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Robert E. Lee Portrait
So that was the guise this preux
chevalier took! These the Platonic theories he urged, to give himself
liberty to roam.
"Selfish!" inaudibly ejaculated Miss M'Lean, as she made these conclusions.
Sleeping upon it did not alter her opinion, and all the following days proved
her conclusions—and her power.
STRAIGHT from the dining hall
went Lawrence King to the parlor. There with the Windlows and their friends, he
found what he sought; and it was not many minutes before he was standing before
Mabel M'Lean talking with
empressement. Then breaking
in upon this came her sister, and Lawrence King was satisfied. Apart stood
Marchmont, savagely biting the end of his mustache, and looking out of lowering
brows at the preux chevalier.
How many times had just this thing happened? Just when he had commenced a
sensible conversation with Miss M'Lean up starts that puppy of a King, and by
stratagem wiles her away. It was very true; day after day had 'this thing'
happened. What did it mean? Was Lawrence King for once modest of his own
attraction, and doubting it, did he resort to stratagem, or was it a little
touch of malice to foil the
cynic, the sometime autocrat? What did Lawrence King care for so plain a person
as Miss M'Lean, when the first beauties of a season were ready to smile at his
approach? It must have been the latter of these two propositions, then. And yet
how long his malice held! How absorbed he grew as he listened or talked! There
was stratagem at least of some sort, and Emily M'Lean herself was the last to
see it. But she did see it, though,
at last. She saw it when she
suddenly one day aroused to the fact that Lawrence King was using her sister as
a lure; that he was more than content when it proved successful, and transferred
her from his side. She had meant to do not quite so much. She had put herself up
as a shield. She had set herself as a barrier, conscious of a power that,
actively employed, would accomplish her desire. She only desired to
How much else had she accomplished? Suddenly brought to suspicion, Miss M'Lean
let this wily gentleman alone. That is, when he approached her sister she did
not interrupt, she waited, apparently deeply absorbed with the cynic. In vain he
"charmed and sung." She came not near him. Once, twice, thrice he tried this.
When he found that it was unsuccessful, as that savage Marchmont said, "played
out," he came over and disputed the field in open, resolute warfare. This was
better than the other. Marchmont himself gave him credit for manly courage. Miss
M'Lean, too, saw him in stouter guise.
But Mabel? Yes, the play was played out. The fine theories no longer heeded. No
longer needed Lawrence King "a sister."
"Why does Lawrence King follow up Miss M'Lean so persistently?—she isn't a
beauty or a belle, like her sister, though Marchmont and his friends do pay her
homage," asked an observer of the somebody who had quoted:
"Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung."
"Perhaps because Marchmont and his friends follow her. It would be like Lawrence
King to want what other people value."
"The little M'Lean seems to have consoled herself for his neglect."
"Alayne's worth two of him; I don't wonder,"
"Alayne never looked at a pretty woman before."
The other laughed.
"No; that is the reason why a
pretty woman is pleased with him. She thinks he must see something beyond her
beauty, that every body can see."
So they were discussed. Those who discussed them looked to see Lawrence King
flag in his new pursuit and turn to another. But no, the days went by. A new
face appeared upon the scene; beauty and fortune and fashion all in one. Still
he clave to the plainer, with neither fortune nor fashion. At first Lawrence
King says to himself: "Why do I like the society of this Miss M'Lean? Is it that
she makes me use all my energies of mind—makes me think? Or am I emulous of
success where Wilkie Marchmont thinks it worth while to show esteem? What is it?
I don't want to flirt with Emily M'Lean. I never think of saying a fine thing to
her; but in her presence I am surprised into a higher estimate of my
capabilities than I feel with others. Always at my best, is that it? And yet I
am a more modest man with her. She does not flatter me with smiles or blushes.
What is it?" One day he found out the secret. He carried it with him for days,
for weeks, until the autumn came, and the time for the breaking up of all this
It was a brilliant morning, just at the last of September, and Lawrence King
came in from a solitary walk to find a solitary occupant of the piazza. It was
Emily M'Lean. She was walking up and down in the sunshine.
He looked at her as she came toward him. Her dress was of the hue of late
violets, and she had stuck carelessly in her bosom somebody's morning offering—a
bunch of cardinals. "How lovely she is!" he thought. Then it flashed across him
the memory of a morning when she had come up that same piazza a stranger, and
their comments about her. He understood now what little Queen Mab had meant when
she said, "It couldn't have been Em; Em is lovely." There was neither bloom nor
regularity of outline, he confessed; but a soft, subtle charm of presence, a
grace, of motion, of expression, that you felt was the expression of a royal
womanhood. Lawrence King felt it now as he went to meet her. He joined her—not
fluent, as usual. but silent, distrait. Whet was on his mind? In this royal
presence did he feel the weight of his misdoing? Did he feel that he had sinned
against her and hers? And was he about to make confession?
