“That you can have quite handy,” said the countryman; “for we have been gathering corn, and were just going to our dinner. If you will only just 'light, sir, one of the boys can feed your horse, and you can take such as we have got to give you.”

The invitation was accepted; the horse was taken in charge by a long-legged lad of fifteen, without hat or shoes, and the whole party crossed the fence together.

At the moment, a man was seen advancing toward them, who, observing their approach, fell back a few steps, and threw himself on the ground at the foot of a large old apple-tree. Around this were clustered a motley group of men, women and boys, who opened and made way for the stranger. He advanced, and bowing gracefully, took off his forage cap, from beneath which a quantity of soft, curling flaxen hair fell over his brow and cheeks. Every eye was now fixed on him, with an expression rather of interest than mere curiosity. Every countenance was serious and composed, and all wore an air of business, except that a slight titter was heard among the girls, who, hovering behind the backs of their mothers, peeped through the crowd to get a look at the handsome stranger.

He was indeed a handsome youth, about twenty years of age, whose fair complexion and regular features made him seem yet younger. He was tall, slightly but elegantly formed, with a countenance in which softness and spirit were happily blended. His dress was plain and cheap, though not unfashionable. A short grey coat, waistcoat and pantaloons, that neatly fitted and set off his handsome person, showed by the quality of the cloth that his means were limited, or that he had too much sense to waste in foppery that which might be better expended in the service of his suffering country. But, even in this plain dress, he was apparelled like a king in comparison with the rustics that surrounded him; and his whole air would have passed him for a gentleman in any dress and any company where the constituents of that character are rightly understood.

In the present assembly there seemed to be none, indeed, who could be supposed to have had much experience in that line. But dignity is felt, and courtesy appreciated by all, and the expression of frankness and truth is everywhere understood.

As the youth approached, the man at the foot of the tree arose and returned the salutation, which seemed unheeded by the rest. He advanced a step or two, and invited the stranger to be seated. This action, and the looks turned toward him by the others, showed that he was in authority of some sort among them. With him, therefore, our traveller concluded that the proposed conference was to be held. There was nothing in his appearance which would have led a careless observer to assign him any pre-eminence; but a second glance might have discovered something intellectual in his countenance, with less of boorishness in his air and manner than the rest of the company displayed. In all, indeed, there was the negative courtesy of that quiet and serious demeanor which solemn occasions impart to the rudest and most frivolous. It was plain to see that they had a common purpose, and that neither ferocity nor rapacity entered into their feeling toward the newcomer. Whether he was to be treated as a friend or an enemy, obviously depended on some high consideration, not yet disclosed.

He was at length asked from whence he came, and answered from the neighborhood of Richmond. From which side of the river? From the north side. Did he know anything of Van Courtlandt? His camp was at Bacon's Branch, just above the town. What force had he?

“I cannot say certainly,” he replied, “but common fame made his numbers about four thousand.”

“Is that all, on both sides of the river?” said his interrogator.

“O, no! Col. Loyal's regiment is at Petersburg, and Col. Coles's at Manchester—each about five hundred strong; and there is a piquet on the bridge island.”

“Did you cross there?”

“I did not.”

“Where then?” he was asked.

“I can hardly tell,” he replied; “it was at a private ford, several miles above Cartersville.”

“Was not that mightily out of the way? What made you come so far around?”

“It was safer travelling on that side of the river.”

“Then the people on that side of the river are your friends?”

“No, they are not; but, as they are all of a color there, they would let me pass, and ask no questions, as long as I travelled due west. On this side, if you are one man's friend, you are the next man's enemy; and I had no mind to answer questions.”

“You seem to answer them now mighty freely,”

“That is true. I am like a letter that tells all it knows as soon as it gets to the right hand; but it does not want to be opened before that.”

“And how do you know that you have got to the right hand now?”

“Because, I know where I am.”

“And where are you?”

“Just at the foot of the Devil's Backbone,” replied the youth.

“Were you ever here before?”

RETURNING to the party which they had left, they found the women in the act of placing their meal before them under the apple-tree. There was a patch of grass there, but no shade; nor was any needed in that lofty region. The frost had already done its work by stripping the trees of their leaves, and letting in the welcome rays of the sun through the naked branches. The meal consisted of fresh pork and venison, roasted or broiled on the coals, which looked tempting enough, though served up in wooden trays. There were no knives but such as each hunter carries in his belt. Our traveller's dirk supplied the place of one to him. Their plates were truly classical, consisting of cakes of Indian corn, baked in the ashes, so that, like the soldiers of Ænas, each man ate his platter before his hunger was appeased.

