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Hansford:

A TALE OF BACON'S REBELLION.

BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER.

Rebellion! foul dishonouring word—
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained
The holiest cause that, tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gained.
How many a spirit, born to bless,
Hath sank beneath that withering name;
Whom but a day's, an hour's success,
Had wafted to eternal fame!
Moore.

RICHMOND, VA.:
PUBLISHED BY GEORGE M. WEST
BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.
1857.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857,
By George M. West,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Virginia.

PREFACE.

It is the design of the author, in the following pages, to illustrate the period of our colonial history, to which the story relates, and to show that this early struggle for freedom was the morning harbinger of that blessed light, which has since shone more and more unto the perfect day.

Most of the characters introduced have their existence in real history—Hansford lived, acted and died in the manner here narrated, and a heart as pure and true as Virginia Temple's mourned his early doom.

In one of those quaint old tracts, which the indefatigable antiquary, Peter Force, has rescued from oblivion, it is stated that Thomas Hansford, although a son of Mars, did sometimes worship at the shrine of Venus. It was his unwillingness to separate forever from the object of his love that led to his arrest, while lurking near her residence in Gloucester. From the meagre materials furnished by history of the celebrated rebellion of Nathaniel Bacon the following story has been woven.

It were an object to be desired, both to author and to reader, that the fate of Thomas Hansford had been different. This could not be but by a direct violation of history. Yet the lesson taught in this simple story, it is hoped, is not without its uses to humanity. Though vice may triumph for a season, and virtue fail to meet its appropriate reward, yet nothing can confer on the first, nor snatch from the last, that substantial happiness which is ever afforded to the mind conscious of rectitude. The self-conviction which stings the vicious mind would make a diadem a crown of thorns. The mens sibi conscia recti can make a gallows as triumphant as a throne. Such is the moral which the author designs to convey. If a darker punishment awaits the guilty, or a purer reward is in reserve for the virtuous, we must look for them to that righteous Judge, whose hand wields at once the sceptre of mercy and the sword of justice.

And now having prepared this brief preface, to stand like a portico before his simple edifice, the author would cordially and respectfully make his bow, and invite his guests to enter. If his little volume is read, he will be amply repaid; if approved, he will be richly rewarded.

HANSFORD.

CHAPTER 1.

“The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek;
What though these shades had seen her birth? Her sire
A Briton's independence taught to seek
Far western worlds.”
Gertrude of Wyoming.

Among those who had been driven, by the disturbances in England, to seek a more quiet home in the wilds of Virginia, was a gentleman of the name of Temple. An Englishman by birth, he was an unwilling spectator of the revolution which erected the dynasty of Cromwell upon the ruins of the British monarchy. He had never been able to divest his mind of that loyal veneration in which Charles Stuart was held by so many of his subjects, whose better judgments, if consulted, would have prompted them to unite with the revolutionists. But it was a strong principle with that noble party, who have borne in history the distinguished name of Cavaliers, rarely to consult the dictates of reason in questions of ancient prejudice. They preferred rather to err blindly with the long line of their loyal forbears in submission to tyranny, than to subvert the ancient principles of government in the attainment of freedom. They saw no difference between the knife of the surgeon and the sword of the destroyer—between the wholesome medicine, administered to heal, and the deadly poison, given to destroy.

Nor are these strong prejudices without their value in the administration of government, while they are absolutely essential to the guidance of a revolution. They retard and moderate those excesses which they cannot entirely control, and even though unable to avoid the descensus Averni, they render that easy descent less fatal and destructive. Nor is there anything in the history of revolutions more beautiful than this steady adherence to ancient principles—this faithful devotion to a fallen prince, when all others have forsaken him and fled. While man is capable of enjoying the blessings of freedom, the memory of Hampden will be cherished and revered; and yet there is something scarcely less attractive in the disinterested loyalty, the generous self-denial, of the devoted Hyde, who left the comforts of home, the pride of country and the allurements of fame, to join in the lonely wanderings of the banished Stuart.

When at last the revolution was accomplished, and Charles and the hopes of the Stuarts seemed to sleep in the same bloody grave, Colonel Temple, unwilling longer to remain under the government of a usurper, left England for Virginia, to enjoy in the quiet retirement of this infant colony, the peace and tranquillity which was denied him at home. From this, the last resting place of the standard of loyalty, he watched the indications of returning peace, and with a proud and grateful heart he hailed the advent of the restoration. For many years an influential member of the House of Burgesses, he at last retired from the busy scenes of political life to his estate in Gloucester, which, with a touching veneration for the past, he called Windsor Hall. Here, happy in the retrospection of a well spent life, and cheered and animated by the affection of a devoted wife and lovely daughter, the old Loyalist looked forward with a tranquil heart to the change which his increasing years warned him could not be far distant.

His wife, a notable dame of the olden time, who was selected, like the wife of the good vicar, for the qualities which wear best, was one of those thrifty, bountiful bodies, who care but little for the government under which they live, so long as their larders are well stored with provisions, and those around them are happy and contented. Possessed of a good mind, and of a kind heart, she devoted herself to the true objects of a woman's life, and reigned supreme at home. Even when her husband had been immersed in the cares and stirring events of the revolution, and she was forced to hear the many causes of complaint urged against the government and stoutly combatted by the Colonel, the good dame had felt far more interest in market money than in ship money—in the neatness of her own chamber, than in the purity of the Star Chamber—and, in short, forgot the great principles of political economy in her love for the more practical science of domestic economy. We have said that at home Mrs. Temple reigned supreme, and so indeed she did. Although the good Colonel held the reins, she showed him the way to go, and though he was the nominal ruler of his little household, she was the power behind the throne, which even the throne submissively acknowledged to be greater than itself.

Yet, for all this, Mrs. Temple was an excellent woman, and devoted to her husband's interests. Perhaps it was but natural that, although with a willing heart, and without a murmur, she had accompanied him to Virginia, she should, with a laudable desire to impress him with her real worth, advert more frequently than was agreeable to the heavy sacrifice which she had made. Nay more, we have but little doubt that the bustle and self-annoyance, the flurry and bluster, which always attended her domestic preparations, were considered as a requisite condiment to give relish to her food. We are at least certain of this, that her frequent strictures on the dress, and criticisms on the manners of her husband, arose from her real pride, and from her desire that to the world he should appear the noble perfection which he was to her. This the good Colonel fully understood, and though sometimes chafed by her incessant taunts, he knew her real worth, and had long since learned to wear his fetters as an ornament.

Since their arrival in Virginia, Heaven had blessed the happy pair with a lovely daughter—a bliss for which they long had hoped and prayed, but hoped and prayed in vain. If hope deferred, however, maketh the heart sick, it loses none of its freshness and delight when it is at last realized, and the fond hearts of her parents were overflowing with love for this their only child. At the time at which our story commences, Virginia Temple (she was called after the fair young colony which gave her birth) had just completed her nineteenth year. Reared for the most part in the retirement of the country, she was probably not possessed of those artificial manners, which disguise rather than adorn the gay butterflies that flutter in the fashionable world, and which passes for refinement; but such conventional proprieties no more resemble the innate refinement of soul which nature alone can impart, than the plastered rouge of an old faded dowager resembles the native rose which blushes on a healthful maiden's cheek. There was in lieu of all this, in the character of Virginia Temple, a freshness of feeling and artless frankness, and withal a refined delicacy of sentiment and expression, which made the fair young girl the pride and the ornament of the little circle in which she moved.

Under the kind tuition of her father, who, in his retired life, delighted to train her mind in wholesome knowledge, she possessed a great advantage over the large majority of her sex, whose education, at that early period, was wofully deficient. Some there were indeed (and in this respect the world has not changed much in the last two centuries), who were tempted to sneer at accomplishments superior to their own, and to hint that a book-worm and a bluestocking would never make a useful wife. But such envious insinuations were overcome by the care of her judicious mother, who spared no pains to rear her as a useful as well as an accomplished woman. With such a fortunate education, Virginia grew up intelligent, useful and beloved; and her good old father used often to say, in his bland, gentle manner, that he knew not whether his little Jeanie was more attractive when, with her favorite authors, she stored her mind with refined and noble sentiments, or when, in her little check apron and plain gingham dress, she assisted her busy mother in the preparation of pickles and preserves.

There was another source of happiness to the fair Virginia, in which she will be more apt to secure the sympathy of our gentler readers. Among the numerous suitors who sought her hand, was one who had early gained her heart, and with none of the cruel crosses, as yet, which the young and inexperienced think add piquancy to the bliss of love; with the full consent of her parents, she had candidly acknowledged her preference, and plighted her troth, with all the sincerity of her young heart, to the noble, the generous, the brave Thomas Hansford.

CHAPTER II.

“Heaven forming each on other to depend,
A master, or a servant, or a friend,
Bids each on other for assistance call,
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all.
Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally
The common interest, or endear the tie.
To these we owe true friendship, love sincere,
Each homefelt joy that life inherits here.”
Essay on Man.

Begirt with love and blessed with contentment, the little family at Windsor Hall led a life of quiet, unobtrusive happiness. In truth, if there be a combination of circumstances peculiarly propitious to happiness, it will be found to cluster around one of those old colonial plantations, which formed each within itself a little independent barony. There first was the proprietor, the feudal lord, proud of his Anglo-Saxon blood, whose ambition was power and personal freedom, and whose highest idea of wealth was in the possession of the soil he cultivated. A proud feeling was it, truly, to claim a portion of God's earth as his own; to stand upon his own land, and looking around, see his broad acres bounded only by the blue horizon walls,[1] and feel in its full force the whole truth of the old law maxim, that he owned not only the surface of the soil, but even to the centre of the earth, and the zenith of the heavens.[2] There can be but little doubt that the feelings suggested by such reflections are in the highest degree favorable to the development of individual freedom, so peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon race, and so stoutly maintained, especially among an agricultural people. This respect for the ownership of land is illustrated by the earliest legislation, which held sacred the title to the soil even from the grasp of the law, and which often restrained the freeholder from alienating his land from the lordly but unborn aristocrat to whom it should descend.

