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THE 
 
 YOUNG LADIES 
 
 OrFERING; 
 
 OR 
 
 {Sims m iFiRmn asjid iPosmYc 
 
 
 BY 
 
 
 MRS. 
 
 L. H. SIGOURNEY; 
 
 
 AND OTHERS. 
 
 
 ,USTEA^ 
 
 m WITH S^^^i^-L E 
 
 NGRAYII^ 
 
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 BOSTON: 
 
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 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.. 
 
 110 Washington Street. 
 
 1849. 
 

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 1S+? 
 
 
 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by 
 
 
 PHILLIPS & SAMPSON, 
 
 
 Iq the Clerk'a Office of the District Court for the District of 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 
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 1 
 
 ! 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOB. 
 
 . 19 
 
 20 
 21 
 
 Kindred Hearts, Mrs.Hemans, 
 
 The Dial of Flowers, Mrs. Jlemans, 
 
 Love's First Dream., Eliza Cook, . 
 
 Tlie Father, ^^s. Sigourney, 5 
 
 Legend of Oxford, Urs. Sigourney, 23 
 
 Hymn of Nature, Mrs. Hemans, . 85 
 
 The Lost Star, ^^^^ London, . 86 
 
 Hermitage on the Sea-shore, .... Mrs. Hemans, . 8'' 
 
 A Flower in a Letter, Miss Barrett. . . 89 
 
 The Filgrim's Rest, Mrs. Ellis, ... 93 
 
 The Family Portraits, Mrs. Sigourney, 97 
 
 An Hour of Romance, Mrs. Hemans, . 143 
 
 God is Love, Mrs. Ellis,. . .144 
 
 The Forgotten One, Miss Landon, .146 
 
 Summer Woods, Mary Howitt, . 150 
 
 Hallowed be Thy Name, Eliza Cook, . . 152 
 
 Low she lies, who blest our eyes, . . Mrs. Norton, . . 153 
 
 Oriana, Mrs. Sigourney, 155 
 
 Prayer, ^^^"^^ ^^^^'' * ' ^^^ 
 
 Evening Prayer at a Girl's School, . Mrs. Hemans, . 201 
 Disenchantment, Miss Landon, 
 
 203 
 
 M 1248 
 
IV COl^TENTS. 
 
 The Crusader's Return, Mrs. Hema7is, . 205 
 
 I miss thee, Mother, Bliza Cook, . . 207 
 
 The Parting of Summer, Mrs. Hemans, . 209 
 
 The Intemperate, Mrs. Sigourney, 211 
 
 The Indian Girl, Miss Landon, . 235 
 
 (jnef Miss Barrett, . . 239 
 
 Substitution, Miss Barrett, . . 240 
 
 Comfort, Miss Barrett, . . 241 
 
 "V^ork Miss Barrett, . . 242 
 
 The Boon of Memory, Mrs. Hemans, . 243 
 
 Song for the New Year, Eliza Cook, . . 245 
 
 The Patriarch, Mrs. Sigourney, 247 
 
J « • • 
 
 
 a > • • * * I 
 
 THE FATHER. 
 
 By L. H. Si&ouRXEY. 
 
 u Yes,— 1 am he,— who look'd and saw decay 
 Steal o'er the lov'd of earth,— the ador'd too much.- 
 It is a fearful thing, to love what Death may touch." 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 I WAS in the full tide of a laborious and absorb- 
 ing^ profession, — of one which imposes on intellect 
 an unsparing discipline, but ultimately opens the 
 avenues to wealth and fame. I pursued it, as one 
 determined on distinction, — as one convinced that 
 mmd may assume a degree of omnipotence over 
 matter and circumstance, and popular opinion. Am- 
 bition's promptings were strong within me, nor was 
 its career unprosperous. — I had no reason to com- 
 plain that its promises were deceptive, or its harvest 
 
 tardy. 
 
 Yet as my path was among the competitions and 
 asperities of men, a character combining strong ele- 
 ments might have been in danger of becoming in- 
 durated, had it not been softened and refined by the 
 domestic charities. Conjugal love, early fixing on 
 an object most amiabh^and beautiful, was as a foun- 
 tain of living water, springing up to allay thirst, 
 and to renovate weariness, t was anxious that my 
 home should be the centre of intellectual imd polish- 
 
 ed society, where the buddings of thought should 
 
 A2 ^^-^^-.■^•^■~- 
 
6 THE FATHER. 
 
 expand unchilled, and those social feelings which 
 are the life-blood of existence, flow forth, unfettered 
 by heartless ceremony. — And it was so. 
 
 But my present purpose is to delineate a single, 
 and simple principle of our nature, — the most deep- 
 rooted and holy, — the love of a father for a davgh- 
 ter. ]\Iy province has led me to analyze mankind ; and 
 in doinsj this, I have sometimes thrown their affec- 
 tions into the crucible. And the one of which I 
 speak, has come forth most pure, most free from 
 drossy admixture. Even the earth that combines 
 with it, is not like other earth. It is what the foot 
 of a seraph might rest upon, and contract no pollu- 
 tion. With the love of our sons, ambition mixes its 
 spirit, till it becomes a fiery essence. We anticipate 
 great things for them, — we covet honors, — we goad 
 them on in the race of glory ; — if they are victors, 
 we too proudly exult, — if vanquished, we are pros- 
 trate and in bitterness. Perhaps^ we detect in them 
 the same latent perverseness, with which we have 
 waged warfare in our own breasts, or some imbecility 
 of purpose with which we have no affinity ; and then, 
 from the very nature of our love, an impatience is 
 generated, which they have no power to soothe, or 
 we to control. A father loves his son, as he loves 
 himself, — and in all selfishness, there is a bias to dis- 
 order and pain. But his love for his daughter is 
 different and more disinterested ; possibly he believes 
 that it is called forth by a being of a higher and 
 better order. It is based on the inte^jral and immu- 
 
THE FATHER. / 
 
 table principles of his nature. It recognizes the sex 
 in hearts, and from the very gentleness and mystery 
 of womanhood, takes that coloring and zest which 
 romance gathers from remote antiquity. It draws 
 nutriment from circumstances which he may not 
 fully comprehend, from the power which she posses- 
 ses to awaken his sympathies, to soften his irrita- 
 bility, to sublimate his aspirations ; — while the sup- 
 port and protection which she claims in return, ele- 
 vate him with a consciousness of assimilation to the 
 ministry of those benevolent and powerful spirits, 
 who ever " bear us up in their hands, lest we dash 
 our foot against a stone." 
 
