Pre Code Hollywood Sex Immorality And Insurrection

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Pre Code Hollywood Sex Immorality
And Insurrection In American Cinema
1930
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 Pre Code Hollywood Sex
Immorality And
Insurrection In American
Cinema 1930

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.
what she should not, or the price of the luxuries by which they were
surrounded, which Mrs. Hauton seemed to think a great imposition
that they could not have for nothing.
Meantime the Miss Hautons kept up a languid complaint of the
heat, and asked Kate if she did not find it “horrid.” And when Annie
stopped to look at some beautiful and rare flowers, and asked their
name, they replied they did not know, “the gardener could tell her,”
and seemed rather annoyed at her stopping in the sun to look at
them, and wondered at her curiosity about any thing so
uninteresting. Annie was something of a botanist, and would gladly
have lingered over other plants that were new to her, for the garden
was under the highest cultivation; but she saw that it was an
interruption to the rest of the party, and they sauntered on.
She could not help, however, pausing again with an exclamation
of delight before a moss rose-tree in full bearing, when Miss Hauton
said, somewhat sarcastically,
“You are quite an enthusiast in flowers, Miss Cameron.”
“I am very fond of them,” replied Annie, coloring at the tone in
which the remark was made; “Are not you?”
“No,” replied the young lady, carelessly, “I don’t care for them at
all. I like a bouquet well enough in the winter. It finishes one’s dress,
but I don’t see the use of them at all in summer.”
“Oh, I hate them,” added her sister, almost pettishly. “They are
such a plague. People who come out are always wanting some; and
then the gardener is to be sent for, and he always grumbles at
cutting them, and half the time he has not cord to tie them up, and
papa sends me to the house for some. If I had a place, I would not
have a flower on it; but mamma says the gardener has not any thing
to do but to attend to the garden, so she will have flowers.”
“Why, certainly, my dear,” said Mrs. Hauton, who caught this last
remark, “what should we pay Ralston such wages to do nothing. He
gets his money easy enough now. If he had merely the green-house
to take care of, I think it would be too bad.”
So flowers were cultivated, it seemed, chiefly that the gardener
might not gain his living without “the sweat of his brow.”
 As they came within sight of the river, to which the lawn sloped,
Annie proposed that they should walk down to it; but the young
ladies assured her at once that she would find it “very disagreeable;”
and asking if they were not tired, turned their footsteps toward the
house.
They returned to the drawing-room, and after a little dawdling
conversation, Miss Hauton took down her embroidery frame, and
began to sort worsteds, while Miss Fanny produced a purse and gold
beads, of which she offered to show Kate the stitch.
Kate congratulated herself in the depths of her heart, that she
had had foresight to arm herself with some needles and silk, and felt
equal to all the emergencies of the morning; but poor Annie, one of
whose accomplishments had not been to spend money and waste
time in fancy work, could only offer to assist Miss Hauton in winding
worsteds, by way of doing something.
Fortunately for Mrs. Leslie, Mrs. Hauton’s stream of talk was
unceasing. She told innumerable and interminable stories (at least
so they seemed to Annie) of the impositions of poor people; was
very indignant at the sums they were called upon to give, and highly
excited at the prices which were demanded of them, and which she
thought people in more moderate circumstance were not asked. But
more indignant yet was she when, on some occasions, they had not
been treated with more prompt attention, and had superior comforts
to others who were not as rich as themselves. She only, it seemed,
expected to be put on a level with poorer people when the paying
was in question. She evidently had an idea that the knowledge of
her wealth was to procure her civilities which she was very angry at
being called upon to pay for.
Annie thought it the longest morning she had ever passed; and
when the servants announced the luncheon, she awoke as from a
nightmare.
Gathering round the table, everybody ate, not from appetite, but
ennui. Mrs. Hauton continued her stream of talk, (for, apparently,
she had no sense of fatigue,) which now turned upon the hot-house
and the price of her forced fruits.
 Another hour passed in the drawing-room, in the same way, and
Annie happening to be near a table, on which lay some books, took
up a new review in which she was soon absorbed. After reading a
few pages she (being the first person who had looked into it) was
obliged to cut the leaves, when she heard Miss Hauton say, in the
same scornful tone in which she had pronounced her an enthusiast
in flowers,
“Miss Cameron is literary, I see;” and Annie, coloring, again
dropped the book, and returned to her wearisome place on the sofa.
Kate found to her great delight that company was expected to
dinner, and when the preparation-bell rang, the girls, almost in a
state of exhaustion, retired to dress.
“Kate,” exclaimed Annie, “I am almost dead. I don’t know what
has tired me so, but I feel as if I had been in an exhausted receiver.”
Kate laughed.
“You should have brought some work with you, Annie. If you had
only been counting stitches, as I have been, you don’t know what a
support it would have been to you under Mrs. Hauton’s talk. She is
intolerable if you listen to her—but that I did not do. However, take
courage. The Langtrees and Constants, and Merediths, are coming
to dinner. Here, let me put this wreath of honeysuckle in your hair.
There, it’s very becoming; only, Annie, you must not look so tired,”
she continued, laughing, “or I am afraid you’ll make no conquests.
And Constant and Meredith are coming with their sisters.”
After half an hour’s free and unconstrained chat, and conscious
of a pretty and becoming toilet, refreshed and invigorated for a new
attempt in society, Annie accompanied her aunt and cousin again to
the drawing-room.
The new comers had arrived; a stylish-looking set—the girls in
full dress, the young men so whiskered and mustachioed that Annie
was surprised to hear them speak English. They were received with
great animation by the Hautons, who seemed to belong to that class
of young ladies who never thoroughly wake but at the approach of a
gentleman.
The young men glanced slightly at Annie, and Mr. Meredith even
gave her a second look. He thought her decidedly pretty, and a “new
face,” which was something; but after a remark or two, finding she
“knew nobody,” and did not belong to the clique, the trouble of
finding topics of mutual interest seemed greater than he thought her
worth, and so he turned to Miss Hauton; and Annie soon found
herself dropped from a conversation that consisted entirely of
personal gossip.
“So, the wedding has come off at last,” said Susan Hauton to Mr.
Constant. “I hope the Gores are satisfied now. Were you there? How
did Mr. Langley look?”
“Resigned,” replied the young man, slightly shrugging his
shoulders.
Susan laughed, though at what Annie could not very well
perceive, and continued with,
“And the bride—how did she look?”
“As brides always do—charmingly, of course,” he replied,
languidly. “You ladies, with your veils, and flowers, and flounces,
may set nature herself at defiance, and dare her to recognize you
such as she made you.”
“If Fanny Gore looked charming,” said Ellen Hauton, sarcastically,
“I think it might have puzzled more than dame Nature to recognize
her. I doubt whether Mr. Langley would have known her under such
a new aspect.”
“I think we may give him credit for differing from others on that
point,” said Kate. “A woman has a right to be thought pretty once in
her life, and Cupid’s blind, fortunately.”
“Cupid may be, but Mr. Langley is not,” replied Miss Hauton, in
the same careless, sneering tone. “It’s a shameful take in.”
“A take in!” repeated Kate, with surprise.
“Yes, certainly,” replied Miss Hauton. “He did not want to marry
her.”
“Then why did he?” asked Kate. “He was surely a free agent.”
“No, he was not,” persisted Miss Susan. “The Gores would have
him; they followed him up, and never let him alone until they got
him.”
“Do you believe,” returned Kate, with some spirit, “that any man
is to be made to marry against his will? There’s no force can do it.”
 “But the force of flattery,” said young Meredith; “is a very
powerful agent, Miss Leslie.”
“Then,” said Kate, laughing, “every match is a ‘take in,’ on that
ground. Is not every bride flattered till she feels as if she had
entered a new state of being? Is not every girl turned, for the time
being, into a beauty? Do you suppose any body ever yet fell in love
on the truth?”
“No, indeed,” replied the gentleman. “Truth’s kept where she
should be, at the ‘bottom of a well.’ A most ill-bred personage, not fit
for ‘good society,’ certainly.”
Then the conversation branched off to other matches, and to
Annie’s surprise she heard these high-bred, delicate looking girls,
talk of their friends making “dead sets” and “catches,” and of young
men being “taken in,” in a style that struck her as decidedly vulgar.
Kate, to turn the subject, asked Mr. Constant if he had been to the
opera the night before.
“I looked in,” he replied. “Vita was screaming away as usual.”
“Oh, is not she horrid?” exclaimed Miss Hauton.
“The opera’s a bore,” pursued her sister. “Caradori’s detestable
and Vita a horror. I hope they’ll get a new troupe next winter. I am
sick of this set.”
“I thought you were fond of the opera,” remarked Kate. “You are
there always.”
“Yes; we have a box, and one must go somewhere; but I was
tired to death before the season was half over. Here, Mr. Meredith,
hold this silk for me,” she continued, calling to the young gentleman,
who was looking out of the window, meditating the possibility of
making his escape to the refreshment of a cigar.
“That’s right, make him useful, Miss Hauton,” said Mr. Constant,
as the reluctant Meredith declared himself most happy and honored
in being so employed; but he set his back teeth firmly, and with
difficulty suppressed a yawn, which was evident in spite of his efforts
to conquer it. Miss Hauton’s animation, however, was more than a
match for his indifference. He was not to be let off. Young ladies,
and high-bred ones too, will sometimes pin young gentlemen,
whether or no. It’s bad policy; for Annie heard him say, as he
afterward escaped and walked off the piazza with his friend, and a
cigar in his mouth,
“What bores these girls are, with their confounded worsteds and
nonsense.”
The evening passed in pretty much the same way. Much gossip,
varied with some very bad music, for Miss Hauton sang, and, like
most amateurs, would undertake more than she could execute.
Annie thought of the “screamer Vita” and that “horrid Caradori,” and
wondered that ears that were so delicate, so alive to the smallest
fault in the music of others, should have so little perception of their
own sins of commission.
“Oh,” said Kate, as they retired to their room at night, “did not
the Hauton’s ‘Casta Diva’ set your teeth on edge? Such an absurdity,
for a girl like her to attempt what few professional persons can sing.
You look tired to death, Annie, and no wonder, for, between you and
I, these Hautons are very common girls. Strange! I’ve known them
for years, and yet never knew them before. Dress and distance
make such a difference.”
“They seem to have so little enjoyment in anything,” remarked
Annie. “Every thing seems, in their phrase, ‘a bore.’ Now, to us in the
country, every thing is a pleasure. I suppose it is because we have
so little,” she continued, smiling, “that we must make the most of it.”
“Well,” said Kate, doubtfully, as if the idea was quite new to her,
“is not that better than to be weary with much?”
“And yet you would laugh at one of our little meetings,” replied
Annie, “where we talk of books, sing ballads, and sometimes dance
after the piano.”
“That is primitive, to be sure,” said Kate, with something of
contempt in her heart for such gothic amusements.
“It’s pleasant, at any rate,” thought Annie, as she laid her head
on her pillow and remembered, with infinite satisfaction, that she
had only one day more to stay among these very fine, very common
people.
“And is it possible,” she thought, “that I should be such a fool as
to envy them because they looked gay and graceful across the opera
house? And half of the rest of them are, doubtless, no better. Oh for
one pleasant, spirited talk with Allan Fitzhugh.” And then her mind
traveled off to home and a certain clever young lawyer, and she fell
asleep dreaming she was in C——, and was once again a belle, (as
one always is in one’s dreams,) and awoke to another dull day of
neglect and commonplaces, to return home more disenchanted of
the gay world and its glitter, more thoroughly contented than she
ever would have been with her own intelligent and animated home,
had she not passed three days at Woodlawn, amid the dullness of
wealth, unembellished by true refinement or enlightened by a ray of
wit.
But it was all right. To Annie had been given that which she most
appreciated; to the Hautons all that they were capable of enjoying.
Would either party have changed? No. The pity was mutual, the
contempt was mutual, and the satisfaction of both sides as complete
as ever falls to the lot of mortals. Annie had seen the other side of
the medal, and the Hautons did not know there was another side to
be seen.
 THE WASTED HEART.
———
BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.
———

