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George Washington (search for this): chapter 5.44
ing breakfast. It is with real historic interest that I gaze upon this old mansion. For this is Ampthill, the former residence of the famous Colonel Archibald Cary of the first Revolution — the man of the low stature, the wide shoulders, the piercing eyes, and the stern will. He was of noble descent, being the heir apparent to the barony of Hunsdon when he died; sat in the Virginia Convention of 1776; lived with the eyes of his great contemporaries fixed on him — with the ears of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and George Mason, listening to hear him speak, and was the sort of man who will stand no nonsense. When the question of appointing Patrick Henry Dictator was agitated, Cary said to Henry's brother-in-law, Sir, tell your brother that if he is made Dictator, my dagger shall be in his breast before the sunset of that day! There spoke Cary of Ampthill, as they used to call him — a man who religiously kept his word, saying little and performing much. Hardest of the har<
Sheridan (search for this): chapter 5.44
iant military results. Candid and true. They lose more heavily — the enemy-than we do, but our precious blood flows daily. Poor Charley —! A braver soul was never born into this world than his; and, since something happened to him, he has been quite reckless. He is dead yonder, on the slopes of Hanover, fighting his guns to the last. And that greater figure of Stuart; he has fallen, too! How he would have reigned, the King of Battle, in this hot campaign, clashing against the hosts of Sheridan in desperate conflict! What deathless laurels would he have won for himself in this hurly-burly, when the war grows mad and reckless! But those laurels are deathless now, and bloom in perennial splendour! Stuart is dead at the Yellow Tavern yonder, and sleeps at Hollywood; but as the dying Adams said of Jefferson, he still lives --lives in every heart, the greatest of the Southern cavaliers! His plume still floats before the eyes of the gray horsemen, and history shall never forget him!
Hardeman Stuart (search for this): chapter 5.44
ce something happened to him, he has been quite reckless. He is dead yonder, on the slopes of Hanover, fighting his guns to the last. And that greater figure of Stuart; he has fallen, too! How he would have reigned, the King of Battle, in this hot campaign, clashing against the hosts of Sheridan in desperate conflict! What deas would he have won for himself in this hurly-burly, when the war grows mad and reckless! But those laurels are deathless now, and bloom in perennial splendour! Stuart is dead at the Yellow Tavern yonder, and sleeps at Hollywood; but as the dying Adams said of Jefferson, he still lives --lives in every heart, the greatest of then that same fierce onslaught on the enemy's cavalry, when they tried to enter Richmond by the Brook road, in that sudden attack which saved the capital. I blamed Stuart once for his reckless attack with so small a force as he then had on so large a one as the enemy's, said a most intelligent gentleman of the neighbourhood to me n
Archibald Cary (search for this): chapter 5.44
ng-room, to which the ladies have not descended, though they have sent polite messages touching breakfast. It is with real historic interest that I gaze upon this old mansion. For this is Ampthill, the former residence of the famous Colonel Archibald Cary of the first Revolution — the man of the low stature, the wide shoulders, the piercing eyes, and the stern will. He was of noble descent, being the heir apparent to the barony of Hunsdon when he died; sat in the Virginia Convention of 17mporaries fixed on him — with the ears of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and George Mason, listening to hear him speak, and was the sort of man who will stand no nonsense. When the question of appointing Patrick Henry Dictator was agitated, Cary said to Henry's brother-in-law, Sir, tell your brother that if he is made Dictator, my dagger shall be in his breast before the sunset of that day! There spoke Cary of Ampthill, as they used to call him — a man who religiously kept his word, sayi<
Wilton (search for this): chapter 5.44
onder I see the old house. It is not a very imposing place. Set upon a handsome hill, amid waving fields, above the James, nearly opposite the Randolph house of Wilton, it would be attractive in good times. But now it is pulled to pieces and dust-covered. For the cannon of the Army of Northern Virginia have rolled by the door h is sure to follow. But look! he raises his head. A gun sounds from down the river, reverberating amid the bluffs, and echoing back from the high banks around Wilton, where his friend Mr. Randolph lives. It must be the signal of a ship just arrived from London, in this month of June, 1764; the Fly-by-Night, most probably, witracket. Again!-and there again! Bomb! bomb! bomb! bomb! Can that be the Fly-by-Night, and is that Mr. Randolph galloping up in hot haste from the ferry opposite Wilton? It is a courier who stops a moment to tell me that the Yankee gunboats have opened below Drury's Bluff, and are trying to force a passage through the obstruct
