The Last of the Foresters - John Esten Cooke
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THE LAST OF THE FORESTERS:
OR,
HUMORS ON THE BORDER;
A STORY OF THE
Old Virginia Frontier.
BY
JOHN ESTEN COOKE
AUTHOR OF "THE VIRGINIA COMEDIANS," "LEATHER STALKING AND SILK,"
"ELLIE," "THE YOUTH OF JEFFERSON," INC.
1856
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.--At Apple Orchard
II.--Verty and his Companions
III.--Introduces a Legal Porcupine
IV.--How Verty thought, and played, and dreamed
V.--Winchester
VI.--In which Mr. Roundjacket flourishes his ruler
VII.--In which Mr. Roundjacket reads his great Poem
VIII.--How Verty shot a White Pigeon
IX.--Hawking without a Hawk
X.--Verty makes the acquaintance of Mr. Jinks
XI.--How Verty discovered in himself a great fondness for Apples
XII.--How Strephon talked with Chloe in an Arbor
XIII.--Verty expresses a desire to imitate Mr. Jinks
XIV.--The Thirteenth of October
XV.--The Pedlar and the Necklace
XVI.--Mr. Roundjacket makes himself agreeable
XVII.--Mr. Jinks at Home
XVIII.--How Miss Lavinia developed her Theories on Matrimony
XIX.--Only a few tears
XX.--How Miss Fanny slammed the door in Verty's face
XXI.--In which Redbud suppresses her feelings, and behaves
with decorum
XXII.--How Miss Sallianna fell in love with Verty
XXIII.--The Result
XXIV.--Of the effect of Verty's violin-playing upon Mr. Rushton
XXV.--A Young Gentleman just from William and Mary College
XXVI.--The Necklace
XXVII.--Philosophical
XXVIII.--Consequences of Miss Sallianna's passion for Verty
XXIX.--Interchange of Compliments
XXX.--What occurred at Bousch's Tavern
XXXI.--Mr. Jinks on Horseback going to take Revenge
XXXII.--An old Bible
XXXIII.--Fanny's views upon Heraldry
XXXIV.--How Miss Sallianna alluded to vipers, and fell into hysterics
XXXV.--How Miss Fanny made merry with the passion of Mr. Verty
XXXVI.--Ralph makes love to Miss Sallianna
XXXVII.--Verty states his private opinion of Miss Sallianna
XXXVIII.--How Longears showed his gallantry in Fanny's service.
XXXIX.--Up the Hill, and under the Chestnuts
XL.--Under the Greenwood Tree
XLI.--Use of Coats in a Storm
XLII.--How Mr. Jinks requested Ralph to hold him
XLIII.--Verty's heart goes away in a chariot
XLIV.--In which the History returns to Apple Orchard
XLV.--Hours in the October Woods
XLVI.--The Happy Autumn Fields
XLVII.--Days that are no more
XLVIII.--The Harvest Moon
XLIX.--Back to Winchester, where Editorial Iniquity is discoursed of
L.--How Verty discovered a Portrait, and what ensued
LI.--A Child and a Logician
LII.--How Mr. Jinks determined to spare Verty
LIII.--Projects of Revenge, involving Historical details
LIV.--Exploits of Fodder
LV.--Woman-traps laid by Mr. Jinks
LVI.--Takes Verty to Mr. Roundjacket's
LVII.--Contains an Extraordinary Disclosure
LVIII.--How Mr. Rushton proved that all men were selfish, himself
included
LIX.--The Portrait smiles
LX.--The Lodge in the Hills
LXI.--Mrs. O'Calligan's Wooers
LXII.--Verty Muses
LXIII.--How Verty and Miss Lavinia ran a-tilt at each other, and
who was overthrown
LXIV.--The Rose of Glengary
LXV.--Providence
LXVI.--The Hour and the Necklace
LXVII.--How St. Patrick encountered St. Michael, and what
ensued
LXVIII.--The End of the Chain
LXIX.--Conclusion
PREFACE
Perhaps this story scarcely needs a Preface, but the child of the
writer's invention comes to possess a place in his affections, and he
is reluctant to send it forth into the wide world, without something
in the nature of a letter of introduction, asking for it a kindly and
charitable reception. It would be unjust to apply to this volume the
tests which are brought to bear upon an elaborate romance. In his
narrative of the adventures of Verty and Redbud, the writer has not
endeavored to mount into the regions of tragedy, or chronicle the
details of bloodshed on the part of heroes--but rather, to find in a
picturesque land and period such traits of life and manners as are
calculated to afford innocent entertainment. Written under the
beautiful autumn skies of our beloved Virginia, the author would
ask for the work only a mind in unison with the mood of the
narrative--asking the reader to laugh, if he can, and, above all, to
carry with him, if possible, the beautiful autumn sunshine, and the
glories of the mountains.