He made confession, but not for absolution. He confessed, not of penitence, but
of passion. He loved her. She was the only woman in the world
to him. And telling her so, be asked her to marry him.
Remembering little Queen Mab, you think that now was Emily M'Lean's hour of just
retribution; that she turned upon
him with scorn and withering reproach; that her eyes flashed, that her
cheek flamed, and that she asked him "how he dared?" etc. No; this was not Emily
M'Lean's way. She must have had some deeper test of nature than most
persons—some well-spring of tenderness for every human being.
She waited before she replied, looking out toward the sea, with her somewhat sad
face growing sadder as she
pondered. At length she said, gravely,
"I have been waiting for words that will most kindly express what I wish to
"No, no!" he interrupted, vehemently, putting away, as it were, the rejection he
anticipated, with a gesture of his hand.
"I am sorry," she went on, "to give
any one so much pain. I had not looked for this end, you may be sure; but I can
not marry you, Mr. King."
He caught eagerly at these last words. She had not said, "I do not love you."
Perhaps—and with ardor he urged his suit. He would wait. And as a special claim
"I have never loved a woman before, Miss M'Lean."
She looked at him a moment before she replied:
"I should know that. To have loved
makes us tender of others, fearful of inflicting suffering. I knew it when you
amused yourself with my little sister, Mr. King."
His face changed. "Ah, you will judge me hardly there, but consider. I met your
sister as the young beauty of the season. She received my attentions, my society
in the manner of all young belles. She was arch, gay, and piquante—some might
have said coquettish. I think we understood each other."
"Mr. King, my sister is seventeen. You can judge how much chance she has had for
judging the world, and to understand men of society like yourself. Last year she
left school. In six months she finds herself in the midst of fine people, who,
instead of speaking to her with the serene simplicity of a conventual
Pensionnaire, meet her with
subtle compliment of word and manner. Her own manner, which you suggest as
coquettish, is perfectly
unlearned—the mere natural result of a young and imaginative mind. You
are mistaken if you suppose she understood you, Mr. King. I will tell you
frankly—because I think it is better for her
dignity and for your experience to know—that when my sister blushed at
your name when alone with me, it was not for vanity. It is a grave and solemn
thing to stir the conscious depths of a young girl's heart; for though she may
outwardly accept any version of Platonism which those older and wiser in the
world's ways may suggest, it is only outwardly. The sensibility of her own
nature contradicts such theories."
A vivid color suffused her listener's face as she spoke. He remembered himself
in this suggestion. How meanly at this moment of real feeling did his own past
conduct appear! In this clear and noble presence how wasted seemed his former
"At least," he said, after a short
have not permanently disturbed your sister's
"Mr. King, you have taught Mabel her first lesson of unbelief. She has learned
from you the meaning of 'trifling.' It was a shock which might have proved fatal
to her nature, making her the heartless, unbelieving coquette which you
prematurely presumed her to be; but in the reaction Mr. Alayne's simple truth of
character convinced her that her ideal was not altogether illusive. I am happy
to say, Mr. King, that she accepted Robert Alayne last night. I am sure you will
be glad to know this."
"I am sincerely glad. I hope you
will believe me to this extent. But—but if you would but allow me to convince
you too that my life may not be so far apart from yours: that I may at some
"Pardon me, Mr. King, for what I am going to say; but love does not grow by
waiting between two such lives as yours and mine. You are thirty; I am
twenty-six. Since I was twenty life has been to me costly and sacred. To
you—forgive me if I seem harsh—it has been a play, an amusement, which often
palled upon you. You have lived exteriorly, I interiorly. Do not think I
arrogate any thing to myself; but we are unlit for each other. You have it in
your power to do much that is fine and splendid; but your place is in the
world—mine is not."
"And you will not—"
"I can not." She held out her hand.
"Will you forgive me for what I have said! Trust me that I did not say it easily
He took the hand, held it a moment, then said, in a low voice,
"I am glad to have known you, Emily M'Lean. I shall never forget you."
He never did. His place was in the world, as she had said. He was always where
life ran in fashionable circles; but no one ever quoted for him after this,
"Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung."
The charmer was charmed into finer charming.
He never forgot her nor the lesson that she taught him. And Marchmont,
too—Marchmont, the cynic and the autocrat.