Our traveller, though sharp-set, could not help perceiving a woful insipidity in his food, for which his entertainer apologized. “We ha'nt got no salt to give you, stranger,” said he. “The little that's made on the waters of Holston is all used there; and what comes by way of the sound is too dear for the like of us, that fight one half the year and work the other half, and then with our rifles in our hands. As long as we let the Yankees hold James river, we must make up our minds to eat our hogs when they are fat, and to do without salt to our bread. But it is not worth grumbling about; and bread without salt is more than men deserve that will gave up their country without fighting for it.”

When the meal was finished, our traveller, expressing a due sense of the courtesy of his entertainers, asked what was to pay, and proposed to continue his journey.

“As to what you are to pay, my friend,” said the spokesman of the party, in the same cold, quiet tone, “that is just nothing. If you come here by Captain Douglas's invitation, you are one of us; and if you do not, we are bound to find you as long as we keep you. But, as to your going just yet, it is quite against our rules.”

“How is that?” asked the traveller, with some expression of impatience.

“That is what I cannot tell you;” replied the other.

THE travellers now moved off together, Arthur walking, and leading his horse. They soon reached a point where a sharp ridge, jutting like a buttress from the side of the mountain, came down abruptly to the very bank of the rivulet. Up this ridge, not unaptly called “the Devil's Back-bone,” the path led. Leaning, as it were, against the mountain—its position, the narrow ridgy edge along which the traveller clambered, and the rough nodules which interrupted the ascent, like the notches in a hen's ladder, gave it no small resemblance to this housewifely contrivance. The steep descent on either hand into deep dells, craggy and hirsute with stinted trees bristling from the sides, together with the similarity of these same nodules to the joints of the spine, had suggested a name strictly descriptive of the place. The ruggedness, steepness, and vast height of the ascent, would naturally provoke some spiteful epithet; and were the spot to be named again, a hundred to one it would receive the same name, and no other.

At the summit of this narrow stair, the travellers stopped to take breath, and look back on the scene below. Arthur, who was at the romantic age when young men are taught to affect an enthusiasm for the beauties of nature, and to prate about hues and scents, and light and shade, and prospects in all the variety of the grand, the beautiful, and the picturesque, had been feasting his imagination with the thought of the glorious view to be soon from the pinnacle before him. Like an epicure about to feast on turtle, who will not taste a biscuit beforehand lest be should spoil his dinner, so our young traveller steadily kept his face toward the hill as he ascended it. Even when he stopped to take breath, he was careful not to look behind. Schwartz, on the contrary, who was in advance, always faced about on such occasions, filling the pauses with conversation, and looking as if unconscious of the glorious scene over which his eye glanced unheeding. Arthur was vexed to see such indifference, and wondered whether this was the effect of use, or of the total absence of a faculty of which poets so much delight to speak.

ARTHUR TREVOR was the youngest son of a gentleman who resided in the neighborhood of Richmond. He was a man in affluent circumstances, and had long and honorably filled various important and dignified stations in the service of his native State. Endowed with handsome talents, and amiable disposition, and all the accomplishments that can adorn a gentleman, he added to these the most exemplary virtues. His influence in society had, of course, been great, and though now, at the age of seventy, withdrawn from public life, his opinions were enquired of, and his counsel sought, by all who had access to him. Through life be had been remarkable for firmness, and yet more for prudence. The steadiness of his principles could never be questioned, but, it was thought, he had sometimes deemed it wise to compromise, when men of less cautious temper would have found safety in prudent boldness.

To this temperament had been attributed his conduct in regard to the politics of the last twenty years. Bred up in the school of State rights, and thoroughly imbued with its doctrines, he had, even before that time, been accustomed to look, with a jealous eye, on the progressive usurpations of the Federal Government. In the hope of arresting these, he had exerted more than his usual activity in aiding to put down the younger Adams, and to elevate his successor. Though no candidate for the spoils of victory, no man rejoiced more sincerely in the result of that contest; and, until the emanation of the proclamation of December, 1832, he had given his hearty approbation, and steady, though quiet support, to the administration of Andrew Jackson.

