THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE.

A SOUTHERN NOVELET.

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BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

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To the reader who, in the pursuit of the facts in our national history, shall confine himself only to those records which are to be found in the ordinary narrative, much that he reads will be found obscure, and a great deal absolutely untruthful. Our early historians gave themselves but little trouble in searching after details. A general outline was all that they desired, and, satisfied with this, they neither sought after the particular events which should give rise to the narrative, nor into the latent causes which gave birth to many of its actions. In the history of South Carolina, for example, (which was one brimming with details and teeming with incidents,) there is little to be found—as the history is at present written—which shall afford to the reader even a tolerably correct idea of the domestic character of the struggle. We know well enough that the people of the colony were of a singularly heterogeneous character; that the settlers of the lower country were chiefly Cavaliers and Huguenots, or French Protestants, and that the interior was divided into groups, or settlements, of Scotch, Irish, and German. But there is little in the record to show that, of these, the sentiment was mixed and various without degree; and that, with the exception of the parishes of the lower country, which belonged almost wholly, though with slight modifications, to the English church, it was scarcely possible to find any neighborhood, in which there was not something like a civil war. The interior and mountain settlements were most usually divided, and nearly equally, between their attachments to the crown and the colony. A Scotch settlement would make an almost uniform showing in behalf of the English authority—one, two, or three persons, at the utmost, being of the revolutionary party. An Irish settlement (wholly Protestant, be it remembered) would be as unanimous for the colonial movements; while the Germans were but too frequently for the monarchical side, that being represented by a prince of Hanover. The German settlements mostly lay in the Forks of Edisto, and along the Congarees. The business of the present narrative will be confined chiefly to this people. They had settled in rather large families in Carolina, and this only a short period before the Revolution. They had been sent out, in frequent instances, at the expense of the crown, and this contributed to secure their allegiance. They were ignorant of the nature of the struggle, and being wholly agricultural, could not well be taught the nature of grievances which fell chiefly upon commerce and the sea-board. Now, in Carolina, and perhaps throughout the whole south, the Revolution not only originated with the natives of the country, but with the educated portions of the natives. It was what may be termed the gentlemen of the colony—its wealth and aristocracy—with whom and which the movement began; and though it is not our purpose here to go into this inquiry, we may add that the motives to the revolutionary movement originated with them, in causes totally different from those which stimulated the patriotism of the people of Massachusetts Bay. The pride of place, of character and of intellect, and not any considerations of interest, provoked the agricultural gentry of the south into the field.

It was the earnest desire of these gentry, at the dawning of the Revolution, to conciliate the various people of the interior. At the first signs of the struggle, therefore, an attempt was made to influence the German population along the Edisto and Congaree, by sending among them two influential men of their own country, whose fidelity to themouvementparty was beyond dispute. But these men were unsuccessful. They probably made few converts. It is enough, if we give a glimpse at the course of their proceedings in a single household in the Forks of Edisto.[5]George Wagner and Felix Long arrived at the habitation of Frederick Sabb, on the 7th day of July, 1775. Frederick was an honest Dutchman of good character, but not the man for revolution. He was not at home on the arrival of the commissioners, but his goodvrow, Minnicker Sabb, gave them a gracious reception. She was a good housekeeper, with but one daughter; a tall, silent girl, with whom the commissioners had no discourse. But Minnicker Sabb, hadshebeen applied to, might have proved a better revolutionist than her spouse. It is very certain, as the results will show, that Frederica Sabb, the daughter, was of the right material. She was a calm, and sweetly-minded damsel, not much skilled in society or books—for precious little was the degree of learning in the settlement at this early period; but the native mind was good and solid, and her natural tastes, if unsophisticated, were pure and elevated. She knew, by precious instincts, a thousand things which other minds scarcely ever reach through the best education. She was what we call, a good girl, loyal, with a warm heart, a sound judgment, and a modest, sensible behavior. We are not seeking, be it remembered, a heroine, but a pure, true-hearted woman. She was young too—only seventeen at this period—but just at the season when the woman instincts are most lively, and her susceptibilities most quick toall that is generous and noble. She made the cakes and prepared the supper for the guests that evening, and they saw but little of her till the evening feast had been adjusted, and was about to be discussed. By this time old Frederick Sabb had made his appearance. He came, bringing with him three of his neighbors, who were eager to hear the news. They were followed, after a little space, and in season for supper, by another guest—perhaps the most welcome of all to the old couple—in the person of a favorite preacher of the Methodist persuasion. Elijah Fields, was a man of middle age, of a vigorous mind and body, earnest and impetuous, and represented, with considerable efficiency, in his primitive province, the usefulness of a church which, perhaps, more than any other, has modeled itself after that of the Primitive Fathers. We shall see more of Elijah Fields hereafter. In the course of the evening, three other neighbors made their appearance at the farm-house of Frederick Sabb; making a goodly congregation upon which to exercise the political abilities of Messrs. Wagner and Long. They were all filled with a more or less lively curiosity in regard to the events which were in progress, and the objects which the commissioners had in view. Four of these neighbors were of the same good old German stock with Frederick Sabb, but two of them were natives of the country, from the east bank of the north branch of the Edisto, who happened to be on a visit to an adjoining farmstead. The seventh of these was a young Scotchman, from Cross Creek, North Carolina, who had already declared himself very freely against the revolutionary movement. He had, indeed, gone so far as to designate the patriots as traitors, deserving a short cord and a sudden shrift; and this opinion was expressed with a degree of temper which did not leave it doubtful that he would gladly seek an opportunity to declare himself offensively in the presence of the commissioners. As we shall see more of this person hereafter, it is only right that we should introduce him formally to the reader as Matthew or Mat Dunbar. He went much more frequently by the name of Mat than Matthew. We may also mention that he was not entirely a politician. A feeling of a tender nature brought him to the dwelling of old Sabb, upon whose daughter, Frederica, our young Scotchman was supposed to look with hungry eyes. And public conjecture did not err in its suspicions.