Next in the scale of importance in this little baronial society, were the indented servants, who, either for felony or treason, were sent over to the colony, and bound for a term of years to some one of the planters. In some cases, too, the poverty of the emigrant induced him to submit voluntarily to indentures with the captain of the ship which brought him to the colony, as some compensation for his passage. These servants, we learn, had certain privileges accorded to them, which were not enjoyed by the slave: the service of the former was only temporary, and after the expiration of their term they became free citizens of the colony. The female servants, too, were limited in their duties to such employments as are generally assigned to women, such as cooking, washing and housework; while it was not unusual to see the negro women, as even now, in many portions of the State, managing the plough, hoeing the maize, worming and stripping the tobacco, and harvesting the grain. The colonists had long remonstrated against the system of indented servants, and denounced the policy which thus foisted upon an infant colony the felons and the refuse population of the mother country. But, as was too often the case, their petitions and remonstrances were treated with neglect, or spurned with contempt. Besides being distasteful to them as freemen and Cavaliers, the indented servants had already evinced a restlessness under restraint, which made them dangerous members of the body politic. In 1662, a servile insurrection was secretly organized, which had well nigh proved fatal to the colony. The conspiracy was however betrayed by a certain John Berkenhead, one of the leaders in the movement, who was incited to the revelation by the hope of reward for his treachery; nor was the hope vain. Grateful for their deliverance, the Assembly voted this man his liberty, compensated his master for the loss of his services, and still further rewarded him by a bounty of five thousand pounds of tobacco. Of this reckless and abandoned wretch, we will have much to say hereafter.

Another feature in this patriarchal system of government was the right of property in those inferior races of men, who from their nature are incapable of a high degree of liberty, and find their greatest development, and their truest happiness, in a condition of servitude. Liberty is at last a reward to be attained after a long struggle, and not the inherent right of every man. It is the sword which becomes a weapon of power and defence in the hands of the strong, brave, rational man, but a dangerous plaything when entrusted to the hands of madmen or children. And thus, by the mysterious government of Him, who rules the earth in righteousness, has it been wisely ordained, that they only who are worthy of freedom shall permanently possess it.

The mutual relations established by the institution of domestic slavery were beneficial to both parties concerned. The Anglo-Saxon baron possessed power, which he has ever craved, and concentration and unity of will, which was essential to its maintenance. But that power was tempered, and that will controlled, by the powerful motives of policy, as well as by the dictates of justice and mercy. The African serf, on the other hand, was reduced to slavery, which, from his very nature, he is incapable of despising; and an implicit obedience to the will of his master was essential to the preservation of the relation. But he, too, derived benefits from the institution, which he has never acquired in any other condition; and trusting to the justice, and relying on the power of his master to provide for his wants, he lived a contented and therefore a happy life. Improvident himself by nature, his children were reared without his care, through the helpless period of infancy, while he was soothed and cheered in the hours of sickness, and protected and supported in his declining years. The history of the world does not furnish another example of a laboring class who could rely with confidence on such wages as competency and contentment.

In a new colony, where there was but little attraction as yet, for tradesmen to emigrate, the home of the planter became still more isolated and independent. Every landholder had not only the slaves to cultivate his soil and to attend to his immediate wants, but he had also slaves educated and skilled in various trades. Thus, in this busy hive, the blaze of the forge was seen and the sound of the anvil was heard, in repairing the different tools and utensils of the farm; the shoemaker was found at his last, the spinster at her wheel, and the weaver at the loom. Nor has this system of independent reliance on a plantation for its own supplies been entirely superseded at the present day. There may still be found, in some sections of Virginia, plantations conducted on this principle, where the fleece is sheared, and the wool is carded, spun, woven and made into clothing by domestic labor, and where a few groceries and finer fabrics of clothing are all that are required, by the independent planter, from the busy world beyond his little domain.

Numerous as were the duties and responsibilities that devolved upon the planter, he met them with cheerfulness and discharged them with faithfulness. The dignity of the master was blended with the kind attention of the friend on the one hand, and the obedience of the slave, with the fidelity of a grateful dependent, on the other. And thus was illustrated, in their true beauty, the blessings of that much abused but happy institution, which should ever remain, as it has ever been placed by the commentators of our law, next in position, as it is in interest, to the tender relation of parent and child.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The immense grants taken up by early patentees, in this country, justifies this language, which might otherwise seem an extravagant hyperbole.

[2] Cujus est solum, ejus est usque ad cœlum.

CHAPTER III.

“An old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,—
With an old lady whose anger one word assuages,—
Like an old courtier of the queen's,
And the queen's old courtier.”
Old Ballad.

A pleasant home was that old Windsor Hall, with its broad fields in cultivation around it, and the dense virgin forest screening it from distant view, with the carefully shaven sward on the velvet lawn in front, and the tall forest poplars standing like sentries in front of the house, and the venerable old oak tree at the side, with the rural wooden bench beneath it, where Hansford and Virginia used to sit and dream of future happiness, while the tame birds were singing sweetly to their mates in the green branches above them. And the house, too, with its quaint old frame, its narrow windows, and its substantial furniture, all brought from England and put down here in this new land for the comfort of the loyal old colonist. It had been there for years, that old house, and the moss and lichen had fastened on its shelving roof, and the luxuriant vine had been trained to clamber closely by its sides, exposing its red trumpet flowers to the sun; while the gay humming-bird, with her pretty dress of green and gold, sucked their honey with her long bill, and fluttered her little wings in the mild air so swiftly that you could scarcely see them. Then there was that rude but comfortable old porch, destined to as many uses as the chest of drawers in the tavern of the Deserted Village. Protected by its sheltering roof alike from rain and sunshine, it was often used, in the mild summer weather, as a favorite sitting-room, and sometimes, too, converted into a dining-room. There, too, might be seen, suspended from the nails and wooden pegs driven into the locust pillars, long specimen ears of corn, samples of grain, and different garden seeds tied up in little linen bags; and in the strange medley, Mrs. Temple had hung some long strings of red pepper-pods, sovereign specifics in cases of sore throat, but which seemed, among so many objects of greater interest, to blush with shame at their own inferiority. It was not yet the season when the broad tobacco leaf, brown with the fire of curing, was exhibited, and formed the chief staple of conversation, as well as of trade, with the old crony planters. The wonderful plant was just beginning to suffer from the encroaches of the worm, the only animal, save man, which is life-proof against the deadly nicotine of this cultivated poison.

In this old porch the little family was gathered on a beautiful evening towards the close of June, in the year 1676. The sun, not yet set, was just sinking below the tall forest, and was dancing and flickering gleefully among the trees, as if rejoicing that he had nearly finished his long day's journey. Colonel Temple had just returned from his evening survey of his broad fields of tobacco, and was quietly smoking his pipe, for, like most of his fellow colonists, he was an inveterate consumer of this home production. His good wife was engaged in knitting, an occupation now almost fallen into disuse among ladies, but then a very essential part of the duties of a large plantation. Virginia, with her tambour frame before her, but which she had neglected in the reverie of her own thoughts, was caressing the noble St. Bernard dog which lay at her feet, who returned her caresses by a grateful whine, as he licked the small white hand of his mistress. This dog, a fine specimen of that noble breed, was a present from Hansford, and for that reason, as well as for his intrinsic merits, was highly prized, and became her constant companion in her woodland rambles in search of health and wild flowers. With all the vanity of a conscious favorite, Nestor regarded with well bred contempt the hounds that stalked in couples about the yard, in anxious readiness for the next chase.

As the young girl was thus engaged, there was an air of sadness in her whole mien—such a stranger to her usually bright, happy face, that it did not escape her father's notice.

“Why, Jeanie,” he said, in the tender manner which he always used towards her, “you are strangely silent this evening. Has anything gone wrong with my little daughter?”

“No, father,” she replied, “at least nothing that I am conscious of. We cannot be always gay or sad at our pleasure, you know.”

“Nay, but at least,” said the old gentleman, “Nestor has been disobedient, or old Giles is sick, or you have been working yourself into a sentimental sadness over Lady Willoughby's[3] troubles.”

“No, dear father; though, in reality, that melancholy story might well move a stouter heart than mine.”

“Well, confess then,” said her father, “that, like the young French gentleman in Prince Arthur's days, you are sad as night only for wantonness. But what say you, mother, has anything gone wrong in household affairs to cross Virginia?”

“No, Mr. Temple,” said the old lady. “Certainly, if Virginia is cast down at the little she has to do, I don't know what ought to become of me. But that's a matter of little consequence. Old people have had their day, and needn't expect much sympathy.”

“Indeed, dear mother,” said Virginia, “I do not complain of anything that I have to do. I know that you do not entrust as much to me as you ought, or as I wish. I assure you, that if anything has made me sad, it is not you, dear mother,” she added, as she tenderly kissed her mother.

“Oh, I know that, my dear; but your father seems to delight in always charging me with whatever goes wrong. Goodness knows, I toil from Monday morning till Saturday night for you all, and this is all the thanks I get. And if I were to work my old fingers to the bone, it would be all the same. Well, it won't last always.”

To this assault Colonel Temple knew the best plan was not to reply. He had learned from sad experience the truth of the old adages, that “breath makes fire hotter,” and that “the least said is soonest mended.” He only signified his consciousness of what had been said by a quiet shrug of the shoulders, and then resumed his conversation with Virginia.

“Well then, my dear, I am at a loss to conjecture the cause of your sadness, and must throw myself upon your indulgence to tell me or not, as you will. I don't think you ever lost anything by confiding in your old father.”

“I know I never did,” said Virginia, with a gentle sigh, “and it is for the very reason that you always make my foolish little sorrows your own, that I am unwilling to trouble you with them. But really, on the present occasion—I scarcely know what to tell you.”

“Then why that big pearl in your eye?” returned her father. “Ah, you little rogue, I have found you out at last. Mother, I have guessed the riddle. Somebody has not been here as often lately as he should. Now confess, you silly girl, that I have guessed your secret.”