From that moment he seemed to look with fearful bodings on the affairs of his country. His disapprobation of that instrument was expressed with as much freedom and force as was consistent with his habitual reserve and moderation. He was, indeed, alarmed into a degree of excitement unusual with him, and might have gone farther than he did, had he not found that others were disposed to go, as he thought, too far. He had entirely disapproved the nullifying ordinance of South Carolina; and, though he recognized the right of secession, he deprecated all thought of resorting to that remedy. He was aware that many of his best friends, thinking that its necessity would be eventually felt by all, feared that that conviction might come too late. They remarked the steady tendency of Federal measures to weaken the mal-content States in the South, and to increase the resources of their northern oppressors and those of the General Government. Hence they feared, that whenever Virginia, or any other of the slave-holding States, should find itself driven to secession, the other party, in the confidence of superior strength, might be tempted forcibly to resist the exercise of the right. They thus arrived at the conclusion that separation (which they deemed inevitable) to be peaceable, must be prompt.

These ideas had been laid before Mr. Trevor, and, in proportion to the urgency with which they were pressed, was his alarm and his disposition to adhere to the Union. He, at last, had brought himself to believe union, on any terms, better than disunion, under any circumstances. As the lesser evil, therefore, he determined to forget the proclamation, and, striving to reconcile himself to all the acts of the administration, he regarded every attempt to unite the South, in support of a southern president, as a prelude to the formation of a southern confederacy. By consequence, he became a partisan of Martin Van Buren; and united with Ritchie, and others of the same kidney, in endeavoring to subdue the spirit, and tame down the State pride of Virginia. These endeavors, aided by the lavish use of federal patronage in the State, were so far successful, that when, at the end of Van Buren's second term, he demanded a third election, she alone, in the South, supported his pretensions.

By the steady employment of the same pernicious influences, the elections throughout the State had been so regulated, as to produce returns of a majority of members devoted to the views of the usurper. This had continued until the spring of 1848, at which time the results of the elections were essentially the same which had taken place since the memorable 1836: when Virginia, at one stroke of the pen expunged her name from the chronicles of honor, expunged the history of all her glories, expunged herself. From that time the land of Washington, and Henry, and Mason, of Jefferson, Madison, and Randolph, sunk to the rank of a province, administered and managed by the Riveses and Ritchies, the Barbours and Stevensons, the Watkinses and Wilsons, whose chance to be remembered in history depends, like that of Erostratus, on the glories of that temple of liberty which they first desecrated and then destroyed.

From some cause, not understood at the time, an unexpected reaction had taken place between the spring elections and the recurrence of that form of presidential election in the fall, the observance of which was still deemed necessary to display, and, by displaying, to perpetuate the usurper's power. This reaction appeared to show itself chiefly in those counties heretofore most distinguished for their loyalty. It would have seemed as if the spirit of John Randolph had risen from the sleep of death, and walked abroad through the scenes where his youthful shoulders had received the mantle of his eloquence from the land of Henry. For the first time, in twelve years, the vote of Virginia was recorded against the re-election of Martin Van Buren to the presidential throne.

But not the less subservient were the proceedings of the Legislature elected for his use, the spring before. Yet enough had been done to justify the hope that the ancient spirit of old Virginia would yet show itself in the descendants of the men who had defied Cromwell, in the plenitude of his power, and had cast off the yoke of George the Third, without waiting for the co-operation of the other colonies. At the same time, the power and the will of a fixed majority in the North, to give a master to the South, had been made manifest. It was clearly seen, too, that he had determined to use the power thus obtained, and to administer the government solely with a view to the interest of that sectional faction, by which he had been supported. “Væ victis!” “Woe to the vanquished!” was the word. It had gone forth; and northern cupidity and northern fanaticism were seen to march, hand in hand, to the plunder and desolation of the South.

Under these circumstances, the southern States had been, at length, forced to see that the day for decisive action had arrived. They therefore determined no longer to abide the obligations of a constitution, the forms of which alone remained, and having, by a movement nearly simultaneous, seceded from the Union, they had immediately formed a southern confederacy. The suddenness of these measures was less remarkable than the prudence with which they had been conducted. The two together left little doubt that there had been a preconcert among the leading men of the several States, arranging provisionally what should be done, whenever circumstances should throw power into hands of those whom, at the bidding of the usurper, the people had once driven from their councils. It is now known that there was such concert. Nor was it confined to the seceding States alone. In Virginia, also, there were men who entered into the same views. But while the President believed that no decisive step would be taken by the more southern States without her co-operation, he had devoted all his power, direct and indirect, to control and influence her election. Of tumultuary insurrection he had no fear. The organized operation of the State Government was what he dreaded. By this alone could the measure of secession be effected; and this was effectually prevented by operating on the elections of members of the Legislature. From the November vote on the presidential election, less evil had been apprehended, and less pains had been taken to control it. In consequence of this, something more of the real sentiments of the people had been allowed to appear on that occasion; and, from this manifestation, the more southern States were encouraged to hope for the ultimate accession of Virginia to their confederacy. They had therefore determined to wait for her no longer, but to proceed to the execution of their plan, leaving her to follow.