Of the fine old border town, in which many of the scenes of the story
are laid, much might be said, if it were here necessary, that Thomas
Lord Fairfax, Baron of Cameron, and formerly half-owner of Virginia,
sleeps there--that Morgan, the Ney of the Revolution, after all his
battles, lies there, too, as though to show how nobles and commoners,
lords and frontiersmen, monarchists and republicans, are equal
in death--and that the last stones of old Fort Loudoun, built by
Lieutenant, afterwards General, Washington, crumble into dust there,
disappearing like a thousand other memorials of that noble period, and
the giants who illustrated it:--this, and much more, might be said of
Winchester, the old heart of the border, which felt every blow, and
poured out her blood freely in behalf of the frontier. But of the land
in which this old sentinel stands it is impossible to speak in terms
of adequate justice. No words can describe the loveliness of its fair
fields, and vainly has the present writer tried to catch the spirit of
those splendid pictures, which the valley unrolls in autumn days. The
morning splendors and magnificent sunsets--the noble river and blue
battlements, forever escape him. It is in the midst of these scenes
that he has endeavored to place a young hunter--a child of the
woods--and to show how his wild nature was impressed by the new life
and advancing civilization around him. The process of his mental
development is the chief aim of the book.
Of the other personages of the story it is not necessary here to
speak--they will relieve the author of that trouble; yet he cannot
refrain from asking in advance a friendly consideration for Miss
Redbud. He trusts that her simplicity and innocence will gain for
her the hearts of all who admire those qualities; and that in
consideration of her liking for her friend Verty, that these friends
of her own will bestow a portion of their approbation upon the young
woodman: pity him when he incurs the displeasure of Mr., Jinks:
sympathise with him when he is overwhelmed by the reproaches of
Mr. Roundjacket, and rejoice with him when, in accordance with the
strictest rules of poetic justice, he is rewarded for his kindness and
honesty by the possession of the two things which he coveted the most
in the world.
RICHMOND, _June_, 1856.
THE LAST OF THE FORESTERS.
"_If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, (and all is mended,)
That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear;
And this weak and idle theme
No more yielding than a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend_."
MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM.
THE LAST OF THE FORESTERS,
CHAPTER I.
AT APPLE ORCHARD.
On a bright October morning, when the last century was rapidly going
down hill, and all old things began to give way to the new, the sun
was shining in upon the breakfast room at Apple Orchard with a joyous
splendor, which, perhaps, he had never before displayed in tarrying at
that domain, or any other.
But, about Apple Orchard, which we have introduced to the reader in
a manner somewhat abrupt and unceremonious. It was one of those old
wooden houses, which dot our valleys in Virginia almost at every
turn--contented with their absence from the gay flashing world of
cities, and raising proudly their moss-covered roofs between the
branches of wide spreading oaks, and haughty pines, and locusts,
burdening the air with perfume. Apple Orchard had about it an
indefinable air of moral happiness and domestic comfort. It seemed
full of memories, too; and you would have said that innumerable
weddings and christenings had taken place there, time out of
mind, leaving their influence on the old homestead, on its very
dormer-windows, and porch trellis-work, and clambering vines, and even
on the flags before the door, worn by the feet of children and slow
grandfathers.
