Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman by Willie Walker Caldwell
CHAPTER XII
That ride with Mr. Jefferson, and the day I spent at Monticello, havestill a pleasant flavor in retrospect. Mr. Jefferson's urbanity matchedhis delightful conversation, and my pleasure in his condescension andhis intellectual charm gave him evident satisfaction.
Part of our way lay through the forest, and one could hear the oozingsap, mounting upward into the yet leafless branches interlaced above us.The graceful, clean-limbed maples had strung themselves with strandafter strand of glowing coral leaf buds, and the white trunked cottonwoods were hung thickly with a soft pinkish brown fringe, while eachbranch of the laurel, the dogwood and the ivy shrubs bulged with closefolded gray green buds--big with promise of leaf and blossom. The richloam under our horses' feet was cracked open here and there, making tinywinrows of the rotted leaves, where reawakened roots of fern or flowerwere pushing upward with divine instinct for life and sunshine. Fromsunny dell's slope, and the southern side of oak and locust trees, rosenature's incense--the breath of purple violets, of white anemones, andflushed arbutus blossoms, floating intermittently upon the whimsicalzephyrs of a balmy day in March.
Sudden bursts of rapture, or shrill, happy calls from vibrant throats ofrobin, and wren, cat bird and oriole, red bird and yellow hammer,mocking bird and blue jay, rang from treetop to treetop, and thefluttering of busy wings, and the important chirruping and twittering ofthe nest builders, told that the birds, too, recognized the many hintsof coming spring, and were all of a spirit with the mounting sap, andthe promise-breathing perfume of violet and arbutus buds.
We talked of farming and gardening, upon which subject Mr. Jefferson hadgathered much valuable information. From horticulture we drifted tobooks, and the writers of them. It pleased me to find that, as far as mylimited reading had gone, our tastes were similar. He preferred theGreeks and Greek literature to the Romans and their writings. He admiredDemosthenes, Thucydides, and Homer; Tacitus and Horace were hisfavorites among the Latins; and when we came to English writers, he alsogave first place to Dryden, Milton, Pope and Ossian among the poets, toBacon, Hume and Addison among prose writers. Finding I knew nothing ofFrench, Italian or German literatures, he barely mentioned Moliere,Racine, Petrarch, Tasso and Goethe. Yet his mere word of appreciationkindled my resolution to know these masters, when peace and a quiet lifeshould give me opportunity.
My liking for Ossian seemed to delight Mr. Jefferson, and he quotedfreely from his poems, saying, with warmth, that he thought "this rudebard of the North the greatest of poets."
"Then, sir, you give no credence to the charge of the English critics,that there was never any other Ossian than his pretended translator?"
"No, I do not!" answered Mr. Jefferson emphatically, then proceeded togive me cogent reasons to back his opinion.
The urgency of Mr. Jefferson's invitation to stop a day at Monticellowas not to be resisted, nor was my inclination far behind the courtesyof my host. The early morning was spent about the beautifully turfed andplanted grounds, and the carefully cultivated gardens. I was evenallowed to look over the garden books, as accurate as algebraicdemonstrations, and as neat as copy books. Horses were then ordered fora ride over the plantation. Mr. Jefferson scanned their satiny coatswith critical eye, rubbed a single rough spot on his own mount with hishandkerchief, and showing the black groom who held the impatient steed'sbridle the dust stain made upon it, gave him a sharp reprimand. We gotback in time for a glass of Scotch rum and hot water, seasoned withnutmeg, before dinner. A second ride to Charlottesville in theafternoon, to procure the mail and attend to some matter of business,seemed necessary to Mr. Jefferson's indefatigable energy.
Mrs. Jefferson gave us her charming company in the evening, and someexcellent music with voice and spinet, after which I was so fortunate asto be able to entertain her by an account of the Philadelphiaperformance of "A School for Scandal," with a few quotations from thetext--since they had not yet had the opportunity to read any of Mr.Sheridan's plays.