The disposition of the usurper, at first, was to treat them as revolted provinces; and to take measures for putting down, by force, their resistance to his authority. But circumstances, to be mentioned hereafter, made it impolitic to resort to this measure. But these did not operate to prevent him from using the most efficacious means to prevent Virginia from following their example. Though restrained from attacking them, nothing prevented him from affecting to fear an attack from them. This gave a pretext for raising troops; and the position of Virginia, as the frontier State, afforded an excuse for stationing them within her borders. Under these pretences, small corps were established in many of the disaffected counties. Should the presence of these be ineffectual to secure the return of delegates devoted to the crown, an ultimate security was taken against the action of the Legislature. Richmond, the seat of government, became the head-quarters of the army of observation, as it was called, and, surrounded by this, the mock deliberations of the General Assembly were to be held.

The money thus thrown into the country seduced the corrupt, while terror subdued the timid. On Mr. Trevor, who was neither, these things had a contrary effect. He now, when it was too late, saw and lamented the error of his former overcaution. He now began to suspect that they had been right who had urged him, eighteen years before, to lend his aid in the work of arousing the people to a sense of their danger, and preparing them to meet it as one man.

AMONG those who had been most prompt to take this view of the subject, and most vehement in recommending it, was a younger brother of Mr. Trevor. In all, but, the great essentials of moral worth, this gentleman was the very reverse of his brother. The difference was, perhaps, mainly attributable to the character of his intellect. Quick in conception, and clear in his views, he was strong in his convictions, and habitually satisfied with his conclusions. This, added to a hasty temper, gave him the appearance and character of a man rash, inconsiderate, and precipitate, always in advance of the progress of public opinion, and too impatient to wait for it. His ill success in life seemed to justify this construction. Though eminently gifted by nature, and possessing all the advantages of education he had never occupied any of those stations in which distinction is to be gained. In his private affairs, he had been alike unprosperous. Though his habits were not expensive, his patrimony had been but little increased by his own exertions. He had married a lady of handsome property, but had added little to it. With only two daughters, he had not the means of endowing them with more than a decent competency; while his elder brother, with a family of a dozen children, had educated the whole, had provided handsomely for such as had set out in life, and retained the wherewithal to give the rest nearly as much as the children of the younger could expect. In short, the career of Mr. Hugh Trevor had been one of uninterrupted prosperity. In all his undertakings he had been successful. Wealth had flowed into his coffers, and honors had been showered on his head. “When the eye saw him, then it blessed him.” Men pointed him out to their children, and said to them: “Copy his example, and follow in his steps.”

The life of Bernard, the younger brother, had been passed in comparative obscurity. Beloved by a few, but misunderstood by many, his existence was unknown to the multitude, and unheeded by most who were aware of it. They, indeed, who knew him well, saw in him qualities which, under discreet regulation, might have won for him distinction and affluence. None knew him better, and none saw this more clearly, than his elder brother. No man gave him more credit for talent and honor, or less for prudence and common sense. A habit of doubting the correctness of his opinions, and condemning his measures, had thus taken possession of the mind of Mr. Hugh Trevor: and, as the quick and intuitive Bernard was commonly the first to come to a conclusion, the knowledge of that created, in the other, a predisposition to arrive at a different result. In proportion as the one was clear, so did the other doubt. When the former was ardent, the latter was always cold; and in all matters in which they had a common interest, the cautious foresight of Hugh never failed to see a lion in the path which Bernard wished to pursue. They were the opposite poles of the same needle. The clear convictions of the latter on the subject of secession, had shaken the faith of the former in his own, and had finally driven him to the conclusion already intimated, “that union, on any terms, was better than disunion, under any circumstances.”

The same habit of thinking had retarded the change, which the events of the last three years had been working in the mind of Mr. Hugh Trevor. His native candor and modesty made it easy for him to believe that he had been wrong, and, being convinced of error, to admit it. But a corollary from this admission would be, that the inconsiderate and imprudent Bernard had, all the time, been right. Of the correctness of such an admission Mr. Trevor felt an habitual diffidence, that made him among the last to avow a change of opinion which, perhaps, commenced in no mind sooner than in his. But the change was now complete, and it brought to the conscientious old gentleman a conviction that on him, above all men, it was incumbent to spare no means in his power to remove the mischiefs of which he felt his own supineness to have been in part the cause.