The big tears that swam in his daughter's blue eyes, and then rolling down, dried themselves upon her cheek, told the truth too plainly to justify denial.

“I really think Virginia has some reason to complain,” said her mother. “It is now nearly three weeks since Mr. Hansford was here. A young lawyer's business don't keep him so much employed as to prevent these little courteous attentions.”

“We used to be more attentive in our day, didn't we, old lady?” said Colonel Temple, as he kissed his good wife's cheek.

This little demonstration entirely wiped away the remembrance of her displeasure. She returned the salutation with an affectionate smile, as she replied,

“Yes, indeed, Henry; if there was less sentiment, there was more real affection in those days. Love was more in the heart then, and less out of books, than now.”

“Oh, but we were not without our little sentiments, too. Virginia, it would have done you good to have seen how gaily your mother danced round the May-pole, with her courtly train, as the fair queen of them all; and how I, all ruffs and velvet, at the head of the boys, and on bended knee, begged her majesty to accept the homage of our loyal hearts. Don't you remember, Bessy, the grand parliament, when we voted you eight subsidies, and four fifteenths to be paid in flowers and candy, for your grand coronation?”

“Oh, yes!” said the old lady; “and then the coronation itself, with the throne made of the old master's desk, all nicely carpeted and decorated with flowers and evergreen; and poor Billy Newton, with his long, solemn face, a paste-board mitre, and his sister's night-gown for a pontifical robe, acting the Archbishop of Canterbury, and placing the crown upon my head!”

“And the game of Barley-break in the evening,” said the Colonel, fairly carried away by the recollections of these old scenes, “when you and I, hand in hand, pretended only to catch the rest, and preferred to remain together thus, in what we called the hell, because we felt that it was a heaven to us.”[4]

“Oh, fie, for shame!” said the old lady. “Ah, well, they don't have such times now-a-days.”

“No, indeed,” said her husband; “old Noll came with his nasal twang and puritanical cant, and dethroned May-queens as well as royal kings, and his amusements were only varied by a change from a hypocritical sermon to a psalm-singing conventicle.”

Thus the old folks chatted on merrily, telling old stories, which, although Virginia had heard them a hundred times and knew them all by heart, she loved to hear again. She had almost forgotten her own sadness in this occupation of her mind, when her father said—

“But, Bessy, we had almost forgotten, in our recollections of the past, that our little Jeanie needs cheering up. You should remember, my daughter, that if there were any serious cause for Mr. Hansford's absence, he would have written to you. Some trivial circumstance, or some matter of business, has detained him from day to day. He will be here to-morrow, I have no doubt.”

“I know I ought not to feel anxious,” said Virginia, her lip quivering with emotion; “he has so much to do, not only in his profession, but his poor old mother needs his presence a great deal now; she was far from well when he was last here.”

“Well, I respect him for that,” said her mother. “It is too often the case with these young lovers, that when they think of getting married, and doing for themselves, the poor old mothers are laid on the shelf.”

“And yet,” continued Virginia, “I have a kind of presentiment that all may not be right with him. I know it is foolish, but I can't—I can't help it?”

“These presentiments, my child,” said her father, who was not without some of the superstition of the time, “although like dreams, often sent by the Almighty for wise purposes, are more often but the phantasies of the imagination. The mind, when unable to account for circumstances by reason, is apt to torment itself with its own fancy—and this is wrong, Jeanie.”

“I know all this,” replied Virginia, “and yet have no power to prevent it. But,” she added, smiling through her tears, “I will endeavor to be more cheerful, and trust for better things.”

“That's a good girl; I assure you I would rather hear you laugh once than to see you cry a hundred times,” said the old man, repeating a witticism that Virginia had heard ever since her childish trials and tears over broken dolls or tangled hair. The idea was so grotesque and absurd, that the sweet girl laughed until she cried again.

“Besides,” added her father, “I heard yesterday that that pestilent fellow, Bacon, was in arms again, and it may be necessary for Berkeley to use some harsh means to punish his insolence. I would not be at all surprised if Hansford were engaged in this laudable enterprise.”

“God, in his mercy, forbid,” said Virginia, in a faint voice.

“And why, my daughter? Would you shrink from lending the services of him you love to your country, in her hour of need?”

“But the danger, father!”

“There can be but little danger in an insurrection like this. Strong measures will soon suppress it. Nay, the very show of organized and determined resistance will strike terror into the white hearts of these cowardly knaves. But if this were not so, the duty would be only stronger.”

“Yes, Virginia,” said her mother. “No one knows more than I, how hard it is for a woman to sacrifice her selfish love to her country. But in my day we never hesitated, and I was happy in my tears, when I saw your father going forth to fight for his king and country. There was none of your 'God forbid' then, and you need not expect to be more free from trials than those who have gone before you.”

There was no real unkindness meant in this speech of Mrs. Temple, but, as we have before reminded the reader, she took especial delight in magnifying her own joys and her own trials, and in making an invidious comparison of the present day with her earlier life, always to the prejudice of the former. Tenderly devoted to her daughter, and deeply sympathizing in her distress, she yet could not forego the pleasure of reverting to the time when she too had similar misfortunes, which she had borne with such exemplary fortitude. To be sure, this heroism existed only in the dear old lady's imagination, for no one gave way to trials with more violent grief than she. Virginia, though accustomed to her mother's peculiar temper, was yet affected by her language, and her tears flowed afresh.

“Cheer up, my daughter,” said her father, “these tears are not only unworthy of you, but they are uncalled for now. This is at last but conjecture of mine, and I have no doubt that Hansford is well and as happy as he can be away from you. But you would have proved a sad heroine in the revolution. I don't think you would imitate successfully the bravery and patriotism of Lady Willoughby, whose memoirs you have been reading. Oh! that was a day for heroism, when mothers devoted their sons, and wives their husbands, to the cause of England and of loyalty, almost without a tear.”

“I thank God,” said the weeping girl, “that he has not placed me in such trying scenes. With all my admiration for the courage of my ancestors, I have no ambition to suffer their dangers and distress.”

“Well, my dear,” replied her father, “I trust you may never be called upon to do so. But if such should be your fate, I also trust that you have a strong heart, which would bear you through the trial. Come now, dry your tears, and let me hear you sing that old favorite of mine, written by poor Dick Lovelace. His Lucasta[5] must have been something of the same mind as my Virginia, if she reproved him for deserting her for honour.”

“Oh, father, I feel the justice of your rebuke. I know that none but a brave woman deserves the love of a brave man. Will you forgive me?”

“Forgive you, my daughter?—yes, if you have done anything to be forgiven. Your old father, though his head is turned gray, has still a warm place in his heart for all your distresses, my child; and that heart will be cold in death before it ceases to feel for you. But come, I must not lose my song, either.”

And Virginia, her sweet voice rendered more touchingly beautiful by her emotion, sang the noble lines, which have almost atoned for all the vanity and foppishness of their unhappy author.

“Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
If from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

“True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
The sword, the horse, the shield.

“Yet, this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more!”

“Yes,” repeated the old patriot, as the last notes of the sweet voice died away; “yes, 'I had not loved thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more!' This is the language of the truly noble lover. Without a heart which rises superior to itself, in its devotion to honour, it is impossible to love truly. Love is not a pretty child, to be crowned with roses, and adorned with trinkets, and wooed by soft music. To the truly brave, it is a god to be worshipped, a reward to be attained, and to be attained only in the path of honour!”

“I think,” said Mrs. Temple, looking towards the wood, “that Virginia's song acted as an incantation. If I mistake not, Master Hansford is even now coming to explain his own negligence.”

FOOTNOTES:

[3] I have taken these beautiful memoirs, now known to be the production of a modern pen, to be genuine. Their truthfulness to nature certainly will justify me in such a liberty.

[4] The modern reader will need some explanation of this old game, whose terms seem, to the refined ears of the present day, a little profane. Barley-break resembled a game which I have seen played in my own time, called King Cantelope, but with some striking points of difference. In the old game, the play-ground was divided into three parts of equal size, and the middle of these sections was known by the name of hell. The boy and girl, whose position was in this place, were to attempt, with joined hands, to catch those who should try to pass from one section to the other. As each one was caught, he became a recruit for the couple in the middle, and the last couple who remained uncaught took the places of those in hell, and thus the game commenced again.

[5] The lady to whom the song is addressed. It may be found in Percy's Reliques, or in almost any volume of old English poetry.

CHAPTER IV.

“Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom.”
Henry IV.

In truth a young man, well mounted on a powerful bay, was seen approaching from the forest, that lay towards Jamestown. Virginia's cheek flushed with pleasure as she thought how soon all her fears would vanish away in the presence of her lover—and she laughed confusedly, as her father said,

“Aye, come dry your tears, you little rogue—those eyes are not as bright as Hansford would like to see. Tears are very pretty in poetry and fancy, but when associated with swelled eyes and red noses, they lose something of their sentiment.”

As the horseman came nearer, however, Virginia found to her great disappointment, that the form was not that of Hansford, and with a deep sigh she went into the house. The stranger, who now drew up to the door, proved to be a young man of about thirty years of age, tall and well-proportioned, his figure displaying at once symmetrical beauty and athletic strength. He was dressed after the fashion of the day, in a handsome velvet doublet, trussed with gay-colored points at the waist to the breeches, which reaching only to the knee, left the finely turned leg well displayed in the closely-fitting white silk stockings. Around his wrists and neck were revealed graceful ruffles of the finest cambric. The heavy boots, which were usually worn by cavaliers, were in this case supplied by shoes fastened with roses of ribands. A handsome sword, with ornamented hilt, and richly chased scabbard, was secured gracefully by his side in its fringed hanger. The felt hat, whose wide brim was looped up and secured by a gold button in front, completed the costume of the young stranger. The abominable fashion of periwigs, which maintained its reign over the realm of fashion for nearly a century, was just beginning to be introduced into the old country, and had not yet been received as orthodox in the colony. The rich chestnut hair of the stranger fell in abundance over his fine shoulders, and was parted carefully in the middle to display to its full advantage his broad intellectual forehead. But in compliance with custom, his hair was dressed with the fashionable love-locks, plaited and adorned with ribands, and falling foppishly over either ear.