Though Mr. Jefferson had given me most minute directions, I came nearlosing the trail--to the right, half way up the mountain--which was tolead me to the hermit's retreat. One of the giant sentinel maples, whichmarked the entrance to the trail, had recently blown down, and itssprawling branches completely hid the path. A double log cabin, built ina dent of the mountain's southern slope, was the old scout's home. Theforest clustered about it protectingly, except for a clearing a fewyards wide just in front of the door, and no other than wild growth wasanywhere visible. Two yelping dogs came from the doorway at the sound ofmy horse's feet, followed closely by the hermit himself.
"Light, stranger, an' hitch," he called, pointing to the nearest treetrunk.
I did so, while he leisurely approached, a short stemmed cob pipe in hismouth, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his homespun breeches.His hunting shirt was also of homespun; his leggins, belt, and moccasinsof leather; and the cap which surmounted his face--so covered with beardthat a pair of heavy browed, keen brown eyes, and a large crooked nosewere the only features visible--was made of deerskin. Though hair andbeard were grizzled, he showed no signs of age in figure or bearing.Within the cabin's wide chimney a fire smoldered, and a rough bench wasdrawn up before it. Seated and served with tobacco for my pipe, Iunfolded my mission.
"Thar' ain't no two men nowhares I'd ruther pleasure thin Pat Henry en'George Clark," said the scout, "en' I 'low I'm the man they er' lookin'fur. I knows them Algonquins, en' ther savage ways, en' ther heathentalk better'n menny."
"Governor Henry and Mr. Clark say they cannot do without you, and Mr.Jefferson bade me tell you to come to Monticello this week to give himyour promise."
"Thar' ain't but one thing es'll hinder me--but thet's 'nuff. I see noway er promisin' jist now, Cap'n--but I'll see Mr. Jefferson afore I sezno. You coulden' nohow mention no kind uv frolic, nur no feastin' nurpleasuring es temptin' ter me, Capt'n, es killin' Injuns. The way Ihates the redskins mought be counted es hell-desarvin' sin, Capt'n, butfur the fact thet they's devils en' hes devils' ways, en' the Holy Wordcommands us ter hate the devil and all his wurrucks. Did Mr. Henry urClark tell yer the old scout's story, Capt'n?"
Just then my eye was drawn to the crack in the door, between the tworooms, by hearing the swishering as of a woman's skirts, and a softtread upon the planks, and I was much astonished to see what seemed tome the shadow of a woman's form. The scout, too, looked up, then drewhis brow into a half worried frown. I had not heard of a wife or adaughter; indeed, had understood that the hermit lived entirely alone,so was greatly surprised. Something in the scout's manner led me tothink, however, that he did not care to be questioned, so I made hasteto withdraw my eyes and to answer his question in the negative.
"Wall, ef you kin bide er spell longer you shell hear the pitifultale"--said the old man with a sigh--"en' er sadder, I 'low you'veseldom hearn, even in this land uv sorrowful stories en' terrurblesufferin's."
* * * * *
"Then without doubt your opportunity has come," said I when the tale wasended; "nor do I wonder you hate the Indians," and I wrung his hand."But I must say good-by now, and ride on. I hope you will decide to joinus, as your not doing so will be a serious loss to our expedition."
"I'll see, I'll see. Ther temptation to fight Injun devils is not oneI'm likely ter resist; yit thar's reasons, serious reasons," and helowered his voice, looked grave, and watched the crack in the doorbetween the two rooms as he gripped my hand in farewell.
A mile farther down the mountain a sudden crackling in the bushes at oneside caused my horse to snort and sniff suspiciously. But I had no timenow to track wild beast, or snare game, for it was already midday, and Imust reach Staunton, if not home, that night. As I rode on I thoughtmuch of the scout's sad story, and pitied his bereaved and lonelycondition. But could he be a hypocrite posing for sympathy? Surely thatwas a woman's form which flitted before the partly open door, yet he hadlet fall no hint of having any companion of his solitude, and I knew ofno n