He was now a private man; but he had sons. To have given a direction to their political course, might not have been difficult. But, in the act of repenting an acknowledged error, how could he presume so far on his new convictions, as to endeavor to bind them on the minds of others? Was it even right to use any portion of his paternal influence for the purpose of giving to the future course of his children's lives such a tendency as might lead them into error, to the disappointment of their hopes, and perhaps to crime? The answer to these questions led to a determination to leave them to their own thoughts, guided by such lights as circumstances might throw upon these important objects.

It happened unfortunately, that, about the time of Mr. Van Buren's accession to the presidency, his eldest son had just reached that time of life when it is necessary to choose a profession. Without any particular purpose of devoting him to the army, he had been educated at West Point. The favor of President Jackson had offered this advantage, which, by the father of so large a family, was not to be declined. But the young man acquired a taste for military life, and, as there was no man in Virginia whom the new President was more desirous to bind to his service than Mr. Hugh Trevor, his wishes had been ascertained, and the ready advancement of his son was the consequence. The promotion of Owen Trevor had accordingly been hastened by all means consistent with the rules of the service. Even these were sometimes violated in his favor. In one instance, he had been elevated over the head of a senior officer of acknowledged merit. The impatience of this gentleman, which tempted him to offer his resignation, had been soothed by a staff appointment, accompanied by an understanding that he should not, unnecessarily, be placed under the immediate command of young Trevor. The latter, at the date of which we speak, had risen to the command of a regiment, which was now encamped in the neighborhood of Washington, in daily expectation of being ordered on active duty.

Colonel Owen Trevor had received his first impressions on political subjects at a time when circumstances made his father anxious to establish in his mind a conviction that union was the one thing needful. To the maintenance of this he had taught him to devote himself, and, overlooking his allegiance to his native State, to consider himself as the sworn soldier of the Federal Government. It was certainly not the wish of Mr. Trevor to teach his son to regard Virginia merely as a municipal division of a great consolidated empire. But while he taught him to act on precepts which seemed drawn from such premises, it was natural that the young man should adopt them.

He did adopt them. He had learned to deride the idea of State sovereignty, and his long residence in the North had given him a disgust at all that is peculiar in the manners, habits, institutions, and character of Virginia. Among his boon companions he had been accustomed to express these sentiments, and, being repeated at court, they had made him a favorite there. He had been treated by the President with distinguished attention. He seemed honored, too, with the personal friendship of that favorite son whom he had elevated to the chief command of the army. Him he had consecrated to the purple; proposing to cast on him the mantle of his authority, so as to unite, in the person of his chosen successor, the whole military and civil power of the empire.

It was impossible that a young man like Col. Trevor should fail to feel himself flattered by such notice. He had been thought, when a boy, to be warm-hearted and generous, and his devotion to his patrons, which was unbounded, was placed to the account of gratitude by his friends. The President, on his part, was anxiously watching for an opportunity to reward this personal zeal, which is so strong a recommendation to the favor of the great. It was intimated to Col. Trevor that nothing was wanting to ensure him speedy promotion to the rank of Brigadier but some act of service which might be magnified, by a pensioned press, into a pretext for advancing him beyond his equals in rank. Apprised of this, he burned for active employment, and earnestly begged to be marched to the theatre of war.

This theatre was in Virginia. But he had long since ceased to attribute any political personality to the State, and it was a matter of no consequence to him that the enemies, against whom he was to act, had been born or resided there. Personally, they were strangers to him; and he only know them as men denying the supremacy of the Federal Government and hostile to the President and his intended successor.

One person, indeed, he might possibly meet in arms whom he would gladly avoid. His younger brother, Douglas Trevor, had been, like himself, educated at West Point, had entered the army, and served some years. Having spent a winter at home, it was suspected that he had become infected with the treasonable heresies of Southern politicians. He had resigned his commission and travelled into South Carolina. The effect of this journey on his mind was not a matter of doubt. Letters had been received from him by his brother and several young officers of his own regiment, avowing a total change of sentiment. These letters left no doubt that should Virginia declare for secession, or even in case of collision between the Southern League and the old United States, he would be found fighting against the latter. The avowal of such sentiments and purposes had so excited the displeasure of the Colonel, that he had cut short the correspondence by begging that he might never again be reminded that he was the brother of a traitor. His letter, to this effect, being laid before the commander-in-chief, had given the most decisive proof of the zeal of one brother and the defection of the other.