“The trees of the forest shall blossom again,

The song-bird shall warble its soul-thrilling strain,
But the heart Fate hath wasted no spring can restore,
And its song shall be joyful—no more, never more.”
A blush was deepening through the folded leaves
Of that young, guileless heart, and far within
Upon the altar of her soul a flame
Like to an inspiration came; she felt
That she had learned to love as e’en the heart
Of woman seldom loves.
She was an orphan child, and sorrow’s storm
With bitter breath had swept her gentle soul;
But that was past—and fresh in purity
It reveled in a blissful consciousness—
It loved, and was beloved.

She knew she loved—and when the twilight dim

Stole on with balmy silence, she would list
A coming step, whose music fall kept time
To all the hurried throbbings of her heart,
And when it stayed, a softened glance would seek
Her drooping eye, whose deepest faith had poured
Its dreamy worship forth so fearlessly;
Eyes that to him alone were never silent,
Whose glances sometimes sought for his, and threw
Their light far through his spirit, till it thrilled
To music every tightened nerve that strung
The living lyre of being.

At such an hour his burning passion slept

Before the portals of their azure heaven,
Like to some wandering angel who has sunk
To rest beside the glory-shadowed gate
Of a lost Paradise; and when he bowed
To press his lip upon the brow that lay
Soft pillowed on his bosom, she would start
Up from his half embrace, and then, to hide
Her sweet confusion, turn aside to part
With white and jeweled fingers, tremblingly,
The rich, dark masses of his waving hair.
Then joyous hopes came crowding brightly through
Their dreaming souls, as did the evening stars
Through the calm heaven above them, and the world
Of happiness that lay upon their hearts
Was silent all, for language had no words
To shadow forth the fond imaginings,
That made its very atmosphere a heaven
Of dreamy, rich, voluptuous purity.
An angel bowed before the mercy-seat
Trusts not more purely in the changeless One
To whom his prayer ascendeth, than did she
The proud, bright being whom her deathless love
Had made its idol-god—she could have laid
Her soft white hand in his without one thought
Except of love and trust, and bade him lead
Her to the end of life’s bewildered maze,
Blindfolded, while her heart on his would rest
Without one care for Time, one lonely fear
For that Eternity which mortals dread.
Such, then, is woman’s love—and wo to him
By whom her trusting nature is betrayed!
——
A change—a fearful, sad and blighting change—
Came o’er them—how or why it matters not—
Enough to know it came—enough to feel
That they shall meet as they have met, no more.
Of him we speak not—we but know he lives;
And she whose heart, whose very life was his,
Could tell you nothing more.
Lost—lost forever—and her life stood still,
And gazed upon the future’s cold gray heaven,
As if to catch one gleam of hope’s fair star—
No hope was there for her—the hand of God
Lay darkly in the cloud that shadowed it.
A never-ending, living death was hers,
And one by one she saw her hopes expire,
But shed no tear, because the fount was dry;
Hers was a grief too strangely sad for tears.
You heard no shriek of anguish as the tide
Of cold and leaden loneliness swept in
Upon her gentle bosom, though the fall
Of earth upon the coffin of the loved
And lost was not more fearful.
She prayed for power to “suffer and be still.”
And God was merciful—it came at last,
As dreamless slumber to a heart that mourns.
She smoothed her brow above a burning brain,
Her eye was bright, and strangers never knew
That all its brilliancy and light was drawn
From out the funeral pyre of every hope
That in an earlier, happier hour had glowed
On passion’s hidden altar. Months rolled on,
And when the softened color came again
To cheek and lip, it was as palely bright
As though from out a sleeping rose’s heart
Its sweetest life had faded tranquilly.
She mingled with the world—its gay saloons
Gave back the echo of her joyous laugh;
Her ruby lip, wreathed with its winning smile,
Gently replied to gentler flatteries,
And when her soul flowed forth upon the waves
Of feeling in the charméd voice of song,
You would have deemed that gushing melody
The music of a purest, happiest heart,
So bird-like was its very joyousness.
And many envied that lone orphan girl
Her light and happy spirit—oh! it was
A bitter, burning mockery! when her life
Was one continued struggle with itself
To seem what it could never be—to hide
Its gnawing vulture ’neath a sunny smile—
To crush the soul that panted to be free—
And force her gasping heart to drink again
The love that fed upon itself and wore
Her inner life away!
They could not know her—could not understand
How one could live, and smile, and still be cursed,
Cursed with a “living judgment,” once to be
Beloved—and then to be beloved no more,
And never to forget. Her life was like
Some pictured lily which the artist’s hand
Gives its proportion—shades its virgin leaves
With nature’s beauty—but the bee can find
No banquet there—the breeze waft no perfume.
The shadows of the tomb have lengthened o’er
Her sky that blushes with the morn of life;
Far on the inner shrine of Memory’s fane,
Lie the cold ashes of her “wasted heart,”
By burning sighs that sweep the darkened soul,
By lava-drops wrung from a fevered brain,
Or e’en the breath of God to be rekindled
Never—no “never more!”
——
And thus it is that woman’s sacrifice
Upon the altar of existence is
(That pulse of life) her warm and loving heart!
Far other tongues beside the poet’s lyre
There are to teach us that we often do
But “let our young affections run to waste
And water but the desert”—that we make
An idol to ourselves—we bow before
Its worshiped altar-stone, and even while
Our incense-wreaths of adoration rise
It crumbles down before that breath, a mass
Of shining dust; we garner in our hearts
A stream of love undying, but to pour
It f h t tl t hi
Its freshness out at last upon a shrine
Of gilded clay!
Our barque floats proudly on—
The waves of Time may bear us calmly o’er
This life’s deep under-current—but the tones
Of love that woke the echoes of the Past
Are stilled, or only murmur mournfully,
“No more—oh! never more!”
And other hearts who bow before the shrine
Of young though shadowed beauty—can they know
What is the idol that they seek to win?
A mind the monument—a form the grave—
Where sleep the ashes of a “wasted heart!”

A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER.
———
BY R. PENN SMITH.
———
Fill the bowl to the brim, there’s no use in complaining;
We’ll drown the dark dream, while a care is remaining;
And though the sad tear may embitter the wine,
Drink half, never fear, the remainder is mine.

True, others may drink in the lightness of soul,

But the pleasure I think is the tear in the bowl;
Then fill up the bowl with the roseate wine,
And the tears of my soul shall there mingle with thine.

And that being done, we will quaff it, my brother;

Who drinks of the one should partake of the other.
Thy head is now gray, and I follow with pain.—
Pshaw! think of our day, and we’re children again.

’Tis folly to grieve that our life’s early vision

Shone but to deceive, and then flit in derision.
A fairy-like show, far too fragile to last;
As bright as the rain-bow, and fading as fast.

’Tis folly to mourn that our hearts’ foolish kindness

Received in return but deceit for their blindness;
And vain to regret that false friends have all flown;
Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone.