But dress, at last, like “rank, is but the guinea's stamp, the man's the gowd for a' that,” and in outward appearance at least, the stranger was of no alloyed metal. There was in his air that easy repose and self-possession which is always perceptible in those whose life has been passed in association with the refined and cultivated. But still there was something about his whole manner, which seemed to betray the fact, that this habitual self-possession, this frank and easy carriage was the result of a studied and constant control over his actions, rather than those of a free and ingenuous heart.

This idea, however, did not strike the simple minded Virginia, as with natural, if not laudable curiosity, she surveyed the handsome young stranger through the window of the hall. The kind greeting of the hospitable old colonel having been given, the stranger dismounted, and the fine bay that he rode was committed to the protecting care of a grinning young African in attendance, who with his feet dangling from the stirrups trotted him off towards the stable.

“I presume,” said the stranger, as they walked towards the house, “that from the directions I have received, I have the honor of seeing Colonel Temple. It is to the kindness of Sir William Berkeley that I owe the pleasure I enjoy in forming your acquaintance, sir,” and he handed a letter from his excellency, which the reader may take the liberty of reading with us, over Colonel Temple's shoulder.

“Bight trusty old friend,” ran the quaint and formal, yet familiar note. “The bearer of these, Mr. Alfred Bernard, a youth of good and right rare merit, but lately from England, and whom by the especial confidence reposed in him from our noble kinsman Lord Berkeley, we have made our private secretary, hath desired acquaintance with some of the established gentlemen in the colony, the better for his own improvement, to have their good society. And in all good faith, there is none, to whom I can more readily commend him, than Colonel Henry Temple, with the more perfect confidence in his desire to oblige him, who is always as of yore, his right good friend,

“William Berkeley, Kn't.
“From our Palace at Jamestown, June 20, A. D. 1676.”

“It required not this high commendation, my dear sir,” said old Temple, pressing his guest cordially by the hand, “to bid you welcome to my poor roof. But I now feel that to be a special honour, which would otherwise be but the natural duty of hospitality. Come, right welcome to Windsor Hall.”

With these words they entered the house, where Alfred Bernard was presented to the ladies, and paid his devoirs with such knightly grace, that Virginia admired, and Mrs. Temple heartily approved, a manner and bearing, which, she whispered to her daughter, was worthy of the old cavalier days before the revolution. Supper was soon announced—not the awkward purgatorial meal, perilously poised in cups, and eaten with greasy fingers—so dire a foe to comfort and silk dresses—but the substantial supper of the olden time. It is far from our intention to enter into minute details, yet we cannot refrain from adverting to the fact that the good old cavalier grace was said by the Colonel, with as much solemnity as his cheerful face would wear—that grace which gave such umbrage to the Puritans with their sour visages and long prayers, and which consisted of those three expressive words, “God bless us.”

“I have always thought,” said the Colonel, apologetically, “that this was enough—for where's the use of praying over our meals, until they get so cold and cheerless, that there is less to be thankful for.”

“Especially,” said Bernard, chiming in at once with the old man's prejudices, “when this brief language contains all that is necessary—for even Omnipotence can but bless us—and we may easily leave the mode to Him.”

“Well said, young man, and now come and partake of our homely fare, seasoned with a hearty welcome,” said the Colonel, cordially.

Nor loth was Alfred Bernard to do full justice to the ample store before him. A ride of more than thirty miles had whetted an appetite naturally good, and the youth of “right rare merit,” did not impress his kind host very strongly with his conversational powers during his hearty meal.

The repast being over, the little party retired to a room, which the old planter was pleased to call his study, but which savored far more of the presence of the sportive Diana, than of the reflecting muses. Over the door, as you entered the room, were fastened the large antlers of some noble deer, who had once bounded freely and gracefully through his native forest. Those broad branches are now, by a sad fatality, doomed to support the well oiled fowling-piece that laid their wearer low. Fishing tackle, shot-pouches, fox brushes, and other similar evidences and trophies of sport, testified to the Colonel's former delight in angling and the chase; but now alas! owing to the growing infirmities of age, though he still cherished his pack, and encouraged the sport, he could only start the youngsters in the neighborhood, and give them God speed! as with horses, hounds, and horns they merrily scampered away in the fresh, early morning. But with his love for these active, manly sports, Colonel Temple was devoted to reading such works as ran with his prejudices, and savored of the most rigid loyalty. His books, indeed, were few, for in that day it was no easy matter to procure books at all, especially for the colonists, who cut off from the great fountain of literature which was then just reviving from the severe drought of puritanism, were but sparingly supplied with the means of information. But a few months later than the time of which we write, Sir William Berkeley boasted that education was at a low ebb in Virginia, and thanked his God that so far there were neither free schools nor printing presses in the colony—the first instilling and the last disseminating rebellious sentiments among the people. Yet under all these disadvantages, Colonel Temple was well versed in the literature of the last two reigns, and with some of the more popular works of the present. Shakspeare was his constant companion, and the spring to which he often resorted to draw supplies of wisdom. But Milton was held in especial abhorrence—for the prose writings of the eloquent old republican condemned unheard the sublime strains of his divine poem.

CHAPTER V.

“A man in all the world's new fashion planted,
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain;
One, whom the music of his own vain tongue,
Doth ravish like enchanting harmony;
A man of compliments.”
Love's Labor Lost.

“Well, Mr. Bernard,” said the old Colonel as they entered the room, “take a seat, and let's have a social chat. We old planters don't get a chance often to hear the news from Jamestown, and I am afraid you will find me an inquisitive companion. But first join me in a pipe. There is no greater stimulant to conversation than the smoke of our Virginia weed.”

“You must excuse me,” said Bernard, smiling, “I have not yet learned to smoke, although, if I remain in Virginia, I suppose I will have to contract a habit so general here.”

“What, not smoke!” said the old man, in surprise. “Why tobacco is at once the calmer of sorrows, the assuager of excitement; the companion of solitude, the life of company; the quickener of fancy, the composer of thought.”

“I had expected,” returned Bernard, laughing at his host's enthusiasm, “that so rigid a loyalist as yourself, would be a convert to King James's Counterblast. Have you never read that work of the royal pedant?”

“Read it!” cried the Colonel, impetuously. “No! and what's more, with all my loyalty and respect for his memory, I would sooner light my pipe with a page of his Basilicon, than subscribe to the sentiments of his Counterblast.”

“Oh, he had his supporters too,” replied Bernard, smiling. “You surely cannot have forgotten the song of Cucullus in the Lover's Melancholy;” and the young man repeated, with mock solemnity, the lines,

“They that will learn to drink a health in hell,
Must learn on earth to take tobacco well,
For in hell they drink no wine, nor ale, nor beer,
But fire and smoke and stench, as we do here.”

“Well put, my young friend,” said Temple, laughing in his turn. “But you should remember that John Ford had to put such a sentiment in the mouth of a Bedlamite. Here, Sandy,” he added, kicking a little negro boy, who was nodding in the corner, dreaming, perhaps, of the pleasures of the next 'possum hunt, “Run to the kitchen, Sandy, and bring me a coal of fire.”

“And, now, Mr. Bernard, what is the news political and social in the big world of Jamestown?”

“Much to interest you in both respects. It is indeed a part of my duty in this visit, to request that you and the ladies will be present at a grand masque ball to be given on Lady Frances's birth-night.”

“A masque in Virginia!” exclaimed the Colonel, “that will be a novelty indeed! But the Governor has not the opportunity or the means at hand to prepare it.”

“Oh, yes!” replied Bernard, “we have all determined to do our best. The assembly will be in session, and the good burgesses will aid us, and at any rate if we cannot eclipse old England, we must try to make up in pleasure, what is wanting in brilliancy. I trust Miss Temple will aid us by her presence, which in itself will add both pleasure and brilliancy to the occasion.”

Virginia blushed slightly at the compliment, and replied—

“Indeed, Mr. Bernard, the presence which you seem to esteem so highly depends entirely on my father's permission—but I will unite with you in urging that as it is a novelty to me, he will not deny his assent. I should like of all things to go.”

“Well, my daughter, as you please—but what says mother to the plan? You know she is not queen consort only, and she must be consulted.”

“I am sure, Colonel Temple,” said the good lady, “that I do as much to please Virginia as you can. To be sure, a masque in Virginia can afford but little pleasure to me, who have seen them in all their glory in England, but I have no doubt it will be all well enough for the young people, and I am always ready to contribute to their amusement.”

“I know that, my dear, and Jeanie can testify to it as well as I. But, Mr. Bernard, what is to be the subject of this masque, and who is the author, or are we to have a rehash of rare Ben Jonson's Golden Age?”

“It is to be a kind of parody of that, or rather a burlesque;” replied Bernard, “and is designed to hail the advent of the Restoration, a theme worthy of the genius of a Shakspeare, though, unfortunately, it is now in far humbler hands.”

“A noble subject, truly,” said the Colonel, “and from your deprecating air, I have no doubt that we are to be indebted to your pen for its production.”

“Partly, sir,” returned Bernard, with an assumption of modesty. “It is the joint work of Mr. Hutchinson, the chaplain of his excellency, and myself.”

“Oh! Mr. Bernard, are you a poet,” cried the old lady in admiration; “this is really an honour. Mr. Temple used to write verses when we were young, and although they were never printed, they were far prettier than a great deal of the lovesick nonsense that they make such a fuss about. I was always begging him to publish, but he never would push himself forward, like others with not half his merit.”

“I do not pretend to any merit, my dear madam,” said Bernard, “but I trust that with my rigid loyalty, and parson Hutchinson's rigid episcopacy, the roundhead puritans will not meet with more favour than they deserve. Neither of us have been long enough in the colony to have learned from observation the taste of the Virginians, but there is abundant evidence on record that they were the last to desert the cause of loyalty, and to submit to the sway of the puritan Protector.”