How this had been brought about, Col. Trevor knew not. He was not aware of any alteration in his father's sentiments; and, indeed, Douglas himself had not been so, at the time when he was awakened to a sense of his country's wrongs and his own duty. The change in his mind had been wrought by other means; for his father was, at that time, doubting, and, with him, to doubt was to be profoundly silent.

DIFFERENCE of political opinion had produced no estrangement between Mr. Hugh Trevor and his brother, though it had interrupted their intercourse by rendering it less agreeable. Men cannot take much pleasure in each other's society when the subject on which both think and feel most deeply is one on which they widely differ. They accordingly saw little of each other, though an occasional letter passed between them in token of unabated affection.

I believe I have mentioned that the children of Mr. Bernard Trevor were both daughters. The eldest, then seventeen years of age, had been invited to spend with her uncle, in the vicinity of Richmond, the winter of Douglas's furlough. He was at that time about five-and-twenty. His long residence in the North had not weaned him from his native State. He had not been flattered into a contempt of everything Virginian. Neither his age nor rank gave him consequence enough to be the object of that sort of attention. Perhaps, too, it, had been seen that he was a less fit subject for it than his elder brother. Though much the younger, he had a range, originality, and independence of thought, of which the other was incapable. Resting in the esteem of his friends and the approbation of his own conscience, the applause of the multitude, the flattery of sycophants, and the seducing attentions of superiors, had small charms for him. His heart had never ceased to glow at the name of Virginia, and he returned to her as the wanderer should return to the bosom of his home—to his friends—to his native land. In appearance, manners, and intelligence, he was much improved; in feeling, the same warm-hearted, generous, unsophisticated youth, as formerly.

In the meantime, his cousin Delia had already reached his father's house, and was domesticated in the family. There she found the younger brothers and sisters of Douglas impatiently expecting his arrival, and so much occupied with the thought of him, that, had she been of a jealous disposition, she might have deemed her welcome somewhat careless. But she already knew her cousins, her uncle, and her aunt. This was not the first time that their house was her temporary home, and she had learned to consider herself as one of the family. As such she was expected to enter into all their feelings. Douglas was their common favorite. During his long absence, his heart had never cooled toward them. In this he differed widely from Owen, in whom the pleasures of an idle life and the schemes of ambition had left little thought of the simple joys of his childhood's home. The contrast between him and Douglas, in this respect, rendered the latter yet more popular with the single-hearted beings who were impatiently waiting his return.

“Do you remember brother Douglas?” said Virginia Trevor, a girl one year younger than Delia. “Mamma says you were a great pet with him when a child, and used to call him your Douglas.”

“I could not have been more than three years old at the time you speak of,” said Delia; “but I have heard of it so often, that I seem to myself to remember it. But, of course, I do not remember him.”

“And, of course, he does not remember you,” said Mrs. Trevor. “At least, he would not know you. But I doubt if he ever has forgotten you, as you were then. He was to be your husband, you know; and your father gave him a set of rules to walk by. He was to do so and so, and to be so and so; and Harry Sanford was to be his model. He said nothing about it; but “Sanford and Merton” was hardly ever out of his hands and we could see that he was always trying to square his conduct by your father's maxims. I believe in my heart it made a difference in the boy; and that is the reason why he is less like his own father, and more like yours, than any of the rest of my boys.”

“I shall certainly love him, then,” said Delia, her eyes filling as she spoke, “if he is like my dear old father.”

“Indeed, and you may,” said Mrs. Trevor; “but for all that, I would rather have him like his own father. But you must not be affronted, Delia; you know I claim the right to brag about my old man, and to set him up over everybody—even the President himself.”

“I never saw the President,” said Delia, “but I should be sorry to compare my father with him.”

“I can assure you,” replied the aunt, “there are very few men that would bear the comparison. O! he is the most elegant, agreeable old gentleman, that ever I saw.”

“Except my uncle,” said Delia, smiling.

“Pshaw! Yes, to be sure. I always except him.”

“I will not except my father,” said Delia, gravely. “I should not like to hear him and Martin Van Buren praised in the same breath.”

“Well, my dear,” said the good-humored old lady, “we must not quarrel about it; but you must take care not to talk so before Douglas, because he is the President's soldier.”

“I thought,” said Delia, “he was in the service of the United States.”