Within, everything was quite as old-fashioned; over the mantel-piece
a portrait, ruffled and powdered, hung; in the corner a huge clock
ticked; by the window stood a japanned cabinet; and more than one
china ornament, in deplorably grotesque taste, spoke of the olden
time.
This is all we can say of the abode of Mr. Adam Summers, better known
as Squire Summers, except that we may add, that Apple Orchard was
situated not very far from Winchester, and thus looked upon the beauty
of that lovely valley which poor Virginia exiles sigh for, often, far
away from it in other lands.
The sun shines for some time upon the well-ordered room, wherein the
breakfast-table is set forth, and in whose wide country fire-place
a handful of twigs dispel with the flame which wraps them the cool
bracing air of morning; then the door opens, and a lady of some thirty
autumns, with long raven curls and severe aspect, enters, sailing
in awful state, and heralded by music, from the rattling keys which
agitate themselves in the basket on her arm, drowning the rustle
of her dress. This is Miss Lavinia, the Squire's cousin, who has
continued to live with him since the death of his wife, some years
since.
The severe lady is superintending the movements of the brisk negro
boy who attends to breakfast, when the Squire himself, a fat, rosy,
good-humored old gentleman, in short breeches and ruffles, makes his
appearance, rubbing his hands and laughing.
Then, behind him, rosier than her father, dewy like the morning, and
angelic generally, behold our little heroine--Miss Redbud Summers.
Redbud--she received this pretty name when she was a baby, and as
usually befalls Virginia maidens, never has been able to get rid of
it. Redbud is a lovely little creature, whom it is a delight to look
upon. She has a profusion of light, curling hair, a fine fresh, tender
complexion, deep, mild eyes, and a mouth of that innocent and artless
expression which characterizes childhood. She is about sixteen,
and has just emerged from short dresses, by particular request and
gracious permission from Miss Lavinia, who is major-domo and manager
in general. Redbud is, therefore, clad in the morning-dress of young
ladies of the period. Her sleeves are ornamented with fluttering
ribbons, and her hair is brushed back in the fashion now styled
_Pompadour_, but quite unpowdered. Her ears, for even heroines are
possessed of them, are weighed down by heavy golden ear-rings, and a
cloud of plain lace runs round her neck, and gently rubs her throat.
Pensiveness and laughter chase each other over her fresh little face,
like floating clouds;--she is a true child of the South.
The Squire sits down in the large chair, in the corner of the
fire-place, and takes Miss Redbud on his knee. Then commences a
prattle on the part of the young lady, interrupted by much laughter
from the old gentleman; then the Squire swears profanely at indolent
Caesar, his spaniel, who, lying on the rug before the fire, stretches
his hind feet sleepily, and so makes an assault upon his master's
stockings; then breakfast is ready, and grace being devoutly said,
they all sit down, and do that justice to the meal which Virginians
never omit. Redbud is the soul of the room, however, and even insists
upon a romp with the old gentleman, as he goes forth to mount his
horse.
The Squire thus disappears toward the barn. Miss Lavinia superintends
the household operation of "washing up the tea things," and Redbud
puts on her sun-bonnet, and goes to take a stroll.
CHAPTER II.
VERTY AND HIS COMPANIONS.
Redbud is sauntering over the sward, and listening to the wind in the
beautiful fallwoods, when, from those woods which stretch toward the
West, emerges a figure, which immediately rivets her attention. It
is a young man of about eighteen, mounted on a small, shaggy-coated
horse, and clad in a wild forest costume, which defines clearly the
outline of a person, slender, vigorous, and graceful. Over his brown
forehead and smiling face, droops a wide hat, of soft white fur, below
which, a mass of dark chestnut hair nearly covers his shoulders with
its exuberant and tangled curls. Verty--for this is Verty the son, or
adopted son of the old Indian woman, living in the pine hills to the
west--Verty carries in one hand a strange weapon, nothing less than a
long cedar bow, and a sheaf of arrows; in the other, which also holds
his rein, the antlers of a stag, huge and branching in all directions;
around him circle two noble deer-hounds. Verty strongly resembles an
amiable wild cat; and when he sees Redbud, smiles more than ever.
