Chapter III (3)

“On three grounds, your honor—First, the declaration says that I called the plaintiff a thief in the hearing of ‘divers respectable persons,’ when the witness testifies that I said it in the presence of Loafer Joe and himself—the first one being the greatest vagabond, and the last the most infarnal fool in the village. That’s the fust ground. The second is, I didn’t say a ‘sheep’ at all, but a ‘calf,’ and that I’m ready to stand up to any day—(here Nirum aimed a blow at him with his crutch.) Oh, you needn’t fight about it, Mr. Coger. It’s true and you know it. Keep your crutches for your own carcass, you vagabone you. That’s the second ground. The third ground is that I said _his_ ears instead of _its_ ears, and that I’ll stand up to; also, for that very mornen this here limpen saddler was as drunk as an owl, and was a lyen in the woods above the village, with his ears, head and all, in an old rotten stump back of Coit’s Ridge. I know that, your honor, for I pulled him out myself, and all the thanks I got for it was abuse from the vagabone!”

In vain did Coger asseverate his innocence—(the story being, in point of fact, a lie of Abe’s from beginning to end, as Nirum was noted for his temperance all over the village, and was a Methodist class-leader in good standing, in addition). In vain did Kellogg start upon his feet and commence a loud denial of the whole story. The justice struggled not to smile—the constable grinned—the jury followed suit, the audience tittered, and the boys outside set up a yell like an Iroquois war-whoop, of “Hooraw for Abe Kettle!”

As for Abe himself, he looked round him in the most staid and sober manner, and then, after demanding for a second time his nonsuit, as he termed it, took his seat; and the justice, looking dark in the face with his efforts to conceal his laughter, dismissed the suit.

“I want a warrant for the costs, ef they aint paid on the spot,” says Abe. “I’m ready to swear, your honor—”

“Pay him the costs and be hanged to him,” ejaculated Kellogg to his client. “He’s ready to swear to any thing.”

And Nirum, with a sigh takes out his leathern pouch and defrays the costs to the justice. Kellogg then takes his hat and sneaks over to his office. Nirum hobbles to his shop—the justice closes his office door, the boys melt away, and the farce is over.

Twelve o’clock! time for the stage—so I’ll take a look at the hill. Sure enough, there is a pyramid of dust shooting up from its summit, and, in the midst, gleams out the crimson coach like a boiled lobster from the gray mist of its pot.

Down the hill whirls the dust, and soon we’ll see the machine upon the flat. Ah! here it is, spinning along at a great rate. Past Griffin’s black domicile—past the beautiful meadow on the right—past the rich wheat-field on the left—past the smooth lawny hill, with its birchen grove on its top—past Uncle Jack’s—past the “ridge farm road,” and now it is creeping up the hill by Owlet’s blacksmith shop. Ah! here comes the ears of the leaders above the brow of the hill—then the heads tossing up and down with their efforts—then the bodies, reined and strapped—then the wheelers—then the lower side of the slanting seat which forms the driver’s throne—then the driver himself, with his four reins slanting to the horses’ heads—then the whole red coach, creaking and pitching. At last the top of the hill is gained, and, with a loud crack of the driver’s whip, through the village trot the jaded steeds. The coach looks like a bobbed rooster with his tail down, for the dusty boot protrudes immensely at the rear, and all the weight appears to be on the hind seat. Up rolls the coach, the driver making his whip crack like Fanny Ellsler’s castanets in the “cracovienne,” and with a prodigious attempt at creating a sensation—the machine stops at Hamble’s. Here the passengers, in the shape of a fat old lady, a lean old gentleman, and a cross baby between them, empty themselves on Hamble’s porch, and the driver, with a loud “keh!” and an awful crack of his whip, gallops over to the post-office.

Thither follow the whole village, all athirst for the contents of the mail-bag, which the driver sends straight at the head of the boy who appears at the threshold of the store (for calicoes are distributed on one side, letters on the other, and rum in the rear,) to receive it. The boy lugs in the bag, casts it over the counter with a wry face, and straight commences to unlock it and unloose the iron chain through its rings. That duty performed, he vomits forth the contents—tawny parcels, large and small—inside the counter, and stooping down commences, with the postmaster himself, the task of “overhauling the mail.” Now a packet would skim from his hand—and now another would take a flying leap—and now another would bound, with a jerk, away, and then he would place a parcel carefully by his side—then away would fly another packet, and then another would be placed by his knee, the latter swelling into a small pile—the mail matter for Monticello. At last, all the contents being carefully picked over, the boy would rise painfully, as if his knee joints were sore. The chain would again be thrust through the loops—the padlock locked, and the leathern sack be lifted over the counter and be transferred to the box of the expectant coach, crushed under the feet of the driver who, carefully gathering up his reins, would give a chirrup and whistle to his trampling team—off would dart the coach, and the fat old lady, and the lean old gentleman, and the cross baby between them, who by this time is very red in the face, would disappear in thick wreaths of gray dust up the turnpike leading to Cochecton on the Delaware waters.

The Monticello mail is then grasped with both hands, a package every now and then slipping to the floor, and poured upon the post-office side of the store. An untwisting of hempen strings then takes place—the tawny covers torn from letter and newspaper, and after conning a most tedious time over the packages, the postmaster commences in a drawling lazy voice to call over the names upon the backs of the letters. The Hon. Mr. Johnson (or whatever his name is at Washington) never selected his deputy for his skill in reading, I’ll be bound, or else he has been awfully taken in—for such a blunderhead I never heard attempt to call over mail matter before:

“Mr. Screw-screw—s-c-r-e-w—Screwdriver!”

