My father had destined me for a lawyer, there being at that time need
for one in our valley--a fact which sounds strangely now, when knights
of quill and ink horn are everywhere so numerous. An accumulation of
legal lore requiring, as was then thought, the deep laid foundation of a
thorough classical education, I was sent, after old David Ramsey had
imparted to me such measure of his learning as his failing powers
permitted, to the Augusta Academy, to continue my Greek and Latin, while
at the same time I read Coke and Blackstone, and practiced on legal
forms.
We had just begun a second session of eleven months, and I flattered
myself I was making some progress in comprehending the great underlying
principles of law, as well as in unlearning certain faults of
pronunciation and scanning acquired under old David, when my studies
encountered a sudden interruption in an event whose influence upon my
after life was of sufficient importance to justify me in briefly
recording it.
The class room that August afternoon was hot and buzzing, and most of
the lads in the Greek class awaited the coming of the master with a sort
of drowsy impatience, while a few bent their eyes upon well thumbed
books, and read the coming lesson over greedily, hoping to make up for
previous neglect by diligent use of an unexpected respite. When the
master did come, he had an absent and very serious look upon his face,
and he heard us recite with surprising indifference to mistakes. We knew
intuitively that he held something in waiting, to tell us as soon as the
lesson should be over, and a subdued inward excitement quickly
counteracted our drowsiness.
After the last line had been recited, he got on his feet, his tall gaunt
figure, stern mouth and Roman nose more impressive than usual, and told
us, as quietly as if he were announcing the next day's lesson, that news
had been received of a confederated rising of the Indians in the Ohio
Valley, and that Colonel Lewis had been ordered to call out the militia,
to enlist volunteers, and to march to the frontier to meet the savages.
He, the master, being a militia man, was in duty bound to go, and as it
was but two days to the one set for the mustering, he would not meet his
class again until his return--if it should be God's will to spare his
life and liberty, and allow him to come back to more peaceful pursuits.
Meantime, he hoped we would not neglect our studies, or grow careless of
our duty to our parents, and our country. That duty, at present, was to
train our minds by constant exercise, and to fill our brains with varied
knowledge, that we might become useful and honored citizens in a
commonwealth, standing upon the threshold of a future which promised to
be one of glorious and continued progress. Then he bade us good-by
feelingly, and left us, each one envying him his chance of adventure and
danger, and each sheepishly conscious of tears in his eyes. A moment
later I made a sudden but resolute decision, and having put my books,
desk, and other school belongings in the care of a fellow student,
struck out across the fields, and walked the twelve miles to the home
stile by sunset.
"Father," I said, before he had time to express astonishment, "I am
going with Colonel Lewis to whip the Indians."
The day after the next, my father accompanied me to the mustering, and
gave full consent to my enlistment for the campaign.
The long march we made through an almost trackless wilderness, and the
effectual check we gave Cornstalk and his warriors, are, now, facts of
history, and since they in no way serve to help on my story, I must
resist the temptation to dwell upon our brief campaign. I cannot even
stop to point out convincingly the far reaching and most important
consequences to the cause growing out of this victory. But this much of
a digression must be forgiven me--though my story halts while I say it.
Had not the strength and confidence of the Shawnees, and the tribes
confederated with them, been shaken at Point Pleasant, and the prestige
and influence of the brave and capable Cornstalk destroyed, the Indians
would, doubtless months before, have made impossible that intrepid
defiance of Washington, the memory of which we Scotch Irish cherish with
so much pride:--that he would never surrender but if driven to bay would
make a last stand in the mountain fastnesses of Augusta; and, rallying
to his aid those brave pioneers, yet bid defiance to the enemy and hope
to pluck victory from apparent defeat. Nor, had there been no battle of
Point Pleasant, would a dauntless rifle company have been available for
service under the gallant Morgan, to march to Quebec, to win the
decisive battle at Freeman Farm, and the telling victories of King's
Mountain and of Cowpens.
* * * * *
Returned from the Ohio, I went back to my books, but I could not settle
down contentedly to Latin odes and Greek classics. The excitement of the
march, the battle, and the victory, had aroused within me a sleeping
aptitude for the life of a soldier, and I chafed at the prospect of a
safe and uneventful career.