But Mat Dunbar was not without a rival. Richard Coulter was the only native of the country present, Parson Fields excepted. He was a tall, manly youth, about the same age with Dunbar. But he possessed many advantages over the latter, particularly in respect to person. Tall, while Dunbar was short, with a handsome face, fine eye, and a luxuriant shock of hair, and a massive beard of the same color, which gave quite a martial appearance to his features, otherwise effeminate—the spectator inevitably contrasted him with his rival, whose features, indeed, were fair, but inexpressive; and whose hair and beard were of the most burning and unmitigated red. Though stout of limb, vigorous and athletic, Mat Dunbar was awkward in his movement, and wanting in dignity of bearing. Mentally, the superiority of Coulter was not so manifest. He was more diffident and gentle than the other, who, experienced by travel, bold and confident, never exhibited himself at less than his real worth. These preliminaries must suffice. It is perhaps scarcely necessary to say that Frederica Sabb madehercomparisons between the two, and very soon arrived at one conclusion. A girl of common instincts rarely fails to discover whether she is sought or not; and the same instinctslead her generally to determine between rivals long in advance of the moment when they propose. Richard Coulter was certainly her favorite—though her prudence was of that becoming kind which enabled her easily to keep to herself the secret of her preference.

Old Sabb treated his guests with good Dutch hospitality. His wife and daughter were excellent housekeepers, and the table was soon spread with good things for supper. Butter, milk, and cream-cheeses, were not wanting; pones and hoe-cakes made an ample showing, and a few boiled chickens, and a large platter of broiled ham, in the centre of the table, was as much a matter of course in that early day, in this favorite region, as we find them among its good livers now. Of course, supper was allowed to be discussed before the commissioners opened their budget. Then the goodvrowtook her place, knitting in hand, and a huge ball of cotton in her lap, at the door, while the guests emerged from the hall into the piazza, and sweet Frederica Sabb, quietly, as was her habit, proceeded to put away thedebrisof the feast, and to restore the apartment to its former order. In this she was undisturbed by either of her lovers; the custom of the country requiring that she should be left to these occupations without being embarrassed by any obtrusive sentiments, or even civilities. But it might be observed that Richard Coulter had taken his seat in the piazza, at a window looking into the hall, while Mat Dunbar had placed himself nearly at the entrance, and in close neighborhood with the industrious dame. Here he divided himself with attentions to her, and an occasional dip into the conversation on politics, which was now fully in progress. It is not our purpose to pursue this conversation. The arguments of the commissioners can be readily conjectured. But they were fruitless to persuade our worthy Dutchman into any change, or any self-committals, the issue of which might endanger present comforts and securities. He had still the same answer to every argument, delivered in a broken English which we need not imitate.

“The king, George, has been a good king to me, my friends. I was poor, but I am not poor now. I had not a finger of land before I came hither. Now, I have good grants, and many acres. I am doing well. For what should I desire to do better? The good king will not take away my grants; but if I should hear to you, I should be rebel, and then he would be angry, and he might make me poor again as I never was before. No, no, my friends; I will sign no association, that shall make me lose my lands.”

“You’re right!” vociferated Mat Dunbar. “It’s treason, I say, to sign any association, and all these rangers here, in arms, are in open rebellion; and should be hung for it; and let the time come, and I’m one to help in the hanging them!”

This was only one of many such offensive speeches which Dunbar had contrived to make during the evening. The commissioners contented themselves withmarkingthe individual, but without answering him. But his rudely expressed opinions were not pleasing to old Sabb himself, and still less so to his worthyvrow, who withdrew at this into the hall; while the stern voice of Elijah Fields descended in rebuke upon the offender.

“And who art thou,” said he, abruptly, “to sit in judgment upon thy brethren? And who has commissioned thee to lend thyself to the taking of human life. Life is a sacred thing, young man—the most precious of human possessions, since it depends on the time which is allowed us whether we shall ever be fit for eternity. To one so young as thyself, scarcely yet entered on thy career as a man, it might be well to remember that modesty is the jewel of youth, and that when so many of the great and good of the land have raised their voices against the oppressions of the mother country, there may be good reason why we, who know but little, should respect them, and listen till we learn. If thou wilt be counseled by me, thou wilt hearken patiently to these worthy gentlemen, that we may know all the merits of their argument.”

Dunbar answered this rebuke with a few muttered sentences, which were hardly intelligible, making no concessions to the preacher or the commissioners, yet without being positively offensive. Richard Coulter was more prudent. He preserved a profound silence. But he was neither unobservant nor indifferent. As yet he had taken no side in the controversy, and was totally uncommitted among the people. But he had been a listener, and was quietly chewing the cud of self-reflection.

After a little while, leaving the venerable signiors still engaged in the discussion—for Wagner and Long, the commissioners, were not willing to forego the hope of bringing over a man of Sabb’s influence—the young men strolled out into the grounds, where their horses had been fastened. It was almost time to ride. As they walked, the Scotchman broke out abruptly:

“These fellows ought to be hung, every scoundrel of them; stirring up the country to insurrection and treason; but a good lesson of hickories, boys, might put a stop to it quite as well as the halter! What say you? They ride over to old Carter’s, after they leave daddy Sabb’s, and it’s a lonesome track! If you agree, we’ll stop ’em at Friday’s flats, and trice ’em up to a swinging limb. We’re men enough for it, and who’s afraid?”