“Screwdriver! who the devil’s that?” ejaculates one of the expectants.

“That’s the name on the letter, anyhow!” answers the postmaster fiercely, and spitting out enough tobacco-juice to drown all the flies in the store.

“‘S-s-’ that’s a ‘c’ r, stop, no that’s not an r, that’s an ‘h’-oh, Schelmsford. Mr. Schelmsford!”

“Here!” promptly responds one of the number outside the counter.

“Five cents, Mr. Schelmsford! That’s right!”

“Mr. Stickup! Is Stickup here?”

“No Stickup here.” (Or any where else I fancy, continues one sotto voce.)

“It’s likely you know as well as I do, when I’m looking right at the letter, and you are staring at the rum barrels. I’ll thank you to hold your tongue.”

“Send to Washington—have him put out—can’t read writen—dunce—fool—blunderhead—how long must we wait?” burst out in paroxysms of wrath from the expectants.

“Gentlemen have a little patience, will ye; you see what spider’s tracks this writen is. It wants optics like those of a microscope to decipher it,” responds the poor postmaster, perspiring in his dread at the awful threats of the expectants. “Now have a l-e-e-t-l-e patience and you’ll all get your letters.”

“Mrs. Soapdish!”

“Soapdish, you wretch!” shrieks a female voice in the crowd. “Soapdish, you mean puppy! Soapdish! you low fellow!”

“Yes, Soapdish!” asseverated the postmaster, who seeing it is only a woman begins to take courage. “Have you any objection to Soapdish? If you have leave the letter, that’s all. Leave the letter for the dead office at Washington, only _don’t interrupt_ me in my official duties, my good woman! Soapdish is a very good name, the name your husband gave you, no doubt, Mrs. Soapdish! Does she want her letter, after paying me five cents for it!”

“You mean Mrs. Soper, Mr. Skinner,” modestly observes some one from the crowd.

“No I don’t. I mean Mrs. Soapdish. Miss-es—Misses—Soap-dish—Soapdish! Stop though! what a confounded crabbed hand!” squinting over it, then glancing askance at it, and then fairly turning it upside down, after endeavoring to squint inside, as if to find the name there. “On the whole, I shouldn’t be surprised if it were ‘Soper.’ Here, take it, my good woman, and look at it yourself. If it isn’t Soapdish, it’s Soper, and one name is as good as another in Tahoo, for that’s the language the fellow has written in I verily believe,” continues he, grumbling and fumbling over his other letters.

“James Shipoker, Esq.!”

“James Shipoker, Esq.,” ejaculates the judge of the county court. “Oh, what an _incorrigible ass_! James Shipman you fool! Well, I can’t stand this. I’ll write to my friend, the Postmaster-General, and have you kicked out, neck and crop, you dunce you!”

“Just come and help yourselves, gentlemen! I see how it is. You wish to interrupt me to avoid paying the postage. I can see through a grindstone as well as the best of ye, especially when there’s a hole in it big enough to put John P.’s dog in. Here, boy, you come and call over the letters. See if you have any better luck!”

The store-lad fortunately could “read writen,” and after a while each one got his letter or his paper and left the post-office.

And thus endeth the second lesson. In other words, it is dinner time.

* * * * *

Dinner is dispatched.

The glossy dark shades begin now to stretch themselves from the golden west. The shadow of “Coit’s house” (I mean to tell a story about that also) lies strong and well-defined—a sable picture—upon the sunny green—each tree “hath wrought its separate ghost upon the”—grass. Hamble’s tall, straddling sign-post looks like a prone black giant upon the gray highway, and the long sweep of the corner-well seems like an elbow a-kimbo.

The girls and boys of the village now assemble for their usual afternoon stroll. Pleasant Pond is the point fixed upon, and accordingly we start. We turn up the green country-road leading to it, arm-in-arm. How fresh and beautiful every thing is. The wheat is goldening—the meadow grass is deepening—the pasture-fields are clovering, and the air is one incense. The distant hills are freckled with gliding shadows, and the pure pearls of clouds are dissolving as if the sky was Cleopatra’s goblet. Others are wreathing, as if to form a silver garland for the brow of Antony, whilst others are glittering in the sunlight, as if to spread a canopy of snow for the fairy barge that in old times floated along the Cydnus. The Titianesque beauty it promised in the early morning, is gloriously fulfilled—lo! it is all one bright and rich and golden glow of beauty.

So up the hill we pass, and down the hill we go, and now we are in the forest with the soft, cool, green shadow falling over us like a mantle. We are pleased with every thing—we smile at every thing—no thought of care is in our happy hearts. The world is Eden, with the angel Hope smiling us forward with her azure wings, and bidding us, with soft entreating tones, to enter in its pathways, whilst the gate, the pure white gateway, swings upon the post, shrouding our eye from all that is behind, and forcing us to dwell upon the soft and fairy picture that the future paints, to lure our steps in its delicious maze.

W-h-e-w! what a leap Pegasus has taken to be sure. Pat him gently, pat him gently, for his eye is bright with fire; pat him gently, pat him gently, for his heart is hot with ire; pat him gently, rein him gently, or his hoof will spurn the ground, and on high he’ll rise and soar and fly, with a swift and curbless bound—and, plain common sense! you will be left kicking in the mud.

