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SURRY OF-EXGLE’S-NEST; oR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STAFF-OFFICER SERVING IN VIRGINIA. EDITED, FROM THE MSS. OF COLONEL SURRY, By JOHN ESTEN COOKE, AUTHOR OF THE “VIRGINIA COMEDIANS.” WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY WINSLOW HOMER. FIFTH EDITION. NEW YORK: F J. HUNTINGTON & CO., 459, BROOME STREET. 1866. ® = wad : Ards Gd Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, By BUNCE & HUNTINGTON, In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for tne Southern District of New York. CONTENTS. ETH. BORE ci css catadseneee Maeaies we seiecasicaweeeededeomencinca, oO Il. IN wich THe Wrirer omrrs A NuMBER oF Tuines.....,.. 12 Ill. Hor Buoop ...... eveidiesemsareces 18 TY A: (PATE OF. BYES ois sosesieaiasdadeeesiocian seceemepectswees aa. 16 VY. Wat I saw on THE BROOK ROAD.......c. cc ceceeeceeeneeese 18 VI. Toe VENDHITA.... «» 20 VIL. My COMMISSION... (oc. cee cece cee e ence een cece ceeetseeeeercess 26 VIII. Toe Lonzry House............0005 aise sisihis-Sralaiers acute we! 28 IX. Toe Woman ww Wuire...,. 380 X. Toe Mysrerres oF THE WILDERNESS.......00c00c00 wee ee oe 83 KI. THE PACKAGE......c0ccccecceec ceuseees iAwadiscpves ests te ese BT XII. How I encounTERED a TRAVELLER, AND OF WHAT WE CON- VERSED 65, n'bin.nis'le Simin inate 81 le Rim ere lose wae aaees SeiasAeseRe se. «88 XIIL Toe Owner oF THE HANDKERCHIEF.........ccccceseeeceeseee 42 XIV. A FottowEk oF CALHOUN..........006 - 45 XV. PYGMALION........- a ala 1 ais aidrwe Sts ails wiauNe suatsty gies sisieaibio ais siaials as. 4T KVI. THE GUEST WHO DID NOT COME........ccccceecereeeceereens 52 XVII. Tue “Lasr RMB TOGETHER,”.......-..ceg cece eee eene es sevens 8S XVIII. THE ALGERINE...... 2.20... cceeece cee ee tee teeeees paataatsisiae aaa, 160 KIX. THE STATUE SPEAKS... 20... cece ec cece tee c nce u tec wena reen ces 68 XX. Tae Rourvep Cnvurcnh AND THE STRANGER...........ceeee eens 74 XXI. On Revirw........ dis faiciasesaistats discal tolsiardisinte Riviaoammlaclninatinemaiter 9 XXVL My Finsr Sigur OF THE BLUE-COATS ....ccceececeeeseeeeceee 95 vi CONTENTS. XXVII. Toe EnonantMents oF BoGy.,....---+se0++ sisi ub dame ae DRRIES XXVIIL Tue Counor or WaR........++-+ Se eseeee ea d eciyaingenneeee 106 XXIX. Tue Cavaury PIOKET.......-.-. cece eee eee ree serene tee XXX. Tue Sronz House at Manassas.. XXXI. Wuat TooK PLace aT THE Stone Hovse. XXXII. BHEAUREGARD.......0.0ccceeee eee e eee XXXII. Tue LInes......---..---- XXXIV. Toe Henome or Manassas........0---2 000+ oe XXXV. I RETURN THE PAOKAGE. .s..6..0.05 XXXVI. A Rive IN THE Dog-pays.. KXXVIIL. Two BRoruErs..... .-ssseeceeeeereee ie ginvelaaieisni atecaicaie eae Nace oe . XXXII. ELM CorracEe AND ITS INMATES ease aravaAstatora Bilan ee xL. A CHAPTER ENTIRELY WiTHouT INOIDENT......... “XLL Tae DispatcH FROM RICHMOND.......-..-+.- pikweutseatacse, 148 XLIL Asnpy..........-- eit dior SCOR GREE TSE ie seme 9:8 aaidiee eee ities” LOD XLII. “I wit, NEVER LEAVE WINCHESTER WITHOUT A FicuT!— : NEVER, NEVER!” ..........68 pennies sae saineisiy rea scsanaaeens 150 XLIV. A Feat or HorseMANsuIP........ maeeae Re teas edayeresaneesene 262 ‘XLV. Tue “Foor CAVALRY” ...... oteniets ccavesncensccrsctecutuses 165 XLVI. Toe Varvuse or Ten MINuTES. . 167 XLVIL Tux Orricer wHom ASHBY HAD WOUNDED........ nkidibe since LEO XLVIIL Toe Dearu-Trencuzs....... a ais iaig peat eiaetaters srarbvbials cigeciorate aeoeee 176 XLIX. THe SECOND RETREAT... ...cccececeeeceeees 179 L. Tue CHask AFTER MILROY.........eeeeeee ae 181 LI. Tue ADVANOE,..........02. aincralvie viele cists bios beaeamie ies Vanaecieden. “LBL LIL A Nriagur ADVENTURE..........c0ee0eeee Sig sicw ae Seaweeeresee LST LIIL Jackson returnine To “nis Property”... LIV. A Lrrrte Ipza or Caprarn Boey's............5 LY. Tae Trar...... sakes Re RraGeeTeRRUarteasrs Fis LVI. Fauuine Baox LVIL Asusy's Wuire Horsk.......... sie pee eansIIE sige’ «+. 208 LVIIL I am Carrunep.......... eee eeee cece eee ee eee Maite ie a Lieciviccads + 206 LIX. I make toe Acquaintance or Siz Percy WrnpnaM. 209 LX. How Asusy was nor “accep” By SiR Pexoy. 212 LXI. Asupy amone m18 MEN... 214 LXIL “ Vinarnrans, Cares !” 218 LX. Cur OFF 223 Dota meee rc ee eens eee eneneee eee 226 LAY. Exeunt OMNES.............0 0008 sive 3 eis} wisi auesiareia Ssrsineie'sie.0's's 228 LXVI. ly waren THE Wrirer of THEss MEMOIRS is TAKEN TO TasK 288 LXVII. Lez strikes ....... waite ia Wperisaisie Meee uieRe mamas somes 234 LXVIU. Past raz RAvman.............005 nctslslaels canneries 242 LXIX, An ApvENTURE oF Stuart’s........... Sige wa ESO aSE Rs SSR -. 8 ERR. THR PORSOIT so sic5 tesidiceus sek eeteree cB Ge es we aeaeainls Sia leiets sear: BAD LXXI. Tux House in rae WILDERNESS AND ITS OCOUPANTS......... 253 LXAXEL Arcapes AMBO ............ ditshiels Nabi pateiaieche etd Relahalen esata veceves 204 LXXIIEL Morpaunt’s Srcret...... sepesiog eigieceiaye:eiatavaisre wsisleidee oats as bee +s. 260 LXXIV. Tut SNAKE scorcHED........ Aaee sae 266 LXXYV. Tue Nigur ATTACK..... ...... aes 269 ERA. BN OLR ACQUAIATIRED.. cseccnnseieares scenes veenceneass 272 LXXVIL Waar I rouxn in ret SAdDtz Pockets oF MY CAPTUKED LXXVHEI. A Gumese or GEeneran EARLY... 0.6... ccc. cece cessencecoeees LXXIX. StTuanr TAKES HIS REVENGH.........:sseseeeee scene aironanees - 280 LXXEX. FLawewne Pork. ..... ..ccecc cece eeee ee secwideasiiedd a LXXXI. I omase anv comm uP wira 4 Feperan Orricer.... LXXXHE. Vroter Grarron’s S2crer. LXXXHI. I am Tax0wn intro Conrusion py Miss HENRIETTA.......... 293 EXXXIEV. SuRROUNDED..........--0066 ateeties Seated dasiwateoswis sites - 297 LXXXV. Tus Srnetz Comnat LXXXVE In waicn rae Wrrirer omits a Description or THE SECOND Barrie OF MANASSAS......... 00. cece cece eee ee ee ceeeceanes 3806 LXXXVIL Tre Youne Sienan OFFICER.........c cece cee eee . 809 EXXXVIIb One or Sruanr’s “Trot PLACES” .............2 ee eee sees 812 LXXXIX. In wurch tnt Writer GEIS OVER A GREAT DEAL OF Grounp 316 XC. Hampron cHARGES AND I “GO UNDER”.............- stecenee 318 XCI. I exonance Views wita GunekaL McC.ieLuan........ seeee- 828 KCI. WHAT FOLLOWED.............000005 sare aroiciamnssieas yee wale aed van OSE XCHE Wuert anv wita wHom I surrep on THE NIGHT OF THE Battle or SHARPSBURG... - 830 XOILV. Fartine BACK WITH STUART..............0005 edie eiewas: secceee 887 XCV. Wuion contams a VvaLuasie Mogat Reriection........... 341 KCVE A Dream oF AUTUMN............ sie eetei ile avin Sh eeciate srecoreee 343 XCVII. Toe Awaxktno of -. 845 XCVIII. How Petuam Froveut wis Horse ARTILLERY...........2006 + 847 XCIX. I petrven ur Harry Sarroun’s Warton, AND MAKE A Dis- COVERY... cesses sestesereeneers Miers is S02 viii CONTENTS. CIl. From tue Hits or THE MASSAPONNAX......- CILL “Ir 13 WELL THIS 18 80 TERRIBLE—WE WOULD GROW TOO FOND @F 20U issesseieie Me. satire getwadsesauaeawuneesenes Oo 868 CIV. PELHAM AND JEAN....... cfdaaid-ors aw alana ewes Rass CV. Recottections oF “CAMP No-CAMP”,....cssccccseceesoesernes 878 CVL I Go wirn STUART TO CULPEPPER......+sssesceccecenercoeere® 881 CVIL Tue Last CHanGe OF PELHAM......cccnecseeceeeesereeereeeee 884 CVIII. Tue Srrinc FLOWERS.......+6+ 888 CIX. Tue ADVERSARIES.........+-000+ sh geuced ssseeetestoneeandemees: COL CX. Tur NIGHT-MAWKS FLOWN.....-200+++ senvdesierneiesdeetessten S22 CXI. Hours at “Camp Peimam.”.. CXII. THe SUMMONB.......-sscccecssroenee CXIII. Toe Deriancn.......-.. dia Sie sie seine cae Ra's wie oie sieie nip gieais dieie aieieis eins CXIV. Morpaunt’s MorIveE......- dia sabivonatwentenaesamesssuses Seance 20D: CXV. SHowING THAT, THOUGH YOU KNOW WHEN YOU SET OUT, YOU DON'T KNOW WHEN YOU WILL ARRIVE......+.cceeeseceeeee 410 CXVI. Toe Wors or BaskERVILLE.........- iiitiiemeeantecet Bt A1T OXVIIL Wich SOLVES THE WHOLE MYSTERY........ccceceeeceereneres 428 CXVIL I make THE AcQuaInTANCE oF A Famous CnARACTER. CXIX. In wnorcn May BEverLey PASSES AWAY FROM THIS History.. 427 COXX. DIABOLIOM ..... 20s ccce scence eeneecescreenccnen pie anedwenwete wees 428 CXXI. Wnerr Morpaunr HAD BEEN, AND THE RESULT OF HI8 JOUR- CXXII. Boovs AND SADDLES......ccerseepeceenetecenceeecreceresccaces 440 CXXIII. In wnicu Bocy, Moonsunvx, AND SNAKEBUG ALL “GO UNDER” 443 CXXIV. Tue Last or Far.ey...... Betvicieieines ‘i 447 CXXV. THE ABDUCTION...........-6 sinaieneaiste site’ v sie Sisteagec ieee ne 449) CXXVI. Hooker In 118 MEN........0.0005 Hideidgalecieseemsismaawineiedwene: M408 CXXX. Love ann DEATH........ eivieaue sie : CXXXI. Tue Last Greeting BETWEEN STUART AND JAoKSON......... 470 OXKXITL. IN A DEEAM...ccccccsccnccccccccsessresateccsccsssceessereses 4TQ SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. be THE SURRYS. Havine returned to “Eagle’s-Nest,” and hung up a dingy gray uniform and battered old sabre for the inspection of my descendants, I propose to employ some leisure hours in record- ing my recollections, and describing, while they are fresh in my memory, a few incidents of the late Revolution. This will not be a task, my dear, unknown reader—rather an amusement; for nothing delights more your old soldier returned from the wars than to fight his battles o’er again, boast of his exploits, and tell the children and grandchildren, clustering in fancy around his knees, what wonders he has seen, and how many heroic deeds he has performed. I think those dear, coming grandchildren will take an interest in my adventures. They will belong to the fresh, new genera- tion, and all the jealousies, hatreds, and corroding passions of the present epoch will have disappeared by that time. Simple curiosity will replace the old hatred; the bitter antagonism of the partisan will yield to the philosophic interest of the student, and the events and personages of this agitated period will be calmly discussed by the winter fireside. How Lee looked, and Stuart spoke—how Jackson lived that wondrous life of his, and Ashby charged upon his milk-white steed—of this the coming generations will talk, and I think they will take more interest in such things than in the most brilliant arguments about secession. Therefore, good reader, whom I will never see in the flesh, I am going to make some pictures, if I can, of what I have seen. 1* 10 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. Come! perhaps as you follow me you will live in the stormy days of a convulsed epoch, breathe its fiery atmosphere, and see its mighty forms as they defile before you, in a long and noble line. To revive those days, surround you with that atmos- phere, and reproduce those figures which have descended into the tomb, is the aim which I propose to myself in writing these memoirs. I foresee that the number of “J’s” I shall employ will be enormous, and beyond a peradventure you will call me egotis- tical; but how can the use of that stiff, erect character be done away with in an autobiography? Be magnanimous, therefore, O kindly reader, and regard me as a friend who is telling you his adventures, not as an author composing a feigned history. It is only a poor ‘prisoner on parole” who is talking: leave him that one resource to while away the time—that single con- solation. We sit on the old porch at Eagle’s Nest; yonder flows the Rappahannock; the oaks sigh; the sunshine laughs—so I begin. I always heard that the first of the Surrys in Virginia was Philip, the son of Philip, and that he took refuge here when the head of Charles I. went to the block. This Cavalier was a gay gallant, the family legend says, and did much hard riding and fighting under Prince Rupert; but the royal banner drooped, the Roundhead pikes carried the day; and, collecting such money and jewels as he could lay his hands on, Colonel Philip Surry repaired to the head-quarters of Cavalierdom, Virginia. Here everything suited him. Cavalier faces were seen everywhere, land was cheap, and foxes abounded; so he built this house of ‘“‘Kagle’s-Nest ” below Port Royal, on a hill above the Rappa- hannock, gave it the name of the family estate in England, and, collecting a number of thorough-breds, and a pack of hounds, married and settled down. All I have heard of him thereafter may be stated in a few words: he went with Richard Lee to see Charles IT., then in exile at Breda, where he offered to proclaim the youth King of England and Virginia at Williamsburg. When his offer was not accepted, he returned to Eagle’s-N est, where he dedicated his energies to fox-hunting and raising 11 bloodthorses for the remainder of his life. His portrait hangs on the wall here—a proud, handsome face, with blue eyes, pointed beard, black mustache, and broad. shoulders covered with Venice lace falling over a hauberk of steel; in the hand is a hat with a black, trailing feather. There is Colonel Philip Surry, dead this many a day. He left in his will the curious injunction that the eldest son of the family in every generation should sign his name, ‘Surry of Eagle’s-Nest ;” so my father always called himself, and I have followed the family habit. My father was the fifth or sixth in descent from Philip I., and bore his name. He was the soul of benevolence and kindness. Intellectually, he was the greatest man I ever knew. At the bar of the Court of Appeals of Vir- ginia he ranked with the old race of lawyers, Marshall, Wirt, Wickham, and Leigh—all his intimate friends; but as his hair had grown gray he had retired from the profession, and spent his days at home in the country, He has died since the beginning of the war, but his portrait is yonder, a tall and stately figure, with a noble countenance, clear loyal eyes, and a smile of exqui- site sweetness. He is gone now, like all the Surrys of the past, but his memory still lives. His intellect was so powerful, his temper so sweet and kind, that the first men of his age saluted him with respect, and I never knew a lady or a child not to love him. He belonged to that old generation of Virginians who have disappeared, and the sun to-day, I think, shines nowhere on his like. I shall only add to this family sketch the statement that my dear mother, who died in my boyhood, was Mary Annesley, of Princess Anne, and that she had but two children besides myself. One of these was my sister Annie, about sixteen years of age when the war began ; and the other, my younger brother, was only nineteen at that time, but a graduate of West Point, and a lieutenant in the United States army. Such was the origin of the writer of the present memoirs, and from this point of view he looked upon the struggle which was approaching. 12 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. II. IN WHICH THE WRITER OMITS A NUMBER OF THINGS. J wave not the least intention of inflicting upon the reader an account of my childhood, boyhood, or early manhood, spent at “Eagle’s-Nest.” It would not interest deeply—that life of a child who ran laughing and singing through the grounds of an old house, or conned his lessons at his dear mother’s knee—who lis- tened to the murmur of the Rappahannock flowing past the lofty hill, and dreamed his idle dreams of far-off lands—who rode all “the colts he could catch, and was thrown by them, spun his top, tore his clothes, and drew down the denunciations of his gray- haired “‘mammy.” Nor would the life of the youth and man prove more interesting. All these details would be charming, my dear reader, if Colonel Surry was anybody—a great warrior, statesman, or gen- eral—and was dead. But he is none of these, and fortunately still lives; so all these particularsof his youth are omitted. The flowers bloomed brighter then, and the song of the birds was sweeter; but that was in my childhood, not in yours, reader. ‘Mine for myself—yours for you, friend. Let us dream of the dead days sometimes, as the comedy of life plays before us and the voices laugh—we will never see those days any more, except in dreams! I spent one session at the Virginia Military Institute; studied law at the University ; ; commenced the practice in Essex and the surrounding counties—and in 1861, at the age of twenty-five, saw the country about to be Afnoged into war. * « * % * * ® * Fill that hiatus with the hundred octavo volumes which will be written on the causes of what our friends across the border call the ‘Great Rebellion.” In the present memoirs I intend to weary neither myself nor the reader with that discussion. Let others trace back the torrent to its source—laboriously demon- strating how 1861 was the logical result of 1820—and show how 13 the antagonisin of race and opinion became the antagonism of the bayonet. This is not the place for that logomachy.- I who write am as firm to-day in my conviction of the right of secession as yesterday, or five years ago. But the question has been tried—the issue is dead, for the present, and let it rest. Besides, you know all that story now, reader mine—how the whole North roared at the wicked South, and John Brown with the pike carried out what Helper wrote with the pen. In 1860 the beginning of the end came. The “Republicans” triumphed: the Gulf States de- clared that the Union was dissolved—and, asserting their right to shape their own destiny, prepared to support their action with the sword. Where was Virginia? it may be asked. I reply that she was trying to command the peace, vainly supposing that this storm could be hushed. I blamed her then, when my blood was hot— now I think that she acted with her ancient courage and dignity. The Virgin of her shield would not lightly touch the sword, be- cause, when once she drew it, she meant to throw away the scabbard gg ~ = Whether she kept that resolution, let the blood and tears and desolation of four terrible years, in which she never shrank be- fore her foe, declare. LET HOT BLOOD. Rroumonp, which I visited at this stormy period, was the fiery heart from which flowed the blood of Revolution. What a change had passed over the quiet old place! In past years the city was the picture of repose. The white walls of the Capitol rose from the deep-green foliage, silent, except when some aspiring young legislator thundered in his maiden speech: the falls of James River sent upon the air their soft and lulling mur- mur: the birds sang in the trees of the Capitol Square: children 14 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEDL. played there: the clouds floated: Richmond was all good-nature and repose. : Now this was a tradition—a lost page in her history. Fierce agitation had replaced the old tranquillity ; and in the streets, the hotels, the drawing-rooms, nothing was heard but hot discussion. Men’s pulses were feverish. Neighbors of opposite views scowled ‘fiercely at each other. Young ladies wore the Southern colors, and would turn their pretty backs upon an admirer who was not for secession. The cockade of South Carolina—a red rosette with a palmetto tree upon it—was everywhere worn; and upon the wearers the advocates of the old order of things looked with ill- concealed hostility. Meanwhile, the Convention, of which my father was a mem- ber, thundered on from day to day: the press poured forth its Java: the stump resounded with denunciations: and society was evidently approaching one of those epochs when, having ex- hausted the powers of the tongue, the human animal has re- course to the sword. Altogether, the period was jovial and inspiring ; and I declare to you, reader, that I would like to live it over, and hear the bands play “Dixie” again, under the “ bonnie blue flag!” The hot current dragged me, and I speedily had a rencontre which was not without importance in its bearing on my future. I was sitting in the public room of my hotel, on an afternoon of April, when a party of young men came in, and among them I recognized a former acquaintance at the University, named Baskerville. I had never liked him, and he was generally un- popular, in consequence of his arrogance—the result, it was said, of very great wealth. As I glanced at him now, his appearance did not falsify the report. His costume was dazzling; his shirt bosom sparkled with diamond studs; his hands were encased in yellow kid gloves; and he carried a small ratan with a golden head. Baskerville was about twenty-six, tall, straight, and ex- ceedingly handsome—but as arrogant in his bearing as a patrician among the common people. It was overpowering! Such was the figure which came into the room where I was sitting, and began talking politics. Z 15 His denuneiations of secession and secessionists were bitter and violent; and his laughing. companions seemed to be urging him on. From secession, the abstract, he passed to the cockades, the concrete; and denounced their wearers as “ shallow-brained traitors, who would suffer for their folly.” As I was wearing a cockade, though it was invisible to the speaker, I did not much relish this, but I controlled my temper—when all at once Basker- ville uttered some words which I could not possibly pass over. ““T heard a speech in the Convention to-day which deserves the halter,” he said arrogantly. “Who delivered it?” asked another of the party. “That old traitor Surry !” When he said that, I got up and went to the place where he was standing. “That is my father, sir,” I said. His reply was a haughty stare and the words, “I am not acquainted with you, sir!” “Yon lie,” I said, ‘you recognize me perfectly ;—but that is not what I wanted to say. You call me