The proposition was received with great glee by all the young fellows, with one exception. It was a proposition invoking sport rather than patriotism. When the more eager responses were all received, Richard Coulter quietly remarked:

“No, no, boys; you must do nothing of the kind. These are good men, and old enough to be the fathers of any of us. Besides, they’re strangers, and think they’re doing right. Let ’em alone.”

“Well, if you wont;” said Dunbar, “we can do without you. There are four of us, and they’re but two.”

“You mistake,” replied Coulter, still quietly, “they are three!”

“How! who!”

“Wagner, Long, and Richard Coulter!”

“What, you! Will you put yourself against us? You go with the rebels, then?”

“I go with the strangers; I don’t know much about the rebellion, but I think there’s good sense in what they say. At all events, I’ll not stand by and see them hurt, if I can help it.”

“Two or three boys,” continued Dunbar, “will make no difference!”

This was said with a significant toss of the head toward Coulter. The instincts of these young men were true. They already knew one another as rivals. This discovery may have determined the future course of Coulter. He did not reply to Dunbar; but, addressing his three companions, he said, calling each by his Christian name, “You, boys, had better not mix in this matter before it’s necessary. I suppose the time will come, when there can be no skulking. But it’s no use to hurry into trouble. As for four of you managing three, that’s not impossible; but I reckon there will be a fight first. These strangers may have weapons; but whether they have or not, they look like men; and I reckon, you that know me, know that before my back tastes of any man’s hickory, my knife would be likely to taste his blood.”

Dunbar replied rudely for the rest; and, but that Coulter quietly withdrew at this moment, seemingly unruffled, and without making any answer, there might have been a struggle between the two rivals even then. But the companions of Dunbar had no such moods or motives as prompted him. They were impressed by what Coulter had said, and were, perhaps, quite as much under his influence as under that of Dunbar. They accordingly turned a cold shoulder upon all his exhortations, and the commissioners, accordingly, left the house of old Sabb in safety, attended by young Coulter. They little knew his object in escorting them to the dwelling of Bennett Carter, where they staid that night, and never knew the danger from which his prompt and manly courage had saved them. But the events of that night brought out Richard Coulter for the cause of the patriots; and a few months found him a second-lieutenant in a gallant corps of Thompson’s Rangers, raised for the defense of the colony. But the commissioners parted from Frederick Sabb without making any impression on his mind. He professed to desire to preserve a perfect neutrality—this being the suggestion of his selfishness; but his heart really inclined him to the support of the “goot King Jorge,” from whom his grants of land had been derived.

“And what dost thou think, brother Fields,” said he to the parson, after the commissioners had retired.

“Brother Sabb,” was the answer, “I do not see that we need any king any more than the people of Israel, when they called upon Samuel for one; and if we are to have one, I do not see why we should not choose one from out our own tribes.”

“Brother Fields, I hope thou dost not mean to go with these rebels?”

“Brother Sabb, I desire always to go with my own people.”

“And whom callest thou our own people.”

“Those who dwell upon the soil and nurse it, and make it flourish, who rear their flocks and children upon it, in the fear of God, and have no fear of man in doing so.”

“Brother Fields, I fear thou thinkst hardly of ‘goot King Jorge,’” said our Dutchman, with a sigh. “Minnicker, myvrow, got you de Piple.”

[5]So called from the branching of the river at a certain point—the country between the two arms being called the Forks, and settled chiefly by native Germans.

[5]

So called from the branching of the river at a certain point—the country between the two arms being called the Forks, and settled chiefly by native Germans.

——

We pass over a long interval of quite three years. The vicissitudes of the Revolution had not materially affected the relations of the several parties to our narrative. During this period the patriots of South Carolina had been uniformly successful. They had beaten away the British from their chief city, and had invariably chastised the loyalists in all their attempts to make a diversion in favor of the foreign enemy. But events were changing. These performances had not been effected but at great sacrifice of blood and treasure, and a formidable British invasion found the State no longer equal to its defense. Charleston, the capital city, after frequent escapes, and a stout and protracted defense, had succumbed to the besiegers, who had now penetrated the interior, covering it with their strongholds, and coercing it with their arms. For a brief interval, all opposition to their progress seemed to be at an end within the State. She had no force in the field, stunned by repeated blows, and waiting, though almost hopeless of her opportunity. In the meantime, where was Richard Coulter? A fugitive, lyingperdueither in the swamps of Edisto or Congaree, with few companions, all similarly reduced in fortune, and pursued with a hate and fury the most unscrupulous and unrelenting, by no less a person than Matthew Dunbar, now a captain of loyalists in the service of George the Third. The position of Coulter was in truth very pitiable; but he was not without his consolations. The interval which had elapsed since our first meeting with him, had ripened his intimacy with Frederica Sabb. His affections had not been so unfortunate as his patriotism. With the frank impulse of a fond and feeling heart, he had appealed to hers, in laying bare the secret of his own; and he had done so successfully. She, with as frank a nature, freely gave him her affections, while she did not venture to bestow on him her hand. His situation was not such as to justify their union—and her father positively forbade the idea of such a connection. Though not active among the loyalists, he was now known to approve of their sentiments; and while giving them all the aid and comfort in his power, without actually showing himself in armor, he as steadily turned a cold and unwilling front to the patriots, and all those who went against the monarch. The visits of Richard Coulter to Frederica were all stolen ones, perhaps not the less sweet for being so. A storm sometimes brought him forth at nightfall from the shelter of the neighboring swamp, venturing abroad at a time when loyalty was supposed to keep its shelter. But these visits were always accompanied by considerable peril. The eye of Matthew Dunbar was frequently drawn in the direction of the fugitive, while his passions were always eager in the desire which led him to seek for this particular victim. The contest was a well-known issue of life and death. The fugitive patriot was predoomed always to the halter, by those who desired to pacify old revenges, or acquire new estates. Dunbar did not actually know that Coulter and Frederica Sabb were in the habit of meeting; but that they had met, he knew, and he had sworn their detection. He had become a declared suitor of that maiden, and the fears of old Sabb would not suffer him to decline his attentions to his daughter, or to declare against them. Dunbar had become notoriously an unmitigated ruffian. His insolence disgusted the old Dutchman, who, nevertheless, feared his violence and influence. Still, sustained by good old Minnicker Sabb, hisvrow, the father had the firmness to tell Dunbar freely, that his daughter’s affections should remain unforced; while the daughter herself, seeing the strait of her parents, was equally careful to avoid the final necessity of repulsing her repulsive suitor. She continued, by a happy assertion of maidenly dignity, to keep him at bay, without vexing his self-esteem; and to receive him with civility, without affording him positive encouragement. Such was the condition of things among our several parties, when the partisan war began; when the favorite native leaders in the South—the first panic of their people having passed—had rallied their little squads, in swamp and thicket, and were making those first demonstrations which began to disquiet the British authorities, rendering them doubtful of the conquests which they had so lately deemed secure. This, be it remembered, was after the defeat of Gates at Camden, when there was no sign of a Continental army within the State.