Then fill up the glass, there’s no use in repining

That friends quickly leave us, when fortune’s declining—
Let each drop a tear in the roseate bowl;
A tear that’s sincere, and then pledge to the soul.

“WHAT CAN WOMAN DO?”

 OR THE INFLUENCE OF AN EXAMPLE.

———
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
———

Good, therefore, is the counsel of the Son of Sirach. “Show not

thy valiantness in wine; for wine hath destroyed many.”
Jeremy Taylor.

“I am glad you admire my pretty cousin,” said Isabel Gray to a

gentleman seated near her. “She deserves all her good fortune,
which is the highest possible compliment when you see how devoted
her husband is and what a palace-like home he has given her.”
“It does, indeed, seem the very abode of taste and elegance,”
and the speaker looked around the luxurious apartment with
undisguised admiration.
The room, with its occupants, seemed, in the mellow light which
came from lotus shaped vases, like a fine old picture set in a
gorgeous frame. The curtains, falling in fluted folds, shut out the
dreariness of a chill November night—a glowing carpet, on whose
velvet surface seemed thrown the richest flowers and the most
luscious fruits, in wild but graceful confusion, muffled the tread of
the well-trained servants. A few rare pictures hung upon the walls,
and a group of beautiful women were conspicuous among the
guests who this evening shared the hospitality of the master of the
mansion. The dessert had just been placed upon the table—rare
fruits were heaped in baskets of delicate Sèvres, that looked woven
rather than moulded into their graceful shapes; cones and pyramids
of delicately tinted ices, and sparkling bon-bons—in fine, all that
could tempt the most fastidious appetite, had been gathered
together for this bridal feast.
Very happy was William Rushton that night, and how fondly he
glanced, in the pauses of conversation, toward his lovely wife, who,
for the first time, had assumed her place as mistress of all this
elegance. But hers was a subdued and quiet loveliness,
 “Not radiant to a stranger’s eye,”

