frontier life, which live for us now only in the chronicles;--to
its memories of Colonel Washington, the noble young soldier, who
afterwards became, as we all have heard, so distinguished upon a
larger field;--to Thomas Lord Fairfax, Baron of Cameron, who came
there often when the deer and the wolves of his vast possessions
would permit him--and to Daniel Morgan, who emptied many fair cups on
Loudoun-street, and one day passed, with trumpets sounding, going
to Québec; again on his way to debate questions of importance with
Tarleton, at the Cowpens--lastly, to crush the Tory rising on Lost
River, about the time when "it pleased heaven so to order things,
that the large army of Cornwallis should be entrapped and captured at
Yorktown, in Virginia," as the chronicles inform us. All these men of
the past has Winchester looked upon, and many more--on strange, wild
pictures, and on many histories. For you walk on history there and
drink the chronicle:--Washington's old fort is crumbling, but still
visible;--Morgan, the strong soldier, sleeps there, after all his
storms;--and grim, eccentric Fairfax lies where he fell, on hearing of
the Yorktown ending.

When we enter the town with Mr. Rushton, these men are elsewhere, it
is true; but none the less present. They are there forever.

The lawyer's office was on Loudoun-street, and cantering briskly along
the rough highway past the fort, he soon reached the rack before his
door, and dismounted. The rack was crooked and quailed--the house was
old and dingy--the very knocker on the door frowned grimly at the
wayfarer who paused before it. One would have said that Mr. Rushton's
manners, house, and general surrounding, would have repelled the
community, and made him a thousand enemies, so grim were they. Not at
all. No lawyer in the town was nearly so popular--none had as much