At Christmas I had two weeks' holiday, and what time I was not tracking
game in the snow, was spent breaking the colts to the cutter, or
coasting on a plank down the steepest hills to be found, with Jean and
Ellen O'Niel behind me. My grandmother, who did not share the universal
disapproval of the Irish child's "defiant spirit," had persuaded my
mother to have Ellen over to spend the holidays with Jean, using the
adroit argument, with both my mother and Aunt Martha, that Jean's gentle
and tractable spirit might have a good influence over the untamed Ellen.
She had come, but not very graciously, and sat silent among us, for the
first day and evening, looking sullen and unhappy.
Few could resist, however, the contagion of our kindly home atmosphere,
and by the second morning, Ellen had melted sufficiently to smile at
grandmother's quaint jokes and stories of Ireland. By dinner time she
was ready to listen with interest to some of my father's pioneer
experiences, and that night when mother bade me give her a relation of
my fight with the panther, she listened with flushed cheeks and shining
eyes. We were by this time drawn in the usual family circle about the
glowing fireplace, from which roasting apples and chestnuts were sending
forth a rich odor. Mother sat in her special corner, her head resting
against the panther's skin, and father sat beside her, grandmother
opposite, and I near her on the settle, while Jean nestled close to me.
Thomas, who occupied the other end of the settle, wore a radiant face,
for he enjoyed the absence of restraint which he found nowhere but with
us, and all the sullen reserve was gone from Ellen's countenance.
Presently Ellen, who so far had deigned only to answer us, began to
talk. At first she barely asked a question into which interest or
surprise had betrayed her, or made an occasional impulsive remark. But,
as her reserve melted in the genial and sympathetic atmosphere, the
sluice gates of pent up memories seemed suddenly to open, and she talked
freely, relating anecdotes and reminiscences of her childhood, and
showing a depth and warmth of emotion which surprised us. These led her
on to repeat some of the stories her father had read or told to her.
They were chiefly tales from Shakespeare's "Tempest," "Winter's Tale,"
"Hamlet," and others of the more fantastical and tragic of these dramas.
None of her listeners had read them, then, though I had heard of
Shakespeare, the great English playwright. We were all charmed, as much,
perhaps, by the flashing expressions of intelligence and feeling which
transformed Ellen's face into one almost of beauty, as by the stories
themselves. Moreover that emotional quality of her voice, so prone to
subtle vibrations, added a special charm to all she said.
"Now, Donald," said my father, when Ellen seemed to have spent her
present memories, and had lapsed into her usual quiet, "get your fiddle,
and let's have a tune."
Jean ran at once to bring my violin, and I did my best to add my share
of entertainment to the evening's innocent pleasures.
"Ellen can sing sweeter than a lark, or a red bird," said Thomas, as I
paused to rest my arm.
"Can she?" from Jean with eager delight. "I do love singing; sing for
us, Ellen."
"I can sing only the Irish and Scotch ballads, and the Catholic hymns my
mother used to sing," answered Ellen, flushing. "I do not know the
solemn songs you people sing, and I shall never learn them"--the last
said in a defiant tone which the occasion scarcely called for.
"Our psalms are vera sweet an' sacred to us, my dear," remarked my
grandmother, with no apparent recognition of the challenge in Ellen's
voice, yet choosing her words with a precision that was evidence of
slight displeasure, "but we like aither sangs too, an' sing them except
on the Sabbath. I love the Scotch and Irish ballads, an' though you hae
already done your share aboot making the evening go by pleasantly for us
a', we'd greatly like a sang or twa, if ye dinna mind to pleasure us
further."
"It's a delight to please you, grandma," said Ellen impulsively, and she
rose from her chair, slipped behind the settle and dropped upon the
floor beside grandmother, kissing as she did so, one of the soft,
wrinkled hands folded in her lap. Then, resting her head against
grandmother's knee, she fixed her eyes upon the dancing flames, and
began to sing somewhat unsteadily, but with more fullness and
confidence, as she continued. Her voice did indeed soar and swell like a
redbird's, and she threw all her heart into her singing, while the
quaint words of the old ballads slipped meltingly from her lips, as
drops of dew from the petals of a flower.
"Why, my dear, I hae na' been up sae late for years," remarked
grandmother, in a tone of alarm as the clock struck midnight; then
stroking Ellen's hair, which was growing out in loose curls, "You g'ie
us mouch pleasure, dear, but it's bedtime now, for a'. Come, Jean and
Ellen! Good night a', and a merry Christmas to you."