It was at the close of a cloudy afternoon, late in October, 1780, when Mat Dunbar, with a small command of eighteen mounted men, approached the well-known farmstead of Frederick Sabb. The road lay along the west bank of the eastern branch of the Edisto, inclining to or receding from the river, in correspondence with the width of the swamp, or the sinuosities of the stream. The farm of Sabb was bounded on one side by the river, and his cottage stood within a mile of it. Between, however, the lands were entirely uncleared. The woods offered a physical barrier to the malaria of the swamp; while the ground, though rich, was liable to freshet, and required a degree of labor in the drainages which it was not in the power of our good Dutchman to bestow. A single wagon-track led through the wood to the river from his house; and there may have been some half dozen irregular foot-paths tending in the same direction. Whenwithin half a mile from the house, Mat Dunbar pricked up his ears.

“That was surely the gallop of a horse,” he said to his lieutenant—a coarse, ruffianly fellow like himself, named Clymes.

“Where away?” demanded the other.

“To the left. Put in with a few of the boys, and see what can be found.”

Clymes did as he was bidden; but the moment he had disappeared, Dunbar suddenly wheeled into the forest also, putting spurs to his horse, and commanding his men to follow and scatter themselves in the wood. A keen suspicion was at the bottom of his sudden impulse; and with his pistol in his grasp, and his teeth set firmly, he darted away at a rate that showed the eagerness of the blood-hound, on a warm scent. In a few moments the wood was covered with his people, and their cries and halloes answering to each other, turned the whole solitude into a scene of the most animated life. Accustomed todrivethe woods for deer, his party pursued the same habit in their present quest, enclosing the largest extent of territory, and gradually contracting theircordonat a given point. It was not long before a certain degree of success seemed to justify their pursuit. A loud shout from Clymes, his lieutenant, drew the impetuous Dunbar to the place, and there he found the trooper, with two others of the party, firmly confronted by no less a person than Frederica Sabb. The maiden was very pale, but her lips were closely compressed together, and her eyes lightened with an expression which was not so much indicative of anger as of courage and resolve. As Dunbar rode up, she addressed him.

“You are bravely employed, Captain Dunbar, in hunting with your soldiers a feeble woman.”

“In faith, my dear Miss Sabb, we looked for very different game,” replied the leader, while a something sardonic played over his visage. “But perhaps you can put us in the way of finding it. You are surely not here alone?”

“And why not? You are within hail of my father’s dwelling.”

“But yours, surely, are not the tastes for lonely walks.”

“Alas! sir, these are scarcely the times for any other.”

“Well, you must permit me to see that your walks are in no danger from intrusion and insult. You will, no doubt, be confounded to hear that scattered bands of the rebels are supposed to be, even now, closely harbored in these swamps. That villain, Coulter, is known to be among them. It is to hunt up these outlyers—to protect you from their annoyances, that I am here now.”

“We can readily dispense with these services, CaptainDunbar. I do not think that we are in any danger from such enemies, and in this neighborhood.”

It was some effort to say this calmly.

“Nay, nay, you are quite too confident, my dear Miss Sabb. You know not the audacity of these rebels, and of this Richard Coulter in particular. But let me lay hands on him! You will hardly believe that he is scarce ten minutes gone from this spot. Did you not hear his horse?”

“I heard no horses but your own.”

“There it is! You walk the woods in such abstraction that you hear not the danger, though immediately at your ears. But disperse yourself in pursuit, my merry men, and whoso brings me the ears of this outlaw, shall have ten guineas, in the yellow gold itself. No Continental sham! Remember, his ears, boys! We do not want any prisoners. The trouble of hanging them out of the way is always wisely saved by a sabre-cut or pistol-bullet. There, away!”

The countenance of Frederica Sabb instantly assumed the keenest expression of alarm and anxiety. Her whole frame began to be agitated. She advanced to the side of the ruffianly soldier, and put her hand up appealingly.

“Oh! Captain Dunbar, will you not please go home with me, you and your men? It is now our supper hour, and the sun is near his setting. I pray you, do not think of scouring the woods at this late hour. Some of your people may be hurt.”

“No danger, my dear—all of them are famous fox-hunters.”

“There is no danger to us, believe me. There is nobody in the woods that we fear. Give yourself no trouble, nor your men.”

“Oh! you mistake, there is surely some one in this wood who is either in your way or mine—though you heard no horse.”