The girl runs toward him, laughing gaily--
"Oh, Verty!" she says, "indeed I am very glad to see you. Where have
you been?"
With which, she gives him her hand.
"At home," says Verty, with his bright, but dreamy smile; "I've got
the antlers for the Squire, at last."
And Verty throws the rein on the neck of his little horse, who stands
perfectly still, and leaps lightly to the ground. He stands for a
moment gazing at Redbud with his dreamy and smiling eyes, silent in
the sunshine like a shadow, then he pushes back his tangled chestnut
curls, and laughs.
"I had a long chase," he says.
"For the deer?"
"Yes," says Verty, "and there are his horns. Oh, how bright you look."
Redbud returns his smile.
"I think I didn't live before I knew you; but that was long years
ago," says Verty, "a very long time ago."
And leaning for a moment on his bow, the forest boy gazes with his
singular dreamy look on Redbud, who smiles.
"Papa has gone out riding," she says, "but come, let's go in, and put
up the antlers."
Verty assents readily to this, and speaking to his horse in some
outlandish tongue, leaves him standing there, and accompanies Redbud
toward the house.
"What was that you said?" she asked; "I didn't understand."
"Because you don't know Delaware," said Verty, smiling.
"Was it Indian?"
"Yes, indeed. I said to Cloud--that's his name you know--I told him to
_crouch_; that means, in hunter language, _keep still_."
"How strange!"
"Is it? But I like the English better, because you don't speak
Delaware, my own tongue; you speak English."
"Oh, yes!" Redbud says.
"I don't complain of your not speaking Delaware," says Verty, "for how
could you, unless _ma mere_ had taught you? She is the only Indian
about here."
"You say _ma mere_--that means, 'my mother,' don't it?"
"Yes; oh, she knows French, too. You know the Indian and the French--I
wonder who the French are!--used to live and fight together."
"Did they?"
Verty nods, and replies--"In the old days, a long, long time ago."
Redbud looks down for a moment, as they walk on toward the house,
perusing the pebbles. Then she raises her head and says--
"How did you ever come to be the old Indian woman's son, Verty?"
Verty's dreamy eyes fall from the sky, where a circling hawk had
attracted his attention, to Redbud's face.
"Anan?" he says.
Redbud greets this exhibition of inattention with a little pout, which
is far from unbecoming, and too frank to conceal anything, says,
smiling--
"You are not listening to me. Indeed, I think I am worth more
attention than that hawk."
"Oh yes, indeed you are!" cries Verty; "but how can you keep a poor
Indian boy from his hunting? How that fellow darts now! Look what
bright claws he has! Hey, come a little nearer, and you are mine!"
Verty laughs, and takes an arrow.
Redbud lays her hand upon his arm. Verty looks at the hand, then at
her bright face, laughing.
"What's the matter?" he says.
"Don't kill the poor hawk."
"Poor hawk? poor chickens!" says Verty, smiling. "Who could find fault
with me for killing him? Nothing to my deer! You ought to have seen
the chase, Redbud; how I ran him; how he doubled and turned; and when
I had him at bay, with his eyes glaring, his head drooping, how
I plunged my knife into his throat, and made the blood spout out
gurgling!"
Verty smiled cheerfully at this recollection of past enjoyment, and
added, with his dreamy look--
"But I know what I like better even than hunting. I like to come and
see you, and learn my lessons, and listen to your talking and singing,
Redbud."
By this time they had reached the house, and they saw Miss Lavinia
sitting at the window. Verty took off his white fur hat, and made the
lady a low bow, and said--
"How do you do, Miss Lavinia?"
"Thank you, Verty," said that lady, solemnly, "very well. What have
you there?"
"Some deer horns, ma'am."
