The Bride Of Fort Edward: Founded On An Incident Of The Revolution Part 1

The Bride of Fort Edward.

by Delia Bacon.

PREFACE.

I am extremely anxious to guard against any misconception of the _design_ of this little work. I therefore take the liberty of apprising the reader beforehand, that it is _not_ a _Play_. It was not intended for the stage, and properly is not capable of representation. I have chosen the form of the DIALOGUE as best suited to my purpose in presenting anew the pa.s.sions and events of a day long buried in the past, but it is the dialogue in scenes arranged simply with reference to the impressions of the _Reader_, and wholly unadapted to the requirements of the actual stage. The plan here chosen, involves throughout the repose, the thought, and sentiment of Actual life, instead of the hurried action, the crowded plot, the theatrical elevation which the Stage necessarily demands of the pure Drama. I have only to ask that I may not be condemned for failing to fulfil the conditions of a species of writing which I have not attempted.

The story involved in these Dialogues is essentially connected with a well-known crisis in our National History; nay, it is itself a portion of the historic record, and as such, even with many of its most trifling minutiae, is imbedded in our earliest recollections; but it is rather in its relation to the _abstract truth_ it embodies,--as exhibiting a law in the relation of the human mind to its Invisible protector--the apparent sacrifice of the _individual_ in the grand movements for the _race_,--it is in this light, rather than as an historical exhibition, that I venture to claim for it, as here presented, the indulgent attention of my readers.

THE AUTHOR.

_New-York, July 7th_, 1839.

PART FIRST.

INDUCTION.

DIALOGUE I.

SCENE. _The road-side on the slope of a wooded hill near Fort Edward.

The speakers, two young soldiers,--Students in arms_.

_1st Student_. These were the evenings last year, when the bell From the old college tower, would find us still Under the shady elms, with sauntering step And book in hand, or on the dark gra.s.s stretched, Or lounging on the fence, with skyward gaze Amid the sunset warble. Ah! that world,-- That world we lived in then--where is it now?

Like earth to the departed dead, methinks.

_2nd Stud_. Yet oftenest, of that homeward path I think, Amid the deepening twilight slowly trod, And I can hear the click of that old gate, As once again, amid the chirping yard, I see the summer rooms, open and dark, And on the shady step the sister stands, Her merry welcome, in a mock reproach, Of Love's long childhood breathing. Oh this year, This year of blood hath made me old, and yet, Spite of my manhood now, with all my heart, I could lie down upon this gra.s.s and weep For those old blessed times, the times of peace again.

_1st Stud_. There will be weeping, Frank, from older eyes, Or e'er again that blessed time shall come.

Hearts strong and glad now, must be broke ere then: Wild tragedies, that for the days to come Shall faery pastime make, must yet ere then Be acted here; ay, with the genuine clasp Of anguish, and fierce stabs, not buried in silk robes, But in hot hearts, and sighs from wrung souls' depths.

And they shall walk in light that we have made, They of the days to come, and sit in shadow Of our blood-reared vines, not counting the wild cost.

Thus 'tis: among glad ages many,--one-- In garlands lies, bleeding and bound. Times past, And times to come, on ours, as on an altar-- Have laid down their griefs, and unto us Is given the burthen of them all.

_2nd Stud_. And yet, See now, how pleasantly the sun s.h.i.+nes there Over the yellow fields, to the brown fence Its hour of golden beauty--giving still.

And but for that faint ringing from the fort, That comes just now across the vale to us, And this small band of soldiers planted here, I could think this was peace, so calmly there, The afternoon amid the valley sleeps.

_1st Stud_. Yet in the bosom of this gentle time, The crisis of an age-long struggle heaves.

_2nd Stud_. _Age-long?_--Why, this land's history can scarce Be told in ages, yet.

_1st Stud_. But this war's can.

In that small isle beyond the sea, Francis, Ages, ages ago, its light first blazed.

This is the war. Old, foolish, blind prerogative, In ermines wrapped, and sitting on king's thrones; Against young reason, in a peasant's robe His king's brow hiding. For the infant race Weaves for itself the chains its manhood scorns, (When time hath made them adamant, alas!--) The reverence of humanity, that gold Which makes power's glittering round, ordained of G.o.d But for the lovely majesty of right, Unto a mad usurper, yielding, all, Making the low and lawless will of man Vicegerent of that law and will divine, Whose image only, reason hath, on earth.

This is the struggle:--_here_, we'll fight it out.

'Twas all too narrow and too courtly _there_; In sight of that old pageantry of power We were, in truth, the children of the past, Scarce knowing our own time: but here, we stand In nature's palaces, and we are _men_;-- Here, grandeur hath no younger dome than this; And now, the strength which brought us o'er the deep, Hath grown to manhood with its nurture here,-- Now that they heap on us abuses, that Had crimsoned the first William's cheek, to name,-- We're ready now--for our last grapple with blind power.

[_Exeunt_.

DIALOGUE II.

SCENE. _The same. A group of ragged soldiers in conference_.

_1st Soldier_. I am flesh and blood myself, as well as the rest of you, but there is no use in talking. What the devil would you do?--You may talk till dooms-day, but what's to hinder us from serving our time out?--and that's three months yet. Ay, there's the point. Show me that.

_2nd Sol_. Three months! Ha, thank Heaven mine is up to-morrow; and, I'll tell you what, boys, before the sun goes down to-morrow night, you will see one Jack Richards trudging home,--trudging home, Sirs! None of your bamboozling, your logic, and your figures. A good piece of bread and b.u.t.ter is the figure for me. But you should hear the Colonel, though, as the time draws nigh. Lord! you'd think I was the General at least. Humph, says I.

_3d Sol_. Ay, ay,--feed you on sugar-candy till they get you to sign, and then comes the old shoes and moccasins.----

_2nd Sol_. And that's true enough, Ned. I've eaten myself, no less than two very decent pair in the service. I'll have it out of Congress yet though, I'll be hanged if I don't. None of your figures for me! I say, boys, I am going home.

_1st Sol_. Well, go home, and--can't any body else breathe? Why don't you answer me, John?--What would you have us do?--

_4th Sol_. Ask Will Wilson there.

_1st Sol_. Will?--Where is he?

_4th Sol_. There he stands, alongside of the picket there, his hands in his pockets, whistling, and looking as wise as the dragon. Mind you, there's always something pinching at the bottom of that same whistle, though its such a don't-care sort of a whistle too. Ask Will, he'll tell you.

_3d Sol_. Ay, Will has been to the new quarters to-day. See, he's coming this way.

_5th Sol_. And he saw Striker there, fresh from the Jerseys, come up along with that new General there, yesterday.

_3d Sol_. General Arnold?

_5th Sol_. Ay, ay, General Arnold it is.

_6th Sol_. [_Advancing_.] I say, boys----

_4th Sol_. What's the matter, Will?

_6th Sol_. Do you want to know what they say below?

_All_. Ay, ay, what's the news?

_6th Sol_. All up there, Sirs. A gone horse!--and he that turns his coat first, is the best fellow.

_4th Sol_. No?