Part 2 (1/2)
JASPER. Novelty, a desire for change, an ardent disposition to visit foreign countries. Pa.s.sing through the streets of Toulouse one bright morning in spring, the lively drum and fife broke on my ear, as I was counting my gains from a day's marketing. A company of soldiers neatly dressed, with white c.o.c.kades, pa.s.sed me with a brisk step; I followed them through instinct--the sergeant informed me that they were on their way to Bordeaux, from thence to embark for America, to aid the cause of liberty in the new world, and were commanded by the Marquis de la Fayette. That name was familiar to me; La Fayette was a patriot--I felt like a patriot, and joined the ranks immediately.
JENKINS. Well, you enlisted and left your country?
JASPER. I did. We had a boisterous pa.s.sage to America, and endured many hards.h.i.+ps during the revolution. I was wounded at Yorktown, which long disabled me, but what then? I served under great men, and for a great cause; I saw the independence of the thirteen states acknowledged, I was promoted to a sergeancy by the great Was.h.i.+ngton, and I sheathed my sword, with the honest pride of knowing, that I had aided in establis.h.i.+ng a powerful and happy republic.
JENKINS. You did well, honest Jasper, you did well; and now you have the satisfaction of seeing your country still free and happy.
JASPER. I have, indeed. When the army was disbanded, I travelled on foot to explore the uncultivated territory which I had a.s.sisted in liberating. I purchased a piece of land near the great lakes, and with my axe levelled the mighty oaks, cleared my meadows, burnt out the wolves and bears, and then built that cottage there.
JENKINS. And thus became a settler and my neighbour; thanks to the drum and fife and the white c.o.c.kade, that lured you from your home.
JASPER. In a short time, Jenkins, everything flourished; my cottage was neat, my cattle thriving, still I wanted something--it was a wife. I was tired of a solitary life, and married Kate, the miller's daughter; you knew her.
JENKINS. Ay, that I did; she was a pretty la.s.s.
JASPER. She was a good wife--ever cheerful and industrious, and made me happy: poor Kate! I was without children for several years; at length my Christine was born, and I have endeavoured, in cultivating her mind, and advancing her happiness, to console myself for the loss of her mother.
JENKINS. Where is Christine? where is your daughter, neighbour Jasper?
JASPER. She left the cottage early this morning with Lenox, to climb the mountains and see the sun rise; it is time for them to return to breakfast.
JENKINS. Who is this Mr. Lenox?
JASPER. An honest lieutenant of infantry, with a gallant spirit and a warm heart. He was wounded at Niagara, and one stormy night, he presented himself at our cottage door, pale and haggard. His arm had been shattered by a ball, and he had received a flesh wound from a bayonet: we took him in--for an old soldier never closes his door on a wounded comrade--Christine nursed him, and he soon recovered. But I wish they were here--it is growing late: besides, this is a busy day, friend Jenkins.
JENKINS. Ah, how so?
JASPER. You know Jerry Mayflower, the wealthy farmer; he has offered to marry my Christine. Girls must not remain single if they can get husbands, and I have consented to the match, and he will be here to-day to claim her hand.
JENKINS. But will Christine marry Jerry? She has been too well educated for the honest farmer.
JASPER. Oh, she may make a few wry faces, as she does when swallowing magnesia, but the dose will go down. There is some credit due to a wife who improves the intellect of her husband; aye, and there is some pride in it also. Girls should marry. Matrimony is like an old oak; age gives durability to the trunk, skill trims the branches, and affection keeps the foliage ever green. But come, let us in.
[_JASPER and JENKINS enter the cottage._
_Pastoral Music.--LENOX and CHRISTINE are seen winding down the mountains--his left arm is in a sling._
CHRISTINE. At last we are at home.--O my breath is nearly gone. You soldiers are so accustomed to marching and countermarching, that you drag me over hedge and briar, like an empty baggage-wagon. Look at my arm, young Mars, you've made it as red as pink, and as rough as--then my hand--don't attempt to kiss it, you--wild man of the woods.
LENOX. Nay, dear Christine, be not offended; if I have pa.s.sed rapidly over rocks and mountains, it is because you were with me. My heart ever feels light and happy when I am permitted to walk with you; even the air seems newly perfumed, and the birds chaunt more melodiously; and see, I can take my arm out of confinement--your care has done this; your voice administered comfort, and your eyes affection. What do I not owe you?
CHRISTINE. Owe me? Nothing, only one of your best bows, and your prettiest compliments. But I do suspect, my serious cavalier, that your wounds were never as bad as you would have me think. Of late you have taken your recipes with so much grace, have swallowed so many bitter tinctures with a playful smile, that I believe you've been playing the invalid, and would make me your nurse for life--O sinner as you are, what have you to say for yourself?
LENOX. Why, I confess, dear Christine, that my time has pa.s.sed with so much delight, that even the call of duty will find me reluctant to quit these scenes, so dear to memory, hospitality, and, let me add, to love.
Be serious, then, dear Christine, and tell me what I have to hope; even now I expect orders from my commanding officer, requiring my immediate presence at the camp; we are on the eve of a battle--Speak!
CHRISTINE. Why, you soldiers are such fickle game, that if we once entangle you in the net, 'tis ten to one but the sight of a new face will be sufficiently tempting to break the mesh--you're just as true as the smoke of your cannon, and you fly off at the sight of novelty in petticoats, like one of your Congreve rockets--No, I won't love a soldier--that's certain.
LENOX. Nay, where is our reward then for deserving well of our country?