“That you can have quite handy,” said the countryman; “for we have been gathering corn, and were just going to our dinner. If you will only just 'light, sir, one of the boys can feed your horse, and you can take such as we have got to give you.”

The invitation was accepted; the horse was taken in charge by a long-legged lad of fifteen, without hat or shoes, and the whole party crossed the fence together.

At the moment, a man was seen advancing toward them, who, observing their approach, fell back a few steps, and threw himself on the ground at the foot of a large old apple-tree. Around this were clustered a motley group of men, women and boys, who opened and made way for the stranger. He advanced, and bowing gracefully, took off his forage cap, from beneath which a quantity of soft, curling flaxen hair fell over his brow and cheeks. Every eye was now fixed on him, with an expression rather of interest than mere curiosity. Every countenance was serious and composed, and all wore an air of business, except that a slight titter was heard among the girls, who, hovering behind the backs of their mothers, peeped through the crowd to get a look at the handsome stranger.

He was indeed a handsome youth, about twenty years of age, whose fair complexion and regular features made him seem yet younger. He was tall, slightly but elegantly formed, with a countenance in which softness and spirit were happily blended. His dress was plain and cheap, though not unfashionable. A short grey coat, waistcoat and pantaloons, that neatly fitted and set off his handsome person, showed by the quality of the cloth that his means were limited, or that he had too much sense to waste in foppery that which might be better expended in the service of his suffering country. But, even in this plain dress, he was apparelled like a king in comparison with the rustics that surrounded him; and his whole air would have passed him for a gentleman in any dress and any company where the constituents of that character are rightly understood.

In the present assembly there seemed to be none, indeed, who could be supposed to have had much experience in that line. But dignity is felt, and courtesy appreciated by all, and the expression of frankness and truth is everywhere understood.

As the youth approached, the man at the foot of the tree arose and returned the salutation, which seemed unheeded by the rest. He advanced a step or two, and invited the stranger to be seated. This action, and the looks turned toward him by the others, showed that he was in authority of some sort among them. With him, therefore, our traveller concluded that the proposed conference was to be held. There was nothing in his appearance which would have led a careless observer to assign him any pre-eminence; but a second glance might have discovered something intellectual in his countenance, with less of boorishness in his air and manner than the rest of the company displayed. In all, indeed, there was the negative courtesy of that quiet and serious demeanor which solemn occasions impart to the rudest and most frivolous. It was plain to see that they had a common purpose, and that neither ferocity nor rapacity entered into their feeling toward the newcomer. Whether he was to be treated as a friend or an enemy, obviously depended on some high consideration, not yet disclosed.

He was at length asked from whence he came, and answered from the neighborhood of Richmond. From which side of the river? From the north side. Did he know anything of Van Courtlandt? His camp was at Bacon's Branch, just above the town. What force had he?

“I cannot say certainly,” he replied, “but common fame made his numbers about four thousand.”

“Is that all, on both sides of the river?” said his interrogator.

“O, no! Col. Loyal's regiment is at Petersburg, and Col. Coles's at Manchester—each about five hundred strong; and there is a piquet on the bridge island.”

“Did you cross there?”

“I did not.”

“Where then?” he was asked.

“I can hardly tell,” he replied; “it was at a private ford, several miles above Cartersville.”

“Was not that mightily out of the way? What made you come so far around?”

“It was safer travelling on that side of the river.”

“Then the people on that side of the river are your friends?”

“No, they are not; but, as they are all of a color there, they would let me pass, and ask no questions, as long as I travelled due west. On this side, if you are one man's friend, you are the next man's enemy; and I had no mind to answer questions.”

“You seem to answer them now mighty freely,”

“That is true. I am like a letter that tells all it knows as soon as it gets to the right hand; but it does not want to be opened before that.”

“And how do you know that you have got to the right hand now?”

“Because, I know where I am.”

“And where are you?”

“Just at the foot of the Devil's Backbone,” replied the youth.

“Were you ever here before?”

RETURNING to the party which they had left, they found the women in the act of placing their meal before them under the apple-tree. There was a patch of grass there, but no shade; nor was any needed in that lofty region. The frost had already done its work by stripping the trees of their leaves, and letting in the welcome rays of the sun through the naked branches. The meal consisted of fresh pork and venison, roasted or broiled on the coals, which looked tempting enough, though served up in wooden trays. There were no knives but such as each hunter carries in his belt. Our traveller's dirk supplied the place of one to him. Their plates were truly classical, consisting of cakes of Indian corn, baked in the ashes, so that, like the soldiers of Ænas, each man ate his platter before his hunger was appeased.

Our traveller, though sharp-set, could not help perceiving a woful insipidity in his food, for which his entertainer apologized. “We ha'nt got no salt to give you, stranger,” said he. “The little that's made on the waters of Holston is all used there; and what comes by way of the sound is too dear for the like of us, that fight one half the year and work the other half, and then with our rifles in our hands. As long as we let the Yankees hold James river, we must make up our minds to eat our hogs when they are fat, and to do without salt to our bread. But it is not worth grumbling about; and bread without salt is more than men deserve that will gave up their country without fighting for it.”

When the meal was finished, our traveller, expressing a due sense of the courtesy of his entertainers, asked what was to pay, and proposed to continue his journey.

“As to what you are to pay, my friend,” said the spokesman of the party, in the same cold, quiet tone, “that is just nothing. If you come here by Captain Douglas's invitation, you are one of us; and if you do not, we are bound to find you as long as we keep you. But, as to your going just yet, it is quite against our rules.”

“How is that?” asked the traveller, with some expression of impatience.

“That is what I cannot tell you;” replied the other.

THE travellers now moved off together, Arthur walking, and leading his horse. They soon reached a point where a sharp ridge, jutting like a buttress from the side of the mountain, came down abruptly to the very bank of the rivulet. Up this ridge, not unaptly called “the Devil's Back-bone,” the path led. Leaning, as it were, against the mountain—its position, the narrow ridgy edge along which the traveller clambered, and the rough nodules which interrupted the ascent, like the notches in a hen's ladder, gave it no small resemblance to this housewifely contrivance. The steep descent on either hand into deep dells, craggy and hirsute with stinted trees bristling from the sides, together with the similarity of these same nodules to the joints of the spine, had suggested a name strictly descriptive of the place. The ruggedness, steepness, and vast height of the ascent, would naturally provoke some spiteful epithet; and were the spot to be named again, a hundred to one it would receive the same name, and no other.

At the summit of this narrow stair, the travellers stopped to take breath, and look back on the scene below. Arthur, who was at the romantic age when young men are taught to affect an enthusiasm for the beauties of nature, and to prate about hues and scents, and light and shade, and prospects in all the variety of the grand, the beautiful, and the picturesque, had been feasting his imagination with the thought of the glorious view to be soon from the pinnacle before him. Like an epicure about to feast on turtle, who will not taste a biscuit beforehand lest be should spoil his dinner, so our young traveller steadily kept his face toward the hill as he ascended it. Even when he stopped to take breath, he was careful not to look behind. Schwartz, on the contrary, who was in advance, always faced about on such occasions, filling the pauses with conversation, and looking as if unconscious of the glorious scene over which his eye glanced unheeding. Arthur was vexed to see such indifference, and wondered whether this was the effect of use, or of the total absence of a faculty of which poets so much delight to speak.

ARTHUR TREVOR was the youngest son of a gentleman who resided in the neighborhood of Richmond. He was a man in affluent circumstances, and had long and honorably filled various important and dignified stations in the service of his native State. Endowed with handsome talents, and amiable disposition, and all the accomplishments that can adorn a gentleman, he added to these the most exemplary virtues. His influence in society had, of course, been great, and though now, at the age of seventy, withdrawn from public life, his opinions were enquired of, and his counsel sought, by all who had access to him. Through life be had been remarkable for firmness, and yet more for prudence. The steadiness of his principles could never be questioned, but, it was thought, he had sometimes deemed it wise to compromise, when men of less cautious temper would have found safety in prudent boldness.

To this temperament had been attributed his conduct in regard to the politics of the last twenty years. Bred up in the school of State rights, and thoroughly imbued with its doctrines, he had, even before that time, been accustomed to look, with a jealous eye, on the progressive usurpations of the Federal Government. In the hope of arresting these, he had exerted more than his usual activity in aiding to put down the younger Adams, and to elevate his successor. Though no candidate for the spoils of victory, no man rejoiced more sincerely in the result of that contest; and, until the emanation of the proclamation of December, 1832, he had given his hearty approbation, and steady, though quiet support, to the administration of Andrew Jackson.

From that moment he seemed to look with fearful bodings on the affairs of his country. His disapprobation of that instrument was expressed with as much freedom and force as was consistent with his habitual reserve and moderation. He was, indeed, alarmed into a degree of excitement unusual with him, and might have gone farther than he did, had he not found that others were disposed to go, as he thought, too far. He had entirely disapproved the nullifying ordinance of South Carolina; and, though he recognized the right of secession, he deprecated all thought of resorting to that remedy. He was aware that many of his best friends, thinking that its necessity would be eventually felt by all, feared that that conviction might come too late. They remarked the steady tendency of Federal measures to weaken the mal-content States in the South, and to increase the resources of their northern oppressors and those of the General Government. Hence they feared, that whenever Virginia, or any other of the slave-holding States, should find itself driven to secession, the other party, in the confidence of superior strength, might be tempted forcibly to resist the exercise of the right. They thus arrived at the conclusion that separation (which they deemed inevitable) to be peaceable, must be prompt.

These ideas had been laid before Mr. Trevor, and, in proportion to the urgency with which they were pressed, was his alarm and his disposition to adhere to the Union. He, at last, had brought himself to believe union, on any terms, better than disunion, under any circumstances. As the lesser evil, therefore, he determined to forget the proclamation, and, striving to reconcile himself to all the acts of the administration, he regarded every attempt to unite the South, in support of a southern president, as a prelude to the formation of a southern confederacy. By consequence, he became a partisan of Martin Van Buren; and united with Ritchie, and others of the same kidney, in endeavoring to subdue the spirit, and tame down the State pride of Virginia. These endeavors, aided by the lavish use of federal patronage in the State, were so far successful, that when, at the end of Van Buren's second term, he demanded a third election, she alone, in the South, supported his pretensions.

By the steady employment of the same pernicious influences, the elections throughout the State had been so regulated, as to produce returns of a majority of members devoted to the views of the usurper. This had continued until the spring of 1848, at which time the results of the elections were essentially the same which had taken place since the memorable 1836: when Virginia, at one stroke of the pen expunged her name from the chronicles of honor, expunged the history of all her glories, expunged herself. From that time the land of Washington, and Henry, and Mason, of Jefferson, Madison, and Randolph, sunk to the rank of a province, administered and managed by the Riveses and Ritchies, the Barbours and Stevensons, the Watkinses and Wilsons, whose chance to be remembered in history depends, like that of Erostratus, on the glories of that temple of liberty which they first desecrated and then destroyed.

From some cause, not understood at the time, an unexpected reaction had taken place between the spring elections and the recurrence of that form of presidential election in the fall, the observance of which was still deemed necessary to display, and, by displaying, to perpetuate the usurper's power. This reaction appeared to show itself chiefly in those counties heretofore most distinguished for their loyalty. It would have seemed as if the spirit of John Randolph had risen from the sleep of death, and walked abroad through the scenes where his youthful shoulders had received the mantle of his eloquence from the land of Henry. For the first time, in twelve years, the vote of Virginia was recorded against the re-election of Martin Van Buren to the presidential throne.

But not the less subservient were the proceedings of the Legislature elected for his use, the spring before. Yet enough had been done to justify the hope that the ancient spirit of old Virginia would yet show itself in the descendants of the men who had defied Cromwell, in the plenitude of his power, and had cast off the yoke of George the Third, without waiting for the co-operation of the other colonies. At the same time, the power and the will of a fixed majority in the North, to give a master to the South, had been made manifest. It was clearly seen, too, that he had determined to use the power thus obtained, and to administer the government solely with a view to the interest of that sectional faction, by which he had been supported. “Væ victis!” “Woe to the vanquished!” was the word. It had gone forth; and northern cupidity and northern fanaticism were seen to march, hand in hand, to the plunder and desolation of the South.

Under these circumstances, the southern States had been, at length, forced to see that the day for decisive action had arrived. They therefore determined no longer to abide the obligations of a constitution, the forms of which alone remained, and having, by a movement nearly simultaneous, seceded from the Union, they had immediately formed a southern confederacy. The suddenness of these measures was less remarkable than the prudence with which they had been conducted. The two together left little doubt that there had been a preconcert among the leading men of the several States, arranging provisionally what should be done, whenever circumstances should throw power into hands of those whom, at the bidding of the usurper, the people had once driven from their councils. It is now known that there was such concert. Nor was it confined to the seceding States alone. In Virginia, also, there were men who entered into the same views. But while the President believed that no decisive step would be taken by the more southern States without her co-operation, he had devoted all his power, direct and indirect, to control and influence her election. Of tumultuary insurrection he had no fear. The organized operation of the State Government was what he dreaded. By this alone could the measure of secession be effected; and this was effectually prevented by operating on the elections of members of the Legislature. From the November vote on the presidential election, less evil had been apprehended, and less pains had been taken to control it. In consequence of this, something more of the real sentiments of the people had been allowed to appear on that occasion; and, from this manifestation, the more southern States were encouraged to hope for the ultimate accession of Virginia to their confederacy. They had therefore determined to wait for her no longer, but to proceed to the execution of their plan, leaving her to follow.

The disposition of the usurper, at first, was to treat them as revolted provinces; and to take measures for putting down, by force, their resistance to his authority. But circumstances, to be mentioned hereafter, made it impolitic to resort to this measure. But these did not operate to prevent him from using the most efficacious means to prevent Virginia from following their example. Though restrained from attacking them, nothing prevented him from affecting to fear an attack from them. This gave a pretext for raising troops; and the position of Virginia, as the frontier State, afforded an excuse for stationing them within her borders. Under these pretences, small corps were established in many of the disaffected counties. Should the presence of these be ineffectual to secure the return of delegates devoted to the crown, an ultimate security was taken against the action of the Legislature. Richmond, the seat of government, became the head-quarters of the army of observation, as it was called, and, surrounded by this, the mock deliberations of the General Assembly were to be held.

The money thus thrown into the country seduced the corrupt, while terror subdued the timid. On Mr. Trevor, who was neither, these things had a contrary effect. He now, when it was too late, saw and lamented the error of his former overcaution. He now began to suspect that they had been right who had urged him, eighteen years before, to lend his aid in the work of arousing the people to a sense of their danger, and preparing them to meet it as one man.

AMONG those who had been most prompt to take this view of the subject, and most vehement in recommending it, was a younger brother of Mr. Trevor. In all, but, the great essentials of moral worth, this gentleman was the very reverse of his brother. The difference was, perhaps, mainly attributable to the character of his intellect. Quick in conception, and clear in his views, he was strong in his convictions, and habitually satisfied with his conclusions. This, added to a hasty temper, gave him the appearance and character of a man rash, inconsiderate, and precipitate, always in advance of the progress of public opinion, and too impatient to wait for it. His ill success in life seemed to justify this construction. Though eminently gifted by nature, and possessing all the advantages of education he had never occupied any of those stations in which distinction is to be gained. In his private affairs, he had been alike unprosperous. Though his habits were not expensive, his patrimony had been but little increased by his own exertions. He had married a lady of handsome property, but had added little to it. With only two daughters, he had not the means of endowing them with more than a decent competency; while his elder brother, with a family of a dozen children, had educated the whole, had provided handsomely for such as had set out in life, and retained the wherewithal to give the rest nearly as much as the children of the younger could expect. In short, the career of Mr. Hugh Trevor had been one of uninterrupted prosperity. In all his undertakings he had been successful. Wealth had flowed into his coffers, and honors had been showered on his head. “When the eye saw him, then it blessed him.” Men pointed him out to their children, and said to them: “Copy his example, and follow in his steps.”

The life of Bernard, the younger brother, had been passed in comparative obscurity. Beloved by a few, but misunderstood by many, his existence was unknown to the multitude, and unheeded by most who were aware of it. They, indeed, who knew him well, saw in him qualities which, under discreet regulation, might have won for him distinction and affluence. None knew him better, and none saw this more clearly, than his elder brother. No man gave him more credit for talent and honor, or less for prudence and common sense. A habit of doubting the correctness of his opinions, and condemning his measures, had thus taken possession of the mind of Mr. Hugh Trevor: and, as the quick and intuitive Bernard was commonly the first to come to a conclusion, the knowledge of that created, in the other, a predisposition to arrive at a different result. In proportion as the one was clear, so did the other doubt. When the former was ardent, the latter was always cold; and in all matters in which they had a common interest, the cautious foresight of Hugh never failed to see a lion in the path which Bernard wished to pursue. They were the opposite poles of the same needle. The clear convictions of the latter on the subject of secession, had shaken the faith of the former in his own, and had finally driven him to the conclusion already intimated, “that union, on any terms, was better than disunion, under any circumstances.”

The same habit of thinking had retarded the change, which the events of the last three years had been working in the mind of Mr. Hugh Trevor. His native candor and modesty made it easy for him to believe that he had been wrong, and, being convinced of error, to admit it. But a corollary from this admission would be, that the inconsiderate and imprudent Bernard had, all the time, been right. Of the correctness of such an admission Mr. Trevor felt an habitual diffidence, that made him among the last to avow a change of opinion which, perhaps, commenced in no mind sooner than in his. But the change was now complete, and it brought to the conscientious old gentleman a conviction that on him, above all men, it was incumbent to spare no means in his power to remove the mischiefs of which he felt his own supineness to have been in part the cause.

He was now a private man; but he had sons. To have given a direction to their political course, might not have been difficult. But, in the act of repenting an acknowledged error, how could he presume so far on his new convictions, as to endeavor to bind them on the minds of others? Was it even right to use any portion of his paternal influence for the purpose of giving to the future course of his children's lives such a tendency as might lead them into error, to the disappointment of their hopes, and perhaps to crime? The answer to these questions led to a determination to leave them to their own thoughts, guided by such lights as circumstances might throw upon these important objects.

It happened unfortunately, that, about the time of Mr. Van Buren's accession to the presidency, his eldest son had just reached that time of life when it is necessary to choose a profession. Without any particular purpose of devoting him to the army, he had been educated at West Point. The favor of President Jackson had offered this advantage, which, by the father of so large a family, was not to be declined. But the young man acquired a taste for military life, and, as there was no man in Virginia whom the new President was more desirous to bind to his service than Mr. Hugh Trevor, his wishes had been ascertained, and the ready advancement of his son was the consequence. The promotion of Owen Trevor had accordingly been hastened by all means consistent with the rules of the service. Even these were sometimes violated in his favor. In one instance, he had been elevated over the head of a senior officer of acknowledged merit. The impatience of this gentleman, which tempted him to offer his resignation, had been soothed by a staff appointment, accompanied by an understanding that he should not, unnecessarily, be placed under the immediate command of young Trevor. The latter, at the date of which we speak, had risen to the command of a regiment, which was now encamped in the neighborhood of Washington, in daily expectation of being ordered on active duty.

Colonel Owen Trevor had received his first impressions on political subjects at a time when circumstances made his father anxious to establish in his mind a conviction that union was the one thing needful. To the maintenance of this he had taught him to devote himself, and, overlooking his allegiance to his native State, to consider himself as the sworn soldier of the Federal Government. It was certainly not the wish of Mr. Trevor to teach his son to regard Virginia merely as a municipal division of a great consolidated empire. But while he taught him to act on precepts which seemed drawn from such premises, it was natural that the young man should adopt them.

He did adopt them. He had learned to deride the idea of State sovereignty, and his long residence in the North had given him a disgust at all that is peculiar in the manners, habits, institutions, and character of Virginia. Among his boon companions he had been accustomed to express these sentiments, and, being repeated at court, they had made him a favorite there. He had been treated by the President with distinguished attention. He seemed honored, too, with the personal friendship of that favorite son whom he had elevated to the chief command of the army. Him he had consecrated to the purple; proposing to cast on him the mantle of his authority, so as to unite, in the person of his chosen successor, the whole military and civil power of the empire.

It was impossible that a young man like Col. Trevor should fail to feel himself flattered by such notice. He had been thought, when a boy, to be warm-hearted and generous, and his devotion to his patrons, which was unbounded, was placed to the account of gratitude by his friends. The President, on his part, was anxiously watching for an opportunity to reward this personal zeal, which is so strong a recommendation to the favor of the great. It was intimated to Col. Trevor that nothing was wanting to ensure him speedy promotion to the rank of Brigadier but some act of service which might be magnified, by a pensioned press, into a pretext for advancing him beyond his equals in rank. Apprised of this, he burned for active employment, and earnestly begged to be marched to the theatre of war.

This theatre was in Virginia. But he had long since ceased to attribute any political personality to the State, and it was a matter of no consequence to him that the enemies, against whom he was to act, had been born or resided there. Personally, they were strangers to him; and he only know them as men denying the supremacy of the Federal Government and hostile to the President and his intended successor.

One person, indeed, he might possibly meet in arms whom he would gladly avoid. His younger brother, Douglas Trevor, had been, like himself, educated at West Point, had entered the army, and served some years. Having spent a winter at home, it was suspected that he had become infected with the treasonable heresies of Southern politicians. He had resigned his commission and travelled into South Carolina. The effect of this journey on his mind was not a matter of doubt. Letters had been received from him by his brother and several young officers of his own regiment, avowing a total change of sentiment. These letters left no doubt that should Virginia declare for secession, or even in case of collision between the Southern League and the old United States, he would be found fighting against the latter. The avowal of such sentiments and purposes had so excited the displeasure of the Colonel, that he had cut short the correspondence by begging that he might never again be reminded that he was the brother of a traitor. His letter, to this effect, being laid before the commander-in-chief, had given the most decisive proof of the zeal of one brother and the defection of the other.

How this had been brought about, Col. Trevor knew not. He was not aware of any alteration in his father's sentiments; and, indeed, Douglas himself had not been so, at the time when he was awakened to a sense of his country's wrongs and his own duty. The change in his mind had been wrought by other means; for his father was, at that time, doubting, and, with him, to doubt was to be profoundly silent.

DIFFERENCE of political opinion had produced no estrangement between Mr. Hugh Trevor and his brother, though it had interrupted their intercourse by rendering it less agreeable. Men cannot take much pleasure in each other's society when the subject on which both think and feel most deeply is one on which they widely differ. They accordingly saw little of each other, though an occasional letter passed between them in token of unabated affection.

I believe I have mentioned that the children of Mr. Bernard Trevor were both daughters. The eldest, then seventeen years of age, had been invited to spend with her uncle, in the vicinity of Richmond, the winter of Douglas's furlough. He was at that time about five-and-twenty. His long residence in the North had not weaned him from his native State. He had not been flattered into a contempt of everything Virginian. Neither his age nor rank gave him consequence enough to be the object of that sort of attention. Perhaps, too, it, had been seen that he was a less fit subject for it than his elder brother. Though much the younger, he had a range, originality, and independence of thought, of which the other was incapable. Resting in the esteem of his friends and the approbation of his own conscience, the applause of the multitude, the flattery of sycophants, and the seducing attentions of superiors, had small charms for him. His heart had never ceased to glow at the name of Virginia, and he returned to her as the wanderer should return to the bosom of his home—to his friends—to his native land. In appearance, manners, and intelligence, he was much improved; in feeling, the same warm-hearted, generous, unsophisticated youth, as formerly.