"What for?"
"Oh, the Squire said he wanted them," Verty replied.
"Hum," said Miss Lavinia, going on with her occupation of sewing.
Verty made no reply to this latter observation, but busied himself
fixing up the antlers in the passage. Having arranged them to his
satisfaction, he stated to Redbud that he thought the Squire would
like them; and then preferred a request that she would get her Bible,
and read some to him. To this, Redbud, with a pleasant look in her
kind eyes, gave a delighted assent, and, running up stairs, soon
returned, and both having seated themselves, began reading aloud to
the boy.
Miss Lavinia watched this proceeding with an elderly smile; but
Verty's presence in some way did not seem agreeable to her,
Redbud closed the book, and said:--
"That is beautiful, isn't it, Verty?"
"Yes," replied the boy, "and I would rather hear it than any other
book. I'm coming down every day to make you read for me."
"Why, you can read,"
"So I can, but I like to _hear_ it," said Verty; "so I am coming."
Redbud shook her head with a sorrowful expression.
"I don't think I can," she said. "I'm so sorry!"
"Don't think you can!"
"No."
"Not read the Bible to me?" Verty said, smiling.
"I'm going away."
Verty started.
"Going away!--you going away? Oh no! Redbud, you mus'nt; for you know
I can't possibly get along without you, because I like you so much."
"Hum!" said Miss Lavinia, who seemed to be growing more and more
dissatisfied with the interview.
"I must go, though," Redbud said, sorrowfully, "I can't stay."
"Go where?" asked the boy. "I'll follow you. Where are you going?"
"Stop, Verty!" here interposed Miss Lavinia, with dignity. "It is not
a matter of importance where Redbud is going--and you must not follow
her, as you promise. You must not ask her where she is going."
Verty gazed at Miss Lavinia with profound astonishment, and was about
to reply, when a voice was heard at the door, and all turned round.
CHAPTER III.
INTRODUCES A LEGAL PORCUPINE.
This was the voice of the Squire. It came just in time to create a
diversion.
"Why, there are my antlers!" cried the good-humored Squire. "Look,
Rushton! did you ever see finer!"
"Often," growled a voice in reply; and the Squire and his companion
entered.
Mr. Rushton was a rough-looking gentleman of fifty or fifty-five, with
a grim expression about the compressed lips, and heavy grey eyebrows,
from beneath which rolled two dark piercing eyes. His hair was slowly
retreating, and thought or care had furrowed his broad brow from
temple to temple. He was clad with the utmost rudeness, and resembled
nothing so much as a half-civilized bear.
He nodded curtly to Miss Lavinia, and took no notice whatever of
either Redbud or Verty.
"Why, thank for the antlers, Verty!" said the good-humored Squire.
"I saw Cloud, and knew you were here, but I had no idea that you had
brought me the horns."
And the Squire extended his hand to Verty, who took it with his old
dreamy smile.
"I could have brought a common pair any day," he said, "but I promised
the best, and there they are. Oh, Squire!" said Verty, smiling, "what
a chase I had! and what a fight with him! He nearly had me under him
once, and the antlers you see there came near ploughing up my breast
and letting out my heart's blood! They just grazed--he tried to bite
me--but I had him by the horn with my left hand, and before a swallow
could flap his wings, my knife was in his throat!"
As Verty spoke, his eyes became brighter, his lips more smiling, and
pushing his tangled curls back from his face, he bestowed his amiable
glances even upon Miss Lavinia.
Mr. Rushton scowled.
"What do you mean by saying this barbarous fight was pleasant?" he
asked.
Verty smiled again:--he seemed to know Mr. Rushton well.
"It is my nature to love it," he said, "just as white people love
books and papers."
"What do you mean by white people?" growled Mr. Rushton, "you know
very well that you are white."
"I?" said Verty.
"Yes, sir; no affectation: look in that mirror."
Verty looked.
"What do you see!"
"An Indian!" said Verty, laughing, and raising his shaggy head.