a ‘shallow-brained traitor’ for wearing a cockade—which proves to me that you area fool. You insult the gray hairs of my father—that con- vinces me that you are a coward.” Fe * * * * * * The above asterisks are gracefully substituted for what almost immediately followed. The by-standers speedily “separated the combatants,” as the newspapers say; and, informing my adver- sary that I could be found at No. 45 in the hotel, I went to my chamber, to avoid the crowd which began to collect. I fully expected a message from Baskerville; but none came that evening, or the next morning. Tired of waiting, I was about to go out, when a card was handed to me; and enter a few moments afterward, one of the party of the previous even- ing—a young gentleman elegantly clad. At the grave and ceremonious air of my reception he began to laugh. “Excuse me, Mr. Surry,’ he said, ‘but you are evidently laboring under a slight misapprehension. I have not come as 16 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. Mr. Baskerville’s representative to bring you a challenge—but simply to make a friendly visit, at the risk, however, of appear- ing intrusive.” ie “Not at all, sir,” I said, “ but I naturally supposed —— “That Baskerville would fight? Well, you thought wrong,” was the gay reply of my visitor, who balanced himself, with an air of the most graceful insouciance, upon his chair. “Our dear friend is a man of peace, not war—he insults people, but he does not fight. Ihave seen him this morning, and he declares that he remembers nothing whatever of the little affair of yes- terday—says he was inebriated, which is a truly shocking thing —and professes that he had no quarrel whatever with you, or anybody else.” With which words my visitor began to laugh, in a manner so careless and good-humored that it was impossible not to do like- wise. When he left me an hour afterward, the whole affair ap- peared like a joke, and I forgot it. But Baskerville was to have far more to do with my life than I dreamed at that moment. Many an inward groan was to salute the very mention of his name, TY. A PAIR OF EYES. TureE days after this scene, I had reason to be exceedingly sorry that J had quarrelled with Baskerville. It was at that time the habit of the young ladies of the city to promenade with their gallants upon the Capitol Square in the evening, and enjoy the music of a fine brass band which played from a rostrum opposite the City Hall. The scene at such moments was really charming. The white walls of the Capitol rose dreamily in the moonlight; the great bronze Washington towered above; bright forms moved to and fro beneath the moon; eyes sparkled; smiles shone! O summer A PAIR OF EYES. 17 night, with that wondrous moon! whither have you flown with -the curls that lay in masses on those snowy shoulders? One evening I went to listen to the music, and, lost in the crowd in front of the rostrum occupied by the musicians, was enjoying that sad and beautiful air, the “Mocking Bird ”—_when, all at once, I saw in front of me a face so lovely that something like a thrill passed through my frame. It was the face of a girl—let me try and draw her outline. Fancy a maiden of about nineteen, with a figure rounded, slen- der, and as flexible as the stem of the river-flag—waving hair of a deep chestnut, twisted up into a shining braid on the snowy neck; and eyes—ah, those eyes!—they were languishing, bril- dant, and of an intense and dazzling violet-—that tint which the summer sky wears when the purple of the sunset dashes against the blue. That face and those eyes possessed a haunting beauty such as I had never before seen in woman. As she stood there in the moonlight, keeping time with her slipper to the strains of the “Mocking Bird,” I thought she was some fairy—not a girl of flesh and blood! Such was the exquisite face—and now do you ask, how I saw her eyes? I was gazing at the clear and elegant profile half turned from me, when some sound behind the girl attracted her attention, and she turned her head. For an instant those won- drous eyes met mine—then they were withdrawn, and I heard her utter some cold words to the gentleman upon whose arm she leaned. T looked at him—TI had not wasted a glance upon him before. It was Baskerville. Nothing could be more unfortunate. I had made up my mind to discover who his companion was—for I had seen her at none of the parties which I had attended—and now there was an in- separable barrier in my relations with her escort. I nevertheless determined to ascertain her name, and chance seemed about to assist me. The band soon ceased playing; the crowd began to disperse; and the young lady and Baskerville approached the western gate, through which the multitude were passing. I was close behind them, and, just as they reached the gate, observed 138 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. that she had dropped her handkerchief. Here was the opportu- nity. She evidently did not observe the accident, and I hastily picked up the handkerchief—resolving to read the name upon it, and then return it. Straining my eyes in the moonlight, I discovered in one corner of the little perfumed affair of lace and cambric the young lady’s initials! “M. B.? was all; and, disappointed, I looked round for the owner. . She had disappeared—lost like a flower amid the crowd. I tried in vain to discover her; and at last gave up the search. In vain did I go to every concert, every party, every church thenceforward—looking for her. She did not reappear. She had vanished like a dream of the moonlight night. I ought to have sent the handkerchief to Baskerville, you may say, for transmission to its owner. SoI ought to have done~ but I did not. Vs WHAT I SAW ON THE BROOK ROAD. Tue incident just related made a strong impression upon me; and the face I had thus caught a glimpse of in the moonlight continued to haunt me. But an affair with which I found my- self mixed up, a few days afterward, for the moment quite diverted my attention from the owner of the handkerchief. Having brought an excellent riding horse from Essex, I was in the habit of riding out in the evening for exercise, after the con- finement of the Convention. The Brook road, extending in a northwestern direction from the city, was a favorite ride: and one evening I went in that direction, soon emerging from the« dusty streets into the broad highway, which unrolled itself like. a long brown ribbon upon arobe of emerald. Three or four miles from the city, near the point where the slender spire of the Brook Church rises from the trees, a horse- man at full gallop passed me, and descended the hill in front. WHAT I SAW ON THE BROOK ROAD. 19 As he shot by, I could see that he was tall and vigorous ; his face was pale; and as he fled onward he looked over his shoul- der with the air of one who is pursued. Such proved to be the fact. As he disappeared beneath the crest of the hill, a second horseman appeared approaching at full speed; and he too darted by and disappeared like a vision of the night. What could all this mean? Here were evidently flight and pursuit ; and in the Middle Ages, nothing would have been more natural. Then, gentlemen rode down their adversaries; but, in this prosaic age; men generally go in pursuit of their loves or vengeances by the railway. The apparition of the two cavaliers puzzled me so greatly that I galloped on to see, if possible, what would ensue. Tn this I was fortunate. He who had first appeared had de- scended the hill leading to the brook, and, thundering over the little rustic bridge, would no doubt have distanced his pursuer, had not an accident arrested him. His horse placed his foot upon a rolling stone, stumbled, and, falling, threw his rider, who rose just as his pursuer came up. As the latter approached, however, the former drew from his breast a paper which he tore into a hundred pieces; after which he folded his arms and con- fronted his opponent with an air of defiance which was discerni- ble even at the distance from which I regarded the scene. A brief parley followed, and, from the violence of the gestures on both sides, a persotal tollision appeared about to take place. None ensued, however, and to my surprise both horsemen re- mounted, and returned toward the city. As they passed me, I could see in the countenance of the one who had been pursued an expression of sullen and bitter hatred —in the face of the other a gloomy satisfaction, something like a ferocious joy. 3 Such was the curious incident I encountered in my ride. As the reader will soon pereeive, I was destined to be present at the sequel of the affair, and witness, if not understand, the de- nouement.~ 20 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. abs THE VENDETTA. In the fine April mornings, often before the sun had risen, I was accustomed to take long walks, which more than once ex- tended far into the country. At daylight, on the morning succeeding the scene just de- scribed, I know not what chance directed my steps toward Hollywood Cemetery, on the banks of the James, above the city. Entering the grounds, which at that early hour were quite de- serted, I strolled on to the hill upon which Monroe lies buried, and, throwing myself beneath a tall elm which grows there, gazed with admiration upon the fair landscape. Below mur- mured the falls, foaming around the islands with their drooping foliage; straight across shot the long white line of the Peters- burg bridge, and to the left appeared the crowding roofs of the city, above which rose the snow-white pillars of the Capitol, brilliant in the first rays of the sun. I was gazing in silence at this beautiful spectacle, and listen- . ing dreamily to the song of an oriole in the elm above, when the. sound of wheels on the gravel road by which I had ascended the hill attracted my attention. Looking in the direction of the sound, I saw two hacks, from which four gentlemen descended, saluting each other as they did so. Then, without loss of time, they ascended the hill, and the whole party paused in an open space not ten yards from my elm. They could not see me, as I was stretched upon the grass, and a row of cedar bushes around a group of graves intervened. But I could see perfectly, as I looked through an opening, and in two of the party recognized the horsemen of the previous evening. These affairs are rarely private, and I had no hesitation in re- - maining. »To this I was impelled by a strong sefitiment of curi- osity. My attention was immediately riveted to the face of the pur- THE VENDETTA. 21 suer on the preceding evening. He was tall, powerful, and with a face resembling bronze. His eyes, as black as night, sparkled under raven eyebrows, and his heavy mustache and beard were of the same color. But his expression was more striking than all else. Never have I seen a fiercer satisfaction in the human face. A species of instinct told me that nothing but the gratifi- cation of some long-brooding passion—some cherished vengeance —could bring that gladiator-like smile to the lips of a human being. His opponent’s face expressed rather bitter hatred than satis- factions at the approaching éncounter. It was plain from his sullen and lowering brow that he thirsted for his adversary’s blood, but not 80 evident that he welcomed the prospect of a fair and open contest. With his small keen eyes, his thin lips, and overhanging brows, I should have set him down for one who would prefer doing away with an enemYaby treachery—and afterward I came to know that this estimate of the man was entirely correct. It was evidently the snake opposed to the tiger—not so bold, but equally dangerous, The preliminaries were soon arranged. The seconds were evidently old practitioners, and their proceedings were matter-of- fact and business-like. “This spot, I think, is suitable,” said one of them, “except for that ugly object there.’ And he pointed to a newly-dug grave. “Tt is a matter of indifference to us, sir,” returned the other second, ‘as the fire will naturally be across the line of the sun.” “That is just, sir, and if entirely agreeable to you, we will ” now proceed.” : His associate bowed, and they proceeded to measure off the ground. The sound of pistols striking against their case was then heard, and the click of the triggers as they were tried. A short pause then followed—they were loading the weapons. When this was accomplished, they were handed to the principals. One of the seconds then said : 22 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. “Gentlemen, I shall give the word, which will be, ‘Are you, ready? Fire! One, two, three’—the fire to be delivered after the word ‘one’ and before the word ‘three.’” The principals listened in silence, standing half-faced to the right and left, the weapons pointed toward the ground. ““ Before, however, this affair proceeds further,” continued the speaker, “I consider it my duty to make a statement in the hearing of all. I was called on last night by Mr. Fenwick, with whom I have only a slight acquaintance,” and the speaker turned toward the individual pursued and overtaken on the Brook road —‘‘who requested that I would act for him in an affair to take place this morning. I consented with pleasure, but to my sur- prise was informed by Mr. Fenwick that he could not state the cause of the meeting—he could only assure me that it was un- avoidable. I need not say, gentlemen, that such a state of things is awkward. The f* is wholly informal. No correspondence. can hereafter be published, and both principals and seconds may be placed in a most disagreeable position. I yielded to Mr. Fenwick's representations that he was an entire stranger and knew scarcely any one besides myself; but I again ask that the grounds of the present meeting may be stated, in order that the affair may be honorably arranged, or, in case it unfortunately is obliged to. proceed, that none of the parties may be placed in a false position.” The speaker ceased, and a brief pause followed. It was broken by the deep voice of Fenwick’s adversary. “Treply, sir, that the affair cannot be arranged,” he said. “You will pardon me for asking why ?” “For reasons which cannot be now explained.” The second looked doubtful. “T am not convinced, sir—” he began, when the man of the bronzed face, with a fierce glow in his eyes, interrupted him. “Well, sir,” he said, in a voice so cold and menacing that it sent a thrill through me, ‘I will endeavor to convince you © that valid grounds exist for the encounter about to take place —as take place it will, with or without witnesses. Suppose, sir, that one human being has sworn against another that oath a THE VENDETTA. 23 of vengeance which, in Corsica, is called the vendetta! No matter what may be the reason—it may be a family. feud, descending from generation to generation, or it may be for an offence, personal to the individual—the origin of it is nothing to the point! Well, suppose, sir, that you are the person who has registered that oath! Say it is your soul that cries out for the blood of this adversary, and that, after long years spent in searching for and awaiting him, you find him! Say that you discover him at the moment when he is skulking in the dark !— when he is plotting against your country as the secret agent of her enemies !””— “Tmpossible, sir!” exclaimed the second, almost recoiling as he spoke, “A moment, sir—I have not yet finished,” said the deep voice. ‘Suppose that you pursue this man and he flies, tearing up the paper which is the proof of his guilt! Suppose that, mastered by a weak and silly deference to the so-called code of honor, you offer this man a fair combat instead of putting him to death !—suppose, lastly, sir, that the adversaries are placed face to face—the pistols loaded, the hopes of long years of wait- ing about to be realized—suppose that, sir!—place yourself in that situation—and then tell me if you imagine that the man who has lived for this alone—that I—I, sir!—will forego my private vengeance!” There was something so cold and threatening in the deep tones of the speaker—his eyes burned with a fire so dark and lurid— that the person whom he had addressed seemed overcome and unable to find a word of reply. At last he raised his head, and I could see upon his cbunte- nance an expression of utter bewilderment. “A stranger affair I never took part in!” he muttered; “ and if my principal is the man he is represented to be—” The quick ear of the swarthy personage caught the muttered words. “Oh! understand me, sir!” he said; “Ido not charge your principal with any thing infamous. I am a gentleman by birth, and am ready to meet him. You may, therefore, act for him.” 4 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. “One moment, sir,” was the reply: “ I wish to see Mr. Fen- wick.” And, making a sign to his principal, he walked some Bates apart. Fenwick had listened to the words of his adversary with sullen and lowering brow—with eyes cast down, but lips closely set. Unable or unwilling to reply, he had evidently resolved to let the affair take its own course. He was absent for about ten minutes, conversing with his second. when they returned, and the latter said: “T shall continue to act for Mr. Fenwick and now withdraw all my objections.” His associate bowed, and in a moment everything was ready. The word was given: two pistol shots followed, like a single report; and the man of the bronze face remained unmoved. Then I looked at Fenwick. For a moment he stood erect, then, uttering an imprecation, he fell forward on his face. The seconds hastened to him, and one of them muttered: “Shot through the lungs—he will be dead in five minutes!” A hasty consultation was then evidently being held, and, from the words ‘ gate-keeper’s house,” I had no doubt of their inten- tion to leave the dying man there. My glance then fell on the man whose bullet had produced this tragedy. He was standing motionless, with folded arms—the smoking pistol in his hand—and in his dark, cold features I thought I read that his vengeance was not even yet satisfied. I was gazing at him still, when a signal was made to one of the hack-drivers, and the vehicle ascended the hill, The dying man was placed in it; his second followed—and then the other prin- cipal and second slowly descended the hill on foot, and entered their carriage, which rapidly disappeared. The whole scene had vanished; and I gloomily took my way back to the city. On the next morning I read among the “local items”’ in one of the journals the following paragraph :— “Mysterious Arrar.—Yesterday morning a fatal rencontre took place at Hollywood Cemetery, the particulars of which are yet shrouded in mystery. About sunrise, the gate-keeper, who THE VENDETTA. 25 occupies a small house at the entrance of the cemetery, heard the discharge of pistols, and, hastening in the direction of the sound, met two hacks returning, one of which contained a gentleman mortally wounded. He was conveyed to the gate-keeper’s, and subsequently to his hotel, where he now lies at the point of death. The name of the gentleman is Fenwick—that of his opponent we have not been able to discover.” On the next day an additional paragraph appeared, headed, “The Affair at Hollywood.” “This mysterious affair,” wrote the sandation journalist, ‘‘ con- tinues painfully to excite the curiosity of the public. But as yet no new developments have been made. The seconds and princi- pals—all but Mr. Fenwick—have disappeared, and the causes which léd to the meeting are entirely unknown. Mr. Fenwick was yesterday somewhat easier, and may possibly recover, his physicians say. If the bullet of his adversary had passed the one-thousandth part of inch nearer to the femoral artery, the wound would have instantly proved fatal. We expect to be able, in a day or two, to throw additional light upon this singular affair.” Three days afterward the public were inundated with this additional light. “We are now able to explain the affair at Hollywood,” wrote the journalist. ‘“‘The meeting resulted from a violent scene which took place between Mr. Fenwick and a noted abolitionist and tool of the Yankees, who has lately been lurking in this city. Mr. Fenwick arrested him, and discovered the proofs of his guilt, but, misled by a false sense of honor, accepted his challenge. The unhappy result is known; but we are still unable to give the name of the other partyin the duel. Mr. Fenwick, we are happy to say, is steadily improving, and his physicians declare that he will soon be able to leave his bed.” Such was -the flood of dazzling light poured on this “‘mysteri- ous affair.” ~ This paragraph, as I learned long afterward, never met the eye of the person against whom it was directed, or his second, as they had left the city on the morning succeeding the encounter. . 2 26 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. I dropped the paper, and asked myself, for the hundredth time, the meaning of the whole affair. Who was that man with the thin, cunning lips, and the eye of the snake?