The Scottish Chiefs, by Jane Porter

Chapter 79.

Lumloch.

Wallace, having turned abruptly away from his lamenting servants, struck into the deep defiles of the Pentland Hills. They pointed to different tracks. Aware that the determined affection of some of his friends might urge them to dare the perils attendant on his fellowship, he hesitated a moment which path to take. Certainly not toward Huntingtower, to bring immediate destruction on its royal inhabitant. Nor to any chieftain of the Highlands, to give rise to a spirit of civil warfare. Neither would he pursue the eastern track; for in that direction, as pointing to France, his friends would most likely seek him. He therefore turned his steps toward the ports of Ayr. The road was circuitous; but it would soon enough take him from the land of his fathers — from the country he must never see again!

As morning dispelled the shades of night, it discovered still more dreary glooms. A heavy mist hung over the hills, and rolled before him along the valley. Still he pursued his way, although, the day advanced, the vapors collected into thicker blackness, and, floating down the heights, at last burst into a deluge of rain. All around was darkened by the descending water; and the accumulating floods, dashing from the projecting craigs above, swelled the burn in his path to a roaring river. Wallace stood in the torrent, with its wild waves breaking against his sides. The rain fell on his uncovered head, and the chilling blast sighed in his streaming hair. Looking around him, he paused amidst this tumult of nature. “Must there be strife, even amongst the elements, to show that this is no longer a land for me? Spirits of these hills,” cried he, “pour not thus your rage on a banished man! A man without a friend, without a home.” He started and smiled at his own adjuration. “The spirits of Heaven launch not this tempest on a defenseless head; ’tis chance! — but affliction shapes all things to its own likeness. Thou, oh, my Father! would not suffer any demon of the air to bend thy broken reed! Therefore rain on, ye torrents; ye are welcome to William Wallace. He can well breast the mountain’s storm, who has stemmed the ingratitude of his country.”

Hills, rivers, and vales were measured by his solitary steps, till entering on the heights of Clydesdale, the broad river of his native glen spread its endeared waters before him. Not a wave passed along that had not kissed the feet of some scene consecrated to his memory. Over the western hills lay the lands of his forefathers. There he had first drawn his breath; there he imbibed from the lips of his revered grandfather, now no more, those lessons of virtue by which he had lived, and for which he was now ready to die. Far to the left stretched the wide domains of Lammington: there his youthful heart first knew the pulse of love: there all nature smiled upon him, for Marion was near, and hope hailed him, from every sunlit mountain’s brow. Onward in the depths of the cliffs, lay Ellerslie, the home of his heart, where he had tasted the joys of Paradise; but all there, like that once blessed place, now lay in one wide ruin.

“Shall I visit thee again?” said he, as he hurried along the beetling craigs; “Ellerslie! Ellerslie,” cried he; “’tis no hero, no triumphant warrior, that approaches! Receive — shelter thy deserted, widowed master! I come, my Marion, to mourn thee in thine own domains!”

He flew forward; he ascended the cliffs; he rushed down the hazel-crowned pathway — but it was no longer smooth; thistles, and thickly-interwoven underwood, obstructed his steps. Breaking through them all, he turned the angle of the rock — the last screen between him and the view of his once beloved home. On this spot he used to stand on moonlight evenings, watching the graceful form of his Marion, as she passed to and fro within her chamber. His eyes now turned instinctively to the point, but it gazed on vacancy. His home had disappeared: one solitary tower alone remained, standing like “a hermit, the last of his race,” to mourn over the desolation of all by which it had once been surrounded. Not a human being now moved on the spot which, three years before, was thronged with his grateful vassals. Not a voice was now heard, where then sounded the harp of Halbert — where breathed the soul-entrancing song of his beloved Marion!

“Death!” cried he, striking his breast, “how many ways hast thou to bereave poor mortality! All, all gone! My Marion sleeps in Bothwell: the faithful Halbert at her feet. And my peasantry of Lanark, how many of you have found untimely graves in the bosom of your vainly rescued country!”

A few steps forward, and he stood on a mound of moldering fragments, heaped over the pavement of what had been the hall.

“My wife’s blood marks the stones beneath!” cried he.

He flung himself on the ruins, and a groan burst from his heart. It echoed mournfully from the opposite rock. He started and gazed around.