Well, we’ve patted him gently, the arching of his glossy neck is over—his eye hath lost its mad brightness, his hoof settles into his customary trot, and “Pegasus is himself again”—_Shakspeare_.

Hurrah! the pond is in view, appearing like a great looking-glass. Come, let us hurry to the bank and have some fun. Here is our usual parlor—a floor of silver sand—a roof of thick woven laurels—mossy logs for our chairs, and the pond itself for our mirror. Here we are safe and sound—call the roll!—no one missing. Now, now will we speed the bright hours away, all shod with pure gold from the sun’s merry ray; with song and with laughter we will wait till the west with gold and with crimson the wreathed clouds has dressed; no care shall distract us, no sorrow annoy, again you’re a girl and once more I’m a boy; with a pure sky above us, and heaven within, ere you had known trouble or I had known sin; let pleasure then smile on us—throw care away, come what may, come what will, we’ll be happy to-day. So we will—say one, say all.

A party of us “male critturs” now leave the ladies plunged deep in song and sentiment, for a plunge in the delicate balm of the waters stretched like a dream of delight far, far away to our vision.

About half a mile from the party is a deep narrow cove, with a long wooded point shutting it completely from observation. It is the most lovely and retired spot in the universe for a “quiet dip.” And, reader, here let me inform you, that bathing in our American ponds, and bathing in the surf at the sea-side, are two different things. In the latter case you go habited in a night-gown, striped like a state’s-prison bird, and with many an “oh!” and “ah!” you feel your way over the moist cool sand. At length you see the tall wave lifting itself up like a rearing war-horse, and with silver-mane flashing, and azure-breast dashing, on it comes. You stand stock still with suspended breath, and at length you see the glittering and magnificent billow combing right over your head. You involuntarily duck, but there is no escape, down comes the gorgeous thing, slap, right over your whole person, wetting you through in an instant, and as staggering and blinded you reel back to the shore, you hear the delicious crumble of the wave upon the beach, than which no sound in nature can be so deep and yet so rich, so sounding and yet so mellow. But fresh water bathing is a different matter. No striped night-gowns, but “in puribus naturalibus,” (I don’t know whether that is good Latin or not, and don’t care,) you walk boldly along some cool, soft, mossy log, its surface yielding like velvet to your naked feet, and, souse, head first you dive into the limpid element.

And that was the case with us, until a dozen heads were on the surface looking like magnified lily blossoms. A close net of these lilies was woven in the water about six feet from the shore, the water being perfectly paved with the great broad leaves, and it was necessary to break our way right through them before reaching the deeper waters of the cove. And right through them our way did we break. We made a charge like a charge of South Sea Islanders, and though the tough, spongy, supple stems clung around our limbs as if they meant to drag us under—and the strong, thick, gigantic leaves, huge as the ear-flaps of the moose, (who, by the bye, luxuriates upon the pond water lily,) cut our arms and flapped heavily in our faces—and the round, cylindrical, yellow blossoms kept bobbing into our mouths and knocking into our eyes, we persevered until we struggled through them, and reached the deep water. And then didn’t we luxuriate. Some “trod water,” some stretched themselves out for a long swim, and one huge fellow, with fat enough to keep him floating whether or no, elongated himself in a most wonderful manner, laying his head flat upon the water at every impulsion of his body snorting all the time like a porpoise. At length we became tired of the deep water, and concluded to adjourn to the shallows inside the lilies, and have a battle of shooting water at each other. This sport was the usual termination to our baths.

Accordingly we hastened to the battle-ground, and took opposite sides. Arranged in two long lines, we approached each other, each elbow drawn back, and hand raised so as to bring the bottom of the palm on a level with the water. In silence did we eye each other for a season—the word then came, and then commenced the battle. And furiously raged the strife. Not the legions of Cæsar pouring from their galleys, and the wild warriors of Britain’s snowy cliffs—not the fierce _mustaches_ of Napoleon, and the sturdy red-coats of Wellington, poured greater destruction upon one another, than we dashed the glittering crystal of the frighted cove on each other’s ranks. No faltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow, into the eyes of our foes, we plied our work—no faltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow into the eyes of _their_ foes, they also plied their work. Closer and closer we approached, and then, each one singling his opposite for single combat, closed for desperate strife. One cataract of tumbling water, raised by four scooping hands, now sheltered two combatants, who finding the shots too heavy for face and eyes, fairly turned back to back and madly dashed behind them the flashing water. At length nearly blinded, all simultaneously retreated from each other and sought the brink—all but the fat-headed, porpoise-breathing fellow before mentioned, who, blinded by his own torrents of water, and supposing that his antagonist was still contending, kept up a most determined, desperate, and valorous dashing, until gasping, choking, and blind from the cataracts which his own hands scooped, and which dashed upon his own carcase, he turned at last to the shore, bawling lustily for “quarter, quarter!” yelling at the same time—“I yield—I yield—I yield!”