 I should delight longer to dwell on this develop- 
 ment of ah ction, for who can have known it more 
 perfectly in its length and breadth, in its depth and 
 height 1 I had a daughter, beautiful in infancy, to 
 whom every year added some new charm to awaken 
 admiration, or to rivet love. To me, it was of no 
 slight import, that she resembled her mother, and 
 that in grace and accomplishment, she eariy surpass- 
 ed her cotemporaries. I was desirous that her mind 
 should be worthy of the splendid temple allotted 
 for its habitation. I decided to render it familiar 
 with the whole circle of the arts and sciences. 1 
 was not satisfied with the commendation of her 
 teachers. I determined to take my seat in the sacred 
 pavilion of intellect, and superintend what entered 
 there. But how should one buried beneath the pon- 
 derous tomes and Sysiphean toils of jurisprudence, 
 
 ^"^ 
 
8 
 
 THE FATHER. 
 
 gain freedom, or undivided thought, for such minute 
 supervision 1 A father's love can conquer, if it 
 cannot create. 1 deprived myself of sleep : I sat till 
 the day dawned, gathering materials for the lectures 
 that I gave her. I explored the annals of architec- 
 ture and sculpture, the recesses of literature and 
 poetry, the labyrinthine and colossal treasure-houses 
 of history, — 1 entered the ancient catacombs of the 
 illustrious dead, traversed the regions of the dim and 
 shadowy past, with no coward step, — ransacked 
 earth and heaven, to add one gem to her casket. 
 At stated -periods, I required her to condense, to 
 illustrate, to combine, what I had brought her. I 
 listened, with wonder, to her intuitive elr pence : I 
 gazed with intense delight upon the int. ilect that I 
 thus embellished, — upon the Cormthian capital that 
 I had erected and adorned. Not a single acanthus- 
 leaf started forth, but I cherished and fostered it with 
 the dews of a father's blessing. 
 
 Yet while the outpoured riches of a masculine un- 
 derstanding were thus incorporating themselves with 
 her softer structure, I should not have been content, 
 unless she had also borne the palm of female grace 
 and loveliness. Was it therefore nothing to me, that 
 she evinced in her bloom of youth, a dignity sur- 
 passing her sex, that in symmetry she restored the 
 image of the Medicean Venus, that amid the circles 
 of ranlt and fashion, she was the model — -the cyp'^ 
 sure ? Still was she saved from that vanity whicli 
 would have been the destroyer of all these charms, 
 
THE FATHER. Vf 
 
 by the hallowed prevalence of her filial piety. It 
 was /or my sake, that she strove to render herself 
 the most graceful among women, — -formy sake,ib.ui 
 she rejoiced in the effect of her attainments. Her 
 gentle and just nature felt that the " husbandman who 
 had labored, should be first partaker of the fruits." 
 Returning from those scenes of splendor, where she 
 was the object of every eye, the theme of every 
 tongue, when the youthful bosom might be forgiven 
 for inflation from the clouds of incense that had 
 breathed upon it, to the inquiry of her mother, if 
 she had been happy, the tender and sweet reply 
 was, "Yes, — because I saw that my dear father 
 
 was so." 
 
 Sometimes, I was conscious of gathering rough- 
 ness from the continual conflict with passion and 
 prejudice, and that the fine edge of the feehngs could 
 not ever be uttei'ly proof against the corrosions of 
 such an atmosphere. Then I sought my home, and 
 called my bird of song, and listened to the warbling 
 of her high, heaven-toned voice. The melody of 
 that music fell upon my soul, like oil upon the trou- 
 bled billows, — and all was tranquil. I v/ondered 
 where my perturbations had fled, but still more, 
 that I had ever indulged them. Sometimes, the tur- 
 moil and fluctuation of the world, threw a shade of 
 dejection over me : then it was her pride to smooth 
 my brow, and to restore its smile. Once, a sor- 
 row of no common order had fallen upon me ; it 
 rankled in my breast, hke a dagger's point; I came 
 
10 THE FATHER. 
 
 to my house, but I shunned all its inmates. I threw 
 myself down, in solitude, that I might wrestle alone 
 with my fate, and subdue it ; a light footstep ap- 
 proached, but I heeded it not. A form of beauty 
 was on the sofa, by my side, but I regarded it not. 
 Then my hand was softly clasped, breathed upon, 
 — pressed to ruby lips. It was enough. I took my 
 daughter in my arms, and my sorrow vanished. 
 Had she essayed the hackneyed expressions of sym- 
 pathy, or even the usual epithets of endearment, 1 
 might have desired her to leave my presence. Had 
 she uttered only a single word, it would have been 
 lOO much, so wounded v/as my spirit within me. 
 But the deed, the very poetry of tenderness, breath- 
 ing, not speaking, melted " the winter of my dis- 
 content." Ever was she endued with that most 
 exquisite of woman's perfections, a knowledge both 
 when to be silent, and where to speak, — and so to 
 speak, that the frosts might dissolve from around 
 <he heart she loved, and its discords bo tuned to 
 
 harmonv. 
 
 Thus was she my comforter, and in every hour 
 of our intercourse, was my devotion to her happi- 
 ness richly repaid. Was it strange that I should 
 gaze on the work of my own hands with ineffable 
 delight? At twilight I quickened my homeward 
 step, with the thought of that countenance, which 
 was both my evening and morning star ; as the bird 
 nerves her wearied wing, when she hears from the 
 still -distant forest, the chirpings of her own nest. 
 
THE FATHEH. 
 
 11 
 
 I sat in the house of God, in the silence of sab- 
 bath meditation, and tears of thrilling exultation 
 moistened my eyes. I gazed upon my glorious 
 creature, in the stainless blossom of unfolding youth, 
 and my whole soul overflowed with a father's pride. 
 I said. What more can man desire ? I challenged 
 the whole earth to add another drop to my cup 
 of felicity. Did I forget to give glory to the Al- 
 mighty, that his decree even then went forth, to smite 
 down my idol 1 
 
 I came from ens-rossins; toil, and found her rest- 
 less, with strange fire upon her cheek. Fever had 
 lain rankling in her veins, and they had concealed 
 it from me. I raved. I filled my house with phy- 
 sicians. I charged them wildly to restore her to 
 health and to me. It was in vain. I saw that God 
 claimed her. His will was written upon her brow. 
 The paleness and damps of the tomb settled upon 
 her. 
 
 I knelt by the bed of death, and gave her back to 
 her Creator. Amid the tears and groans of mourn- 
 ers, I lifted up a firm voice. A fearful courage en- 
 tered into me. I seemed to rash even upon the 
 buckler of the Eternal. I likened myself unto hhn 
 who, on Mount Moria, " stretched forth his hand, and 
 took the knife to slay his son." The whole energy 
 of my nature armed itself for the awful conflict. 1 
 gloried in my strength to sufi^er. With terrible sub- 
 limity, I stood forth, as the High Priest of my smit- 
 ten and astonished household. I gave the lamb in 
 
12 THE FATHER. 
 
 sacrifice, with an unshrinking hand, though it was 
 my own heart's blood, that steeped, and streamed 
 oyer the altar. 
 
 It was over. She had gone. She stayed not 
 for my embraces. She was permitted to give me 
 no parting-token. The mind that I had adored, 
 shrouded itself and fled. I knew that the seal upon 
 those eyes must not be broken, till the trump of the 
 Archangel. 
 