In the meantime, his cousin Delia had already reached his father's house, and was domesticated in the family. There she found the younger brothers and sisters of Douglas impatiently expecting his arrival, and so much occupied with the thought of him, that, had she been of a jealous disposition, she might have deemed her welcome somewhat careless. But she already knew her cousins, her uncle, and her aunt. This was not the first time that their house was her temporary home, and she had learned to consider herself as one of the family. As such she was expected to enter into all their feelings. Douglas was their common favorite. During his long absence, his heart had never cooled toward them. In this he differed widely from Owen, in whom the pleasures of an idle life and the schemes of ambition had left little thought of the simple joys of his childhood's home. The contrast between him and Douglas, in this respect, rendered the latter yet more popular with the single-hearted beings who were impatiently waiting his return.

“Do you remember brother Douglas?” said Virginia Trevor, a girl one year younger than Delia. “Mamma says you were a great pet with him when a child, and used to call him your Douglas.”

“I could not have been more than three years old at the time you speak of,” said Delia; “but I have heard of it so often, that I seem to myself to remember it. But, of course, I do not remember him.”

“And, of course, he does not remember you,” said Mrs. Trevor. “At least, he would not know you. But I doubt if he ever has forgotten you, as you were then. He was to be your husband, you know; and your father gave him a set of rules to walk by. He was to do so and so, and to be so and so; and Harry Sanford was to be his model. He said nothing about it; but “Sanford and Merton” was hardly ever out of his hands and we could see that he was always trying to square his conduct by your father's maxims. I believe in my heart it made a difference in the boy; and that is the reason why he is less like his own father, and more like yours, than any of the rest of my boys.”

“I shall certainly love him, then,” said Delia, her eyes filling as she spoke, “if he is like my dear old father.”

“Indeed, and you may,” said Mrs. Trevor; “but for all that, I would rather have him like his own father. But you must not be affronted, Delia; you know I claim the right to brag about my old man, and to set him up over everybody—even the President himself.”

“I never saw the President,” said Delia, “but I should be sorry to compare my father with him.”

“I can assure you,” replied the aunt, “there are very few men that would bear the comparison. O! he is the most elegant, agreeable old gentleman, that ever I saw.”

“Except my uncle,” said Delia, smiling.

“Pshaw! Yes, to be sure. I always except him.”

“I will not except my father,” said Delia, gravely. “I should not like to hear him and Martin Van Buren praised in the same breath.”

“Well, my dear,” said the good-humored old lady, “we must not quarrel about it; but you must take care not to talk so before Douglas, because he is the President's soldier.”

“I thought,” said Delia, “he was in the service of the United States.”

“Well! and is not that all the same thing? I do not pretend to know anything about it; but my husband says so, and that is enough for me.”

Mr. Trevor, who had sat by the while, listening, with grave complacency, now said: “I am afraid you don't report me truly, my dear.” Then, extending his hand to Delia, he drew her gently to him, and placing her on his knee, kissed her. “You are a good girl,” said he, “and shall love and honor your father as much as you please. He is a noble, generous man, and a wise man, too. I would to God,” added he, sighing heavily, “that I had had half his wisdom.”

“Why, bless my soul, Mr. Trevor!” exclaimed his wife, “what does this mean?”

“Nothing,” replied he, “but a just compliment to the self-renouncing generosity and far-sighted sagacity of my brother.”

Saying this, he rose and left the room, while his wife gazed after him in amazement. She had never heard him say so much before, and now perceived that he had thoughts that she was not apprised of. Believing him faultless and incapable of error, even when he differed from himself, she at once concluded that she had lost her cue, and determined to say no more about politics until she recovered it; but he never adverted to the subject again, in her presence, during the whole winter, and her niece, consequently, heard no farther allusion to it from her.

This was no unwelcome relief to Delia. She was no politician, but she was not incapable of understanding what passed in her presence on the subject, except when the interlocutors chose to mystify their meaning. Her father, a man of no reserves, never spoke but with a purpose of expressing his thoughts clearly and fully; and no man better knew how to express them than he. Though deficient, as I have said, in that cold prudence which takes advantage of circumstances, he was eminently gifted with that more vigorous faculty which makes them. In the piping times of peace, he was a man of no mark; but when society was breaking up from its foundations, he was the man with whom the timid and doubting would seek safety and counsel. Infirmity had now overtaken him and he could do little more than think and speak. Consulted by all the bold spirits who sought to lift up, from the dust, the soiled and tattered banner of his native State, and spread it to the wind, he never failed to converse freely with such, and often in the presence of his daughters.

DOUGLAS TREVOR reached his father's house just after the Virginia Legislature had assembled. The presidential election was just over, and the partisans of Van Buren, exulting in their success, made their leader the more hateful to his opponents by the insolence of their triumph. Though he had lost the vote of Virginia, it will be remembered that he still commanded a majority in the Legislature, elected before the revolution in public sentiment was complete. The more recent expression of public sentiment showed that the time was come when power must be held by means far different from those by which it had been acquired. Opinion, which at first had been in their favor, was now against them. Corruption had for a time supplied the place; but the fund of corruption was all insufficient to buy off the important interests which were now roused to defend themselves. To add to its efficiency by all practicable means, and to bring to its aid the arm of force, was all that remained.

To organize measures for this purpose, and to enrich themselves from the profuse disbursement of public money, which formed a part of the plan of operations, were the great objects which engaged the minds of the majority in the Virginia Legislature. But these, important as they were, could not entirely wean them from those indulgencies which, for many years, had made Richmond, during the winter season, the scene of so much revel and debauchery. To these, as well as to personal intrigues and the great interests of the faction, much time was given. But the necessity of attending especially to the latter was made daily more apparent by the startling intelligence which every mail brought from the South and Southwest. The nearly simultaneous secession of the States in that quarter, and the measures to be taken for the formation of a southern confederacy, were things which had been talked of until they were no longer dreaded. But causes had gradually wrought their necessary effects, and the ultimate cóoperation of Virginia, if left to act freely, was now sure.

I have already spoken of those men, in each of the southern States, of cool heads, long views, and stout hearts, who, watching the progress of events, had clearly seen the point to which they tended. It is not here that their names and deeds are to be registered. They are already recorded in history, and blazoned on the tomb of that hateful tyranny which they overthrew. They had been discarded from the service of the people, so long as the popularity of the President had blinded the multitude to his usurpations. The oppressions of the northern faction, and the fierce assaults of rapacity and fanaticism, hounded on by ambition to the destruction of the South, had restored them to public favor. They had seen that secession must come, and that, come when it might, their influence would be proportioned to their past disgraces. Presuming on this, they had consulted much together. Not only had they sketched provisionally the plan of a southern confederacy, but they had taken measures to regulate their relations with foreign powers. One of their number, travelling abroad, had been instructed to prepare the way for the negotiation of a commercial treaty with great Britain. One of the first acts of the new confederacy was to invest him publicly with the diplomatic character, and it was at once understood that commercial arrangements would be made, the value of which would secure to the infant League all the advantages of an alliance with that powerful nation. The designation of a gentleman, as minister, who had so long, without any ostensible motive, resided near the Court of St. James, left no doubt that all things had been already arranged. The treaty soon after promulgated, therefore, surprised nobody, except indeed that some of its details were too obviously beneficial to both parties to have been expected. Not only in war, but in peace, do nations seem to think it less important to do good to themselves than to do harm to each other. The system of free trade now established, which has restored to the South the full benefit of its natural advantages, and made it once more the most flourishing and prosperous country on earth; which has multiplied the manufactories of Great Britain, and increased her revenue by an increase of consumption and resources, even while some branches of revenue were cut off; and which, at the same time, has broken the power of her envious rival in the North, and put an end for ever to that artificial prosperity engendered by the oppression and plunder of the southern States; is such an anomaly in modern diplomacy, that the rulers at Richmond, or even at Washington, might well have been surprised at it. But the bare nomination of the plenipotentiary was enough to leave no doubt that a treaty was ready for promulgation, and that its terms must be such as to secure the cóoperation of Great Britain.

But, while the leaders of the ruling faction thought of these things, and anxiously consulted for the preservation of their power, there was still found among the members of the Legislature the ordinary proportion of men who think of nothing but the enjoyment of the present moment. Such men are often like sailors in a storm, who, becoming desperate, break into the spirit room, and drink the more eagerly because they drink for the last time. When the devil's “time is short, he has great wrath;” and this point in his character he always displays, whether he exhibits himself in the form of cruelty, rapacity, or debauchery.

The amusements, therefore, of the legislators assembled at Richmond suffered little interruption, and the dinner and the galas, the ball and the theatre, and the gaming-table, with revel, dissipation, and extravagance, consumed the time of the servants of the country, and swallowed up the wasted plunder of the treasury.

Respected by all, beloved by individuals of both parties, and courted by that to which he was supposed to belong, Mr. Hugh Trevor was an object of the most flattering attention. His house was the favorite resort of such as enjoyed the envied privilege of the entrée. His gallant and accomplished son was the glass before which aspirant for court favor dressed themselves. The budding youth of his daughter had, for years, been watched with impatient anticipation of the time when her hand might be seized as the passport to present wealth and future honor.

Her cousin Delia was not recommended to notice by all these considerations; but the most prevailing of the whole was one that made her claims to attention fully equal to those of Virginia. Her father, though in comparatively humble circumstances, could give with his daughter a handsomer dowry than the elder and wealthier brother could afford with his. He was notorious for generosity, and his infirmities made it probable that be was not long for this world. Delia was therefore universally regarded as an heiress. Add to this, that in the affection of her uncle she seemed hardly to be postponed to his own daughter, and it was obvious to anticipate that the same influence which had procured office and emolument for himself and his sons, would be readily exerted in favor of her future husband.

It followed, that, whatever were the amusements of the day, whether ball or theatre, or party of pleasure by land or by water, the presence of Delia and Virginia was eagerly sought. The latter, simple and artless, saw in all who approached her the friends of her father. If she thought at all of political differences, it was only to recognize in most of them the adherents of the man to whose fortunes be had so long attached himself, and in whose fortunes he had flourished. To all, her welcome was alike cordial and her smile always bright.

AMONG those who had thus manifested a disposition to win the favor of Delia Trevor, was a young man who had, not long since, entered public life under the auspices of a father, who, fifteen years before, had openly bartered his principles for office. Besides some talent, the son possessed the yet higher merit, in the eyes of his superiors, of devotion to his party and its leader. He never permitted himself to be restrained, by any regard to time or place, from making his zeal conspicuous. Taught, from his infancy, that the true way to recommend his pretensions was to rate them highly himself, he seemed determined never to exchange his place in the Legislature for any in the gift of the Court, unless some distinguished station should be offered to his acceptance. For any such, in any department, he was understood to be a candidate.

At first, he supposed that a private intimation to this effect, through his father, would be all sufficient. But he was overlooked, and post after post, that he would gladly have accepted, was conferred on others. Fearful that he might be deemed deficient in zeal, he redoubled his diligence, and with increased eagerness sought every opportunity to display his talents and his ardor in the service of his master. Still he seemed no nearer to his object. Whether it was thought that he was most serviceable in his actual station, or that the wily President deemed it a needless waste of patronage to buy what was his by hereditary title and gratuitous devotion, it is hard to say. The gentleman sometimes seemed on the point of becoming malcontent; but his father, who had trained him in the school of Sir Pertinax McSycophant, convinced him that more was to be got by “booing,” and resolute subserviency and flattery of the great, than in any other way. Under such impressions, he would kindle anew the fervor of his zeal and send up his incense in clouds. Again disappointed, and sickening into the moroseness of hope deferred, he would become moody and reserved, as if watching for an opportunity of profitable defection.

Such an opportunity, at such a moment, had seemed to present itself in his acquaintance with Delia Trevor. A connection with her seemed exactly suited to his interested and ambidextrous policy. A handsome and amiable girl were items in the account of secondary consideration. But her fortune was not to be overlooked. Then, should his services, at length, seem like to meet their long deserved reward, she could be presented at court as the niece of Mr. Hugh Trevor, the tried and cherished friend of the President. Should the cold ingratitude of his superiors at length drive him into the opposition for advancement, he was sure of being well received as the son-in-law of a patriot so devoted as Mr. Bernard Trevor. Utrinque paratus, could be secure the hand of Delia, he felt sure that he must win, let the cards fall as they might.

Having taken this view of the subject, and examined it in all its bearings, he made up to Delia with a directness which startled, and a confidence that offended her. But the gentleman had little to recommend him to the favor of the fair. His person was awkward, and disfigured by a mortal stoop. His features, at once diminutive and irregular, were either shrouded with an expression of solemn importance, or set off by a smile of yet more offensive self-complaceney. His manners bore the same general character of conceit, alternately pert and grave; and his conversation wavered between resolute, though abortive, attempts at wit, and a sort of chopt logic, elaborately employed in proving, by incontestible arguments, what nobody ever pretended to deny. He had been taught, by his learned and astute father, to lay his foundations so deep that his arguments and the patience of his hearers were apt to be exhausted by the time he got back to the surface of things. Yet he reasoned with great precision, and rarely failed to establish, as unquestionable, the premises from which other men commonly begin to reason.

This talent, and this use of it, are more applauded by the world than one would think. Men like to be confirmed in their opinions; and, the fewer and more simple these may be, the more grateful are they for any thing that looks like a demonstration at their truth. To a man whose knowledge of arithmetic only extends to the profound maxim “that two and two make four,” how gratifying to find a distinguished man condescending to prove it by elaborate argument!

But ladies have little taste for these things, and still less for the harsh dogmatism and fierce denunciations of hostile, but absent politicians, with which Mr. P. Baker, the younger, occasionally varied his discourse. To Delia, therefore, the gentleman, in and of himself, and apart from all extrinsic considerations, was absolutely disagreeable. His first advances drove her within the safe defences of female pride and reserve. But when the manifest audacity of his pretensions led her to think of him as the supple slave of power, as one who had prostituted himself to the service of his master, with an eagerness which condemned his zeal to be its own reward, her disgust increased to loathing, and her pride was kindled into resentment. Without showing more of these feelings than became her, she showed enough to make her the object of his insolent and malignant hatred. but she was fortified by her position in a family which he dared not offend, and his paltry malice found vent in such allusions to the politics of the day as he knew must wound her.

Things were about coming to this pass, when Douglas Trevor arrived. The first time he met Mr. Baker in company with his cousin, he saw a disposition on his part to pay attentions which were obviously annoying to her. Both duty and inclination impelled him to come to her relief; and, in doing this, he awakened the jealousy and incurred the displeasure of the gentleman. But these were feelings he had no mind to display toward one who wore a sword, and especially toward the son of a man so influential at Washington as Mr. Hugh Trevor. He accordingly drew off, in morose discomfiture, and Delia, relieved from his offensive attentions, felt that she owed her deliverance to her cousin. He was, of course, bound to occupy the place at her side from which he had driven Baker; and she was bound to requite the service by making the duty he had imposed on himself as little irksome as possible. She exerted herself to be agreeable, and succeeded so well, that Douglas went to bed that night in the firm belief that he had never passed a more pleasant evening, or seen a girl of more charming manners than Delia.

This circumstance led to a sort of tacit convention, which established him in the character of her special attendant, in all parties where Mr. Baker made his appearance. By an easy progress, this engagement was extended to all societies and all places. He knows little of human nature who needs to be told the natural consequences of these things.

But, leaving the reader to form his own judgment, and to anticipate such result as he may, my present business is with the repulsed and irritated Baker. Though it consoled his pride and self-love to impute his discomfitures, not to any absolute dislike of himself, but to a preference for another, there was nothing in that preference to soothe his resentment. As Douglas had, in the first instance, come somewhat cavalierly between him and the object of his wishes, he, perhaps, had reasonable grounds of displeasure against him. But, as it might be quite iuconvenient to give vent to his feelings in that direction, they were carefully repressed. In such assaults on those of the lady, as her cousin might not observe, or might think it unwise to notice, did his malice indulge itself.

So matters stood when the astounding intelligence reached Richmond, that a diplomatic agent from the State of South Carolina had been long secretly entertained at the Court of St. James, and that he was supposed to have negotiated an informal arrangement for a commercial treaty between that government and the confederacy then forming in the South. Something was rumored as to the terms of the contemplated treaty, which filled the whole northern faction in Virginia with consternation. It was feared that that State could not be withheld from joining the Southern League, except by force, and that, in a contest of force, she would be backed, not only by the Southern States, but by the power of Great Britain.

IT was now the month of February, and a pleasant day had tempted our young people to a jaunt of amusement to the head of the falls. Mr. Baker, stealing away from his duties as a legislator, was one of the party. Repulsed by Delia, he was beginning an attempt on the heart of Virginia, of whose loyalty, as the daughter of Mr. Hugh Trevor, he could entertain no doubt.

Here his reception would have been little better than with the other, had not Virginia been held in check by a respect for the supposed opinions of her father. Born at the very moment when the good old gentleman was in the act of making up his mind to sacrifice the sovereignty of his native State to the necessity of preserving the Union, he seemed to seize on the opportunity of compensating the impiety to which he felt himself driven, by giving to his infant daughter the name he had so long cherished and honored. It was a moment of one of those relentings of the heart, in which nature asserts her supremacy, and compels its homage to those whom we have been accustomed to reverence and obey. If even the prodigal or the traitor be subject to be so affected, how much stronger must be such an impulse in the mind of a pure and upright man, impelled by a sense of duty to his country to dishonor her venerated name. This poor tribute was as the kiss of peace with which the executioner implores the pardon of some illustrious victim of State policy, who is about to bleed under his hand. Had he yielded to his feelings, he would have taken up the self-accusing lamentation of the returning prodigal. But his sense of duty was deep and abiding, and was always most sure to command his exact obedience when the duty was most painful. He could not doubt the correctness of a conviction, which even his cherished devotion to his native State could not made him shake off entirely. In such a case, to doubt was, with him, to be convinced.

But the name thus bestowed upon his daughter was not without an effect on her mind. She knew little of politics, but, from her very infancy, self-love had made her jealous of the honor of the State whose name she bore. The name itself was a spell of power on the heart of Delia. It had disposed her to love her cousin before she knew her. It had drawn them together on their first acquaintance, and had often been the theme of conversation between them. Somewhat older, and much the superior in intellectual power, Delia had, unwittingly, exercised an influence over the mind of Virginia which inclined her to listen favorably to all that could be urged against the usurper's claim to a dominion, unchecked by the authority of the State.

For more than a year past, Mr. Trevor had himself begun to doubt the wisdom of his former opinions. Doubting, he was silent, but he had not been unwilling to subject his daughter to the action of her cousin's more vigorous mind. For many years, he would as soon have exposed his children to the contagion of the plague, as permit them to visit their uncle. During the last summer he had suffered Arthur and Virginia to spend a month with him; and he was not sorry to observe that the former came home with deeper thoughts than he chose to express. Of their love and admiration of their uncle neither made any secret. He was not only unlike their father, but so unlike any other man, that he had been a curious study to them during their whole visit. The originality of his thoughts, and the vividness with which he expressed them, afforded them constant amusement. He had that faculty of making truth look like truth, in the exhibition of which the young mind so much delights. Then he was so frank, so ardent, and withal so kind, that it was impossible to know and not to love him.

After all this, the reader will not be like to partake of the surprise of Mr. Philip Baker, when he found, on shifting his battery, that he was not much more in favor with Virginia Trevor than with her cousin. The consequence was, that whenever he attempted, in company, to attach himself to the immediate party of these young ladies, he was apt to find himself a supernumerary. But, as Virginia had shown no marked dislike to him, his vanity easily adopted the idea that she considered him as the property of Delia. He took some pains to undeceive her, and would have been mortified at her unconcern on the occasion, had he not thought some allowance should be made for her indifference to a man who did but take her as a pis aller. He did not, therefore, at once withdraw himself from their coterie, but continued to hang about, and take his part in conversation, whenever nothing particularly exclusive in the manner of the interlocutors forbade it. He could not come between whispers; but he could answer any observation that met his ear. Being, as I have said, something between a proser and a declaimer, he thought himself eloquent, and would seize occasions to hold forth to the general edification, in a style intended to dazzle the bystanders.

A FEW days after, Douglas handed his cousin the following paper:

Delia read this curious document in silence, and, on looking up, found that Douglas had left the room. She ran after him, but he was gone, and for a day or two avoided any opportunity for farther explanation. At length she found one, and asked by what means the paper had been procured.

“By proper means, my dear coz,” said he, “if the paper is a proper one.”

“Proper!” exclaimed she; “for me to receive, certainly. But for him to give! Indeed, I pity any poor wretch who can be so abject. I am glad, at least, I am to see him no more. I should find it hard to behave to him as becomes myself!”

“It would be hard,” said Douglas, “but as you always will behave as becomes yourself, hard though it be, it was right you should be spared the trial.”

“This is your doing then?” said she.

“No questions, coz,” replied Douglas. “I must behave as becomes me too.”

This put an effectual stop to farther inquiry, and the slight concealment did but deepen Delia's sense of the service Douglas had rendered her. While she admired the delicacy which, at once, veiled and adorned his chivalrous character; he, on his part felt greater pleasure at having redressed her wrong, because the affair had taken such a turn as to conceal the part that he had acted. The ties thus formed in secret, are doubly sacred and doubly sweet. The heart involuntarily classes them with those chaste mysteries which the vulgar eye must not profane. They become the theme of thoughts which sometimes rise up, and kindle the cheek, and light the eye, and then sink down again and hide themselves deep in the silent breast.

But this privacy was destined to he invaded by one person, at least; and that, the very one from whom Douglas would most anxiously have concealed the whole affair. Yet was there no person to whose tenderness, delicacy, and affection for both parties, it could have been more fitly confided. In short, Mr. Trevor, one day, placed in the hands of his son a letter, in the President's own hand-writing, of which the following is a copy:

“Can you tell me what this means?” said the mild old gentleman to his son.

“As I remember,” replied Douglas, “the circumstances under which I heard of the events alluded to, I think, I can give a guess at the meaning. It means that my cousin was insulted, in my presence, and that I protected her, as was my duty.”

“And how does it happen that I never heard of it? Who was the person, and what has become of the affair?”

“It has all blown over,” said Douglas,“and I had hardly expected it would ever be spoken of again. Delia alone knew of it from me, as it was right she should. I have never mentioned, nor has my friend. I am sure she has not; and what the other party can promise himself from the exposure, I am sure I cannot tell.”

“The thing is now made public, at all events; and both as your father and as the friend of the President, it is right that I should know all about it.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied Douglas, “you shall know all; and when you do, I need not explain why I have never told you before.”

He left the room, and soon returned with a bundle of papers. From this he handed one to his father, which proved to he a challenge, in the most approved form, from him, the said Douglas Trevor, to Philip Baker, Esq. Then came a proposition to discuss from the other party; then a flat demand of apology, or the alternative of, what is called, gentlemanly satisfaction; then an offer to apologize; then the paper we have already seen; and then the following:

“Philip Baker declares, on his honor, that he meant no offence to Lieutenant Trevor by any words addressed to him on Saturday last; and that he deeply regrets having spoken any which may have sounded offensively in the ears of Lieutenant Trevor.”

“This will do,” said Mr. Trevor. “It only shows that you have acted as became a soldier and a gentleman. These papers show clearly that the quarrel began in an insult to your cousin, which you were bound to resent. This will be perfectly satisfactory to the President.”

“Doubtless it would be,” said Douglas, promptly; “but so much of the affair as implicates my cousin's name must go no father.”

“But it is that,” replied Mr. Trevor, “which shows the cause of the quarrel. The other papers only show that you fancied an intention to insult where none existed. This would tally too well with what the President has heard.”

“Be is so,” answered Douglas, calmly. “If the President is never satisfied till I furnish a paper which is to blend my cousin's name with a public discussion, he must remain dissatisfied. I cannot help it. Better to have suffered the insult to pass unnoticed, than to make a lady's name the theme of guard-house wit.”