——who that dark per- sonage with the black eyes and the face of bronze, who had sworn the vendetta against his adversary ? The curtain fell upon the mystery, and all was dark. Wid. MY COMMISSION. On the floor of the Convention the advocates and opponents of secession meanwhile thundered on from day to day, and in the committees the leaders grappled furiously, as though in a breast-to-breast struggle for life or death. The shifting phases of that great contest will some day be de- lineated by the historian. They will not be followed here. These memoirs hurry on to other scenes, and cannot dwell upon those fierce battles of the tongue preluding the conflict of bayo- nets. I will here record, however, my conviction that I, for one, did injustice to many who opposed the adoption of the Ordinance of Secession. I then thought they were untrue to the honor of the Commonwealth. I now think that they only differed with their opponents upon the expediency of secession at the moment. They thought that Virginia would be able to mediate between the extremes of both sections—that shie could “command the peace ’’—and that her voice would’be heard across the storm. Vain hope! Atl at once these mists of delusion were divided by the lightning flash. President Lincoln called for seventy-five thousand men to coerce the Gulf States, and Virginia was di- rected to farnish her quota. From that moment all opposition to immediate secession ended. Its advocates triumphed—its opponents were paralyzed, or, rather, acknowledged that no other course was left. The choice was now between fighting with and fighting against the Southern States, and the Convention no longer hesitated. MY COMMISSION. 27 It was on the 18th day of April, I think, that, ‘hastening to- ward the Capitol, whither I had been attracted by a sudden rumor, I saw the Confederate flag rise in the place of the stars and stripes. The Oonvention had just adjourned for the day, and I met my father in the throng. His countenance glowed, and in his earn- est look I read deep feeling. Many of the members’ faces ex- hibited traces of tears. At my ardent expressions of joy, my father smiled—rather sadly, I thought. ““We have done our duty, my son,” he said; “and you know I have advocated this step from the beginning, when I think the war might have been prevented. Now it is a fixed fact. What do you propose to do?” “To return at once to King William, and set about raising a company. If they choose me to command them—good. If not, I will serve in the ranks.” My father walked on in silence, evidently reflecting. “Wait two or three days,” he said; “there will be time enough.” And we continued our way. Three days afterward he came into my chamber, and said, with a smile: “Good morning, Captain.” I laughed, and replied: “You give me my title in advance.” “No; I have addressed you properly.” And he handed me a large envelope, upon one corner of which were stamped the Virginia arms. I tore it open, and found that it contained my appointment as ¢aptain in the Provisional Army of Virginia, with orders to report to Colonel Jackson, command- ing at Harper’s Ferry! Never did lover greet more rapturously the handwriting of his mistress. I rose to my full height, waved the paper round my head, and uttered a “hurrah!” which shook the windows. Turning with flushed face and sparkling eyes toward my 28 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. father, I saw him looking at me with inexpressible tenderness and sweetness, I addressed myself to the task of procuring my equipments with an ardor which I now look back to with a satirical smile. Ah, those good days of the good year 1861! How anxious wo all were to get to horse and march away under the bonnie blue flag! How fearful we were that a battle would be fought be- fore we arrived; that we would not have an opportunity of reaping the glory of having our heads carried off by a cannon ball! That romance soon passed, and the war became a “ heavy affair ”°—but then it was all illusion and romance. At the end of a week I had procured my uniform and equip- ments. The first consisted of a suit of gray, the sleeves of the coat profusely decorated by my fanciful tailor with the gold braid of a captain: the latter of a light sabre, pistol, saddle, and single blanket, strapped behind. My slender wardrobe was carried in the valise upon the horse of my servant, an active young negro, who had figured as my body servant, and was de- lighted at ‘‘ going to the wars.” I bade my friends good-by, and then went to have a last in- terview with my father. JI still see his noble face, and hear his grave, sweet accents. There were tears in his eyes as he pressed my hand, and I think my own were not dry. I got into the saddle, waved my hand, and, followed by my servant, set out upon the untried future. VIII. THE LONELY HOUSE. Ir was the end of April when I commenced my journey toward the Potomac. The weather was charming, the birds sang in the trees, and the face of nature lay before me, all smiles and sun- shine, her form clothed in that tender green with which she salutes the spring. SEL EDT nUUeSn, 29 Such was the fine and pleasant season when the writer of the present memoir, clad in Southern gray, with his horseman’s boots, and gayly-clattering sabre, set out for the wars, his mind full of rosy dreams, his pulse thrilling with anticipations of adventure. To-day he seems quite a stranger to the old battered soldier, whose pulse rarely thrills, and who is tired of romance and ad- venture—or almost, I made about thirty miles the first day, and stopped that night in the neighborhood of Beaver Dam, at the house of the hospit- able Colonel F——, who gave me a cordial reception. On the next morning I again set out, turning my horse’s head toward Raccoon Ford, on the Rapidan. The country through which I now passed was thinly inhabited, and toward the afternoon I began to feel convinced that I had missed my road. This, I soon ascertained from a wayfarer, was the fact; I had inclined too far toward the right, and my shortest route now to Culpepper Court-House was by way of Germanna Ford. Long before reaching that point it began to grow dark, and I found myself in the region near Chancellorsville known as the ‘* Wilderness.” All around me extended a dense and unbroken expanse of thicket, which the eye vainly tried to pierce. The narrow and winding road through the gloomy undergrowth resembled rather a dusky serpent than a highway, and, as I penetrated deeper and deeper into this mysterious wilderness, the lugubrious sights and sounds which greeted me were ill calculated to raise my spirits. The silence was unbroken, save by the melancholy ery of the whippoorwill, buried in the swampy thicket; and no living object was seen, except when some huge owl, startled by the tramp of the horses, flapped his heavy pinions across the road, as he sought refuge in the shadowy depths of the wood. The moon had risen, and was struggling amid a bank of clouds; but the solemn light served only to bring out in clearer relief the sombre details of the wild and deserted landscape. The long branches depending above the narrow road resembled the shaggy arms of goblins, reaching down to grasp and carry the traveller away; 30 SURRY OF EAGLBE’S-NEST. and I know not what melancholy influence, born of the place and time, weighed down my spirits, filling me with almost supersti- tious depression. Here night and a solemn gloom seemed to reign undisputed, and the notes of the whippoorwill resembled, to my fancy, the cries of unhappy beings imprisoned in these mournful solitudes. That strange Wilderness, now associated with so many scenes of blood and death, had enticed me into its depths. I was the captive of its funereal shadows, its ominous sights and sounds, and, as will soon be seen, I was to explore some of its mysteries. The depressing influence of the scene evidently affected my servant also. He drew nearer to me, and suggested that the horses were too much fatigued to go farther. To this view I assented, and, telling him we would stop at the first house, continued my way, still pursuing the narrow road through the unending thickets. I went on thus for another hour, and, despairing of reaching any house, was about to bivonac in the woods, when all at once a light was seen glimmering through the boughs on my right. Never was any sight more welcome, and pushing on, I came to a brush fence at the foot of a hill, * skirted with pines, upon which the moonlight enabled me to dis- cern a small house. Leaping the low fence, I ascended the hill, found myself before # sort of cottage, with flowers growing round the porch, and a light in the window; and, dismounting, knocked at the door. What was my astonishment, to hear, in a sweet and eager voice, in response to my knock, the words: “Come! come! you are expected.” Overwhelmed with surprise, I opened the door and entered. IX. THE WOMAN IN WHITE. Tae apartment in which I found myself was small, with a rag carpet on the floor, split-bottomed chairs, a walnut table, and a broad fireplace, above which ticked an eight-day clock, THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 31 This I took in at a glance, but my eyes were speedily riveted upon the person who had uttered those singular words, ‘‘ Come! come! you are expected.” Tt was a lady of about thirty-five apparently, who still ex- hibited traces of extraordinary beauty, though she was thin to emaciation, Her hair had once been auburn—it was now sprinkled with gray; and the magnificent eyes were deeply sunken in their sockets. They still possessed, however, a won- derful brilliancy, and it was impossible not to be struck with their mingled gloom and tenderness. The dress of this singular personage still further excited my astonishment. It was of white muslin, low-necked, and with short sleeves. The shoulders and arms thus revealed were thin to a painful degree, and their pallor was frightful. To complete the singularity of her cos- tume, there fell from her carefully braided hair a long bridal veil of snowy lace, and around her neck she wore a superb necklace. As I entered, the lady rose with sudden animation and a beam- ing expression upon her countenance, but immediately sank back, murmuring : “Tt is not my darling! He will not come—he will never come!” This strange scene had so completely taken me aback that I remained standing in the middle of the apartment without utter- ing a word. There I might have continued to stand, deprived of all power of utterance; but ali at once a door opened, and a woman of about fifty, hard-featured and morose in manner, and plainly dressed, hastily entered. ““What will you have, sir?” she said in tones as cold as an icicle. I explained that my horses were worn out, and that I wished to secure a night’s lodging—a statement which was greeted with the freezing reply: “This is not a house of entertainment, sir, and we cannot lodge you.” I would have retired upon receiving this ungracious answer, but the pale lady came to my succor. “ No, no,” she said in her sweet and mournful voice, “‘ he must 32 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. not go away. I thought it was my darling—and he is tired. I also am tired, oh very, very tired.” And she sighed drearily, relapsing into silence. Her hands were clasped upon her lap, but from time to time she play ed with a little golden cross suspended from her necklace. Suddenly the ‘ clock struck, and the sound prodaced a singular effect upon her. She rose to her feet, turned toward the door, and, throwing back her long lace veil with a movement of inexpressible grace, ex- claimed with sparkling eyes: “That is the hour; and he will soon be here. He is coming now !” In fact, the hoofs of a horse were heard upon the ground with- out, and with flushed cheeks the lady hastened to the door, to which my servant had just ridden up. The mysterious lady evi- dently mistook the noise for that made by the person whom she expected, and, throwing open the door, stood with clasped hands in an attitude of passionate expectation. The scene, however, came to asudden end. The harsh-looking woman hastened to the lady’s side, and, with a singular mixture of deference and roughness, exclaimed: “What are you doing, madam? Do you suppose he will be glad to see you, if you make yourself sick by going into the night air? Besides, your hair is all coming down, and it makes you ugly. Come, and let me fix it up again.” “Oh, yes!” was the mournful reply, ‘he always loved to have my hair neatly arranged. He will not like to see me thus! But will he come? I fear he will never come! No, no!—he will never, never come!” And, hiding her face with her hands, she wept bitterly, and permitted herself to be led away. She passed through an inner door, and I was left alone. To describe my astonishment at this extraordinary scene would be impossible. I stood motionless in the midst of the apartment, gazing at the door through which the lady had dis- appeared, and it was not until I heard a voice at my very elbow that I realized my whereabouts: _ It was the voice of the harsh-looking woman, who now re- magannine ur rom witDERNESS. 383 turned to inform me, with greater emphasis than before, that I must go further on to secure a night’s lodging. Her mistress, I must see, was ‘insane, she said; and any company made her worse. She had scarcely finished, when a musical voice behind me said : “Tt is not necessary for this gentleman to go, Mrs. Parkins. We will soon have you some supper, sir. Pray sit down. You are very welcome.” ia THE MYSTERIES OF THE WILDERNESS. I passEep from one enchantment to another. Ihad seen a mys- terious bride. I now found myself vis-a-vis to a young beauty of seventeen, whose appearance was sufficiently attractive to monopolize my whole attention. Let the reader figure to himself an oval face exceedingly sweet and winning; large blue eyes full of unclouded serenity; and a delicate mouth, which expressed at once extreme modesty and very great earnestness, Around this countenance, at once femi- nine and full of character, fell a profusion of auburn ringlets— not curls—reaching scarcely to the neck. The figure, clad in a light spring dress, was slender and graceful—the hand small and white as snow. Inthe depths of the tranquil blue eyes, I thought I could discern unknown treasures of goodness, and great was my surprise at finding this aristocratic girl buried in an obscure abode of the wilderness. She welcomed me with an air of simplicity and ease which no a princess could have surpassed; and under the influence of this manner, so firm yet unassuming, even the morose woman, who now reappeared upon the scene, seemed to grow less harsh. She placed some supper on the table—muttered a promise to see to my servant and horses—and then withdrew. The young lady, who had calmly introduced herself as ‘ Miss 9* 34 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. Grafton,” took her seat at the tea-tray, and conversed during the meal with the same unaffected tranquillity. She spoke of the lady in white without being urged; but simply said that her mind was disordered—especially upon ‘“‘a certain anniversary in April,” which had chanced to be the night of my arrival. Then she glided to other topics, and finally suggested that I must be weary. My bed was ready—would I retire? So I retired to a small, neat chamber above—to lie awake for hours thinking of her. At last I fell asleep, but I had a singular dream. I thought I heard in my chamber low, cautious footsteps, as though a woman were walking with bare feet upon the floor. Tip!—tip!—tip !— I could have sworn the sound was real. As I listened, too, with a quick beating of the heart, I thought I saw a dusky figure flit before me—something rustled—then the whole disappeared, and silence reigned in the chamber. Was it all a dream? I asked myself as I opened my eyes at dawn. For the life of me I could not decide, and I finally dis- missed the subject from my mind. At that moment I heard the hoof-strokes of a horse beneath my window, and a long acquaintance with the indolent character of my servant convinced me that the horse was not my own. Going quietly to the window, I raised a corner of the white curtain, and, looking out, saw a horse standing, ready saddled for a journey, before the door. On the steps the woman Parkins was conversing with a man wrapped closely in a dark cloak, and wearing a drooping hat. In spite of this disguise, however, I recognized one of the parti- cipants in the duel at Holly wood—the person called Fenwick. He was thinner and paler, no doubt from his recent wound ; but I saw before me the same dark and sinister face; the same bold yet lurking glance; the same lips, thin, compressed, and fall of cunning. I heard only the last words which passed between these worthies. “This officer must not see me,” muttered Fenwick, “and I am going. Ourse that girl! how I love her and hate her!” wav cduauo-ge san-wilDERNESS. 35 The woman uttered a harsh and grating laugh, which sounded strangely from those morose lips. “That’s her feeling for you, except the love,” she said; ‘she don’t seem to like you, sir.” “And why!” exclaimed Fenwick in a sort of rage, “‘ because I have told her I love her!—because I cannot live away from her !—because I would give up all for her!—therefore she hates me!” And I could hear the speaker grind his teeth. “Well, it is not my fault, is it?” came an harsh tones from the woman. ‘“T do what I am paid for. “And you would sell your soul for aie Goma Fen- wick, with a bitter sneer “Suppose I would!” was the reply; “but I can’t make the young lady care for you. You had better give her up, and pur- sue her no longer.” “Give up the pursuit!—do you think I will do that? to be foiled and beaten by a simple girl!—No! I swear by all the devils in hell she shall not escape me!” He spoke so loudly and vivlently that the woman growled in a low voice: “You will be overheard. After hiding all last night, you will be seen by the officer—I hear him stirring in his room.” Fenwick hesitated a moment; ground his teeth; glanced at my window; and then, shaking his clenched hand, leaped upon his horse. “What is delayed is not lost !”~he exclaimed bitterly. And putting spur to the animal, he disappeared at full gallop in the thicket. Such was my third meeting with this personage, who went and came on secret errands, fought duels with nameless ad- versaries, and had loves or hatreds to gratify wherever he went. While musing upon the singular chance which had again thrown him in my way, I was summoned to breakfast, at which Miss Grafton presided. The lady in white did not reappear. ' “My cousin is sick, and I hope you will excuse her, sir,” was 36 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. the calm explanation of the young girl; and with this I was obliged to remain content. When the meal was ended I ordered my horses, and at my request Miss Grafton walked out with me upon the knoll before the house, where I repeated to her the conversation I had over- heard between Fenwick and Mrs. Parkins. Tt seemed to excite no surprise in her whatever, and I observed no exhibition of emotion in her countenance. “T owe you many thanks for your friendly warning, sir,” she said tranquilly ; ‘‘ but this is not the first intimation I have had of these designs.” ‘“‘ But Iam sincerely uneasy, Miss Grafton,” I replied; ‘“ this man is dangerous and perfectly unscrupulous.” “T do not fear him, sir,” she said. ‘God will defend me.” Her voice was so brave and firm that I could not restrain a glance of admiration. ‘““'You have witnessed some singular things in this house, sir,” the young lady added, ‘‘and I am sorry that they attracted your attention. In regard to Mr. Fenwick, I shall say nothing; but I trust that you will not speak of the condition of my unfortunate relative, whose derangement is very painful to me.” ‘Most assuredly I shall not, if you wish it.” “She is quite ill this morning, in consequence of the excite- ment last night, and I should feel no surprise if she died at any moment. Her life is a sad one; and it will gratify those who love her—I am almost the only one—if her condition is not made the subject of speculation or remark. She has long been buried here, and if she is to die, itis better that no notice should be taken of the event. She is not happy!” And deep silence veiled the eyes of the fair girl as she slowly returned to the house. A few minutes afterward I bade her farewell, and got into the saddle. A bow, a motion of the hand, which she responded to by an inclination of her head—and we parted. THH PAUKAGEH, 37 XL THE PACKAGE. Crossine the Rapidan at Germanna Ford, I pushed on through Culpepper Court-House, toward the mountains, intending to pass the Blue Ridge at Ashby’s Gap. The strange scenes which had greeted my eyes and ears in the Wilderness still absorbed my whole attention; and I taxed my memory to recall every circumstance, however minute, con- nected with my sojourn in the abode of the White Lady. I was thus engaged, and rode on musing deeply, when, chancing to put my hand in my coat pocket, it struck against something. I drew this something out, and found that it was a package of papers in a large envelope, securely sealed in several places, with a crest stamped on the sealing wax—but the astonishing circum- stance was that the envelope bore no direction whatever. All at once I saw something in one corner, in the delicate handwriting of a woman, and deciphered the words: “ Read these when I am dead—and remember Your own Francgs.” That was all! But that little was a whole world of wonder. Who could this “‘ Frances’’ be, and whence came this package? All at once came the recollection of that vision of the preceding night. I remembered the faint footfalls on the floor of my chamber, as though delicate feet without slippers were tipping along, and something told me that the White Lady had entered my chamber and placed that package in my pocket. The more I re- flected, the stronger was my conviction of the fact. She had, no doubt, experienced a confused impression of my identity or acquaintance with the person whom she had expected on that’ “certain anniversary in April”? mentioned by Miss Grafton— had entered my apartment—deposited the package in my coat pocket for delivery to the unknown, and, before I could detect her, had glided away, with the cunning of insanity, and dis- appeared. 