 Three days and nights, I sat by the dead. Beauty 
 lingered there, in deep, and solemn, and sacred re- 
 pose. I laid my head upon her pillow. I pressed 
 my lips to hers, and their ice entered into my soul. 
 I^spoke to her of the angels, her companions. 1 
 talked long to the beautifal spirit, and methought, it 
 answei'ed me. Then I listened breathlessly, but 
 " there was no voice, nor any that regarded." And 
 still, I wept not. 
 
 The fatal day came, in which even that clay was 
 to be no longer mine. The funeral knell, with its 
 heavy, yet suppressed summons, came over me like 
 the dividing of soul and body. There was a flood of 
 weeping, when that form, once so replete with every 
 youthful charm, so instinct with the joyous mxove- 
 ment of the mysterious principle of life, was borne 
 in marble stillness from its paternal halls. The eye 
 of the mother that bore her, of the friend that had 
 but casually beheld her, even of the poor menial 
 that waited upon her, knew the luxury of tears. 
 All were wet with that balm of sorrow, to overflow- 
 ing — all save mine. 
 
THE FATHER. 13 
 
 The open grave had a revolting aspect. 1 could 
 not bear that the form which I had worshipped, should 
 be left to its cold and hideous guardianship. At the 
 hollow sound of the first falling clod, I would fain 
 have leaped into the pit, and demanded her. But 1 
 ruled myself. I committed her to the frozen earth, 
 without a tear. There was a tremendous majesty 
 in such grief. I was a wonder to myself. 
 
 I returned to my desolated abode. The silence 
 that reigned there was appalling. My spirit sank 
 beneath it, as a stone goes down into the depths of 
 ocean, bearing the everlasting burden of its fathom- 
 less tide. I sought the room where I had last seen 
 her, arrayed in the vestments of the tomb. There 
 lay the books which we had read together. Their 
 pages bore the marks of her pencil. I covered my 
 eyes from them, and turned away. I bowed down 
 to inhale the fragrance of her flowers, and felt that 
 they had no right to bloom so fair, when she, their 
 culturer and their queen, was blighted. I pressed 
 my fingers upon the keys of her piano, and started 
 back at the mournful sound they made. I wander- 
 ed to her own apartment. I threw myself on the 
 couch where from infancy she had slumbered. I 
 trusted to have wept there. But my grief was too 
 mighty, to be thus unchained. It disdained the relief 
 of tears. T seemed to rush as upon a drawn sword, 
 and still it refused to pierce me. 
 
 Yet all this was when no eye saw me. In the 
 presence of others, I was like Mount Atlas, bearing 
 unmoved the stormy heavens upon his shoulders. 
 
 B 
 
14 THE FATHER. 
 
 I went forth, amid the jarring competitions and 
 perpetual strifes of men. I adjusted their opposing 
 interests, while I despised them and their concerns. 
 I unravelled their perplexities. I penetrated their 
 subterfuges. I exposed their duplicity. I cut the 
 Gordian knots of their self-conceit. I made the 
 " crooked straight, and the rough places plain," — 
 with an energy that amazed them and myself. It 
 was like that of a spirit, which has nothing to do 
 with the flesh. I suffered the tumult of my soul to 
 breathe itself out in bursts of stormy declamation. 
 I exerted the strength of a giant, when it was not 
 required. I scorned to balance power with necessi- 
 ty. The calculations of prudence, and the devices 
 of cunning, seemed equally pitiful, and despicable. 
 I put forth the same effort to crush an emmet, as to 
 uproot the oak of a thousand centuries. It was suf- 
 ficient for me always to triumph. While men mar- 
 velled at the zeal with which I served them, I was 
 loathing them in my heart. I was sick of their chi- 
 canery, and their Sabbathless rush affer empty 
 honors and perishable dross. The whole world 
 seemed to me, " less than nothing, and vanity." 
 Still, I was sensible of neither toil, nor fatigue, nor 
 physical exhaustion. 1 was like one, who in his 
 troubled dream of midnight, treads on air, and finds 
 it strangely sustaining him. 
 
 But every night, I went to my daughter's grave. 
 I laid me down there, in unutterable bitterness. While 
 the stars looked coldly on me, I spoke to her fondly 
 
THE FATHER. 15 
 
 and earnestly, as one who could not be denied. I 
 said, — '• Angel ! who art mine no longer, listen to 
 me. Thou, who art raised above all tears, cause 
 one tear to moisten my burning brow. Give it to 
 me, as a token that thou hearest me, that thou hast 
 not forgotten me." And the blasts of Winter, through 
 the leafless boughs, mocking replied, — " Give it to 
 me, — Give it to 77ze." But I wept not. Ten days 
 and nights passed over me, — and still I wept not. 
 
 My brain was heated to agony. The visual 
 nerves were scorched and withered. My heart was 
 parched and arid, as the Libyan desert. Then I 
 knew that the throne of Grief was in the heart : 
 that though her sceptre may reach the remotest nerve, 
 and touch the minutest cell where the brain slum- 
 bers, and perplex every ethereal ambassador from 
 spirit to sense, — yet the pavilion where her darkest 
 dregs are wrung out, the laboratory where her con- 
 suming fires are compounded, is the heart, — the 
 heart, 
 
 I have implied that my intellect faltered. Yet 
 every morning I went to the scene of my labors. I 
 put my shoulder to the wheel, caring not though it 
 crushed me. I looked at men fixedly and haughtily 
 with my red eye-balls. But I spoke no word to 
 betray the flame feeding at my vitals. The heart- 
 strings shrivelled and broke before it, yet the martyr 
 dom was in silence. 
 
 A2;ain, Night drew her sable curtain, and I sought 
 my daughter's grave. Methought, its turf-covering 
 
16 THE FATHER. 
 
 was discomposed, and some half- rooted shrubs thai 
 shuddered and drooped when placed in that drear 
 assemblage of the dead, had been trampled and bro- 
 ken. A horrible suspicion took possession of my 
 mind. I rushed to the house of the sexton. — " Has 
 any one troubled my daughter's grave ?" Alarmed 
 at my vehemence, he remained speechless and irre- 
 solute. 
 
 " Tell me," I exclaimed, in a voice of terror, 
 " who has disturbed my daughter's grave." He 
 evaded my adjuration, and murmured something 
 about an injunction to secrecy. With the grasp of 
 a maniac, I bore him to an inner apartment, and 
 bade him satisfy my question. Trembling at my 
 violence, he confessed that the grave had been watch- 
 ed for ten nights. 
 
 " Who has watched my daughter's grave ?" Re- 
 luctantly he gave me the names of those friends, — 
 names forever graven upon my soul. 
 
 And so, for those ten long, wintry nights, so 
 dreary and interminable, which I had cast away 
 amid the tossings of profitless, delirious, despairing 
 sorrow, they had been watching, that the repose of 
 that unsullied clay might remain unbroken. 
 
