trifles compared to
the infinite love-scrapes which are recounted of a Hercules.

Cary Singleton came of a good stock, Maryland on the side of his father,
Virginian on that of his mother. The Cary and Singleton families survive
to our day, through successive generations of honor, but they need not
be ashamed of their representative who figures in these humble pages. He
had spent his early life on his father's estate, mingling in every manly
exercise, and his latter days were passed at old Princeton, where he
attained all the accomplishments suited to his station. He was
particularly proficient in polite literature and the modern languages,
having mastered the French tongue from many years of intercourse with
the governess of his sisters. Cary had prepared himself for the law and
was about entering on its practice, when the war of the Revolution broke
out. He then enlisted in the corps of Virginia riflemen formed by the
celebrated Captain Morgan, and proceeded to Boston to join the army of
Washington, in the summer of 1775. He had not been there many weeks
before the expedition to Canada was planned. Washington, who agreed with
Congress as to the importance of this campaign, gave much personal
attention to organization of the invading army, and it was by his
personal direction that Morgan's battalion was included in it. When the
force took its final departure in September, Cary received the honor of
a hearty clasp of hand and a few words of counsel from the Father of his
Country, and this circumstance cheered him to those deeds of endurance
and valor which distinguished his career in Canada.

IX.

THE SONG OF THE VIOLIN.

It was the hour of midnight, and all was still in the solitary cabin of
Batoche. Little Blanche was fast asleep in her sofa-crib, and Velours
was rolled in a torpid circle on the hearth. The fire burned low,
casting a faint and fitful gleam through the room. The hermit occupied
his usual seat in the leather chair at one corner of the chimney.
Whether he had been napping or musing it were difficult to say, but it
was with a quiet, almost stealthy movement that he walked to the door
which he opened, and looked out into the night. Returning, he placed a
large log on the fire, stirring it with his foot till its reflection
lighted one half of the apartment. He then proceeded to the alcove, and
drew forth from it his violin. The strings were thrummed to make sure of
their accord, the heel was set