“Solitude!” cried he, with a faint smile; “naught is here, but Wallace and his sorrow. Marion! I call, and even thou dost not answer me; thou, who didst ever fly at the sound of my voice! Look on me, love!” exclaimed he, stretching his arms toward the sky; “look on me, and for once, till ever, cheer thy lonely, heart-stricken Wallace!”

Tears choked his further utterance; and once more laying his head upon the stones, he wept in silence, till exhausted natured found repose in sleep.

The sun was gilding the gray summits of the ruined tower under whose shadow he lay, when Wallace slowly opened his eyes; looking around him, he smote his breast, and with a heavy groan sunk back upon the stones. In the silence which succeeded this burst of memory, he thought he heard a rustling near him, and a half-suppressed sigh. He listened breathless. The sigh was repeated. He gently raised himself on his hand, and with an expectation he dared hardly whisper to himself, turned toward the spot whence the sound proceeded. The branches of a rose-tree that had been planted by his Marion, shook and scattered the leaves of its ungathered flowers upon the brambles which grew beneath. Wallace rose in agitation. The skirts of a human figure appeared, retreating behind the ruins. He advanced toward it, and beheld Edwin Ruthven. The moment their eyes met, Edwin precipitated himself at his feet, and clinging to him, exclaimed:

“Pardon me this pursuit! But we meet to part no more.”

Wallace raised him, and strained him to his breast in silence. Edwin, in hardly articulate accents, continued:

“Some kind power checked your hand when writing to your Edwin. You could not command him not to follow you! you left the letter unfinished, and thus I come to bless you for not condemning me to die of a broken heart!”

“I did not write farewell to thee,” cried Wallace, looking mournfully on him, “but I meant it, for I must part from all I love in Scotland. It is my doom. The country needs me not, and I have need of Heaven. I go into its outcourts at Chartres. Follow me there, dear boy, when thou hast accomplished thy noble career on earth, and then our gray hairs shall mingle together over the altar of the God of Peace; but now receive the farewell of thy friend. Return to Bruce, and be to him the dearest representative of William Wallace.”

“Never!” cried Edwin; “thou alone art my prince, my friend, my brother, my all in this world! My parents, dear as they are, would have buried my youth in a cloister, but your name called me to honor, and to you, in life or in death, I dedicate my being.”

“Then,” returned Wallace, “that honor summons you to the side of the dying Bruce. He is now in the midst of his foes.”

“And where art thou?” interrupted Edwin; “who drove thee hence but enemies? who line these roads, but wretches sent to betray their benefactor? No, my friend, thy fate shall be my fate — thy woe my woe! We live, or we die together: the field, the cloister, or the tomb — all shall be welcomed by Edwin Ruthven, if they separate him not from thee!” Seeing that Wallace was going to speak, and fearful that it was to repeat his commands to be left alone, he suddenly exclaimed with vehemence: “Father of men and angels! grant me thy favor only as I am true to the vow I have sworn, never more to leave the side of Sir William Wallace!”

To urge the dangers in which such a resolution would expose this too faithful friend, Wallace knew would be in vain: he read an invincible determination in the eye and gesture of Edwin; and, therefore, yielding to the demands of friendship, he threw himself upon his neck.

“For thy sake, Edwin, I will endure yet awhile mankind at large! Thy bloom of honor shall not be cropped by my hand. We will go together to France; and while I seek a probationary quiet in some of its remote cities, thou mayest bear the standard of Scotland, in the land of our ally, against the proud enemies of Bruce.”

“Make of me what you will,” returned Edwin, “only do not divide me from yourself!”

Wallace explained to his friend his design of crossing the hills to Ayrshire, in some port of which he did not doubt finding some vessel bound for France. Edwin overturned this plan by telling him that in the moment the abthanes repledged their secret faith to England, they sent orders into Ayrshire to watch the movements of Wallace’s relations, and to prevent their either hearing of or marching to the assistance of their wronged kinsman. And besides this, no sooner was it discovered by the insurgent lords at Roslyn that he had disappeared from the camp, than, supposing he meant to appeal to Philip, they dispatched expresses all along the western and eastern coasts, from the Friths of Forth and Clyde to those of Solway and Berwick-upon-Tweed, to intercept him. On hearing this, and that all avenues from the southern parts of his country were closed upon him, Wallace determined to try the north. Some bay in the Western Highlands might open its yet not ungrateful arms to set its benefactor free! “If not by a ship,” continued Edwin, “a fisher’s boat will launch us from a country no longer worthy of you!”