By the time this worthy had reached the shore, the rest of us were dressed, and accordingly this victim to his own courage, was obliged to undergo the interesting ceremony of “mumbling the peg!” Plucking at last, with his strong teeth, the peg, driven fast and deep into the firm earth by the heels of certainly a half dozen, he dons his garments, and we all then join the ladies. By this time the pond is turning all colors in the sunset. There, in the middle of its glassy surface, is a blush as beautiful as ever crimsoned the cheek of beauty whilst listening to the whispers of the dearly loved—and near it is a space of golden water, lustrous as the shield of Galahad when approaching the “round table” of Arthur and his knights, (knight most blest,) he proclaimed he had found the “holy grail.” Purple is not wanting, rich as that around the neck of the wild pigeon—nor emerald either, bright as the hue that glitters on the body of the house-fly—nor glossy black, deep as the thunder-cloud’s bosom when coming to scathe and destroy. Ah, how the tints glow—ah, how they tremble, such as in the rainbow show, such do they resemble. Ah, how the tints glow, and mingle, and pulsate—now are they woven in one gorgeous robe that really makes plain Pleasant Pond look like some paradisiacal scene of “the reign of Haroun Alraschid.” But at last the colors fade—they die, alas! alas! alas!—they fade—they die—and now remains of all that brilliant Eden not one single gleam. All—all has departed.

By the time we ascend the banks, thread the labyrinth of “Bates’” logging, and regain the road, the harvest-moon has risen. Snow white in the pearly twilight, she soon will deepen into gold, and then change into deep silver. Behold she changes even now, and the twilight deepens, and now the broad and magnificent moonlight reigns. Ah, how glorious! ah, how beautiful! A silver day is smiling, more soft, more delicate, more radiantly pure than the “garish” one that just went glittering out through the rosy portals of the west. The near forests and the distant hills are all suffused, and mingled, and melted into a sweet romantic picture of bewitching beauty. Back we retrace our path through the jeweled woods, and now, scenting the odor of the clover-grass, we diverge from our road into the deep cool verdure of the meadow. No danger of dampening the dainty delicate feet of our girls either, for there has been no rain for a month, and the earth is as dry as powder. So we wade through the swaying verdure, and enjoy the “compacted sweets” of the clover odors. Thence we scramble over a rough stone-wall, the girls giving pretty screams, and holding up their petti—I beg pardon, drapery, so as to jump more readily, and enter a corn-field. The rich soil loosened by the hoe crumbles at our tread, and the plumy stalks shake above our heads, almost excluding the moonlight. Mercy, what round thing is that I stumbled over just then! not a skull I hope, although corn-fields before now have sprung above church-yards and battle-fields. Who knows but this field now rustles above some “Indian burial-place” or frontier battle-ground. However, this can’t be a skull, for my foot has just “squashed” into another, and—why it is only a pumpkin. Confound the long vines too, how they trip one up. What on earth is the reason that they can’t plant corn-fields without putting pumpkins in also? They only serve to trip up the girls and boys who condescend of a summer’s night to enter the precincts.

I fancy a young ear of corn would not be unacceptable. A young, green, succulent ear of corn. So come here you plumed chieftain, “lend me your ears,” or rather, plumed chieftain! I will take you by the ears. I will cut off your ears, plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as thou art. Yea, verily will I, plumed chieftain! so here goes. I tear off the emerald sheath and lo! the silver ear—pearly rich art thou, silver ear of the plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as he is, and I don’t think thou wilt be less rich when the red fire shall make thee tawny and fit for the teeth.

But we leave the corn-field, with its infernal pumpkins, and once more merrily wend our way along the moonlit road. Ah, here is the path diverging to the “camp-meeting ground.” We are bound to enter, and so we do. How sweetly quiet is the little glade with the forest sleeping in a silver calm around it. Does not the echo now repeal the loud enthusiastic “amens” that then awoke the air at the last “camp meeting,” and the struggling agonized prayer of that gray-headed old man “that God would blot out his sins for they had been many?” Does it not now, even now, seem to thrill amidst those slumbering leaves? And the low music of that lovely maiden’s commune with her God, as if he were her earthly father, so tender, so affectionate—ah, her prayers were known in heaven. The seraphs knew them as the prayers of one, pure as themselves, the Son knew them as the usual breathings of a spotless soul, and the Mighty Father knew them too, and loved and accepted them. Heaven is made of such pure souls, oh, sweet and prayerful maiden!

And the loud triumphant singing—the halleluiahs of the throng. Oh, how they sprung from the earth—oh, how they spread their wings—oh, how they flew up to glory! Oh how they sprung—oh how they spread, oh how they flew up to glory! Burning songs—burning songs, oh how they flew up to glory!

But we leave this moonlight picture of peace and serenity and seek once more our homeward road. We ascend the hill, and beneath us, slumbering in the magnificent moonlight, lo! our beautiful village. Sleeping in the moonlight, lo! our quiet, our peaceful, our beautiful village.

See, how the church steeple rises, soaring up, soaring up, in the solemn and silvered heavens, with its vane sparkling like a dew-gemmed lark hovering over the steeple. Hark! from that silvered steeple, soaring up, soaring up in the solemn and silvered heavens there seems to come a song, thrilling along the hushed and listening air, like the song of that same dew-gemmed lark when he springs triumphant upon the highest cloud of the morning. Hark! I hear the song, it trembles through my soul. Listen, listen, listen to the moonlight song of the praising and soaring steeple.