“Right, my friend, and she ever will be, or else old Henry Temple will seek out some desolate abode untainted with treason wherein to drag out the remainder of his days.”

“Your loyalty was never more needed,” said Bernard; “for Virginia, I fear, will yet be the scene of a rebellion, which may be but the brief epitome of the revolution.”

“Aye, you refer to this Baconian movement. I had heard that the demagogue was again in arms. But surely you cannot apprehend any danger from such a source.”

“Well, I trust not; and yet the harmless worm, if left to grow, may acquire fangs. Bacon is eloquent and popular, and has already under his standard some of the very flower of the colony. He must be crushed and crushed at once; and yet I fear the worst from the clemency and delay of Sir William Berkeley.”

“Tell me; what is his ground of quarrel?” asked Temple.

“Why, simply that having taken up arms against the Indians without authority, and enraging them by his injustice and cruelty, the governor required him to disband the force he had raised. He peremptorily refused, and demanded a commission from the governor as general-in-chief of the forces of Virginia to prosecute this unholy war.”

“Why unholy?” asked the Colonel. “Rebellious as was his conduct in refusing to lay down his arms at the command of the governor, yet I do not see that it should be deemed unholy to chastise the insolence of these savages.”

“I will tell you, then,” replied Bernard. “His avowed design was to avenge the murder of a poor herdsman by a chief of the Doeg tribe. Instead of visiting his vengeance upon the guilty, he turned his whole force against the Susquehannahs, a friendly tribe of Indians, and chased them like sheep into one of their forts. Five of the Indians relying on the boasted chivalry of the whites, came out of the fort unarmed, to inquire the cause of this unprovoked attack. They were answered by a charge of musketry, and basely murdered in cold blood.”

“Monstrous!” cried Temple, with horror. “Such infidelity will incense the whole Indian race against us and involve the country in another general war.”

“Exactly so,” returned Bernard, “and such is the governor's opinion; but besides this, it is suspected, and with reason too, that this Indian war is merely a pretext on the part of Bacon and a few of his followers, to cover a deeper and more criminal design. The insolent demagogue prates openly about equal rights, freedom, oppression of the mother country, and such dangerous themes, and it is shrewdly thought that, in his wild dreams of liberty, he is taking Cromwell for his model. He has all of the villainy of the old puritan, and a good deal of his genius and ability. But I beg pardon, ladies, all this politics cannot be very palatable to a lady's taste. We will certainly expect you, Mrs. Temple, to be present at the masque; and if Miss Virginia would prefer not to play her part in the exhibition, she may still be there to cheer us with her smiles. I can speak for the taste of all gallant young Virginians, that they will readily pardon her for not concealing so fair a face beneath a mask.”

“Ah, I can easily see that you are but lately from England,” said Mrs. Temple, delighted with the gallantry of the young man. “Your speech, fair sir, savours far more of the manners of the court than of these untutored forests. Alas! it reminds me of my own young days.”

“Well, Mr. Bernard,” said the Colonel, interrupting his wife in a reminiscence, which bid fair to exhaust no brief time, “you will find that we have only transplanted old English manners to another soil.

“'Cœlum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.'”

“I am glad to see,” said Bernard, casting an admiring glance at Virginia, “that this new soil you speak of, Colonel Temple, is so favourably adapted to the growth of the fairest flowers.”

“Oh, you must be jesting, Mr. Bernard,” said the old lady, “for although I am always begging Virginia to pay more attention to the garden, there are scarcely any flowers there worth speaking of, except a few roses that I planted with my own hands, and a bed of violets.”

“You mistake me, my dear madam,” returned Bernard, still gazing on Virginia with an affectation of rapture, “the roses to which I refer bloom on fair young cheeks, and the violets shed their sweetness in the depths of those blue eyes.”

“Oh, you are at your poetry, are you?” said the old lady.

“Not if poetry extends her sway only over the realm of fiction,” said Bernard, laying his hand upon his heart.

“Indeed, Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, not displeased at flattery, which however gross it may appear to modern ears, was common with young cavaliers in former days, and relished by the fair damsels, “I have been taught that flowers flourish far better in the cultivated parterre, than in the wild woods. I doubt not that, like Orlando, you are but playing off upon a stranger the sentiments, which, in reality, you reserve for some faithful Rosalind whom you have left in England.”

“You now surprise me, indeed,” returned Bernard, “for do you know that among all the ladies that grace English society, there are but few who ever heard of Rosalind or her Orlando, and know as little of the forest of Ardennes as of your own wild forests in Virginia.”

“I have heard,” said the Colonel, “that old Will Shakspeare and his cotemporaries—peers he has none—have been thrown aside for more modern writers, and I fear that England has gained nothing by the exchange. Who is now your prince of song?”

“There is a newly risen wit and poet, John Dryden by name, who seems to bear the palm undisputed. Waller is old now, and though he still writes, yet he has lost much of his popularity by his former defection from the cause of loyalty.”

“Well, for my part, give me old wine, old friends and old poets,” said the Colonel. “I confess I like a bard to be consecrated by the united plaudits of two or three generations, before I can give him my ready admiration.”

“I should think your acquaintance with Horace would have taught you the fallacy of that taste,” said Bernard. “Do you not remember how the old Roman laureate complains of the same prejudice existing in his own day, and argues that on such a principle merit could be accorded to no poet, for all must have their admirers among cotemporaries, else their works would pass into oblivion, before their worth were fairly tested?”

“I cannot be far wrong in the present age at least,” said Temple, “from what I learn and from what I have myself seen, the literature of the present reign is disgraced by the most gross and libertine sentiments. As the water of a healthful stream if dammed up, stagnates and becomes the fruitful source of unwholesome malaria, and then, when released, rushes forward, spreading disease and death in its course, so the liberal feelings and manners of old England, restrained by the rigid puritanism of the Protectorate, at last burst forth in a torrent of disgusting and diseased libertinism.”

Bernard had not an opportunity of replying to this elaborate simile of the good old Colonel, which, like Fadladeen, he had often used and still reserved for great occasions. Further conversation was here interrupted by a new arrival, which in this case, much to the satisfaction of the fair Virginia, proved to be the genuine Hansford.

CHAPTER VI.

“Speak of Mortimer!
Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul
Want mercy, if I do not join with him.”
Henry IV.

Thomas Hansford, in appearance and demeanour, lost nothing in comparison with the accomplished Bernard. He certainly did not possess in so high a degree the easy assurance which characterized the young courtier, but his self-confidence, blended with a becoming modesty, and his open, ingenuous manners, fully compensated for the difference. There was that in his clear blue eye and pleasant smile which inspired confidence in all whom he approached. Modest and unobtrusive in his expressions of opinion, he was nevertheless firm in their maintenance when announced, and though deferential to superiors in age and position, and respectful to all, he was never servile or obsequious.

The same kind of difference might be traced in the dress of the two young men, as in their manners. With none of the ostentatious display, which we have described as belonging to the costume of Bernard, the attire of Hansford was plain and neat. He was dressed in a grey doublet and breeches, trussed with black silk points. His long hose were of cotton, and his shoes were fastened, not with the gay colored ribbons before described, but with stout leather thongs, such as are still often used in the dress of a country gentleman. His beaver was looped with a plain black button, in front, displaying his fair hair, which was brushed plainly back from his forehead. He, too, wore a sword by his side, but it was fastened, not by handsome fringe and sash, but by a plain belt around his waist. It seemed as though it were worn more for use than ornament. We have been thus particular in describing the dress of these two young men, because, as we have hinted, the contrast indicated the difference in their characters—a difference which will, however, more strikingly appear in the subsequent pages of this narrative.

“Well, my boy,” said old Temple, heartily, “I am glad to see you; you have been a stranger among us lately, but are none the less welcome on that account. Yet, faith, lad, there was no necessity for whetting our appetite for your company by such a long absence.”

“I have been detained on some business of importance,” replied Hansford, with some constraint in his manner. “I am glad, however, my dear sir, that I have not forfeited my welcome by my delay, for no one, I assure you, has had more cause to regret my absence than myself.”

“Better late than never, my boy,” said the Colonel. “Come, here is a new acquaintance of ours, to whom I wish to introduce you. Mr. Alfred Bernard, Mr. Hansford.”

The young men saluted each other respectfully, and Hansford passed on to “metal more attractive.” Seated once more by the side of his faithful Virginia, he forgot the presence of all else, and the two lovers were soon deep in conversation, in a low voice.

“I hope your absence was not caused by your mother's increased sickness,” said Virginia.

“No, dearest, the old lady's health is far better than it has been for some time. But I have many things to tell you which will surprise, if they do not please you.”

“Oh, you have no idea what a fright father gave me this evening,” said Virginia. “He told me that you had probably been engaged by the governor to aid in suppressing this rebellion. I fancied that there were already twenty bullets through your body, and made a little fool of myself generally. But if I had known that you were staying away from me so long without any good reason, I would not have been so silly, I assure you.”

“Your care for me, dear girl, is very grateful to my feelings, and indeed it makes me very sad to think that I may yet be the cause of so much unhappiness to you.”

“Oh, come now,” said the laughing girl, “don't be sentimental. You men think very little of ladies, if you suppose that we are incapable of listening to anything but flattery. Now, there's Mr. Bernard has been calling me flowers, and roses, and violets, ever since he came. For my part, I would rather be loved as a woman, than admired as all the flowers that grow in the world.”

“Who is this Mr. Bernard?” asked Hansford.

“He is the Governor's private secretary, and a very nice fellow he seems to be, too. He has more poetry at his finger's ends than you or I ever read, and he is very handsome, don't you think so?”

“It is very well that I did not prolong my absence another day,” said Hansford, “or else I might have found my place in your heart supplied by this foppish young fribble.”[6]

“Nay, now, if you are going to be jealous, I will get angry,” said Virginia, trying to pout her pretty lips. “But say what you will about him, he is very smart, and what's more, he writes poetry as well as quotes it.”