“Oh! now I recollect, sir, I did hear a horse, and it seemed to be going in that direction.”

Here the girl pointed below. The tory leader laughed outright.

“And so he went thither, did he? Well, my dear Miss Sabb, to please you, I will take up the hunt in the quarter directly opposite, since it is evident that your hearing just now is exceedingly deceptive. Boys, away! The back track, hark you—the old fox aims to double!”

“Oh, go not! Go not!” she urged, passionately.

“Will I not!” exclaimed the loyalist, gathering up his reins and backing his steed from her; “Will I not! Away, Clymes—away, boys; and remember, ten guineas for that hand which brings down the outlaw, Richard Coulter!”

Away they dashed into the forest, scattering themselves in the direction indicated by their leader. Frederica watched their departure with an anxious gaze, which disappeared from her eyes the moment they were out of sight. In an instant all her agitation ceased.

“Now, thank Heaven! for the thought!” she cried. “It will be quite dark before they find themselves at fault; and when they think to begin the search below, he will be wholly beyond their reach. But how to warn him against the meeting, as agreed on? The coming of this man forbids that. I must see! I must contrive it!” And with these muttered words of half meaning, she quietly made her way toward her father’s dwelling, secure of the presentsafety of her lover from pursuit. She had very successfully practiced a very simplerusefor his escape. Her apprehensions were only but admirably simulated; and in telling Dunbar that the fugitive had taken one direction, she naturally relied on his doubts of her truth, to make him seek the opposite. She had told him nothing but the truth, but she had told it as a falsehood; and it had all the effect which she desired. The chase of the tory captain proved unsuccessful.

——

It was quite dark before Captain Dunbar reached the cottage of Frederick Sabb, and he did so in no good humor. Disappointed of his prey, he now suspected the simpleruseby which he had been deluded, and his first salutation of Frederica Sabb, as he entered the cottage was in no friendly humor.

“There are certain birds,” said he, “Miss Sabb, who fly far from their young ones at the approach of the hunter, yet make such a fuss and outcry, as if the nest were close at hand, and in danger. I see you have learned to practice after their lessons.”

The girl involuntarily replied, “But, indeed, Captain Dunbar, I heard the horse go below.”

“I see you understand me,” was the answer. “I feel assured that you told me only the truth, but you had first put me in the humor not to believe it. Another time I shall know how to understandyou.”

Frederica smiled, but did not seek to excuse herself, proceeding all the while to the preparations for supper. This had been got in readiness especially for the arrival of Dunbar and his party. He, with Clymes, his first officer, had become inmates of the dwelling; but his troopers had encamped without, under instructions of particular vigilance. Meanwhile, supper proceeded, Sabb and hisvrowbeing very heedful of all the expressed or conjectured wants of their arbitrary guests. It was while the repast was in progress that Dunbar fancied that he beheld a considerable degree of uneasiness in the manner and countenance of Frederica. She ate nothing, and her mind and eyes seemed equally to wander. He suddenly addressed her, and she started as from a dream, at the sound of her own name, and answered confusedly.

“Something’s going wrong,” said Dunbar, in a whisper to Clymes; “we can put all right, however, if we try.”

A significant look accompanied the whisper, and made the second officer observant. When supper was concluded, the captain of the loyalists showed signs of great weariness. He yawned and stretched himself amazingly, and without much regard to propriety. A like weariness soon after exhibited itself in the second officer. At length Dunbar said to Old Sabb, using a style of address to which the old man was familiar, “Well, Uncle Fred, whenever my bed’s ready, say the word. I’m monstrous like sleep. I’ve ridden a matter of fifty miles to-day. In the saddle since four o’clock—and a hard saddle at that. I’m for sleep after supper.”

The old man, anxious to please his guest, whom he now began rather to fear than favor, gave him soon the intimation which he desired, and he was conducted to the small chamber, in a shed-room adjoining the main hall, which had been assigned him on all previous occasions. Old Sabb himself attended his guest, while Lieutenant Clymes remained, for a while longer, the companion of the old lady and her daughter. Dunbar soon released his host from further attendance by closing the door upon him, after bowing him out with thanks. He had scarcely done so, before he approached one of the two windows in the chamber. He knew the secrets of the room, and his plan of operations had been already determined upon. Concealing his light, so that his shadow might not appear against the window, he quietly unclosed the shutter so as to fix no attention by the sound. A great fig-tree grew near it, the branches in some degree preventing the shutter from going quite back against the wall. This afforded him additional cover to his proceedings, and he cautiously passed through the opening, and lightly descended to the ground. The height was inconsiderable, and he was enabled, with a small stick, to close the window after him. In another moment he passedunderthe house, which stood on logs four or five feet high, after the manner of the country, and took a crouching attitude immediately behind the steps in the rear of the building. From these steps to the kitchen was an interval of fifteen or eighteen yards, while the barn and other outhouses lay at convenient distances beyond. Shade trees were scattered about, and fruit trees, chiefly peach, rendering the space between something like a covered way. We need not inquire how long our captain of loyalists continued his watch in this unpleasant position. Patience, however, is quite as natural as necessary a quality to a temper at once passionate and vindictive. While he waited here, his lieutenant had left the house, scattered his men privily about the grounds, and had himself stolen to a perch which enabled him to command the front entrance to the cottage. The only two means of egress were thus effectually guarded.