Their course was then taken along the Cartlane Craigs, at a distance from villages and mountain cots, which, leaning from their verdant heights, seemed to invite the traveler to refreshment and repose. Though the sword of Wallace had won them this quiet, though his wisdom, like the hand of Creation, had spread the lately barren hills with beauteous harvest, yet had an ear of corn been asked in his name, it would have been denied. A price was set upon his head, and the lives of all who should succor him would be forfeited! He who had given bread and homes to thousands was left to perish — had no where to shelter his head. Edwin looked anxiously on him as at times they sped silently along: “Ah!” thought he, “this heroic endurance of evil is the true cross of our celestial Captain! Let who will carry his insignia to the Holy Land, here is the man who bears the real substance, that walks undismayed in the path of his sacrificed Lord!”

The black plumage of a common Highland bonnet, which Edwin had purchased at one of the cottages to which he had gone alone to buy a few oaten cakes, hung over the face of his friend. That face no longer blazed with the fire of generous valor — it was pale and sad; but whenever he turned his eyes on Edwin, the shades which seemed to envelop it disappeared, a bright smile spoke the peaceful consciousness within, a look of grateful affection expressed his comfort at having found, in defiance of every danger, he was not yet wholly forsaken. Edwin’s youthful, happy spirit rejoiced in every glad beam which shone on the face of him he loved. It awoke felicity in his breast. To be occasionally near Wallace to share his confidence with others, had always filled him with joy, but now to be the only one on whom his noble heart leaned for consolation, was bliss unutterable. He trod on air, and even chid his beating heart for a delight which seemed to exult when his friend suffered: “But not so,” ejaculated he internally; “to be with thee is the delight! In life or in death thy presence is the sunshine of my soul!”

When they arrived within sight of the high towers of Bothwell Castle, Wallace stopped. “We must not go thither,” said Edwin, replying to the sentiment which spoke from the eyes of his friend; “the servants of my cousin Andrew may not be as faithful as their lord!”

“I will not try them,” returned Wallace, with a resigned smile; “my presence in Bothwell Chapel shall not pluck danger on the head of my dauntless Murray. She wakes in heaven for me whose body sleeps there; and knowing where to find the jewel, my friend, shall I linger over the vacated casket?”

While he yet spoke, a chieftain on horseback suddenly emerged from the trees which led to the castle, and drew to their side. Edwin was wrapped in his plaid, and, cautiously concealing his face that no chance of his recognition might betray his companion, he walked briskly on, without once looking at the stranger. But Wallace, being without any shade over the noble contour of a form which for majesty and grace was unequaled in Scotland, could not be mistaken. He, too, moved swiftly forward. The horseman spurred after him. Perceiving himself pursued, and therefore known, and aware that he must be overtaken, he suddenly stopped. Edwin drew his sword, and would have given it into the hand of his friend; but Wallace, putting it back, rapidly answered: “Leave my defense to this unweaponed arm. I would not use steel against my countrymen, but none shall take me while I have a sinew to resist.”

The chieftain now checked his horse in front of Wallace, and respectfully raising his visor, discovered Sir John Monteith. At sight of him Edwin dropped the point of his yet unlifted sword; and Wallace, stepping back, “Monteith,” said he, “I am sorry for this rencounter. If you would be safe from the destiny which pursues me, you must retire immediately, and forget that we have met.”

“Never,” cried Monteith; “I know the ingratitude of an envious country drives the bravest of her champions from our borders, but I also know what belongs to myself! To serve you at all hazards! And by conjuring you to become my guest, in my castle on the Frith of Clyde, I would demonstrate my grateful sense of the dangers you once incurred for me, and I therefore thank fortune for this rencounter.”

