women were.

`Go back this moment,' said I, `to the cellar—if
they break in, utter no cry, and make no noise.' I had
previously ordered all the fire to be extinguished.

`Farewell Arthur—dear Arthur,' cried the distracted
girl—throwing her arms round his neck.—

`O leave me, leave me, Mary,' he cried, `not till
you forgive me—never, never!”—

`The noise at the door redoubled—I was indignant
at the folly of the girl. Begone!' said I.—

Her head dropped upon his shoulder—pale as death;
but I saw him press his lips to her forehead, and heard
him whisper something—at which she recovered—carried
his hand to her lips—and left the room, with a firm,
noble step, saying, `do your duty uncle—do your duty
Arthur—we will do ours.'

The words had scarcely passed her lips when I heard
a tremendous crash, the door gave way, and Arthur
cried—dash out the lights!—

The order was instantly obeyed, and, for five minutes,
there was an awful and bloody struggle among us. To
this I attribute our safety—for they were afraid to deal
a blow at last, and were receiving ours, continually—
many of them died by the hands of each other, and by
the light of every pistol flash, a man was seen to fall
before Arthur or myself. I had no notion that a sword
was a weapon of such power, in the hand of an inexperienced
farmer—but I can assure you, my son, that
every man, struck by me, was disabled.

In the middle of this combat, we heard a stifled
shriek—and immediately after, we found the floor giving
way under our feet—it fell—the smoke and flames
roared like a furnace through the roof:—the shrieks

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

continued—the cries of the women were heard on every
side—a guard stood over us—but we cut our way
through—and the first object that caught my view was
the dead body of a man, cut from the head down, just
falling with a woman in his arms—It was Mary!—her
heart had broke—she was nearly suffocated in the
smoke, but, obedient to her resolve, had determined to
perish there, rather than bring her destroyer upon her,
or alarm us.—But they had found her, and one was
bearing her off when the sword of Arthur cleft his head
open.

There were other cries—`show no mercy,' said I—
none!—hew them in pieces, men and women too!—and
he followed me—every thing gave way before us—one
of the women was suffocated, we have reason to believe,
with poor Mary—one we saved—together with---O!
there was one ruffian, with a red collar, whom I had
pursued for ten minutes over burning rafters, through a
whirl wind of fire, and clouds of smoke and darkness---
but could never reach him---but---a bullet did---Archibald
dealt a blow for his mother,—I—I—your
mother had fled---and I found her utterly powerless and
insensible—I—'

`I can tell you no more---something alarmed the sentinel---for
after firing his pistol, which was unheeded by
the troop, he rode in with a loud outcry, and the whole
band were in their saddles directly.—Let us return.'

He arose abruptly as he ended this, and walked before
me, into the house---talking all the way to himself,
as if unconscious of my presence.

CHAPTER V.

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

“And always careless, always—even in fight.”

Two whole weeks had passed away, and, such had
been the effect, of their zealous co-operation, that our
aged patriots had mustered one hundred and twenty-three
well mounted horsemen, and nearly two hundred
infantry, who, by the way, were wretchedly equipped.
The whole country had taken the alarm—the tremendous,
and unsparing violence of the Germans,
who, most inconsiderately, in the royal commander,
had been put forward in his extreme advance, forming
a chain of posts, utterly unable to communicate with,
or understand, or, to soothe the inhabitants; and,
too weak, by far—fully beset with the notion, that we
were a people of rebel savages, and, accustomed to
put our prisoners to death, if not of cannibals; the
falsehood of which belief, they only learnt, by being
taken prisoners; after it had quickened their natnatural
ferocity, and made them the scourge of all the
country round—the futility of the royal protections,
which were often thrust through with a bayonet, or
scattered to the winds by these foraging banditti, under
pretence, that they were unable to read them; or of
utter disbelief, in their authority—these things, with
the indiscriminate pillage, and butchery of friend and
foe—and worst of all, the uninterrupted, and brutal
profanation of our mothers, wives, and daughters,
before our faces—by the living God, it is true!—a
committee were employed in our little neighbourhood,
to report upon the subject to congress, and the result
was solemnly announced, that twenty-three women
there, had been violated—twenty-three!—where the

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

desire of concealment, in woman, herself, is hardly
greater than it is in her brothers, fathers, sons—
what a multitude must have been sacrificed, for so
many to have been discovered, by accident!---for, by
nothing but accident, could it have been discovered---
a secret, so terrible---a violence, so horrible to her
nature. Men of America!---will ye ever forget it?---
if ye do, may your beautiful daughters and wives—
no---that were too awful a malediction-- may ye and
they, perish, strangled in each other's arms, suffocated
in each other's blood!---these things, at last, drove
us mad. We arose, as one people---a nation, about
to offer up its enemies in sacrifice; and, had our
disposition been rightly understood, the deep feeling
of religion, which began to work, like leaven, within
us, been rightly distributed, before the commencement
of the spring campaign, there would not have been a
man left alive, of our whole enemy---from Georgia to
Maine---nor a hostile foot, able to leave its mark upon
our land.