Not only were cider and persimmon beer drawn from the full barrels in
the cellar, but a big bowl of apple toddy was concocted early Christmas
morning, and flanked by plates of doughnuts, and ginger bread, raisin
and spiced cake, apples, and nuts, sat upon the long table in the big
room, all day, every one being free to eat and drink his fill. This
custom of my father, which usually drew to our house most of the men
within a ten mile ride, always scandalized my Aunt Martha, and but for
Uncle Thomas' backing we would never have gotten Ellen and Thomas to our
house until after Christmas day. Uncle Thomas himself always came,
however, and on this occasion Aunt Martha broke her rule and came with
him, bringing too their younger son, John.
I observed a change come over Ellen's face as soon as Aunt Martha
appeared in the doorway; she seemed to draw within herself, and her face
took on the sullen expression which so marred its comeliness, and
presently when I looked about for her, she was nowhere to be found.
"Ah, Rachael," said Aunt Martha, glancing toward the laden table between
the two southern windows, and shaking her head in solemn disapproval, "I
see you have not yet been able to persuade William of the sinfulness of
this habit of his, of offering the intoxicating cup to all comers, at
this season. Strange perversion, that this holy Christ festival should
be turned into an occasion for gluttony and rioting."
"William has his own ideas, Martha, and I do not set mine against him,"
I heard my mother answer, from the doorway, as she followed my aunt into
the bedroom. "The neighbor gentlemen will all be in presently, and a
warming cup will be needed by those who do not stay to dinner."
"You are too meek with William, Rachael, and so fail of due influence.
Wifely obedience is commanded in the Bible, it is true, but I do not
think the sacrifice of our principles is required."
"Preaching still, eh, Martha--" called my father's cheery voice from the
big room, having come in to put another log upon the roaring pile;
"well, you'll have to stop now, for I see Justices McDowell and Willson
riding up, and, as you know, we like not solemn faces in this house on
Christmas day," and he hurried out again to meet his guests, before Aunt
Martha was sufficiently recovered from her indignant surprise to make
him proper answer.
The ensuing hour brought a dozen others, the most substantial
freeholders in the community, nearly all of them members of the church,
as well as men of influence in public affairs. A few drank only cider or
beer, but most of them quaffed full cups of the spiced, apple-seasoned
toddy with evident appreciation, and ate the cakes, apples and nuts
without stint.
I sat about the fire with the men, proud of my privilege, but mother and
Aunt Martha, after ceremonious greetings were exchanged, retired, as was
customary for women when several men were met together. The talk was
animated, and at times exciting, though there was but small difference
of opinion among them. The Boston massacre, and recent unjust
restrictions upon our commerce, were indignantly condemned, and the
determined spirit of the colonists of Massachusetts warmly commended.
Presently it was proposed by Justice Willson, and warmly seconded by my
father, that the citizens of Augusta County, or a committee elected by
them, should draw up resolutions to be sent to the Virginia assembly,
expressing with no uncertain sound their fixed determination not to
submit to tyranny, and to sustain Massachusetts in her noble stand
against injustice and oppression at every hazard. In truth the leaders
of the New England "Town Meeting," could not have shown more fervor nor
more determination than these representative men of this Scotch Irish
settlement in the Virginia mountains. The discussion was unabated still,
and not a man had suggested returning home, when my mother announced
dinner. The table had been lengthened to its utmost, by raising all its
"wings" and putting the side tables at either end; but there was still
no seat for me, so I wandered into my mother's room, and then across the
yard to the kitchen to look for Jean and Ellen. Jean, and John Mitchell
I found, eating turkey livers, gravy and potatoes before the embers,
over which hung the now idle cranes, and Thomas was mending John's sled
at the work bench in the back kitchen. But Ellen was not to be found,
and no one had seen her for two hours. Returning to the house, I mounted
the steps to the room under the gable, where grandma and Jean slept, and
there found Ellen, wrapped in a blanket, and lying prone on the floor in
the stream of sunshine pouring through the western window. Her chin was
supported by her hands and an open book lay before her.
"Are you hiding from Aunt Martha, Ellen?" I asked teasingly.