“Bless you, my noble boy,” said the admiring father. “You are right, and there is no help for it. But what shall I say to the President?”

“What you please. The conclusions you draw from what you know, he is welcome to. The facts are with you.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Trevor, after a musing pause; “certainly he will trust in my general assurance that his information is, to my certain knowledge, erroneous. This will do. It must be sufficient.”

“It must do,” said Douglas, “whether it will or no. In the mean time, my dear sir, let me beg that the affair may go no farther, even in the family. Delia alone knows of it, and she only knows as much as may be gathered from that paper, a duplicate of which is her's by right. I therefore beg that you will say nothing about it, even to her.”

And he did say nothing to her; but Douglas observed, that that night, when she held up her lip for his paternal kiss, the kind old gentleman gave it with more than his usual tenderness. He held her off, parted the hair from her forehead, gazed earnestly and affectionately upon her; and then, kissing her again, bad God bless her, in a voice choked with emotion. From that moment, she was to him as a daughter.

THE visit of Delia to her uncle now drew to a close, and she prepared for her return home. It was settled that she should be accompanied by Douglas, Arthur, and Virginia, who were to spend a few weeks with her father.

On the road, Douglas felt more and more the duty and the privilege of being the protector of his cousin, and, by the time they reached the end of their journey, he had discovered that the latter was as precious as the former was sacred. Some such thought had stolen into his mind while he was yet at home, but that was not the place to mention the subject to her; and he had determined to impose upon himself the most scrupulous restraint, until he should have restored her honorably to her father's arms.

Two days travel brought them to the residence of Mr. Bernard Trevor, on the banks of the Roanoke. They found him laid up with a fit of the gout, which, while it confined him to the house, produced its usual salutary effect on his general health. At the sight of his daughter and her companions, his pain was, for the moment, forgotten; and, flinging away his flannels and crutches, he sprung to his feet and caught her in his arms. At the same time, Arthur and Virginia pressed forward for their welcome, which they, in their turn, received.

Unfortunately, Mr. Trevor was not the only one who forgot himself at the sight of Delia. Poor old Carlo, starting from his slumbers on the hearth-rug, had recognized his young mistress, and was manifesting his joy at her return with boisterous fondness, when one of his feet saluted the inflamed toe of his master. In an agony, which none but they who have felt it can conceive, the old gentleman sunk into his chair. Here he remained for some minutes, unconscious of everything but his sufferings, while the soft hand of his daughter replaced and soothed the tortured limb.

At length, recovering enough to look around him, his eye fell on Douglas, who stood aloof, waiting to be introduced. Some little tag of military foppery, which always clings to the undress of an officer, satisfied Mr. Trevor who he was. Stretching out his hand, he said: “Ah! Douglas, my dear boy! How glad I am to see you! But I ought not to have to recognized you, you dog! standing back therewith your hat under your arm, as if waiting your turn of presentation at a levee. Perhaps you don't remember me. I certainly should not have known you, but for the circumstances under which I see you. But what of that? Was is not yesterday you were sitting on my knee, and hanging about my neck? Yes, it was yesterday, though we have both dreamed a great deal since. But dreams must give way to realities; so let us vote it yesterday, and meet to-day as we parted last night.”

This singular accoste had the desired effect, and Douglas felt, at once, As if he had been with his uncle all his life.

“You forget, my dear sir,” said he, “that I was intercepted by one whose privilege, I am sure, you would not have me dispute, though he has abused it so cruelly.”

“You mean the dog?” said Mr. Trevor. “Poor old Carlo! Come to your master, my poor fellow! No; your privilege shall never he invaded. We are both past service now, and must learn to sympathize with each other. If you cannot understand the nature of a gouty toe, I hope I shall always have heart enough to understand yours. Give me a rough coat, or a black skin, for a true friend; one that will not grudge any superior advantages that I may possess. Tom,” added he, in a tone of marked gentleness, the fire is low. No, not yourself, old man,” he continued, as the negro whom he addressed moved toward the door; “not you, my good old friend. Just ring the bell, and let one of those lazy dogs in the kitchen bring in some wood. But why don't you speak to your master Douglas? I am sure you remember what cronies you were, when you were teaching him to ride.”

“I'm mighty proud to see you, sir,” said the old man, taking the offered hand of Douglas, with an air of affectionate humility. “But it was not my place, sir,” added he, answering his master's words, “to speak first. I made sure master Douglas would remember me after a while.”∗

I SHOULD detain the reader with matters not worthy of a place in this grave history, if I descended to the particulars of the intercourse between Douglas Trevor and his charming cousin. It is enough to say, that he found himself, daily, more and more happy in her society; and was more and more convinced that it was a necessary ingredient in his happiness. It was not long before he concluded that he would not live without her; and, having told her so, was referred by her to her father.

Nothing doubting that his communication would be favorably received, Douglas was eager to break the matter to his uncle, and ask his approbation of his suit. To his utter amazement, the old gentleman, assuming an air at once serious and tender, said: “My dear boy, had I the world to choose from, there is no man to whom I would sooner trust my daughter's happiness. But circumstances forbid your union. I speak advisedly and sadly. I have seen what was passing. I anticipated this communication, and deliberately decided on my answer.”

“For God's sake, sir!” exclaimed Douglas, trembling with impatience, “what do you mean; and what is your answer?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Trevor, “and my answer is, that circumstances forbid it.”

“Surely,” said Douglas “your objection is not to the nearness of blood.”

“I am not addicted to any such exploded superstition,” said Mr. Trevor. “But my daughter must never marry one that wears that dress.”

“I like my profession, sir,” said Douglas, but will change it without hesitation.”

“God forbid!” replied the old gentleman. “I would not have you do so; and were you so inclined, it would not be in your choice.”

“I can resign when I will, and my resignation will certainly be accepted.”

THE evening was far advanced when Douglas again reached his uncle's house. He went immediately to his room, and sent to request a private interview with Mr. Trevor. He was accordingly invited into the little study of the old gentleman, where he commonly sat surrounded by books and papers. On entering the room, he observed an elderly gentleman, whom he had never seen before, pass out at a door communicating with the drawing-room.

Douglas now silently handed his father's letter to his uncle. Mr. Trevor read it attentively, and again and again looked over it, resting his eye on particular passages, as if to possess himself of the full meaning of every expression. The subject was in itself interesting, and quite new to him. But he felt a yet deeper interest in the obscure intimations of a change in his brother's mind in regard to those matters about which they had so long and so painfully differed. Even if he was mistaken in this, it was consoling to find himself rising in the estimation of Mr. Hugh Trevor; no longer regarded by him as rash, reckless, and inconsiderate, but consulted as a “clear-sighted and sagacious man” in an affair of very great importance. He alone, who has been conscious of being thus undervalued by a friend at once beloved and respected, can estimate the satisfaction which Mr. Trevor felt at that moment. If there was any mixture of alloy with this pleasure, it flowed from self-reproach. He had sometimes found it impossible to repress some little risings of resentment at finding his judgment habitually disabled by his elder brother. He had, indeed, been once a little white-headed boy, when the other was a highly intelligent and promising youth. But at sixty he was not quite content to be still looked on as a child. Yet, when he remarked the candor of his brother's language, and the self-abasing sadness of his tone, he was vexed to think that one unkind thought toward him had ever entered his mind.

At length, he interrupted this train of thought to ask of Douglas an explanation of the President's letter. In answer, he received a detailed account of the scene at the falls, and was permitted to read the correspondence which had grown out of it.

“I have heard something of this before,” said Mr. Trevor. “Delia told me all that passed in her presence, and showed me Baker's palinode, which is rather the most extraordinary document that I ever saw. Why, the dog acknowledges that he actually intended to insult a lady. He might, at least, have had the grace to lie about it. False shame is better than no shame at all.”

“He would have been glad to put the matter on that footing,” said Douglas, “could he have got leave to do so. He sent me such a paper as you suppose, but I refused to receive it. His apology to me I knew to be false. It was, therefore, the more satisfactory because the more humiliating. But I sent him word that I would not take anything to my cousin but the truth. Here,” continued Douglas, “is his first projet of an apology, and of my rejection of it.”

Mr. Trevor read them, and then said: “This is well. I knew you had acted handsomely, but how handsomely, I had not conceived of. But let me hear, I pray you, how all this has been tortured into an offence against majesty.”

Douglas colored slightly at the word, and handed his uncle a copy of the President's first letter to his father. He had but to add an account of his subsequent conversation with his father, and Mr. Trevor was in possession of the whole affair.

“You see,” said Douglas, “that I am referred to you for advice, and that you are invited to say to me, unreservedly, what you will.”

“I do see,” replied Mr. Trevor, “that I have carte blanche, as far as depends on your father; but there are some things I would now say to his son, which it would not be proper to say to a soldier of the United States. I cannot, therefore, discard all reserve, but all that he has ever imposed on me I now shake off. Indeed, I should have done this now, without his permission. You are my son as well as his. You have shown that you know how to protect my daughter, and have fairly earned a right to protect her through life. Nay, no raptures, no thanks. The exercise of this right must he postponed until affairs have taken a different shape from that they bear at present. But, revenons a nos moutons! The question is, what you are to do to save this despicable, heartless wretch, from the necessity of offending a wretch even baser than himself, whom even he despises.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Douglas.

“I mean,” replied the other, “the President and the elder Baker, that tame slave of power, that shameless, mercenary pander, who, having both talent and reputation, sold the one and sacrificed the other for office and infamy.”

“And is it for such a man,” exclaimed Douglas, “that I am required to make disclosures before a court of inquiry, or a court martial, which delicacy and self-respect forbid? Never! Be the alternative what it may, I shall never consent to it.”

“You are right, my son,” said Mr. Trevor, “nor can I relieve you from the difficulty by authorizing the profanation of my daughter's name, to which such an investigation would lead. My duty on that head is peremptory, not discretionary. If your father were anything but the perfect gentleman he is, I might suspect that his reference to me was intended to elicit some such suggestion. But I know him better. I infer from his letter more than you discover there; and I am not sure that the advice which I am most disposed to give, is that which he would be best pleased to see you follow.”

“What would that advice be?” asked Douglas, anxiously.

“Nay,” replied the old gentleman, “when I have made up my mind, you shall know.”

“But why not give me your thoughts,” said the youth, “and let us discuss them?”

“Because, circumstanced as you are, we cannot properly discuss them. I can but give you my judgment, when I have formed it, and leave you to find out reasons for it.”

“My own first thought,” said Douglas, “is to resign. Let us discuss that.”

“It was mine too,” said the uncle, “and there is therefore no occasion to discuss it. Though I had not sufficiently matured my opinion to announce it to you, I think I may promise that if you come to that conclusion, I shall not dissent from it.”

“The only difficulty that I see in the way,” said Douglas, “is that an offer to resign is, under such circumstances, generally understood as a shrinking from inquiry.”

“It is so; and the opinion is so far right, that when the charge is infamous, resignation doubles the infamy. It is a tacit consent to be infamous, only on condition that one may be safe.”

“You state the point with startling force,” said the youth; “and how would you distinguish this case from the one you suppose?”

“By distinguishing the accusation from one of falsehood, peculation, or cowardice. Should you plead guilty to such charges as these, or seek to evade them by resignation, you stand dishonored. But read over the President's bill of indictment. Now suppose it true that you had entertained and avowed the sentiments there imputed to you, would there be any dishonor in that?”

“Certainly not; unless my being an officer of the United States would make a difference.”

“Should that prevent you from thinking, or take away a freeman's right to express his thoughts?”

“It would seem not. But does it not make some difference?”

“Certainly. Shall I tell you what it is? Such sentiments would make it your duty (not to the United States, but to Virginia and to yourself,) to resign. Now, it is because I have no mind to seduce a soldier from his standard, that I have been careful not to infuse such sentiments into you. If once you lay aside the panoply of the uniform, and throw away the amulet of the commission, I would not ensure you against opinions which you may have to maintain at the hazard of your life. But time presses. Your own suggestion disposes me to speak more promptly and decidedly than I should otherwise have done. I therefore say, tender your resignation. But, if you have no objection, I should like to consult a friend, on whose most hasty opinions I rely more than on the coolest judgment of others.”

“If you mean my aunt,” said Douglas, “I know few persons on whose instinctive sense of propriety I should place more reliance.”

“She would well deserve your confidence; but I mean the gentleman who left the room as you entered. He has been her friend for thirty years, and mine for more than half that time.”

“But to me,” said Douglas, “he is an utter stranger, and I feel some delicacy in consulting a stranger on such an occasion.”

“You forget,” said Mr. Trevor, “that all there is of delicacy in the case touches me as nearly as you. It is not you, a stranger, but I, an intimate friend, who propose to ask his advice. Charge that matter to my account, then, and merely decide for yourself, whether it may not be desirable to have the counsel of one as remarkable for scrupulous delicacy, as for sagacity and resource?”

“There can be but one answer to that question,” replied Douglas, “and I shall therefore gladly take the benefit of his advice.”

The hand-bell sounded, and the ever ready Tom appeared. “My respects to Mr. B—,” said Mr. Trevor. “Ask him, if he pleases, to walk into this room.”

Tom disappeared, and soon returned, marshalling in Mr. B—. He was a man apparently of sixty years of age, or more, slightly formed, but tall, erect, clean-limbed, and sinewy. His vigor seemed little impaired by time, though his high and strong features made him look at least as old he was. A light blue eye, clear and sparkling, quick in its glance, but settled and searching in its gaze, was the striking feature of his face. The sun had burned out all traces of his original complexion, and a silver hue had usurped the color of his hair. His whole appearance was imposing, and while it commanded the respect due to the wisdom of age, seemed to claim no pity for its infirmities. To this sentiment, which enters so largely into the composition of that character which the world calls venerable, he certainly made no pretensions . No one would have called him venerable, though no man was held in higher veneration by those who knew him.

THE frankness and cordiality of his manner, when introduced to Douglas, gave assurance that he took a great interest the young man, who felt, on his part, that he was in the presence of a man of no common mould, and that in that man he had found an efficient friend.

“And now, Tom,” said Mr. Trevor, “pass the word for coffee and privacy in this room.”

Tom bowed and withdrew, and Mr. Trevor, without preface or apology, proceeded to lay the case before his friend. This he did with great precision of statement, while the other listened with an air which showed that no word was lost on him. Having got through, Mr. Trevor added: “We now wish you to advise what should he done in this case.”

“Resign, by all means,” said Mr. B—. “Resign immediately!”

“Your reasons?” asked Mr. Trevor.

“There are plenty of them, of which you are aware,” said B—, “and with which our young friend shall be made acquainted after resignation, not before. But there are others which may be spoken of now. The alternative is a court of inquiry, a court-martial, or resignation. To the two first the same objection applies. Your nephew cannot expect any satisfactory result from either, but by the use of means which, I am sure, his delicacy would not permit him to use—I mean the public use of a lady's name. Some people have a taste for that, and in other parts of the world it is all the rage. I thank God that the fashion has not reached us. A woman, exposed to notoriety, learns to bear and then to love it. When she gets to that, she should go North; write books; patronize abolition societies, or keep a boarding-school. She is no longer fit to be the wife of a Virginia gentleman. But there is no need to say this. You, Trevor, were your nephew so inclined, would never permit the name of your daughter to he thus profaned.”

“I could oppose nothing to it,” said Mr. Trevor, “but my displeasure. And though I might not wish it, could I have a right to be displeased with Douglas for vindicating himself from a charge which has grown out of his gallant defence of her? Think of the favorable standing of his family; observe the rapid promotion of his brother; and consider whether a punctilio of this sort should bind him to renounce prospects so flattering?”

“Were the prospect more flattering than you state it,” said B—, “it would not change my opinion. But what prospect is there? Colonel Trevor is perhaps a favorite at court. So, doubtless, is your brother; but he is not a man whose fidelity is either to be bought or rewarded; and he and his will be, at any moment, postponed and sacrified to the mercenary, who might desert and even mutiny for want of pay. Here is proof of it.

“Look at the shallow pretext for this proposed court-martial. The President is pleased to say that he believes your brother; but that there are those who do not. Who are they? Who can they be? Who is there, worthy to be accounted among his advisers, that can disbelieve anything that Hugh Trevor shall assert? Don't you see the cheat? Don't you see that your brother, whose attachment to the Union, based as it is on principle, may be safely trusted, is to have his feelings wounded to gratify the mortified pride of the elder Baker, and the skulking malice of his son? You, Mr. Trevor, know better than I do who are about the President. Is there one among them to whom your father's word would need the support of other testimony? Good old man! So little has he of pride or jealousy, that this thought never occurs to him. He is modestly asking himself what right he has to expect credence from those who do not know him. And who are these malcontent officers? Think you there is one of them who would venture to express his dissatisfaction to you? No. There is no one malcontent. No one dissatisfied but that son of the horse-leech, whose mouth is ever agape, and never can he filled.

“Do look at this letter,” continued B—, addressing Mr. Trevor. “How perfectly in character. Not one traversable allegation (as the lawyers say) except that of his friendship for your brother. ‘Those friends whom I feel bound to consult!’ Who are they? Press him, and I dare say some fellow below contempt, some scullion of the kitchen political or the kitchen gastronomical, may be found to father what it is alleged that these friends have said. ‘His information is from a source entitled to all confidence!’ Does he even say that as of himself? No. He charges that, too, on his friends, though it might not be easy to find a sponsor for that compliment to old Baker. Since the death of his brother pimp Ritchie, I think that sort of thing has gone out of fashion. ‘Hardly less valuable and meritorious than your brother.’ The same authority. ‘On dit,’ ‘they say’ I think this last On would he as hard to find as that universal author of mischief, Nobody.

ON the evening of the third day from that of which I have just been speaking, the President of the United States was sitting alone in a small room in his palace, which, in conformity to the nomenclature of foreign courts, it had become the fashion to call his closet. The furniture of this little apartment was characterized at once by neatness, taste, and convenience. Without being splendid, it was rich and costly; and, in its structure and arrangement, adapted to the use of a man, who, devoted to business, yet loved his ease. The weariness of sedentary application was relieved by the most tasteful and commodiour variety of chairs, couches, and sofas, while the utmost ingenuity was displayed in the construction of desks, tables, and other conveniences for reading and writing. In the appearance of the distinguished personage, to whose privacy I have introduced the reader, there was a mixture of thought and carelessness very much in character with the implements of business and the appliances for ease and comfort which surrounded him. He occasionally looked at his watch, and at the door, with the countenance of one who expects a visiter; and then throwing himself against the arm of his sofa, resumed his disengaged air. That something was on his mind was apparent. But, interesting as the subject might be, it did not seem to touch him nearly. His whole manner was that of a man who is somewhat at a loss to know what may be best for others, but finds full consolation in knowing precisely what is best for himself.

As the events of the last ten years make it probable that none of my younger readers have ever seen the august dignitary of whom I speak, and as few of us are like to have occasion to see him in future, a particular description of his person may not be unacceptable. Though far advanced in life, he was tastily and even daintily dressed, his whole costume being exactly adapted to a diminutive and dapper person, a fair complexion, a light and brilliant blue eye, and a head which might have formed a study for the phrenologist, whether we consider its ample developments or its egg-like baldness. The place of hair was supplied by powder, which his illustrious example had again made fashionable. The revolution in public sentiment which commenced sixty years ago, had abolished all the privileges of rank and age; which trained up the young to mock at the infirmities of their fathers, and encouraged the unwashed artificer to elbow the duke from his place of precedence; this revolution had now completed its cycle. While the sovereignty of numbers was acknowledged, the convenience of the multitude had set the fashions. But the reign of an individual had been restored, and the taste of that individual gave law to the general taste. Had he worn a wig, wigs would have been the rage. But as phrenology had taught him to be justly proud of his high and polished forehead, and the intellectual developments of the whole cranium, he eschewed hair in all its forms, and barely screened his naked crown from the air with a light covering of powder. He seemed, too, not wholly unconscious of something worthy of admiration in a foot, the beauty of which was displayed to the best advantage by the tight fit and high finish of his delicate slipper. As he lay back on the sofa, his eye rested complacently on this member, which was stretched out before him, its position shifting as if unconsciously, into every variety of grace. Returning from thence, his glance rested on his hand, fair, delicate, small, and richly jewelled. It hung carelessly on the arm of the sofa, and the fingers of this, too, as if rather from instinct than volition, performed sundry evolutions on which the eye of majesty dwelt with gentle complacency.

This complacent reverie was frequently broken by the sound of the door-bell. At such moments, the President would raise his head with a look of awakened expectation, which subsided instantly; until, by frequent repetition, it called up some expression of displeased impatience. At last, the sound was echoed by a single stroke, which rung from what looked like a clock within the room. He immediately sat erect, assuming an air of dignified and complacent composure, suited to the reception of a respected visiter.

The door opened, and the gentleman in waiting bowed into the room a person who well deserves a particular description, and then withdrew.

The individual thus introduced was a gentleman whose age could not be much short of severity. In person he had probably been once nearly six feet high, but time had at once crushed and bowed him to a much shorter stature. Indeed, the stoop of his shoulders, the protrusion of the neck, and the projecting position of the chin, made together that peculiar complex curvature which brings the top of the cape of the coat exactly against the top of the head. The expression of his countenance was, at once, fawning and consequential. His face had been originally something between round and square. If was now shortened by the loss of his teeth. The muscular fullness of youth had not been replaced by any accession of fat, nor had the skin of his face shrunk, as it often does, on the retiring flesh. The consequence was, that his checks hung down in loose pouches, and all his features, originally small and mean, seemed involved in the folds of his shrivelled and puckered skin. His voice was harsh and grating, and the more so from an attempt at suavity in the tones, which produced nothing more than a drawling prolongation of each word. Thus, though he spoke slowly, the stream of sound flowed continually from his lips, reminding the hearer of the never-ending chant of the locust.

As the President rose and gracefully advanced to welcome him, he shuffled forward as if wishing to prevent the honor thus done him, while the increased curve of his back and the eager humility of his upturned countenance, betokened the prostration of his spirit in the presence of the dispenser of honor and emolument. Having bowed himself on the hand which had been graciously extended to him, he remained standing in the floor as if unmindful of repeated invitations to be seated. The President had not yet so entirely forgotten the manners which once distinguished him as a most accomplished gentleman, and was not at first aware of the necessity of seating himself before his deferential guest. At length, he resumed his place on the sofa, and then the other, with a new prostration, which seemed to apologize for sitting in the presence of majesty, followed his example. He did not; indeed, presume to share the sofa, though invited to do so, but took his place on a seat equally luxurious on the opposite side of the fire-place. But the luxury of the chaise longue was lost on him. He felt that to lean against the back or arm would be quite unbecoming, and sat as nearly erect as he could, in that precise posture which indicates a readiness to spring to the feet and do the bidding of a superior.

“I had begun to despair of seeing you this evening, my dear sir,” said the President, in a tone at once kind and reproachful. “I had given orders that I should be denied to all but you.”

“You do me great and undeserved honor,” replied the other, “but I—”

“I wished to speak to you in private,” continued Mr. Van Buren, not noticing the interruption, “of a matter which deeply interests us both. Here is a letter which I received this morning, which makes it at least doubtful whether the last step which I took in regard to that young man, Trevor, is quite such as should have been taken.”

He then took from a bundle of papers, one which he read as follows:

Having read this letter aloud, the President, without comment, placed in the hands of his guest a bundle of papers. It is only necessary to tell the reader that they were copies of the same documents which Douglas had laid before his father and uncle, each one duly authenticated by the attestation of Lieutenant Whiting.

