“Well, my little brother,” said Herbert, addressing Charles, “you have very kindly abstained from criticisms during the course of our reading. Now tell us if you have discovered any discrepancies, through the narrative, as you are now, no doubt, by your acquaintance with Roman history, able to discover.” “You are laughing at me, Herbert, but I will tell you one error. It was not Nero, I believe, who compelled the Senate to sanction the election of his horse to the consulship, but Heliogabas.” “I think you are right,” said Herbert. “He was, however, a kindred spirit; and now, we will compare notes upon our improvement this winter; beginning with you, Charles, of whose progress I can, in some measure report, being your instructor.” “And, besides my regular lessons,” said Charles, “I have read more than half through Rollins Ancient History aloud to Susan.” “And,” said Susan, “besides listening to Charles, while I sewed, I have reviewed the History of England, and read Cowper’s Task, not to mention reading the newspaper, etc., etc., and all this in addition to my Latin lesson with Herbert.” “Please do explain those et ceteras, my pretty cousin.” “Not I,” she replied, “I cannot burden my memory with any more of my multifarious occupations.” “You have forgotten that we have read the Pilgrim’s Progress again.” “Ah! true,” said Susan, “and the life of the good old dreamer; now, for as good an account of your winter studies, my dear sister and cousin; but I am inclined to believe you will be deficient unless you dignify with the name of study the art of making bread, puddings, and pies, etc.” “One of the most useful studies, Susan,” said Herbert, “only not leave the rest undone.” “Do not imagine we have become mere household automatons,” said Elizabeth. “In addition to a tolerable stock of the knowledge to which Susan refers, we have read Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Hunter’s Sacred Biography, besides reaping some benefit from Charles’ reading.” “And I have initiated Elizabeth into my little stock of French,” said Mary, “but, Herbert, we shall not allow you to be sole catechist; we shall require an account of the manner in which you have spent your solitary hours, which, I am sure, have not been few.” “Must I make full confession,” said he. “Full and free, without prevarication or equivocation.” “Seriously, then, dear Mary, it requires no little labor to retain my position in my class, the other members of which are now pacing the halls of old Harvard, in addition to those pleasant employments enjoyed in common with the rest of you.” “Setting apart a little time,” said Susan, laughing merrily, “devoted to the Muses. Ah! Herbert, I have made the discovery, partly by my own sagacity, and partly by the tell-tale expression of Aunt Wilson’s countenance, that you are the author of much of the poetry which has entertained us this winter.” “’Twas but the amusement of a passing hour, dear Susan, and if it has been a source of interest to you, an important end is attained.” “And you must continue that interest, my son,” said Mrs. Wilson, “if it will not interfere with other duties. I think,” added she, addressing Mary and Susan, “that your parents will approve your winter employment, and that in after time you will review them without regret.” “That I am sure we shall,” said Mary.
Chapter XIII
They had borne all unmoved; disease and death,
The pangs of famine, hard and weary toil;
That, to their sons, they might bequeath a land,
The home of liberty. Shall those sons now
Barter the rich inheritance?
Some days had passed after the conversation which closed the last chapter. A cold stormy evening found our little family without visitors and prepared, as they drew around the table, which displayed a goodly collection of needlework, etc., to listen to Herbert as he read from a manuscript provided by Mrs. Wilson for the entertainment of the evening.
Years have passed away and the events of the War of the American Revolution are mingling with the obscurity of the past, the glorious achievement of our liberty has opened a new era in our history, “old things are done away,” but the imagination delights to linger around the scenes of what seems now “olden times”; scenes of peril and distress, but, over whose remembrance a deep interest, a magical charm, is thrown by the knowledge that our kindred and friends bore important parts in the drama, and that the closing act was the freedom of our country. Many were the events of deep and thrilling interest which are now buried in oblivion, or known only to those immediately concerned. The reminiscences which are the subject of these remarks may be wanting in that intense interest, but as being a delineation of the times, of their manners and feelings, and true, in all their main incidents, they may claim some share of attention. It was towards the latter part of May, 1775, but a short time before the memorable battle of Bunker Hill, that a horseman, wearied and worn with travel, exposed to the rays of the burning sun, on a day of uncommon heat for the season, and whose horse seemed sinking with fatigue, turned into a shady lane, leading from the more public road to a small cluster of buildings, in the comparatively thinly settled town of Malden, about four miles from Boston. As he entered the pleasant shade, formed by the apple trees which skirted the road, he permitted the tired animal to slacken its pace, first casting an anxious and inquiring glance about him. Apparently seeing no immediate cause for fear, he continued to ride slowly; removed his hat, and wiping his warm and dusty brow, appeared to breathe more freely. His dress was that of a gentleman, and his countenance, though pale and disturbed, was intelligent and open. After pursuing this pace for about half a mile, the cool and pleasant sound of running water directed his attention to a watering place, at the side of the road, and the renewed spirit of the steed, and his evident wish to taste the luxury, induced his master to dismount, and lead him to the fountain. At this moment a small dog springing up, and barking vehemently, he perceived a woman seated upon a bank near. He started, for his looks and manner had indicated that he sought concealment, and, aiming a blow at the waspish little animal, was preparing to remount his horse. “Come back, Faith,” said the woman, sharply, then, as the dog slunk back to her feet, she continued, in an apologetic tone: “He can’t do much harm, sir; he has seen his best days; only he might frighten the beast, though, to be sure, he looks too tired to mind a trifle.” “Do you live in this neighborhood?” said the traveler, permitting his horse to graze the green herbage around the watering place. “Just over the edge of yonder hill,” said she, “but it’s something of a walk, and I’ve nobody now to do my errands since John has gone.” “Do you know Capt. B.’s family? Is he at home?” “Know the family! That’s what I do; at home? No; bless your heart, no; at home! indeed, you’ll find no able-bodied men at home now, more especially the Captain. Where is he? Did you say? That’s what I don’t know. Sent on some service or other; left every thing, sir, family, land, cattle, and all at loose ends, for the sake of his country; for the matter of that, old Sam Lynde, who has lost one leg, and is nearly seventy, is the only man left behind; and he would be glad to go; I can tell you. The country is all in arms, sir, it’s as much as ever the reg’lars over in Boston can get any food to eat, or wood to burn.” Without waiting to hear more the questioner turned his horse. “Well,” said she, in a low soliloquy, as he rode away, “I shouldn’t wonder if he was a Tory, for his face didn’t brighten a bit when I told him how alive and stirring our people were; I’ll warrant Faithful mistrusted him, or he wouldn’t have been so spiteful.” So saying she rose, and passing through a stile, into a path which led through a meadow, bent her course in the direction she had indicated as her home.