"I slipped away while she was helping your mother set table," she
answered, "and stole up here to read. I don't often get a chance; your
Aunt Martha keeps me at work from sun up till dark, and then sends me to
bed. She says it is a wicked waste of time to read anything but one's
Bible--and the holy father in Baltimore told me that the way Protestants
presumed to read the sacred book, and determine for themselves its
sacred meaning is blasphemous."
"What book are you reading?" I asked.
"One of the Shakespeare books my father gave me. I have six more like
it," and she held up to my view a small leather bound volume, a good
deal the worse for wear. "I slipped it into my satchel when Aunt Martha
sent me up stairs to get my things, the morning you came for us, but
please don't tell her, Cousin Donald--she said she'd take the books away
from me if she saw me reading them again, for they were not fit reading
for me, and I had no time to waste on them."
"How did she know they were not fit reading for you?" I asked, curious
to learn if Aunt Martha had stopped work long enough to examine a book.
"She made Uncle Thomas read some out of one of the volumes to her,"
answered Ellen, smiling in response to my thought. "And she said, at
breakfast table next morning, that a great deal of it had neither sense
nor meaning, and the part she could understand was about fighting and
killing, or else foolish love stuff--all of it unfit for any young
person to hear. She wanted to burn my books, as she did my crucifix, but
I ran and hid them, and cried so, all day, that Uncle Thomas said 'Let
the child's books alone, Martha; her father gave them to her; if they
harm her it's no fault of yours.'"
"Is the reading as good as your telling of the stories, Ellen?"
"Oh, so much nicer. There are beautiful things I could never say;
listen," and she read me a passage from "Romeo and Juliet." "Isn't that
like music? The very words have a tune to them without thinking of the
meaning even."
"Could you lend me the book to read while you are here, Ellen? or
to-morrow, if you will, we'll come up here and you shall read aloud to
me."
"But your mother and father might find out, and tell Aunt Martha."
"We need not conceal our reading from them; they will make no objection
if I tell them the book is harmless--and I suppose it is, even for
girls. I know it is a famous book and counted among the English
classics. I've always meant to read it some day."
"And I'll lend you the other volumes, one by one, if you'll take me bear
hunting the next time you find a track," added Ellen.
"That's a bargain, if my mother will let you go. How old are you,
Ellen?"
"I shall be sixteen my next birthday."
"And when is that?"
"Next November."
"Then you are just fifteen."
"Fifteen and two months," she corrected.
"That is young for you to have read Shakespeare, and to be capable of
appreciating him. Your father taught you so carefully, and read to you
so much because he had no sons, I suppose."
"Perhaps; he used often to wish I were a boy. He used to say I was so
strong, and tall, and had more sense than most women; and when he was
taken sick, after mother's death, he said every few hours--'Oh if you
were only a boy, Ellen, I would not mind so much leaving you alone in
the world; you could soon be independent then, and make your own way!'"
"'Tis a pity, Ellen; you'd make a good man, I'm sure. You are as strong
now as a boy of your age is likely to be, and half a head taller than
John who is but six months younger."
"I dared John to a wrestle, one day in the barn, and threw him," laughed
Ellen, "but I promised not to tell, and you must not twit him about it."
"All right, I won't; but were I John I'd keep on challenging you till I
had proved my superior strength; no girl should throw me! Does Aunt
Martha know?"
"Of course not, Donald. Already she calls me a hoyden, and an untamed
Irish girl--which I am, the last I mean, and proud of it. Did she hear
of my wrestling with John, the bread and water she threatens me with
would be my only diet for a week."
"You'll not have bread and water diet while you are here, at any rate.
But there's my mother calling now; my mouth waters for her Christmas
dinner, for there's no better served in the neighborhood to-day, I
warrant you. Come on; let's go down," and I put the little book in my
pocket, seized Ellen by the hand and pulled her after me, pell-mell down
the stairway where we ran straight into Aunt Martha.
"Ellen O'Niel!" she stopped to say, fixing a stern eye upon her--"you
are the greatest hoyden I have ever seen. I thank a merciful Providence
you are not my daughter."
"Amen, and so do I," said Ellen, in my ear, and as Aunt Martha passed
into the next room, she turned toward me, and pulled her face down into
the most comical imitation of Aunt Martha's solemn countenance. I
laughed heartily, though in truth I did not approve of Ellen's
flippancy. Reverence for religion and respect for our elders were among
the virtues earliest and most faithfully instilled into the breasts of
Scotch Irish children.