Clara, since her parting from Vance, had addressed herself thoughtfully to the business of life. Duties actively discharged had brought with them their reward in a diffusive cheerfulness.
On the morning of that eventful Fourth of July, the ringing of bells and the firing of cannon roused her from slumber somewhat earlier than usual. On the piazza she met Netty Pompilard, and Mary and Julia Ireton, and Master and Miss Purling, and they all strolled to the river’s side,—then home to breakfast,—then out to the mown field by the orchard, where a mammoth tent had been erected, and servants were spreading tables for the day’s entertainment, to be given by Clara to all the poor and rich of the neighborhood. Colonel Hyde, having been commissioned to superintend the arrangements, was here in his glory, and not a little of his importance was reflected on the busy cripple, his nephew.
Clara’s thoughts, however, were at Gettysburg, where brave men were giving up their lives and exposing themselves to terrible, life-wasting wounds, in order that we at home might live in peace and have a country, free and undishonored. She thought of Vance. She knew he had resigned his colonelcy, and was now employed in the important and hazardous, though untrumpeted labors of a scout or spy, for which he felt that his old practice as an actor had given him some aptitude. We subjoin a few fragmentary extracts from the last letter she had received from him:—
“Poor Peek,—rather let me say fortunate Peek! He fell nobly, as he always desired to fall, in the cause of freedom and humanity. His son, Sterling, is now with me; a bright, brave little fellow, who is already a great comfort and help.”
“Until the North are as much in earnest for the right as the South are for the wrong, we must not expect to see an end to this war. It is not enough to say, ‘Our cause is just. Providence will put it through.’ If we don’t think the right and the just worth making great sacrifices for,—worth risking life and fortune for,—we repel that aid from Heaven which we lazily claim as our due. God gives Satan power to try the nations as he once tried Job. ‘Skin for skin,’ says Satan; ‘yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life.’ Unless we have pluck enough to disprove the Satanic imputation, and to show we prize God’s kingdom on earth more than we do life or limb or worldly store, then it is not a good cause that will save us, but a sordid spirit that will ruin us. O for a return of that inspiration which filled us when the first bombardment of Sumter smote on our ears!”
“The President will soon call for three hundred thousand more volunteers. O women of the North!—ye whose heart-wisdom foreruns the slow processes of our masculine reason,—lend yourselves forthwith to the great work of raising this force and sending it to fill up our depleted armies.”
“This Upas-tree of slavery is now girdled, they tell us. ‘Why not leave it to the winds of heaven to blow down?’ But if this whirlwind of civil war can’t do it, don’t trust to the zephyrs of peace. No! The President’s proclamation must be carried into effect on every plantation, in every dungeon, where a slave exists. Better that this generation should go down with harness on to its grave, and that war should be the normal state of the next generation, than that we should fail in our pledged faith to the poor victims of oppression whose masters have brought the sword.”
The grand entertainment under the tent lasted late into the afternoon. An excellent band of music was present, and as the tunes were selected by Clara, they were all good. Pompilard was, of course, a prominent figure at the table. He was toast-master, speech-maker, and general entertainer. He said pleasant things to the women and found amusements for the children. He complimented “the gallant Colonel Hyde” on his “very admirable arrangements” for their comfort; and the Colonel replied in a speech, in which he declared that much of the honor belonged to his sister Dorothy, and his nephew, Andrew Jackson.
In a high-flown tribute to the Emerald Isle, “the land of the Emmetts and of that brave hater of slavery, O’Connell,” Pompilard called up Maloney, who, in a fiery little harangue, showed that he did not lack that gift of extemporaneous eloquence which the Currans and the Grattans used so lavishly to exhibit. The band played “Rory O’More.”
A compliment to “the historian of the war” called up Purling, who, in the lack of one arm, made the other do double duty in gesticulating. He was cheered to his heart’s content. The band played “Hail Columbia.”