 A new tide of emotion was awakened. I threw 
 myself down, as powerless as the weaned infant 
 Torrents of tears flowed. The tenderness of man 
 wrought what the* severity of Heaven had failed to 
 produce. It was not the earthquake, nor the thun- 
 der, nor the tempest, that subdued me. It was tho 
 
THE FATHER. 1' 
 
 Still, small voice. I wept until the fountains of tears 
 failed. The relief of that hour of weeping, can never 
 be shadowed forth in language. The prison-house 
 of passionate agony was unlocked. I said to God that 
 lie was merciful, and I loved him because my angel 
 lived in his presence. Since then, it would seem, 
 that my heart has been made better. Its aspirations 
 are upward, whither she has ascended, and as I tread 
 the devious path of my pilgrimage, both the sunbeam 
 and the thorn point me as a suppliant to the Re- 
 deemer of Man, that I may be at last fitted to dwell 
 
 with her for ever. 
 
 B2 
 
 V 
 
 -^'" 
 
 . 
 
KINDRED HEARTS. 
 
 Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 
 
 Of sympathy below ; 
 Few are the hearts whence one same touch 
 
 Bids the sweet fountains flow : 
 Few — and by still conflicting powers 
 
 Forbidden here to meet — 
 Such ties would make this life of ours 
 
 Too fair for auo^ht so fleet. 
 
 *o' 
 
 It may be that thy brother's eye 
 
 Sees not as thine, which turns 
 In such deep reverence to the sky, 
 
 Where the rich sunset burns : 
 It may be, that the breath of spring, 
 
 Born amidst violets lone, 
 A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 
 
 A dream, to his unknown. 
 
 The tune that speaks of other times — 
 
 A sorrowful delight ! 
 The melody of distant chimes, 
 
 The sound of waves by night. 
 The wind that, with so many a tone. 
 
 Some chord within can thrill — 
 These may have language all thine own, 
 
 To him a mystery still. 
 
 Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 
 And steadfast love of years ; 
 
THE DIAL OF FLOWERS. 
 
 The kindly, that from childhood grew, 
 The faithful to thy tears ! 
 
 If there be one that o'er the dead 
 Hath in thy grief borne part, 
 
 And watched through sickness by thy bed- 
 Call his a kindred heart ! 
 
 But for those bonds all perfect made, 
 
 Wherein bright spirits blend, 
 Like sister flowers of one sweet shade 
 
 With the same breeze that bend,— 
 For that full bliss of thought allied. 
 
 Never to mortals given — 
 Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams aside, 
 
 Or lift them unto Heaven. 
 
 THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.* 
 
 'T WAS a lovely thought to mark the hours. 
 
 As they floated in light away, 
 By the opening and the folding flowers, 
 
 That laugh to the summer's day. 
 
 Thus had each moment its own rich hue, 
 
 And its graceful cup and bell. 
 In whose colored vase might sleep the dew, 
 
 Like a pearl in an ocean-shell. 
 
 To such sweet signs might the time have flowed 
 In a golden current on, 
 
 ♦ This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnaeus, and marked the ^ouni 
 by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arraagod 
 iniu 
 
L07E S FIRST DREAM. 21 
 
 Ere from the garden, man's first abode, 
 The glorious guests were gone. 
 
 So might the days have been brightly told — 
 
 Those days of song and dreams — 
 When shepherds gathered their flocks of old 
 
 By the blue Arcadian streams. 
 
 So in those isles of delight, that rest 
 
 Far off in a breezeless main, 
 Which many a bark with a weary quest, 
 
 Has sought, but still in vain. 
 
 Yet is not life, in its real flight, 
 
 Marked thus — even thus — on earth, 
 By the closing of one hope's delight, 
 
 And another's gentle birth? 
 
 Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
 
 Shutting in turn, may leave 
 A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 
 
 A charm for the shaded eve. 
 
 LOVE'S FIRST DREAM. 
 
 Bright is the froth of an eastern wave. 
 
 As it plays in the sun's last glow ; 
 Pure is the pearl in its crystal bed, 
 
 Gemming the worlds below; 
 Warm is the heart that mingles its blood 
 
 In the red tide of glory's stream ; 
 But more flashingly bright, more pure, more warm, 
 
 Is love's first dream ! 
 
22 love's first dream. 
 
 Hope paints the vision, with hues of her own, 
 
 In all the colors of spring ; 
 While the young lip breathes, like a dewy rose 
 
 Fanned by the fire-fly's wing. 
 'T is a fairy scene, where the fond soul roves, 
 
 Exulting in passion's warm beam ; 
 Ah ! sad 't is to think we should wake with a chill, 
 
 From love's first dream ! 
 
 But it fades like the rainbow's brilliant arch, 
 
 Scattered by clouds and wind ; 
 Leaving the spirit, unrobed of light. 
 
 In darkness and tears behind. 
 When mortals look back on the heartfelt woes 
 
 They have met with in life's rough stream, 
 That sigh will be deepest which memory gives 
 
 To love's first dream ! 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 ** Our fathers found bleak heath and desert moor, 
 Wild woodland, and savannahs wide and waste, — 
 Rude country of rude dwellers." 
 
 Southey's Madoc 
 
 Possibly it may be unknown, except to a few 
 antiquarians, that the beautiful town of Oxford, in 
 Massachusetts, was originally a colony of French 
 Protestants. They first taught its forests the sound 
 of the woodman's axe, and extended to its roving 
 and red-browed sons, the hand of amity. 
 
 Wherever the Hug-uenot character mino;led in the 
 political formation of this Western World, its infu- 
 sion was bland, and salutary. Industry, patience, 
 cheerful endurance of evil, ardent social affections, 
 and a piety firm but not austere, were its distinctive 
 features. In their gentle community, Age did. not 
 lay aside its sympathies with Youth, or feel exiled 
 from its sweet companionship. The white hair of 
 wisdom gave no death-signal to cheerfulness. The 
 grandsire, with his snowy temples, was still the fa- 
 vorite and delighted associate of his blooming de- 
 scendants. The religion from whose root such fruits 
 sprang, made it no part of its theory to dismiss the 
 smile, or call in moroseness as an adjunct, or robe 
 
24 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 the Sabbath in sable, as if the Creator had marked 
 that consecrated day by 3. frown on his works, in- 
 stead of pronouncing them " very good.'''' Still the 
 elements of their piety, combined without sternness 
 or ostentation, an inflexible adherence to duty, and 
 a spirit, " faithful unto death, for conscience sake." 
 
 The loss of half a million of such inhabitants to 
 France, was a consequence of the persecutions of 
 Louis XIV. His lono-.cherished intolerance took the 
 form of madness, in the revocation of the Edict of 
 Nantz. The expulsion of multitudes of his most 
 unoffending and loyal subjects, justified the strong 
 metaphor of Queen Christina, — " France is a dis- 
 eased man, submittmg to the amputation of his limbs, 
 to cure what a gentle regimen might conquer." 
 