In vain Wallace expressed his determination not to bring peril on any of his countrymen, by sojourning under any roof till he were far away from Scotland. In vain he urged to Monteith the outlawry which would await him should the infuriated abthanes discover that he had given shelter to the man whom they had chosen to suppose a traitor, and denounce as one. Monteith, after equally unsuccessful persuasion on his side, at last said, that he knew a vessel was lying at Newark, near his castle, in which Wallace might immediately embark: and he implored him, by past friendship, to allow him to be his guide to its anchorage. To enforce this supplication, he threw himself off his horse, and, with protestations of a fidelity that trampled on all comfort he should ever know in his now degraded country. “Once I saw Scotland’s steady champion, the brave Douglas, rifled from her shores! Do not then doom me to a second grief, bitterer than the first; do not you yourself drive me from the side of her last hero! Ah! let me behold you, companion of my school-days, friend, leader, benefactor! till the sea wrests you forever from my eyes!” Exhausted and affected, Wallace gave his hand to Monteith; the tear of gratitude stood in his eye. He looked affectionately from Monteith to Edwin, from Edwin to Monteith: “Wallace shall yet live in the memory of the trusty of this land! you, my friend, prove it. I go richly forth, for the hearts of good men are my companions.”

As they journeyed along the devious windings of the Clyde, and saw at a distance the aspiring turrets of Rutherglen, Edwin pointed to them, and said, “From that church a few months ago did you dictate a conqueror’s terms to England.”

“And now that very England makes me a fugitive,” returned Wallace.

“Oh! not England!” interrupted Edwin; “you bow not to her. It is blind, mad Scotland, who thus thrusts her benefactor from her.”

“Ah! then, my Edwin,” rejoined he, “read in me this history of thousands. So various is the fate of a people’s idol; today he is worshiped as a god, to-morrow cast into the fire!”

Monteith turned pale at this conversation; and quickening his steps, hurried in silence past the opening of the valley which presented the view of Rutherglen.

Night overtook the travelers near the little village of Lumloch, about two hours’ journey from Glasgow. Here a storm coming on, Monteith advised his friends to take shelter and rest. “As you object to implicate others,” said he, “you may sleep secure in an old barn which at present has no ostensible owner. I remarked it while passing this way from Newark. But I rather wish you would forget this too chary regard for others, and lodge with me in the neighboring cottage.”

Wallace was insensible to the pelting of the elements; his unsubdued spirit wanted rest for neither mind nor body; but the broken voice and lingering step of the young Edwin, who had severely sprained his foot in the dark, penetrated his heart; and notwithstanding that the resolute boy, suddenly rallying himself, declared that he was neither weary nor in pain, Wallace seeing he was both, yielded a sad consent to be conducted from the storm. “But not,” said he, “to the house. We will go into the barn, and there, on the dry earth, my Edwin, we may gratefully repose.”

Monteith did not oppose him further, and pushing open the door, Wallace and Edwin entered. Their conductor soon after followed with a light from the cottage; and pulling down some heaped straw, strewed it on the ground for a bed. “Here I shall sleep like a prince!” cried Edwin, throwing himself along the scattered truss.

“But not,” returned Monteith, “till I have disengaged you from your wet garments, and preserved your arms and brigandine from the rust of this night.”

Edwin, sunk in weariness, said little in opposition; and having suffered Monteith to take away his sword and to unbrace his plated vest, dropped at once on the straw in a profound sleep.

Wallace, that he might not disturb him by debate, yielded to the request of Monteith; and having resigned his armor also, waved him a good-night. Monteith nodded the same, and closed the door upon his victims.

Well known to the generals of King Edward as one who estimated his honor as a mere counter of traffic, Sir John Monteith was considered by them all as a hireling fit for any purpose. Though De Warenne had been persuaded to use unworthy means to intimidate his great opponent, he would have shrunk from being a coadjutor of treachery. His removal from the lord-wardenship of Scotland, in consequence of the wounds he had received at Dalkeith, opened a path to the elevation of Aymer de Valence. And when he was named viceroy in the stead of De Warenne, he told Edward that if he would authorize him to offer an earldom, with adequate estates, to Sir John Monteith, the old friend of Wallace, he was sure so rapacious a chieftain would traverse sea and land to put that formidable Scot in the hands of England. To incline Edward to the proffer of so large a bribe, De Valence instanced Monteith’s having volunteered, while he commanded with Sir Eustace Maxwell on the borders, to betray the forces under him to the English general. The treachery was accepted; and for its execution he received a casket of uncounted gold. Some other proofs of his devotion to England were mentioned by De Valence.

“You mean his devotion to money,” replied the king, “and if that will make him ours at this crisis, give him overflowing coffers, but no earldom! Though I must have the head of Wallace, I would not have one of my peers show a title written in his blood. Ill deeds must sometimes be done; but we do not emblazon their perpetrators!”