“And has he told you of all his accomplishments so soon?” said Hansford, smiling; “for I hardly suppose you have seen a volume of his works, unless he brought it here with him. What else can he do? Perhaps he plays the flute, and dances divinely; and may-be, but for 'the vile guns, he might have been a soldier.' He looks a good deal like Hotspur's dandy to my eyes.”

“Oh, don't be so ill-natured,” said Virginia, “He never would have told about his writing poetry, but father guessed it.”

“Your father must have infinite penetration then,” said Hansford, “for I really do not think the young gentleman looks much as though he could tear himself from the mirror long enough to use his pen.”

“Well, but he has written a masque, to be performed day-after-to-morrow night, at the palace, to celebrate Lady Frances' birth-day. Are you not going to the ball. Of course you'll be invited.”

“No, dearest,” said Hansford, with a sigh. “Sir William Berkeley might give me a more unwelcome welcome than to a masque.”

“What on earth do you mean?” said Virginia, turning pale with alarm. “You have not—”

“Nay, you shall know all to-morrow,” replied Hansford.

“Tom,” cried Colonel Temple, in his loud, merry voice, “stop cooing there, and tell me where you have been all this time. I'll swear, boy, I thought you had been helping Berkeley to put down that d—d renegade, Bacon.”

“I am surprised,” said Hansford, with a forced, but uneasy smile, “that you should suppose the Governor had entrusted an affair of such moment to me.”

“Zounds, lad,” said the Colonel, “I never dreamed that you were at the head of the expedition. Oh, the vanity of youth! No, I suppose my good friends, Colonel Ludwell and Major Beverley, are entrusted with the lead. But I thought a subordinate office—”

“You are mistaken altogether, Colonel,” said Hansford. “The business which detained me from Windsor Hall had nothing to do with the suppression of this rebellion, and indeed I have not been in Jamestown for some weeks.”

“Well, keep your own counsel then, Tom; but I trust it was at least business connected with your profession. I like to see a young lawyer give his undivided attention to business. But I doubt me, Tom, that you cheat the law out of some of the six hours that Lord Coke has allotted to her.”

“I have, indeed, been attending to the preparation of a cause of some importance,” said Hansford.

“Well, I'm glad of it, my boy. Who is your client? I hope he gives you a good retainer.”

“My fee is chiefly contingent,” replied the young lawyer, sorely pressed by the questions of the curious old Colonel.

“Why, you are very laconic,” returned Temple, trying to enlist him in conversation. “Come, tell me all about it. I used to be something of a lawyer myself in my youth, didn't I, Bessy?”

“Yes, indeed,” said his wife, who was nearly dozing over her eternal knitting; “and if you had stuck to your profession, and not mingled in politics, my dear, we would have been much better off. You know I always told you so.”

“I believe you did, Bessy,” said the Colonel. “But what's done can't be undone. Take example by me, Tom, d'ye hear, and never meddle in politics, my boy. But I believe I retain some cobwebs of law in my brain yet, and I might help you in your case. Who is your client?”

“The Colony is one of the parties to the cause,” replied Hansford; “but the details cannot interest the ladies, you know; I will confer with you some other time on the subject, and will be very happy to have your advice.”

All this time, Alfred Bernard had been silently watching the countenance of Hansford, and the latter had been unpleasantly conscious of the fact. As he made the last remark, he saw the keen eyes of Bernard resting upon him with such an expression of suspicion, that he could not avoid wincing. Bernard had no idea of losing the advantage which he thus possessed, and with wily caution he prepared a snare for his victim, more sure of success than an immediate attack would have been.

“I think I have heard something of the case,” he said, fixing a penetrating glance on Hansford as he spoke, “and I agree with Mr. Hansford, that its details here would not be very interesting to the ladies. By the way, Colonel, your conjecture, that Mr. Hansford was employed in the suppression of the rebellion, reminds me of a circumstance that I had almost forgotten to mention. You have heard of that fellow Bacon's perjury—”

“Perjury!” exclaimed the Colonel. “No! on the contrary I had been given to understand that, with all his faults, his personal honour was so far unstained, even with suspicion.”

“Such was the general impression,” returned Bernard, “but it is now proven that he is as capable of the greatest perfidy as of the most daring treason.”

“You probably refer, sir, to an affair,” said Hansford, “of which I have some knowledge, and on which I may throw some light which will be more favorable to Mr. Bacon.”

“Your being able to conjecture so easily the fact to which I allude,” said Bernard, “is in itself an evidence that the general impression of his conduct is not so erroneous. I am happy,” he added, with a sneer, “that in this free country, a rebel even can meet with so disinterested a defender.”

“If you refer, Mr. Bernard,” replied Hansford, disregarding the manner of Bernard, “to the alleged infraction of his parole, I can certainly explain it. I know that Colonel Temple does not, and I hope that you do not, wish deliberately to do any man an injustice, even if he be a foe or a rebel.”

“That's true, my boy,” said the generous old Temple. “Give the devil his due, even he is not as black as he is painted. That's my maxim. How was it, Tom? And begin at the beginning, that's the only way to straighten a tangled skein.”

“Then, as I understand the story,” said Hansford, in a slow, distinct, voice, “it is this:—After Mr. Bacon returned to Henrico from his expedition against the Indians, he was elected to the House of Burgesses. On attempting to go down the river to Jamestown, to take his seat, he was arrested by Captain Gardiner, on a charge of treason, and brought as a prisoner before Sir William Berkeley. The Governor, expressing himself satisfied with his disclaimer and open recantation of any treasonable design, released him from imprisonment on parole, and, as is reported, promised at the same time to grant him the commission he desired. Mr. Bacon, hearing of the sickness of his wife, returned to Henrico, and while there, secret warrants were issued to arrest him again. Upon a knowledge of this fact he refused to surrender himself under his parole.”

“You have made a very clear case of it, if the facts be true,” said Bernard, in a taunting tone, “and seem to be well acquainted with the motives and movements of the traitor. I have no doubt there are many among his deluded followers who fail to appreciate the full force of a parole d'honneur.”

“Sir!” said Hansford, his face flushing with indignation.

“I only remarked,” said Bernard, in reply, “that a traitor to his country knows but little of the laws which govern honourable men. My remark only applied to traitors, and such I conceive the followers and supporters of Nathaniel Bacon to be.”

Hansford only replied with a bow.

“And so does Tom,” said Temple, “and so do we all, Mr. Bernard. But Hansford knew Bacon before this late movement of his, and he is very loth to hear his old friend charged with anything that he does not deserve. But see, my wife there is nodding over her knitting, and Jeanie's pretty blue eyes, I know, begin to itch. Our motto is, Mr. Bernard, to go to bed with the chickens and rise with the lark. But we have failed in the first to-night, and I reckon we will sleep a little later than lady lark to-morrow. So, to bed, to bed, my lord.”

So saying, the hospitable old gentleman called a servant to show the gentlemen to their separate apartments.

“You will be able to sleep in an old planter's cabin, Mr. Bernard,” he said, “where you will find all clean and comfortable, although perhaps a little rougher than you are accustomed to. Tom, boy, you know the ways of the house, and I needn't apologize to you. And so pleasant dreams and a good night to you both.”

After the Colonel had gone, and before the servant had appeared, Hansford touched Bernard lightly on the shoulder. The latter turned around with some surprise.

“You must be aware, Mr. Bernard,” said Hansford, “that your language to-night remained unresented only because of my respect for the company in which we were.”

“I did not deem it of sufficient importance,” replied Bernard, assuming an indifferent tone, “to inquire whether your motives for silence were respect for the family or regard for yourself.”

“You now at least know, sir. Let me ask you whether you made the remark to which I refer with a full knowledge of who I was, and what were my relations towards Mr. Bacon.”

“I decline making any explanation of language which, both in manner and expression, was sufficiently intelligible.”

“Then, sir,” said Hansford, resolutely, “there is but one reparation that you can make,” and he laid his hand significantly on his sword.

“I understand you,” returned Bernard, “but do not hold myself responsible to a man whose position in society may be more worthy of my contempt than of my resentment.”

“The company in which you found me, and the gentleman who introduced us, are sufficient guarantees of my position. If under these circumstances you refuse, you take advantage of a subterfuge alike unworthy of a gentleman or a brave man.”

“Even this could scarcely avail you, since the family are not aware of the treason by which you have forfeited any claim to their protection. But I waive any such objection, sir, and accept your challenge.”

“Being better acquainted with the place than yourself,” said Hansford, “I would suggest, sir, that there is a little grove in rear of the barn-yard, which is a fit spot for our purpose. There will there be no danger of interruption.”

“As you please, sir,” replied Bernard. “To-morrow morning, then, at sunrise, with swords, and in the grove you speak of.”

The servant entered the room at this moment, and the two young men parted for the night, having thus settled in a few moments the preliminaries of a mortal combat, with as much coolness as if it had been an agreement for a fox-hunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] A coxcomb, a popinjay.

CHAPTER VII.

“'We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.'
Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what they ne'er might see again;
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.”
Lady of the Lake.

It is a happy thing for human nature that the cares, and vexations, and fears, of this weary life, are at least excluded from the magic world of sleep. Exhausted nature will seek a respite from her trials in forgetfulness, and steeped in the sacred stream of Lethe, like the young Achilles, she becomes invulnerable. It is but seldom that care dares intrude upon this quiet realm, and though it may be truly said that sleep “swift on her downy pinions flies from woe,” yet, when at last it does alight on the lid sullied by a tear, it rests as quietly as elsewhere. We have scarcely ever read of an instance where the last night of a convict was not passed in tranquil slumber, as though Sleep, the sweet sister of the dread Terror, soothed more tenderly, in this last hour, the victim of her gloomy brother's dart.