and many wondered that his choice should have fallen upon her,
when Isabel Gray seemed so much better suited to his well known
fastidiousness. Isabel had passed the season of early girlhood, yet
her clear brow was as smooth, and her complexion as glowing, as
when she had first entered society the belle of the season. Four
winters had passed, and, to the astonishment of many an
acquaintance, she was still unmarried; and now, as the bridemaid of
the wealthy Mrs. Rushton, she was once more the centre of fashion
—the observed of all.
Glittering glasses, of fanciful shape and transparent as if they had
been the crystal goblets of Shiraz, were sparkling among the fruits
and flowers. Already they were foaming to the brim with wines, that
might have warmed the heart of the convivial Clarence himself,
whose age was the topic of discourse among the gentlemen and of
comment to their pretty listeners, who were well aware that added
years would be no great advantage to them in the eyes of these
boasting connoisseurs.
“No one can refuse that,” came to the ears of Isabel Gray, in the
midst of an animated conversation.
“The health of our fair hostess,” said her companion, by way of
explanation. “We are all friends, you know. Your glass, Miss Gray,”
and he motioned the attendant to fill it.
“Excuse me,” said she, in a quick, earnest voice, which drew the
attention of all. “I will drink to Lucy with all my heart, but in water, if
you please,” and she playfully filled the tall glass from a water goblet
near her.
“May I be permitted to follow Miss Gray’s example? She must not
claim all the honor of this new fashion,” and the speaker, a young
man with a fine though somewhat sad face, suited the action to the
word.
Courtesy subdued the astonishment and remonstrances of the
host and his fashionable friends, and this strange freak of Miss
Gray’s formed the topic of conversation after the ladies withdrew.
 “I do not think it a fancy—Isabel Gray always acts from principle,”
said one of the party, with whom she had been conversing; and
Robert Lewis, for so they called her supporter in this unparalleled
refusal, gayly declared himself bound, for that night at least, to drink
nothing but water, for her sake.
“Oh, Isabel, how could you do so?” said her cousin, as they re-
entered the drawingroom, and the ladies had dispersed in various
groups to examine and admire its decorations.
“Do what, dear Lucy?”
“Why, act in such a strange way. I never knew you to refuse wine
before. You might, at least, have touched the glass to your lips, as
you always have done. Mr. Rushton was too polite to remonstrate,
but I saw he looked terribly annoyed. He is so proud of his wines,
too, and I wanted him to like you so much. I would not have had it
happen—oh, for any thing,” and the little lady clasped her hands
with a most tragical look of distress.
“How very terrible! Is it such a mighty offense? But, seriously, it
was not a freak. I shall never take wine again.”
“And all my parties to attend? You will be talked about all winter.
Why, nothing is expected of a lady now-a-days but to sip the least
possible quantity; and, besides, champagne, you know, Isabel—
champagne never hurt any one.”
“I have seen too much of its ill effects to agree with you there,
Lucy. It has led to intemperance again and again. My heart has long
condemned the practice of convivial drinking, and I cannot
countenance it even by seeming to join. Think of poor Talfourd—
what made him a beggar and a maniac! He was your husband’s
college friend.”
“Oh, that is but one in a thousand; and, besides, what influence
can you possibly have. Who, think you, will be the better man for
seeing you so rude—I must say it—as to refuse to take wine with
him?
“We none of us know the influence we exert—perhaps never will
know it in this world. But, still, the principle remains the same. To-
night, however, I had a definite object in my pointed refusal. Young
Lewis has recently made a resolution to avoid every thing that can
lead him into his one fault. Noble, generous to “the half of his
kingdom”—highly cultivated, and wealthy, he nearly shipwrecked his
fortune when abroad, brother tells me, by dissipation—the effect of
this same warm-hearted, generous nature. It is but very lately that
he has seen what a moral and mental ruin threatened him, and has
resolved to gain a mastery over the temptation. I knew of it by
accident, and I should not tell it, even to you, only that it may
prevent his being rallied by Mr. Rushton or yourself. To-night was his
first trial. I saw the struggle between custom, pride, and good
resolutions. If he had yielded then, he would have become
disheartened on reflection, and, perhaps, abandoned his new life
altogether. I cannot tell—our fate in this world is decided by such
trivial events. At any rate, I have spared him one stroke—he will be
stronger next time to refuse for himself.”
“I should not have dreamed of all this! Why I thought it was only
his Parisian gallantry that made him join with you; but, then, if he
has once been dissipated, the case is hopeless.”
“Oh, no Lucy, not hopeless; when a strong judgment is once
convinced, it is the absence of reflection, or a little moral courage, at
first, that ruins so many.”
“Excellent, excellent,” cried the lively Mrs. Moore, who came up
just in time to hear Isabel’s closing sentence—“If Miss Gray is not
turned temperance lecturer! Come, ladies, let her have a numerous
audience while she is about it. Ah, I know you think to get into
Father Mathew’s good graces. Shall you call upon him when he
arrives, and offer your services as assistant?”
“We were discussing the possibility of entire reformation,” said
Isabel, calmly, quite unmoved by Mrs. Moore’s covert sarcasms, to
the ladies who now gathered round the lounge on which she sat.
“The reformation of a man who has been once intemperate, I
mean.”
“Oh, intemperance is so shockingly vulgar, my dear,” quavered
forth Mrs. Bradford, the stately aunt of the hostess. “How can you
talk about such things. No, to be sure, when a man is once
dissipated, you might as well give him up. He’s lost to society, that’s
certain; besides, we women have nothing to do with it.”
 “I beg your pardon, my dear madam, but I think we have a great
deal to do, though not in the way of assisting Father Matthew to
address Temperance Conventions, as Mrs. Moore kindly suggests.
Moreover, I have known a confirmed inebriate, so supposed, to give
up all his old associations, and become a useful and honorable
member of society.”
“Tell us about it, please, Miss Gray,” urged Emily Bradford, deeply
interested. “There will be plenty of time before the gentlemen come
in.”
And as the request was seconded by many voices, Isabel told her
simple tale.
[1]
“There is no romance about it, Miss Emily; but you remember
those pretty habit shirts you admired so much last fall—and you
have seen me wear them, Mrs. Moore. They were made by a woman
—a lady whom I first saw years ago, when I passed my vacations at
Milton, a little town not far from Harrisburg. My Aunt Gray was very
domestic, and thought it no disgrace to the wife of a judge, and one
of the most prominent men in the state, to see after her own
household.
“There was a piece of linen to be made up one vacation; and I
remember going into my aunt’s room and finding her surrounded by
‘sleeves and gussets and bands’—cutting out and arranging them
with the most exemplary patience. ‘Pray, aunt, why do you bother
yourself with such things,’ I said, for I was full of boarding-school
notions on the dignity of idleness. ‘Why don’t you leave it for a
seamstress.’
“‘If you will go with me this afternoon to see my seamstress, you
will find out. I should like you to see her.’ And that afternoon our
walk ended at a plain brown frame house, with nothing to relieve its
unsightliness but a luxuriant morning-glory vine, which covered one