 The sufferings of the Protestants from the mis- 
 guided zeal of their monarch, have left deep traces 
 on the annals of History. Their worship of God 
 obstructed, their churches demolished, their Pastors 
 silenced, imprisoned, or led to martyrdom, an inso- 
 lent soldiery made the inmates of their peaceful 
 homes, licensed to every outrage by a commission 
 to convert the heretics^ and finally their children 
 torn from them, and committed to the tutelage and 
 discipline of monks, prepared them for the fatal cli- 
 max, — the abolition of that Edict of Henry of Na- 
 varre, which, a century before, had guarantied the 
 safety of their ancestors. The repeal of this royal 
 act of protection, in December, 1685, removed the 
 list barrier between them and the raging flood which 
 
 -J 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 25 
 
 threatened to overwhelm them. Every hour they 
 expected a repetition of the horrors of St. Bartholo- 
 mew. 
 
 Flio'ht from the beloved land of their birth, seem- 
 ed the only alternative. Even to this painful resort, 
 obstacles were opposed by the despot, who forgot that 
 one requisition of a king was to be the father of his 
 people. Soldiers were stationed to intercept their 
 progress, and prevent their embarkation. They 
 were driven literally, to take shelter in " dens, and 
 caves of the earth." Fathers were forced to immure 
 their families in damp and pestilental caverns, whence 
 they issued, the very shadows of themselves. Deli- 
 cate females, whom the winds had never roughly 
 visited, wandered, half-clad, amid the chills of win- 
 ter, or implored at the peasant's hut a temporary 
 refuge. Mothers, in the recesses of dreary forests, 
 hushed their wailing infants, lest their cries of mise- 
 ry should guide the search of some brutal captor. 
 
 The sea-ports were thronged with fugitives, in 
 every guise and garb of wretchedness. Rochelle 
 for weeks overflowed with the exiles of Languedoc 
 and Roussillon, of Gascoigne and Dauphine. There 
 might be seen the aged, with hurrying, tottering 
 steps, — the matron, matured in the lap of indulgence, 
 
 with crowds of wandering and miserable babes. 
 
 They came under covert of midnight, or drenched 
 by the storm : neither fatigue, nor menace, deterred 
 them. " Let us go," they exclaimed, with frantic 
 gestures. " We leave to you our pleasant homes and 
 
26 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 our vinevards. Let us go, with our wives and oui 
 little ones ; we know not whither, — But in GocVs 
 name^ let us go^ The cry of Israel, in the house 
 of Egyptian bondage, seemed to re-echo through 
 the beautiful vales of France : though no majestic 
 prophet adjured the ruthless tyrant, in the name of 
 the Lord, — " Let my people go, that they may 
 serve me." 
 
 Hundreds of thousands conquered every obstacle, 
 and effected their escape. Favor in foreign lands 
 was extended to them, and that pity was shown by 
 strangers, which their own kindred and king de- 
 nied. 
 
 Our New World profited by this prodigality of 
 the Old. Those whom she cast out as " despised, 
 broken vessels, in whom there vv^as no pleasure," 
 added cement, and symmetry and strength to our 
 magnificent temple of freedom. Their descendants, 
 scattered and incorporated widely among the people 
 of these United States, still bear the mantle of an- 
 cestral virtue. It would seem that they inherit some 
 share in the blessing of their fathers, who going forth, 
 lilie the Patriarch, " not knowing whither they went, 
 found their faith accounted as righteousness." 
 
 It was in the depth of the winter of 1686, that a 
 sliip tossed by contending storms, and repeatedly 
 repulsed from the bleak New-England coast, was 
 seen slowly entering the harbor of Boston. It was 
 thronged with Huguenot families, who, haggard from 
 the sufferings of their protracted voyage, were eager 
 to obtain rf^'ij;:^^ and repose. 
 
If 
 
 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 27 
 
 Scarcely more than three-score years had elapsed 
 smce the footsteps of the Pilgrim -Fathers first ex- 
 plorcd the dreary rocks and trackless wilds of Ply- 
 mouth. Persecution for righteousness' sake, the 
 abandonment of their own loved land, their perils 
 on the ocean, and in the wilderness, those toils, pri- 
 vations and hardships, with which they gladly pur- 
 chased " freedom to worship God," were still within 
 the memory of the living. The echo of those hymns 
 of " lofty cheer, with which they shook the depths 
 of the desert gloom," was still treasured in the bo- 
 soms, and swelled in the domestic sanctuary, of 
 their descendants. A class of sympathies was there- 
 fore in active exercise, which insured the welcome 
 of the tempest-tost aliens. The few hoary-headcd 
 pilgrims who survived, could not fail to regard with 
 peculiar emotion, those spirits with whom their own 
 
 had strong afhnity. 
 
 This colony of Huguenots was attended by their 
 Pastor, the Reverend iPierre Daille, a descendant of 
 the learned John Daille, distinguished as an author, 
 and especially by the work, entitled « An Apology 
 for the Reformed Churches." Father Daille, as he 
 was styled by his flock, more from the filial love 
 they bore him, than from any seniority of age, was 
 a man of exquisite sensibility, tempered by the mee..- 
 ness of the Gospel which he preached, and whose 
 pure precepts he consistently exemplified. His^ de- 
 Portment evinced that true politeness which springs 
 from re-ard for the feelings of others, and a bene- 
 
28 LEGExXD OF OXFORD. 
 
 nevolent desire to add to their happiness. Hence he 
 invariably conciliated those with whom he associated, 
 and the use he made of the influence thus acquired, 
 was to call forth the better feelings of their nature, 
 to elevate their standard of principle or practice, 
 and to recommend the relimon of Jesus his Master. 
 Among those who gave to him, and his people, the 
 warm welcome of the Western World, it was not 
 surprising that he should discover a delightful reci- 
 procity in Elliot, the venerable apostle of the Indians. 
 Laying aside the classical superiority which he at- 
 tained at the University of Cambridge, in his native 
 land, he had been the patienttranslator of the Scrip- 
 tures, into the barbarous dialect of the sons of the 
 forest. There was in his demeanor, that perfect 
 gentleness, and self-renunciation, which inspires even 
 the savao-e breast with love. Thou2;h at this time 
 82 years of age, he still continued his mission of 
 mercy to those destitute beings, often partaking of 
 their coarse fare, and stretching himself, at night, 
 upon the cold, earthern floors of their miserable 
 habitations. But amid the self-denying calmness 
 of his deportment, those who looked deeply into his 
 eye, might discern some cast of that quiet and deter- 
 mined courage, which had so often queiled the fiercest 
 chieftains^and ruled those paroxysms of anger which 
 threatened his death, by the unmoved reply, — " I am 
 about God's work : — he will take care of me." 
 