38 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. Such was my explanation of this singular circumstance; but another question now presented itself: What was I to do with the package? I could not lose a whole day’s journey and return —that was impossible; and yetI did not wish to retain the papers of the poor, deranged lady. What should I du? The best decision to which I could come was, to take care of them until I had an opportunity of returning or sending them back by a safe hand; and, having thus decided upon my course, I re- placed the package in my pocket, pondering deeply upon that strange indorsement: “Read this when I am dead—and remember your own Frances.” Then her name was Frances. What was the rest? XII. HOW I ENCOUNTERED A TRAVELLER, AND OF WHAT WE CONVERSED. I roLttowep a winding road through the woods, and was now approaching the Rappahannock. I had found the country on fire with the war fever, and at every cross-road crowds of idlers had congregated, who discussed and rediscussed the events of the day. These would gladly have stopped me to ascertain every circumstance which I had ever known, heard, or imagined. But I had no desire to delay my journey for the idle amusement of gossips and busybodies. So I turned a deaf ear to all their allurements, and steadily pressed on toward the Rappahannock. G Thad reached a point within a few miles of the river, when I saw in front of me a traveller on a superb white horse. Of the animal’s action I soon had a convincing proof. A bridge on the road, over astream with precipitous banks, had been swept away, and I heard the roar of the waters. The traveller, I supposed, would seek a crossing above or below, but in this I was mistaken. All at once I saw him put his horse at A LAAVGEULULY. 39 the opening—the animal rose in the air—and, with a gigantic leap, cleared the chasm. As I approached, the traveller halted, and I saw him look over his shoulder. I glanced at him—then at the stream. It was fully fifteen feet, and I assure you, my dear reader, I had not the: least idea of attempting it. : -Ignominiously riding along the beach, | discovered a crossing, and in a few moments had joined and saluted the man on the white horse, who was courteously waiting for me. He was low of stature, apparently. about thirty, and his costume was the careless dress of a gentleman. The face was a striking one—very dark, heavily bearded, and rather brigand- ish. But no bandit ever could boast a pair of eyes like the stranger’s, They were brown, and sparkled with unmistakable good humor; the whole countenance, indeed, was full of gayety and courtesy. Altogether, there was something in the cavalier on the white horse which irresistibly attracted you. “What a splendid animal, sir!” I said, when we had ex- changed the greeting of wayfarers; “‘I really envied you when I saw you take that leap!” “T have cleared wider places,” was his smiling reply, as woe rode on; “and I don’t think the Yankees could catch me very easily.” ‘ «To you belong to the army ?” “To a cavalry company of this county, sir. I fear that we shall soon be cutting right and left.” “You fear that?” was my rather discourteous question; but the stranger did not seem to observe the word. “Yes,” he said in his mild voice, “I am sorry to fight the North. War is terrible, and, do you know, I have a lingering affection for the stars and stripes still?” “T felt as you do once, but we must choose a new flag.’ 73 Yes.’ “ What will it be?” I said, ‘“‘the Southern cross? the Palmet- to? We have a number of emblems to choose from.” “Yes, but I have chosen mine,’ said the stranger simply. “What is it?” 40 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. He took off his hat and drew from it a small square of silk, upon which was painted the Virgin of Virginia trampling upon the neck of the tyrant, with the motto traced beneath, ‘ Sic sem- per tyrannis.” “This is the flag I intend to fight under,”* he said in the same mild voice. “Tt is the best of all!” “Yes,” he said; “‘I had it painted the day before I left Rich- mond, and, sink or swim, live or die, I intend to fight under it to the last!” There was something so noble and chivalric in the dark face of the stranger as he spoke, that I gazed at him with uncon- cealed admiration. Again I observed, too, his perfect mastery of his powerful white horse, his sinewy frame, his flashing eye —and I thought, ‘‘ You would be dangerous in a charge!” But the traveller did not seem to observe the effect which his words had produced. The glow disappeared from his counte- nance, and he rode on—the picture of a kindly, unassuming gen- tleman. : Of that kindness of temperament I soon had an illustration. On the road we came up with a little girl in a tattered frock, without shoes or stockings, who limped along painfully over the rocky way. My companion observed her weariness, and, check- ing his horse, asked where she was going. The mild voice seemed to disarm any fears the child had, and, looking out with large eyes from her tangled hair, she replied that she had been some miles to carry a message, and was returning home. “How far is home?” asked the stranger, smiling. “ About two miles, sir,” replied the child. “Two miles!” exclaimed the stranger; “you can never walk that far, little one, with your sore feet. Come, get up, I will give you a ride!” And reaching down, he lifted the child and placed her before him on the saddle. He did not seem to notice that the dirty and tattered dress rubbed against his spotless shirt bosom, as, * His words. A TRAVHULHK. Al resting in his arms, the child looked at him out of her great eyes. The stranger quietly rode on, still conversing, until we reached ® point opposite a poor house seen across the fields: here the child slid down, and disappeared. We then continued our ride, conversing as before, and I found my companion a very delightful talker. He was perfectly mod- est and unassuming, but a man of excellent sense. I should have classed him with those persons who are described by the phrase “they would not hurt a fly ’—but at times his brown eyes flashed, and a chivalric glow lit up his dark face, as we spoke of the coming contest. When we reached a cross-road, not far from the river, and, checking his white horse, the stranger informed me that he must leave me, to pay a visit to a friend, I really regretted the part- “ing. “T hope, however, to see you again, captain,” he said, address- ing me by the title which my uniform indicated. “My house is on your road, and I shall be at home to-morrow. Ilive at Mark- ham’s, near Manassas Gap, and trust you will make use of my house to-night. My name is Turner Ashby, and my brother Richard is at home. I shall expect to see you when I reach home to-morrow morning.” I accepted this obliging offer with many thanks, as my day’s journey would terminate in the vicin- ity of Markham’s; and, with a friendly pressure of the hand, my travelling companion disappeared at full speed on his white horse. I fully intended to make my way to his house, but, as the reader will soon see, was prevented from doing so by “ circumstances over which I had no control.” 42 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. XIII. THE OWNER OF THE HANDKERCHIEF. Forvine the Rappahannock near the little hamlet of Orleans, I stopped to dine and feed my horses at the hospitable mansion of Mr. M——-; and then continued my way, drawing nearer and nearer to the long blue wave of the Ridge. T lost no*time, as heavy banks of clouds piled up on the hon- zon indicated an approaching storm; and the thunder already began to mutter in the distance. The declining sun, threatening. and bloody, poured its crimson light upon field and forest as I hastened on; and from time to time vivid. flashes of lightning lit up the dark masses slowly gathering overhead. Then all at. once, without warning, and ere I dreamed of its approach, rushed down from the mountains a veritable hurricane. Never before had I encountered anything like this sudden tor- nado. It blinded me, and took my breath away. Roaring as it came, like a thousand wild beasts unloosed, it tore across the fields, whirled amid the boughs of the forest, and carried every- thing before it. I had entered a belt of woods, through which the road ran, ere I realized the extent of the hurricane; and now went on at full speed, to escape the dangerous vicinity of crashing boughs and tree trunks. The air was filled with limbs torn from the trees, and more than once, as I passed beneath, I narrowly escaped being struck by them. All at once, as I went on at full gallop, I saw a horse shoot out from a side road, a hundred yards in front of me, and 4 second glance told me that the rider was a young lady. Her hair was flowing in heavy curls upon her shoulders, from beneath the coquettish little hat and feather; her habit streamed like a meteor; and, with head thrown back, and slender form erect in the saddle, she seemed to be enjoying the hurly-burly of the ~ storm. Behind her came a servant, urging his horse violently with VvWND UEP LOD HANUVAERCHIEF. 43 hand and heel—as perfect a specimen of terror as his young mistress was of ‘* game.” I was charmed with the enticing figure which sped on before me, and pushed my horse to his utmost speed, not only to escape the storm, but also to keep up with the young lady. AsIdid so, the hurricane increased in intensity. The air was full of fly- ing boughs: twice I was obliged to leap trees which had crashed down between myself and the young lady: finally my enjoyment of her splendid horsemanship came suddenly to an end. The storm came on with a roar which surpassed all its former fary ; a huge limb above me snapped—the next moment I was struck violently upon the head, and hurled from my horse to the ground. 8 I must have been completely stunned for some moments. When I opened my eyes and came to my senses, I saw the young lady kneeling beside me, and felt her arm under my head. At ten paces the frightened servant held her horse. The storm raged as furiously as before, but the young lady seemed perfectly indifferent to it. Suddenly I recognized in the face close to my own something familiar; then a thrill ran through my frame. It was the owner of the handkerchief which I had picked up, on that moonlight night, in the grounds of the Capitol at. Richmond! There was no sort of doubt about the identity of the young lady. There were the same beautiful lips, as red as carnations; the same waving chestnut hair; the same eyes, half haughty and half languishing—great violet eyes, which had haunted me ever since that evening! I must have looked at her fixedly, for a slight rose-color came to the cheeks. Then it faded, and she said, with the most per- fect calmness : : “Are you much hurt, sir? Your arm seems to be broken.” “YT do not know,” I murmured. ‘Iam ashamed to trouble you!” “You do not trouble me at all, sir,” was the reply of the young lady. ‘I will assist you to rise.” Was anything ever less romantic? Instead of rescuing the 44 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. young girl, of whom I had dreamed so long, here she was coming to my own succor and rescuing me / Rising faintly to my feet, with a sort of vertigo in my brain, I managed to mount my horse, which was led up at the moment, and the young lady, too, got into the saddle. “You must not ride rapidly: I fear you are seriously hurt,” she said. “Tam in no haste, and will accompany you until you feel stronger, sir.” And she calmly rode on by my side. She was in no haste!—and yet the forest was a whirlpool of falling limbs and crashing trees, as the storm roared on with unabated fury! My fair companion exhibited not a single evidence of fear—her face was as calm and cold as before. You would have said that she was riding pensively along on a tranquil May morning. We soon issued from the forest. “Will you come to my father’s house, sir, until the storm is over ?”? my companion now said. ‘I think you need some rest before riding further.” “Thanks!” I murmured, in a sort of dream, as I listened to that voice. And she led the way into a by-road which ran in the direction of a house which I saw rising from the woods upon a distant hill. Still stunned, bewildered, and scarcely realizing my situation, I rode on by the side of the young lady, who seemed not to ob- serve the rain which now drenched her chestnut curls and her riding habit. She did not again open her lips; and I was too faint and weak to address her. In a quarter of an hour we reached a large white gate, ascended a grassy hill, and stopped before the portico of an old mansion of very considerable size, overshadowed by mag- nificent oaks. I'remember some dogs were lying upon the portico, and a peacock was cowering with wet plumage beneath one of the trees. Memory is a curious faculty and deals in trifles. I had dismounted, with the vague feeling that I ought to assist A rpuLLUWHiK UF GALHOUN. 45 the young lady from the saddle, when a gentleman, with long gray hair falling upon his shoulders, came out and approached us. After that, I don’t remember much more. My arm seemed on fire; a mist passed before my eyes, and, only dimly realizing that the arm of the gray-haired gentleman was around me, I lost consciousness. Again, my dear reader, can you possibly imagine any incident less “heroic” than this first meeting with the lady of the handkerchief? XIV. A FOLLOWER OF CALHOUN. J wave no intention now of drawing a vivid and affecting pic- ture of an amiable family turned topsy-turvy and running to and fro. ‘ Here is what I saw when I opened my eyes: an old lady in a white cap, busily bandaging my broken arm; an old gentleman with long gray hair, who was superintending the operation; and a young lady with chestnut curls, who reclined in a chair oppo- site, and did not seem greatly interested in the scene. Five minutes after regaining consciousness, I had the satisfac- tion of knowing that I was not among strangers at all, but was the guest of Colonel Beverley of ‘‘ The Oaks,”’ one of my father’s oldest and most intimate friends. “M. B.,” on the handkerchief I had picked up, stood for Miss May Beverley, his daughter. On the evening of the same day, my arm felt perfectly easy; and I was talking politics with my host. He was really a character. Imagine, my dear reader, a tall, thin gentleman, nearly seventy years of age, with long gray hair falling in elf-locks on his shoulders; eyes as keen and piercing as those of an eagle; but a smile so soft and sweet that no woman’s ever exceeded it in suavity. In every movement of my host was the elegance and distinction of the old race of cavaliers ; 46 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. and in the gray-haired gentleman with the sweet and winning smile, I was utterly unable to recognize the stern old doctrinaire whom my father had often described to me—the politician of passions so fiery, invective so withering, and a combativeness so fierce and implacable. I knew that in the great war for State- rights, when South Carolina opposed Jackson in 1832, no man had been more violent and resolute than Colonel Beverley, who had passionately espoused the views of Mr. Calhoun, and proved himself a fire-brand of agitation and revolution. I need not record the conversation which took place between myself and my host. Great was his satisfaction when he heard that I was a son of ‘old Phil. Surry, one of his very best friends. I must stay as long as possible. What was the news from Richmond? These cursed Yankees were going to invade the South—the bludgeon against the rapier—the crop-eared Puritan against the Cavalier! Curse the Pilgrim Fathers, and the whole canting breed of ’em! The South had been fighting them for fifty years in Congress, and was ready now to meet them on the battle-field! John Brown nor John Devil should put the heel on him! Old Patrick Henry and Randolph of Roanoke saw clearly how the thing was going to work—saw the ‘poison under the wings’ of this Federal contrivance, which had proved a dead failure from the start! The South had paid two-thirds of the revenues of Government; had furnished all the Presi- dents; had built up the shipping and manufactures of New England; and now these people had grown presumptuous and greedy—they must put to death the bird that laid the golden egg, and get all at once! But the South was ready to meet them she would resist with the bayonet! She might be overwhelmed by numbers, but she would fight to the last. With the denial of the doctrine of State-rights every thing went; old John C. Cal- houn saw the working of the venom of Federalism and warned the North of the consequences; but they scoffed at him. War was now at hand, and the only hope for the country was in the triumph of the South. If she failed, all was over; mobocracy would rule, and all go to ruin. Against this the Sonth was the only breakwater. She must spread the old State-rights banner PYGMALION. 47 to the winds—meet the enemy breast to breast—and if she fell, let her fall with the old State-rights flag around her—glorious even in her death!” As the old doctrinaire thus spoke, his face flushed, his eyes burned, his form quivered. It was the fiery outburst of a veritable voleano—you could smell the hot odor of the hissing laval XV. PYGMALION, I wave no doubt my fair readers—if, indeed, I am honored with such—have carefully omitted perusing that tirade upon pol- itics—hastening on to some imaginary “love scenes.” Alas! mesdames, there were none at all to record. It would charm me, not only upon your account, but my own too, to describe some romantic interviews with this young lady; but I should be compelled to draw upon my imagination. That would not become the narrator of real events—and thus, all these ex- pectations must be disappointed. The young lady did not melt—indeed, she seemed to freeze more and more. I can scarcely describe the phenomenon which I then witnessed. Liking is apt to conciliate liking in return— to a certain extent, at least; but the more she knew of me, the less Miss May Beverley seemed to care for me. It is impossible to describe the chill and stately air with which the young lady received my attentions. It was the bearing of a duchess who repels one of the commonalty ; and it commenced the very day after my arrival. ! She came into the parlor where I was lying on a sofa, and slightly bending her head, upon which the bright chestnut hair was now disposed in rich braids, inquired calmly how I felt. “Thank you—a great deal better!” was my reply, as I gazed with unconcealed admiration upon the beautiful girl. “My hurt 48 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. is very trifling, and I am only too glad I received it—for it has given me the happiness of knowing you.” I must have spoken with ardor, and betrayed what I felt, for, as her eyes met my own, full of eager feeling, her cheek colored slightly, and she turned away. é “T have spoken too warmly for a stranger, perhaps, Miss Bev- erley—a mere acquaintance of yesterday,” I added, “ but you will pardon me, I hope—these are not times of ceremony. Feeling ripens rapidly now, and the acquaintance of to-day becomes the friend—perhaps more than the friend—of to-morrow!” She turned toward me—as I caught her expression, my heart sank. It was a statue of ice which I saw before me—or marble, if you like the comparison better. “Pardon my words, Miss Beverley,” I murmured, “but you are not a mere acquaintance. You exposed yourself to danger to assist me in the wood yonder ”— “Not at all, sir!” she interrupted, in a freezing tone; ‘it was nothing; and I would have done as much for any one.” I sank back, silent, and cruelly mortified. “Does your arm pain you much, sir? I hope it is better this morning. The sun is coming out, I think, and the weather promises to be fair again.” With which words, Miss May Beverley moved calmly to the window; looked out; raised her snow-white hand to arrange the braids of her hair; and then slowly glided out of the apartment —cold and stately to the last. There is the first interview, my dear feminine reader. Do you think that it promises any thing “thrilling,” or ‘“‘roman- tic”? It was a specimen of all. Miss Beverley did not thaw—she grew colder,and colder as I grew warmer. For J no longer tried to deceive myself upon the subject of my sentiments toward her. In a day—an hour, as if were—her love had become the only thing worth living for. Her eyes were the stars of the evening sky—her chestnut hair the golden waves of sunset—in her smile was the splendor of the pensive moon that shines in the summer night! 