In early life he had learned the lesson of distrust that came so near poisoning
the life of little Queen Mab. He learned it from a woman; therefore he hated
women; therefore he earned the title of cynic and autocrat. Emily M'Lean
revealed to him his long mistake; proved to him
"How divine a thing a woman can be made."
And when he said, "I love you, Emily M' Lean," she who had so subtly perceived
the character of another recognized as well the real goodness that lay beneath
the rough mask of cynicism.
"And Marchmont wins," says the shrewd observer,
who has watched the summer's
And Marchmont wins.
"FIRST waltz? let me see; with much pleasure!"
She handed her fan to her aunt;
How we whirl'd to the deux-temps' swift measure,
I fain would describe; but I can't.
An oarsman would say that we "spurted;"
A sportsman, we "went like a bird;"
I shall merely remark that we flirted
In a manner extremely absurd.
And when all my twirling was over,
And I and my pipe were alone,
My heart, I began to discover,
Had ceased to be wholly my own.
As Paddy would say, "More by token,"
Our hearts must be made of tough clay,
For mine's been a hundred times broken,
And here it is beating to-day!
And now I sit here in my attic,
Alone, with a cold in my head,
And think, although somewhat rheumatic,
Of dancing in days that are dead.
A waltz, and but one! 'twas but little
To live in my mem'ry so long;
But, at twenty, one's heart is as brittle
As one's love of sensation is strong.
I pick'd up a flow'ret which, drooping,
Had fallen from the wreath it had graced;
At present, just fancy me stooping—
I'm over four feet round the waist!
The programme which held her sweet surname,
I gazed on with tenderest looks;
Just now, I am certain that her name
Would move me far less than my cook's.
It comes to us all, that sad season,
When a man has his waistcoats made wide,
And his wife ceases strumming the keys on,
And carries her keys by her side;
When we will go to sleep after dinner,
And perhaps at odd times in the day;
When the hair on our head's getting thinner,
And our beard and our whiskers get gray;
When we can't hold our horse with a snaffle;
When our waltzing's no longer our forte;
These sad recollections I'll baffle
With a bumper of crusted old Port.
THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG.
pages 472 and 473 we publish two fine illustrations
of the BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG from drawings by our special artist, Mr. A.
R. Waud. The best description of the battle which we have seen is the following
from the Philadelphia Age, and we do not think our readers will be sorry to have
it in full, long as it is:
On Wednesday morning, July 1,
General Reynolds, with
twenty-five thousand men, the advance of the Federal
Gettysburg from the southeast and began
the great battle. The field upon which it was fought
was a peculiar one. The South Mountain, a long ridge
several miles west of Gettysburg, is the great landmark,
and the most prominent spot near the town is the hill upon
which stood the unfortunate but famous cemetery. Gettysburg
is situated in a valley. Two ridges, a mile apart,
parallel to each other, are on each side of the valley. It
and the ridges are all curves, the concavity being toward
the east. It was upon these ridges that the battle was
fought, the combatants advancing and retreating through
the town, and across the valley above and below it. There
is but one stream of water on the field—a narrow, swampy
one, a mile south of Gettysburg, which runs zigzag down
the valley toward the Monocacy. The lines of battle formed
by the two armies were upon these ridges, and resembled
two horseshoes, one inside of the other.
The best view of the field is had from the top of the
Cemetery Hill. It is a short distance south of the town.
In front there is a rather steep declivity to the valley, then
a gentle ascent covered with low, scrubby timber and pieces
of rock, to the Seminary Hill, a mile distant. Here was
the Confederate line. As the gazer stood amidst the broken
tombstones he could see the entire field. The valley,
the debatable ground, stretched around from right to left,
almost a semicircle. He could look over the tree-tops and
little patches of wood, and passing his eye up the hill on
the other side, could see the seminary toward the northwest.
Further to the right is the Gettysburg College, also
on the Seminary Hill.
Beginning at the left hand, the Confederate line rested
on the little stream, then ascended the hill and ran along
at stone fence, which had been made into a rifle-pit. As
it approached Gettysburg it curved around, crossing the
Chambersburg and Emmettsburg road and the road to
Carlisle, and passed the seminary and college, between
which it crossed a serpentine railway leading to the town,
called the "Tape-worm." The ridge continued the entire
length, its front, except in a few cleared spots, being covered
with timber. The line must have extended at least
The ridge occupied by the Federal troops was half inclosed
by the other. It was an inner circle, and was made
up of much higher and bolder hills than the outer one.
