She Would Be a Soldier Part 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 hardships 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 Washington, and I sheathed my sword, with the honest pride of knowing, that I had aided in establishing 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?

Grat.i.tude may wreath a chaplet of laurel, but trust me, Christine, it withers unless consecrated by beauty.

CHRISTINE. Well, that's a very pretty speech, and deserves one of my best courtesies. Now suppose I should marry you, my "dear ally Croaker,"

I shall expect to see myself placed on the summit of a baggage-wagon, with soldiers' wives and a few dear squalling brats, whose musical tones drown e'en the "squeaking of the wry-neck'd fife;" and if I should escape from the enemy at the close of a battle, I should be compelled to be ever ready, and "pack up my tatters and follow the drum."--No, no, I can't think of it.

LENOX. Prithee, be serious, dear Christine, your gaiety alarms me. Can you permit me to leave you without a sigh? Can I depart from that dear cottage and rush to battle without having the a.s.surance that there is a heart within which beats in unison with mine? a heart which can partic.i.p.ate in my glory, and sympathize in my misfortunes?

CHRISTINE. No--not so, Lenox; your glory is dear to me, your happiness my anxious wish. I have seen you bear pain like a soldier, and misfortune like a man. I am myself a soldier's daughter, and believe me, when I tell you, that under the appearance of gaiety, my spirits are deeply depressed at your approaching departure. I have been taught, by a brave father, to love glory when combined with virtue. There is my hand;--be constant, and I am ever your friend; be true, and you shall find me ever faithful.

LENOX. Thanks--a thousand thanks, beloved Christine; you have removed a mountain of doubts and anxious wishes from my heart: I did hope for this reward, though it was a daring one. Love and honour must now inspire me, and should we again be triumphant in battle, I shall return to claim the reward of constancy--a reward dearer than thrones--the heart of a lovely and virtuous woman.

CHRISTINE. Enough, dear Lenox; I shall never doubt your faith. But come, let us in to breakfast--stay--my knight of the rueful countenance, where is the portrait which you have been sketching of me? Let me look at your progress.

LENOX. 'Tis here. [_Gives a small drawing book._

CHRISTINE. [_Opening it._] Heavens, how unlike! Why Lenox, you were dreaming of the _Venus de Medici_ when you drew this--Oh, you flatterer!

LENOX. Nay, 'tis not finished; now stand there, while I sketch the drapery.--[_Places her at a distance, takes out a pencil, and works at the drawing._]

CHRISTINE. Why, what a statue you are making of me. Pray, why not make a picture of it at once? Place me in that bower, with a lute and a lap dog, sighing for your return; then draw a soldier disguised as a pilgrim, leaning on his staff, and his cowl thrown back; let that pilgrim resemble thee, and then let the little dog bark, and I fainting, and there's a subject for the pencil and pallet.

LENOX. Sing, dear Christine, while I finish the drawing--it may be the last time I shall ever hear you.

CHRISTINE. Oh, do not say so, my gloomy cavalier; a soldier, and despair?

THE KNIGHT ERRANT.

_Written by the late Queen of Holland._

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound to Palestine, But first he made his orisons before St. Mary's shrine: And grant, immortal Queen of Heav'n, was still the soldier's prayer, That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.

His oath of honour on the shrine he grav'd it with his sword, And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord; Where, faithful to his n.o.ble vow, his war-cry fill'd the air-- Be honour'd, aye, the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.

They ow'd the conquest to his arm, and then his liege lord said, The heart that has for honour beat must be by bliss repaid: My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair, For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.

And then they bound the holy knot before St. Mary's shrine, Which makes a paradise on earth when hearts and hands combine; And every lord and lady bright that was in chapel there, Cry'd, Honour'd be the bravest knight, belov'd the fairest fair.

LENOX. There, 'tis finished--how do you like it?

CHRISTINE. Why, so, so--if you wish something to remind you of me, it will do.

LENOX. No, not so; your image is too forcibly impressed here to need so dull a monitor. But I ask it to reciprocate--wear this for my sake [_Gives a miniature._], and think of him who, even in the battle's rage, will not forget thee. [_Bugle sounds at a distance._] Hark! 'tis a bugle of our army. [_Enter a SOLDIER, who delivers a letter to LENOX and retires--LENOX opens and reads it._]

"The enemy, in force, has thrown up entrenchments near Chippewa; if your wounds will permit, join your corps without delay--a battle is unavoidable, and I wish you to share the glory of a victory. You have been promoted as an aid to the general for your gallantry in the last affair. It gives me pleasure to be the first who announces this grateful reward--lose not a moment.

Your friend, MANDEVILLE."

I must be gone immediately.