Written under the
beautiful autumn skies of our beloved Virginia, the author would
ask for the work only a mind in unison with the mood of the
narrative--asking the reader to laugh, if he can, and, above all, to
carry with him, if possible, the beautiful autumn sunshine, and the
glories of the mountains.
Of the fine old border town, in which many of the scenes of the story
are laid, much might be said, if it were here necessary, that Thomas
Lord Fairfax, Baron of Cameron, and formerly half-owner of Virginia,
sleeps there--that Morgan, the Ney of the Revolution, after all his
battles, lies there, too, as though to show how nobles and commoners,
lords and frontiersmen, monarchists and republicans, are equal
in death--and that the last stones of old Fort Loudoun, built by
Lieutenant, afterwards General, Washington, crumble into dust there,
disappearing like a thousand other memorials of that noble period, and
the giants who illustrated it:--this, and much more, might be said of
Winchester, the old heart of the border, which felt every blow, and
poured out her blood freely in behalf of the frontier.
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