49 In other words, it was a world all “moonlight, love, and flow- e1s” which I inhabited, my dear reader. See the song for the rest. When my mind was not reduced to an imbecile condition about May Beverley, I used to lie on my sofa, and flush with anger at a thought which incessantly recurred. Had Baskerville, with whom she had been walking that evening, basely uttered in her presence something to my discredit? Had he misrepresented that encounter at the hotel, and thus poisoned the young lady’s mind against me? When that thought came to me, I clinched my hands, and fell into silent rages. More than once I deter- mined to ask, plainly, the truth; but the cold face of the young lady always repelled me. That pride and disdain, too, which is the vice of the Surry family, withheld me. If she would take that man’s word, and condemn me without a hearing, she cared nothing for me! Why should I make myself ridi- culous ? In other words, I was in love with Miss May Beverley, and my choice seemed to be unlucky. Itis an old story. I don’t mean to prose on with it. I will only say, that “day after day,” as sighs the hero of “ Love’s Chidings,” the same phenomenon was presented—a man burning, and a woman freezing. The longed-for thaw never took place in May Beverley; and even in her selection of songs—for she played and sang exquisitely—she seemed to repel. her unfor- tunate wooer. , See! she strolls to the piano, yonder, with that “regal, indo- lent air,” of a born duchess, half haughty, half careless, all grace- ful. The April sun lights up her waving hair, and crowns the bright head like a glory. Listen! she touches the piano, and then commences singing in a voice which echoes through the old hall. Do you know what she is telling, whoever listens, in that song? Here is the cheerful and jovial view of life and human nature which I listen to for my mental improvement, as I lie on my sofa, or bend over her, my face close to the perfumed hair and the snow-white neck, encircled by the thin golden chain, 3 50 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. (Favorite air of young ladies in the land of “Dixie,” as sung by Miss May Beverley, con espress. :)— “In the birth of spring to meet! In the morning air so sweet! And woman's love is sweeter than roses in May: But the birth of spring will fleet, Like the roses at her feet! And love, like the seasons, must soon pass away. “The summer svn is bright, And the swallow's wing is light— And woman's love is warm as a fair summer day; But the sun will set at night, And the swallow wing his flight— And love, like the summer, must soon pass away “The leaf on anturan’s bough In the moonlight glimmers now— And woman’s love is as pure as its soft silver ray; But the leaf goes on the gale, And the silver moon will fail— And love, like the autumn, must soon pass away | “Gay winter sweeps us by, Joy beams in every eyo— * And woman's love is gayer aud brighter than all; Bat chill’s the winter's breath, And the eye must closo in death— And love, death, and winter must all pass away !” The young lady ceases—her voice dies away, and I observe: “That is a lively and inspiring air you have selected, Miss Beverley. It is my favorite song—after the ‘Miserere’ in Trovatore.” . I laugh as I make this brilliant jest, but no smile touches the beautiful face of the young lady. “Do you like Verdi?” she says, indifferently. And touching the piano, she commences singing— “Ah! fors’ 6 lui.” As she sings, her voice soars, triumphs, and the silver trills ring through the old hall and the adjoining grounds. This time I do not joke—I hang upon her lips, With eyes glowing, bosom PYGMALION. 51 heaving, and cheeks full of passionate feeling, the young lady gives to the music of Verdi an effect which I never dreamed it possessed. The ice had melted, roses had tinted the marble face—it was a passionate girl, not a cold and stately woman, which I saw before me. Then the air died away; the color in the cheeks faded: she was marble again. “You spoke of the ‘Miserere,’” she said, in a tone of careless indifference, as she ran her hands over the instrument before her, “Yes, it is the soul of sadness.” “Then you do not wish to hear it?” “On the contrary, I should be delighted if you would sing it.” “T will try, then; if I weary you, tell me, and I will stop.” If she wearied me! The idea seemed curious to the hapless individual who could have stood there, beside her, and listened to her forever. So, in slow, measured strains, came that singular air which Owen Meredith heard Mario sing, ‘“ Aux Italiens,” and which brought back his early love from the grave. That is a tenor song, my dear reader, as you doubtless know; and beforeI heard May Beverley, Ithought no woman could sing it. She made the music magical, and I still hear that strain, echoing forever in my memory. Was it her own heart speaking in the mournful music? Had she ever bidden farewell to any love in those wild accents? I knew not—I only knew that her voice produced an indescribable effect upon me, and that, on that day, I did not ask her to sing again. I pass on from that period of enchantment. It was only for a moment, now and then, that the violet eyes glowed, the cheeks filled with color. The young lady remained as obstinately chill as before; and yet alittle incident at the time seemed to indicate that she possessed deep and earnest feelings. There was a young Charley Beverley, her brother, who had been off on a visit somewhere, but returned now to ‘The Oaks” to get’ his equipments and join the forces on the Potomac, 52 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. Charley was a gay youngster, of about seventeen, with only one passion. in the world—to ride unbroken colts: only one ambi- tion—to shoulder a musket and go and fight “the Yankees.” He was a favorite with all, but bis sister May seemed his special adorer. She hung around the youth with the deepest fondness and devotion; sewed night and day at his articles of clothing; could not bear, apparently, to have him out of her sight, and, when he was leaving her, covered his face with passionate kisses, and burst into an agony of tears. As the youth disap- peared, she passed by a certain gentleman with an air of utter unconsciousness of the fact of his existence, and, going to her chamber, did not reappear again until the next morning. She then made her appearance, as cold and haughty-as before. All traces of emotion had vanished from her face; her tones were calm andj indifferent; her walk as measured, stately, and queenlike as before. Altogether, I came to the conclusion that Miss May Beverley was a singular character, and I only regretted that I had been so unfortunate as to become the victim of her beautiful eyes. Things are in a desperate condition with a wooer, my dear reader, when he is sorry that he ever met “her.” If you are young and susceptible, I strongly advise you to avoid the jille du marbre. Sunshine and roses are much better than the gray skies of winter, when the shining flowers seem destined never to bloom, again! oe Vi Lic THE GUEST WHO DID NOT COME. Two or three more scenes will terminate those days at “The Oaks.” I shall now ask the reader to be present at a grand dinner which the hospitable Colonel Beverley gave in honor of his chance guest. Here is the company seated at the broad table, in the large dining-room, through which go and come, with shining faces, the ebon subjects of the. well-known “irrepressible conflict.” THE GUEST WHO DID NOT COME. 58 After the dessert is finished, the ladies disappear—Mrs. Bever- ley bland and smiling, her daughter silent and distraite. The old Colonel then begins to talk politics. He has sur- rounded himself with a Spartan phalanx of “ original secession- ists,” every one of whom is a passionate admirer of the great Calhoun, and the unanimity of the company, upon politics, is almost painfully perfect. Tt is hard to find points of difference sufficient to.afford discussion; but the Colonel manages to pick out an old gentleman who injudiciously ‘doubts if the views of Mr. Calhoun were entirely practicable”—and then the storm begins. Let us close our ears to it, reader, and remain quiet ; it will soon expend its wrath. Listen! it is already over, and Colonel Beverley is addressing your humble servant. ‘Captain Surry,” he says, bowing and drinking a glass of Ma- deira to my good health, “ you are here in the midst of the lead- ing traitors and chief gentlemen—the two being the same—of the County of Fauquier. There is not a single neighbor of mine absent to-day—yes, one is not here, bnt no invitation ever tempts him.” “Who is your hermit, Colonel?” “You may well give him that name. I sent him a pressing invitation to meet you to-day, but he very politely refused.” I began to laugh. “JT am more anxious than ever to hear who he is—-as not even the charms of my society can move him.” “His name is Mordannt.” “T do not know him.” “But surely you must have heard of him?” ‘Not in the least. We are too good Virginians down there on the Rappahannock, to hear of, or care for, anybody out of our own county.” The old Colonel laughed and replied : “Well, that accounts for it; but I must tell you about Mor- daunt. He is one of our celebrities, though few people have ever seen him. In one word you have described him—he is an absolute hermit.” ‘“ And where does he live?” ‘ 54 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. “On a spur of the Blue Ridge, a few miles from this place. His life of seclusion is only a part of the singularity about him.” “You excite my curiosity more and more, Colonel.” “Well, I'll try and gratify it, though I really know little, of my own knowledge, in regard to him. There is something mys- terious about the man and his history—a somewhat doubtful re- commendation you will say—but our Mordaunt is unquestionably a gentleman. He is still a young man, between thirty-five and forty at least; but is known to have served against the French in Algiers, where he fought for many years, taking the side of the Arabs. It is even said that he became a leading chief among these wild bands, and was as active against their enemies as if he had been a good Mussulman.” “ That is a curious story, Colonel.” “Ts it not? But the man and his surroundings are even more singular. I have met him two or three times—purely by acci- dent—and can describe him to you. He is tall and dark—in fact, burnt nearly black by the sun of the tropics ; but his manner is very distinguished, and it is impossible not to see that he is a gentleman born and bred. Now, as to his mode of living. It is said that his house, which is situated in a secluded part of the country, near the mountain, is full of tiger skins, strange weapons, and a hundred outlandish mementos of travel in distant lands. An ample estate enables him to gratify every whim, but he is said to live very simply, spending most of his time in his study. When not thus engaged, he is hunting, or taking long and solitary rides among the mountains. All the old hunters know him, and look upon him as a demi-god. He prefers their society, appa- rently, to that of all other persons—though he scarcely ever opens his lips, it is said, except to speak in Arabic to a Moorish attend- ant he has brought with him from Algiers. Is not all that rather curious ?” “A real chapter from the pages of romance, Colonel; but what is the mystery of his life?” “T really do not know—nor does anybody. He came to live in this country a few years ago, but he goes nowhere, discourages visitors, and it was only by accident that I made his acquaintance. P-- THE ‘“‘LAST RIDE TOGETHER.” 55 I have invited him to come and see me, two or three times, but he always sends a cool, though perfectly courteous, refusal. I thought I could tempt him to break his rule to-day—but you see T have failed.” “T am sorry, for I really should like to meet your singular hermit.” And the conversation glided to other topics. Soon afterward the company rose, and, hearing the piano, I went into the draw- ing-room and found Miss May Beverley singiag the ‘ Tempesta del mio cor.” Was there really a storm raging in the heart of that statue? I had never seen her look colder, or less repellant in her manner, though the music of Verdi had brought a faint rose-tint to the beautiful cheeks. She ceased singing as I entered, and strolled carelessly to the window. “Tt is a very fine day,” she said, beating a tattoo on the pane. “Superb,” I replied, ‘and I am sorry that the company to-day prevented the ride you promised to take.” “ Yes—I think I should have enjoyed it.” “Will you ride to-morrow, then?” “Tf you wish, sir.” “What were you playing?” “Nothing.” And she strolled away languidly, preferring her own thoughts, apparently, to my society. Pygmalion sighed—his statue seemed never destined to glow with human feeling. XVII. THE “LAST RIDE TOGETHER.” Tuerz isa piece in Browning called “ The Last Ride Together.” Did you ever meet with it, my dear reader? It is worth your notice. Read that wonderful extravaganza, that supreme cry of passion from a heart that fails in the struggle, and you will 56 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. have some idea of the feelings of a friend of yours when he took his last ride with May Beverley. The month of flowers had come now—May had bloomed in all its glory—and the girl who bore the name of this month of months seemed blooming too. The balmy breezes blew against her cheeks just tinted with the rose, made the ribbons of her bodice flutter gayly, and just stirred the bright waves of her chestnut hair, in which nestled z single flower of spring. The lips, pensive and half parted, had the ripe red of the carnation— the great dreamy eyes were as blue as the sky above us. Then I knew what the poet meant when he made his unfor- tunate hero utter that prayer, that he might “ride forever, for- ever ride” by the side of the woman he adored. The young lady had promised to conduct me to a lofty hill, from which there was a superb view, and we were soon flying along through fields and forests toward the Blue Ridge. In half an hour we reached the hil), and I saw far beneath me the green slopes of Fauquier, crowned with white mansions, embowered in the young spring foliage. To the right, and in rear of us, rose the shaggy, pine-clad sides of the Blue Ridge. She checked her horse, and, leaning her cheek upon her hand, murmured, as she gazed at the beautiful landscape: “ What a contrast to the tedium and sameness of society!” Then looking at me with her large, pensive eyes: “T believe I will turn hermit,” she added. “Like the Solitary of the Blue Ridge? He must have inocu- lated you with his enthusiasm for retirement.” “T have never seen him,” was her reply. “ And you do not know where he lives?” “No, I have never heard.” And she relapsed into silence. I see her now as I saw her then—leaning her fair cheek langnidly upon the delicate gauntlet, and gazing pensively toward the blue horizon. She wore a brown habit which revealed every outline of the exquisite figure—slender, and swaying like the reed, or the lily; the plume in her riding-hat just shaded her white forehead, and against the snowy neck shone the glossy THE “LAST RIDE TOGETHER.” 57 braids of her hair. There, sitting upon her docile bay, in the bright spring afternoon, May Beverley was “a sight to make an old man young.” You fancy, perhaps, that the spring sunshine had at last thrilled her pulses, and that the marble statue had become a happy girl. Listen! “ Life is a dull affair,” she murmurs; “nature the only solace, and even that is not very gay. Come, sir, you must be tired of waiting. Let us ride on.” So we descended the hill, and rode in the direction of another. Pausing to enjoy every new view, the young lady did not seem to observe the lapse of time. The light slowly faded, darkness approached, and we found ourselves many miles from ‘‘The Oaks,” in a wild and unknown region. “We had better return,” I said. “But do you know the country ?” She looked round carelessly, and replied: ‘Not in the least, sir?” “Then I really think we had better lose no time in retracing our steps before the light entirely disappears.” She bent her head indifferently, and turned her horse into a road which led through a belt of woods. “This is the direction to ‘The Oaks,’” she said. “I know by the mountain.” And she tranquilly rode on; but I was by no means satisfied. We were in a wild and rugged country—I knew how easily a road is lost—and night was now upon us. We had entered what resembled an interminable forest, and soon the winding charac- ter of the road we pursued rendered it almost certain that we were not proceeding in the direction of “The Oaks.” “T am very sorry to inform you, Miss Beverley,” I said at last, “that we have lost our way. This a slight affair to myself, but the air is growing cold, and you are very thinly clad.” “It is nothing,” she replied coolly; “I never take cold, and we can inquire at the first house we find.” But none appeared—still stretched on and on the interminable forest. 3 58 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. It was then that I thought of the “Last Ride” of Browning. If we never reached “The Oaks” any more forever, but con- tinued thus to ride, side by side! would that destiny be hard? J would have accepted it. But suddenly a light glimmered through the foliage to the left, and we soon reached a tall gate, which evidently led into the grounds of a dwelling-house. We passed through it, rode on through an avenue of magnificent trees, and, ascending a gentle slope, found ourselves in front of a low, brick mansion, with extensive wings, over which drooped the arms of some enormous black oaks. I dismounted, and at the first sound of the knocker—I remember it was a scowling face, in bronze, like the mask of the old trage- dians—the door opened, and a singular figure presented itself. It was that of a young Moor, about eighteen apparently, with a slender frame, swarthy face, and sparkling black eyes. He wore an ornamented caftan, a braided jacket, and around his waist was tied a shawl by way of girdle. I briefly explained the object of my visit, but the young Moor shook his head, evidently to indicate that he did not understand my words. Iwas about to repeat my attempt to make him com- prehend me, when all at once.my eyes encountered an object which drove everything else from my mind. The door leading into an apartment on the right of the entrance was open; a chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling lit up a strange scene of furs, weapons, and pictures; but what at once riveted my gaze was a portrait hanging on the wall of the apartment, full in the light of the chandelier. That portrait was the most exact likeness of the young lady I had encountered at the house in the Wilderness—Violet Grafton. I gazed at it with very great astonishment. Why was that picture hanging here? Oould the Solitary of the Mountains— for this was plainly the house-of Mordaunt—know the girl buried yonder in that obscure mansion? Here plainly was her portrait; what relation did she bear to him? T was still gazing, lost in astonishment, at the beautiful face, with its mild eyes peering out from the golden ringlets, when THE ‘‘LAST RIDE TOGETHER.” 