Mr. Van Buren now threw himself back upon the sofa, and fixed his eye on the face of his companion with an expression which betokened some concern, not unmixed with a slight enjoyment of the perplexity with which the purblind old man pored over the papers. Indeed, his uneasiness could hardly have escaped the observation of a casual spectator. He shifted his seat; he read; then wiped his spectacles, and read again; then wiped his brow; and having gone through all the documents, again took them up in order, and read them all over again. When, at length, he had extracted all their substance, he turned on the President a perplexed and anxious look, and remained silent.

At length, the latter spoke. “I fear we have made an unlucky blunder in this business, my dear sir,” said he.

“I fear so too, sir,” said the other. “But I beg leave to assure your Excellency that the information I took the liberty to communicate was a simple and exact statement of what I learned from my son, which, I trust, your Excellency will see is in nowise contravened by these documents. I certainly was not apprised of the provocation which, it is here said, was offered to a lady under Lieutenant Trevor's protection.”

“Make yourself perfectly easy on that head, my dear sir,” said the President. “I give myself small concern on Lieutenant Trevor's account. My oblations to his father are more than discharged by the rapid advancement of his elder brother; and he can have no right to complain that proceedings have been instituted to inquire into a matter which, even thus explained, places his loyalty in no very favorable light. My concern is, lest the prosecution of this investigation should lead to results undesirable to you.”

“I understand your Excellency,” replied the honorable Mr. Baker. “The object of this communication is to convey a covert intimation that, if proceedings against Lieutenant Trevor are not staid, he will revenge himself by endeavoring to dishonor my son. I never brought him up to be the I ‘butcher of a silk button,’ and don't wonder that his notions of galantry, &c. &c., do not exactly square with those of these preux chevaliers.”

“That view of the subject is doubtless quite philosophical,” said the President; “and if you regard it in that light, it will remove all difficulty out of the way.”

“I cannot exactly say,” replied the other, “that I should be quite willing to expose my son to the pain of seeing these documents made public; concocted, as they manifestly have been, by men who have learned to quarrel by the book, and contrived on purpose to shut the door against enquiry. I dare say he would hardly have made the communication I received, could he have anticipated the step which I deemed it my duty to your Excellency to take in consequence of it.”

“The misfortune is,” replied the President, “that I have already caused an intimation to be given to Lieutenant Trevor that it may be necessary to order a court martial, unless he thinks proper to demand a court of enquiry. Either way, the whole affair must come out.”

“Is there no other alternative?” asked the anxious father. “Could not these papers be suppressed? There is no other authenic evidence of the facts.”

“Unfortunately,” said the President, to whom habitual intercourse with the base had made the feeling of contempt so familiar that he repressed it without difficulty, “unfortunately these papers are but copies. The originals are doubtless in the hands of Lieutenant Whiting, whose honor cannot be questioned, and probably they would be farther verified by the handwriting of your son.”

“What then can be done?” asked the honorable Mr. Baker, in a state of unutterable perplexity. Receiving no answer, he sat musing, with the restless and fidgeting air of a man who seeks in vain for some starting point for his thoughts. He was at length roused from his reverie by two strokes of the bell, which issued from the clock-case at the President's back. The signal was answered by the touch of a hand-bell, which stood on a table near him. The door opened. The gentleman in waiting entered, advanced to the table, laid a packet of letters before the President, and withdrew in silence.

He took them up, shuffled them through his hands as a whist player runs over his cards, and having fixed his eye on one, took it out of the parcel, and threw the rest on the table. His companion having in the mean time relapsed into unconscious reverie, he opened this, and ran his eye over the contents.

“Here is good news for us, my dear sir,” said he. “Lieutenant Trevor here tenders his resignation, which, perhaps, may put an end to the difficulty.”

“Perhaps!” exclaimed the other, eagerly. “There can be no doubt about it, I hope.”

“None at all; if his accounts are all adjusted, of which I have little doubt. But it is not customary to let go our hold on an officer by accepting his resignation, until that matter has been enquired into.”

“It will be a great relief to me,” faltered out Mr. Baker, looking at the President with an anxious and imploring countenance—

“To have this explained at once,” said Mr. Van Buren, interrupting him. “You shall be gratified, my dear sir.”

The hand-bell was again sounded. The gentleman in waiting re-appeared; a few words were spoken to him in a low tone, and he again withdrew.

“THERE is something in this business,” said the President, after a silence of a few minutes, “which I do not well understand. I was not prepared to find Lieutenant Trevor so ready to resign, and still less to receive his letter of resignation through the hands of his father, without one word of expostulation to bis son, or to me. He does not even intimate any the least regret at the event. What can this mean?”

“It does not at all surprise me,” said Mr. Baker. “Hugh Trevor was always a visionary and uncertain man; and his influence over his sons is such, that I should consider the manifest defection of Lieutenant Trevor as a sure proof of the estrangement of the father.”

“I thought,” said the President, “that he had been always remarkable for his steadiness and fidelity.”

“In one sense he is so,” replied Baker. “But his steadiness is of the wrong sort. He is one of those men who professes to be governed, and, I dare say, is governed by principles. But his principles are so numerous, and so hedge him around and beset him on every side, that they have kept him standing still the greater part of his life. When he moves, it would take an expert mathematician to calculate the result of all the compound forces which act upon him, and to decide certainly what course he might take.”

“How happens it, then,” asked the President, “that I have always found him so loyal and faithful in his devotion to me?”

“Because he identified your Excellency in his own mind with the Union, to which he determined to sacrifice every thing else. But now that disunion has come, and the question is whether Virginia shall adhere to the North or join the South, he has a new problem to work, and how he may work it, no man can anticipate. Hence I say he is uncertain.”

“But does he think nothing of the advancement of his family?”

“It seems not, in this instance. That is what I meant when I said that his principles were too many. Your Excellency knows,” continued the honorable gentleman, with a contortion of the mouth meant for a smile, and which, but for the loss of his teeth, might have produced a grin, “that the cardinal number of standard principles is the only one which can be counted on.”

“Have you then any information,” asked the President, “which leads you to suspect him of disaffection?”

“None,” replied Baker; “I do but speak from my knowledge of the man. I do not think him capable of that gratitude for the many favors he and his family have received which should bind him indissolubly to your Excellency's service.”

“It is well, at least,” said the President, “that one of his sons, on whom most of those favors have been lavished, is made of different materials. The principles of Colonel Trevor are exactly of the right sort; or, as you would say, my dear sir, they are of just the right number. Could I obtain any information of the father's movements, which might give me just cause to doubt him, I would take occasion to show the difference I make between the faithful and the unstable. I would refuse to receive this young man's resignation, and order a court-martial immediately. I mistake if the father would not be glad to extricate him from the difficulty, by renouncing some of these fantastic notions which he dignifies with the name of principles.”

“I beseech your Excellency,” said Baker, forgetting his envious spleen against the virtuous and upright friend of his early youth, in his alarm at the mention of the court-martial, “I beseech your Excellency not to understand me as preferring any charge against Mr. Hugh Trevor. He is an excellent man, who well deserves all the favors he has received, and will, doubtless, merit many more. I pray that what I have said may not at all influence you to any harsh measures against him or his.”

The tact of the President at once detected the revulsion of Baker's feelings, and the cause. Indeed, he well knew both the men. He was aware that all that had been said of Mr. Trevor was essentially true. He had, therefore, the more highly prized his friendship, as one of the brightest jewels in his crown. He had taught his advocates and minions to point to him as one, whose support it was known would not be given to any man but from a sense of duty. He was himself not so dead to virtue as not to respect it in another; and his favorable dispositions toward Mr. Trevor, and the benefits bestowed on his family, had more of respect and gratitude than commonly mingled in his feelings or actions. Of Baker, he had rightly formed a different estimate. He found him in the shambles, and had bought and used him. To Baker, too, Mr. Trevor appeared only as one, in whose life there was a “daily beauty that made his ugly;” and he had seen, with malignant envy, the honors and emoluments for which he had toiled through all the drudgery of a partisan, freely bestowed on the unasking and unpretending merit of a rival. Gladly would he have improved the distrust, which he saw had entered into the mind of the President, had he not been warned that the first effect of it might be to press an enquiry which must eventuate in the irreparable dishonor of his own son.

While he sat meditating on these things, and subduing his malice to his fears and his interest, the door-bell sounded; the single stroke from the clock-case echoed the sound; the door opened, and a new character appeared on the stage.

No person whose name appears in this history better deserves a particular description than he who now entered. Fortunately, I am saved the necessity of going into it, by having it in power to refer the reader to a most graphic delineation of his exact prototype in person, mind manners, and principles.

In Oliver Dain, or Oliver le Diable, as he was called, the favorite instrument of the crimes of that remorseless tyrant Louis IX., he had found his great examplar. The picture of that worthy, as drawn by Sir Walter Scott, in Quentin Durward, is the most exact likeness of one man ever taken for another. It is not even worth while to change the costume; for although he did not appear with a barber's apron girded around his waist, and the basin in his hands, it was impossible to look upon him without seeing that his undoubted talents, and the high stations he had filled, still left him fit to be employed in the most abject and menial services.

This happy compound of meanness, malignity, treachery, and talent, was welcomed by the President with a nod and smile at once careless and gracious. At the sight of him, Mr. Baker made haste to rise, and bustled forward to meet and salute him with an air, in which, if there was less of servility, there was more of the eagerness of adulation than he had displayed toward the President himself. The earnest enquiries of Mr. Baker after his health, &c., &c., were answered with the fawning air of one who feels himself much obliged by the notice of a superior, and he then turned to the President as if waiting his commands. These were communicated by putting into his hands the letters of Hugh Trevor and his son, which he was requested to read.

While he read, the President, turning to Mr. Baker, said—“While I thought of ordering a court-martial on the case of Lieutenant Trevor, I deemed it advisable to have all his military transactions looked into, intending, if any thing were amiss, to make it the subject of a distinct charge.” Then, turning to the other, he added—“You have, I presume, acquainted yourself with the state of the young man's accounts.”

“I have, sir,” was the reply. “They have been all settled punctually.”

“Then there is nothing to prevent the acceptance of his resignation?”

“Nothing of that sort, certainly, sir. But has your Excellency observed the date of this letter of his? You may see that he does not date from his father's house. I happen to know this place, Truro, to be the residence of that pestilent traitor, his uncle. Now, if the charge be well founded, I submit to your Excellency whether the offender should be permitted to escape prosecution by resigning. If it be not exactly capable of being substantiated, yet his readiness to resign on so slight an intimation renders his disaffection at least probable, and his date renders it nearly certain. Might it not be then advisable to retain the hold we have upon him? The court-martial being once ordered, additional charges might be preferred; and I much mistake the temper of the country where he is, if he does not furnish matter for additional charges before the month of April passes by.”

“Why the month of April?” asked the President.

“Because then the elections come on; and there is little doubt that exertions will be made to obtain a majority in the Legislature of men disposed to secede, and join the Southern Confederacy. In that county, in particular, I am well advised that such exertions will be made. A hen-hearted fellow has been put forward as the candidate of the malcontents, who can be easily driven from the canvass by his personal fears. Let the affair once take that shape, and immediately the fantastic notions of what Southern men call chivalry, which infest the brain of this old drawcansir, will push him forward as a candidate. I had made some arrangements which, with your Excellency's approbation, I had proposed to carry into effect for accomplishing this result, in the hope of bringing him into collision with the law of treason, and so getting rid at once of a dangerous enemy. Now, if this young man's resignation be rejected, and a court-martial be ordered, the part he will act in the affair can hardly fail to be such as to make his a ball-cartridge case.”

“Your plan is exceedingly well aimed,” said the President, “but on farther reflection, my good friend Mr. Baker is led by feelings of delicacy to wish to withdraw his charges. I am loth to deny any thing to one who merits so much at my hands, but still there are difficulties in the way which will not permit us to pursue that course. The acceptance of this resignation will effectually remove them, and indirectly gratify the wish of Mr. Baker. Now, what do you advise?”

In the act of asking this question, the President shifted his position so suddenly as to call the minion's attention to the motion. He looked up and saw his master's face averted from Mr. Baker, and thought he read there an intimation that he should press his former objection. This he therefore did, expressing his reluctance to give advice unfavorable to the wishes of one so much respected as Mr. Baker, and highly complimenting the delicacy of his scruples.

“But, suppose,” asked the President, “we press the passage of the law authorizing a court to sit here for the trial, by a jury of this District, of offences committed in Virginia. In that case, should our young cock crow too loud, we might find means to cut his comb without a court-martial.”

“That Congress will pass such a law cannot be doubted,” said the other, “were it not vain to do so, when it seems to be understood that none of the judges would be willing to execute it. I am tired of hearing of constitutional scruples.”

“I am bound to respect them,” replied the President, meekly. “But I really do not see the grounds for them in such a case as this. I beg pardon, Judge Baker. I know it is against rule to ask a judge's opinion out of court. But I beg you to enlighten me so far as to explain to me what are the scruples which the bench are supposed to feel on this subject. I make the enquiry, because I am anxious to accept this young fellow's resignation, if, in doing so, I shall not lose the means of punishing the offences which there is too much reason to think he meditates. To try him in Virginia would be vain. Indeed, I doubt whether your court could sit there in safety.”

“I fear it could not,” replied the Judge, “and have therefore no difficulty in saying, that the necessity of the case should overrule all constitutional scruples. I have no delicacy in answering your Excellency's question out of court. It is merely an enquiry, which I hope is superfluous, whether I would do my duty. I trust it is not doubted that I would; and should I be honored with your Excellency's commands in that behalf, I should hold myself bound to execute them. To speak more precisely—should the court be established, and I appointed to preside in it, I should cheerfully do so.”

“That then removes all difficulty,” said the President. “The young man's resignation, therefore, will be accepted, and measures must be taken to distribute troops through the disaffected counties in such numbers as may either control the display of the malcontent spirit at the polls, or invite it to show itself in such a shape as shall bring it within the scope of your authority, and the compass of a halter.”

Some desultory conversation now arose on various topics, more and more remote from public affairs. On these Mr. Baker would have been glad to descant, and perhaps to hear the thoughts of the President and his minister. But all his attempts to detain them from talking exclusively of lighter matters were effectually baffled by the address of the former. All this was so managed as to wear out the evening, without giving the gentleman the least reason to suspect that he was in the way, or that the great men who had seemed to admit him to their confidence, placed themselves under the least constraint in his presence. At length he took his leave.

As the door closed behind him, the countenance of the President relaxed into a smile, indicative of great satisfaction and self-applause, along with an uncontrollable disposition to merriment. The smile soon became a quiet laugh, which increased in violence, without ever becoming loud, until he lay back against the arm of the sofa, and covered his face with his handkerchief. At length his mirth exhausted itself, and he sat erect, looking at the Minister with the countenance of one about to make some amusing communication. But he waited to be spoken to, and remained silent. His minion took the hint, and addressing himself to what he supposed to be passing in his master's mind, said: “I beseech your Excellency to tell me by what sleight, by what tour de main, this hard knot about jurisdiction has been made to slip as easily as a hangman's noose? I feared we should have had to cut it with the sword, and behold it unties itself.”

“How can you ask such a question?” said the President, with mock gravity. “Did you not hear the elaborate and lucid argument by which the Judge proved incontestibly that it could not be unconstitutional to do his duty? The wonder is how they ever contrived to make a difficulty. Surely none who shall ever hear that demonstration can doubt again.”

“But may I be permitted to ask by what means such a flood of light has been poured upon his mind? But yesterday he was dark as the moon in its perihelion. Has the golden ray of additional favors again caused its face to shine?”

“No,” said the President.

“No new emoluments to him or his?”

“None at all,” was the laughing answer.

“No new honors?”

“None, but the honor of doing additional duty, for the first time in his life, without additional compensation.”

“In the name of witchcraft, then, what has wrought upon him?”

“That I shall not tell you,” said the President, still laughing; “that is my secret; that part of my art you shall never know. It is one of the jokes that a man enjoys the better for having it all to himself. I keep it for my own diversion. It is a sort of royal game. You, I am sure, may be satisfied with your share in the sport, having been admitted to hear that argument. It was a lesson in dialectics worth a course at a German university. But come! There is a time to laugh, and a time to be serious. What do you propose on the subject of these Virginia elections?”

“I propose,” said the Minister, “to distribute some five hundred men in certain counties, with the dispositions of which I have made myself acquainted, to preserve order at the elections, as we should say to the unitiated; but in plain English, to control them. They will succeed in this, or provoke violence. Either way, we carry our point. We prevail in the elections, or we involve the members elect in a charge of treason. I think we may trust Judge Baker for the rest. The more dangerous of our enemies will thus fall under the edge of the law, and the less efficient, if not left in a minority, will be powerless for want of leaders.”

“But the scene of action,” said the President, “is close to the line. The offenders may escape into North Carolina, and from thence keep up a communication with their friends. The may even venture to Richmond at a critical moment, and effect their great purpose, or they may adjourn to some place of greater security.”

“It will certainly be necessary,” said the Minister, “to guard against that, by increasing the number of troops at the seat of government. Besides, if we can but get one day to ourselves, their chance of legislative action may be broken up by adjournment sine die.”

“Then, with so many points in the game in our favor,” replied the President, “we have but to play it boldly and we must win. It shall go hard, too, if, in the end, we do not make this superfluous State Legislature, this absurd relic of imperium in imperio, abolish itself. At all events, the course of conduct which they will necessarily pursue, must sink the body in public estimation, and dispose the people to acquiesce in the union of all power in the hands of the Central Government. We can then restore them all the benefits of real and efficient local legislation, by erecting these degraded sovereignties into what they ought always to have been—municipal corporations, exercising such powers as we choose to grant.”

Some farther conversation ensued, in which details were settled. A minute was made of the points at which troops should be stationed; the number of men to be placed at each; and the corps from which they were to be drawn. It was left to the Minister to fix on proper persons to command each party, and to devise instructions as to the part to be acted. In some places it was proposed simply to awe the elections by the mere presence of the military; in some, to control them by actual or threatened violence; in others, insult was to be used, tumult excited, resistance provoked, and dangerous men drawn in to commit acts which might be denounced as criminal. Having thus possessed himself of his master's will, this modern Sejanus withdrew to give the necessary orders for effecting it.

“The only truly wise man that I know in the world,” said the President, looking after him. “The only one who knows man as he is; who takes no account of human virtue, but as one form of human weakness. In his enemies, it gives him a power over them which he always knows how to use; in his instruments, he desires none of it. Why cannot I profit more by his instruction and example? Fool that I am! I will try to practise a lesson.”

He rung the bell, and directed that the Minister should be requested to return.

He had not yet left the palace, and soon re-appeared. As he entered, the President said: “This young Trevor—he has talent, has he not?”

“Talent of every kind,” said the Minister.

“That he has a superabundance of what fools call honor and gallantry, I happen to know. I suppose his other virtues are in proportion?”

“I suspect so, from the example of the father and all I can learn of the son.”

“Can you then doubt of his ultimate course, or even that of his father? Do you doubt that if the standard of rebellion is once raised, the young man will be found fighting under it, with the old man's approbation?”

“Not at all. I know no man who would raise it sooner than himself, after he has had time to be thoroughly indoctrinated by his uncle.”

“Then the sooner the better; he is but a cockerel yet. What if he can be brought to commit himself before his spurs have acquired their full length?”

“Nothing could be more judicious, and nothing easier.”

“How would you go about it?”

“Let him have a letter neither accepting or rejecting; intimating the necessity of farther investigation of his accounts, &c., &c., before we let him off, and requiring him, for the convenience of farther correspondence, to remain at the place from whence his letter is dated. Keep him fretted in this way until the election is near at hand, and, a day of two before, let him receive a letter accepting his resignation. My life upon it, he will spring to his destruction like a bow when the string is cut, that snaps by its own violence.”

“You are right,” said the President; “that will do. Much will depend on the style of that letter. You have your hands too full to be troubled with such things, or I should ask you to do what no man can do so well. But you have your pupils, who have learned of you to say what is to be said, so as just to produce the desired effect, and no other.”

The instrument of the royal pleasure again withdrew. Again the President looked after him, and said, musingly: “Were I not myself, I would be that man. I should even owe him a higher compliment could one be devised; for, but for him, I had never been what I am. What then? Is he the creator, and am I his creature? No. I am wrong. Could he have made himself what I am, he would have done so. He has but fulfilled my destiny, and I his. He has made me what I alone was capable of becoming, and I, in turn, have made him all that he ever can be. I owe him nothing therefore; and should he ever be guilty of anything like virtue, there is nothing to hinder me from lopping off any such superfluous excrescence, even if his head should go with it. But he is in no danger on that score. If he held his life by no other tenure, his immortality would be sure.”

While the master thus soliloquized, the minion was wending his way home, to the performance of the various duties assigned him. Our present business is with the letter to Douglas alone. The pen of a ready and skillful writer was employed, the document was prepared, submitted to the inspection of the President, approved by him, signed “by order” by the Secretary of War, committed to the mail, and forwarded to Douglas. Let us accompany it.

BEHOLD us then, once more, at the door of Mr. Bernard Trevor's little study. The uncle and nephew are together. A servant enters with letters from the post-office, and we enter with him. The letters are opened, and Douglas having read that of the Secretary of War, hands it to his uncle. Let us read with him.

This letter Mr. Trevor read with calm and quiet attention, carefully weighing every phrase and word, while Douglas, perceiving the handwriting of his friend Whiting on the back of another, hastily tore it open, and read as follows:

“I never performed a more painful duty in my life, my dear Trevor, than in putting the seal and superscription to the accompanying letter from the Secretary.

“My situation in the Department should have given me earlier notice of what was passing, but I got no hint of it until yesterday. I immediately did what I believed to be my duty as a friend, though I am now fearful that what I did may not meet your entire approbation. I am sensible you would not have done it for yourself; but there are some things which delicacy forbids us to do in our own case, which we are not displeased to have done by others. Indeed, had I known that the matter had gone so far, I should have left it in your own hands. But I had no reason to believe that any intimation of it had, as yet, been given to you, and I wished to prevent any step whatever from being taken.

“With this view I ventured to lay the whole correspondence before the President. I know that he received and read it. You will therefore judge my surprise at being required to-day to forward the unprecedented document which accompanies this.

“I am guilty of no breach of duty when I assure you that that paper is sent, as it imports on its face, ‘by the order of the President.’ The Secretary is not responsible even for one word of it. The very handwriting is unknown to me, and it was sent to the department precisely in the shape in which you receive it.

“Knowing what I did, I should have doubted whether it had not been surreptitiously placed among other papers transmitted to us at the same time; but there is no room for mistake. It came accompanied by the most authentic evidence that it had been read and approved by the President himself.

Having read this second letter, Douglas passed it also to his uncle, and rising, hastily left the house. It is needless to scan the thoughts that accompanied him in his ramble. They were bitter and fierce enough. But he had learned, in early life, to master his feelings, and never to venture into the presence of others until the mastery had been established. Many a weary mile did he walk that day before his purpose was accomplished, but having at last effected it, he returned.

Mr. Trevor had found leisure, in the meantime, to scrutinize the letters in whole and in detail, and had at length arrived at a conclusion not far from the truth. He was prepared, therefore, to welcome the return of Douglas with a cheerful smile; and instead of adding to his excitement by any expression of resentment or disgust, endeavored to calm and soothe him. For such conduct the young man was altogether unprepared. Aware of his uncle's wishes in regard to him, he had looked for something different, and had endeavored to fortify his mind against such impressions as he feared he might attempt to make on it. The great principles by which he had been taught to govern himself were not false because he had been wronged. His duty to the Union was not affected by the injustice of the President. So his father would have reasoned the matter, and like his father, he determined, if possible, to think and act. But he had no idea that in this attempt he would receive countenance and even aid from his uncle. It may, therefore, be readily believed that the old gentleman rose yet higher in his esteem and confidence, from the delicacy and forbearance which he so unexpectedly practised.