“Well! and is not that all the same thing? I do not pretend to know anything about it; but my husband says so, and that is enough for me.”

Mr. Trevor, who had sat by the while, listening, with grave complacency, now said: “I am afraid you don't report me truly, my dear.” Then, extending his hand to Delia, he drew her gently to him, and placing her on his knee, kissed her. “You are a good girl,” said he, “and shall love and honor your father as much as you please. He is a noble, generous man, and a wise man, too. I would to God,” added he, sighing heavily, “that I had had half his wisdom.”

“Why, bless my soul, Mr. Trevor!” exclaimed his wife, “what does this mean?”

“Nothing,” replied he, “but a just compliment to the self-renouncing generosity and far-sighted sagacity of my brother.”

Saying this, he rose and left the room, while his wife gazed after him in amazement. She had never heard him say so much before, and now perceived that he had thoughts that she was not apprised of. Believing him faultless and incapable of error, even when he differed from himself, she at once concluded that she had lost her cue, and determined to say no more about politics until she recovered it; but he never adverted to the subject again, in her presence, during the whole winter, and her niece, consequently, heard no farther allusion to it from her.

This was no unwelcome relief to Delia. She was no politician, but she was not incapable of understanding what passed in her presence on the subject, except when the interlocutors chose to mystify their meaning. Her father, a man of no reserves, never spoke but with a purpose of expressing his thoughts clearly and fully; and no man better knew how to express them than he. Though deficient, as I have said, in that cold prudence which takes advantage of circumstances, he was eminently gifted with that more vigorous faculty which makes them. In the piping times of peace, he was a man of no mark; but when society was breaking up from its foundations, he was the man with whom the timid and doubting would seek safety and counsel. Infirmity had now overtaken him and he could do little more than think and speak. Consulted by all the bold spirits who sought to lift up, from the dust, the soiled and tattered banner of his native State, and spread it to the wind, he never failed to converse freely with such, and often in the presence of his daughters.

DOUGLAS TREVOR reached his father's house just after the Virginia Legislature had assembled. The presidential election was just over, and the partisans of Van Buren, exulting in their success, made their leader the more hateful to his opponents by the insolence of their triumph. Though he had lost the vote of Virginia, it will be remembered that he still commanded a majority in the Legislature, elected before the revolution in public sentiment was complete. The more recent expression of public sentiment showed that the time was come when power must be held by means far different from those by which it had been acquired. Opinion, which at first had been in their favor, was now against them. Corruption had for a time supplied the place; but the fund of corruption was all insufficient to buy off the important interests which were now roused to defend themselves. To add to its efficiency by all practicable means, and to bring to its aid the arm of force, was all that remained.

To organize measures for this purpose, and to enrich themselves from the profuse disbursement of public money, which formed a part of the plan of operations, were the great objects which engaged the minds of the majority in the Virginia Legislature. But these, important as they were, could not entirely wean them from those indulgencies which, for many years, had made Richmond, during the winter season, the scene of so much revel and debauchery. To these, as well as to personal intrigues and the great interests of the faction, much time was given. But the necessity of attending especially to the latter was made daily more apparent by the startling intelligence which every mail brought from the South and Southwest. The nearly simultaneous secession of the States in that quarter, and the measures to be taken for the formation of a southern confederacy, were things which had been talked of until they were no longer dreaded. But causes had gradually wrought their necessary effects, and the ultimate cóoperation of Virginia, if left to act freely, was now sure.