Art thou a seraph from heaven, thou sweet pure moonlight!
That thou comest in thy garb of dream-like and delicate beauty?
Dost thou bear the splendor of the “Great White Throne” near which
thou dost touch thy lute, dost thou bear it on thy glittering and
pearly wings!
Seraph!
For thou dost change all to a white and wondrous lustre,
Oh, Seraph!
Seraph of the starry brow and snowy pinion,
Brow of stars and pinion of snows.
Oh, heavenly Seraph! oh, Seraph of wonderful beauty!
Thou, thou, dost bear with thee the anthem of heaven,
Seraph!
Oh, Seraph!
Seraph of wonderful beauty!
And the anthem of heaven wakes echo on the bosom of earth.
Seraph!
Oh, Seraph!
Seraph of wonderful beauty!
The heavens are softly blue!
It is thy eye, Seraph!
That star glowing there like a gem from its mine,
Is a part of thy brow, Seraph! and that white cloud is thy pinion,
Seraph, thy beautiful pinion of snow.
Oh, Seraph! sweet Seraph! bright Seraph of wonderful beauty!
I point to thee upward from earth, I point to thee, Seraph!
For I love to reflect thy glance, although I am only of earth.
And I love to hymn thy praise, oh holy Seraph of moonlight!
When the summer daylight has gone out like a flash in the
crimsoning west,
And the dew of evening falls softly on grass and flower.
For then, oh, holy Seraph!
I know thou wilt come and reign the queen of the scene.
Farewell now, oh Seraph! oh Seraph that came from the skies,
And will wing back thy flight when the morn
Comes flashing again from the east!
Farewell—farewell—farewell!
Till the summer-night calls thee again!
And again will I praise thee in song,
Seraph!
Sweet Seraph!
Oh, Seraph of wonderful beauty!

The music melted on my ear, but upward through the soft depths of the moonlit heaven soared a faint, throbbing star, and vanished at last in the middle ether. It was the sweet farewell to its “Seraph of wonderful beauty” of the praising and soaring steeple.

* * * * *

GENIUS.

BY HELEN IRVING.

In the sacred Hindoo Vega, is the sweet tradition found,
That while the waste of waters yet girt the new earth round,
Blooming out beneath the whisper of the great Almighty Power,
On the gloomy flood there floated, one lonely lotus-flower.

And within its crystal chalice, a frail, but heaven-blest shrine,
Was placed a spirit gifted with creative power divine,
Its celestial radiance making that lily-temple bright,
And through its pure leaves shedding on the wave a halo-light.

Filled with yearning was the spirit, dimly conscious of its power,
Feeling, yet not comprehending, all its grand and god-like dower;
Glowing with the joy and beauty of a soft supernal fire,
While his white wings restless quivered, with a seraph-like desire.

And his dreams and aspirations slowly took the form of prayer,
Wrestling till the blessing-answer, softly sounded through the air—
“Labor, for to thee is given, dower and destiny divine;
Labor, till the fire within thee, warmeth other hearts than thine!”

And with ceaseless, strong endeavor, wrought the spirit hour by hour,
Humbly looking up for guidance, to the Source of all his power,
Till in place of gloom and darkness, rosy light about him lay,
And dim forms of radiant beauty, seemed to throng around his way.

Forms of glory and of grandeur, and of fair immortal youth,
On his raptured vision shining, in the purity of truth,
Breathing love and throbbing life—life divine which he had given,
To his glowing spirit linking them, and thus through him to Heaven!

* * * * *

THE BIRTH OF THE YEAR.

BY HERBERT ENKERT.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

The moon was sinking down the west,
And slowly, through the eastern way,
Aurora Borealis-like,
Arose the delicate light of day.
The countless spheres that jeweled space,
A proud, exulting anthem sung,
As into life the youthful Year
With more than mortal beauty sprung.

Beneath his Predecessor lay;
Twelve cycles had he seen go by,
And now his aged, withered form
Was stretched in death athwart the sky.
The young Year gazed upon his face,
The dew of tears was in his eyes,
When, looking up, he saw the shape
Of hoary Saturn fill the skies.

And Saturn crowned the youthful Year,
And placed the sceptre in his hand,
And bade him journey, day by day,
And month by month, from land to land.
With counsels garnered from the Past,
Those counsels only age can give,
He taught him how to pass through life—
To live as only good men live.

And then he sent him forth. The youth
Sprung lightly on his Orient way,
Saluting the arising sun,
Bird-like, with many a matin lay;
Behind him lay the shrouded dead,
Before, Sahara-like, was space;
But, like a man, the boy strode on,
With hopeful heart and radiant face.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE LIFE OF MAJOR-GENERAL RICHARD MONTGOMERY.

BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC.
ETC. ETC.

Richard Montgomery, the subject of this memoir, was born in the year 1737, at Convoy House, the seat of his father, near Raphoe, in the north of Ireland.

Thomas Montgomery, father of the above, had three sons, Alexander, John, and Richard. Alexander commanded a grenadier company in Wolfe’s army, and was also present at the capture of Quebec. He many years represented the county of Donegal in the Irish parliament. John, the second son, lived and died in Portugal; and Richard, after receiving a liberal education at Trinity College, Dublin, entered the British army at the age of eighteen, under General Monckton. In 1757 the regiment to which he belonged was ordered to Halifax; and in the following year formed part of the army at the reduction of Louisburg, a French fortress, on which much money and science had been expended, and which had been vauntingly named by its possessors, “the Gibraltar of America.” Here our young aspirant commenced his career of field-service, which was destined to end in another war on the same continent. Early in the spring of 1758, a naval and military force commanded by Major-General Amherst, and Admiral Boscawen, began its voyage from Halifax to Cape Breton, and on the 2d of June arrived in Cabarras Bay. As soon as practicable, the reconnoiterings of the coast and other preliminaries were arranged.