We found our guest one of the strangest creatures
in the world, altogether agreeable, and full of careless,
self possession; and, though he chose to call himself
Clinton, we had good reason to believe that his name
was not Clinton; and, that he was an aid of the
commander in chief; for, at the end of about two
weeks, after several attempts to write, which, were
successively made and abandoned, he called Archibald,
who had become a great favourite with him, to his
side, where he sat, lolling, with his sleeve ripped up,
and looped all the way, to his shoulder, and his right
arm in a sling; and, the following conversation ensued,
between them. I have, already, spoken of his beauty---
it was generally of a frank, careless, aspect; but,
at times, for a single moment, there was a lordly
shadow upon his brow, and his dark eyes loured imperiously,
like one accustomed to have his way, in
spite of all the world, and impatient of contradiction,
let it come from whence it would.

He had been talking about the affair of the lakes;

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

the gallantry, of Arnold (the traitor); the repeated
attempts upon the shipping, up the North river; the
ill advised defence of Fort Washington, the loss of
which, he attributed to the advice of General Greene;
though, he admitted that Greene manœuvred in a
masterly manner, to save the military stores at Fort
Lee—and finally, of the battle upon Long Island—
and, Mr. Arnauld, of whom it is time that I should
give you some clearer notion, than you have, sat
listening to him, with ardent admiration and pleasure.
Mr. Arnauld, was a small man, with a remarkably
spirited face; handsome eyes, full of a melting softness;
a rich, deep voice, and lips of a blood red—the most
perfect gentleman, that I ever saw—doing, whatever
he did, with that consummate self-possession, as if,
no matter how sudden the emergency, or unpremeditated
the thought, as if that alone had been the subject
of all his preparation. At first, such was his readiness,
that you could hardly persuade yourself out of a
notion, that he had forseen, or contrived the event,
or the remark, that brought out the peculiarity, of
which I speak; but, in a little time, that suspicion
would gave way, to the delightful certainty, that,
happen what would, there was never such a thing in
Arnauld's mind, as unpreparedness. His appearance,
was not striking, nor his countenance handsome, till
he became animated; but then, if the women were to
be believed, he was the most dangerous man living.
For my own part, I must confess, that, old as he was,
when I knew him—and, then he was nearly old
enough to have been my father, his manners were the
most fascinating; the play of his countenance, the
most eloquent; the carriage of his person, the most
dignified and intellectual, if I can make myself intelligible,
by such a word—(what I mean by it is, that
there was more of the soul, in it)—than that of any
other man, that I ever saw. He was not a learned
man, I think, yet there was no theme, upon which, his
passionate, and beautiful mind did not dilate with a
force and brilliancy, at times, which took away my

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

breath. He, it was, that gave me a taste for elevated,
and fiery meditation. He was a profligate—a voluptuary---a
sensualist, perhaps; for he fed his mind
upon loveliness, and banquetted, all the day long, upon
colour, and sound, and perfume, with celestial creatures.
His very children, were a sort of spiritualities;
and, though I loathed, and abhorred, the earthiness
of his passion for women, yet he had the art of so
sublimating, and colouring, whatever he chose to touch
with his enchantment, that it was perilous as death,
to listen to him, when set upon conquering your reason.
I believe, that he had a good heart, and a brave
one---that he loved his wife, to adoration, and would
have torn away, his own heartstrings---split his own
arteries, to make his children happier, for a single
day, in any material thing. But let me return to
Major Clinton, or Colonel, as we ought to call him.

`Hither, Dapper,' said he, to Archibald, carelessly,
`I want your assistance.'

Archibald, lifted his eyes, slowly, to his face---
as if, I believed at first, that they meant to smile at
the man's impudence; but, then a deeper hue came
to them, as if it were well to put a stop to it, before
it should be too late.

He lifted his eyes, slowly, and fixed them upon
Clinton's face, with a serious impression; not so much
of displeasure, as of enquiry; and then, as slowly,
dropped them again.

`Dapper, I say!' said his persecutor, again, throwing
a wicked glance at the girls, who sat nearly
`come, come, I want to borrow your fingers.'

`Colonel Clinton,' said Archibald, calmly, raising
his eyes to the Colonel's face, `my name is Archibald
Oadley.'

Clinton laughed, and flinging his handsome leg out,
as if a sudden pain, had just taken his breath away---
`will---you---then---Ar-chi-bald opposite---
the measured enunciation of my brother, so happily,
that he smiled, in spite of himself, and Lucia
coloured to the eyes, and gave a peevish sleat of the

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hand, as she threw by her work, that I saw did not
escape the notice of Clinton, (for he glanced, rapidly,
to and fro, three or four times, from one to the other,
before he finished the sentence, like one reconnoitering)—
`will—you—then—do—me—the—favour—to—write—
pray, do you always talk with that solemn emphasis?—
but, no matter, now—will you write a line for
me?'

