The Last of the Foresters | Page 2

and frontiersmen, monarchists and republicans, are equal in
death--and that the last stones of old Fort Loudoun, built by Lieutenant,
afterwards General, Washington, crumble into dust there, disappearing
like a thousand other memorials of that noble period, and the giants
who illustrated it:--this, and much more, might be said of Winchester,
the old heart of the border, which felt every blow, and poured out her
blood freely in behalf of the frontier. But of the land in which this old
sentinel stands it is impossible to speak in terms of adequate justice. No
words can describe the loveliness of its fair fields, and vainly has the
present writer tried to catch the spirit of those splendid pictures, which
the valley unrolls in autumn days. The morning splendors and
magnificent sunsets--the noble river and blue battlements, forever
escape him. It is in the midst of these scenes that he has endeavored to
place a young hunter--a child of the woods--and to show how his wild
nature was impressed by the new life and advancing civilization around
him. The process of his mental development is the chief aim of the
book.
Of the other personages of the story it is not necessary here to
speak--they will relieve the author of that trouble; yet he cannot refrain
from asking in advance a friendly consideration for Miss Redbud. He
trusts that her simplicity and innocence will gain for her the hearts of
all who admire those qualities; and that in consideration of her liking
for her friend Verty, that these friends of her own will bestow a portion
of their approbation upon the young woodman: pity him when he
incurs the displeasure of Mr., Jinks: sympathise with him when he is
overwhelmed by the reproaches of Mr. Roundjacket, and rejoice with
him when, in accordance with the strictest rules of poetic justice, he is
rewarded for his kindness and honesty by the possession of the two
things which he coveted the most in the world.
RICHMOND, June, 1856.

THE LAST OF THE FORESTERS.
"_If we shadows have offended, Think but this, (and all is mended,)
That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear; And
this weak and idle theme No more yielding than a dream, Gentles, do
not reprehend_."
MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM.

THE LAST OF THE FORESTERS,

CHAPTER I.
AT APPLE ORCHARD.
On a bright October morning, when the last century was rapidly going
down hill, and all old things began to give way to the new, the sun was
shining in upon the breakfast room at Apple Orchard with a joyous
splendor, which, perhaps, he had never before displayed in tarrying at
that domain, or any other.
But, about Apple Orchard, which we have introduced to the reader in a
manner somewhat abrupt and unceremonious. It was one of those old
wooden houses, which dot our valleys in Virginia almost at every
turn--contented with their absence from the gay flashing world of cities,
and raising proudly their moss-covered roofs between the branches of
wide spreading oaks, and haughty pines, and locusts, burdening the air
with perfume. Apple Orchard had about it an indefinable air of moral
happiness and domestic comfort. It seemed full of memories, too; and
you would have said that innumerable weddings and christenings had
taken place there, time out of mind, leaving their influence on the old
homestead, on its very dormer-windows, and porch trellis-work, and
clambering vines, and even on the flags before the door, worn by the
feet of children and slow grandfathers.
Within, everything was quite as old-fashioned; over the mantel-piece a
portrait, ruffled and powdered, hung; in the corner a huge clock ticked;
by the window stood a japanned cabinet; and more than one china
ornament, in deplorably grotesque taste, spoke of the olden time.
This is all we can say of the abode of Mr. Adam Summers, better
known as Squire Summers, except that we may add, that Apple
Orchard was situated not very far from Winchester, and thus looked
upon the beauty of that lovely valley which poor Virginia exiles sigh
for, often, far away from it in other lands.

The sun shines for some time upon the well-ordered room, wherein the
breakfast-table is set forth, and in whose wide country fire-place a
handful of twigs dispel with the flame which wraps them the cool
bracing air of morning; then the door opens, and a lady of some thirty
autumns, with long raven curls and severe aspect, enters, sailing in
awful state, and heralded by music, from the rattling keys which agitate
themselves in the basket on her arm, drowning the rustle of her dress.
This is Miss Lavinia, the Squire's cousin, who has continued to live
with him since the death of his wife, some years since.
The severe lady is