of the lower windows.
“‘How is Mrs. Hall to-day?’ aunt said to a dirty little fellow who
was making sand pies on the front step.
“‘She’s in there,’ was all the answer we received, as he pointed
toward a door on the right of the little hall.
 “‘Come in,’ said a faint and very gentle voice; and, at first, I could
hardly see who had spoken, the room was so shaded by the leafy
curtain which had interlaced its fragile stems over the front window.
There was a neat rag carpet on the floor; a few plain chairs, a table,
and a bureau, ranged round the room; but drawn near the window,
so that the light fell directly upon it, was a bed, covered by a well-
worn counterpane, though, like everything else, it was very neat and
clean—and here, supported in a sitting posture by pillows, was my
aunt’s seamstress. I do not think she had been naturally beautiful—
but her features, wasted by long illness, were very delicate, and her
eyes were large, and with the brilliancy you sometimes see in
consumptives, yet a look of inexpressible sadness. She was very pale
in that soft emerald light made by the foliage, and this was relieved
by a faint hectic that, if possible, increased the pallor. She smiled as
she saw my aunt, and welcomed us both very gratefully. As she held
out her long thin hand, you could see every blue vein distinctly. I
noticed that she wore a thimble, and around her, on the bed, were
scattered bits of linen and sewing implements. You cannot tell how
strange it seemed to see her take up a wristband and bend over it,
setting stitch after stitch with the regularity of an automaton, while
she talked with us. She seemed already dying, and this industry was
almost painful to witness.
“I gathered from her conversation with my aunt,—while I looked
on and wondered,—that Mrs. Hall had long been a confirmed invalid.
They even spoke of a ruptured blood-vessel, from the effects of
which she was now suffering. She did not complain—there was not a
single murmur at her illness, or the hard fate that compelled her to
work for her daily bread. I never saw such perfect cheerfulness, and
yet I knew, from the contracted features and teasing cough, that she
was suffering intensely. The little savage we had seen on our arrival,
proved to be the son of her landlady, who was also her nurse and
waiting-maid.
“I was very much interested, and, by the time we bade her good-
bye, I had sketched out quite a romance, in which I was sure she
had been the principal actor.
 “‘Poor lady,’ said I, the instant we were out of the gate. ‘Why do
you let her work, aunt? Why don’t you take her home, you have so
many vacant rooms—or, at least, I should think, there were rich
people enough in Milton to support her entirely. She does not look fit
to hold a needle. Has she no children? and when did her husband
die?—was she very wealthy?’
“I poured out my questions so fast that aunt had no time to
answer any one of them, and I had been so much engaged, that I
had not noticed a man reeling along the side-walk toward us, until
just in time to escape the rude contact of his touch, from which I
shrunk, almost shrieking.
“‘Who told you that Mrs. Hall was a widow, Isabel?’ said aunt, to
divert me from my mishap.
“‘Nobody; but I knew it at once, as soon as I looked at her; how
lonely she must be—and how terrible to see one’s best friend die,
and know you cannot call them back again.’
“‘Not half so dreadful, dear,’ answered she, very seriously, ‘as to
live on from day to day and see the gradual death of the soul, while
the body is unwasted. It would be a happy day for Mrs. Hall that
made her a widow, though she, poor thing, might not think so. That
wretched inebriate’—and she pointed to the man we had just met
—‘is her husband; and this is why she plies her needle when we
would willingly save her from all labor. She cannot bear that he
should be indebted to the charity of strangers.’
“It was even so, for the poor fellow had reached the garden-
gate, and was staggering in.
“‘So he goes home to her day after day,’ continued aunt; ‘and so
it has been since a few years after their marriage. When I first came
here, he had a neat shop in the village, and was considered one of
the most promising young men in the neighborhood. Such an
excellent workman—such a clever fellow—so fond and proud of his
wife; and everybody said that Charlotte Adams had married ‘out of
all trouble,’ in the country phrase. Poor girl! she had only entered a
sea of misfortunes—for, from the death of her only child, a fine little
fellow, they have been going down. It is a common story. First, the
shop was given up, and he worked by the day; not long after, they
moved to a smaller house, and sold most of their furniture. It was
then she first commenced sewing, and, with all her industry she
could scarcely get along. She could never deny him money when she
had it—and this, with his own earnings, were spent at the tavern.
She remonstrated in vain. He would promise to do better—in his
sober moments he was all contrition, and called himself a wretch to
grieve such a good wife. I do not believe she has ever reproached
him, save by a glance of sorrowful entreaty, such as I have often
seen her give when he entered as now he is going to her.
“‘She was never very well, and under repeated trials, and sorrow
and mortification, her health gave way. Many a time have I parted
with her, never expecting to see her alive again; but there is some
concealed principle of vitality which supports her. Perhaps it is the
hope that she will yet see her husband what he has been. I fear she
hopes in vain, for if there was ever a man given over to the demon
of intemperance it is James Hall. But it is for this reason that she
refuses the assistance of her acquaintances, and works on from day
to day, sometimes as now unable to leave her bed. Of course she is
well paid, and has plenty of work, for everybody pities her, and all
admire the wonderful patience, cheerfulness and industry which she
exhibits. She never speaks to any one, even to me, of her husband’s
faults. If she ever mentions him it is to say, ‘James has been such a
good nurse this week—he has the kindest heart in the world.’ ‘She is
a heroine,’ exclaimed my aunt warmly. ‘The best wife I ever knew—
and if there is mercy in heaven, she will be repaid for all she has
suffered in this world.’
“‘Poor lady,’ I thought and said a hundred times that week. I
suppose I must have tired everybody with talking about Mrs. Hall.”
“And did you ever see her again—did she die, Miss Gray?” asked
Emily Bradford, as Isabel paused in her narration.
“I told you she made those pretty habit shirts for me. They were
not in fashion in those days if you will recollect. The first summer
after my debut in society I passed at Milton. I never shall forget the
second evening of my visit. If you recollect, there was a great
temperance movement through all our towns and villages just about
that time. Reformed inebriates had become the apostles of
temperance, and went from village to village, rousing the inhabitants
by their unlearned but wonderful eloquence. Mass meetings were
held in the town-ball at Milton nightly, and by uncle’s invitation, for
he went heart and hand with the newly awakened spirit of reform,
aunt and myself accompanied him to one of these strange
gatherings. It was with the greatest difficulty we could get a seat.
Rough laborers, with their wives and children, crowded side by side
with the élite of the little place; boys of every age and size filled up
the interstices, with a strange variety of faces and expressions. The
speaker of the evening was introduced just as we entered. He was
tall, with a wan, haggard-looking face, and the most brilliant,
flashing eyes I ever saw. A few months ago he had been on outcast
from society, and now, with a frame weakened by past excesses, but