`With all my heart,' said Archibald, seating himself,
immediately, at the table; while Lucia hurried,
with a petulant activity, to get the writing materials
before him; occasionally glancing at the noble countenance
of Clinton, and then, at the richly, delicate,
but singularly intelligent one, of Archibald—in pity,
I thought—and perhaps, for I did not like the compassionate
trembling of her lips—nor the colour,
that came, and went, so rapidly, about her temples—
it was too like the expression of disappointment, and
even shame.

`All ready?' said Clinton.

Archibald, bowed—dropped his pen again, into the
ink.

`Well, then—Dear General—have you got that?'
Archibald, nodded. A profound silence, followed.

`Damn it,' said Clinton, after wriggling backward
and forward, in his seat, for a whole minute—
`it is like drawing your teeth,'

`Not mine, if you please,' said Archibald, lifting
his pleasant eyes, again to his face.

`Well mine, then. I'll tell you what it is—you'd
better write it yourself—come, will you?—there's a
good fellow!—no matter, what you say, so that he
can't read it.'

Archibald shook his head; and, Clinton continued—
`for he was never able to read one of my letters,
yet---stop---there's the date---put that down---whew!'
there was another dead halt, of a minute or two, while
every compassionate soul, in the room, was afraid to
look up, lest it should add to his confusion---poor
creature! he never suspected it!---`I'll tell you what,

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Dapper---I beg your pardon, Ar-chi-bald Oad-ley---
I'd rather winter a whole campaign, upon White Plains,
than write a letter, any day---the first sentence, is so
unspeakably difficult. That is the tenth time, that I
have undertaken, to communicate the fact, that I am
alive, hearty, and ready to return to duty, as soon as
he pleases; but, hang me, if---stay---stay---make a
full stop.'

`O, that I did, half an hour ago,' said Archibald.
`Well, then---now sign my name to it---George R.
Clinton, A. D. C.---is it done?'

`Yes,' said my brother, without changing countenance,
but to whom shall I direct it?'

`To His Excellency, George Washington.' The
pen fell from my brother's hand, and we all looked up
in amazement.

`Why, what ails the boy?' said Clinton, `don't
you mean to finish the letter?'

Archibald took up the pen, again, with a trembling
hand, and wrote the direction, biting his lip, as he
did so---there was a strange variety of emotion in his
face.

`Is it done?'

`Yes sir,' said Archibald, reaching it to him.—

`Please to read it for me.'—

Archibald read as follows:—

`— New Jersey, 14th November, 1776..... Dear
general..... George R. Clinton.... A. D. C....
To his Excellency, George Washington.'—

Clinton stared him in the face, for half a minute, and
then threw himself back into the chair, and laughed till
the house shook again—and before he had ended, we
were all laughing with him; all, I should say, except
my father and mother, who sat a little apart from the
rest, holding each others hands, and looking as if
neither would ever smile again—and Arthur, poor fellow,
he had left us, to go alone, where he would be welcome—
among the armed children of America.

`Well, well!'—continued Clinton, after this obstreperous
peal had ended—`after all, I don't see but that

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will be a most acceptable letter—it will show that I am
alive—in my senses—and he will know, at the first
glance, that it is no counterfeit—that I must have dictated
it—I say, I hope you have written with the wrong
end of the quill—if you have, it may go down for something
under my own hand—stop before you seal it—
take up your pen again, dot it a little, here and there—
and now just draw two or three crooked lines athwart
the paper, and I will defy the devil himself to detect
the counterfeit.—There—now seal it.'—

Archibald followed his directions—folded, sealed and
directed it.

`You will be good enough, Mr. Arnauld, to have
that conveyed, as soon as practicable to the out post at
the Four Corners.'—

`Is it possible!' cried Archibald, seeing that the
thoughtless creature was in downright earnest—`would
you really presume to send such a letter as that to
George Washington?'—

`Presume! why not?'

`But such a barren affair—it will be an insult.'—

`Pho—pho—it is the longest letter that he ever read
from me in his life. Sometimes, when I have been in
some hot scrape or other, for he is sure to send me,
where more speed and horsemanship than brains are
wanted, I have just scrawled the initials of my name
and sent them—stop! that letter must not go in that
fashion—just put down the initials—I am incog for a
while, and he won't know me by the name of Clinton.'

`Will you allow me,' said Mr. Arnauld, `to write
a note for you?'—

`O certainly,' was the reply, `but I see no necessity
for another.... Mr. Oadley can just draw his pen over
the name, and write G. R. C. under them—he will understand
by that same letter three things, which are all
that I could tell him, if you should write a whole day—
for I told him, when he took me into his family, that—
curse me, if I could either write letters, or copy them—
but that I could carry them, through fire and smoke—
into Sir Henry Clinton's quarters, if he pleased.'—

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