Two divisions, commanded by Generals Lawrence and Wetmore, were employed to keep the enemy in a state of separation; while the third, composed of the _élite_ of the army under General Wolfe, pressed toward the headland near Freshwater Cove, and in despite of a heavy and well-directed fire from the French, and a surf uncommon high and perilous, gained the bank, routed the enemy, and seized a position which covered at once the further debarkation of the troops, and the necessary communications with the fleet. It was in this movement Montgomery furnished the first decisive evidence of those high military qualities which so distinctly marked every step of his subsequent conduct. An incident is related, as having occurred during the bombardment of the fort, which excited the wit of one of the officers. While commanding in the trenches, a bomb thrown from the fort knocked off the hat and grazed the skull of General Lawrence, but without injuring him; which circumstance drew forth a sarcastic remark from General Charles Lee, then a captain in the British army—“I’ll resign to-morrow,” exclaimed Lee. “Why so?” asked the person to whom he spoke. “Because,” said the wit, “none but fools will remain in a service in which the heads of the generals are bomb-proof.” The siege terminated on the 27th of July in the surrender of the fortress, the destruction of several French ships of the line, and the capture of a garrison of five thousand men.

So favorable were the impressions made of the aptitude of our young soldier for military service, that he was immediately promoted to a lieutenancy.

While the British were thus triumphant at Louisburg, they at another and important point were fated to sustain a heavy loss, as well in reputation, as in numerical force, in the defeat of the army of Abercromby at Ticonderoga.

In 1759, General Wolfe was placed at the head of nearly eight thousand soldiers, and several ships-of-the-line, with orders to reduce the fortress of Quebec.

After arriving and well reconnoitering the fortress, the general discovered obstacles greater than he had before conceived, and he found the only expedient left for giving him a chance of accomplishing his plans, was a constant and unrelaxing endeavor to decoy into detachments, or to provoke to a general battle, his old and wary antagonist, who seemed to understand too well the value of the strength of his castle, to be easily seduced from it. The attempt was accordingly made, but ended in a new disappointment and increased vexation, for the enemy refusing to quit his stronghold, neither advanced in mass, nor in detachment, to attack him, while his own troops showed a great want both of order and discipline. This failure no doubt increased, if it did not create, an indisposition, which caused a temporary suspension of the general’s activity, during which he submitted to the consideration of his officers the general question of future operations and the direction to be given to them, subjoining at the same time statements and opinions relative to the proposed attack.

To these considerations Montgomery, though a junior officer, was permitted to give an opinion, which was received by his senior officers with much respect, and afterward proved of great importance as followed by Wolfe. Very soon, however, the fortress was surrounded by the British, but nothing could be considered as done while it remained to be taken, and for its security there was still left a sufficient garrison and abundant supplies, with an exterior force already formidable and hourly increasing. Under the aspect of things the chances were yet against the invaders, and it required only a vigorous resistance on the part of the garrison to have saved both the fortress and the province. But fear betrays like treason. Ramsay, the French commander, saw in some demonstrations, made by the British fleet and army as trials of his temper, a serious intention to attack him by land and water at the same time, when, to escape this, he opened a negotiation for the surrender of the fort at the very moment when a reinforcement was ready to enter it. The negotiation speedily closed by the surrender of the capital, and Quebec was now in possession of the British. Montgomery was the first to place the British flag on the ramparts of the fortress with his own hands.

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By this time a large military force had been collected in British America, and having no longer any professional occupation there, detachments were made from it against the French West India Islands. Of these expeditions the principal objects were the reduction of St. Pierre and Fort Royal in the island of Martinico, and of Havana in that of Cuba. These campaigns were extremely laborious and perilous, not only by the climate and season, but by the means of defense furnished by nature. In each of these Montgomery had a full share, as well of the toil and danger, as of the commendation bestowed upon efforts, which ultimately triumphed over every kind and degree of resistance. Martinico surrendered in February, 1762, and Havana and the Moro Castle in the August following; two events greatly tending to hasten the treaty of Versailles, which put an end to the war on the 10th of February, 1763. During this siege the loss sustained by the British army amounted to twenty-eight thousand men, besides which, more than half of the troops sent back to New York, either died on the passage or after their arrival.

Of the garrison left at Havana under General Keppel, but seven hundred men were found fit for duty at the peace. Soon after the official annunciation of peace, Montgomery, who with the seventeenth regiment, had returned to New York, sought and obtained permission to return to England, where he remained until the close of the year 1772. Although the military abilities of Montgomery were highly distinguished, war and conquest had no other charms to him than as the means of peace and happiness to mankind, and he found leisure in the midst of camps to cultivate an excellent taste for philosophy and polite literature.

To these he added a careful study of the arts of government and the rights of mankind, looking forward to that time when he might return to the still scenes of private life, and give a full flow to the native and acquired virtues of a heart rich in moral excellence. He had formed an early attachment, amounting even to an enthusiastic love for this country.

The woodland and the plain; the face of Nature, grand, venerable, and yet rejoicing in her prime; our mighty rivers, descending in vast torrents through wild and shaggy mountains, or gliding in silent majesty through fertile vales; their numerous branches and tributary springs; our romantic scenes of rural quiet; our simplicity, _then_ uncorrupted by luxury or flagrant vice; our love of knowledge and ardor for liberty—all these served to convey the idea of primeval felicity to a heart which was fraught with benevolent feelings.