59 the hoof-strokes of a horse resounded on the avenue, and the young Moor, who had remained standing by me motionless, at once hastened to the door. A man riding a powerful black horse had halted there, and across the pommel of his saddle I saw the dead body of a bear, still bleeding from a deep gash in the throat. The light then fell upon the features of the horseman. I recognized the un- known adversary of Fenwick in the duel at Hollywood Cemetery. Mordaunt—for the reader no doubt understands that this was the solitary—saluted Miss Beverly with profound but ice-like courtesy. Then he bestowed a bow of the same description upon me. I hastened to break the awkward pause by an explanation of the object of our visit. Mordaunt replied in a tone of formal politeness that he would send a servant to guide us back—mean- while, as Miss Beverley must be fatigued, would she honor him by dismounting? When this proposal was declined, the formal personage uttered three words in Arabic, to the young Moor, and in a few minutes a mounted servant was ready to accom- pany us. Mr. Mordaunt was evidently accustomed to talk little and to be served promptly. He did not utter another word, and his formal air—mingled with deep gloom—had not changed for an instant. “You have a magnificent bear there,’ I said as I mounted; ‘¢was he killed in the mountain, sir?” “ Yes, sir,” was the brief reply; “he gave me a hard fight, but I mastered him.” A slight color came to the swarthy cheek. The recollection of his combat seemed to please the stranger. But he seemed to have little desire to describe it or to prolong the interview. His tanner was perfectly polite, but no ice could be colder; and, thanking him for the guide, I set out with the young lady for “The Oaks.” A ceremonious bow from the tall, gloomy figure—a slight movement of Miss Beverley’s head in return—so we parted. “Well, what do you think of the hermit?” I said, laughing, as we rode on. 60 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. “He is very cold in his manners,” was her indifferent reply. “Something in his past life must have made him melancholy.” In an hour we had reached “ The Oaks.” XVIII. THE ALGERINE. On the next morning I mounted my horse, and, following the road by which we had returned on the preceding night, soon found myself again in sight of Mordaunt’s house. The object of my visit is easily explained. I had never ceased to remember the cold and yet passionate tones of that deep voice which had resounded before the: duel in Hollywood Cem- etery; and I know not what it was that told me, that some great tfagedy had darkened this man’s life—some mortal poison im- bittered a character grand, noble, and magnanimous. I could read that great nature in the clear bold eyes, the proud curl of the lips, and the dignity of his most passionate utterances. Now, this man, in whom I took an irresistible interest, was about to be the victim of a plot devised by his bitter adversary. The young lady whose portrait was hanging on his wall—his friend or his kinswoman—was the object of the dark designs of Fen- wick, as I had ascertained that morning in the Wilderness. It was certain that these designs were unknown to Mordaunt. Was it not absolutely incumbent upon me, as a man of honor, to put him on his guard by revealing them? It did not take me very long to decide that question; and the result was my visit. I entered the tall gate, passed between the long rows of trees, through the extensive grounds, and, dismount- ‘ing, grasped the scowling knocker, and let it fall. This time a negro answered my summons, and, showing me into the room on the right, containing the portrait, went to announce my visit to his master. The apartment in which I found myself was curious. It was evidently the private sitting-room of the owner of the mansion ; THE ALGERINE. 61 and, as I afterward discovered, I had been shown into it by mistake. Nothing more outré than the appearance of this room, can possibly be imagined. The furniture was antique, with gro- tesque ornaments carved upon the wood; and, in place of a car- pet, the floor was covered with the most magnificent skins, pre- serving the outlines of the animals from which they had been torn. Here were the shaggy spoils of the lion of Morvcco; the mottled and tawny skins of the Bengal tiger; and the brilliant fur of the East India leopard, as soft as and more pliable than the finest velvet. With these were mingled other rich furs; and the peculiarity which struck me was the extreme care taken to pre- serve the appearance of the animals. The eyes were réplaced by dazzling globes of agate; the teeth grinned threateningly be- neath the curled lips; and the sharp claws aeemied ready to tear any one who approached. On two sides of the apartment the walls were covered with books in every language. The opposite wall was filled with pic- tures, representing combats on foot or horseback; encounters between French Zouaves and Arabs in white burnous; hunting scenes, and every species of conflict with man or animal. Be- tween the pictures hung, crossed as trophies, weapons of every description, including beautiful specimens of the Moorish yata- ghan, the Turkish scimetar, the deadly crease of the Malays, and, by way of grim jest apparently, one of the long rude pikes used by John Brown and his followers when they invaded-Virginia. On the table lay pipes of every form, chibouques, hookahs, nar- ghilés, meerschaums carved into grotesque or beautiful figures, and the plain but excellent Powhatan pipe of Virginia. In porcelain jars beside them were a dozen varieties of tobacco— the pale Latakia; the dark Shiraz; the Peerrique from New Or- leans, black, fibrous, and powerful; and the milder brown, that which is raised on the south side of James River. Across an open volume of Hugo’s “Les Miserables,” which had then just appeared, lay a black meerschaum, which its owner seemed to have been lately smoking. Such was this curious apartment; and it was impossible not to speculate upon the character of the individual whose tastes it 62 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. seemed to reflect. Here were the spoils of war and the chase ; the best books of all languages; and pictures which seemed to start from the walls as you gazed upon them. Was my host, then, a mixture of the soldier, the hunter, the student, and the amateur of art? One thing was very plain—that he had little taste for female beauty: not a picture of the entire collection contained a single female figure. The portrait of Miss Grafton was the sole recognition of the existence of her sex. I was gazing intently at this portrait, whose resemblance to my beautiful young hostess of the Wilderness struck me still more forcibly than before, when the door opened, I heard a step be- hind me, and the owner of the mansion entered. His manner, as he greeted me, was characterized by the same cold yet perfect politeness which I had observed on the preced- ing evening. But in this there was no affectation whatever. It seemed never to have occurred to him that he ought to ask, ‘To what am I indebted, sir, for the honor of this visit?” That is a phrase, my dear reader, which is used only in novels, or by charlatans. Mr. Mordaunt’s bearing was gloomy, but that of a Virginia gentleman welcoming a guest. He was evidently a man of the world, however, and, like the Black Douglas, his hand was his own.” He was perfectly polite—seemed to regard my visit as a courtesy bestowed upon him—but there everything ended. Bghind the host was the man—and with that personage Mr. Mordatnt evidently thought that I had nothing to do. His voice, as he conversed upon the events of the day, was deep, measured, and sonorous: his manner, although gloomy, was high-bred, and what we call, for want of a better word, * distin- guished.” In half an hour I saw plainly that this hermit of my imagination was not only a deep and powerful thinker, but a trained and self-collected man of the world. From the fugitive topics of the moment, the conversation passed to art, and I said, as I pointed to the picture of Miss Graf- ton: “Twas admiring that fine head when you entered, Mr. Mor- daunt. It is a portrait, is it not?” “Yes, sir,”” was his reply, in a voice of perfect coolness. THE ALGERINE. 63 “T think I know the original.” “The original!” he said, with a sudden glow upon his swarthy face; ‘‘you know the original? That is impossible, sir—she is dead.” “Dead!” I exclaimed, in my turn, ‘why, that is impossiblet I saw her only a few days ago.” . My host greeted this statement with a look of unmistakable astonishment. He did not speak for a moment; and then said, coolly, in his deep, measured voice: “You have doubtless met some lady who resembles this por- trait, sir. I repeat, that the original is long since dead.” “ Are you certain, Mr. Mordaunt?” “Perfectly certain, sir.” And I saw something like a shadow pass over his broad fore- head. “Your statement fills me with the utmost astonishment,” I said. ‘Then you do not know a young lady named Violet Graf- ton?” “T have never heard of her, sir.” I looked at my host. It was impossible to believe that this man, with the proud and loyal look, the deep, earnest voice, and the bearing so cold and grave, could be deceiving me. And yet it was utterly impossible that this portrait was not intended for Miss Grafton. The likeness was positively startling. Curiosity had now mastered me and absorbed every other sen- timent. I determined to penetrate, if possible, that armor of re- serve in which my singular host had encased himself. “You have never heard of Miss Grafton, Mr. Mordaunt?” I said. ‘Well, at least, you know a Mr. Fenwick, do you not?” The question struck home. The head, which had drooped as though bowed down by some gloomy recollection, suddenly rose erect, and Mordaunt gazed at me with a glance so piercing that the dark eyes seemed straining to penetrate my inmost soul. Then the head sank sgain, and he replied, in tones more cold and formal than I had yet heard from his lips: “Yes, I know a person named Fenwick, sir.” “This person, at least, is alive, is he not?” 64 SURRY OF EAGLE'S-NEST. “T believe so,” he said; and a flash of unmistakable hatred lit up his black eye. “ Well, I know it, Mr. Mordaunt.” - “You are, then, acquainted with him ?” was his cold interrog- atory. “T have never exchanged a word with him, but I have seen him twice, and under somewhat peculiar cirsumstances. On the first occasion he was engaged in a duel—on the second, he was plotting against the peace of a young lady.” Mordaunt looked at me fixedly, and said: “Where did that duel take place, sir?” ‘““In the grounds of Hollywood Cemetery, at Richmond.” He did not reply for a moment, and his dark eye still remained fixed upon my own. Then he said, with perfect coolness: “T really do not see how your presence, upon that occasion, could have escaped me, sir. I thought that the principals and seconds in the affair were the only persons who witnessed the meeting you refer to.” In ten words, [recounted everything. Mordaunt listened with- out interrupting me, and, when I had finished, said, with cool indifference: “Well, that was really curious; and your explanation shows that, in this world, many things pass us by without attracting our notice. I thought the parties in that affair were the only persons present.” “You thought, .also, that your adversary was dead, Mr. Mor- daunt——but he is not. He is not only alive, but at this very moment is engaged in a conspiracy against a young lady who, if not the original, is the exact image of the portrait hanging yon- der on your wall.” And I briefly informed my host of that encounter with Fenwick, at the house in the Wilderness; repeating the words which I had heard him utter on the steps. Mordaunt listened with close attention, and seemed especially struck with my description of Miss Grafton. “The image of ‘my portrait!” he muttered; “that is very strange—these singular resemblances!” THE ALGERINE. 65 His eye wandered to the picture as he thus muttered to him- Self, and he seemed to pass in gloomy thought to other scenes. His brows contracted, his lips became rigid; then something like a bitter smile came to them. Suddenly he seemed to realize my presence, and his glance was lowered. His face resumed all at once its former expression of impenetrable coldness, “You will pardon my absence of mind, sir,” he said, in his formal tone. ‘Iam almost a recluse here, and the habit grows upon me. Thanks for your visit, and this information in regard to that person and his plots. You know more of my relations with him than I thought you could; but I am sorry to say that circumstances of a private nature will not permit me to explain an enmity which must appear somewhat singular to you. You heard the words I addressed to my adversary’s second, when le attempted to stop that affair. Thus you know in what light I regard this person. I have sworn the vendetta against him, Cap- tain Surry,” continued my host with a flash of the dark eyes which resembled lurid lightning, ‘‘and I will keep that oath! There is something more sure and fatal than the instinct of the bloodhound: it is the eye and hand of the man who has sworn to have his vengeance!” “T tell you this, sir,” he said, more coldly, after pausing for a moment, ‘‘ because you are a gentleman of mind and discretion, who will feel no temptation to repeat my words. So much for the relations which exist between myself and that wretch. Of this Miss Grafton, I declare to you again, that I know nothing. If she resembles this portrait, as you seem to think, the resem- blance is purely accidental. As to the plot of that person, and the danger she is exposed to, I shall only say that I hope soon to remove all possibility of annoyance from that quarter.” There was no mistaking the meaning of these words, so cold and full of menace; but the speaker seemed to suppress, by a powerful effort of his will, any further exhibitions of enmity, and plainly wished to change the topic. “My servant has shown you into my private study, sir,” he now said with his former air of courteous reserve, “and these 66 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. decorations, no doubt, appear to you eccentric. They are the rubbish of travel, and were intended for no eye but my own.” “They interest me much,” was my reply. ‘You have visited Europe?” “Yes, I spent some years there.” “In Algiers.” “Ah! you discover that from my pictures and weapons.” “No, I heard it before I ever saw you.” “Well, gossip is right for once, sir.” “You served against the French.” “Yes, I took part with the Arabs.” ‘“‘ And have brought back one of the faithful.” “You mean my Moor, Achmed?” “Ts that his name?” “Yes. The youth took a fancy to me when he was a mere child, and, since the death of his father, who fell in battle, has remained with me. I am very much attached to him, and I believe that he would lay down his life for me.” “ Were you often engaged with the French ?” ‘“‘Frequently—they are the best troops in the world. I did not rank myself on the side of the Arabs from any dislike of their enemies, but because their soil was invaded.” “The same principle will, doubtless, lead you to offer your sword to the South.” “ Assuredly.” “You, then, think of entering the army?” “T never thought upon the subject. I ama Virginian—I fight. therefore, as a matter of course,” “ You are right, Mr. Mordaunt. And what branch of the ser- vice, may I ask, do you intend to enter?” “The cavalry—it is that with which I am most familiar. I have already raised a company, and it is nearly ready for the field. The men are all mountaineers of this region, excellently mounted, and have done me the honor to choose me for their captain, from having heard, I suppose, that I am not entirely a novice in military matters. But I am indulging in egotism. Will you smoke? Here are several sorts of pipes and varieties THE ALGERINE. 67 of tobacco, sent me from Europe. I prefer a plain meerschaum, and the Lynchburg in that jar near your hand: you will find it excellent.” I declined, and, pointing to the volume upon which his own pipe rested, said: ° “T see you are reading ‘ Les Miserables.’ It absorbed me, in Richmond, where I found a copy. Do you like it?” “Té is a mournful book,” replied Mordaunt, “and at times affects even as rough a husk as my own. It is rather too long, perhaps; but then the subject is an inexhaustible one, the history of ‘the wretched.’” “It is the story of humanity.” “You are right,” said my host, ‘‘a tragedy, that is to say.” “ Are all lives tragic?” “ When they are not dull. Life is a poor affair, to my thinking Captain Surry, and the shadow predominates. But we are growing didactic. Are you fond of arms? I have a tolerable collection.” And taking down weapon after weapon, Mordaunt pointed out, with evident interest in the subject, their various merits. “Man is a blood-thirsty animal,” he said, ‘and cudgels his brains to invent improved instruments of death. But after all, this medizval bludgeon, studded with points of steel, is as effec- tive as the last invention. My own favorite is the light French sabre, pliable and pointed. Held at tierce-point, with the horse at a gallop, it easily pierces through from breast to back.” And he passed to other weapons. When they were exhausted, he called my attention to the pictures. When, an hour afterward, I partéd with my host, I felt that I had been conversing with a remarkable man. Beneath the cold exterior I could easily see the traces of a powerful organization ; _in the flash of the dark eye there was a latent force and passion which would make this man equal to the most desperate under- takings. Such should have been the commander of the French cuirassiers who charged the living volcanoes of English infantry at Waterloo: such the officer at the head of the ‘Six Hundred” who rode through the Russian fire at Balaklava. Something told me that, in work like this, the stern and passionate spirit J 68 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. under that mask of ice would rejoice—and I lived to see the hour and the man both come. XIX. THE STATUE SPEAKS. TuE moment now approached when I must leave this domain of enchantment, and forget all the dreams in which I had in- dulged. My arm was well, and duty called me. I went without reluctance, for it was plain now that my suit was hopeless. It is not an agreeable confession, but I am com- pelled to state that Miss May Beverley seemed to care no more for me on the last than on the first day of my visit. I go fur- ther, and say that I think she cared less for me. Thad kept her handkerchief, picked up on that evening, in- tending to return it when the moment came, with ‘a few re- marks,” such as we read in novels. How absurd did this “silly romance”? now appear! That pretty little drama quite hung fire, and I thought I saw her laughing instead of blushing! Now, when a young lady laughs upon such occasions, you might as well pocket your romance, get into the saddle, and wave her ‘adieu for evermore!” That is all excellent advice, and I bestow it upon the reader in the gayest manner to-day. You see the wound has healed: at that time it was bleeding. I jest now, but then I was the prey of anger, disappointment, outraged pride, wounded vanity, and wretchedness generally. Those poisonous distillations of the human heart are not wholesome, and did not contribute very greatly to my happiness at the time. When one day I announced my intention to set out for the Potomac on the next morning, I found the Colonel and Mrs. Beverley inuch more deeply impressed by that important state- ment than the young lady; and indeed it seemed to be a matter of perfect indifference to her whether I stayed or went away. I found myself alone with her that evening on the steps of the THE STATUE SPEAKS. 63: portico, and it is impossible to imagine any thing more coolly indifferent than her demeanor. Disappointment, anger, mortified pride!—see an allusion above to the feelings of one of the parties to that interview. The moon was shining, and the dreamy splendor lit up the beautiful head with the waving hair and the great violet eyes. I had never known May Beverley look so beautiful, but there was an expression upon her face which I had never seen there before. , Pride, weariness, and a sort of scornful despair—all were written in those eyes, and upon those lips, in characters that could not be mistaken. I could scarcely extract a word from her: she seemed brooding over something, and from time to time looked furtively toward me, instantly withdrawing her eyes when they met mine. “ What does all this mean!” I said to myself, with a sort of gloomy surprise. ‘Mademoiselle seems distraite to-night, and with something on her mind. Well, I'll try and see if I can’t arouse her.” And, suppressing a bitter laugh which rose to my lips, I said: “This isa charming night! It reminds me of one in Rich- mond not long since—on the Capitol Square, where the musio was playing.” She did not seem to hear me, but I saw her face flush and then grow pale. “Tsaw you there that night,” I went on; “did I never tell youl saw you? That day in the storm was not our first meet- ing.” She turned and looked. at me, “You saw me!” she said, in a low tone. “Certainly! Ihad that great pleasure; and you don’t think it possible that I should forget it?” She must have observed my bitterness, for a strange expression came to her face. “You were walking with Mr. Baskerville: is that gentleman a friend of yours?” A lurid light came to her eyes, and her roses all faded. Looking me straight in the eyes, she remained silent for sev- 70 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. eral minutes, and I could see her face in the moonlight flush crimson. Then this was succeeded by a pallor so deadly that I thought she was about to faint; she placed her hand on her heart, and, still looking straight at me, murmured hoarsely : “JT am engaged to Mr. Baskerville!” The blow I had received from that falling limb in the forest was nothing to those words. I gazed atthe speaker with an air, I am convinced, of imbecile wonder, and in vain attempted to utter some reply. She must have seen, or fancied she saw, an expression of scorn upon my pale face, for suddenly her brow flushed again, and she haughtily exclaimed: “You seem exceedingly surprised, sir! Do you find any thing very extraordinary in this announcement? Yes, sir—I repeat that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Baskerville!” What couldI reply? There are moments when all language fails, and the very blood seems to stagnate. J remained thus. dumb and bewildered, looking at the person who had uttered these words; and then slowly came the full conviction of my misery—slowly, as the gloomy moon rises, blood-red and men- acing, over some battle-field covered with the dead. This, then, was the end of all my romantic dreams!