The Bride Of Fort Edward: Founded On An Incident Of The Revolution Part 22

RECONCILIATION.

DIALOGUE I.

SCENE. _The slope of the Hill near Fort Edward. The road-side, shaded with stately pines and hemlocks_.

(_Two British Officers, coming slowly down the road_.)

_1st Off_. Yes, here has been wild work upon this hill to-day. They were slaughtered to a man.

_2nd Off_. I saw a sight above there, just now, that sickened me of warfare.

_1st Off_. And what was that, pry'thee?

_2nd Off_. Oh nothing,--'twas nothing but a dead soldier; a common sight enough, indeed; but this was a mere youth;--he was lying in a little hollow on the roadside, and as I crossed in haste, I had well-nigh set my foot on his brow. Such a brow it was, so young, so n.o.ble, and the dark chesnut curls cl.u.s.tering about it. I think I never saw a more cla.s.sic set of features, or a look of loftier courage than that which death seemed to have found and marbled in them. Hark--that's a water-fall we hear.

_1st Off_. I saw him, there was another though, lying not far thence, the sight of whom moved me more. He was younger yet, or seemed so, and of a softer mould; and, torn and b.l.o.o.d.y as they were, I fancied I could see in his garb and appointments, and in every line of his features, the traces of some mother's tenderness.

_2nd Off_. Listen, Andre! This is beautiful! There's some cascade not far hence, worth searching for.

_Andre_. Yes, just in among those trees you'll find a perfect drawing-room, carpeted, canopied, and dark as twilight; its verdant seats broidered with violets and forget-me-nots; and all untenanted it seems, nay, deserted rather, for the music wastes on the lonely air, as if the fairy that kept state there, in gossip mood had stolen down some neighboring aisle, and would be home anon. I would have bartered all the glory of this campaign for leave to stretch myself on its mossy bank, for a soft hour or so.

_Mor_. Ay, with Chaucer or the "Faery Queen." If one could people these lovely shades with the fresh creations of the olden time, knight and lady, and dark enchantress and Paynim fierce, instead of Yankee rebels--

_Andre_. 'Twere well your faery-work were of no lasting mould, or these same Yankee rebels would scarce thank you for your pains,--they hold that race in little reverence. Alas,--

No grot divine, or wood-nymph haunted glen, Or stream, or fount, shall these young shades e'er know.

No beautiful divinity, stealing afar Through darkling nooks, to poet's eye thence gleam; With mocking mystery the dim ways wind, They reach not to the blessed fairy-land That once all lovely in heaven's stolen light, To yearning thoughts, in the deep green-wood grew.

Ah! had they come to light when nature Was a wonder-loving, story-telling child!-- The misty morn of ages had gone by, The dreamy childhood of the race was past, And in its tame and reasoning manhood, In the daylight broad, and noon-day of all time, _This_ world hath sprung. The poetry of _truth_, None other, shall her s.h.i.+ning lakes, and woods, And ocean-streams, and h.o.a.ry mountains wear.

Perchance that other day of poesy, Unsung of prophets, that upon the lands Shall dawn yet, thence shall spring. The self-same mind That on the night of ages once, for us Those deathless cl.u.s.ters flung, the self-same mind, With all its ancient elements of might, Among us now its ancient glory hides; But, from its smothered power, and buried wealth, A golden future sparkles, decked from deeper founts, A new and lovelier firmament, A thousand realms of song undreamed of now, That shall make Romance a forgotten world, And the young heaven of Antiquity, With all its starry groups, a gathered scroll.

_Mor_. Ay, Andre, you were born a poet, and have mistaken your art.

Prythee excuse me, who am but a poor soldier, for marring so fine a rhapsody with any thing so sublunary; but, methinks, for an enemy's quarters, yonder fort shows as peaceable a front of stone and mortar as one could ask for. What can it mean that they are so quiet there?

_Andre_. That spy did not return a second time.

_Mor_. The rogues have made sure of him ere this, I fancy. They may have given us the slip,--who knows?

_Andre_. I would like to venture a stroll through that shady street if I thought so. A dim impression that I have somewhere seen this view before, haunts me unaccountably.

_Mor_. How I hate that sober, afternoon air, that hangs like an invisible presence over it all. You can see it in the suns.h.i.+ne on those white walls, you can hear it in the hum of the bee from the bending thistle here.

_Andre_. Of the mind it is. This were lovely as the morning light, but for the shade it gathers thence, from the thought of decline and the vanis.h.i.+ng day. 'Tis a pretty spot.

_Mor_. Yes, but the quiet goings-on of life are all hushed there now.

_Andre_. Ay, this is the hour, when the home-bound children swing the gate with a merry spring, and the mother sits at her work by the open window, with her quiet eye, and the daughter, with the beauty of an untamed soul in her's, looks forth on the woods and meadows, and thinks of her walk at even-tide. I thought it was something like a memory that haunted me thus,--'tis the spot that Maitland talked of yesterday.

_Mor_. Captain Maitland? I saw him just now at the works above.

_Andre_. Here? On this hill?

_Mor_. Yes,--something struck me in his mien,--and there he stands with Colonel Hill, above, on the other side.--Mark him now. Your friend is handsome, Andre; he is handsome, I'll own,--but I never liked that smile of his, and I think I like it less than ever now.

_Andre_. Why, that's the genuine Apollo-curl,--a line's breadth deeper were too much, I'll own.

(_Maitland and another Officer enter_.)

_Off_. That is all,--that is all, I believe, Captain Maitland. Yonder pretty dwelling among the trees seems an old acquaintance of yours. It has had the ill manners to rob me of your eye ever since we stood here, and I have had little token that the other senses were not in its company. Andre, has your friend never a ladye-love in these wilds, you could tell us of?

_Mor_. He is sworn to secresy. Did you mark that glance?

_Mait_. Love! I hold it a pretty theme for the ballad-makers, Colonel Hill; but for myself, I have scarce time for rhyming just now. Captain Andre, here are papers for you.

[_He walks away, descending the road_.

_Col. Hill_. So! So! What ails the boy?

(_Looking after him for a moment, and then ascending the hill_.)

_Andre_. (_Reading_.) Humph! Here's prose enough! Will you walk up the hill with me, Mortimer? I must cross the river again.

_Mait_. First let me seek this horse of mine,--the rogue must have strayed down this path, I think.

(_He enters the wood_.)

(_Andre walks to and fro with an impatient air, then pauses_.)

_Andre_. Well, I can wait no longer for this loiterer.

[_Exit_.

(_Mortimer re-enters, calling from the woods_.)

_Mor_. Andre! Maitland! Colonel Hill! Good Heavens! Where the devil are they all? Maitland!

(_Maitland appears, slowly ascending the road_.)

_Mor_. For the love of Heaven,--come here.

_Mail_. Nay.--but what is it?

_Mor_. For G.o.d's sake, come,