The Federal left rested also on the little stream, and ran
along a rocky ravine, then ascended the Cemetery hill,
and so on in a semicircle over one round-topped wooded
hill after another until it was lost on the right in the mazes of a thick
Meade's line was about five miles in length, and in the battle,
besides the higher
ground, he had all the advantages of interior lines, and
also was in it friendly country. His head-quarters were
on a wooded knoll a mile east of the cemetery.
Away off behind the Confederate line, and curving
around in a larger circle still, was the South Mountain.
In all the contests, excepting the opening one, the enemy
attacked. On Wednesday morning General Reynolds,
with the Federal advance, approached the town from the
southeast, the enemy evacuating it on his arrival. He
passed through and out on the west side toward
He marched several miles, was met by the
enemy in stronger force, and after a slight contest was
compelled to retire. The enemy pushed him very hard,
and he came into the town on a run, his troops going
along every available road, and rushing out on the east
side, closely followed by
the enemy. One of his brigades
came along the "Tape-worm"
with a Confederate brigade
on each side of it. All three were abreast, running as
hard as they could—the two outside ones pouring a heavy
fire into the centre, out of which men dropped, killed or
wounded, at almost every footstep. This Federal brigade,
in running that terrible gauntlet, lost half of its men.
General Reynolds was killed, and Gettysburg was lost;
but the Federal troops succeeded in mounting the Cemetery Hill, and the
enemy ceased pursuing. At night the
enemy encamped in the town, and the Federal troops on
During Wednesday night and Thursday morning the
two armies were concentrating on the two ridges, which
were to be the next day's line of battle, and by noon on
Thursday each general had a force of 80,000 men at his
disposal. Then began the great artillery contest, the infantry
on both sides crouching behind fences and trees
and in rifle-pits. The Federal soldiers in the cemetery
laid many of the tombstones on the ground to prevent
injury, so that many escaped. There was but little infantry
fighting on Thursday, and neither party made
much impression upon the other. The Confederates in the
other town erected barricades, and had their sharp-shooters posted in
every available spot, picking off Federal soldiers
on the hills to the north of the cemetery. The cannonade
was fierce and incessant, and shells from both sides
flew over and into the devoted town. Beyond killing and
wounding, breaking trees and shattering houses, and
making an awful noise, however, this cannonade had but
little effect on the result of the battle. Both sides fought
with great ferocity, and neither could drive the other out
On Thursday night, fearing that the enemy had flank
parties which might turn his rear, General Meade had serious
intentions of retreating, and he called a council of
war. The advice of some of his generals, however, and
the capture of the courier with dispatches from Richmond,
from which it was learned that the enemy could receive no
reinforcements, made him decide to remain.
On Friday morning
General Lee did not desire to make
the attack. He saw the superiority of the Federal position,
and wished to entice them out of it, and down into the valley.
With this design he withdrew all of his
sharpshooters and infantry from
Gettysburg. The deserted town lay
there a very tempting bait, but General Meade's men hid
quietly behind the fences and trees, and banks upon the
hills. They could look down into the streets and see every
thing which was in progress.
They saw the enemy march
out and retire to the seminary, but made no advance, and
the Confederates gained nothing by the movement. A
parting salute of musketry, however, from a knoll north
of the cemetery, accelerated the Confederate retreat. For
some time the town had
scarcely a soldier in it. Scores
of dead and wounded men and horses, with broken wagons,
bricks, stones, timber, torn clothing, and abandoned accoutrements,
lay there. The frightened inhabitants peered
out of their windows to see what the armies were doing to
cause such a lull, and, almost afraid of their own shadows,
they hastened away and crouched in corners and cellars at
the sound of every shot or shell.
General Lee's evacuation had no effect. Meade was neither to be enticed into the
town nor into the valley.
Enough dead bodies lay in the fields and streets to give
him warning of what happened to poor Reynolds two days
before, and he wisely determined to stay where he was
and let events shape themselves. The enemy soon became
impatient. They could wait no longer; and after much
solicitation from his subordinates, General Lee permitted
General Longstreet to send his grand division on a charge
upon the cemetery. The Federal soldiers were on the
alert. They were hid behind their embankments, some
kneeling, and some flat on the ground. The Confederate
artillery opened. It was as fierce a cannonade as the one
the day before, but instead of being spread all over the
line, every shell was thrown at the cemetery. Experienced
soldiers soon divined what was coming, and in every
portion of the Federal line the cannon were directed toward the valley in front
of the cemetery. All were ready.
Amidst the furious fire from the Confederate cannon scarcely
a Federal shot was heard. The artillerists, implements
in hand, crouched in the little ditches dug behind their cannon.