—this was the mortal: blow which had struck me to the very heart—May Beverley was to marry Baskerville! As I muttered that name audibly, in a tone of inexpressible scorn, the young lady uttered a hoarse moan, and exclaimed, with cruel sarcasm: “One would really suppose, sir, that you did not approve of the match, and were going to refuse your consent to it!” Those words revived me, like a bitter tonic. They aroused all my pride, and made me a man again. Suppressing every exhibi- tion of emotion, I said, in a tone as cold and measured as I could assume at the moment : “T beg that Miss Beverley will pardon any thing in my manner which is offensive or disagreeable to her. She must be aware that my approval or disapproval of any course she may pursue amounts to nothing whatever; and I am quite sure that my opinions even are a matter of complete indifference to her. I THE STATUE SPEAKS. 71 did fancy, at one time, that there was something like friendship between us; but that, too, is scattered to the winds at this moment. I will not intrude further upon your presence, Miss Beverley.” And, with bitterness at my heart, I rose and was about to leave her. She retained me with a single movement of her hand—the other was twitching convulsively at the gold chain around her neck. She had turned her head away—she now looked at me, and her eyes were full of tears. “Pardon me,” she said, in a low voice, “I did not mean to offend you. I have known you but a short time, but I would not willingly forfeit your regard. I am very wretched, sir! No one seems to care for me. You think me cold, my temper dis- dainful—do not deny it, sir, I have read it in your eyes. I am very proud, sir—I do not value the good opinion of everybody— but I would do much to retain yours.” She paused: her voice trembled; but I saw in her eyes the light of~a determined resolution. She had evidently made up her mind to pursue some course from which her feelings recoiled. “T have informed you of my engagement, sir—do you know why? Iam about to utter words which no woman should speak lightly, without a good reason.” She stopped again—then her cheeks were covered with blushes, and she said, hurriedly : “You are attached to me—I could not avoid seeing it! You are an honorable gentleman, and I should have despised myself forever if I had suffered you to be deceived—to remain in igno- rance of what I have told you! Ihave resolved many times to tell you—I had not the courage. Every day I formed that reso- lution—every day it has been broken! I have tried to discourage you—I have made myself very disagreeable. I have been cold, satirical, even bitter—when I would have given worlds to have appeared in my natural character, and won your friendship! You know all now—-I am very unhappy, sir—but I am a proud person, and I acted honorably, did I not? This avowal is almost killing me, sir!—but I must go on until I have finished! It has made me sick at heart to reflect that you regarded me asa young 72 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. lady whose hand was disengaged, when I was the victim of a formal contract. Yes, victim! I say victim!” she exclaimed, in a voice of inexpressible anguish; “the victim of a hateful, an intolerable engagement! You shall know all, sir—you must know it! My father was the friend of Mr. Baskerville*s father —he is dead now—and an agreement was made between them that when Mr. Frederick Baskerville and myself grew up, we should be married. He came to see me when he was a child, and continued to do so as he grew older. I was educated in the idea that I was some day to marry him—I admired him as a boy, for his grace and ease of manner—and, when I was but fifteen, engaged myself to him. His father, who was very fond of me, died soon afterward, rejoicing that the marriage would now surely take place; and my own father, who is the slave of his word, declares that I am doubly bound, first by his promise to his friend who is dead, and again by my word to Mr. Basker- ville!” Again she paused; her voice had a cold and desolate intona- tion now, which jarred upon the ear. I pitied her, but at the name of Baskerville all my rage and misery overflowed. “You do not speak!” she murmured in a piteous tone, “per- haps I weary you.” “Your words tear my heart!” I said. ‘Why do you utter them? Why not simply say ‘Go! I care nothing for you!’ Your confidence honors me—but I scarcely understand its ob- ject!” “You shall soon understand?” she exclaimed bitterly. “I mean that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Baskerville, and that I cannot bear him!—that for years past, since I have dis- covered his real character, I have shuddered at that contract!— that my life is imbittered by the very thought of marrying him !—and yet nothing I can do or say will change my father’s purpose, or prevent him from insisting upon this marriage with aman I actually loathe!” _ It was a wail of despair I listened to—the cry of a broken heart. I forgot my own anguish as I listened to that. voice, and would have given all I hoped to possess of fame or wealth or THE STATUE SPEAKS. %8 happiness to have drawn the poor girl to me and sheltered her in my arms. Setting my teeth together, I could only mutter : “When is this marriagé to take place?” “When I am twenty-one,” she murmured. * And you will marry that man?” “T must.” The words sounded like a knell What was there to reply? I looked at her as she held down her head, crying silently. “Do you remember that moonlight night in Richmond ?” oT Yes.” “Here is your handkerchief, which I picked up—I return it to you.” And I placed it in her hand. “T saw you for the first time that night—and now that my dream is over—now that you deny me all hope, and have resolved upon this marriage with a man you abhor—I can now tell you calmly, and, wid tell you that I loved you from that mo- ment !—that I love you now—as a man loves with his blood and his heart! Idid not know your name whea I saw you that night—I never expected to meet you again—and yet that day in the storm I opened my eyes to see you bending overme! I thought that Good Fortune smiled upon me then—but you stead- ily grew colder from that hour. To-day, I know why, and I honor you! You area noble girl! The misery of miseries is, that you are going to marry this man, whom you despise. You are Tight—he is a poor creature!—pardon me! there is some- thing here at my heart that fills me with bitterness—it is the thought that you are to be the wife of that person! That res- olution disarms me—TI have no strength to contend against it! What canI do? Killhim? Would you marry me then? Iam conquered—unless you do what you have aright to do before God and man !—refuse to fulfil that contract! Well you re- fuse?” “T cannot!” came in a low moan from the girl. “Then farewell.” Both rose at the same moment. Her face was as white as a 4 74 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. sheet, and the hand she gave me as cold as ice. She placed the other over her eyes and retired, without uttering a sound, to her chamber. On the next morning she did not appear, and I left “The Oaks” without again seeing her. XX. THE RUINED CHURCH AND THE STRANGER. I enrrrep the great Valley of Virginia through Ashby’s Gap, on a May morning which rendered the scene inexpressibly lovely. The Shenandoah glided away beneath the mottled arms of the huge sycamores upon its banks, with a murmar as soft and sweet as the distant tinkling of silver bells; green fields extended on every side; and in the west rose the blue ramparts of the Massinutton and Great North Mountains, as beautiful and tran- quil as some happy dream. It was hard to realize that war would ever stamp his red hoof upon this Arcady, ‘all loveliness and repose; or that the day would come when the threat of a Federal commander would nearly be carried out, that ‘a crow flying over the region should be obliged to carry his own ra- tions.” And now asl enter upon new scenes of my memoirs, I beg leave to notify the kindly reader that I shall endeavor hereafter to entertain him with something more interesting than my pri- vate feelings. Why should I inflict upon that amiable personage a long and lachrymose paragraph all about the heavy heart which a friend of his bore away from “‘ The Oaks ”—or describe the tragic emotions of that unfortunate individual at the pros- pect of seeing his sweetheart marry his rival? Alas! human life is so full of these unlucky affairs, that I think the less we hear of them the better! I am therefore obdurately “resolved to be gay,” and am reso- lutely determined that, if possible, not a single wail of anguish shall be heard from the hero of these memoirs. Is not life a THE RUINED CHURCH. 78 comedy, and the musi¢ lively? Reader mine} I who write have seen both good and bad fortune in my time; and it has always seemed best to me to bear the first with a modest, the latter with a courageous heart. _So we pass away now from those days at ‘The Oaks.” From the mast the long streamers wave farewell to the little bark that glided across our course, and hag disappeared. Bon voyage: ! fair May Beverley! May the sea be smooth before you! You and, I go different ways! Turning to the right at Berry’s Ferry, I passed a mansion pie- turesquely perched upon a hill with a background of woods, around the portico of which, I remember, some young ladies were trailing a sweetbrier rese in full blessom. All this was the very opposite of war—and yet I lived to witness a hot fight upon that very lawn, and to see the spring grass dyed with blood. My horses, were fresh, and I expected to reach the neighbor- hood of Harper’s Ferry before evening, but, when in the vicinity of Charlestown, I found the sky, which had long been threatening, suddenly indicate the approach of a storm. A huge bank of black cloud, against which, from time to time, vivid flashes of lightning shone, like a fiery crack in the dark mass, admonished me of the wetting which awaited me unless I found shelter; and very soon those heavy drops, which are the skirmishers thrown out by an advancing tempest, began to patter on the leaves. I looked round for some shelter, but saw no house anywhere. in a.clump of trees, however, a few hundred yards from the road, rose the ruins of an old church; and to thisI hastened, dismount- ing and taking refuge within, just as the storm burst. The min was almost roofless; but.a projection over the altar-place fur, nished some protection from the.rain; and to this spot I hurried. All at once I stopped. A man was kneeling there, with his forehead buried in his. hands; and at the. same moment I heard the neigh of his horse, which was tethered to a bough behind ane ruin, and had escaped my notice. The falling rain and the rumble of the thunder must have drowned the noise of my approach; for the kneeling man -re- 76 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. mained in the same posture, and perfectly motionless, for at least a quarter of an hour. At the end of that time, the clatter of my sabre, as it accidentally struck against a fallen stone, attracted his attention, and, slowly rising, the stranger turned toward me, He was a man apparently about forty years of age, tall, gaunt, and awkward-looking. His beard and mustache, worn tolerably full, were of a reddish brown, inclining to black; and his eyes were dark, piercing, and with a peculiar glitter in them. The stranger wore a plain gray uniform, entirely without decorations, and his forehead was covered by the rim of a small cadet-cap, pulled low down, with the top trailing forward. The expression of the stranger’s countenance was mild, benevo- lent, and modest—his smile, as he greeted me with an air of sim- ple courtesy, very winning. “T am afraid I interrupted your devotions, sir,” I now said, “and I pray you will pardon me.” “T had finished, or very nearly,” was his reply, in a voice of peculiar abruptness, but unmistakable courtesy. “This storm is very violent, sir.” “‘ And our place of refuge very dilapidated.” “Yes,” he said, smiling; “but there seems great fitness in taking refuge in this holy place.” “T understand. You mean that the church is the best shelter from the storms of life. Iam nota Christian myself, but you will not find me differ with you upon that point, sir.” “T am truly glad to hear it,” was his simple reply, inthe same brief voice. ‘God has prescribed but one refuge, and the chief duty he inculcates is prayer.” There was something simple and noble in the man’s bearing as he spoke; and his words seemed the most rational and natural in the world—so little of the professional air of the preacher, so to speak, did I discern in them. ‘You belong to the army, sir?” I now said, glancing at his uniform. “Yes, sir,” was his reply. “May I ask if you have ever served before er “Yes, in Mexico.” THE RUINED CHURCH. wT . “Ah? in the last war! Then you must have seen some hard fighting?” ‘“‘T was at Churubusco, Chepultepec, and other battles.” “You are fortunate in having returned safely," I said. “God spared me,” was his reply, in the same simple tone. His eye wandered as he spoke, and he seemed to be thinking, as the thunder roared above the ruin, of those battles, which had resembled it. “TJ was many times much exposed,” he added, “but no man ever dies until his time comes. It was the good pleasure of the Almighty, sir, that I should be spared for another conflict.” “ And you doubtless carry similar convictions into the present contest? I mean the doctrine of predestination.” “That word is much abused, sir,” replied the stranger gravely, “yet it expresses the only rational view of human life. Who can tell when he will die? The bullet which is to strike me down may now be moulded, and I may fall in the first skirmish —or I may pass through a hundred bloody battles untouched. If I am to fall now, I am to fall—if years hence, not until then— if never, never! If Providence has decreed that I shall die in my bed, surely the enemy cannot harm me.” “You are right, sir,” I said, not a little moved by the earnest tones of the speaker. ‘ All rational men believe in the doctrine you assert. But do you entirely discard free will?” “No, sir, by no means—I believe in that, just as strongly. But we touch upon the profoundest of all questions. Itis better to obey than to question. It is easy to understand the precept, “Love one another,” if the doctrines of free will and predestina- tion are difficult!” “Love one another!’ I said; ‘‘that is a curious principle for a soldier to adopt, is it not, sir?” “T do not think so.” “And yet we are at the beginning of a long and bloody war.” “‘ War is not opposed to the will of God, sir.” “But itis terribly bloody.” : “So is the surgeon’s knife. It is disagreeable, but necessary.” “You, then, regard this war as just and inevitable!” %8 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. “do, sir. I would cheerfully have laid down my life to have prevented it’; but I believe that it could not be avoided.” “Tagree with you. Willit belong? When will it end?” “J know not—nor do I expect to see its end.” “You expect to fall?” “ Yes, sir.” “ And yet you enter upon it cheerfully ?” “J try to do my duty—God will take care of the rest.” As the stranger spoke in his simple and earnest voice, he raised his right hand aloft, looked upward, and, closing his ¢yes, mut- tered some inaudible words which seemed to bé a prayer. So singular was this proceeding that I set my companion down for a confirmed eccentric; and, not wishing to disturb him, went to the dilapidated opening, once serving as a window, and looked out. The clouds were clearing away—the blue began to appear here and there—the storm was over. As I turned round, I saw the stranger at my side, with a smile of exquisite sweetness upon his features. At the sarne moment, a dove, which had made its nest in a crevice of the ruin, winged its way out, uttering a plaintive coo as it disappeared.* ““We have spoken of the probability of a long and bloody war,’ said the stranger mildly, “‘ but perhaps we err in our views upon that subject. This dove may be the blessed emblem of peace and sunshine, as when one brought the olive-branch to Noah after the deluge.” “T hope so,” was my reply, with asmile; “but I am afraid that fierce bird the ‘ Spread-Eagle’ is going to tear our poor little Southern dove, and make us return to the ‘great and glorious Union,’ sir.” “There will be much blood shed first,” was the response of the stranger. ‘But I see the rainis over, sir. May I ask what route you take?” “Tam going to Harper’s Ferry.” “Then we will travel together, as I am riding in the same direction.” —_——. * Colonel Surry stated to me in conversation that this little incident had never e8- caped his recollection, and always came back to his mind with a peculiar charin.—Zd. ON REVIEW. "9 “ Most willingly.” And we went toward our horses. The stranger walked, I ob- served, with a peculiarly awkward stride, and his seat in the sad- dle, as he joined me, was very ungraceful. But he was evidently a practised rider, if not a very graceful one. Conversing as we rode, we passed through the town of Charles- town, and, as night fell, approached Harper’s Ferry. My com- panion had informed me that he was returning from Winchester when the storm arrested him, and he now rode on with the as- sured air of one who was returning to his own quarters. The hills around were covered with white tents, which shone like groups of waterfowl] in the last rays of day; and, reaching one of these groups, very plain and unassuming in appearance, the stranger drew rein, and seemed to have reached his journey’s end. “Will you stay with me to-night, sir?” he said, very courte- ously. ‘“‘I can offer you a good bed of straw, and soldier’s fare.” “Thanks for your kind offer, but I am looking for the head- quarters of Colonel Jackson,”’ I replied. My companion smiled and said: “Do you want to see him?” “Yes; I am assigned to duty with him as aide-de-camp, sir.” “Ah! then you are oP “Captain Surry, of the Virginia forces.” “ And my name is Jackson,” was the stranger’s smiling reply. “T am glad to make your acquaintance, Captain, and to welcome you to my quarters. I think we shall be very good friends.” And Colonel Jackson gave me his hand. Such was our first interview. XXII. ON REVIEW. In these memoirs, my dear reader, I intend to carefully avoid writing a history of the war. See the histories for that. I aim only at giving you a few pictures and relating some incidents. 80 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. Therefore, go to the grave and strictly reliable “official docu- ments” for an account of the situation in May, 1861. I need only say, that at that moment the Federal Government threat- ened Virginia with three great columns—from Wheeling, Wil-: liamsport, and Alexandria; and that the second, commanded by Majer-General Patterson, was about four or five times as great as the little “ Army of Observation” at Harper’s Ferry. But that army was composed of excellent material. All classes were mingled fraternally in its ranks, by the hand of that great leveller called War. Here was the high-spirited boy, raised in his elegant home on the banks of the Shenandoah, and the hardy and athletic mountaineer from beyond the Alleghanies. The pale and slender student lay down side by side with the ruddy son of the poor farmer, who had dropped the handles of the plough to take up the musket. All were alike in one thing— their eager desire to meet the enemy. On the day after my arrival, Colonel Jackson reviewed the troops. As he rode along the line, above which rose the glitter- ing hedge of bayonets, I heard many a smothered laugh at his singular appearance. In fact, the Colonel’s odd costume and manners were enough to excite laughter. Fancy a sort of Don Quixote, reader—gaunt, bony, and angular—riding an old, stiff Rosinante, which he pushed into a trot with great difficulty. This figure was clad in a gray coat already growing rusty; a faded cap resting nearly upon the wearer’s nose; top-boots, huge gauntlets, and a leather stock which propped up his chin and sawed his ears. He rode leaning forward, with his knees drawn up, owing to the shortness of his stirrups; raised his chin in the air in order to look from beneath his cap-rim; and from time to time moved his head from side to side, above his stiff leather collar, with an air of profound abstraction. Add to this a curious fashion of slapping his right hand against his thigh, and the curt, abrupt “Good !|—very good!” which was jerked from his lips when any report was made to him: and there is Colonel T. J. J ackson, of the Virginia forces. The young volunteers evidently expected to see a gallant and ON REVIEW. 