Thomas Hansford, for with him our story remains, slept as calmly on this night as though a long life of happiness and fame stretched out before his eyes. 'Tis true, that ere he went to bed, as he unbelted his trusty sword, he looked at its well-tempered steel with a confident eye, and thought of the morrow. But so fully imbued were the youth of that iron age with the true spirit of chivalry, that life was but little regarded where honour was concerned, and the precarious tenure by which life was held, made it less prized by those who felt that they might be called on any day to surrender it. Hansford, therefore, slept soundly, and the first red streaks of the morning twilight were smiling through his window when he awoke. He rose, and dressing himself hastily, he repaired to the study, where he wrote a few hasty lines to his mother and to Virginia—the first to assure her of his filial love, and to pray her forgiveness for thus sacrificing life for honour; and the second breathing the warm ardour of his heart for her who, during his brief career, had lightened the cares and shared the joys which fortune had strewn in his path. As he folded these two letters and placed them in his pocket, he could not help drawing a deep sigh, to think of these two beings whose fate was so intimately entwined with his own, and whose thread of life would be weakened when his had been severed. Repelling such a thought as unworthy a brave man engaged in an honourable cause, he buckled on his sword and repaired with a firm step to the place of meeting. Alfred Bernard, true to his word, was there.

And now the sun was just rising above the green forest, to the eastward. The hands, as by a striking metonymy those happy laborers were termed, who never knew the cares which environ the head, were just going out to their day's work. Men, women and children, some to plough the corn, and one a merry teamster, who, with his well attended team, was driving to the woods for fuel. And in the barn-yard were the sleek milch cows, smelling fresh with the dewy clover from the meadow, and their hides smoking with the early dew of morning; and the fowls, that strutted and clucked, and cackled, in the yard, all breakfasting on the scanty grains that had fallen from the horse-troughs—all save one inquisitive old rooster, who, flapping his wings and mounting the fence to crow, eyed askant the two young men, as though, a knight himself, he guessed their bloody intent. And the birds, too, those joyous, happy beings, who pass their life in singing, shook the fresh dew from their pretty wings, cleared their throats in the bracing air, and like the pious Persian, pouring forth their hymn of praise to the morning sun, fluttered away to search for their daily food. All was instinct with happiness and beauty. All were seeking to preserve the life which God had given but two, and they stood there, in the bright, dewy morning, to stain the fair robe of nature with blood. It is a sad thought, that of all the beings who rejoice in life, he alone, who bears the image of his Maker, should have wandered from His law.

The men saluted one another coldly as Hansford approached, and Bernard said, with a firm voice, “You see, sir, I have kept my appointment. I believe nothing remains but to proceed.”

“You must excuse me for again suggesting,” said Hansford, “that we wait a few moments, until these labourers are out of sight. We might be interrupted.”

Bernard silently acquiesced, and the combatants stood at a short distance apart, each rapt in his own reflections. What those reflections were may be easily imagined. Both were young men of talent and promise. The one, the favourite of Sir William Berkeley, saw fame and distinction awaiting him in the colony. The other, the beloved of the people, second only to Bacon in their affections, and by that great leader esteemed as a friend and entrusted as a confidant, had scarce less hope in the future. The one a stranger, almost unknown in the colony, with little to care for in the world but self; the other the support of an aged mother, and the pride of a fair and trusting girl—the strong rock, on whose protection the grey lichen of age had rested, and around which the green tendrils of love entwined. Both men of erring hearts, who in a few moments might be summoned to appear at that dread bar, where all the secrets of their hearts are known, and all the actions of their lives are judged. The two combatants were nearly equally matched in the use of the sword. Bernard's superior skill in fence being fully compensated by the superior coolness of his adversary.

Just as the last labourer had disappeared, both swords flashed in the morning sun. The combat was long, and the issue doubtful. Each seemed so conscious of the skill of the other, that both acted chiefly on the defensive. But the protracted length of the fight turned to the advantage of Hansford, who, from his early training and hardy exercise, was more accustomed to endure fatigue. Bernard became weary of a contest of such little interest, and at last, forgetting the science in which he was a complete adept, he made a desperate lunge at the breast of the young colonist. This thrust Hansford parried with such success, that he sent the sword of his adversary flying through the air. In attempting to regain possession of his sword, Bernard's foot slipped, and he fell prostrate to the ground.

“Now yield you,” cried the victor, as he stood above the prostrate form of his antagonist, “and take back the foul stain which you have placed upon my name, or, by my troth, you had else better commend yourself to Heaven.”

“I cannot choose but yield,” said Bernard, rising slowly from the ground, while his face was purple with rage and mortification. “But look ye, sir rebel, if but I had that good sword once more in my hand, I would prove that I can yet maintain my honour and my life against a traitor's arm. I take my life at your hands, but God do so to me, and more also, if the day do not come when you will wish that you had taken it while it was in your power. The life you give me shall be devoted to the one purpose of revenge.”

“As you please,” said Hansford, eyeing him with an expression of bitter contempt. “Meantime, as you value your life, dedicated to so unworthy an object, let me hear no more of your insolence.”

“Nay, by my soul,” cried Bernard, “I will not bear your taunts. Draw and defend yourself!” At the same time, with an active spring, he regained possession of his lost sword. But just as they were about to renew the attack, there appeared upon the scene of action a personage so strange in appearance, and so wild in dress, that Bernard dropped his weapon in surprise, and with a vacant stare gazed upon the singular apparition.

The figure was that of a young girl, scarce twenty years of age, whose dark copper complexion, piercing black eyes, and high cheek bones, all proclaimed her to belong to that unhappy race which had so long held undisputed possession of this continent. Her dress was fantastic in the highest degree. Around her head was a plait of peake, made from those shells which were used by the Indians at once as their roanoke, or money, and as their most highly prized ornament of dress. A necklace and bracelets of the same adorned her neck and arms. A short smock, made of dressed deer-skin, which reached only to her knees, and was tightly fitted around the waist with a belt of wampum, but scantily concealed the swelling of her lovely bosom. Her legs, from the knee to the ancle, were bare, and her feet were covered with buckskin sandals, ornamented with beads, such as are yet seen in our western country, as the handiwork of the remnant of this unhappy race. Such a picturesque costume well became the graceful form that wore it. Her long, dark hair, which, amid all these decorations, was her loveliest ornament, fell unbound over her shoulders in rich profusion. As she approached, with light and elastic step, towards the combatants, Bernard, as we have said, dropped his sword in mute astonishment. It is true, that even in his short residence in Virginia, he had seen Indians at Jamestown, but they had come with friendly purpose to ask favors of the English. His impressions were therefore somewhat similar to those of a man who, having admired the glossy coat, and graceful, athletic form of a tiger in a menagerie, first sees that fierce animal bounding towards him from his Indian jungle. The effect upon him, however, was of course but momentary, and he again raised his sword to renew the attack. But his opponent, without any desire of engaging again in the contest, turned to the young girl and said, in a familiar voice, “Well, Mamalis, what brings you to the hall so early this morning?”

“There is danger there,” replied the young girl, solemnly, and in purer English than Bernard was prepared to hear. “If you would help me, put up your long knife and follow me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hansford, alarmed by her manner and words.

“Manteo and his braves come to take blood for blood,” returned the girl. “There is no time to lose.”

“In God's name, Mr. Bernard,” said Hansford, quickly, “come along with us. This is no time for private quarrel. Our swords are destined for another use.”

“Most willingly,” replied Bernard; “our enmity will scarcely cool by delay. And mark me, young man, Alfred Bernard will never rest until he avenges the triumph of your sword this morning, or the foul blot which you have placed upon his name. But let that pass now. Can this creature's statement be relied on?”

“She is as true as Heaven,” whispered Hansford. “Come on, for we have indeed but little time to lose; at another time I will afford you ample opportunity to redeem your honour or to avenge yourself. You will not find my blood cooler by delay.” And so the three walked on rapidly towards the house, the two young men side by side, after having sworn eternal hostility to one another, but yet willing to forget their private feud in the more important duties before them.

The reader of the history of this interesting period, will remember that there were, at this time, many causes of discontent prevailing among the Indians of Virginia. As has been before remarked, the murder of a herdsman, Robert Hen by name, and other incidents of a similar character, were so terribly avenged by the incensed colonists, not only upon the guilty, but upon friendly tribes, that the discontent of the Indians was wide spread and nearly universal. Nor did it cease until the final suppression of the Indian power by Nathaniel Bacon, at the battle of Bloody Run. This, however, was but the immediate cause of hostilities, for which there had already been, in the opinion of the Indians, sufficient provocation. Many obnoxious laws had been passed by the Assembly, in regard to the savages, that were so galling to their independence, that the seeds of discord and enmity were already widely sown. Among these were the laws prohibiting the trade in guns and ammunition with the Indians; requiring the warriors of the peaceful tribes to wear badges in order that they might be recognized; restricting them in their trade to particular marts; and, above all, providing that the Werowance, or chief of a tribe, should hold his position by the appointment of the Governor, and not by the choice of his braves. This last provision, which struck at the very independence of the tribes, was so offensive, that peaceable relations with the Indians could not long be maintained. Add to this the fact, which for its inhumanity is scarcely credible, that the English at Monados, now the island of New York, had, with a view of controlling the monopoly of the trade in furs and skins, inspired the Indians with a bitter hostility toward the Virginians, and it will easily be seen that the magazine of discontent needed but a spark to explode in open hostility.

So much is necessary to be premised in order that the reader may understand the relations which existed, at this period, between the colonists and the Indians around them.

CHAPTER VIII.

“And in, the buskined hunters of the deer,
To Albert's home with shout and cymbal throng.”
Campbell.

The surprise and horror with which the intelligence of this impending attack was received by the family at Windsor Hall may be better imagined than described. Manteo, the leader of the party, a young Indian of the Pamunkey tribe, was well known to them all. With his sister, the young girl whom we have described, he lived quietly in his little wigwam, a few miles from the hall, and in his intercourse with the family had been friendly and even affectionate. But with all this, he was still ardently devoted to his race, and thirsting for fame; and stung by what he conceived the injustice of the whites, he had leagued himself in an enterprise, which, regardless of favour or friendship, was dictated by revenge.