In a little time the household was completely quiet. Dunbar had heard the mutterings, from above, of the family prayers, in which it was no part of his profession to partake; and had heard the footsteps of the old couple as they passed through the passage-way to the chamber opposite the dining hall. A chamber adjoining theirs was occupied by Frederica Sabb; but he listened in vain for her footsteps in that quarter. His watch was one calculated to try his patience, but it was finally rewarded. He heard the movement of a light foot over head, and soon the door opened in the rear of the dwelling, and he distinguished Frederica as she descended, step by step, to the ground. She paused, looked up and around her, and then, darting from tree to tree, she made her way to the kitchen, which opened at her touch. Here, in a whisper, she summoned to her side a negro, an old African, whom we may, at the same time, mention, had been her frequent emissary before, on missions such as she now designed. Brough, as he was called, was a faithful Ebo, who loved his youngmistress, and had shown himself particularly friendly to heraffaires de cœur. She put a paper into his hands, and her directions employed few words.

“Brough, you must set off for Massa Richard, and give him this. You must creep close, or the soldiers will catch you. I don’t know where they’ve gone, but no doubt they’re scattered in the woods. I have told him, in this paper, not to come, as he promised; but should you lose the paper—”

“I no guine loss ’em,” said Brough, seemingly rather displeased at the doubt, tacitly conveyed, of his carefulness.

“Such a thing might happen, Brough; nay, if you were to see any of the tories, you ought to destroy it. Hide it, tear it up, or swallow it, so that they won’t be able to read it.”

“I yerry, misses.”

“Very good! And now, when you see Massa Richard, tell him not to come. Tell him better go farther off, across the fork, and across the other river; for that Mat Dunbar means to push after him to-morrow, and has sworn to hunt him up before he stops. Tell him, I beg him, for my sake, though he may not be afraid of that bad man, to keep out of his way, at least until he gathers men enough to meet him on his own ground.”

The startling voice of Dunbar himself broke in upon the whispered conference. “Mat Dunbar is exceedingly obliged to you, Miss Sabb.”

“Ah!” shrieked the damsel—“Brough—fly, fly, Brough.” But Brough had no chance for flight.

“His wings are not sufficiently grown,” cried the loyalist, with a brutal yell, as he grappled the old negro by the throat, and hurled him to the ground. In the next moment he possessed himself of the paper, which he read with evident disappointment. By this time the sound of his bugle had summoned his lieutenant, with half a dozen of his followers, and the kitchen was completely surrounded.

“Miss Sabb, you had best retire to the dwelling. I owe you no favors, and will remember your avowed opinion, this night, for Mat Dunbar. You have spoken. It will be for me yet to speak. Lieutenant Clymes, see the young lady home.”

“But, sir, you will not maltreat the negro?”

“Oh! no! I mean only that he shall obey your commands. He shall carry this note to your favorite, just as you designed, with this difference only, that I shall furnish him with an escort.”

“Ah!”

Poor Frederica could say no more. Clymes was about to hurry her away, when a sense of her lover’s danger gave her strength.

“Brough;” she cried to the negro; “you won’t show where Massa Richard keeps?”

“Never show the tories not’ing, missis.”

The close gripe of Dunbar’s finger upon the throat of the negro, stifled his further speech. But Frederica was permitted to see no more. The hand of Clymes was laid upon her arm, and she went forward promptly to save herself from indignity. She little knew the scene that was to follow.

[To be continued.

THE SPIRIT LOVERS

AND THE SPIRIT BRIDAL.