IT was settled, on consultation, that he should abide the final event; and that, until then, nothing of what had passed should he made known to his father, to Delia, or to any of the family but Mrs. Trevor. In her he had learned to seek an adviser, and in her he always found one, sincere, sagacious, and discreet. Mr. Trevor, as I have said, was not a man from whose opinions his wife would probably dissent, but he had not contented himself to command her blind, unreasoning acquiescence. He had trained her mind; he had furnished her with materials for thought; and he had taught her to think. She was in all his confidence, and he consulted with her habitually on plans which involved the welfare of his country. From her, therefore, the history of Douglas's entanglement with the authorities at Washington was not concealed. From the rest of the family it was a profound secret; and, as Mr. Trevor's health was now much restored, it did not interrupt the enjoyments of the genial season which invited them to seek amusement out of doors. By means of this, the impatience of Douglas was diverted, and he found it quite easy to accomplish his philosophical determination to wait the result of the affair in patience.

When, at length, a week had been allowed him to fret his heart out, the deferred acceptance of his resignation was received. This, too, was couched in phrases of decorous and studied insult. But he had learned to think that the dastard blow struck by one who screens himself behind the authority of office, inflicts no dishonor. The interval, which had been intended to give his passions time to work themselves into a tempest, had subdued them. Reason had taken the ascendant, and, though his reflections had not been much more favorable to the authority of his former master, than the promptings of his resentment, they were much less suited to his present purpose. He was effectually weaned; divested of all former pre-possessions, and ready to yield to the dictates of calm, unbiassed reason. He sought his uncle, and with a quiet and cheerful smile, handed him the letter.

As soon as Mr. Trevor read it, he exclaimed, “Thank God! you are now a freeman.”

As Mr. Trevor had intimated, the next day was the day for the election of members to the State Legislature. The old gentleman, in spite of his infirmities, determined to be present. He ordered his barouche, and provided with arms both the servant who drove him, and one who attended on horseback. He armed himself also with pistols and a dirk, and recommended a like precaution to Douglas. “You must go on horseback,” said he. “It may enable you to act with more efficiency on an emergency. At all events, were you to drive me, I should have no excuse for taking one whose services I would not willingly dispense with. Give me the world to choose from, and old Tom's son Jack is the man I would wish to have beside me in the hour of danger. As to you, my son, I think your late master would not be sorry to get you into at scrape. You should, therefore, be on your guard. My infirmities will render your personal aid necessary to help me to the polls. Keep near me, therefore; but keep cool, and leave me to fight my own battles. Prudence and forbearance are necessary for you. As to me, I have nothing to hazard. The measure of my offences is full already. I have sinned the unpardonable sin, and though there is no name for it in the statute book, I have no doubt if they had me before their new Court of High Commission at Washington, your special friend, Judge Baker, would find one.”

“Why do you call him my special friend,” asked Douglas.

“Because I have means of being advised of what is doing among our rulers, and know that he was at the bottom of the whole proceeding against you. Therefore, I warn you to be prudent to-day. Depend upon it, if you can be taken in a fault, he will find means ‘to feed fat his grudge’ against you.”

On reaching the election ground, the stars and stripes were seen floating above the door of the court-house, which was still closed. A military parade was “being enacted” for the amusement of the boys and cake women, and the uniform showed that the men were regulars in the service of the United States. They were twenty or thirty in number, all completely armed and equipped. As soon as Mr. Trevor appeared, they were dismissed from parade, the door was thrown open, and they rushed into the house. Presently after, it was proclaimed that the polls were opened.

As Mr. Trevor approached the door, Douglas observed that a multitude of persons, who before had been looking on, in silent observance of what was passing, advanced to salute him, and, falling behind him, followed to the court-house. On reaching the door, they found it effectually blocked up by half a dozen soldiers, who stood in and about, as if by accident and inadvertence. But the unaccommodating stiffness with which each maintained his position, left no doubt that they were there by design. They were silent, but their brutish countenances spoke their purpose and feelings. Mr. Trevor might have endeavored in vain to force his passage, had not the weight of the crowd behind pressed him through the door. In this process he was exposed to some suffering, but made no complaint. The effect appeared only in the flush of his cheek, and the twitching of his features. The blood of Douglas began to boil, and, for the first time in his life, the uniform he had so long worn was hateful in his sight.

On entering the house, they were nearly deafened with the din. It proceeded from quite a small number, but they made amends for their deficiency in this respect, by clamorously shouting their hurras for the President, and his favored candidate. Besides the soldiery, there were present the sheriff, who conducted the election, and some twenty or thirty of the lowest rabble. On the bench were two candidates. The countenance of one of those was flushed with insolent triumph. The other looked pale and agitated. He was placed between his competitor and a subaltern officer of the United States army. He seemed to have been saying something, and at the moment when Mr. Trevor and his party entered, was about to withdraw.

Meeting him at the foot of the stair leading down from the bench, that gentleman asked him the meaning of what he saw; to which he answered that he had been compelled to withdraw. The meeting of these two gentlemen had attracted attention, and curiosity to hear what might pass between them, for a moment stilled the many-tongued clamor. Mr. Trevor took advantage of the temporary silence, and said aloud—“You have been compelled to withdraw. Speak out distinctly, then, and say that you are no longer a candidate.”

“Fellow-citizens,” responded the other, in the loudest tones his tremor enabled him to command, “I am no longer a candidate.”

THE domestic party that we left at the house of Mr. Trevor were variously affected by the history of the occurrences detailed in the last chapter. Arthur had been slightly indisposed, and his uncle had made that a pretext for keeping him out of harm's way. But when he heard what had passed, his spirit was roused, and he felt as a soldier who hears the history of some well-fought battle where he was not permitted to be present. To Virginia the whole story was a subject of wonderment and alarm. The idea that her dear uncle, and her dearer brother, had been engaged in an affair where “dirk and pistol” was the word, threw her into a flutter of trepidation. She could not refrain from asking the former whether he would have shot the poor man sure enough; and received his affirmative answer with a shudder. The feelings of Lucia did not much differ from hers, except in intensity. She had heard too much to be wholly unprepared for such things, and her mind was too much accustomed to take its tone from those of her mother and sister.

On these ladies the impression made by the events of the day was wholly different. If the countenance of Mrs. Trevor was more thoughtful than before, it only spoke of higher thoughts. Her eye was brighter, her carriage more erect, her step more free, while her smile had less, perhaps, of quiet satisfaction, but more of hope. The flutter of youthful feelings, and the sweeter and more tender thoughts proper to one newly betrothed, made the chief difference between Delia and her mother. But while Douglas saw in the latter all the evidence of those high qualities which fit a woman to be not merely the consolation and joy of her husband, but his sage adviser and useful friend, he saw enough in Delia to show that she, in due time, would be to him all that her mother was to his uncle.

A few days afterwards, Mr. B—arrived, and his appearance was a signal of joy to the whole family. Douglas now, for the first time, discovered that he stood in some interesting, though undefined relation to them, and especially to his aunt. That there was no connexion of blood or marriage he knew; yet the feelings of the parties towards each other were mutually filial and paternal. The imposing dignity of Mrs. Trevor's manner seemed to be surrendered in his presence. Her maiden name of Margaret, which no other lip but that of her husband would have ventured to profane, was that by which alone he ever accosted her, and that generally accompanied with some endearing epithet. The girls would sit upon his knee, and play familiarly and affectionately with his grey locks; while the servants, in the proud humility of their attention to his wants and wishes, seemed hardly to distinguish between him and their beloved and honored master. It was not to be believed that the family kept any secrets from him, so that Douglas could not doubt that he was privy to his little affair of the heart. And so he was; and his manner toward the young man was, from the first, that of a near kinsman, hardly differing in any thing from that of his uncle. As far as coincidence of sentiment and similarity of character could explain this close intimacy, it stood explained. Between him and Mr. Trevor there were many points of strong similitude. But to Mrs. Trevor the resemblance was more striking. Age and sex seemed to make the only difference between them.

But, in addition to this domestic relation, which embraced every member of the household down to the scullion and shoe-black, there was obviously some understanding between the gentlemen in regard to matters of much higher concernment. Indeed, no pains were taken to conceal this fact, though, during Mr. B—'s former visit, Douglas had not been admitted to any of their consultations but that which concerned himself.

It was not long before the two were soon closeted, in the little study, in close conclave; and soon after, a message was delivered to Douglas requesting his presence.

“I am the bearer of important intelligence,” said B—, holding out his hand to the youth as he entered; “and as it particularly concerns you, as well as your uncle, you must perforce consent to become privy to our council.”

“I am not sorry to hear it,” replied Douglas. “If any thing was wanting to banish all reserve between us, I would be content to suffer some loss to effect that object.”

“I believe you,” said B—, “and therefore expect you will the less regret an unpleasant circumstance, which, without your act or consent, and even in spite of you, binds you in the same bundle with us.”

“That was already done,” said Douglas. “What new tie can there be?”

“One of the strongest. The union of your name with your uncle's in a warrant for high treason from the court of high commission at Washington.”

POOR ARTHUR! B—had predicted too truly that his heart would have some hankerings at the thought of leaving the house where he had, of late, spent so many pleasant hours. It is so long that I have said nothing about him, that the reader may think him forgotten, or may, himself, have forgotten that there was such a person. He had, in truth, no part in the transactions of which we have been speaking. He was at that time of life when the mind, chameleon like, takes its hue from surrounding objects. He was too young to be advised with, or trusted with important secrets. I have already mentioned that, on the day of the election, he had been detained at home by indisposition. But he had heard of the occurrences of that day; and he was, moreover, unconsciously exposed to influences from every member of the family, all tending to the same point. Least apparent, but not least efficacious, was that of his cousin Lucia. They were of that age when hearts, soft and warm, grow together by mere contact. With thought of love, but without thinking of it, they had become deeply enamored of each other. The thing come about so simply and so naturally, that the result alone needs to be told.

They were to part, and the thought of parting first made them both feel that something was the matter. They talked of the separation, and Lucia shed some tears. Arthur kissed them off, and then she smiled; and then she wept again; and then they agreed never to forget each other; and so on, till the secret was out, and their innocent hearts were fondly plighted.

Such things do not pass unmarked by older eyes. The maternal instinct of Mrs. Trevor, and the sagacity of her husband, had detected that of which the parties themselves were unconscious. And now, in the few hours that they were to remain together, occupied as the old people were with important engagements, neither the glowing cheek, the swimming eye, and the abstracted look of Lucia, nor the rapt enthusiasm of Arthur's countenance, escaped observation. But as no disclosure was made of what had passed, their fancied privacy was not invaded by question or insinuation. They were too young to marry, and secret love is so sweet! Why not let the innocent creatures enjoy the idea that their attachment was not suspected? Their friends smiled indeed, but tenderly, not significantly. To them, they did but seem kinder than ever; and that, at a moment when they were most sensible to kindness, and most ready to reciprocate it. In this heart-searching sympathy, Arthur found himself indissolubly united to the destiny, the opinions, and the feelings, whatever these might be, of those who so loved his dear Lucia.

But I am not writing a love tale. I am but interested that the reader should understand by what process two principal actors in the scenes of which I am about to speak, were diverted from a zealous devotion to the authority of the United States, in which they had been educated, to a devotion yet more enthusiastic in the cause of Virginia. Enough of them has been seen to show that I must be anxious to vindicate them from any charge of inconsistency. I trust the reader enters into this feeling, and deems them worthy of it. If he requires any farther account of the causes which wrought so great a change, I have none to give. It was through their eyes and hearts that conviction entered. Outrage to the laws; outrage to the freedom of election; outrage to one respected and beloved; left nothing for reason to do. Doubtless much had been said to them by their uncle and Mr. B—, in explanation of the great principles of the American Union, which had been trampled on by the Federal Government. But I am not aware that any ideas were presented to their minds on this subject, with which the reading public had not been familiar for twenty years before, and I shall not repeat them here. Let us rather accompany Douglas to Mr. Trevor's magazine of arms. It was in a garret room, where he found Mr. B—busy in the examination of arms, and portioning out ammunition, with the aid of Jack.

“You come in good time,” said B—. “Here is work that you understand. Come help-me to examine these arms, and see that they are all clean, dry, and well flinted.”

“What do you propose to do with them?” asked Douglas, lending a hand to the work.

“We propose,” said B—, “to arm the negroes in defence of their master, in case of need.”

“But what need can there be, if we set out for Carolina in the morning?”

“They may be wanted before morning,” said B—, coolly. “Lieutenant Johnson left the county on the night of the election, and travelled express to Washington. His intelligence was anticipated, and, no doubt, the warrants were all ready before he got there. I dare say they had a ready-made affidavit for him to swear to. This plot was got up so suddenly, that I was hardly advised of it in time. But I hope it is not too late. I have no mind to fire the train too soon. I would rather you should get off peaceably, but, if we do come to blows, I shall take care that the blue-coats have the worst of it.”

“You move in this business,” said Douglas, “like a man not unused to danger. I presume you have taken the precaution to warn in the hardy and resolute neighbors, whom I saw stand by my uncle the other day.”

“By no means,” answered B. “Were we so minded, we could command a force that would demolish any that will be sent against us. But it is not desirable to show the strength of our hand. I should be glad, if possible, that the temper of the people were unsuspected. At the same time, there is an exhibition to be made, which will have a good effect on friend and foe,—I mean an exhibition of the staunch loyalty and heart-felt devotion of the slave to his master. We must show that that which our enemies, and some even of ourselves, consider as our weakness, is, in truth, our strength.”

“Is such your own clear opinion?” asked Douglas. “I have lived so long in the North, that I have imbibed too many of the ideas that prevail there. But, on this point, it appears to me that they must be right.”

“You have not lived there long enough,” said B—, “to forget your earliest and strongest attachments. You had a black nurse, I presume. Do you love her?”

“My mammy!” exclaimed Douglas; “to be sure I do. I should be the most ungrateful creature on earth, if I did not love one who loves me like a mother.”

“And your foster-brother?” asked B—; “and his brothers and sisters? Do not they, too, love him their mother loves so fondly?”

“I have no doubt they do, especially as I have always been kind to them.”

“From these, then, I presume, you would fear nothing. Then your brothers and sisters. They, too, have their mammies and foster-brethren. Among you, you must have a strong hold on the hearts of many of your father's slaves. Would they, think you, taken as a body, rise against your family?”

“I have not the least apprehension that they would,” replied Douglas.

“Yet they, thus considered, are one integral part of the great black family, which, in all its branches, is united by similar ligaments to the great white family. You have the benefit of the parental feeling of the old who nursed your infancy, and watched your growth. You have the equal friendship of those with whom you ran races, and played at bandy, and wrestled in your boyhood. If sometimes a dry blow passed between you, they love you none the less for that; because, unless you were differently trained from what is common among our boys, you were taught not to claim any privilege, in a fight, over those whom you treated as equals in play. Then you have the grateful and admiring affection of the little urchin whose head you patted when you came home, making him proud by asking his name, and his mammy's name, and his daddy's name. These are the filaments which the heart puts out to lay hold on what it clings to. Great interests, like large branches, are too stiff to twine. Theft are the fibres from which the ties that bind man to man are spun. The finer the staple, the stronger the cord. You will probably see its strength exemplified before morning. There are twenty true hearts which will shed their last drop, before one hair of your uncle's head shall fall.”

“You present the matter in a new light,” said Douglas. “I wish our northern brethren could be made to take the same view of it.”

“Our northern brethren, as you call them,” said B—, “never can take this view of it. They have not the qualities which would enable them to comprehend the negro character. Their calculating selfishness can never understand his disinterested devotion. Their artificial benevolence is no interpreter of the affections of the unsophisticated heart. They think our friend Jack here to be even such as themselves, and cannot, therefore, conceive that he is not ready to cut his master's throat, if there is any thing to be got by it. They know no more of the feelings of our slaves, than their fathers could comprehend of the loyalty of the gallant cavaliers from whom we spring; and for the same reason. The generous and self-renouncing must ever be a riddle to the selfish. The only instance in which they have ever seemed to understand us, has been in the estimate they have made of our attachment to a Union, the benefits of which have all been theirs, the burthens ours. Reverse the case, and they would have dissolved the partnership thirty years ago. But they have presumed upon the difference between us, and heaped oppression on oppression, until we can bear no more. But, when we throw off the yoke, they will still not understand us. They will impute to us none but selfish motives, and take no note of the scorn and loathing which their base abuse of our better feelings has awakened. Would they but forbear so much as not to force us to hate and despise them, they might still use us as their hewers of wood and drawers of water. But he who gives all where he loves, will give nothing where he detests. But this, too, is a riddle to them.”

“I must own,” said Douglas, “that these ideas are new to me, too.”

“Not the ideas, but the application of them. Three months ago, you were the devoted soldier of Martin Van Buren. Had you then believed him capable of a conspiracy so base as that which has been plotted against your honor and life, could you still have served him?”

“I should still have wished to serve my country,” replied Douglas; “but I should, probably, have doubted whether I could have served her in serving him.”

“And do you think you would view the matter differently, had another been the intended victim, and not yourself?”

“I trust not. My personal concern in the affair, I think, has done no more than to emancipate me from my thraldom. But the display of his character is what makes me detest him; and the scenes of the election day have opened my eyes to the wrongs and the rights, and the interests of Virginia. The scales have now fallen from them, and I am impatient for the day when I may apply in her service the lessons learned in the school of her oppressors.”

“You shall have your wish,” said B—. “The flint you are now fitting may yet be snapped against the myrmidons of the usurper.”

WHILE this conversation was going on, the arms had been all examined, loaded, and ranged against the wall, and due portions of powder and ball allotted to each firelock. Their work being nearly completed, Douglas was dispatched with some message to his uncle. As he descended the stairs, he heard, not without a smile, the quick impatient step of Arthur, pacing to and fro, the length of a passage leading from the front door through the building. Arthur was just turning at the end next to the door, when a rap on the knocker arrested him. The door was instantly opened, and he was heard to ask some one to walk in. It was night, and the passage was dark. Arthur conducted the stranger to the door of his uncle's study, which was his common reception room, ushered him in, drew back, and having closed the door behind him, resumed his musing promenade.

Douglas went on suspecting nothing. He was not aware that the servants had been cautioned against admitting strangers; and poor Arthur was not au fait to what was passing. He entered the room. His uncle had risen from his chair in the corner farthest from the door, and was standing behind a large table, at which he usually wrote. He heard him say: “Please to be seated, sir,” in a voice between compliment and command, and with a countenance in which courtesy and fierceness were strangely blended. As the stranger, not regarding this stern invitation, continued to advance, the glare of the old man's eye became fearful, and he laid his hand on a pistol which lay on the table before him. “Stand back, sir,” said he, in a low and resolute tone. “Stand back, on your life.”

The stranger wore a long surtout, in which Douglas, dazzled by coming into the light, did not at first discover the usual characteristics of an officer's undress. It was thrown open in front, and the badges of his rank were displayed to Mr. Trevor, who stood before him. He was arrested by Mr. Trevor's startling words and gesture, and was beginning to speak, when Douglas exclaimed: “What does this mean?”

The stranger turned, extended both his arms, and Douglas rushed into them.

THE first words which passed between Mr. Trevor and Lieutenant Whiting, had been overheard by Tom, who was in the act of leaving the room at the moment. He gave the alarm to his mistress, who, hastening to her husband, met him at the door, and just received from him the instructions already mentioned. She immediately sent for Mr. B—, who, with Jack's aid, was in the act of distributing arms and ammunition to the negroes. To him the management of the whole affair was committed. No doubt was entertained that Lieutenant Whiting had not come unattended. The first thing to be done was to ascertain the force by which he was supported, and the place where he had posted his men.

They, meantime, quietly awaited the return of their officer at the great gate, a quarter of a mile from the house. Rather as a point of military etiquette than from an idea that any precaution was necessary, they had stacked their arms in form before the gate, and stationed a sentinel, who, with head erect and military step, walked his post in front of them. They had not long been there, before they heard a negro's voice, who, as he approached from the house, sung merrily a song, of which only the following lines could be distinguished:

The song ceased, and cuffee advanced in silence, but with a heavy swinging step, that rung audibly on the hard ground. As soon as his dusky figure began to be distinguishable, which was not until he was quite near, he was arrested by the sharp challenge of the sentry.

“High!” exclaimed the negro, in a tone of amazement and alarm: “Law-Gorramity! what dis?”

AT daylight all was in motion. Arthur and Virginia, being affectionately dismissed by their friends, were first upon the road, before Lieutenant Whiting was awake. Much of the night had been spent in preparations, and long before sunrise Douglas handed his aunt and cousins into their carriage. His uncle mounted the barouche, with Jack for driver, by whose side old Tom was placed; while the lady's maid took her seat by her single-minded master with a freedom from which an amalgamationist would have drawn the most pleasing inferences. No other white person was seen; but a body-guard of twenty negroes, well armed, and mounted on plough horses, some saddled, some cushioned, and some bare-backed, surrounded the carriages and baggage-wagon. In the midst rode Douglas and his friend on horseback.

“You see,” said Mr. Trevor to Whiting, as he took his place in the barouche, “that the part these faithful creatures took in last night's work, drives them into exile as well as me. I must not leave them behind to be the victims of baffled malice. What is to become of my plantation, is a question of less importance. I suppose I may say with Cincinnatus, when honor was forced on him as it is on me, my fields must go untilled this year! You see here, sir, my whole male force. Not one proved recreant.”

“This affair is altogether unaccountable to me,” said Whiting to Douglas, as they moved off together; “and this the strangest feature of the whole. Do men, then, act without motives, and against all assignable motives?”

“I asked the same question myself last night,” said Douglas, “and was referred to coming events for the answer. I was partly taught, at the same time, to account for what I was told to expect.”

“And how can it be accounted for?”

“I cannot say I have my lesson perfect; but something was said about the difference of character produced by peculiar training, and habitudes of mind formed by circumstances. For my part, it appears to me that there must be something, by nature, in the moral constitution of the negro, intrinsically different from the white man.”

“It would, indeed, seem so,” said Whiting, “if we are to credit what we see; but, in that case, we must reject the authority which tells us that all are of one race.”

“So are all dogs,” said Douglas; “and dogs can no more act without motive than man. It depends on temper and character what shall be the motives of action. The wolf would be sadly puzzled to judge of the motives of the Newfoundland dog. May not circumstances, which have made the difference between them, have produced the much less difference between the white man and the negro? I have no measure for the effect of such causes. If I am put to choose between rejecting the evidence of my own senses, or the evidence of God's word, or the philosophy which teaches that man is to be considered as a unit, because all of one race, philosophy must go by the board. It may be, that what is best for me, is best for my friend Jack there, and vice versa; but as long as neither of us thinks so, why not leave each to his choice? Besides, there is more room in the world for both of us, than if both always wanted the same things.”

A ride of a few hours carried the party across the line into North Carolina. Here they stopped at the first public house; and Mr. Trevor drew up a hasty statement of the events of the night, which should have the effect of acquitting Lieutenant Whiting of all blame, on account of his own escape from the fangs of his enemies. In this he set forth that, having been warned of the intended prosecution, he had made his preparations accordingly, and that the officer had but fallen into a snare from which no vigilance could have saved him. This he signed, and gave moreover, a clear acquittance to Lieutenant Whiting for all he had done; and having thus placed him, as far as depended on himself, rectus in curia, he announced to him that he was now at liberty to go whither he would.

“And now, sir,” said he, “as the spell which would have made your touch degrading is broken by the State line, let me have the pleasure of taking you by the hand, not only as my nephew's friend, but as one who, in the extremes of victory and defeat, as captor and as prisoner, has borne himself as became a gentleman.”

Saying this, he extended his hand, which Whiting grasped with fervor, and they parted as friends cordial and sincere.