It was, alas! too late to hope for escape from the hall, or to send to the neighboring plantations for assistance; and, to add to their perplexity, the whole force of the farm, white servants and black, had gone to a distant field, where it was scarcely possible that they could hear of the attack until it was too late to contribute their aid in the defence. But with courage and resolution the gentlemen prepared to make such defence or resistance as was in their power, and, indeed, from the unsettled character of the times, a planter's house was no mean fortification against the attacks of the Indians. Early in the history of the colony, it was found necessary, for the general safety, to enact laws requiring each planter to provide suitable means of defence, in case of any sudden assault by the hostile tribes. Accordingly, the doors to these country mansions were made of the strongest material, and in some cases, and such was the case at Windsor Hall, were lined on the interior by a thick sheet of iron. The windows, too, or such as were low enough to be scaled from the ground, were protected by shutters of similar material. Every planter had several guns, and a sufficient store of ammunition for defence. Thus it will be seen that Windsor Hall, protected by three vigorous men, well armed and stout of heart, was no contemptible fortress against the rude attacks of a few savages, whose number in all probability would not exceed twenty. The greatest apprehension was from fire; but, strange to say, the savages but seldom resorted to this mode of vengeance, except when wrought up to the highest state of excitement.[7]

“At any rate,” said the brave old Colonel, “we will remain where we are until threatened with fire, and then at least avenge our lives with the blood of these infamous wretches.”

The doors and lower windows had been barricaded, and the three men, armed to the teeth, stood ready in the hall for the impending attack. Virginia and her mother were there, the former pale as ashes, but suppressing her emotions with a violent effort in order to contribute to her mother's comfort. In fact, the old lady, notwithstanding her boast of bravery on the evening before, stood in need of all the consolation that her daughter could impart. She vented her feelings in screams as loud as those of the Indians she feared, and refused to be comforted. Virginia, forgetful of her own equal danger, leant tenderly over her mother, who had thrown herself upon a sofa, and whispered those sweet words of consolation, which religion can alone suggest in the hour of our trial:

“Mother, dear mother,” she said, “remember that although earthly strength should fail, we are yet in the hands of One who is mighty.”

“Well, and what if we are,” cried her mother, whose faith was like that of the old lady, who, when the horses ran away with her carriage, trusted in Providence till the breeching broke. “Well, and what if we are, if in a few minutes our scalps may be taken by these horrible savages?”

“But, dear mother, He has promised—”

“Oh, I don't know whether he has or not—but as sure as fate there they come,” and the old lady relapsed into her hysterics.

“Mother, mother, remember your duty as a Christian—remember in whom you have put your trust,” said Virginia, earnestly.

“Oh, yes, that's the way. Of course I know nothing of my duty, and I don't pretend to be as good as others. I am nothing but a poor, weak old woman, and must be reminded of my duty by my daughter, although I was a Christian long before she was born. But, for my part, I think it's tempting Providence to bear such a judgment with so much indifference.”

“But, Bessy,” interposed the Colonel, seeing Virginia was silent under this unusual kind of argument, “your agitation will only make the matter worse. If you give way thus, we cannot be as ready and cool in action as we should. Come now, dear Bessy, calm yourself.”

“Oh, yes, it's well to say that, after bringing me all the way into this wild country, to be devoured by these wild Indians. Oh, that I should ever have consented to leave my quiet home in dear old England for this! And all because a protector reigned instead of a king. Protector, forsooth; I would rather have a hundred protectors at this moment than one king.”

“Father,” said Virginia, in a tremulous voice, “had we not better retire to some other part of the house? We can only incommode you here.”

“Right, my girl,” said her father. “Take your mother up stairs into your room, and try and compose her.”

“Take me, indeed,” said his worthy spouse. “Colonel Temple, you speak as if I was a baby, to be carried about as you choose. I assure you, I will not budge a foot from you.”

“Stay where you are then,” replied Temple, impatiently, “and for God's sake be calm. Ha! now my boys—here they come!” and a wild yell, which seemed to crack the very welkin, announced the appearance of the enemy.

“I think we had all better go to the upper windows,” said Hansford, calmly. “There is nothing to be done by being shut up in this dark hall; while there, protected from their arrows, we may do some damage to the enemy. If we remain, our only chance is to make a desperate sally, in which we would be almost certainly destroyed.”

“Mr. Hansford,” said Virginia, “give me a gun—there is one left—and you shall see that a young girl, in an hour of peril like this, knows how to aid brave men in her own defence.”

Hansford bent an admiring glance upon the heroic girl, as he placed the weapon in her hands, while her father said, with rapture, “God bless you, my daughter. If your arm were strong as your heart is brave, you had been a hero. I retract what I said on yesterday,” he added in a whisper, with a sad smile, “for you have this day proved yourself worthy to be a brave man's wife.”

The suggestion of Hansford was readily agreed upon, and the little party were soon at their posts, shielded by the windows from the attack of the Indians, and yet in a position from which they could annoy the enemy considerably by their own fire. From his shelter there, Bernard, to whom the sight was entirely new, could see rushing towards the hall, a party of about twenty savages, painted in the horrible manner which they adopt to inspire terror in a foe, and attired in that strange wild costume, which is now familiar to every school-boy. Their leader, a tall, athletic young Indian, surpassed them all in the hideousness of his appearance. His closely shaven hair was adorned with a tall eagle's feather, and pendant from his ears were the rattles of the rattlesnake. The only garment which concealed his nakedness was a short smock, or apron, reaching from his waist nearly to his knees, and made of dressed deer skin, adorned with beads and shells. Around his neck and wrists were strings of peake and roanoke. His face was painted in the most horrible manner, with a ground of deep red, formed from the dye of the pocone root, and variegated with streaks of blue, yellow and green. Around his eyes were large circles of green paint. But to make his appearance still more hideous, feathers and hair were stuck all over his body, upon the fresh paint, which made the warrior look far more like some wild beast of the forest than a human being.

Brandishing a tomahawk in one hand, and holding a carbine in the other, Manteo, thus disguised, led on his braves with loud yells towards the mansion of Colonel Temple. How different from the respectful demeanour, and more modest attire, in which he was accustomed to appear before the family of Windsor Hall.

To the great comfort of the inmates, his carbine was the only one in the party, thanks to the wise precaution of the Assembly, in restricting the sale of such deadly weapons to the Indians. His followers, arrayed in like horrible costume with himself, followed on with their tomahawks and bows; their arrows were secured in a quiver slung over the shoulder, which was formed of the skins of foxes and raccoons, rendered more terrible by the head of the animal being left unsevered from the skin. To the loud shrieks and yells of their voices, was added the unearthly sound of their drums and rattles—the whole together forming a discordant medley, which, as brave old John Smith has well and quaintly observed, “would rather affright than delight any man.”

All this the besieged inmates of the hall saw with mingled feelings of astonishment and dread, awaiting with intense anxiety the result.

“Now be perfectly quiet,” said Hansford, in a low tone, for, by tacit consent, he was looked upon as the leader of the defence. “The house being closed, they may conclude that the family are absent, and so, after their first burst of vengeance, retire. Their bark is always worse than their bite.”

Such indeed seemed likely to be the case, for the Indians, arrived at the porch, looked around with some surprise at the barred doors and windows, and began to confer together. Whatever might have been the event of their conference, their actions, however, were materially affected by an incident which, though intended for the best, was well nigh resulting in destruction to the whole family.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This fact, which I find mentioned by several historians, is explained by Kercheval, in his history of the Valley of Virginia, by the supposition that the Indians for a long time entertained the hope of reconquering the country, and saved property from destruction which might be of use to them in the future. See page 90 of Valley of Va.

CHAPTER IX.

“Like gun when aimed at duck or plover,
Kicks back and knocks the shooter over.”

There was at Windsor Hall, an old family servant, known alike to the negroes and the “white folks,” by the familiar appellation of Uncle Giles. He was one of those old-fashioned negroes, who having borne the heat and burden of the day, are turned out to live in comparative freedom, and supplied with everything that can make their declining years comfortable and happy. Uncle Giles, according to his own account, was sixty-four last Whitsuntide, and was consequently born in Africa. It is a singular fact connected with this race, that whenever consulted about their age, they invariably date the anniversary of their birth at Christmas, Easter or Whitsuntide, the triennial holydays to which they are entitled. Whether this arises from the fact that a life which is devoted to the service of others should commence with a holyday, or whether these three are the only epochs known to the negro, is a question of some interest, but of little importance to our narrative. So it was, that old uncle Giles, in his own expressive phrase was, “after wiking all his born days, done turn out to graze hisself to def.” The only business of the old man was to keep himself comfortable in winter by the kitchen fire, and in summer to smoke his old corn-cob pipe on the three legged bench that stood at the kitchen door. Added to this, was the self-assumed duty of “strapping” the young darkies, and lecturing the old ones on the importance of working hard, and obeying “old massa,” cheerfully in everything. And so old uncle Giles, with white and black, with old and young, but especially with old uncle Giles himself, was a great character. Among other things that increased his inordinate self-esteem, was the possession of a rusty old blunderbuss, which, long since discarded as useless by his master, had fallen into his hands, and was regarded by him and his sable admirers as a pearl of great price.

Now it so happened, that on the morning to which our story refers, uncle Giles was quietly smoking his pipe, and muttering solemnly to himself in that grumbling tone so peculiar to old negroes. When he learned, however, of the intended attack of the Indians, the old man, who well remembered the earlier skirmishes with the savages, took his old blunderbuss from its resting-place above the door of the kitchen, and prepared himself for action. The old gun, which owing to the growing infirmities of its possessor, had not been called into use for years, was now rusted from disuse and neglect; and a bold spider had even dared to seek, not the bubble reputation, but his more substantial gossamer palace, at the very mouth of the barrel. Notwithstanding all this, the gun had all the time remained loaded, for Giles was too rigid an economist to waste a charge without some good reason. Armed with this formidable weapon, Giles succeeded in climbing up the side of the low cabin kitchen, by the logs which protruded from either end of the wall. Arrived at the top and screening himself behind the rude log and mud chimney, he awaited with a patience and immobility which Wellington might have envied, the arrival of the foe. Here then he was quietly seated when the conference to which we have alluded took place between the Indian warriors.