De Valence having received his credentials, sent Haliburton (a Scottish prisoner, who bought his liberty too dear by such an embassage) to impart to Sir John Monteith the King of England’s approval. Monteith was then castellan of Newark, where he had immured himself for many months, under a pretense of the reopening of old wounds; but the fact was his treasons were connected with so many accomplices that he feared some disgraceful disclosure, and therefore kept out of the way of exciting public attention. Avarice was his master passion; and the sudden idea that there might be treasure in the iron box, which, unwitting of such a thought at the time, he had consigned to Wallace, first bound him a sordid slave. His murmurs for having allowed the box to leave his possession, gave the alarm which caused the disasters at Ellerslie, and his own immediate arrest. He was then sent a prisoner to Cressingham at Stirling; but in his way thither he made his escape, though only to fall into the hands of Soulis. That inhuman chief threatened to return him to his dungeons; and to avoid such a misfortune, Monteith engaged in the conspiracy to bring Lady Helen from the priory to the arms of this monster. On her escape, Soulis would have wreaked his vengeance on his vile emissary; but Monteith, aware of his design, fled, and fled even into the danger he would have avoided. He fell in with a party of roaming Southrons, who conveyed him to Ayr. Once having immolated his honor, he kept no terms with conscience. Arnulf soon understood what manner of man was in his custody; and by sharing with him the pleasures of his table, soon drew from him every information respecting the strength and resources of his country. His after history was a series of secret treacheries to Scotland; and in return for them, an accumulation of wealth from England, the comtemplation of which seemed to be his sole enjoyment.

This new offer from De Valence was therefore greedily embraced. He happened to be at Rutherglen when Haliburton brought the proposal; and in the cloisters of its church58 was its fell agreement signed. He transmitted an oath to De Valence that he would die or win his hire. And immediately dispatching spies to the camp at Roslyn, as soon as he was informed of Wallace’s disappearance, he judged, from the knowledge of that chief’s retentive affections, that whithersoever he intended finally to go, he would first visit Ellerslie, and the tomb of his wife. According to this opinion, he planted his emissaries in favorable situations on the road, and then proceeded himself to intercept his victim at the most probable places.

Not finding him at Bothwell, he was issuing forth to take the way to Ellerslie, when the object of his search presented himself at the opening of the wood. The evil plan too well succeeded.

Triumphant in his deceit, this master of hypocrisy left the barn, in which he had seen Wallace and his young friend lie down on that ground from which he had determined they should never more rise. Aware that the unconquerable soul of Wallace would never allow himself to be taken alive, he had stipulated with De Valence that the delivery of his head should entitle him to a full reward. From Rutherglen to Lumloch no place had presented itself in which he thought he could so judiciously plant an ambuscade to surprise the unsuspecting Wallace. And in this village he had stationed so large a force of ruthless savages (brought for the occasion by Haliburton from the Irish island of Rathlin), that their employer had hardly a doubt of this night being the last of his too-trusting friend’s existence. These Rathliners neither knew of Wallace nor his exploits; but the lower order of Scots, however they might fear to succor his distress, loved his person, and felt so bound to him by his actions, that Monteith durst not apply to any one of them to second his villainy.

58 The events of Wallace having dictated terms of peace with England, and Monteith pledging himself to that country’s emissary to betray Wallace, having taken place in this church, are traditionary facts.

The hour of midnight passed, and yet he could not summon courage to lead his men to their nefarious attack. Twice they urged him, before he arose from his affected sleep — for sleep he could not; guilt had “murdered sleep!” and he lay awake, restless, and longing for the dawn; and yet, ere that dawn, the deed must be accomplished! A cock crew from the neighboring farm.

“That is the sign of morning, and we have yet done nothing,” exclaimed a surly ruffian, who leaned on his battle-ax in an ssopposite corner of the apartment.

“No, it is the signal of our enemy’s captivity!” cried Monteith. “Follow me, but gently. If ye speak a word or a single target rattle, before ye all fall upon him, we are lost. It is a being of supernatural might, not a mere man, whom ye go to encounter. He that first disables him shall have a double reward.”