Douglas accompanied his friend a short distance on his return, the latter walking and leading his horse. They conversed of the past and the future.

“I CANNOT say I like it altogether, Squire,” said the planter. “It may suit my neighbor Jones, here, well enough to have one of them high-headed Roanoke planters to come here with his family and spend his money. I dare say he will make a pretty good spec out of them; but, for my part, I would rather they would stay at home and live under their own laws. I ha'nt got no notion, after they saddled that damned rascal Van Buren upon us so long, that now, the minute we have shook him off and made a good government, and good treaties, and all, they should be wanting to have a sop in our pan. If that's what they are after, in rebelling against their government, I don't want to give them no countenance. What we have done, we have done for ourselves, and we have a right to all the good of it. They have fixed their market to their liking, and let it stand so. If we can get thirty dollars for our tobacco, and they cannot get ten, I reckon we ha'nt got nobody to thank for it but ourselves. I dare say, now they see how the thing works, they would be glad enough to share with us, but I see plain enough that all they would get by joining us we would lose, and may be more too.”

“You are right there, Mr. Hobson,” said the merchant; “and that is not all. There's an advantage in buying as well as selling. Now, as to this Mr. Trevor, or whatever his name is, coming over here, and buying things cheaper than he could get them at home—why, that he is welcome to. Though you may be sure, neighbor, I don't let him have them as cheap as I sell to you. But as to letting in the Norfolk merchants to all the advantage of our treaty with England, that is another matter; for though, when we deepen the bar at Ocracock, I have no doubt our town down there will be another sort of a place to what Norfolk ever was, yet if Virginia was to join us now, right away, the most of the trade would go to Norfolk again, and they would get their goods there as cheap as we get them here and may be a little cheaper. So you see it is against my interest as well as yours; and I don't like the thoughts of putting in a crop, and letting another man gather it, any more than you do.”

IN the meantime, Mr. B—had entered the room, and, hearing the stranger's voice, placed himself at the back of his chair, looking on with a playful smile. He now spoke—

“Have you played out the play?” said he.

The stranger sprung to his feet in a moment, and, facing B—, caught him by the hand, which he shook with an energy which seemed to threaten dislocation. The two then turned off, and left the room together.

“This is most fortunate, my dear sir,” said the stranger; “but pray tell me how happens it that I find you here?”

“Do you not perceive,” said B—, “that I have a friend in trouble, and that I am here with him? Did you not hear the name of Trevor just now?”

“Trevor! No—I did not distinguish the name What Trevor? Bernard? Is he here? In trouble? About what? I came this far to see you both, and not choosing to go into Virginia, was listening to the conversation of those fellows, in hopes to find some one among them whom I could trust to send with a request that you would both meet me here.”

“Here we both are,” said B—, “and here Trevor is like to remain for a while. He has been elected to the Legislature, and they have gotten up a prosecution against him before that iniquitous court of high commission at Washington, to hang him, if they can, or at least to drive him off.”

“Can you think him safe here,” asked the stranger, “among such wretches as those we have just left?”

“O, yes! You must not judge of this people by those muck-worms. The best of the three is a Yankee tin-pedler, turned merchant. The other two are the worst specimens of their respective species. I dare say there are many more like them, but there are fifty gentlemen of property in this county who would stand by us; and are ready, in their individual capacity, to aid us with purse and sword, whenever we raise our banner.”

THE impression made on Douglas by these observations was so strong and so obvious, that his friend paused and left him to meditate upon them. Some minutes elapsed before he made any reply. When he did speak, he acknowledged the existence and magnitude of the grievance, and again enquired, with increased solicitude, what remedy had been found.

“You heard what passed in the bar-room, just now,” said the stranger.

“I did.” replied Douglas, “and I was as much surprised at the facts hinted at, as disgusted at the sentiments of the speakers.”

“Then your surprise must have been extreme,” said the other; “for I hardly know which amused me most—their unblushing display of selfish meanness, or the glow of indignation in your countenance, which showed how little you know of this world of philanthropy and benevolence that we live in. But had you no suspicion of the cause of those enviable advantages which these sons of Mammon are so anxious to monopolize?”

“Not at all, and hence my surprise; for I had supposed heretofore, that, between the two States, all the advantage lay on the side of Virginia.”

“You judged rightly,” replied the other. “In the way of commerce, nature has done nothing for the one, and every thing for the other. But the conversation you have heard is a proof that the sand which chokes the waters of the Sound is a trivial obstacle, in comparison with the legislative barriers which have shut out prosperity from the noble Chesapeake. Look at your rivers and bay, and you will see that Virginia ought to be the most prosperous country in the world. Look at the ruins which strew the face of your lower country, the remains of churches and the fragments of tombstones, and you will see that she once was so. Ask for the descendants of the men whose names are sculptured on those monuments, and their present condition will tell you that her prosperity has passed away. Then ask all history. Go to the finest countries in the world—to Asia Minor, to Greece, to Italy; ask what has laid them desolate, and you will receive but one answer, ‘misgovernment.’”

“But may not the fault be in the people themselves?” asked Douglas.

“The fault of submitting to be misgoverned, certainly. But no more than that. Let the country enjoy its natural advantages, and they who are too ignorant or too slothful to use them will soon give place to others of a different character. What has there been to prevent the Yankee from selling his barren hills at high prices and coming South, where he might buy the fertile shores of the Chesapeake for a song? No local attachment, certainly—for his home is every where. What is there now to prevent the planter of this neighborhood from exchanging his thirsty fields for the rich and long-coveted low grounds of James River or Roanoke, in Virginia? Are these people wiser, better, more energetic and industrious than the were twelve months ago, that their lands have multiplied in value five fold? Is it your uncle's fault, that, were he now at home the tame slave of power, he could hardly give away his fine estate? The difference is, that this country now enjoys its natural advantages, while Virginia remains under the crushing weight of a system devised for the benefit of her oppressors.”

“I see the effect,” said Douglas. “But tell me, I beseech you, the cause of this change in your condition here.”

“The cause is free trade.”

“And how has that been obtained?”

“I will answer that,” said B—, “because my friend's modesty might restrain him from giving the true answer. It has been obtained by intelligence, manly frankness, and fair dealing. It has been obtained by offering to other nations terms most favorable to their peculiar and distinctive interests, in consideration of receiving the like advantage. Instead of nursing artificial interests to rival the iron and cotton fabrics, and the shipping of England, the wine of France, the silk and oil of Italy, and enviously snatching at whatever benefit nature may have vouchsafed to other parts of the world, this people only ask to exchange for these things their own peculiar productions. A trade perfectly free, totally discharged from all duties, would certainly be best for all. But revenue must be had, and the impost is the best source of revenue. No State can be expected to give that up. But it has been found practicable so to regulate that matter as reduce the charges which have heretofore incumbered exchanges to a mere trifle.”

“How has that been effected?” asked Douglas.

“If that question were to be answered in detail,” said B—, “I should leave the answer to him by whom the details have been arranged. I will give you the outline in a few words. These States were first driven to think of separation by a tariff of protection. Their Federal constitution guards against it by express prohibition, and by requiring that the impost, like the tax laws of Virginia, should be annual.

“They have felt the danger to liberty from excessive revenue. Their constitution requires that the estimates of the expense of the current year shall be made the measure of revenue to be raised for that year. The imports of the preceding year are taken as a basis of calculation, and credit being given for any surplus in the treasury, a tariff is laid which, on that basis, would produce the sum required.”

“Then there can never be any surplus for an emergency,” said Douglas.

“Always,” replied B—; “in the right place, and the only safe place—the pockets of a prosperous people. There is no place in the treasury to keep money. The till of the treasury has a hole in the bottom, and the money always finds its way into the pockets of sharpers, parasites, man-worshippers, and pseudo patriots. But let that pass. You see that a small revenue alone will probably be wanting, and being raised annually, the tariff can be annually adjusted.

“Now, what says justice, as to the revenue to be raised by two nations on the trade between the two, seeing that it is equally levied on the citizens of both?”

“On that hypothesis each should receive an equal share of it,” said Douglas.

“Precisely so,” answered B—, “and let these terms be held out to all nations, and if one will not accept them another will. On this principle a system of commercial arrangements has been set on foot which, by restoring to these States the benefit of their natural advantages, is at once producing an effect which explains their former prosperity. It places in stronger relief the evils of the opposite system to Virginia, and really leaves her; while she retains her present connexion with the North, without any resource. Tobacco she cannot sell at all. Invita natura, she will have to raise cotton to supply the beggared manufactories of the North, from which she will not receive in return the third part as much of the manufactured article as the Carolina planter will get for his. This is her fate. She sees it, and would throw off the yoke. But her Northern masters see it too. She is all that remains to them of their Southern dependencies, which, though not their colonies, they have so long governed as colonies. Take her away, and they are in the condition of the wolf when there are no sheep left. Wolf eat wolf, and Yankee cheat Yankee. This they will guard against by all means lawful and unlawful, for Virginia alone mitigates the ruin that their insatiate rapacity has brought upon them. They will hold on to her with the gripe of death; and she must and will struggle to free herself, as from death.

“And now, how say you? Are you prepared to do your part in furtherance of this object?”

“I am,” replied Douglas promptly, “and I now eagerly ask you to show me the means by which I can advance it.”

“You asked for men,” said B—, “and you shall have them. They are already provided, and want but a leader.”

“But what authority can I have to be recognized as such?”

“You have heard your uncle, aunt, or cousins, speak of Jacob Schwartz.”

“I believe I have; but what can such a fellow have to do with such affairs as we now speak of. Is he not an ignorant clown?”

“He is all that,” said B. “But he writes as good a hand as Marshal Saxe, and has probably read as many books as Cincinnatus. But to speak seriously, he is no common clown. I picked him up, nearly forty years ago, a little, dirty, ragged boy, without money, without friends, without education, and without principles. All these wants I found means to supply, except that of education, which to him would be quite superfluous. But he now has money sufficient, and friends without number; and, what is better still, he has become an honest man, and discharges the duties of one none the worse for having had a pretty large experience in knavery. Such as he is, he is bound to me by gratitude, such as few men are capable of. More than a dozen years ago, he followed the bent of early habit, and retired to his native mountains, where he has married, and lives after the manner of the country, as if he were worth nothing in the world but his rifle. He has a good deal of money, which I manage for him; and as he has no taste for extravagance of any sort, and is generous as a king, he always has a dollar to spare a friend.

“When I tell you that the people of that district see so little money that they always count it by four-pence-half-pennies, you will readily believe that a little help goes a great way. They don't see that Schwartz has any property; but their opinion of his sagacity and enterprise takes away all wonder at the fact, that he is always able, as well as ready, to give aid to a friend at time of need. You will, of course, infer, that his influence among them is very great. Now that, and all his faculties of body, mind, and purse, are at my command. He is aware of the state of public affairs; adopts all my views, as far as he can understand them, and beyond that point trusts me implicitly. It is through his instrumentality that the minds of the mountaineers of that district are prepared for action at this moment. No force is actually organized, but every thing is ready for the emergency. The dispositions of the people, and the strong fastnesses of the country, will make it a secure retreat to a partisan corps. The materials for such a corps may be found in part among the inhabitants. A nucleus is all that is wanting, and to that all the persecuted and distressed, from every quarter, will gather.”

“You show me, then,” said Douglas, “that you already have all you want—men and a leader. Your friend Schwartz must be the very man to command those fellows, and might not like to submit to the authority of another.”

“He is not the man to command,” said B—, “because he could not keep up intelligence with other parts of the country, though as a medium of intelligence there is none better. Indeed he cannot be spared from that branch of service. Besides, though he might command his neighbors, you will be joined by men who will not submit to be commanded by any but a gentleman. As to any reluctance on his part, go to him in my name, or in that of your uncle or aunt, and you command him, body and soul. You will find all his faculties devoted to your service, without envy, jealousy, or grudging; and you will do well to use his mind more than his body. In many particulars he is one of the most efficient men in the world; and as he perfectly understands himself, and knows what he is fit for, you may always leave him to choose his own function, and to execute it in his own way.”

“I THINK,” said Douglas, “I now understand our general purpose, and the means to be placed at my disposal. Let me now know your plan of operations. What am I to do, and when?”

“The task I propose to myself,” replied B—, “is one which requires that I keep myself out of harm's way, and free from all suspicion, until the time shall come; when I propose to act a part which shall make me a conspicuous mark for the malice or policy of our enemies. Hence I affect to live, and keep myself as much as possible on this side of the line. What you do there must be done in such a way as to indicate no connexion with me. I therefore propose that you accompany my friend here to South Carolina, where you may derive much benefit from seeing the first men in that State, with whom he will make you acquainted. From thence I would have you address letters to your friends (especially those in the army) so worded as to lead them to attribute your change of opinions (which should be made to seem progressive) to the influence of these new associations. A few weeks will be sufficient for this purpose, and you may return to Virginia early in the summer. Here, continued B—, pointing to a map which hung in the room, “is the point at which you will enter the State, and here will be the principal scene of your operations. You will there find Schwartz, to whom you shall be properly accredited, and from whom you will learn the resources to be placed at your command, and the capabilities of the country.

“Now observe Our object is to organize a small force, under which the district may be protected in declaring for the Independence of Virginia, and prepared to afford a place of refuge to the Legislature, should they be driven from Richmond before they have time to organize the operations of the Government. Of course, they must have an opportunity to assemble there, if but for a day. This it must be our care to secure, by a sudden movement from the midland counties on the southern boundary, and in this we may need your co-operation. On that point we shall take care to keep you advised.

AND so it was. I can add nothing to the language of the poet. I can supply nothing to the imagination of the reader. Thus Douglas and Delia parted. He accompanied his new acquaintance to the southern capital; he there met with men whose names live and will live in the history of their country, and whose memories will be honored while virtue is held in reverence among men. From these, and especially from the accomplished gentleman to whose friendship he had been introduced by his uncle and Mr. B—, he received such lights as dispelled every shadow of doubt from his mind. The wrongs of Virginia, her rights and her remedies, became the subject of all his thoughts, and he burned with impatience for the time when he might draw his sword on her behalf, and turn to her use, as he had expressed it, the lessons learned in the school of her oppressors.

That time at length arrived. Returning by the upper road which skirts the foot of the mountains, he re-entered Virginia nearly at the spot to which his brother had gone in quest of him. There, as he had been taught to expect, he found Schwartz, whose reception of him fully justified the assurances of B—. To that gentleman he showed unbounded devotion, delighted to speak of favors received at his hands, and of “moving accidents by flood and field,” which they had encountered together. Next to B—, in his estimation, stood Mrs. Trevor; then Delia, for whom, when a child, he had formed a passionate attachment; and last, Mr. Trevor himself, whom, after the rest, he respected and admired above all human beings. A hint from B—that Douglas was the husband of Delia placed him at once in the same catalogue of worthies, and from the first moment he devoted himself not less to his personal service than to the advancement of the common cause. He had already organized a small corps, the command of which he unreservedly surrendered, making it his constant study to recommend the new commander to the confidence of the men.

LET us now return to the deep glen, at the bottom of which we left our friend Arthur, accompanied by his mountain guide. Schwartz was welcomed with cordial joy by his comrades, and, having asked for the Captain, was told he was in his tent. Arthur looked around in vain for a tent, but saw none. The beetling crags on both sides of the dell seemed to be the only shelter that the place afforded. But against the rock, a hundred yards below, and directly beneath the spot from which Schwartz had given notice of his presence, hung a piece of tent-cloth. One edge of this was tacked to a pole which lay horizontally against the rocky wall, the ends being supported by forks about ten feet long. This proved to be a sort of door to a wide-mouthed cavernous recess in the rock, deep enough to afford room for the few little conveniences which an officer can expect to keep about him in active service. Approaching this, Schwartz lifted a corner, and our travellers stood in the presence of Douglas.

He was seated at a course table, poring over a rude manuscript map, and did not lift his head until he heard the word ‘brother’ uttered by the well-known voice of Arthur. In a moment they were in each other's arms, and, in the next, the new-comer was overwhelmed with questions about his father, mother, and various friends. Some indeed were not named; for, though Schwartz was in the secret of the fact, he was incapable of being let into the deeper mystery of hearts like those of Douglas and Delia. To such the utterance of a beloved name in the presence of the uninitiated is an unpardonable profanation. But though that of Delia was not spoken, Arthur took care so to emphasize his account of the health of his uncle's family, as to convey to the mind of Douglas an assurance of all he wished to hear. But if Schwartz was not deep in the tender mysteries of refined and delicate love, no man better understood a hint, or better knew how to improve it. He accordingly interrupted the conversation, just to say that he brought important intelligence, which must be communicated that night; adding that he would leave them together for an hour. He now withdrew, and afforded the desired opportunity for unreserved conversation.

“My Delia,” said Douglas; “I understand that she is well, and, I hope, happy.”

“She is happy,” said Arthur. “She hears of you, from the impartial voice of public fame, in terms that fill her heart with pride, and leave no room there for alarm or melancholy. She feels as becomes a soldier's wife, anxious for her husband's fate, but confident in his fortunes. She has caught this notion from. Mr. B—,who is her oracle, and who seems to have imparted to her, not only all his sentiments, but all the energy and buoyancy of his self-confident mind.”

“Thank God!” said Douglas. “Just so would I have her to be. I knew it would be so. I saw her noble mother, when danger threatened my uncle; and I saw her too. But this is the first positive information on that point, that has reached me since I have been here. Mr. B—and I can only correspond by messages through Schwartz, and though he is plain and accurate as a printed book in repeating what he understands, yet ideas of this sort are not in his line. And my good and venerable old father—are you here with his permission?”

“I am not; nor does he know where I am. I have no doubt that I should have his approbation if he did. I am sure you have.”

“I!” exclaimed Douglas, with a start of violent surprise. “What does he know of me.”

“Nothing at all,” said Arthur, smiling. “But he knows of a certain partisan leader, whom the world calls Captain Douglas, .and if I can read the old man's eyes, when he hears that name, he would rather call that man his son than any other on earth.”

As Arthur spoke the eyes of Douglas filled, and pressing his hand to his brow, he bowed his head a moment on the table. Then rising, he stood erect, and looking up with a rapt and abstracted air, his eye flashing through his tears, he folded his arms, and speaking in the measured tone of one who feels deeply, but in whose mind thought masters feeling, he parodied that noble speech which Shakespeare puts in the mouth of Prince Henry:

“And my Delia!—my virgin bride! O! for that day,

“You must understand, Captain,” continued Schwartz, “that I had allotted to fall in with your brother about Little Roanoke bridge, where our roads come together. The people there are friendly, and mighty clever people, and if they don't know all about me, they don't want much of it; for they are our own sort of folks, and true as steel. So I thought I could depend on them to take notice for me when such a man might pass, and let me know. When I got there, by all I could learn, your brother had not gone by; and, as I was pretty tired, and that is one of the places where I commonly lie by to pick up news, I thought I would stop a while.

“I had not been there long, before here comes the Captain that commands the company at Farmville; and, if ever I saw a conceited fool, you may be sure he is one. What he was after, the Lord knows. He said he was a reconnoitering, but I have a notion he was just looking for some body to talk to; and as the folks there an't got much chat for any body, he just claps to talking to me. And he run on about one thing and another, and there was nothing I wanted to know but what he told me, only just I knew it all before. But, I thought, may be, I might get something out of him, so I let him talk, and I sot and listened.

“After a while he gets to talking about you. And, Lord! how he wished you would come in his way; and how he would have served you, if you had tried to beat up his quarters, like you did them fellows at Lynchburg. But he was in hopes to have a clip at you yet, only just you were always hiding and skulking in the mountains, like a wolf, and then coming down in the night to kill sheep. And he reckoned you knew where the dogs was, and took care to keep out of their way. And then he laughed, and thought he was mighty smart. So, thinks I, ‘stranger, if you have a mind to get into hot water, may be you may have a chance.’ So I speaks up; and, says I, ‘after all, that Captain Douglas an't half the man he's cracked up for, no how.’”

“Do you know him?” says he.

“I guess I do,” says I; “he is cunning enough, and he has got tricks enough, and signs and countersigns to keep out of harm's way; but,” says I, “if a man could just get hold of his signs, and so get at him, he an't nothing for a right, real, hard fight.”

“They tell me,” says he, “there an't no such thing as getting in twenty miles of him, or more, may be; and all the folks through the country there stands guard for him, and nobody else know where he is.”

“That's very true,” says I;“ but then, you see, stranger, when too many folks has got a secret, then it an't a secret no more.”

“It's a wonder,” says he, “some of them don't tell.”

“May be they cannot get any thing by telling,” says I. “There's many a poor fellow there, to my knowing, that don't see a dollar once a year, and its mighty little the sight of a few yellow jackets would not make them tell, only just they never seed any, and don't know what they are. But they'd be right apt to find out.”

“You talk like you know that part of the country,” says he. “May be you know something about it.”

“May be I might,” says I. “But then,” says I, “it don't become a poor fellow, like me, to know any thing that a grand officer, with his fine apperlets, all of solid gold, don't know. Lord!” says I, “if I had but half the money you give for your apperlets, I reckon I'd know something then.”

“And with that, he looks right hard at me, and says he, ‘may be you'd like to list for a soldier.’

“May be I would,” says I, “if they pays me well. 'Cause you see,” says I, “sir, as to the country and the President, and all that, its what I don't know nothing about; only I takes their part as takes my part. And that's the reason,” says I, “I would not stay up yonder.”

“Why,” says he, “do you live there, when you are at home?”

“I cannot say,” says I, “that I have got a home rightly any where. But I did live there, after a fashion; and they wanted me to do like the rest of them, and quit my business and keep guard, and stop every man that could not give the signs. And what was I to get by it? Just nothing at all. If I had any bread of my own to eat, why I might eat it; and if I killed a deer, they'd take their share, and thought they did great things if they let me keep the skin; but as to pay, they don't think of such a thing. But that would not do for me,” says I; “and, more than that, it won't do for more, besides me, whatever Captain Douglas may think of it, I can tell him.”

“Well,” says he, “if you'll list with me you shall have pay, and bounty, and clothes, and rations, and all. 'Cause,” says he, “the President, he keeps the key of the treasury, and we are his soldiers, and we all live like fighting cocks, I can tell you.”

WHEN Arthur awoke, he found himself alone. The sun was high in the heavens, but a deep shadow hung over the dark glen, into which his rays never looked, except at noon-day. Arthur now walked out, and amused himself with gazing around on the singular spot which his brother had chosen as a place of refuge. It was, indeed, a place of strength, which seemed calculated to bid defiance to any thing but famine.

The glen, at this point, might be some two hundred feet deep. Above and below, the little stream filled the whole chasm, pouring furiously along between overhanging cliffs. The tops of these, except in the immediate vicinity, were crowned with lofty trees, which, nodding to each other across the gulph, in some places nearly intermingled their branches. The valley, just where Douglas had pitched his camp, was somewhat wider. Just above, the stream seemed to gush from the very bowels of the mountain, dashing, as it tumbled over a fall of twenty or thirty feet, against the dark evergreens which clustered both sides of the gulph. From thence flowing through a wider space, it still confined itself to a narrow and deep channel, scooped into an almost cavernous bed, under the western cliff. Thence, turning abruptly to the southeast, it swept across the dell to the opposite hill, from which it again recoiled in like manner. There was thus, on each side, between the hill and the receding stream, a spot of dry ground, or rather rock. It was indeed nothing but a rocky shelf, a little above inundation, jutting in a half moon from the base of the cliff. About the middle of its passage from hill to hill, the stream tumbled over a ledge, the highest points of which, rising above the water, served as stepping stones, and afforded a passage across, practicable indeed, but neither commodious, nor, to the eye of a stranger, even safe.