 At one of his early interviews with Father Daille, 
 he introduced a red-browed man, on whose arm he 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 29 
 
 leaned : — " I present to you," said he, " my brother 
 of the forest, and my son in the faith." This was 
 Hiacomes, his first Indian convert to the Gospel, 
 whom he had himself ordained as Pastor over a na- 
 tive church in Martha's Vineyard, and whose exam- 
 ple and ministrations justified that high confidence. 
 He was a man of commanding presence, — grave, 
 slow of speech, and so erect and vigorous, that it 
 was difficult to believe that almost fourscore winters 
 had passed over him. With them also came the 
 Reverend John Mayhew, whose lofty forehead, and 
 intellectual features, were lighted up with an undy- 
 ing benevolence for the poor aborigines ; the accom- 
 plished Dudley, recently appointed to the office of 
 Governor, and pleased, perhaps proud, of that " brief 
 authority ;" Michael Wigglesworth, the allegorical 
 poet, with the most unpoetical name ; and Increase 
 Mather, the stately President of Harvard College, 
 conscious of the dignity that he sustained, and fiill 
 of power to sustain it nobly. His voice, which in 
 the fervid denunciations of pulpit eloquence, was 
 said to have the force of thunder, adapted itself me- 
 lodiously to the tones of conversation, and the ex- 
 pressions of friendship. He was sometimes accom- 
 panied by his son, the future author of the " Mag- 
 nalia Christi Americana," then a young man of 23, 
 in whose intelligent countenance and restless glance 
 mio-ht be traced that love of knowledge which neu- 
 tralizes the toil of the severest study, — that latent 
 superstition which was to spring up as an earnest 
 
 C2 
 
 W 
 
30 
 
 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 advocate of the diabolical delusions at Salem, and 
 that deep-rooted benevolence which adopted even in 
 boyhood, the motto, " never to be in company with 
 any person, without endeavoring to do him some 
 good." The acquaintance and friendship of such 
 men, and others, whom our limits will not allow 
 us to mention, breathed with soothino; and streno-th- 
 ening influence over the hearts of the exiles from 
 France. 
 
 Boston, at the period of which we speak, exhibit- 
 ed none of the rudiments of its present magnificence. 
 Its population of between 3 and 4,000, were princi- 
 pally intent on the necessary means of subsistence. 
 No lofty spires pointed in their glory of architecture 
 to Him, whose pavihon is above the cloud, and whose 
 dwelling is in the humblest heart. No liberally en- 
 dowed institutions, no mansions of surpassing splen- 
 dor, then evinced that like ancient Tyre, her " mer- 
 chants were princes, and her traffickers the honorable 
 of the earth." Yet even then, in the intellectual 
 cast of her sons, in her deep and sober reverence for 
 knowledge, in her establishment of an University 
 almost coeval with the first breath of her own po- 
 litical existence, might be seen those elements of 
 thouo-ht and action, which have since made her to 
 America, what Athens was to Greece. The hospi- 
 tality with which she still detains the step of the 
 traveller, and quickens his admiration of her beauti- 
 ful localities, was at this early period in vigorous 
 exercise. It had somewhat of that added fervor, 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 31 
 
 vvliich a rude, primeval state of society induces, 
 where community of danger inspires strong fellow- 
 feelings, and simplicity of life banishes the ceremony 
 that chills the heart, and the luxury that renders it 
 imbecile. 
 
 During the winter that the Huguenots thus enjoy- 
 ed shelter and sympathy from their new-found 
 brethren, preparations were in progress for their 
 obtaining a more permanent home. These negotia- 
 tions eventually terminated in the purchase of a 
 tract of land, in the county of Worcester, about 
 thirty miles from Boston, recommended both by 
 native fertility, and beauty of situation. The stream, 
 whose line of crystal variegates with its graceful 
 windings those vales of verdure, received from the 
 emigrants the name of French River ; but why 
 they gave their new residence the appellation of 
 Oxford^ in preference to one fraught with the mel- 
 lifluent tones and romantic recollections of their own 
 delightful land, history does not inform us. Perhaps 
 at the moment of baptizing this lodge in the wilder- 
 ness, their torn hearts wished to lave in the waters 
 of Lethe, the hand that had wounded them. Per- 
 haps they deemed it wise, to stifle emotions, which 
 were too tender and torturing for their peace. Or 
 perhaps, some claim of unrecorded gratitude prompt- 
 ed the name of their adoption. Suffice it to say, 
 that Oxford, or, as some traditions assert, New-Ox- 
 ford, was the nomenclature of their infant settlement. 
 
 At the earliest indications of the broken sway of 
 
22 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 winter the more hardy of the colonists, went to take 
 possession of the territory, and to erect temporary 
 habitations for their famihes. Spring had some- 
 what advanced, ere the more dehcate part of the 
 community followed. The young turf was spring- 
 ing, and the silver leaf of the willow had hung out 
 its banner. 
 
 On the hardships and privations appointed them, 
 they entered with a patience and cheerfulness which 
 nothing could subdue. They rejoiced to find a 
 temple where God might be worshipped, free from 
 the tyranny of man, though that temple was amid 
 forests, which the step of civilization had never 
 explored. Those who had been nurtured amid the 
 genial breathing of a luxuriant clime, who had im- 
 bibed the fragrance of the vine-flower in their infant 
 slumbers, went forth to daily labor, amid tangled 
 thickets, where the panther and wolf howled, and 
 nightly returned to their rude cabins, with a smile 
 of gratitude, "an everlasting hymn within their 
 souls." 
 
 Among the early cares of the colonists, was the 
 erection of a fort, as a place of refuge, in case of 
 an attack from the native dwellers of the forest. 
 They found themselves borderers upon the territory 
 of a powerful tribe, and stories of the cruelty of 
 Indian warfare, which had occupied a prominent 
 place among the winter evening tales of their friends 
 in Boston, had made deep impression upon the minds 
 of an imaginative people. Political motives, there 
 
LEGEND OF OXrORD. 33 
 
 fore, as well as their own peaceful and pitying dis- 
 positions, led them, while they stood prepared for 
 evil, to make every effort to soothe and conciliate 
 their savage neighbors. They extended to them, 
 at every opportunity, the simple rites of hospitality, 
 and their bland and gentle manners apparently won 
 the friendship of those proud, yet susceptible abo- 
 rigines. 
 
 In the lapse of a year after the arrival of the 
 Huguenots, their settlement began to assume the 
 features of regularity. Its simple abodes equalled 
 the number of families, and an air of neatness and 
 even of comfort, pervaded them. Each dwelling 
 had a small spot, allotted to horticulture, from whose 
 broken surface, newly exposed to the free action of 
 the sun, the seeds of France might be seen timidly 
 emerging, and striving to become naturalized in a 
 foreign soil. In a large field, held as common 
 property, the maize had already appeared in straight 
 and stately ranks, its intervals enlivened by the va- 
 ried hues of the bright bean-blossom. Lycurgus 
 might here have seen illustrated his favorite plan 
 of the Laconian brotherhood, where without conten- 
 tion, each should give his labor to the earth, and 
 without jealousy apportion its treasures. The natives, 
 seeking for game in the neighboring thickets, fre- 
 quently paused to regard the movements of the new 
 settlers. But it did not escape their observation, 
 that the simple expressions of amity with which 
 Jieir arrival had been welcomed, soon subsided into 
 
34 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 Tx reserved depcriment, varied occasionally by marks 
 of stupid \v0nd3r, or decided aversion. At length 
 tliG son of the forest utterly avoided the habitations 
 of his v/hire neighbors, where he had sometimes 
 accepted a shelter for the night, or a covert from the 
 storm. Still he might be seen with a dejected brow, 
 lin^erino; near theij cultivated fields, and reirardinfx 
 their more skilful operations of ag-riculture, with an 
 ill-defined emotion. This was by some explained 
 as the result of envv, b"v others of hatred, infused 
 by the powaws, who continually impressed the idea 
 that these pale intruders would eventually root the 
 red man out of his father's land. Yet these symp- 
 toms of disaffection, however variously interpreted, 
 were ominous ; and the resolution was unanimous, 
 to preserve the most conciliatory deportment, yet to 
 take every precaution for safety, and not to go un- 
 armed even to daily labor. Thus the musket was 
 the companion of the implements of rural toil, as 
 in the days of Nehemiah the restorers of Jerusalem 
 wrought " every man with one hand upon the wall, 
 and with the other held his spear, having his sword 
 girded by his side." 
 
