butes are usually the most evanescent; nor does Nature adorn the
human ruin with blossoms of new beauty, that have their roots and
proper nutriment only in the chinks and crevices of decay, as she sows
wall-flowers over the ruined fortress of Ticonderoga. Still, even in
respect of grace and beauty, there were points well worth noting. A
ray of humor, now and then, would make its way through the veil of dim
obstruction, and glimmer pleasantly upon our faces. A trait of native
elegance, seldom seen in the masculine character after childhood or
early youth, was shown in the General's fondness for the sight and
fragrance of flowers. An old soldier might be supposed to prize only
the bloody laurel on his brow; but here was one who seemed to have a
young girl's appreciation of the floral tribe.

There, beside the fireplace, the brave old General used to sit; while
the Surveyor--though seldom, when it could be avoided, taking upon
himself the difficult task of engaging him in conversation--was fond
of standing at a distance, and watching his quiet and almost
slumberous countenance. He seemed away from us, although we saw him
but a few yards off; remote, though we passed close beside his chair;
unattainable, though we might have stretched forth our hands and
touched his own. It might be that he lived a more real life within
his thoughts, than amid the unappropriate environment of the
Collector's office. The evolutions of the parade; the tumult of the
battle; the flourish of old, heroic music, heard thirty years
before;--such scenes and sounds, perhaps, were all alive before his
intellectual sense. Meanwhile, the merchants and shipmasters, the
spruce clerks and uncouth sailors, entered and departed; the bustle of
this commercial and custom-house life kept up its little murmur round
about him; and neither with the men nor their affairs did the General
appear to sustain the most distant relation. He was as much out of
place as an old sword--now rusty, but which had flashed once in the
battle's front, and showed still a bright gleam along its blade--would
have been, among the inkstands, paper-folders, and mahogany rulers, on
the Deputy Collector's desk.

There was one thing that much aided me in renewing and re-creating the
stalwart soldier of the Niagara frontier,--the man of true and simple
energy. It was the recollection of those memorable words of
his,--"I'll try, Sir!"--spoken on the very verge of a desperate and
heroic ente