The sort of stair which afforded the only approach to this savage den, hung directly over the stream at the point where, having crossed from the western side of the glen, it again whirled back, leaving, as I have said, a dry spot on its eastern margin. At the upper corner of this shelf, where it touched the cliff, the path reached the bottom; and an hundred yards below, at the lower extremity of the same platform, hung the tent-cloth that indicated the quarters of the chief.

The sort of cave, the mouth of which was concealed by this, was but a deepening of the recess under the cliff, which every where afforded a partial shelter from the weather, and a complete defence against rocks tumbled from above. Under this were the rude beds and camp-fires of the men, and in front of them a breast-work of logs, raised high enough to afford protection from any shot fired from the opposite hill. Between the upper log and that next below it, was a sort of loop-hole, made by cutting corresponding notches in each; and as the edges of the cliffs had been shorn of all their growth, a man could not show himself on either, without being exposed to the fatal fire of men directing their aim with a rest, and in all the coolness of perfect safety.

The most curious part of the whole establishment was a sort of mill. At the point where the stream, breaking over the rocky ledge of which I have spoken, swept away around the shoulder of the platform, was placed a small log pen. The end of a shaft, projecting from it, overhung the water. Into this were driven stakes, fitted at one end into large auger-holes, and, at the other, spread out like a broad oar. These fan-like extremities dipped in the water, and, yielding to its force, kept the shaft revolving night and day. Machinery equally rude connected its movements with those of a pair of light mill-stones, which found no rest, and required no attention. Though grinding less than a bushel in the hour, it still ground on and on, affording coarse bread for the whole company, and showing how true the old adage, that “fair and softly go far in a day.” One man was seen to replenish the hopper. Others were passing and re-passing, each with his share of meal. The whole was covered with rude boards. Exposed to the fire of each cliff, it was, of course, capable of being made to command both, and some of its features showed that it was intended to be occupied as a tower of strength in case of attack.

In short, to the unpracticed eye of Arthur, the whole presented the appearance of impregnable security and well arranged preparation. There was indeed no present danger, but the place had been chosen and fitted with a view to the last extremity. The course of the stream, tending to the South, led in a few miles into the State of North Carolina, and in that direction there was an outlet practicable, though difficult. Between the camp and the State line there was no point at which the glen could be entered; and Douglas, if driven to retreat in that direction, had none but natural obstacles to overcome.

Cold weather was now approaching, and there was no station where the troops of Douglas were so little exposed to the severity of the season as this. The soft air from the waterfall, though never warm, was never intensely cold, and no other wind but that from the South ever entered the glen. Hence as many men as were not engaged on active duty were assembled here. Still the number present was but small. Some were at the piquet, some on the scout. Besides, it was now the hunting season, and many were abroad in the woods, as the carcasses brought in during the course of the morning plainly showed.

Arthur now looked around for Schwartz, and hearing his voice behind one of the breast-works, passed around the end of it, and silently joining the circle, listened to his discourse, which seemed to be a sort of military lecture.

“You see, boys,” said he, “as to tictacs, or whatever they call it, that sort of thing an't made for the like of us. When a parcel of fellows lists for soldiers, just because they an't got nothing else to do, and may be one half of them is cowards, and the other half not much better, they are obliged to have rules to go by. Because, if once you can beat it into a fellow's head that after he has got into danger it is safer for him to stand still than to run away, why then the worse scared he is the surer he will be to stay there. But it an't so with us, because if any of us was any way scary, he would not be here no how. The only rule for us is the Indian rule.

“In the first place, it is our business always to know where the inimy is before he knows where we are, and then, if we don't want to fight him, keep out of his way. Now the right way to do that, is just to squander, like a flock of partridges.

“Then if you are going to fight, the only rule is to give the word, and let every man kill all he can, and take care of himself the best he can. Now that way the riglars fight—if one man in ten kills a man, they call it desperate bloody work. But I reckon if there was an inimy now coming up the valley to the foot of the Devil's Back-bone, and the word was to kill all we could before he got there, any of us here would feel mighty cheap if he did not kill somebody.

“And mind, boys, whether we fight or run, whether we keep together, or squander, ‘two and two’ is the word. You must all mate yourselves two and two, to stand together and run together, to fight together and die together. One of you must call himself number one, and the other number two, and then, if there's a hundred together and the inimy comes, number two never fires till number one has fired and loaded again. You see, men, a fellow takes good aim when he knows there's another one by, to hit if he misses; and fifty rifles in that way will do more than a hundred when every one knows that's his last chance. Fifty rifles will stop a troop of horse, and a hundred cannot do no more. But if the guns are all empty, then here comes what's left of them slashing away with the broad-swords like devils. But let there be a few more guns to pepper away at them while the first are loading, and they will go to the right-about mighty quick.

“Now mind what I tell you, boys, and the first time it comes to the pinch, you'll say old Schwartz did'nt fight Indians so long for nothing. And as to running, any man that's afraid to run when he sees cause, is half a coward, any how. Do you run just when you please. I God! I'd hate to depend on a man to fight that I could not trust to run. There is no harm in running, if you know where you are running to, and your friends know it too; and the right way is to fix a place, every morning, to meet at night, and let every man get there as he can, and do what mischief he can. But, mind, if it comes to that, always run two and two, and then one can help another; and if one comes up missing, the other can tell what's become of him.

“I'm telling our boys,” continued Schwartz, who now observed Arthur, “some of the lessons I learned among the Shawnees. You see, Mr. Arthur, (you must not think strange of my calling you so, sir, for all your family seem like my own flesh and blood to me—for all you don't know how that is;) you see, sir, the Captain is a regular officer, built plum from the ground up; but for all that, he knows that all this is true; and, before now, when he and I have been setting over the fire, at night, he has told me about one Gineral Braddock, I think they called him, that got his men shot all to pieces, and himself, too, just because he would not believe that there was any other way to fight but just his way. Now, you see, sir, the reason why he was taken at an onplush was, that he was fighting agin Indians. Well, suppose we fight Indian fashion—will not that be pretty much the same thing? May be we an't exactly up to that, but we must do the best we can; for as to fighting the riglars just in their own way, why they'll beat us as long as the sun shines.

“Do you mind that night,” continued Schwartz, laughing, “when the Lieutenant and his men came there to your uncle's to take him and the Captain? That was Indian play for you. I God! if I had not heard that the Colonel was there, I should have knowed he was at the fixing of that business. You see, sir, that is what a man learns by living in places where a body is never safe; and the upshot of it is, that after a while he gets so that he never can be in any danger. It's like learning to sleep with one eye always open.”

Schwartz now rose from the ground, where he had been sitting, and brushing the ashes from his leathers, joined Arthur, and they repaired to the tent where their simple meal awaited them. From him the youth learned that his brother had repaired to the piquet at an early hour; and to the piquet, gentle reader, we will now follow.

DOUGLAS was at the piquet long enough before the arrival of his guest, to make such arrangements as should prevent the stranger from suspecting that this was not the camp he was desirous to see. He had no mind that his enemy should know the real nature and precise position of his main stronghold. Hence he had determined to give him the meeting at the piquet, and took pains to provide, as if for his own ordinary accommodation, such a breakfast as he would have been content to furnish at his own quarters for the most honored visiter.

The spy, who had learned little of his profession but that self-indulgent art which is technically called “playing old soldier,” had been in no haste to leave his rest, and Witt, who understood Schwartz's game, did not hurry him. The breakfast hour, therefore, had fully arrived before he made his appearance. He came accompanied by Witt and another of his party; and, in appearance and manners, fully answered the description of him given by Schwartz. He was a tall, red-haired man, vain, pert, and full of self-complacency. Indeed, so much did he display of a satisfaction, at once chuckling and childish, that Douglas, even though unwarned, must have suspected treachery. Besides, he never could have believed a being, manifestly so frivolous and foolish, capable of the high purpose of devoting himself to a life of toil, hardship, and danger. The vain and self-indulgent may receive momentary impulses, under the influence of which brilliant achievements may be suddenly accomplished; but from such the tasks of study, virtue, and enduring courage, must never be expected.

He seemed, at first, more intent upon his breakfast than anything else, and when it appeared, made faces at his coarse fare which ill accorded with his professed indifference to all personal inconvenience. But, bad as it was, he contrived to swallow enough to show that he was not prepared to play the ascetic any more in regard to the quantity than the quality of his food.

“You see,” said Douglas, “the life we lead. If you are not prepared to submit cheerfully to privations, compared to which what you see here is luxury, you should not join us.”

“Damn luxury,” said the other. “What do I care about luxury? To be sure, I have been used to it all my life; coffee or tea, one, every morning for breakfast; and good light bread, and potatoes and pies; and then, for dinner, pork or fresh meat, or codfish at least every day in the week, and all sorts of sass; and then pies again, and cheese, and all that. But I am ready to give it all up to serve my country, and live as hard as anybody.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Douglas, drawing some papers from his pocket. Among these he affected to search in vain for a particular paper, and in doing so, carelessly throw on the table the letter endorsed with the name Job Dixon. He saw that it caught the other's eyes, and, expressing some dissatisfaction at his own carelessness, said: “You have a right to know, before you join us, all about our force, and I ought to show you my last return; but I have it not at hand, though I believe I know pretty well the number of my men. But stay,” continued he, interrupting himself with a start, and looking at the gallant Captain with a keenness that made his very back ache, “How came you by my pass-words, sir?”

“I got them from a man they call Job Dixon,” replied the trembling Captain.

“Job Dixon!” replied Douglas, immediately resuming his complacency, “then all is right.”

“O yes, all is right,” said the other, recovering from his alarm, but more fluttered and confused than ever. “He told me that wa'nt his name, sure enough, and he said that name was only a sort of a countersign to you.”

It cost Douglas some effort to suppress a smile at seeing the delicate and dangerous office of a spy undertaken by one so destitute of all the qualities necessary to it; but he commanded himself, and asked whether the other was now content to join him.

“To be sure I am,” said he; “and not only I, but fifty more as good fellows as ever stepped shoe-leather. You see, that was what I doubted about. I thought may be as I had such a company, I had a right to set up for myself; but after I heard all about you from that man, Job Dixon, or whatever else his name is, I made up my mind to join you.”

“Where are your men?” asked Douglas.

“They are all about home yet,” said the Captain, “but I can bring them together any day, and any place you please to name. I suppose you don't mean to stay up here in the mountains all the time, and may be it might suit as well for me to fall in with you somewhere.”

“That is true,” said Douglas. “We are not so well off here for rations as to want anybody before we have use for them. As long as we stay here we are strong enough. A regiment of men could not climb the Devil's back-bone before our faces. But I propose to move shortly, and should be glad of a reinforcement on the way. What county are your men in?”

“In Bedford county,” replied the other, repeating his lesson exactly.

“That will do, then,” said Douglas. “I propose to march against Mason, at Lynchburg, early in November, and on the fifth day of the month I will meet you at Jones's Ford, on Staunton river.”

“I cannot say that I know exactly where that is,” said the spy.

“It is little out of your way into any part of Bedford county,” said Douglas; “and as I want to see some of our friend's down in that quarter, I will ride there with you. I am told Mason is pretty strong, and I want to get all the force I can, and that is not so much but what I shall be glad of your help.”

“How many men have you?” asked the Yankee Captain.

“I have but a handful here, just now; but I am sending out orders for more to join on the route, and I am in hopes to reach the river with four hundred at least. I shall stay there, at all events, till more come in; because it would be foolish to attack Mason's regiment with less than five or six hundred.”

“That will do,” said the other; “for Mason is not more than four hundred strong.”

“Indeed!” replied Douglas, affecting surprise and pleasure. “Then I am pretty sure of him. I had heard as much before, but I don't trust everybody. I was afraid there was a trap set for me; but now I am satisfied, and if I can leave Staunton river with six hundred men, I shall gather force enough before I get to Lynchburg to drive Mason and his regiment before me like chaff.”

Having said this, Douglas set about the necessary arrangements for accompanying his new acquaintance to Jones's Ford. As the distance was too great for one day, he proposed to pass the night at the house of a trusty friend, from whence the Yankee officer would have it in his power to reach a tavern, two miles beyond the river, the next day. He now despatched a note to Arthur, saying that he wished to examine the ground at the river, in company with him and Schwartz. He therefore directed them to follow at a cautious distance, so as not to be seen by the spy; to pass them in the night, and take up their quarters at a house in advance, and the next day proceed to the dwelling of Mr. Gordon, (a staunch friend,) near the river, and wait for him there. Meantime a horse, that stood piqueted hard by, was saddled, and Douglas set out, accompanied by the treacherous Captain and the faithful Witt.

The journey was made without any occurrence worth noting. In the conversation of the stranger there was nothing to beguile Douglas from his own thoughts. The vain babble of the prating coxcomb was all wasted on the impenetrable Witt; and, after a few fruitless attempts to overcome the taciturnity of his companions, he followed their example, and the greater part of the journey was made in silence. Late on the second evening they reached the river. The spy was directed to the public house on the other side, and Douglas and Witt returned to Mr. Gordon's, where they found Arthur and Schwartz.

As they were now in a land of civilization and comfort, Douglas was not sorry to obtain, once more, a good night's lodging, which his hospitable friend was delighted to afford. But this rare enjoyment did not make him forgetful of the necessity of watching the motions of his enemy. He accordingly despatched a scout to the house to which the Yankee had been directed, to make sure that he had gone on.

At a late hour the man returned, and roused Douglas to inform him that the spy had indeed gone as far as he had intended, and that he had there fallen in with a party of a dozen dragoons, commanded by a subaltern, who were on a scout through the country. With this officer he had been seen to be engaged in private and earnest conversation, and orders had been issued to the men to look well to the condition of their arms, and to be in readiness to move at daylight.

It at once occurred to Douglas that a new scheme had entered the head of the vain and frivolous being who had thrust himself into an affair requiring qualities so different. It was probable that he wished to avail himself of the presence of this little party to endeavor to surprise his enemy, whom he had reason to believe to be still near the Ford. The folly of risking the defeat of his favorite enterprise by joining in the attempt, and thus throwing off his mask, was not likely to occur to him. The question with Douglas was, whether by abiding the attack he should afford the bungling fool, whom he had been leading into his own trap, a chance to escape from it by his own blunder. In this apprehension, however, he did not give that worthy due credit for his discretion. He had indeed considered Douglas as his proper prey; and though he had been unable to restrain his disposition to babble, he sorely repented his indiscretion when he found the other officer disposed to anticipate him. He had accordingly earnestly dissuaded him from attemptign anything; and, not prevailing in this, had determined to go on alone, and leave the other to execute his project as he might.

THIS victory, though on a small scale, was complete in itself. It was a favorable omen, too, and might serve as a sort of rehearsal of the more important battle to be fought on the same ground. In one thing only Douglas had been disappointed, by the eagerness of Schwartz's men. He had made no prisoners, and the fallen enemy were all either dead, or not in condition to be harassed by such questions as he wished to ask. They were necessarily committed to the care of such of the party as lived in the neighborhood; and their horses and arms being secured, were placed in the same hands for safe keeping.

The feelings of Arthur, as he looked on this fearful scene of slaughter, were such as might be expected to possess the mind of a youth, who, as yet, had never seen the blood of man shed in strife. But these are nothing to the purpose of my tale. It is enough to say, that the contemplation of it wrought the usual change in his character. He now felt that to kill or be killed was the order of the day; and, though his next sleep was haunted by visions of the ghastly objects that lay before him, he awoke from it with a mind prepared for the stern duties of war.

Requesting the company and advice of his host, Douglas now proceeded to examine the ground. He found the river hills every where intersected, on both sides of the river, by ravines such as that I have described. The ford was shallow, but just above was deep water, which, on the north side, came down quite near to the gravel bar, which served as a dam. Here a steep and high rock bounded the river, and along the base of it, the water eddied in a deep pool, and then swept away in a strong, but shallow current. At a short distance below was the mouth of a ravine, overgrown with lofty trees, and clustering with brushwood, at a distance of fifty yards from the landing-place. The road, issuing from the river at the foot of the rock, holds a straight course for twenty yards, or thereabouts, and then turning short to the left, is no more in sight of the river. From thence, a short, but steep assent through a deep cleft in the hills, brings the traveller to the top, where he turns again to the right, and resumes the direction towards Lynchburg. After a thorough examination of the whole, the party returned to breakfast at the house of Mr. Gordon.

Douglas rode slowly and thoughtfully. At length he said apart to Schwartz:

“Your plot is admirable; but I am afraid it will fail.”

“What chance of that?” asked Schwartz. “They will be ashamed to bring more than a thousand men against you, even if they had them. We can raise as many as they can, and we shall be on the ground, and have the same advantage we had just now.”

“But suppose they come and take possession first,” said Douglas.

“Oh! no danger of that. They'll be in no hurry to leave their snug quarters any sooner than they can help; and we can be here a day or two before the time.”

“It may be so,” said Douglas, “but I don't think Col. Mason takes me for an absolute fool; and if he does, he has reason to know that I have sharp-witted men about me. But any man's wits may fail him sometimes. For example, it has never occurred to either of us, that Mason will certainly not believe that we have been fooled by such a fellow as this Yankee of yours. Will he not, therefore, at once suspect the truth, and conclude that we are trying to catch him in his own trap?”

“I God!” said Schwartz, “that is true. I had not thought of that. The fellow is too silly to be made bait of, sure enough. But then, you see, Captain, we can fix them any how. Mr. Gordon here can raise men enough, in three days, to keep them from crossing the river, until we are ready for them, and then, you know, we can push across a part of our men, and toll them over. If once we get them into a right sharp fight, they'll follow us across the river fast enough.”

“I have no doubt of their coming to look for us,” said Douglas, “and no doubt of a fight; but we must be prepared to meet more men than we have bargained for. Depend upon it, they will bring every man they can raise. Why, would you believe it, the fellow talked to me about living at home on codfish, and potatoes, and cider, and pies, and all sorts of sass? Such a simpleton could not impose on a child. Col. Mason has talents worthy of a better cause, and he will see through the whole affair. I suppose he is superseded; but he is an honorable man, and will frankly give the benefit of his suspicions to his superior, who can hardly be such a fool as to disregard his suggestions. We must bestir ourselves, therefore, or give up the game and escape from our own plot.

COLONEL TREVOR was tho spoiled child of fortune and patronage. He was old enough to remember his father's rise in life. Hence, in estimating his consequence in society, he had formed a habit of comparing him with the class from which he sprung, and not with that more intellectual order of men, in which he had at last found his proper place, and where he had long remained stationary in well ascertained equality. This circumstance alone made an important difference between him and his younger brothers. The sort of respect with which he was most familiar teaches any thing but humility, however it may impress that lesson on the mind that has already learned it.

In the commencement of Col. Trevor's military career, the approbation of his father had been of more consequence to the usurper than now, when his throne stood strong on its foundations. The character of that worthy gentleman, too, had been less understood. The President had not been aware how absolutely the convictions of his own mind and high sense of duty supplied the place of those douceurs, the frequent repetition and continued expectation of which is necessary to bind the faith of the unprincipled. Before this discovery was made, Col. Trevor had been already advanced to a rank, and invested with an adventitious consequence, which made it important to cultivate him on his own account. His early training had taught him the grand maxim of the court—“Nothing ask, nothing have.” He had discovered that any display of fixed principle, however favorable to the usurper's plans, was no passport to advancement; that rewards were only for the mercenary, and that they were always dispensed with a freedom duly proportioned to the eagerness with which they were sought. The caustic wit of John Randolph had unintentionally and almost with his last breath supplied the faction with a countersign not to be mistaken. If any man talked about his principles, (as all men do and must at times,) there was always at hand some dextrous pimp, whose business it was to ascertain their number. If they were found to be either more or less than seven, the discovery was fatal to his hopes of advancement.

The character of Douglas Trevor had been formed under circumstances directly the reverse of those which had operated on his elder brother. He only remembered his father in the same circles and the same place in society in which his latter days had been spent. No change of condition had led the youth to turn his back on the companions of his boyhood; no rapid promotion had filled him with a fond conceit of his own consequence, or an overweening eagerness for rank and emolument; and his unbought fidelity had shown that he was of the number of those on whom rewards would be wasted. Thus it happened, (as it so often does,) that two young men, sons of the same parents, educated in the same school, and trained to the same profession, were just the reverse of each other, in particulars wherein nature had probably made little difference between them. So it was, that while the one was indifferent to duty, frivolous, self-indulgent, and mercenary, the other was assiduous, discreet, temperate, and disinterested.

It may be inferred from what I have said, that the rank of Col. Trevor was already above his merit. The consequence was, that having reached his present elevation by the force of causes not within himself, his own consciousness afforded no standard for his farther pretensions. He could see no reason why he should not be a field-marshal as well as a colonel. And so it was; for he had no just claims to either rank on the score of service or qualification. A stone thrown up, were it endued with consciousness and thought, could see no reason, as long as it was ascending, why it might not fly to the moon. If my experience in life has taught me any thing, it is, that a man who sets no bounds to his aspirations, unless his daily intercourse with the world affords daily proofs of an intrinsic superiority over all he meets, is already raised above his merit.

The gentlemen, of whom I have been speaking, were busily engaged in their game, when the Orderly in waiting entered and announced an officer who wished to report himself to the commandant of the post.

“Let him call in the morning, and be damned to him,” said Colonel Trevor. “Is this an hour to disturb a gentleman?”

The Orderly saluted and withdrew, but presently returned to say that the officer had particular business with Colonel Mason, and wished to see him immediately. Mason accordingly left the room, and was gone but a few minutes, when he too came back.

“This officer, sir,” said he, “asked to see me, supposing me still in command here. His intelligence is for you; and, from what I heard before I discovered his mistake, it may be important that you should receive it to-night.”

“Well,” said Trevor, in a tone at once lazy and peevish, “I suppose I must see him. But it is damned hard that I cannot have a moment's leisure. Let him come in.”

FREED at length from his troublesome adviser, Col. Trevor was left to the uninterrupted enjoyment of his anticipated triumph. He seemed to tread on air, and, with a flashing eye, and spread nostrils, to look forward to the glories, and snuff up the carnage of the expected fight. Such was his impatience for the adventure, that, in the eagerness of anticipation, he gave no thought to the necessary preparations. It was enough to issue the customary order for the troops to be in readiness for the march, with a supply of cartridges and rations suitable to the expedition.

The third day of November at length arrived, and the troops took up the line of march. As they issued in glittering rank from the barracks above the town, the Colonel, proudly mounted on his stately charger, posted himself in the gateway of the house, where he had taken up his quarters, and received their passing salute. The portico of the house was crowded with female figures; tho windows were clustered with fair faces; the noble oak-trees in the yard were hung with garlands, in token of the loyalty of the household, and of anticipated triumph in his assured victory. But the Colonel saw nothing of this. His eye saw not the waving of handkerchiefs, his ear heard not the cheering farewells issuing in tones ef music from rosy lips. He heard only the spirit-stirring drum and clanging bugle; he saw nothing but the stately steppings of his well-trained troops as they marched by; and then, his eye, following them, dwelt with delight upon their picturesque appearance as they wound along the slope of the hill, and crossed Blackwater-bridge. Beyond this, imagination presented objects of yet greater interest—the battle-field, the tumult of the strife, the rout, the pursuit, the carnage, the vanquished leader led in chains to the foot of the throne, the gracious smile of approving majesty, and the rich rewards of successful valor. These things he saw; but saw not the gaunt figure of his host, who stood near, his strong features and manly person illy sorting with the abject part he condemned himself to act. He sought in vain to catch the eye of the excited commander, desirous, in his parting words, to convoy some expression of loyalty and zeal. Colonel Trevor marked him not, and, as the rear of the column was about to pass, put spurs to his horse, and galloped to the front.