"You see nothing of the sort," said Mr. Rushton, with asperity; "you
see simply a white boy tanned--an Anglo-Saxon turned into mahogany by
wind and sun. There, sir! there," added Mr. Rushton, seeing Verty
was about to reply, "don't argue the question with me. I am sick of
arguing, and won't indulge you. Take this fine little lady here, and
go and make love to her--the Squire and myself have business."
Then Mr. Rushton scowled upon the company generally, and pushed them
out of the room, so to speak, with his eyes; even Miss Lavinia was
forced to obey, and disappeared.
Five minutes afterwards, Verty might have been seen taking his way
back sadly, on his little animal, toward the hills, while Redbud was
undergoing that most disagreeable of all ceremonies, a "lecture,"
which lecture was delivered by Miss Lavinia, in her own private
apartment, with a solemnity, which caused Redbud to class herself with
the greatest criminals which the world had ever produced. Miss
Lavinia proved, conclusively, that all persons of the male sex were
uninterruptedly engaged in endeavoring to espouse all persons of the
female sex, and that the world, generally, was a vale of tears, of
scheming and deception. Having elevated and cheered Redbud's spirits,
by this profound philosophy, and further enlivened her by declaring
that she must leave Apple Orchard on the morrow, Miss Lavinia
descended.
She entered the dining-room where the Squire and Mr. Rushton were
talking, and took her seat near the window. Mr. Rushton immediately
became dumb.
Miss Lavinia said it was a fine day.
Mr. Rushton growled.
Miss Lavinia made one or two additional attempts to direct the
conversation on general topics; but the surly guest strangled her
incipient attempts with pitiless indifference. Finally, Miss Lavinia
sailed out of the room with stately dignity, and disappeared.
Mr. Rushton looked after her, smiling grimly.
"The fact is, Squire," he said, "that your cousin, Miss Lavinia, is a
true woman. Hang it, can't a man come and talk a little business with
a neighbor without being intruded upon? Outrageous!"
The Squire seemed to regard his guest's surliness with as little
attention as Verty had displayed.
"A true woman in other ways is she, Rushton," he said, smiling--"I
grant you she is a little severe and prim, and fond of taking her
dignified portion of every conversation; but she's a faithful and
high-toned woman. You have seen too much character in your Courts to
judge of the kernel from the husk."
"The devil take the Courts! I'm sick of 'em," said Mr. Rushton, with
great fervor, "and as to _character_, there is no character anywhere,
or in anybody." Having enunciated which proposition, Mr. Rushton rose
to go.
The Squire rose too, holding him by the button.
"I'd like to argue that point with you," he said, laughing. "Come now,
tell me how--"
"I won't--I refuse--I will not argue."
"Stay to dinner, then, and I promise not to wrangle."
"No--I never stay to dinner! A pretty figure my docket would cut, if I
staid to your dinners and discussions! You've got the deeds I came to
see you about; my business is done; I'm going back."
"To that beautiful town of Winchester!" laughed the Squire, following
his grim guest out.
"Abominable place!" growled Rushton; "and that Roundjacket is
positively growing insupportable. I believe that fellow has a mania on
the subject of marrying, and he runs me nearly crazy. Then, there's
his confounded poem, which he persists in reading to himself nearly
aloud."
"His poem?" asked the Squire.
"Yes, sir! his abominable, trashy, revolting poem, called--'The
Rise and Progress of the Certiorari.' The consequence of all which,
is--here's my horse; find the martingale, you black cub!--the
consequence is, that my office work is not done as it should be, and I
shall be compelled to get another clerk in addition to that villain,
Roundjacket."
"Why not exchange with some one?"
"How?"
"Roundjacket going elsewhere--to Hall's, say."
Mr. Rushton scowled.
"Because he is no common clerk; would not live elsewhere, and because
I can't get along without him," he said. "Hang him, he's the greatest
pest in Christendom!"
"I have heard of a young gentleman called Jinks," the Squire said,
with a sly laugh, "what say you to him for number two?"