 It was after sunset on a summer's day in 1687, 
 as the colonists were returning from the field, that 
 a party of natives was observed to approach, appa- 
 rently with an intention of cutting off their commu- 
 nication with their abodes. Continuing to reject 
 every attempt at parley, and bearing on their dark 
 brows the sullen purpose of vengeance, they passed 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 35 
 
 slowly onward in an oblique direction, as if to obtain 
 possession of the rising grounds in the neighbor- 
 hood of the fort. A momentary council was held 
 among the emigrants, who were compelled to per- 
 ceive that their destruction was meditated. Conscious 
 that they embodied the effective strength of the colony, 
 and that on their present decision its existence de- 
 pended, they were anxious to avoid rashness, and 
 yet not to testify such regard for their personal 
 safety, as might give to the watchful foe, an appear- 
 ance of timidity. They observed that they were 
 greatly outnumbered, but that only a few of then- 
 enemies were provided with fire-arms, the remainder 
 carrying bows and tomahawks. Three muskets 
 were immediately fired in rapid succession, accord- 
 ing to a previous agreement, as a signal for the fe- 
 males and children to take refuge in the fort, if 
 their husbands and fathers should be attacked at. a 
 distance from home. Then forming into a solid body, 
 they marched onward with a firm step, having their 
 pieces loaded, but not deeming it expedient to hazard 
 the first assault. Each silently revolved the deso- 
 lation that would ensue, upon their fall, to the infant 
 settlement, the peaceful Ere-side, and those dearer 
 
 than life. 
 
 Yet with unshrinking bravery they approached 
 their terrible opponents, and in silent aspirations in- 
 voked that Being, with whom it is " nothing to save, 
 whether by many, or by them who have no help." 
 The shifting lines of the enemy became stationary, 
 
 ! 
 ! 
 
36 LEGE:<fD OF oxroRD 
 
 having gained the brow of an acclivity, where wero 
 several large trees, behind which they could be shel- 
 tered, according to their mode of warfare. Many 
 of the warriors were already stationed behind these 
 fortifications, while the remainder intercepted the 
 path along which the Huguenots were advancing 
 toward their homes. This post, though chosen by 
 these sons of nature without knowledge of tactics, 
 j was highly advantageous. Their fire in front, upon 
 
 i those who ascended the hill, would be greatly an- 
 
 I noying ; on the right, their marksmen sheltered by 
 
 trees might take deadly aim with little danger of 
 retaliation, while on the left, a thick forest, obstruct- 
 ed by underwood, promised to baffle the flight of 
 fugitives. In the rear, at the distance of half a mile, 
 lay the fort, where they might, after vanquishing 
 their protectors, wreak on the helpless ones the ven- 
 geance of extermination. Already they viewed the 
 objects af their hatred as within their grasp, and a 
 murmur of savage joy ran through their ranks, pre- 
 paratory to the yell of battle. They silently singled 
 out their victims for the triumph and for the stake, 
 and deemed the blood of their invaders would be a 
 just and grateful offering to the spirits of their 
 fathers, angry, even amid fields of light, that their 
 sons could tamely resign their heritage. The Chris- 
 tians had begun to ascend the hill. They were within 
 thirty paces of those who sought their destruction. 
 Yet they paused, ere the fatal conflict should send 
 into eternity they knew not how many souls. Every 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 37 
 
 head was uncovered, and every knee bent to the 
 earth. In one deep, solemn response, their mingled 
 voices broke forth,—" Deliver us, O Jehovah ! from 
 the hand of the unrighteous, and cruel man: for 
 thou art our hope, O God 1 thou art our trust from 
 our youth." They rose and advanced, with souls 
 prepared either for victory or death. But the perilous 
 enterprise was arrested by a mysterious form, rushing 
 from the dark forest on the left of their path. He 
 seemed of more than mortal height, and his flowing 
 robes were girt about his loins, with a broad blood- 
 red cincture. On his head was a resemblance of 
 the ancient helmet, surmounted with lofty and sable 
 plumes. In his right hand a sword flashed with in- 
 effable brightness, and his left bore a blazing torch, 
 which illumined his pale countenance, yet faded 
 beneath the lightning of his awful eye. He exclaim- 
 ed, as he approached the little flock of Christians,— 
 « The sword of the Lord and of Gideon !" 
 
 Pointing onward with his dazzling blade, they 
 followed him mechanically, as if the shade of Conde 
 or Coligny had arisen from the grave to lead them 
 to victory. The Indians stood as if transfixed with 
 horror, until this mysterious being confronted them 
 
 face to face. 
 
 There was a pause of fearful silence, and then he 
 uttered, in a tone which seemed to shake the hills, a 
 few terrible words in an unknown tongue. But they 
 were intelligible to the enemy, who were in an in- 
 stant overwhelmed with astonishment and fear. At 
 
 D 
 
38 legenli of oxford. 
 
 the charmed words, as if spell-bound, the bow, stretch- 
 ed to its utmost tension, dropt the trembling arrow, 
 and the uplifted tomahawk sank from the hand of 
 the nerveless warrior. The whole body of savages 
 turned in flio;ht. Still a voice of thunder arrested 
 their breathless speed. 
 
 " Stay ! — Hear what the Great Spirit saith. If 
 ye lift your hand against one of these my servants, 
 if ye hurt a hair of the head of any belonging unto 
 them, your flesh shall be given as meat to the beasts 
 of the earth, and to the fowls of heaven, and your 
 souls shall never enter the abodes of your fathers. — 
 Remember, — and begone !" 
 
 Scarcely was the permission accorded, ere the 
 surroundinn; hills were covered v/ith the flvino; fuo-i- 
 tives. Their native agility, quickened by terror, 
 regarded no obstacle of rock, thicket, or stream. 
 The majestic being reared high his flaming torch, and 
 beheld their departure. Not one turned to look back, 
 so deep was their dread of that fearful countenance, 
 and tremendous tone. Bending his piercing glance 
 upon those whom he had rescued, he read the most 
 intense traces of gratitude, astonishment, and awe, 
 and heard ttie repeated yet half-suppressed inquiry. 
 — " Who is our deliverer?" 
 