At this point of my story, I must crave the indulgence of the reader, while I introduce my humble self to his notice. A native of South Carolina, and the heir of a goodly inheritance, which, during a long minority, had been at nurse in the hands of an honest and prudent guardian, I was just of age, the master of a handsome income, and of a large sum of money in hand. Having a taste for in military life, my guardian had procured me a situation in the military academy, which had been established by the State, as a counterpoise to that institution at which the Federal Government had taught so many of our southern youths to whet their swords against the only sovereignty to which they owed allegiance. My proficiency had been seen, and gave entire satisfaction to my teachers. I had imbibed political opinions which made me a zealous advocate for the rights of the States, and a strenuous asserter of the unalienable independence of South Carolina. When, in compliance with the request of Mr. B—, enquiry had been made for a young man qualified and disposed to aid young Trevor in his enterprise, I had been selected for that purpose. I was invited to Columbia, made acquainted with the plans of the insurgents in Virginia, and provided with letters to my future commander. Journeying to Virginia by the route that he had pursued, on the evening of the first day of November I entered the valley described in the first chapter. I soon encountered a crowd of men, who filled the road and the yard of a house contiguous to it. There were wagons, horses, and arms; and the men, moving quietly but busily, seemed all earnestly engaged in sonic important preparation.

I was presently stopped, courteously though peremptorily; and having expressed a wish to see Captain Douglas, was conducted to the house. There, pen in hand, and busily engaged in writing, sat a young man of small stature and slight figure. Though quite handsome, there was nothing remarkable in his features, but a bright gray eye, of calm, thoughtful and searching expression, strongly contrasted with the dark brown, curling hair that clustered over his brow.

Being accosted by my conductor, he raised his head—when I stepped forward, and handed him my letters. He glanced hastily to the signature of the first he opened, then read it leisurely, and looking at me with a beaming countenance, extended his hand. “You are welcome, sir,” said he, “welcome to danger's hour. In the morning we march on an expedition which may decide the fate of the campaign. My engagements must excuse my seeming neglect of you this evening. But let me make you known to your future comrades.”

Then turning to a fair haired youth, already known to the reader as Arthur Trevor, he introduced him as his mother's son. I was then made acquainted with Schwartz and Witt, and several others. Among the number were a few young men from the lower counties, of good families and education, who, in this crisis, had left their homes to engage in this expedition. These, like their leader, had all learned to accommodate themselves to the fashions of that wild country, and its wilder climate, and especially to their own wild life. Each individual was dressed, from top to toe in leather, no otherwise differing from the dress of the rudest mountaineer, than in neatness, and a certain easy grace, and air of fashion, which no dress can entirely conceal. In any dress, in any company, under any circumstances, Douglas Trevor would have been recognized as a gentleman.

I hardly remember how I fared, or how I passed the night. As a stranger, I presume somewhat better than most others; but I took pains to show that I was content to eat what I could get, and to lodge as I might.

At daylight we were on the road. But little attention was paid to order. No enemy was near, and nobody was inclined to desert. There was therefore no necessity for harassing men and horses, by forcing them to keep in ranks. Each man rode where, and with whom he pleased, except that a few were directed to keep near the wagons, not so much to guard as to assist in case of need It is impossible to conceive a military array with less of the “pomp and circumstance of war.” The horses were, for the most part, substantial, and in substantial order. Their equipments were of the rudest sort. Plough-bridles and pack-saddles were most common. The only arms were the rifle, knife, and tomahawk, with their appropriate accompaniments of powder-horn, charger, and pouch. Douglas, indeed, had a sword, and the few sabres taken from the dragoons had been distributed among the principal men. But they were all too wise to encumber their persons with these weapons, which might have been troublesome in their mode of warfare. A strong loop of thick leather, stitched to the skirt of the saddle, in front of the left knee, received the sword, the hilt of which stood up above the pummel. Two or three of the saddles were of the Spanish fashion, the horn of which served to support any trifle the rider might wish to hang on it. Douglas, in particular, carried, in this way, a leather case, containing his writing materials, and serving as a tablet for writing on horseback.

But rude as these equipments were, yet to one acquainted with the object of the expedition, there was an appearance of efficiency in the whole which gave the corps a truly formidablo aspect. The perfect order of the arms, the strong, though rude dress of the men, their sinewy frames, their sun-burnt faces; and, above all, the serious and resolved expression of countenance which generally prevailed, were tokens which none but a martinet would overlook.

As yet no duty had been assigned to me, so that I was perfectly disengaged. It was not until we had rode several miles, that Douglas found leisure to converse with me. He then joined me, accompanied by Schwartz, to whom, in my presence, he explained my situation. Schwartz heard him with thoughtful attention, and then said—“It is all mighty well, sir, if Mr. Sidney will only just take it right. You see, sir,” continued he, addressing me, “there an't no officers among us, and we only just call the Captain so for short. If he was a Captain or a Gineral it would not make much odds, because these fellows just go for what is right and hard fighting; and him they believe in, him they mind. But as to who is first and who is second, that's neither here nor there. I have not a doubt that you are the sort of a man we want; but all that we can do, is to give you a fair chance to let the men see it. The Captain can be asking your advice, now and then, and I and Witt will do the same, and when they see that, they will begin to find out what you are. And then, you see, sir, when once we get to fighting, a man is never in such a flurry himself, but what he can see who knows what he is about, and who does not. So, by the time we have had a skrimmage or two, the men will know all about you; and whenever the Captain is out of the way, they will all be looking to you to know what to do; just in the way of giving your opinion, mind; but, after a while, it will get to be orders. And then, if any thing happens to the Captain, and Witt and I don't see cause to change our mind, why, we only just have to follow you, and the men they follow us, and all will go straight. So you must just make yourself easy and keep quiet. We'll tell you when to speak, and after a while you'll find yourself second in command before you know it.”

I had no difficulty in acknowledging the reasonableness of these ideas, though it seemed a new thing to find a man possessing the influence and authority of Schwartz, devising means to transfer them to another. But he knew, and the event showed that he was right, that there were some duties of a commander for which he was not fit; and that there were other things to which a chief could not devote himself, for which he was better qualified than any other.

On the third of November we reached the rendezvous, at the house of Mr. Gordon. On the way we had received frequent accessions of strength, and here we were joined by a yet larger reinforcement. Our whole number could not have been much, if at all, short of a thousand men.

Meantime scouts came in, from whom we learned that the same day had been fixed for the march of the troops from Lynchburg. It followed that we had abundance of time for our preparations. It so happened, that they had not learned the name of the new commander; but it was understood that a reinforcement had arrived, and that nearly the whole disposable force was on the march. This included a troop of dragoons and a company of artillery, with two pieces of cannon, in addition to a full regiment of infantry, and one battalion of another.

Having ascertained his force, and fixed on those on whom he could rely to understand and execute his plans, Douglas proceeded to make a temporary organization, suited to the occasion. The men were divided into corps, to each of which a post was provisionally assigned, to be occupied as soon as the approach of the enemy should be announced. Across the road, near the head of the defile, and just above the first angle next the top of the ascent, was constructed a barricade of logs, similar to those already described. This reached, on each side, to the foot of the hills, at steep, rocky, and impracticable points. It was long enough for twenty men to man its twenty loop-holes, and as it reached above their heads, they were quite concealed. An hundred men were allotted to this post, who were ranged five deep behind the barricade, and instructed to fire in turn, each man falling back to the rear to reload as soon as he had discharged his piece.

Others were distributed along the opposite faces of the hills over-looking the road, and directed to seek out hiding-places behind rocks, trees, and bushes. These men were under the immediate orders of individuals selected for the occasion, but attached to the command of Witt, who was stationed at the barrier.

About a hundred were placed in ambush in the mouth of the ravine, just below the road, on the north side of the river, under Schwartz. These were all picked men—our steadiest and coolest sharp-shooters— who were placed there for the purpose of attacking and carrying the guns of the enemy at the water's edge.

Douglas himself, at the head of the rest of his corps, prepared to occupy the road on the north side of the river, to bring on the action. These were divided into two equal bodies, and the whole ranged in platoons, at open order, across the road. Of the two battalions, as they may be called, the foremost was placed under my command. The other Douglas commanded in person. My orders were to post my headmost platoon just at the bend of the road, on the top of the hill where it turns to the right. They were instructed to fire ad limitum, each man choosing and making sure of his mark, and then to file away by the right, and, taking to their heels, to run down to the river, cross it, and dispose themselves on the other bank, so as most effectually to gall the enemy, should he attempt to cross. Each platoon, in succession, was to march up to the same ground, and, having fired, to execute the same manœuvre. The remaining column, under Douglas, were to stand their ground until the enemy should come in view on the top of the hill, and then to fall back fighting, and cross under cover of those who should have passed before. But the best account of what was ordered will be gathered from what was done.

WHILE these arrangements were in progress, scouts were hourly arriving. The country being altogether friendly, they were readily provided with fresh horses; and, before the enemy were half way from Lynchburg, we were fully apprised of their number, equipments, and order of march. First came a squadron of dragoons; then a light company; then Trevor's regiment, about five hundred strong; then a company of artillery; then one battalion of Mason's regiment, consisting of something more than two hundred men; the whole followed by a few light troops, by way of rear-guard. The whole might amount to a thousand men, well appointed and prepared at all points for efficient action.

On the morning of the fifth of November the men were ordered to betake themselves to their allotted posts; and Douglas, having visited each, and seen that all was right, and rightly understood, addressed himself to his particular command. Where every man is an officer, each must be told individually beforehand what is expected from him. Panic apart, they will be apt to fulfil such instructions, and will fight with the terrible efficiency of individual animosity. Hence the formidable character of partisan warfare.

At length the enemy made their appearance. Clinging to the idea of surprising Douglas, Col. Trevor sent forward no advance, but determined to bring the whole strength of his corps to bear upon him at once. If he employed any scouts, they were either unfaithful, or were not permitted to approach near enough to learn any thing of the position or movements of Douglas. The consequence was, that Col. Trevor received the first intimation of his presence from a sharp firing in front, which sent his horse to the right-about and back to the rear. Pressing forward, he immediately ordered his sharp-shooters to disperse and take positions to gall us, while he pushed on his solid column of heavy infantry. The reception prepared for them was such as he had not dreamed of. His men fell like leaves in autumn—and, as fast as one platoon of the mountaineers discharged their pieces, another was on the same ground to pour in again that terrible fire, of which the martinets of the regular service have so inadequate an idea. Instead of the deep-mouthed peal of muskets, discharged simultaneously, there is the sharp, short crack of rifle after rifle, fired by men no one of whom touches the trigger until he sees precisely where his ball is to go. The effect was suitable to the cause; but yet the steady infantry pressed on, “Each stepping where his comrade stood,” to form an unbroken front, in order to charge with the bayonet.

Suddenly the firing ceased, and, behold, their enemy seemed to have fled from the expected charge. The fact was, that my last platoon, having fired, had withdrawn like their predecessors, and were running at full speed after their companions, down the hill and across the river. At the water's edge, I stopped and joined Schwartz in his ambush. It had been arranged that I should do this; because, in case we should be so fortunate as to seize the cannon, my skill as an artillerist might be of great use. Meantime, my men having crossed over, dispersed themselves along the bank, the face of the hills, and across the road, to cover the retreat of those who remained.

The regulars had necessarily spent a few moments in repairing the wreck of their shattered column before they advanced. They then moved forward, but, before they turned the angle of the road, most of my men were across the river. At the same time, the column under the immediate command of Douglas was seen drawn up in the road, near the foot of the hill, with the rear resting on the water's edge. As the enemy advanced the front platoon fired, faced to the right, and filing along the flank of the column, entered the river, and crossed just below the ford. They next filed to the left in the same way, and crossed above the ford. In this manner the whole column disappeared, one platoon after another, while their fire was answered by a roar of musketry, which, being discharged from the higher ground, did more harm to those on the farther bank of the river than to the nearer enemy. At length the last platoon was withdrawn, and the regulars rushed down toward the river for the purpose of annoying them in crossing. In this attempt they were again checked and driven back by the terrible fire of my men, who, having already crossed, were drawn up, as I have said, on the other bank.

I SHALL not detain the reader with a detail of the farther particulars of this skirmish. Indeed we hardly staid to acquaint ourselves with its exact results. As at least half the men who had fought under Douglas on that day had no intention to follow him any farther, we left to them the care of the killed, wounded, and prisoners. The body of Col. Mason alone was selected for a more honorable burial than the rude hands of the mountaineers could bestow. It was dragged from beneath the incumbent mass of men and horses, placed on a suitable carriage, covered with the colors of his regiment, and taken to Lynchburg, to be there restored to his companions in arms. The band of his regiment were also marched to that place to assist in rendering the last honors to their late commander.

Having given the necessary orders, Douglas snatched a moment to ride to Mr. Gordon's, where he hoped to find his brother in a more reasonable mood. The Colonel had been confined in a private room; and being treated with great courtesy and respect, had lost nothing of his arrogance. Such is always the effect of delicate attention to the undeserving. A man of merit would have been softened and melted by the deference with which. Colonel Trevor was treated. To him it seemed but that sort of spontaneous homage to greatness which the heart pays unconsciously. The effect of it was, that being told by Mr. Gordon that his brother had come to visit him in his room, he sent him the following magnanimous note, pencilled on the back of a letter:

LET us again intrude into the sanctuary of majesty. The President is alone, as before. He has the same air of somewhat impatient expectation. A shade of anxious thought is on his brow, and his cheek is flushed with some little excitement. Yet these elements are all so mixed as to be scarcely perceptible; and were he conscious that we are looking at him, they would be completely concealed. On the table lie a number of letters recently received. Two of them are separated from the rest. He takes up one and reads it a second time. Let us look over him. It runs thus: “The wisest may be deceived; the most vigilant may be betrayed: for the MOST trusted are often the most treacherous. CAUTION.”

“What means this?” said the President, musingly. “Who is it that I am warned against? The word ‘MOST’ is underscored. Who does that point at? Whom do I trust most? I trust nobody. But I seem to trust; and whom most? Surely, it cannot be he. I should, indeed, be wrong to trust to his fidelity. But he is too wise to be false to his own interest. But may he not have an interest that I am not aware of? It must be considered.”

He then took up the other letter, which I beg leave to lay before the reader, as a specimen of the art with which the truth may be so told as to make others believe what is false. I recommend it particularly to military gentlemen, reporting the results of a battle.

“A worthy gentleman,” said the President, folding up the letter.

“A most worthy gentleman! Let any man doubt henceforth, if he can, that the only way to judge in advance of what a man will do, is to ascertain his interest. See how readily it settled this nice point of casuistry—this delicate question of conflicting duties. Trust! Yes, I will trust; but not as fools do. I will trust no man's honor, but every man's interest. The experience of my whole life has taught the lesson, and every day confirms it. Here comes a new example,” added he, as the door-bell sounded, and was echoed by the single stroke in the room.

The door opened, and the honorable Mr. Baker appeared. His figure had lost nothing of its deferential bend; his step nothing of its creeping, cautious tread; his countenance nothing of its abject servility. But there was more of anxiety and less of hope, with a slight appearance of peevish dissatisfaction.

“You are very good, my dear sir,” said the President. “You are always almost present to my wish. Government would be an easy task, ere all officers like you.”

“I humbly thank your Excellency, ” replied the Judge. “Were not your approbation precious to me, I might be tempted, perhaps, to look more than I ought to public opinion. Perhaps I do so, as it is; for though my duties are clearly necessary to the good of the State, I find it hard to bear the loud reproaches of a misjudging multitude, that reach me through a factious press.”

“Let it not reach you, my dear sir. The storm does but rage without. Why need you hear it when it touches you not? Shut your ears and sleep soundly; or open them only to the more pleasant tones that issue from loyal lips. I take care not to know what is said of me by malcontent scribblers; but I hardly flatter myself that I should preserve my equanimity if I read all that is written.”

“It is sometimes impossible not to hear,” said the Judge; “and there are words which convey reproach, which, though uttered in a single breath, reach the heart. I can never, I fear, make myself proof against such a phrase as ‘judicial murder.”

“But you must find consolation in your own enlighted conscience, my dear sir. Some feeling must be expected when the edge of the law falls on victims whose offences demand punishment, and yet are such as those the world calls honorable and upright are most likely to commit.”

“The misfortune is,” replied the other, “that it is only for such offence, and on such victims, that my office seems to be made to act; and when the curse rises up against me, loud as well as deep, and uttered and echoed on every side, I pray your Excellency to pardon me when I say that I find its honors and emoluments a poor compensation.”

“It will be some relief to you, then,” replied the President, “that you are like to have a subject of a different sort to act upon. One whose crimes offend against the laws of God as well as man; and who is not more obnoxious to State policy than to the detestation of all good men, and of none more than yourself.”

“Of whom is your Excellency pleased to speak?” asked Mr. Baker.

“Of no other than that young fellow, Trevor, whose ill luck snatched him away from our hands, when perhaps he was not quite ripe for punishment. But he has since made himself perfect in crime, by becoming the leader of a desperate banditti. In short, he is no other than the famous Captain Douglas, and is now in my power. I think you will find in his case a fair set-off against some of the mortifications of which you complain; and think no more of denying your services to the public, at least until he has fulfilled his destiny.”

The effect of this communication on the mind of the honorable gentleman was such as the President had anticipated. To every being of the name of Trevor he bore a mortal antipathy. In the case of Douglas, this was rendered more intense by the sympathy of a father with a favorite son. An envious malignity was a striking feature in the characters both of father and son; and this had been provoked to the utmost by that unfortunate young man. Both were sensible that the younger Baker had been in bad odor with the public ever since the affair at the falls; and hence, it was not only grateful to their malice, but to their pride, to fasten on Douglas a stigma so dishonorable as to have relation back, and to excuse his adversary with those who did not know all the circumstances, for not seeking such redress as gentlemen demand of gentlemen only.

The good humor of the Judge was now manifestly restored, and the President went on to give him some particulars of the late military occurrences. Douglas, he said, was on the road, and would reach Washington the next day. The letter, it seems, had been brought by a soldier who had orders to outgo the rest of the party, and ride express to Washington.

“It is well,” said the President, “that I have this timely intimation of his approach. The custody of State prisoners cannot be safely entrusted to any but the military; and that of this young man must be safely committed to no corps in which he had any acquaintance. It seems that he was a universal favorite among men and officers. I am about to take measures to guard against any such blunder.”

In such conversation half an hour was passed, when the Minister made his appearance. He had been sent for, and to him the President communicated the history of the capture of Douglas. Had he turned an eye of close scrutiny on the favorite, at the moment when he uttered the name, and announced the fate of his victim, he might have seen a slight expression of countenance which it would not have been easy to interpret. But this escaped him; and he went on to direct that the true name of the prisoner should be kept secret; that his arrival should be watched for; and that he should be at once conducted to a place provided for the separate confinement of State prisoners. It was, moreover, ordered that a detail of officers and men for that prison should be carefully made, so as to exclude any persons whose loyalty was at all doubtful; and especially all who, from former associations, could be supposed to feel any kindness for Douglas.

Finally, it was agreed that, should he arrive in the course of that night, or the next day, he should be brought, on the following night, before the triumvirate, in the room where they then were.

“You were right,” continued the President, addressing his Minister, “when you said that this young man had talent. The discovery of his identity explains the marvellous organization and efficiency of that wild banditti that he commanded. His capture must be fatal to their future success. They must be powerless now that they have lost their leader, and must soon disband. That is well. The two regiments may now be marched from Lynchburg to Richmond, and save us the necessity of sending a reinforcement from this quarter. The troops there, with this aid, will certainly be sufficient to check the insurrectionary movements that we hear of in the southern counties, and to cover the meeting of the Legislature. Col. Trevor has certainly deserved well. I am afraid his unfortunate wound may have occasioned the loss of more men than we could well spare, who seem to have surrendered while he was insensible. But the disabling of Douglas's corps will, of course, set them at liberty to return to their duty. But this takes nothing from Col. Trevor's merit. He must be brevetted. As to Major Wood, in the regular course he should succeed Mason; but I must hear more of this negotiation for a surrender of his post, before he is promoted. That affair must be satisfactorily explained, or he will hardly escape a court-martial.”

The President now went on to give some farther orders, and then dismissed his guests.

ON his departure from Lynchburg, Schwartz had been provided with a suit of clothes half military, to prevent the notice which his rude mountain attire would have attracted. The day was half spent before he was on the road, and the sergeant and his party were already far in advance of him.

Col. Trevor had been desirous, for obvious reasons, that his letter and prisoner should reach Washington as soon as possible, and had ordered the party to proceed with all practicable despatch. But, as they might be somewhat retarded by the necessary care of their prisoner, he had directed that the letter should be sent on, as we have seen, by a single soldier, who had reached Washington on the second night. But the sergeant was not far behind, and had used such diligence that he crossed the bridge the next morning at an early hour, just as poor Schwartz came in sight.

He recognized the party by the peculiar dress of Douglas, with which he was so familiar; but it was too late. He followed, however, disconcerted by his failure, but not desponding. At the farther end of the bridge he was struck with the countenance and manner of a fine looking man of genteel but plain appearance, who stood gazing earnestly after the prisoner and his guard.

Observing Schwartz, he asked eagerly who the prisoner was, and was told it was Captain Douglas.

“Good God!” exclaimed he, in a tone of deep concern; “is it possible? But thank God! it is no worse.”

“Did you think it was anybody you knew?” asked the quick-witted Schwartz.

“Yes,” replied the other. “I was almost sure it was a friend of my own.”

“And what was your friend's name, stranger? if I may be so bold.”

“You are bold enough,” said the youth. “I am not in the habit of answering questions unless I know who asks them, and why.”

“I don't mean no harm, young man,” replied Schwartz; “and if you tell me your friend's name and your own too, may be you won't be sorry for it.”

The stranger looked hard at Schwartz, and in his serious, earnest, and sagacious countenance, saw enough to make him curious to know what this meant. He therefore replied that his friend was Lieutenant Trevor, late of the United States Dragoons.

“Then I have a notion,” replied Schwartz, “that your name is Whiting.”

“My name is Whiting,” replied the other, in great surprise; “but how should you know it?”

“I have heard the Captain talk about you many a time.”

“The Captain! What Captain?”

“Him,” replied Schwartz, pointing toward the distant party.

“Him! And how was he to know anything about me?”

“Just because he is the very man you thought he was.”

“Douglas!” exclaimed Whiting. “Trevor! Douglas Trevor! Good God, what an ass I have been! O Trevor, my friend! how earnestly have I wished to know where to find you! Had I been with you, this might have been prevented.”

“May be it is best as it is,” said Schwartz. “The Captain did not want for friends where he was. May be one friend here will do him more good than a hundred anywhere else. That is what I am here for now.”

“You are a friend to Trevor, then,” replied Whiting; “perhaps one of his followers.”

“You may say that,” said Schwartz. “Anyhow, I'm his friend.”

“Then come with me to my lodgings. You can tell me everything. and we will see what is to be done. Trevor has friends enough here. Thank God! I saw him. But for that we might not have found out who he was till it was too late.”

Whiting now showed Schwartz where to bestow his horse, and afterwards conducted him to his lodgings. These were in an obscure suburb, humble, plain, and poorly fitted up. Appearances showed that the occupant spent most of his time with the pen, although many of the relics of his former military equipments were to be seen about the room. But the dust on his cap, which hung against the wall, and the mould on the belt and scabbard of his sword, showed that these had been long unused. In truth, the escape of Douglas and his uncle had been fatal to him as a soldier. He had been dismissed the army; and now, as it seemed, earned a poor livelihood by doing for small wages the manual labor of those offices, the salaries of which are received by men who do nothing at all.