with a spirit as strong as that which animated the old reformers, he
stood forth, going as it were ‘from house to house, saying peace be
unto you.’ Peace which had fled from his own hearth when he gave
way to temptation, but which now returning urged him to bear glad
tidings to other homes.
“I never listened to such strange and thrilling eloquence. I have
seen Fanny Kemble as Portia plead with Shylock with all the energy
of justice, and the force of her passionate nature, but though that
was beyond my powers of conception, I was not moved as now.
With what touching pathos he recounted the sorrows, the wasting,
mournful want endured by the drunkard’s wife! The sickness of hope
deferred and crushed—the destruction of all happiness here, or hope
of it hereafter! It was what his own eyes had seen, his own acts had
caused—and it was the eloquence of simple truth. More than one
thought of poor Mrs. Hall, I am sure. As for myself, I know not when
I have been so excited, and after the exhausted speaker had
concluded his thrilling appeal, and the whole rude assembly joined in
a song arranged to the plaintive air of Auld Lang Syne—more like a
triumphal chant it seemed, as it surged through the room—I forgot
all rules of form, and though I had sung nothing but tame Italian
cavatinas for years, my voice rose with the rest, forgetful of all but
the scene around me.
 “Scarce had the last strains died away, when through the
crowded aisles, passing the very seat we occupied, some one
pressed forward with trembling eagerness. At first I did not
recognize him—but uncle started and made way for him to the table
in front of the speaker’s seat. A confused murmur of voices ran
through the room, as one and another saw him grasp the printed
pledge which was lying there, with the eagerness of a dying man.
The first name subscribed to the solemn promise of total abstinence
that night was James Hall. When it was announced by my uncle
himself, whose voice was fairly tremulous with pleasure, the effect
was electrical. The whole assembly rose, and the room rang with
three cheers from stentorian voices. All order was at an end. Men of
all classes and conditions pressed forward to take him by the hand,
and more names were affixed to the pledge that night than any one
could have counted on.
“It was a proud tribute paid to woman’s influence, when James
Hall grasping the hand of the speaker ejaculated—‘Oh! it was the
picture you drew of what my poor wife has suffered. Heaven bless
her! she has been an angel to me—poor wretch that I am.’
“My aunt’s first impulse was to fly to Mrs. Hall with the good
news, but ‘let him be the bearer of the glad tidings himself,’ she said
afterward. ‘We will offer our congratulations to-morrow.’ And never
were congratulations more sincerely received than by that pale
invalid, trembling even yet with the fear that her great happiness
was not real.”
“Oh! very well,” broke in Mrs. Bradford. “Quite a scene, my dear;
you should have been a novelist. But did he keep it?—that’s the
thing.”
“You would not ask, my dear madam,” answered Isabel, “if you
could have witnessed another ‘scene,’ as you term it, in which Mrs.
Hall was an actor.
“There is a pretty little cottage standing at the very foot of the
lane which leads to my uncle’s house. This has been built since that
memorable evening by Mr. Hall, now considered the best workman,
and one of the most respected men in Milton; and it was furnished
by his wife’s industry. Her health was restored as if by a miracle; it
was indeed such, but wrought by the returned industry, self-respect,
and devotion of her husband. My aunt and myself were her guests
only a few months ago, the evening of her removal to her new
home.
“We entered before her little preparations were quite finished,
and found Mrs. Hall arranging some light window curtains for the
prettily furnished parlor, while a fine curly-haired, blue-eyed little
fellow was rolling on the carpet at her feet. She was still pale, and
will never be strong again, but a happier wife and mother this world
cannot contain. Her reward has been equal to her great self-
sacrifice, and not only this, but the example of her husband has
reformed many of his old associates, who at first jeered at him when
he refused to join them. There is not a bar now in all Milton, for one
cannot be supported.”
More than one thoughtless girl in the little group clustered
around Isabel began, for the first time, to feel their responsibility as
women, when her little narrative was concluded. But the current of
thought and education is not so easily turned, and by the time the
gentlemen entered the room, most of them had forgotten every
thing but a desire to outshine each other in their good graces.
Emily Bradford alone remained in the shadow of a curtain, quiet
and apart; and as she stood there musing, her heart beat faster, it
may be, with an unacknowledged pang of jealousy as she saw
Robert Lewis speaking earnestly with Isabel.
“Heaven bless you, Miss Gray, I confess I wavered—you have
made me ashamed of my weakness; I will not mind their taunting
now,” was all that the grateful, warm-hearted man could say; and he
knew by the friendly clasp of Isabel’s hand that nothing more was
needed. Who among that group of noble and beautiful women had
more reason for happiness than Isabel Gray? Ah, my sisters, if you
could but realise that all beauty and grace are but talents entrusted
to your keeping, and that the happiness of many may rest upon the
most trivial act, you would not use that loveliness for an ignoble
triumph, or so thoughtlessly tread the path of daily life!
 “Oh, Isabel,” said Lucy Rushton, bursting into her cousin’s room,
some two years from the scenes we have recorded, “what am I to
do? Pray advise me, for you always know every thing.”
“Not quite as wise as that, dear, but what am I to do for you?”
“Oh, Emily Bradford has been proposed for by young Lewis, and
aunt, who sees only his wealth and connections, is crazy for the
match. Emily really loves him devotedly; and what am I to do,
knowing how near he once came to downright intemperance? Is it
my duty, or is it not, to tell aunt? It has no effect on Emily, and,
besides, he confessed it all to her when he proposed.”
“And what does she say?”
“Why, it’s your fault, after all, for she quotes a story you told that
same night I heard about his folly. You told me that, too. Well, he
declares he has not drank a glass of wine since then, and never will
again. Particularly if he has Emily for his guiding angel, I suppose,
and all that sort of thing. And she believes him, of course.”
“Well, ‘of course’—don’t say it so despairingly; why not? I do,
most assuredly. I might perhaps have distrusted the reformation if it
had been solely on Emily’s account, a pledge made to gain her, but if
I am not very much mistaken, I think I can trace their attachment to
that same eventful night, but I am very certain he did not declare
himself until quite recently.”
“So I am to let Emily run the risk?”
“Yes, if she chooses it; though I do not think there is much. I
should have no hesitation to marry Lewis if I loved him. Emily is a
thoughtful, sensible girl. She does not act without judgment, and
she is just the woman to be the wife of an impulsive, generous man
like Lewis. Sufficient time has elapsed to try his principles, and her
companionship will strengthen them.”
And so it proved, for there are now few happier homes than the
cheerful, hospitable household over which Emily Lewis presides.
Isabel Gray is always a favorite guest, and Robert predicts that she
will never marry. It may prove so, for she is not of those who would
sacrifice herself for fortune, or give her hand to any man she did not
thoroughly respect and sympathise with, to escape that really very
tolerable fate—becoming an old maid.
[1] The circumstances here related are substantially
true.