81 imposing figure, richly clad, and superbly mounted. When this scarecrow appeared, they with difficulty restrained their laugh- ter. When the review was over, and the young men were marched back to their quarters, I learned, afterward, that they made themselves exceedingly merry on the subject of their com- mander’s appearance—not a few, who had been to the Lexington Institute, repeating his former nickname of “Fool Tom Jackson.” What was the opinion, it may be asked, of his aide-de-camp, who saw him every hour, and had ample opportunity of observ- ing the man? He did not impress me greatly: and I am obliged to disclaim the deep penetration of that mighty multitude who— long afterward—“ always knew what was in Jackson from the first.” I thought him matter-of-fact in character, rather dull in conversation, and possessed of only average abilities. He seemed a plodding, eccentric, commonplace martinet. That was the light in which I regarded this immortal. If I did not admire his intellect, I, however, very greatly respected his moral character. His life was perfectly blame- less, and he had not a single bad habit. Spirit never passed his lips, and I should as soon have expected the Potomac to flow backward as to have heard him utter an oath. He regu- larly said grace at his simple meals, spread on the lid of a camp- chest, and spent hours daily in religious reading and prayer. He was habitually charitable in his estimates of men, and seldom yielded to any sort of irritability. “Eccentric” he was, in the highest degree—but it was the eccentricity of a man whose thoughts were half the time in heaven. Three days after my arrival, he called me into his tent, and began to talk to me about the war. He listened with an air of great modesty and attention to my crude views, and, when I ex- pressed an opinion that Harper’s Ferry would not be attacked, replied briefly: “T think so too; it will be flanked.” He remained thoughtful for some moments, and then said: “T wish you to carry a message for me to Colonel Stuart, Captain; you will find him near Martinsburg. Desire him to picket heavily the whole front toward Williamsport, and to es- B2 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. tablish rélays of couriers to give me intelligence. I should like to hear what his scouts report. Before Patterson crosses I must be out of this place, ready to fight him on the ”— Suddenly the speaker paused, and Jooked keenly at nie, “Qaptain,” he said, abruptly, ‘‘never remember any thing but the message I send. My intentions must be known to no one but myself. Ifmy coat knew my plans, I would take it off and burn it.’* I saluted, ordered my horse, and in half an hour was on the road to Martinsburg. XXII. I VISIT COLONEL “JEB, STUART.” Passine rapidly through the beautiful country skirting the banks of the Potomac, I approached the Opequon. When in sight of that picturesque stream, with it grassy banks, studded with huge white-armed sycamores, I met a cavalryman, who informed rhe that Colonel Stuart, with a squadron from his regiment, was at that moment passing through the woods beyond. T hastened to comé up with him, and, fording the stream, gal- loped on beneath the boughs of the gay spring forest, which was ringing with the songs of birds. Ere long I heard the tramp of hoofs, and @ sonorous voice singing one of my favorite songs, “The dew is on the blossom.” Five minutes afterward there appeared at a turn of the road, ‘clearly relieved against the green background of the leafy covert, the head of a column of horsemen, in front of whom rode the singer. Let me draw his outline. He was a man of twenty-five or thirty, of low stature, athletic figure, and with the air of a born cavalryman. There was no mistaking his arm of the service. He was the cavalier all over. His boot-tops covered the knee; his brass spurs were models of neatness; his sabre was light, * His words, I VISIT COLONEL “JEB. STUART.” 83 flexible, and “handy; his gauntlets reached to the elbows. The young cavalier was evidently at home in the saddle, and asked nothing better than ‘‘a fight or a frolic.” He wore the blue unfress uniform coat of the United States Army, gathered at the waist by his sword-belt; an old brown pair of velveteen pantaloons, rusty from long use, and his bold face was sur- mounted by a Zouave cap, from which depended a white “ have- lock,” giving him the appearance of a mediaval knight with a chain-belmet. Upon that proud head, indeed, a helmet, with its flowing plume, seemed the fittest covering. But I have not finished. I am drawing the portrait of one of the immortals, reader, and you can afford to listen to every de- tail. His saddle was a plain “‘ McClellan tree” strapped over a _red blanket for saddle-cloth; behind the cantel was his oil-cloth, containing a single blanket, and on the pommel was a light india- rubber overcoat for stormy days. The chest of his sorrel was decorated with a brilliant yellow breast-cap, a blazing heart in the centre, and the spirited animal champed a strong curb bit, to which was attached a single rein.* I did not notice these details when I first saw Stuart that day. I was looking at his face. It was the picture of martial gayety and enjoyment. A lofty and massive forehead, blue eyes as brilliant and piercing as the eagle’s, a prominent nose, a huge brown beard, and heavy mustache, whose long ends curled up- ward—there was Stuart’s countenance. In that face and form, immense health and physical strength shone. This man, it was plain, could remain whole days and nights in the saddle, never growing weary; could march all night, fight all day, and then ride a dozen miles and dance until sunrise. Such was the splendid war-machine which I saw before mes such the man who now paused in his song, looked at me keenly out of his clear blue eyes, and gave me the frank military salute with his gauntleted hand. * Colonel Surry laughed, and said, when I read this passage: “Don’t you think that long description will bore the reader fifty years hence?” My reply was: “The result will be just the contrary, Stuart will then rank with Harry of Navarre and Prince Rupert.” Do you doubt that, reader? 84 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. I introduced myself, delivered my message, and rode on with Stuart, who had cordially shaken hands and said: “Glad to make your acquaintance, Captain. Come, and ride back to camp with me.” : So we rode on, side by side, Stuart talking carelessly, with the ease and unreserve of the ben compagnon, instead of the stiffness of the West-Pointer. “Jackson is right,” he said, musing, with an absent air; and as he spoke he took off his cap, made a salute, apparently to some imaginary personage, and then replaced his cap. This curious habit I frequently observed in him afterward. “The enemy will cross near Williamsport,” he added; “I am convinced of that. The pickets are already doubled, Captain, and the relays established. I intend to inspect my pickets along the whole front to-morrow. Will you ride with me? You can then make an exact report of every thing.” I accepted this invitation, and Stuart then seemed to banish all “ official”’ affairs from his mind. He turned his head, called out “Sweeny!” and there rode forward from his escort a tall, mild-looking man, of deferential bearing, who carried under his arm an old-fashioned Virginia banjo. “Come! strike up, Sweeny,” Stuart exclaimed, in a jovial voice. ‘Here is Captain Surry—give him a specimen of your music.” Sweeny saluted me with sad and deferential courtesy, and I expected him to play something like a dead march upon his in- strument. Never was any one more mistaken. He _ struck up that popular song—‘'O Lord, ladies! don’t you mind Ste- phen!” and if ever the spirit of wild and uproarious mirth spoke from any instrument, it was heard in the notes of Sweeny’s banjo. After finishing this gay air, with its burden, “Come back, Stephen!—Stephen, come back!’ he played a medley» with wonderful skill—a comic v¢s that was irresistible; and then Stuart, lying back on his horse for laughter, cried: ‘Now give us the ‘Old Gray Hoss,’ Sweeny !”” / And Sweeny commenced that most celebrated of recitations, which T heard and laughed at a bundred times afterward, but A MOONLIGHT RIDE WITH STUART, 85 never without thinking of that gay spring scene—the long line of cavalry winding through the May forest, with Stuart at their head, shouting with laughter as he rode, and joining in the shorus, like an uproarious boy. Sweeny played then, in succession, ‘‘O Johnny Booker, help this nigger!” “Sweet Evelina,” and ‘Faded Flowers’’—for this great musician could pass from gay to sad, and charm you more with his sentimental songs than he amused you with his comic repertoire. In the choruses Stuart joined—singing in a sonorous voice, with a perfectly correct ear—and thus the caval- cade passed over mile after mile, until, at sunset, we reached Stuart’s quarters, near Martinsburg. That individual appeared to me more like some gay knight-errant of the elder-time than a commonplace cavalry officer of the year 1861; and I never afterward, through all his arduous career, could rid myself of this idea. I saw him everywhere during his long, hard work, as commander of the cavalry of General Lee’s army, and as that sreat chief’s “right hand ’’—but I could never think of him ex- sept as an ideal personage. He was not so much a soldier of the iineteenth century as a chevalier ‘from out the old romances.” Are you weary, my dear reader, of this long description? I should be sorry to think so ; and I have still some words to add. {n these pages Stuart will speak often, and perform many things. Here I wish, “once for all,” to give you his outline. Then vou will know what manner of man it was that spoke the words and struck the great’ blows. So I linger still in those old lays, spent in the Shenandoah Valley, recalling every incident of my brief visit to the afterward celebrated ‘Jeb. Stuart.” XXIII. A MOONLIGHT RIDE WITH STUART. Stuart's head-quartars consisted of a single canvas “ fly ’—that 8, the outer covering of a tent—stretched over a horizontal pole. Jne end of this pole was placed in the crotch of a large oak; 86 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. the other was supported by uprights, joined at top and tied together—there was the tent. A desk, a chair, a mess-chest, and bed of blankets on some straw—there was the rest. Over- head drooped the boughs of the oak; in front stretched a grassy meadow, reaching to the “‘Big Spring;’’ the horses were pick- eted near, and a small flag rippled in the May breeze. In a wood, near by, was the camp of the regiment. Stuart called to his body-servant, a young mulatto, to know if supper was ready, and then directed a company to be detailed, with orders to report to him at once, for picket duty. It soon appeared, and not only the officer in command, but every squad, received the most explicit instructions from him. If before I regarded Colonel Stuart as a somewhat boyish indi- vidual, J had now good reason to consider him an excellent cavalry officer. His directions were so plain and concise that a child could understand them—and the manner of the speaker was no longer gay and thoughtless. It was grave, almost im- perious. I can best describe it by saying that it was the manner of a man who intends that his orders shall be obeyed to the very letter, and who will not be trifled with. But even with “business”? that genius of mirth which seemed to accompany Stuart everywhere was mixed up. He was in- structing, one after another, the sergeants and corporals com- manding squads, when there came up, in his turn, a huge, black-bearded giant, with a voice like the rumble of distant thunder, and the assured air of an old acquaintance of the young Colonel. “This is Corporal Hagan, one of my very best soldiers, Cap- tain,” said Stuart. < I saluted the tall corporal; and, exclaiming deferentially “Captain !”? Hagan made me a rigidly military salute in return —two fingers to the cap, body erect, eyes front. “Hagan,” said Stuart, “you must make your squad pay par- ticular attention to what I have explained.” “Yes, Colonel,” came in tones of low thunder from the heavy beard, “T will hold you responsible.” A MOONLIGHT RIDE WITHSTUART. 87 *“T intend to be, Colonel.” “You are an old soldier, Hagan, and know what is expected of a good picket.” “JT think I do, Colonel—to keep one eye skinned for snakes and the other for bees!” And the giant looked as grave as if he had never smiled in, his life. Stuart uttered a laugh, and said; “ What do you mean by that, Hagan?” The tall corporal assumed an air of the deepest. cia and, advancing a step, inclined his head to one side, and put two fingers of his right hand in the palm of his left, with the manner of a man about to explain some great problem. Then, with unmoved solemnity, but a twinkle of the eye and a slight movement of the mustache which indicated lurking fun, Hagan thundered, in low tones: ‘“Well, you see, Colonel, you never know which way the inimy will come. Maybe out of the ground,” and Hagan pointed to his feet, “‘maybe down through the air,” and the giant pointed, like a great orator, toward the sky. ‘Now, there’s only one way to sareumvent ‘em, Colonel. You must keep one eye skinned for snakes—that is, down on the ground; and the other skinned for bees—that is, up in the air. You are then bound to know when the inimy is coming, and you can give the alarm!” This grave explanation highly tickled Stuart, who slapped the big corporal on the back in a manner which evidently delighted that worthy. Hagan ordered his squad to fall in, in a voice of thunder, made his former salute with even deeper solemnity, and then commanding ‘Forward! disappeared like a moving mountain.* : At the same moment the neatly dressed mulatto announced supper, which was served on the lid of the camp-chest, under the great oak; it was altogether a gay affair. The sunset lit up the * “TI think that is Hagan to the very life, and I haye remembered all his expres- sions !” langhed Oolonel Surry, as -he reed me this. 88 SURRY OF EAGUE’S-NEST.. form of Stuart splendidly, and he exchanged with his excellent adjutant, Captain Tiernan Brien, a hundred jests. “This is the best beverage in the world, Captain,” he said, holding up his silver mug; ‘only give me coffee and candles, and I am satisfied.” “You drink nothing else?” “Only water: when I was a child I made a pledge to my mother that I would never touch liquor, and I never drank a drop in my life.” “That is certainly uncommon.” “Well, an officer ought to do his duty up to the hilt; and he can’t do it if he drinks.” * In fifteen minutes Stuart rose and said: “T am going on a little excursion this evening, Captain. Will you ride with me?” ' “ At your orders, Colonel—dispose of me.” “Then, to horse!” And calling for Sweeny and his banjo, Stuart proceeded to make a rapid toilet. His heavy boots were exchanged for a lighter pair, ornamented with golden thread; around his waist he tied a new and elegant sash over his sabre belt; and then issuing forth-—a splendid cavalier, ready for a raid, a charge, or a frolic--with a single bound he was in the saddle. Sweeny fol- lowed us with his banjo. I put spurs to my horse, and we set off at a rapid gallop through the moonlight, I knew not whither. Stuart rode as if the wild huntsman were on his track, and sang as he went. We soon left the high road, and, striking into the forest, fled onward beneath the moonlight foliage, my com- panion paying no attention to obstacles, and more than once leaping some fallen tree which obstructed the narrow road. “Give me a gallop by moonlight!” he said, with his gay laughter. ‘Come, captain, boot to boot! Your horse iy a good one, and I am riding ‘Skylark,’ who never gets tired.” The gallop became a run; the wood was passed; we followed a road skirting the Opequon; descended an abrupt hill; forded * These expressions are all Stuart's, as I can testify. A MOONLIGHT RIDE WITH STUART. 89 the stream near a little mill; and, passing through a gate which led into some beautiful grounds studded with old century oaks, the finest I had ever seen, ascended a hill, and stopped before a large mansion, on the portico of which a group of ladies and gentlemen were sitting in the moonlight. “Tt is Colonel Stuart!” was the exclamation of the ladies; and in an instant the young officer was shaking hands with everybody; after which he introduced me as “ one of his friends, young, gallant, and not, like himself, married.” The laughter of Stuart was contagious; I was received like an old friend; and “Oh! there’s Sweeny!’ having indicated the general joy at the advent of the banjo, a dance was immediately proposed, and rapturously assented to by the young ladies—a portion of whom had come that afternoon, on a visit, from a neighboring village. I have never spent a gayer evening, or enjoyed myself more with new acquaintances. The piano and the banjo made excellent music, and such ardor was thrown into the cotillons, reels, and other dances, that the very portraits on the walls, of old-time people in stiff cravats and piled-up curls, seemed to look on with a smile. Then commenced Sweeny’s performances—his songs, his recitations, and the wonderful solos on his magical instrument. Quiet, sad-looking, with a retiring and repectful demeanor which would have done no discredit to the finest gentleman, he as- sented to every request, without idle excuses; and soon the whole company, but more especially the small boys, were con- vulsed with a sort of ecstasy of enjoyment. The appreciation by those small boys of ‘The Old Gray Hoss,” “ Stephen,” and the song commencing— “If you get there before I do, Oh! tell ’em I’m a-coming too,” was immense, unspeakable. They hung around the great musi- cian, watched his every gesture, and evidently regarded him as the most remarkable personage of the epoch. Having wound up with a tumultuous, deafening, wonderful 90 SURRY OF EAGLE’S-NEST. solo, which made the windows shake, Sweeny bowed and put his banjo under his arm. Jt was past midnight, and, urging his long ride on the morrow, Stuart rose and bade our kind enter- tainers good-by. An hour afterward, I was sleeping by Colonel Stuart’s side under his canvas, and dreaming that the Southern army had advanced to attack the enemy, led by Sweeny, playing his banjo! I assure the reader that fancy has nothing to do with ‘these scenes. The picture to the minutest particulars is a transcript from life, and the words uttered the Colonel’s own. XXIV. JOHN BROWN AND HIS BULL-DOG. We were up with the dawn, and before sunrise had break- fasted and were on the way to visit the pickets. Passing through Martinsburg, we pushed on toward the Poto- mac, and, ascending the river’s bank, inspected the pickets along the entire front, returning only after nightfall. This ride through a beautiful country was delightful ; and Stu- art’s gay and varied conversation made the hours glide away almost unnoticed. One of his anecdotes—an account of the part he had taken in the capture of John Brown—will be here re- corded. “JT was in Virginia at that time on furlough,” he said, ‘and, singularly enough, had run over to Washington, when the news of the riot at Harper’s Ferry came. I immediately went to the War Department to offer my services, but could not find the Secretary. Some of the employés of the Department were talk- ing, and one of them said, ‘I’m going straight to Virginia, to look after my wife and children,’ as a negro insurrection was expected; but I thought to myself, ‘The best way to defend my wife and children is to go to Harper’s Ferry,’ and I hurried to the White House, where I found General Lee, then Colonel, Secretary Floyd, JOHN BROWN AND HIS BULL-DOoG. 91 and President Buchanan. I saw the General for a moment, and told him how anxious I was to go, but he said he did not know that I could. The President then called him and said, ‘ You will take.command of the marines, Colonel, and proceed at once to Harper’s Ferry—but act prudently, Colonel.’ Lee bowed, and was turning away, when Floyd came after him to the door, and said, ‘Give ’em hell, Colonel!’ This was the time to prefer my request, so I begged the Secretary to let me go, and, after looking at me for a moment, he said, ‘ Well, go.’ I hurried off, met Col- onel Lee at the cars, and we were soon flying slong toward Harper’s Ferry. “When we arrived, Brown was in the engine-house, with his band and the prisoners he had taken. It was a small house inside the grounds of the arsenal, exactly like an ordinary fire-engine house in cities—with large folding doors. The Virginia troops had been deliberating upon the best means of assault, but upon Colonel Lee’s arrival he assumed command, and the first step which he took was to send me forward to demand a surrender. T accordingly walked into the enclosure, and approached the engine-house, waving a white handkerchief, and, when I got to the door, called out that I wished to speak with ‘Captain Smith.’ I forgot to say that, up to this time, Brown had passed as Captain Smith, and I thus addressed him. At my call, he came and opened one fold of the door alittle way. Behind it was a heavy rope stretched across—better security than a bar, as it would yield if a battering ram of any sort were uséd, but not give way. “Well, the old fellow appeared at the opening of the door, with a carbine in his hand, and below appeared the head of a big bull dog, who kept snarling at my knee and growling angrily during the whole conversation. As soon as I saw the man, I knew that Thad met with him before, and in a moment I remembered him. «You are Ossawatomie Brown, of Kansas, are you not?’ I said. , ‘He looked at me keenly for a minute from under his grizzly eyebrows, and then said coolly, addressing me by my title: “