With arms loaded, the infantry awaited the charge.
It soon came. From the woods of short, scrubby timber
and the rocks near the seminary there rose a yell. It
was a long, loud, unremitting, hideous screech from thousands
of voices. At the yell the Federal cannon opened.
Soon the enemy's columns emerged from the woods. They
came on a rush down the hill, waving their arms and still
screeching. They climbed the fences and rushed along,
each one bent upon getting first into the cemetery. The
cannon roared, and grape and canister and spherical case
fell thick among them. Still they rushed onward, hundreds falling out of the
line. They came within musket-shot
of the Federal troops. Then the small-arms began to
rattle. The Confederates approached the outer line of
works. They were laboring up the hill. As they mounted
the low bank in front of the rifle-pits, the Federal soldiers
retreated out of the ditch behind, turning and firing
as they went along. It was a
hand-to-hand conflict. Every
man fought by himself and for himself. Myriads of
the enemy pushed forward down the hill, across into the
works, and up to the cemetery. All were shouting, and
screaming, and swearing, clashing their arms and firing
their pieces. The enemy's shells flew over the field upon
the Federal artillerists on the hills above. These, almost
disregarding the storm which raged around them, directed
all their fire upon the surging columns of the enemy's
charge. Every available cannon on the Cemetery Hill,
and to the right and left, threw its shells and shot in the
valley. The fight was terrible; but despite every effort
the enemy pushed up the hill and across the second line
of works. The fire became hotter. The fight swayed back
and forth. One moment the enemy would be at the railings
of the cemetery; then a rush from the Federal side
would drive them down into the valley. Then, with one
of their horrid screeches, they would fiercely run up the
hill again into the cemetery, and have a tierce battle among
the tombstones. It was the hardest fight of the day, and
hundreds were slain there. Reckless daring, however,
will not always succeed. Several attempts were made to
take the place, but they were not successful; and late in
the afternoon, leaving dead and wounded behind them,
the enemy's forces slowly retreated upon their own hill
and into their woods again.
They were not routed. They can scarcely be said to
have been driven. They have made an attack and been
repulsed, and after renewed attempts, feeling that it was
useless to try any more, they retreated. It was now General
Meade's turn to make an attack. Though they had
lost heavily, his soldiers felt elated. They saw hopes of a
victory, and were ready to to almost any thing to secure
it. Although there had been a battle in the valley below
Gettysburg, yet the town was as quiet and as much deserted
as ever. Shells flew over it, and now and then one
of its houses would have a wall cracked or a roof broken,
but neither force possessed it. General Meade turned his attention there.
The day was waning and the battle had lulled, and he
determined, if possible, to drive the enmity out of the
seminary. His troops were placed in order, and charged
down the hill and into the town. They ran along every
street, chasing a few of the enemy, still hid there, before
them. They came out upon the west side, along the
"Tape-worm," and the Emmettsburg and Chambersburg
roads, and ascended the enemy's hills amidst a storm of
grape and shell. At the seminary the Confederates were
not very strong. They had weakened that portion of the
line to make their attack further to the south upon the
cemetery. They had but few cannon; and though they
resisted some time, they finally retreated from the edge
of the hill and abandoned the seminary.
The Federal troops did not chase them. The land back
of the seminary was rather flat and cut up into grain
fields, with here and there a patch of woods. The rifle-pits
on t he brow of the hill proved an effectual aid to the
Federal soldiers in maintaining their ground; and as they
lay behind the bank, with the ditch in front, they could
pick off the stragglers from the retreating enemy. There
was but little serious fighting after that, and night put an
end to Friday's struggle, the Confederates having retired
about a mile on the north, near the seminary, and half
a mile on the south, at a little stream.
During the night the dead in the streets of Gettysburg
were buried, and the wounded on all parts of the field
were collected and carried to the rear. On the next morning
General Meade expected another attack; but, instead
of making it, the enemy retreated further, abandoning
their entire line of battle, and the pickets reported that
they were intrenching at the foot of South Mountain. The
Federal army was terribly crippled and sadly in want of
rest, and no advance was made, although pickets were
thrown out across the enemy's old line of battle, and toward
the place where they were building intrenchments.
All the day was spent in feeding and resting the men.
Gettysburg was turned into a vast hospital, and impromptu ones were made
at a dozen places on the field.
The rain came, too, and with it cool air and refreshment
both from wind and rain. No one could tell what the enemy
were doing; every picket reported that they were intrenching,
and the night of the 4th of July closed upon the
field with it in the Federal possession.