ON A PORTRAIT OF CROMWELL.
———
BY JAMES T. FIELDS.
———
“Paint me as I am,” said Cromwell,
Rough with age, and gashed with wars—
“Show my visage as you find it—
Less than truth my soul abhors!”

This was he whose mustering phalanx

Swept the foe at Marston Moor;
This was he whose arm uplifted
From the dust the fainting poor.

God had made his face uncomely—

“Paint me as I am,” he said,
So he lives upon the canvas
Whom they chronicled as dead!

Simple justice he requested

At the artist’s glowing hands,
“Simple justice!” from his ashes
Cries a voice that still commands.

And, behold! the page of History,

Centuries dark with Cromwell’s name,
Shines to-day with thrilling lustre
From the light of Cromwell’s fame!

A SEA-SIDE REVERIE.
———
BY ENNA DUVAL.
———
These white-capped waves roll on with pride, as if
The myth that ancient poësy did tell
Were true, and they did bear upon their breasts
King Néreus with state most royal. How
They leap and toss aloft their snowy crests;
And now a tumbling billow springing up
In air, does dash and bound—another comes—
Then playfully they meet, with bursting swell
Dashing their spray-wreaths on the shelving shore,
And quick the ripples hasten back, as if
To join the Ocëanides wild glee.
But when the beaming sunlight fades away
And storm-clouds gather—then the rolling waves,
Without a light, sweep on, and soon is heard
The under-current’s deep and solemn tones,
As on the shore it breaks.
How like to life
These ocean waves! When beaming with the rays
Of sunny Joy, Youths cresting billows bound,
Its frolick waves leap up with gleeful laugh,
Glitt’ring with pleasure’s light; but lo! a cloud
Obscures Life’s sky, and sorrow’s storm awakes,
The heavy swell of grief comes rolling on,
And all the sparkles of Life’s waves are gone!

THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE.

A SOUTHERN NOVELET.