———

BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

———

The twilight deepened—and its dusky shadesCrept through the crimson of the sunset clouds,To nestle darkly where some shining starLooped up the gorgeous foldings, as they hungLike Eden-banners, waving far aroundThe purple arches of a southern sky.From the deep forest aisles came up the wind,Low singing in its wand’ring, with the voiceOf softly chanting waves, and whisp’ring leaves.The silver moon came floating from the east,Like a young angel sleeping on the wing,Whose dream-smile glittered o’er the dewy earth,And trembling through an open casement, kissedA brow of maiden beauty slumbering there.The velvet drapery of her couch was tossedIn crimson waves around her, and aboveFell snowy veilings, bending like a wreathOf silvery vapor o’er a rosy sea;Carelessly graceful in her sweet repose,She rested like a lily on the stream,When drooping gently ’neath its own perfume.The dew of early youth was gleaming yetUpon her pure heart-blossoms, and the firstFaint blush of love within her spirit, wroughtRich blazonry upon their mystic leaves.In slumber, through her softly rounded limbsA radiant soul in bright expression stole,Like glimpses of the evening star amidThe pure white veiling of a pearly cloud.She watched the sunlight fade upon the hills,And star-flames kindle in the dusky sky—But now she rested in the land of dreams,To wait the coming of her Spirit-Love.He came—a vision whose bewildering eyesSeemed light ineffable in midnight skies—While plumes of waving frost-work, dashed with flakesOf golden sunbeams, glittered ’mid the foldsOf woven radiance floating round his form,Snow-flake and fire-drop wreathing into life,His gorgeous pinion shadowed o’er his Bride,His breath upon her cheek—his lightning glanceStole through the visions of her dreaming soul,As when the passion of the dying sunGlows o’er the bosom of a sleeping cloud,Till love’s wild worship wakes returning flame,And each in burning blushes dies away!As a fair volume, and a golden lyre,Wreathed by the tendrils of an opening rose,Her Mind, and Soul, and fresh expanding Heart,Lay bright before his spirit-searching ken,As one by one he softly laid asideThe crimson petals of that folded heart,To drink the honied fragrance of its love,The rose-bud thrilled and trembled into bloom,Its breeze his sigh—its sun his burning glance—Its dew-drop life his kisses wild and warm.He lingered o’er the pure, unsullied leavesOf Mind’s mysterious volume, and there came,Where’er he breathed upon the virgin page,Bright gems of glowing fancy, and deep thought,As magic characters come stealing forthIn loveliness before the breath of flame!His being brightened with a God-like smile,As, closely blended with each pictured thought,Hisimage, flashing into glorious life,Smiled back upon him from the glowing pageSo truthfully—then with the soft excessOf dreamy rapture ’wildered, fainting bowed,And blessed the sweet love-mirror, silently.Her soul in beauty, an Æolian lyre,Gleamed forth before him, where the voice of SongSlept like its spirit in a singing shell.His light caressing pinion swept its chords,And Joy’s bird-carol—Hope’s aerial tone—Pride’s sounding anthem—and the pæan wildOf young Ambition rolled in glory forth.He breathed upon it—and anon there swelled(As tears will gush from rapture-laden hearts)Her pure religion’s diapason deep;—Sweet under-tones of dreamy melancholy—And chords of feeling that erewhile had sleptIn voiceless music, and o’er all the themeAn ever-changing, ever-sounding tone,Was deep, immaculate, immortalLove!THE SPIRIT-BRIDAL.The Night had closed her eye of softest blue,And, like a wearied infant, sank to restOn Nature’s gentle bosom—Silence, pale,With a white finger on her marble lip,From which no lightest whisper ever came,Was bending o’er the dim and murmured deathOf every sound—and even Echo dreamed,As though a spirit’s wand had charmed her thereTo slumber deep as that Creation heldWhen Night was in the heavens!Still as the moonlight quivered through the vinesThat overhung the casement, it revealedThe rosy couch, beneath its silvery veil,As by its side the maiden knelt to pray.Oh! if there be on earth one blessing left—One leaf from out our faded Paradise—One ray of glory from the heaven we lost—It is, that we may pray for those we love!Without itmanmay live—his nature knowsNo soft dependence—panoplied in self,His haughty heart may burn to dash asideThe hand that formed it—and he may defyThe love that made him what he is—a god!Butwomannever—for her ivy soulMust have an oak to cling to; proud and highIts crest may be, or ruined, lightning-scathed,It matters not—and for it she must pray!Prayer is her nature’s pure necessity,To calm the sorrow that with lava streams,Pours its bewildering torrent o’er the soul,And when she feels it crushing darkly throughA bosom all too soft to stem its tideOf bitter, burning waters—then, for powerTo “suffer and be still,” that bosom prays.And oh! when human love has taught her heartTo dream ofoneandHeaven, how pants her soulTo pour that gushing feeling freely forth,In all its truth and deep intensity, beforeThe “God of love” who gave it!’Twas for thisThe gentle maiden meekly knelt to GodTill each pure love-beam from her violet eyeSeemed melting into passion’s orison.Warm feeling folded up its starry plumesTo bow before the altar-shrine of faith,And holy hopes looked from the golden shadesThat lay upon her soul, as angels bendO’er the bright foldings of the summer clouds,To woo us to the sky, from whence they come.Her eye grew dreamy, and her bosom heaved,As though within its cell some pleasant thoughtWere singing, and it rose and fell uponThe waves of that delicious melody.Her loosened hair swept o’er the sacred page,And, as her soul went forth in whispers low,It stirred the shadows with the breath of prayer.She oped the holy book, and as her lipTrembled upon the words, they sank withinHer woman’s nature as the snow-flake fallsAnd melts away into the earth’s warm bosom.Time, as he wandered by, had sighed the hourOf “twelve,” and for a moment midnight’s hushGrew tremulous, and echo as it fell,Swept o’er the tension of her listening earSoftly and thrillingly, and like to Love’sFirst breathings o’er an unawakened heart.Her voice grew fainter, as a music-vowStole sweetly in the cadence of her own—She felt the glory of an angel-wingAround her waving, and she knew the hour—Her Spirit-Lover claimed his Spirit-Bride!With pinions intertwining, arms enwreathedAnd fervid glances bathed in passion’s dream,They swept along the cloud-land pathway, whereThe constellations, from their silver urns,Poured incense light far down the “Milky-Way,”And o’er its misty pavement Cynthia flungA thousand rainbows, like the wreathed bloomOf bridal blossoms. Still they floated on,Far through the starry armaments that sweepIn endless circle round the battlementsOf Paradise—an everlasting guardHigh flaming round the Infinite;—at length,Within the presence-chamber of the Blest,They knelt before the Great Unchangeable,Whose love and mercy whispered audibly,“Forever be ye one—as God is One!”

The twilight deepened—and its dusky shades

Crept through the crimson of the sunset clouds,

To nestle darkly where some shining star

Looped up the gorgeous foldings, as they hung

Like Eden-banners, waving far around

The purple arches of a southern sky.

From the deep forest aisles came up the wind,

Low singing in its wand’ring, with the voice

Of softly chanting waves, and whisp’ring leaves.

The silver moon came floating from the east,

Like a young angel sleeping on the wing,

Whose dream-smile glittered o’er the dewy earth,

And trembling through an open casement, kissed

A brow of maiden beauty slumbering there.

The velvet drapery of her couch was tossed

In crimson waves around her, and above

Fell snowy veilings, bending like a wreath

Of silvery vapor o’er a rosy sea;

Carelessly graceful in her sweet repose,

She rested like a lily on the stream,

When drooping gently ’neath its own perfume.

The dew of early youth was gleaming yet

Upon her pure heart-blossoms, and the first

Faint blush of love within her spirit, wrought

Rich blazonry upon their mystic leaves.

In slumber, through her softly rounded limbs

A radiant soul in bright expression stole,

Like glimpses of the evening star amid

The pure white veiling of a pearly cloud.

She watched the sunlight fade upon the hills,

And star-flames kindle in the dusky sky—

But now she rested in the land of dreams,

To wait the coming of her Spirit-Love.