It was during his residence of nine years in England, that the controversy between Great Britain and her American colonies commenced. This he watched with a jealous eye, and at last fancied he saw enough to cause him to abandon the King’s service, and to seek America as his future and permanent home. He accordingly sold the commission he then held, and in January, 1772, arrived in New York.

Very soon after his arrival he selected a delightful spot on the banks of the Hudson river, in the state of New York, purchased a farm there, and expected to retire from the bustle of a noisy world. The following year he married a daughter of Robert R. Livingston, then one of the judges of the superior court of the province.

In this most eligible of all situations, the life of a country gentleman, deriving its most exquisite relish from reflections upon dangers and past services, he gave full scope to his philosophical spirit and taste for rural elegance. Satisfied with himself, and raised above all vulgar ambition, he devoted his time to domestic pursuits, the intercourse of a select society, the study of useful books, and the improvement of his villa. But neither wood nor lawn could make him forget the duties which he owed to society. When the hand of unlawful authority was stretched forth, Montgomery was ready to exchange his peaceful groves for the tented field. From that fatal day in which the first American blood was spilt by the bands of British brethren, and the better genius of the empire turned abhorrent from the strife of death among her children, our hero chose his part. In this state of things, the National Congress employed itself in June, 1775, in organizing an army, and, among other acts, appointed a commander-in-chief, four major-generals, and eight brigadiers.

Of the latter description Montgomery was one. This unequivocal mark of distinction, conferred by the highest acknowledged authority of the country, without solicitation or privity on his part, was received by him with a homage mingled with regret, apparently foreboding the catastrophe which was soon to follow.

In a letter to a friend he says—“The Congress having done me the honor of electing me a brigadier-general in their service, is an event which must put an end for a while, perhaps forever, to the quiet scheme of life I had prescribed for myself; for, though entirely unexpected and undesired by me, the will of an oppressed people, compelled to choose between liberty and slavery, must be obeyed.” Under these noble and self-sacrificing views and feelings, Montgomery accepted the commission tendered to him, and from that hour to the moment of his death, the whole force of his mind and body was devoted to the honor and interest of his adopted country. His principles of loyalty remained unshaken. Love to our brethren whom we must oppose, the interchange of good offices, which had so intimately knit the bands of friendship between the two members, the memory of those days in which we fought under the same banners; the vast fabric of mutual happiness raised by our union, and ready to be dissolved by our dissensions; the annihilation of those plans of improvement in which we were engaged for the glory of the empire—all these considerations conspired to render this conflict peculiarly abhorrent to him and every virtuous American, and could have been outweighed by nothing earthly but the unquenchable love of liberty, and that sacred duty which we owe to ourselves and our posterity.

The necessity of resistance was manifest, and no sophistry could question our right. “In cases of national oppression,” says Blackstone, “the nation hath very justifiably risen as one man to vindicate the original contract subsisting between the king and the people.”—“If the sovereign power threaten desolation to a state, mankind will not be reasoned out of the feelings of humanity, nor sacrifice liberty to a scrupulous adherence to political maxims.” Montgomery did not hesitate to accept the commission, praying at the same time that “Heaven might speedily reunite us in every bond of affection and interest; and that the British empire might again become the envy and admiration of the universe.” He was entrusted, jointly with General Schuyler, with the expedition against Canada, but, in consequence of the illness of that gentleman, the whole duty devolved upon him. There was benevolence in the whole plan of this expedition. It was to be executed not so much by force as by persuasion, and it was exactly suited to the genius of Montgomery. He understood the blessings of a free government, and could display them with captivating eloquence.

He had a soul great, disinterested, affectionate, delighting to alleviate distress, and to diffuse happiness. He possessed an industry not to be wearied, a vigilance that could not be eluded, and courage equal to his other abilities. From the military character of the French population in Canada, and its contiguity to the northern section of the Union, it was determined to endeavor to neutralize powers so extended and menacing. This invasion was determined on by two routes, the one by the river Sorel, the other by the Kennebec; the army by the former route were to act against Forts St. John, Chamblee, and Montreal; while the second should enter Canada at or near Quebec, contemporaneously with the other, and effect a junction, if possible, with Major-General Schuyler, who should command in chief.

To the first of these armaments Montgomery was assigned, as the elder of the two brigadiers. He accordingly hastened to Ticonderoga, the point selected for the principal rendezvous and outfit of the projected invasions. On arriving at his post his first object was to acquire a correct knowledge of the force of the enemy and his position, and found that General Carleton was at Montreal preparing a naval force intended to act on Lake Champlain. He perceived at once the plan and the necessity of its defeat, and at once took his post at the Isle-aux-Noix, as the best point to carry his plan into execution. In a letter to General Schuyler announcing his intention, he says—“Moving without your orders, I do not like; but, on the other hand, the prevention of the enemy is of the utmost consequence; for if he gets his vessels into the lake, it is over with us for the present summer. Let me entreat you to follow in a whale-boat, leaving some one to bring on the troops and artillery. It will give the men great confidence in your spirit and activity; and how necessary to a general this confidence is, I need not tell you. I most earnestly wish that this suggestion may meet your approbation, and be assured that I have your honor and reputation much at heart. All my ambition is to do my duty in a subordinate capacity, without the least ungenerous intention of lessening that merit, which is justly your due.” He hastened with his corps of one thousand men, and two pieces of light artillery, to begin his movement down the lake. It was ten days, owing to the head winds, before he reached the position he had selected. Major-General Schuyler arrived about the same time, and it was thought a nearer approach to the enemy advisable. The movement was ordered, and a landing effected without obstruction, about a mile and a half from St. John’s. On the evening of their landing, after it was dark, they were visited by a Canadian, who gave the following information—