I have already spoken of those men, in each of the southern States, of cool heads, long views, and stout hearts, who, watching the progress of events, had clearly seen the point to which they tended. It is not here that their names and deeds are to be registered. They are already recorded in history, and blazoned on the tomb of that hateful tyranny which they overthrew. They had been discarded from the service of the people, so long as the popularity of the President had blinded the multitude to his usurpations. The oppressions of the northern faction, and the fierce assaults of rapacity and fanaticism, hounded on by ambition to the destruction of the South, had restored them to public favor. They had seen that secession must come, and that, come when it might, their influence would be proportioned to their past disgraces. Presuming on this, they had consulted much together. Not only had they sketched provisionally the plan of a southern confederacy, but they had taken measures to regulate their relations with foreign powers. One of their number, travelling abroad, had been instructed to prepare the way for the negotiation of a commercial treaty with great Britain. One of the first acts of the new confederacy was to invest him publicly with the diplomatic character, and it was at once understood that commercial arrangements would be made, the value of which would secure to the infant League all the advantages of an alliance with that powerful nation. The designation of a gentleman, as minister, who had so long, without any ostensible motive, resided near the Court of St. James, left no doubt that all things had been already arranged. The treaty soon after promulgated, therefore, surprised nobody, except indeed that some of its details were too obviously beneficial to both parties to have been expected. Not only in war, but in peace, do nations seem to think it less important to do good to themselves than to do harm to each other. The system of free trade now established, which has restored to the South the full benefit of its natural advantages, and made it once more the most flourishing and prosperous country on earth; which has multiplied the manufactories of Great Britain, and increased her revenue by an increase of consumption and resources, even while some branches of revenue were cut off; and which, at the same time, has broken the power of her envious rival in the North, and put an end for ever to that artificial prosperity engendered by the oppression and plunder of the southern States; is such an anomaly in modern diplomacy, that the rulers at Richmond, or even at Washington, might well have been surprised at it. But the bare nomination of the plenipotentiary was enough to leave no doubt that a treaty was ready for promulgation, and that its terms must be such as to secure the cóoperation of Great Britain.

But, while the leaders of the ruling faction thought of these things, and anxiously consulted for the preservation of their power, there was still found among the members of the Legislature the ordinary proportion of men who think of nothing but the enjoyment of the present moment. Such men are often like sailors in a storm, who, becoming desperate, break into the spirit room, and drink the more eagerly because they drink for the last time. When the devil's “time is short, he has great wrath;” and this point in his character he always displays, whether he exhibits himself in the form of cruelty, rapacity, or debauchery.

The amusements, therefore, of the legislators assembled at Richmond suffered little interruption, and the dinner and the galas, the ball and the theatre, and the gaming-table, with revel, dissipation, and extravagance, consumed the time of the servants of the country, and swallowed up the wasted plunder of the treasury.

Respected by all, beloved by individuals of both parties, and courted by that to which he was supposed to belong, Mr. Hugh Trevor was an object of the most flattering attention. His house was the favorite resort of such as enjoyed the envied privilege of the entrée. His gallant and accomplished son was the glass before which aspirant for court favor dressed themselves. The budding youth of his daughter had, for years, been watched with impatient anticipation of the time when her hand might be seized as the passport to present wealth and future honor.

Her cousin Delia was not recommended to notice by all these considerations; but the most prevailing of the whole was one that made her claims to attention fully equal to those of Virginia. Her father, though in comparatively humble circumstances, could give with his daughter a handsomer dowry than the elder and wealthier brother could afford with his. He was notorious for generosity, and his infirmities made it probable that be was not long for this world. Delia was therefore universally regarded as an heiress. Add to this, that in the affection of her uncle she seemed hardly to be postponed to his own daughter, and it was obvious to anticipate that the same influence which had procured office and emolument for himself and his sons, would be readily exerted in favor of her future husband.

It followed, that, whatever were the amusements of the day, whether ball or theatre, or party of pleasure by land or by water, the presence of Delia and Virginia was eagerly sought. The latter, simple and artless, saw in all who approached her the friends of her father. If she thought at all of political differences, it was only to recognize in most of them the adherents of the man to whose fortunes be had so long attached himself, and in whose fortunes he had flourished. To all, her welcome was alike cordial and her smile always bright.

AMONG those who had thus manifested a disposition to win the favor of Delia Trevor, was a young man who had, not long since, entered public life under the auspices of a father, who, fifteen years before, had openly bartered his principles for office. Besides some talent, the son possessed the yet higher merit, in the eyes of his superiors, of devotion to his party and its leader. He never permitted himself to be restrained, by any regard to time or place, from making his zeal conspicuous. Taught, from his infancy, that the true way to recommend his pretensions was to rate them highly himself, he seemed determined never to exchange his place in the Legislature for any in the gift of the Court, unless some distinguished station should be offered to his acceptance. For any such, in any department, he was understood to be a candidate.

At first, he supposed that a private intimation to this effect, through his father, would be all sufficient. But he was overlooked, and post after post, that he would gladly have accepted, was conferred on others. Fearful that he might be deemed deficient in zeal, he redoubled his diligence, and with increased eagerness sought every opportunity to display his talents and his ardor in the service of his master. Still he seemed no nearer to his object. Whether it was thought that he was most serviceable in his actual station, or that the wily President deemed it a needless waste of patronage to buy what was his by hereditary title and gratuitous devotion, it is hard to say. The gentleman sometimes seemed on the point of becoming malcontent; but his father, who had tra