“Depend upon us,” returned the sturdiest ruffian; and stealing cautiously out of the cottage, the party advanced with noiseless steps toward the barn. Monteith paused at the door, making a sign to his men to halt while he listened. He put his ear to a crevice — not a murmur was within. He gently raised the latch, and setting the door wide open, with his finger on his lip, beckoned his followers. Without venturing to draw a breath, they approached the threshold. The meridian moon shone full into the hovel, and shed a broad light upon their victims. The innocent face of Edwin rested on the bosom of his friend, and the arm of Wallace lay on the spread straw with which he had covered the tender body of his companion. So fair a picture of mortal friendship was never before beheld. But the hearts were blind which looked on it, and Monteith gave the signal. He retreated out of the door, while his men threw themselves forward to bind Wallace where he lay; but the first man, in his eagerness, striking his head against a joist in the roof, uttered a fierce oath. The noise roused Wallace, whose wakeful senses had rather slumbered than slept, and opening his eyes, he he sprung on his feet.

A moment told him enemies were around. Seeing him rise, they rushed on him with imprecations. His eyes blazed like two terrible meteors; and, with a sudden motion of his arm, he seemed to hold the men at a distance, while his god-like figure stood, a tower in collected might. Awe-struck, they paused, but it was only for an instant. The sight of Edwin, now starting from his sleep, his aghast countenance, while he felt for his weapons, his cry when he recollected they were gone, inspired the assassins with fresh courage. Battle-axes, swords, and rattling chains, now flashed before the eyes of Wallace. The pointed steel in many places entered his body, while with part of a broken bench, which chanced to lie near him, he defended himself and Edwin from this merciless host. Edwin, seeing naught but the death of his friend before his sight, regardless of himself, made a spring from his side, and snatched a dagger from the belt of one of the murderers. The ruffian instantly caught the intrepid boy by the throat, and in that horrible clutch would certainly have deprived him of life had not the lion grasp of Wallace seized the man in his arms, and with a pressure that made his mouth and nostrils burst with blood, compelled him to forego his hold. Edwin released, Wallace dropped his assailant, who, staggering a few paces, fell senseless to the ground, and instantly expired.

The conflict now became doubly desperate-Edwin’s dagger twice defended the breast of his friend. Two of his assassins he stabbed to the heart.

“Murder that urchin!” cried Monteith, who, seeing from without the carnage of his men, feared that Wallace might yet make his escape.

“Hah!” cried Wallace, at the sound of Monteith’s voice giving such an order —“then we are betrayed — but not by Heaven! Strike, one of you, that angel youth,” cried he, “and you will incur damnation!”

He spoke to the winds. They poured toward Edwin; Wallace, with a giant’s strength, dispersed them as they advanced; the beam of wood fell on the heads, the breasts of his assailants. Himself bleeding at every pore, he felt not a smart while yet he defended Edwin. But a shout was heard from the door, a faint cry was heard at his side. He looked around. Edwin lay extended on the ground, with an arrow quivering in his breast, his closing eyes still looking upward to his friend. The beam fell from the hands of Wallace. He threw himself on his knees beside him. The dying boy pressed his hand to his heart, and dropped his head upon his bosom — Wallace moved not, spoke not. His hand was bathed in the blood of his friend, but not a pulse beat beneath it; no breath warmed the paralyzed chill of his face as it hung over the motionless lips of Edwin.

The men were more terrified at this unresisting stillness than at the invincible prowess of his arm, and stood gazing on him in mute wonder. But Monteith, in whom the fell appetite of avarice had destroyed every perception of humanity, sent in other ruffians with new orders to bind Wallace. They approached him with terror; two of the strongest stealing behind him, and taking advantage of his face being bent upon that of his murdered Edwin, each in the same moment seized his hands. As they griped them fast, the others advanced eagerly to fasten the bands, he looked calmly up, but it was a dreadful calm; it spoke of despair, of the full completion of all woe. “Bring chains,” cried one of the men, “he will burst these thongs.”

“You may bind me with a hair,” said he; “I contend no more.” The bonds were fastened on his wrists; and then, turning toward the lifeless body of Edwin, he raised it gently in his arms. The rosy red of youth yet tinged his cold cheek; his parted lips still beamed with the same — but the breath that had so sweetly informed them, was flown. “Oh! my best brother that ever I had” cried Wallace in a sudden transport, and kissing his pale forehead; “my sincerest friend in my greatest need! In thee was truth, manhood, and nobleness; in thee was all man’s fidelity with woman’s tenderness. My friend, my brother, oh! would to God I had died for thee!”

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