They burnt our stacks, they fired our barns, they
  harried us all day;
At night they poured the hot shot in where we stood
  firm at bay.
They scorched our walls, they blackened doors, they
  splintered roof and pane,
But to the brave old trusty place no entrance could
  they gain.

Our massy walls laughed out to see that grim and
  yellow host
Spur round and round old Wardour’s Towers, like
  couriers riding post.
Their pikes were thirsting for our blood, yet we were
  snug and warm,
All under Wardour’s battlements were safe from
  every storm.

One day a pale-faced trumpeter the rebel dogs sent in,
The gall and bile were oozing through his scurvy,
  sallow skin;
He bade us all surrender to this Cromwell,
  â€œEngland’s lord:”
The women were to go in peace; the men, yield to the
  sword.

Then Lady Blanche tore up the roll, and trod it
  under foot;
We drove the crop-ear from the gate, with scoffing
  laugh and hoot;
We crushed his trumpet, snapped his staff, and set
  the dogs at him:
Ha! but for Lady Blanche’s grace they’d torn him
  limb from limb.

Their swords smote blunt upon our steel, and keen
  upon our buff,
The coldest-blooded man of us had battering enough;
’Twas butt and butt, and point and point, and eager
  pike to pike,
’Twas foin and parry, give and take, as long as we
  could strike.

There, in the breach stood Lady Blanche, a banner
  in her hand,
Urging us on with voice and look to scourge this
  currish band.
She stood amid the fire and flame in the red gap of
  wall,
An angel sent to comfort us—the bravest of us all.

They thinned our ranks, they kept us there in arms
  by night and day,
Till, oozing out in drops, our strength began to melt
  away.
We fell asleep while taking food, we scarce had
  power to load,
Yet even then our Lady’s voice woke us as with a
  goad.

The fire-balls vexed us night and day, their mines
  shook down a tower,
Their bullets upon door and roof fell in unpitying
  shower;
At last, on specious promises of mercy to us all,
Our Lady Blanche hung out a flag of white upon
  the wall.

They burnt our stables, stole our deer, caught all our
  fattest carp;
They felled the old oaks in the park with axes keen
  and sharp;
Unearthed our leaden conduit-pipes and melted them
  in bars;
Tore our great pictures into strips, and split the
  floors in stars.

This was the way the Rebel Dogs a sacred treaty
  kept,
Yet God had not forgotten us, nor had his justice
  slept;
For that day week Newcastle’s “Lambs” fell on
  this lying rout,
Shot, piked, and sabred half the troop, and burnt the
  others out.

         SAVING A PATIENT.

I HAD saved between three and four thousand
dollars. A practice was for sale. It was
offered to me, and I snapped at the offer. Dr.
Titus Whilking, of Morgan Town, wanted to
dispose of his connexion, and move on to
New Orleans. I agreed to purchase the
connexion, and, after some haggling, the bargain
was struck. Dr. Titus Whilking solemnly
introduced to all the notables of Morgan
Town, as his successor, your humble servant,
Ambrose Mylner, M.D. I took the doctor’s
furniture at a valuation. I rented the doctor’s
house. My brass plate supplanted his upon
the mahogany door. I hired a negro boy, and
an old black woman as cook, and my
establishment was complete. Morgan Town had
practice for only one physician. There was, to
be sure, a surgeon in good repute, but we did not
clash at all, and were very good friends. And
I think I throve all the better for being an
Englishman. Educated persons from the Old
World were novelties in that sequestered
county, where no Europeans were ever seen
except the poor Irish who dug the canals, made
the railways, and perished like flies among
the swamps, under the combined effects of
whisky and fever. To me, the planters were
kind and hospitable, and the townspeople
friendly enough. One sunken rock, lying in
the way of my popularity, I had been fore-
warned against. This was the fatal subject of
negro slavery. Western Virginia was never, in
heart and soul, an integral portion of the slave
states. Many of the farmers and mechanics
have been immigrants from Pennsylvania and
other northern states; the blacks are few in
number, and properties are small when
compared with the long settled estates of the Old
Dominion. But it so happened that Morgan
Town, on the very frontier of the free common-
wealth, was a red-hot focus of pro-slavery
politics. I have been in Carolina, Georgia, and
the Gulf States, but I can safely say that I
never met with fiercer zealots on behalf of the
“domestic institution” than in the immediate
neighbourhood of Morgan Town. This gave
me great trouble at first. A stranger in the
land, I had scrupulously kept aloof from
political and social discussions; and, while I had
several friends and many well-wishers, I do not
believe I had an enemy in the place.

Thus two years passed, during which I throve
sufficiently to be enabled to set up my carriage.
This was a light well-hung vehicle, drawn by a
pair of mettlesome Virginian horses, and driven
by a negro coachman. I did not become its
owner through any spirit of ostentation, but