Thomas Jefferson (search for this): chapter 5.44
n for himself in this hurly-burly, when the war grows mad and reckless! But those laurels are deathless now, and bloom in perennial splendour! Stuart is dead at the Yellow Tavern yonder, and sleeps at Hollywood; but as the dying Adams said of Jefferson, he still lives --lives in every heart, the greatest of the Southern cavaliers! His plume still floats before the eyes of the gray horsemen, and history shall never forget him! There was Gordon, too-alive but the other day, now dead and gone stern will. He was of noble descent, being the heir apparent to the barony of Hunsdon when he died; sat in the Virginia Convention of 1776; lived with the eyes of his great contemporaries fixed on him — with the ears of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and George Mason, listening to hear him speak, and was the sort of man who will stand no nonsense. When the question of appointing Patrick Henry Dictator was agitated, Cary said to Henry's brother-in-law, Sir, tell your brother that if he
Virginians (search for this): chapter 5.44
y used to call him — a man who religiously kept his word, saying little and performing much. Hardest of the hard-headed, in fact, was this Ampthill Cary, and his contemporaries nicknamed him Old iron therefor. He played a great part in old timeshe is dead in this good year 1864, many a long day ago-but this is his house. Looking around at the wainscoted walls, the ample apartments, and with a view of the extensive out-buildings through the window, I come to the conclusion that those old Virginians had a tolerably good idea of how to live. Here is a house in which a reasonable individual could be happy, provided he had a pleasing young personage of the opposite sex to assist him. Woodwork to the ceiling; wide windows; trees waving without, and green fields stretching far away to the horizon; pure airs from the river fanning the cheek, and moving gently the bright plumage of the singing birds perched amid the rustling foliage-Cary of Ampthill must surely have been a gentleman of tast
1776 AD (search for this): chapter 5.44
ng-room, to which the ladies have not descended, though they have sent polite messages touching breakfast. It is with real historic interest that I gaze upon this old mansion. For this is Ampthill, the former residence of the famous Colonel Archibald Cary of the first Revolution — the man of the low stature, the wide shoulders, the piercing eyes, and the stern will. He was of noble descent, being the heir apparent to the barony of Hunsdon when he died; sat in the Virginia Convention of 1776; lived with the eyes of his great contemporaries fixed on him — with the ears of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and George Mason, listening to hear him speak, and was the sort of man who will stand no nonsense. When the question of appointing Patrick Henry Dictator was agitated, Cary said to Henry's brother-in-law, Sir, tell your brother that if he is made Dictator, my dagger shall be in his breast before the sunset of that day! There spoke Cary of Ampthill, as they used to call him —<
1862 AD (search for this): chapter 5.44
e dying yonder thinks of the pair he knows. Poor fellow! then I return to my reverie. The war grows tedious; carnage bores one. Bores!!! This is, I think, about the fortieth day of fighting. We had the seven days battles around Richmond in 1862. Is this campaign to be the seventy days battles around Virginia? The game keeps up with wonderful animation; guns roaring, shell bursting, and listen! that long, sustained, resolute crash of the deadly smallarms! Suddenly it stops; but a goodat all hours of the day and night. Grant keeps pegging away. Today he seems to gain something, but to-morrow Lee stands like a lion in his path, and all the advantage is lost. We continue to repulse every attack along the bristling lines, as in 1862. Grant ends where McClellan began; upon the ground at least. We hold our own. Lee's army is an army of veterans, writes the correspondent of a Northern journal; it is an instrument sharpened to a perfect edge. You turn its flanks; well, its fla
1864 AD (search for this): chapter 5.44
On the road to Petersburg: notes of an officer of the C. S. A. 1. So June wears on in this good or bad year 1864, and our friend General Grant is leaving Cold Harbour for a new base, I think. He has had a hard time of it since he crossed the Rapidan, and we also; fighting in the Wilderness, (I came near going under thed-headed, in fact, was this Ampthill Cary, and his contemporaries nicknamed him Old iron therefor. He played a great part in old timeshe is dead in this good year 1864, many a long day ago-but this is his house. Looking around at the wainscoted walls, the ample apartments, and with a view of the extensive out-buildings through tnkee gunboats have opened below Drury's Bluff, and are trying to force a passage through the obstructions. So my dream is broken; I wake in the every-day world of 1864; the year 1764 has quite disappeared; and Cary of Ampthill — where is his figure? That is only my friend, the amiable Inspector-General, on the porch, reaching a
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