She Would Be a Soldier, or, the Plain of Chippewa; An Historical Drama in Three Acts

And so, neighbour, you are not then a native of this village?

I am not, my friend; my story is short, and you shall hear it. It was my luck, call it bad or good, to be born in France, in the town of Castlenaudary, where my parents, good honest peasants, cultivated a small farm on the borders of the canal of Midi. I was useful, though young; we were well enough to live, and I received from the parish school a good education, was taught to love my country, my parents, and my friends; a happy temper, a common advantage in my country, made all things easy to me; I never looked for to-morrow to bring me more joy than I experienced to-day.

Pardon my curiosity, friend Jasper: how came you to leave your country, when neither want nor misfortune visited your humble dwelling?

Novelty, a desire for change, an ardent disposition to visit foreign countries. Passing through the streets of Toulouse one bright morning in spring, the lively drum and fife broke on my ear, as I was counting my gains from a day’s marketing. A company of soldiers neatly dressed, with white cockades, passed me with a brisk step; I followed them through instinct—the sergeant informed me that they were on their way to Bordeaux, from thence to embark for America, to aid the cause of liberty in the new world, and were commanded by the Marquis de la Fayette. That name was familiar to me; La Fayette was a patriot—I felt like a patriot, and joined the ranks immediately.

Well, you enlisted and left your country?

I did. We had a boisterous passage to America, and endured many hardships during the revolution. I was wounded at Yorktown, which long disabled me, but what then? I served under great men, and for a great cause; I saw the independence of the thirteen states acknowledged, I was promoted to a sergeancy by the great Washington, and I sheathed my sword, with the honest pride of knowing, that I had aided in establishing a powerful and happy republic.

You did well, honest Jasper, you did well; and now you have the satisfaction of seeing your country still free and happy.

I have, indeed. When the army was disbanded, I travelled on foot to explore the uncultivated territory which I had assisted in liberating. I purchased a piece of land near the great lakes, and with my axe levelled the mighty oaks, cleared my meadows, burnt out the wolves and bears, and then built that cottage there.

And thus became a settler and my neighbour; thanks to the drum and fife and the white cockade, that lured you from your home.

In a short time, Jenkins, everything flourished; my cottage was neat, my cattle thriving, still I wanted something—it was a wife. I was tired of a solitary life, and married Kate, the miller’s daughter; you knew her.

Ay, that I did; she was a pretty lass.

She was a good wife—ever cheerful and industrious, and made me happy: poor Kate! I was without children for several years; at length my Christine was born, and I have endeavoured, in cultivating her mind, and advancing her happiness, to console myself for the loss of her mother.

Where is Christine? Where is your daughter, neighbour Jasper?

She left the cottage early this morning with Lenox, to climb the mountains and see the sun rise; it is time for them to return to breakfast.

Who is this Mr. Lenox?

An honest lieutenant of infantry, with a gallant spirit and a warm heart. He was wounded at Niagara, and one stormy night, he presented himself at our cottage door, pale and haggard. His arm had been shattered by a ball, and he had received a flesh wound from a bayonet: we took him in—for an old soldier never closes his door on a wounded comrade—Christine nursed him, and he soon recovered. But I wish they were here—it is growing late: besides, this is a busy day, friend Jenkins.

Ah, how so?

You know Jerry Mayflower, the wealthy farmer; he has offered to marry my Christine. Girls must not remain single if they can get husbands, and I have consented to the match, and he will be here to-day to claim her hand.

But will Christine marry Jerry? She has been too well educated for the honest farmer.

Oh, she may make a few wry faces, as she does when swallowing magnesia, but the dose will go down. There is some credit due to a wife who improves the intellect of her husband; aye, and there is some pride in it also. Girls should marry. Matrimony is like an old oak; age gives durability to the trunk, skill trims the branches, and affection keeps the foliage ever green. But come, let us in. [ . . . ]

Christine, here is farmer Mayflower and his friends, who have come to visit our cottage, and you in particular.

They are all welcome. Good morning, Jerry—how is it with you?

Purely, Miss Crissy, I’m stout and hearty, and you look as pretty and as rosy as a field of pinks on a sunshiny morning.

Come here, farmer—give me your hand—Christine, yours—[Joins them.]—there; may you live long and happy, and my blessings ever go with you.

[Aside in amazement] Heavens! what can this mean? [Lenox is agitated—pause— Jasper and group retire— Lenox remains at a distance.]

Why, Miss Crissy, your father has consented that I shall marry you, and I’ve come with my neigh-bours to have a little frolic, and carry you home with me.

And am I of so little moment as not to be consulted? Am I thus to be given away by my father without one anxious question? [With decision.] Farmer, pardon my frankness; on this occasion, sincerity alone is required—I do not like you, I will not marry you—nay, do not look surprised. I am a stranger to falsehood and dissimulation, and thus end at once all hopes of ever becoming my husband.

Why, now, Miss Crissy, that’s very cruel of you—I always had a sneaking kindness for you, and when your father gave his consent, I didn’t dream as how you could refuse me.

My father has ever found me dutiful and obedient, but when he bestows my hand, without knowing whether my heart or inclinations accompany it, I feel myself bound to consult my own happiness. I cannot marry you, farmer.