———
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
———
(Concluded from page 91.)
 CHAPTER VIII.
It was with feelings of a tumultuous satisfaction that Mat Dunbar
found himself in possession of this new prize. He at once conceived
a new sense of his power, and prepared to avail himself of all his
advantages. But we must suffer our friend Brough to become the
narrator of this portion of our history. Anxious about events, Coulter
persuaded the old African, nothing loth, to set forth on a scouting
expedition to the farmstead. Following his former footsteps, which
had been hitherto planted in security, the negro made his way, an
hour before daylight, toward the cabin in which Mimy, and her
companion Lizzy, a young girl of sixteen, were housed. They, too,
had been compelled to change their abodes under the tory
usurpation; and now occupied an ancient tenement of logs, which in
its time had gone through a curious history. It had first been a hog-
pen, next a hunter’s lodge; had stabled horses, and had been made
a temporary fortress during Indian warfare. It was ample in its
dimensions—made of heavy cypresses; but the clay which had filled
its interstices had fallen out; of the chimney nothing remained but
the fire-place; and one end of the cabin, from the decay of two or
more of its logs, had taken such on inclination downward, as to
leave the security which it offered of exceedingly dubious value. The
negro does not much regard these things, however, and old Mimy
enjoyed her sleeps here quite as well as at her more comfortable
kitchen. The place, indeed, possessed some advantages under the
peculiar circumstances. It stood on the edge of a limestone sink-hole
—one of those wonderful natural cavities with which the country
abounds. This was girdled by cypresses and pines, and, fortunately
for Brough, at this moment, when a drought prevailed, entirely free
from water. A negro loves any thing, perhaps, better than water—he
would sooner bathe in the sun than in the stream, and would rather
wade through a forest full of snakes than suffuse his epidermis
unnecessarily with an element which no one will insist was made for
his uses. It was important that the sink-hole near Mimy’s abode
should be dry at this juncture, for it was here that Brough found his
hiding place. He could approach this place under cover of the woods.
There was an awkward interval of twelve or fifteen feet, it is true,
between this place and the hovel, which the inmates had stripped of
all its growth in the search for fuel, but a dusky form, on a dusky
night, careful to crawl over the space, might easily escape the casual
glance of a drowsy sentinel; and Brough was partisan enough to
know that the best caution implies occasional exposure. He was not
unwilling to incur the risk. We must not detail his progress. Enough
that, by dint of crouching, crawling, creeping, rolling and sliding, he
had contrived to bury himself, at length, under the wigwam,
occupying the space, in part, of a decayed log connected with the
clayed chimney; and fitting himself to the space in the log, from
which he had scratched out the rotten fragments, as snugly as if he
were a part of it. Thus, with his head toward the fire, looking within
—his body hidden from those within by the undecayed portions of
the timber, with Mimy on his side of the fire-place, squat upon the
hearth, and busy with the hominy pot, Brough might carry on the
most interesting conversation in the world, in whispers, and
occasionally be fed from the spoon of his spouse, or drink from the
calabash, without any innocent person suspecting his propinquity.
We will suppose him thus quietly ensconced, his old woman beside
him, and deeply buried in the domestic histories which he came to
hear. We must suppose all the preliminaries to be dispatched
already, which, in the case of an African dramatis personæ, are
usually wonderfully minute and copious.
“And dis nigger, Tory, he’s maussa yer for true?”
“I tell you, Brough, he’s desp’r’t bad! He tak’ ebbry ting for
he’sef! He sway (swears) ebbry ting for him—we nigger, de
plantation, boss, hog, hominy; and ef young misses no marry um—
you yeddy? (hear)—he will hang de maussa up to de sapling, same
as you hang scarecrow in de cornfiel’!”
Brough groaned in the bitterness of his spirit.
“Wha’ for do, Brough?”
“Who gwine say? I ’spec he mus fight for um yet. Mass Dick no
chicken! He gwine fight like de debbil, soon he get strong, ’fore dis
ting gwine happen. He hab sodger, and more for come. Parson ’Lijah
gwine fight too—and dis nigger’s gwine fight, sooner dan dis tory
ride, whip and spur, ober we plantation.”
“Why, wha’ you tink dese tory say to me, Brough?”
“Wha’ he say, woman?”
“He say he gwine gib me hundred lash ef I no get he breckkus
(breakfast) by day peep in de morning!”
“De tory wha’ put hick’ry ’pon your back, chicken, he hab answer
to Brough.”
“You will fight for me, Brough?”
“Wid gun and bagnet, my chicken.”
“Ah, I blieb you, Brough; you was always lub me wid you’
sperrit!”
“Enty you blieb? You will see some day! You got ’noder piece of
bacon in de pot, Mimy? Dis hom’ny ’mos’ too dry in de t’roat.”
“Leetle piece.”
“Gi’ me.”
His creature wants were accordingly supplied. We must not
forget that the dialogue was carried on in the intervals in which he
paused from eating the supper which, in anticipation of his coming,
the old woman had provided. Then followed the recapitulation of the
narrative, details being furnished which showed that Dunbar,
desperate from opposition to his will, had thrown off all the
restraints of social fear and decency, and was urging his measures
against old Sabb and his daughter with tyrannical severity. He had
given the old man a sufficient taste of his power, enough to make
him dread the exercise of what remained. This rendered him now,
what he had never been before, the advocate himself with his
daughter in behalf of the loyalist. Sabb’s virtue was not of a self-
sacrificing nature. He was not a bad man—was rather what the
world esteems a good one. He was just, as well as he knew to be, in
his dealings with a neighbor; was not wanting in that charity, which,
having first ascertained its own excess of goods, gives a certain
proportion to the needy; he had offerings for the church, and
solicited its prayers. But he had not the courage and strength of
character to be virtuous in spite of circumstances. In plain language,
he valued the securities and enjoyments of his homestead, even at
the peril of his daughter’s happiness. He urged with tears and
reproaches, that soon became vehement, the suit of Dunbar as if it
had been his own; and even his good vrow, Minnecker Sabb,
overwhelmed by his afflictions and her own, joined somewhat in his
entreaty. We may imagine poor Frederica’s afflictions. She had not
dared to reveal to either the secret of her marriage with Coulter. She
now dreaded its discovery, in regard to the probable effect which it
might have upon Dunbar. What limit would there be to his fury and
brutality, should the fact become known to him? How measure his
rage—how meet its excesses? She trembled as she reflected upon
the possibility of his making the discovery; and while inly swearing
eternal fidelity to her husband, she resolved still to keep her secret
close from all, looking to the chapter of providential events for that
hope which she had not the power to draw from any thing within
human probability. Her eyes naturally turned to her husband, first of
all mortal agents. But she had no voice which could reach to him—
and what was his condition? She conjectured the visits of old Brough
to his spouse, but with these she was prevented from all secret
conference. Her hope was, that Mimy, seeing and hearing for herself,
would duly report to the African; and he, she well knew, would keep
nothing from her husband. We have witnessed the conference
between this venerable couple. The result corresponded with the
anticipations of Frederica. Brough hurried back with his gloomy
tidings to the place of hiding in the swamp; and Coulter, still
suffering somewhat from his wound, and conscious of the
inadequate force at his control, for the rescue of his wife and people,
was almost maddened by the intelligence. He looked around upon
his party, now increased to seven men, not including the parson. But
Elijah Fields was a host in himself. The men were also true and
capable—good riflemen, good scouts, and as fearless as they were
faithful. The troop under Dunbar consisted of eighteen men, all well
armed and mounted. The odds were great, but the despair of
Richard Coulter was prepared to overlook all inequalities. Nor was
Fields disposed to discourage him.