Chapter 35

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The village tyrant of his fields withstood--
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
--GRAY.

It was thirty-three years after the interview which we have just related
that an American army was once more arrayed against the troops of
England; but the scene was transferred from Hudson's banks to those of
the Niagara.

The body of Washington had long lain moldering in the tomb; but as time
was fast obliterating the slight impressions of political enmity or
personal envy, his name was hourly receiving new luster, and his worth
and integrity each moment became more visible, not only to his
countrymen, but to the world. He was already the acknowledged hero of an
age of reason and truth; and many a young heart, amongst those who
formed the pride of our army in 1814, was glowing with the recollection
of the one great name of America, and inwardly beating with the sanguine
expectation of emulating, in some degree, its renown. In no one were
these virtuous hopes more vivid than in the bosom of a young officer who
stood on the table rock, contemplating the great cataract, on the
evening of the 25th of July of that bloody year. The person of this
youth was tall and finely molded, indicating a just proportion between
strength and activity; his deep black eyes were of a searching and
dazzling brightness. At times, as they gazed upon the flood of waters
that rushed tumultuously at his feet, there was a stern and daring look
that flashed from them, which denoted the ardor of an enthusiast. But
this proud expression was softened by the lines of a mouth around which
there played a suppressed archness, that partook of feminine beauty. His
hair shone in the setting sun like ringlets of gold, as the air from the
falls gently moved the rich curls from a forehead whose whiteness showed
that exposure and heat alone had given their darker hue to a face
glowing with health. There was another officer standing by the side of
this favored youth; and both seemed, by the interest they betrayed, to
be gazing, for the first time, at the wonder of the western world. A
profound silence was observed by each, until the companion of the
officer that we have described suddenly started, and pointing eagerly
with his sword into the abyss beneath, exclaimed,--

"See! Wharton, there is a man crossing in the very eddies of the
cataract, and in a skiff no bigger than an eggshell."

"He has a knapsack--it is probably a soldier," returned the other. "Let
us meet him at the ladder, Mason, and learn his tidings."

Some time was expended in reaching the spot where the adventurer was
intercepted.