“That the twenty-sixth was the only regular British corps in Canada, that with the exception of fifty men, retained by General Carleton at Montreal, the whole of this was in garrison at St. John’s and Chamblee; that these two forts were strongly fortified and abundantly supplied; that one hundred Indians were at the former, and a large body collected under Colonel Johnson; that the vessel intended for the lake would be ready to sail in three or four days, and would carry sixteen guns; that no Canadian would join the American army, the wish and policy of the people being neutrality, provided their persons and property were respected, and the articles furnished by, or taken from them, paid for in gold or silver; that, under present circumstances, our attack upon St. John’s would be imprudent; and lastly, that a return to the Isle-aux-Noix would be proper, as from this point an intercourse with the inhabitants of Laprairie might be usefully opened.” On hearing this report a council of war was called, and it was decided to return to their former position on the island. In General Schuyler’s report to Congress we find the following—“I cannot estimate the many obligations I lie under to General Montgomery for the many important services he has done, and daily does, and in which he has had so little assistance from me, as I have not enjoyed a moment’s health since I left Fort George, and am now so low, as not to be able to hold the pen. Should we not be able to do any thing decisively in Canada, I shall judge it best to move from this place, which is a very wet and unhealthy part of the country, unless I receive your orders to the contrary.”

With this manifest foreboding of eventual disappointment, the commanding general left the camp and returned to Ticonderoga; and from thence to Albany, where he was actively and usefully employed, during the remainder of the campaign, in forwarding supplies to the army. Montgomery remained at the island only long enough to receive a reinforcement of men and a few pieces of artillery.

He then re-embarked, again landed at St. John’s, and commenced operations for its investiture.

On the 18th of September, he marched with a party of five hundred men to the north of the fort, where he met a considerable portion of the garrison returning from the repulse of an American party under Major Brown. A skirmish ensued, which in a few minutes terminated in the repulse of the enemy, who fled in disorder. But for the timidity among the Americans, the whole party might have been captured. General Montgomery in speaking of his men says, “As soon as we saw the enemy, the old story of treachery spread among the men; and the cry was, we are trepanned and drawn under the guns of the fort. The woodsmen were less expert in forming than I had expected, and too many of them hung back. Had we kept more silence we should have taken a field-piece or two.”

Montgomery now determined to establish a camp at the junction of the two roads leading to Chamblee and Montreal, in order to cut off supplies, this he did, and defended it with a ditch, and a garrison of three hundred men. But new difficulties appeared to arise. His artillery was so light that it made little or no impression upon the walls, and the artillerists raw and unskillful. And, added to all this, was the insubordinate and mutinous conduct of his men, who, from constant exposure to the damp and unhealthy climate, were suffering from attacks of chills and fever; under these circumstances, the commander was prevented from enforcing discipline.

In this painful situation, he was frequently forced to compromise with professional dignity, and submit his own opinion to that of a board of officers of inferior rank. To lessen the number and pressure of these embarrassments, Montgomery decided on changing his position and removing to the northwestern side of the fort; which, as he was informed, would furnish ground of greater elevation and dryer face, with a sufficient supply of wholesome water. The misfortunes of Montgomery appeared to follow one after the other in rapid succession. To quiet the restless activity of Ethan Allen, who, without commission or command, had forced himself into the army as a volunteer, Montgomery sent him to Laprairie, with an escort of thirty men, and orders to mingle freely with the inhabitants, and so to treat them, as would best conciliate their friendship and induce them to join the American standard. In the commencement, Allen was not unsuccessful, for he added to his corps fifty Canadians; when, either deceived in regard to the enemy’s strength, or indifferent to its magnitude, and without direction or privity on the part of his General, he determined to risk an attack on Montreal. This insane attempt was met by a party of British who captured him and thirty-eight of his followers.

Shortly after, another event took place, as fortunate as it was unexpected, and which eventually decided the fate of the garrison. A gentleman from New York, named James Livingston, had resided for a considerable time in Canada, and by a proper course of conduct had won the esteem of a large number of the inhabitants. Montgomery was so fortunate as to enlist this gentleman in his favor, and prevailed on him to raise an armed corps, under the promise of eventual protection, made and promulgated by the order of Congress. With three hundred of these newly raised recruits, Majors Brown and Livingston obtained possession of Fort Chamblee, capturing the whole of the garrison, and a large quantity of military stores, among which were one hundred and twenty-six barrels of gunpowder. By this fortunate movement, General Carleton found himself compelled to quit his insular position at Montreal, and risk a field movement in defence of his fortress. The force at the disposal of General Carleton, did not exceed twelve hundred men, and which was composed partly of Canadian militia, who were serving with reluctance, and emigrants from Scotland, recently engaged—in no way acquainted with military duty.

On the 31st of October he crossed the St. Lawrence opposite Longueil, whence he determined, after mustering his forces to march against the besieging army. The movements of Sir Guy Carleton, though conducted with considerable secrecy, did not escape the vigilant eye of Montgomery, who had for some time expected such a proceeding. He had previously ordered certain officers to take a position with two regiments on the Longueil road, ordering them to patrol that route carefully and frequently, as far as the St. Lawrence; to report daily to the commanding general such information as he might be able to obtain, and to attack any part of the enemy indicating an intention of moving in the direction of the American camp.