The old lady did not take the hint, but kept on berating the fresh men as they passed—taunting them by disparaging comparison with the Rebel troops. A neighbor, by informing them of the fact of her
having two sons in the Rebel service, imparted the secret of her interest.
And there is the Ferry, so often pictured, or attempted to be, by pen and pencil. Either art has failed, and will fail, to do justice to that sublimely grand mountain scenery. Not quite three years ago, an iron old man, who perished with the heroism of a Spartan, or rather, to be just, the faith of a Christian; but little more than a year in advance of the dawn of the day of his hope, centred upon this spot the eyes of a continent. A crazy fanatic, was the cry, but—
"Thy scales, Mortality, are just
To all that pass away."
Time will reveal that it was not the freak of a madman, but rather a step in the grand progress of universal emancipation, and that Old John had foundations for his purposed campaign, quite as substantial as those upon which better starred enterprises have succeeded.
"Lor, Massa, if Old John had only had these men," said a wench to one of Patterson's Captains, as he paused for a few moments while drilling his command at Charlestown, during that fruitless campaign, so formidable in preparation, and so much more disgraceful than that of Old John in its termination, for the latter, in his dying heroism, won the admiration of a world.
"Why, what could Old John have done with them?" replied the Captain.
"Golly, Massa," said the wench, with a knowing grin; "he would have walked right through Virginny, and he'd have had plenty of help too. I knows, many a nigger about here that didn't say nuthin', would have jined him."