He came—a vision whose bewildering eyes

Seemed light ineffable in midnight skies—

While plumes of waving frost-work, dashed with flakes

Of golden sunbeams, glittered ’mid the folds

Of woven radiance floating round his form,

Snow-flake and fire-drop wreathing into life,

His gorgeous pinion shadowed o’er his Bride,

His breath upon her cheek—his lightning glance

Stole through the visions of her dreaming soul,

As when the passion of the dying sun

Glows o’er the bosom of a sleeping cloud,

Till love’s wild worship wakes returning flame,

And each in burning blushes dies away!

As a fair volume, and a golden lyre,

Wreathed by the tendrils of an opening rose,

Her Mind, and Soul, and fresh expanding Heart,

Lay bright before his spirit-searching ken,

As one by one he softly laid aside

The crimson petals of that folded heart,

To drink the honied fragrance of its love,

The rose-bud thrilled and trembled into bloom,

Its breeze his sigh—its sun his burning glance—

Its dew-drop life his kisses wild and warm.

He lingered o’er the pure, unsullied leaves

Of Mind’s mysterious volume, and there came,

Where’er he breathed upon the virgin page,

Bright gems of glowing fancy, and deep thought,

As magic characters come stealing forth

In loveliness before the breath of flame!

His being brightened with a God-like smile,

As, closely blended with each pictured thought,

Hisimage, flashing into glorious life,

Smiled back upon him from the glowing page

So truthfully—then with the soft excess

Of dreamy rapture ’wildered, fainting bowed,

And blessed the sweet love-mirror, silently.

Her soul in beauty, an Æolian lyre,

Gleamed forth before him, where the voice of Song

Slept like its spirit in a singing shell.

His light caressing pinion swept its chords,

And Joy’s bird-carol—Hope’s aerial tone—

Pride’s sounding anthem—and the pæan wild

Of young Ambition rolled in glory forth.

He breathed upon it—and anon there swelled

(As tears will gush from rapture-laden hearts)

Her pure religion’s diapason deep;—

Sweet under-tones of dreamy melancholy—

And chords of feeling that erewhile had slept

In voiceless music, and o’er all the theme

An ever-changing, ever-sounding tone,

Was deep, immaculate, immortalLove!

THE SPIRIT-BRIDAL.

The Night had closed her eye of softest blue,

And, like a wearied infant, sank to rest

On Nature’s gentle bosom—Silence, pale,

With a white finger on her marble lip,

From which no lightest whisper ever came,

Was bending o’er the dim and murmured death

Of every sound—and even Echo dreamed,

As though a spirit’s wand had charmed her there

To slumber deep as that Creation held

When Night was in the heavens!

Still as the moonlight quivered through the vines

That overhung the casement, it revealed

The rosy couch, beneath its silvery veil,

As by its side the maiden knelt to pray.

Oh! if there be on earth one blessing left—

One leaf from out our faded Paradise—

One ray of glory from the heaven we lost—

It is, that we may pray for those we love!

Without itmanmay live—his nature knows

No soft dependence—panoplied in self,

His haughty heart may burn to dash aside

The hand that formed it—and he may defy

The love that made him what he is—a god!

Butwomannever—for her ivy soul

Must have an oak to cling to; proud and high

Its crest may be, or ruined, lightning-scathed,

It matters not—and for it she must pray!

Prayer is her nature’s pure necessity,

To calm the sorrow that with lava streams,

Pours its bewildering torrent o’er the soul,

And when she feels it crushing darkly through

A bosom all too soft to stem its tide

Of bitter, burning waters—then, for power

To “suffer and be still,” that bosom prays.

And oh! when human love has taught her heart

To dream ofoneandHeaven, how pants her soul

To pour that gushing feeling freely forth,

In all its truth and deep intensity, before

The “God of love” who gave it!

’Twas for this

The gentle maiden meekly knelt to God

Till each pure love-beam from her violet eye

Seemed melting into passion’s orison.

Warm feeling folded up its starry plumes

To bow before the altar-shrine of faith,

And holy hopes looked from the golden shades

That lay upon her soul, as angels bend

O’er the bright foldings of the summer clouds,

To woo us to the sky, from whence they come.

Her eye grew dreamy, and her bosom heaved,

As though within its cell some pleasant thought

Were singing, and it rose and fell upon

The waves of that delicious melody.

Her loosened hair swept o’er the sacred page,

And, as her soul went forth in whispers low,

It stirred the shadows with the breath of prayer.

She oped the holy book, and as her lip

Trembled upon the words, they sank within

Her woman’s nature as the snow-flake falls

And melts away into the earth’s warm bosom.

Time, as he wandered by, had sighed the hour

Of “twelve,” and for a moment midnight’s hush

Grew tremulous, and echo as it fell,

Swept o’er the tension of her listening ear

Softly and thrillingly, and like to Love’s

First breathings o’er an unawakened heart.

Her voice grew fainter, as a music-vow

Stole sweetly in the cadence of her own—

She felt the glory of an angel-wing

Around her waving, and she knew the hour—

Her Spirit-Lover claimed his Spirit-Bride!

With pinions intertwining, arms enwreathed

And fervid glances bathed in passion’s dream,

They swept along the cloud-land pathway, where

The constellations, from their silver urns,

Poured incense light far down the “Milky-Way,”

And o’er its misty pavement Cynthia flung

A thousand rainbows, like the wreathed bloom

Of bridal blossoms. Still they floated on,

Far through the starry armaments that sweep

In endless circle round the battlements

Of Paradise—an everlasting guard

High flaming round the Infinite;—at length,

Within the presence-chamber of the Blest,

They knelt before the Great Unchangeable,

Whose love and mercy whispered audibly,

“Forever be ye one—as God is One!”

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