 A voice of majesty answered : 
 
 " I am the pillar of cloud, and the pillar of flame, 
 sent before you in this wilderness, by the Eternal. 
 Gaze not thus, attempt not to pursue my path, lest, 
 \ike the wretches who prest upon the base of Sinai, 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 39 
 
 when Jehovah honored it, ye perish amid blackness, 
 and darkness, and tempest. Veil your eyes, and 
 bow your faces in the dust, while I pass on my 
 
 way." 
 
 They obeyed, and from a greater distance, the 
 same deep tone was heard to command — 
 
 " When you reach your homes, and find those 
 eyes tearful with joy, which might have been closed 
 in blood, give glory to the God of Israel." 
 
 When the ransomed band raised their heads from 
 the earth, some thought that they saw the firma- 
 ment glowing as with a path of living flame. But 
 others said it was the ray of the full moon, which 
 lifting from the horizon her broad disk of pale gold, 
 tinged the mountain-tops and forests with the same 
 hue, then gradually faded into silver, as a bride 
 covers her heightened complexion with a snowy veil. 
 The extreme excitement of this sudden danger and 
 unaccountable deliverance, did not permit the colo- 
 nists to discover, until their arrival at their habita- 
 tions, that one of their number was missing. Then, 
 the wife of Laurens, holding her babe in her arms, 
 was seen vainly inquiring for her husband. 
 
 They explored the paths which had been traversed, 
 they returned to the field where they had labored. 
 But no trace was to be found, save his cartridge-box, 
 lying near the spot where he had toiled. It was 
 then'evident that he had not been with tkm in their 
 scene of peril, and dismay marked every counte- 
 nance. Conjecture was busy in her darkest forms 
 
40 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 among tender and apprehensive spirits, while the 
 effective strength of the colony gathered in consult- 
 ation. The boldest proposed immediate pursuit, and 
 reclaiming the captive by force of arms, during the 
 season of consternation which then prevailed among 
 the Indians. The more cautious suo-o-ested the dan- 
 ger of invading their territory with such inferiority 
 of numbers, as might involve not only their own 
 destruction, but the extinction of the colony. Th3 
 result of their council, was to send an embassy to 
 Boston, requesting the Governor to demand of the 
 Indian king their captive brother, or to grant them 
 military aid in effecting his rescue. 
 
 A day of intense anxiety was endured in that lit- 
 tle settlement. But on the ensuing morning, ere the 
 sun had dispersed the cloud of vapor that encom- 
 passed the valley, a shout of joy burst wildly from 
 many voices. The lost brother had been discovered 
 hasting toward his home. Only a short interval 
 transpired, ere he was surrounded by a throng of 
 kindred and friends, welcoming him with wondering 
 rapture, and demanding his adventures. His heart 
 was full, and his lip trembled as he spoke. 
 
 " When we departed from the field, after our last 
 day's labor, I had not proceeded far in your compa- 
 ny, before I discovered that my cartridge-box was 
 left behind. Without mentioning the circumstance, 
 I ran to fetch it, expecting to rejoin you, ere I should 
 be missed. As I leaped the inclosure, I received a 
 blow on the head from an Indian, who was lurking 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 41 
 
 there. When I had partially recovered my senses, 
 1 endeavored to arise, but found myself in the power 
 of four natives, who had deprived me of my weapons. 
 With threatening gestures, they hurried me onward. 
 A great part of the night we travelled, through al- 
 most impenetrable woods. Then they halted, and 
 a fire was kindled. They kindly offered me a por- 
 tion of the rude viands on which they fed. Then 
 they lay down to sleep, after pinioning me securely, 
 and appointing a sentinel, with a loaded musket. 
 Soon they fell into slumber ; but for me, though sore- 
 ly wearied, there was no forgetfulness. The flame, 
 sometimes blazing high, then suddenly declining, 
 cast a wavering light upon the grim faces and dis- 
 hevelled locks of those whose captive I was, whose 
 victim I might soon be. Their athletic limbs, stretch- 
 ed supinely, gave evidence of great strength, w^hile 
 their dark, red brows, distorted in dreams, seemed 
 as if the Spirit of Evil had visibly set his seal there. 
 When, sickening at the scene, I looked upward, there 
 v/as the full, cloudless moon, g-ildins; the crest of the 
 wide forest, and gliding down its deep arches, to visit 
 the earth, like the eye of Heaven, beholding a world 
 of sin, itself continuing pure. 
 
 But I could not raise my thoughts in the sublime 
 offices of devotion. They hovered wildly around 
 this beloved spot, and her who, I knew, was sleep- 
 less for my sake. I remembered you all, my friends, 
 and fancied that I heard your voices, and saw your 
 search for the lost one. Then it seemed as if an 
 
 D 2 
 
 i^:; 
 
42 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 unearthly might inspired me, and I beheved that I 
 could destroy my foes, and pass through their blood 
 to my home, and to you. Then, attempting to start 
 up, my pinioned limbs painfully admonished me, and 
 I grieve to say, that the prayer with which I strove 
 to solace myself, was more in bitterness, than in 
 humble trust. 
 
 Suddenly, the trampling of many feet destroyed 
 my reverie. A body of Indians approached, hastily 
 and in disorder. They conversed eagerly with my 
 captors, in their own language. I imagined, by their 
 wild gestures, that they were detailing some warlike 
 expedition, and a horrible suspicion took hold of me. 
 I feared that they had fallen like wolves upon our 
 peaceful fold, and shuddered lest I might discover on 
 their raiment, stains of the blood that was most dear 
 to me. At every change of attitude, my straining 
 eyes followed with terror, lest they should display 
 some fair-haired scalp. From their impassioned ac- 
 tion, I could gain nothing, save broken delineations 
 of some conflict, in which the madness of astonish- 
 ment predominated. 
 
 A prey to the most afflicting suspense, I was hur- 
 ried onward to the residence of their king. It was 
 surrounded by a number of dwellings, constructed 
 in their arbor-like manner and thatched with mat- 
 
 tmg. 
 
 There I saw, in the midst of a few warriors, the 
 king of the Nipmucks and Narragansetts. He was 
 tall, with a coronet of white feathers on his head, 
 
LEGExVD OF OXFORD. 43 
 
 and a grave and noble countenance. He was in 
 conversation with an aged man, whose eye was 
 fixed and severe. This was the ancient prophet, 
 greatly reverenced by the surrounding tribes. After 
 the large party of Indians had related their story 
 with strong gesticulation, my captors led me for- 
 ward, and the king regarded me with a penetrating 
 glance. 
 
 "Hast thou shed the blood of Indians?' he in- 
 quired. I answered in the negative, and added that 
 we were a peaceful people, considering all men as 
 our brethren. He stood for some time in silence, 
 gravely scrutinizing me. Then he addressed the 
 prophet, still speaking in English. 
 
 " Seest thou cause, why this prisoner should not 
 be set at liberty?" 
 
 " Seest thou cause /" — exclaimed the old man 
 indignantly, and extending his hand in rhetorical 
 action. " The cause is on the sky. — It hath told thee 
 in thunder, that wherever the foot of the pale race 
 comes, the red man must perish. The cause is 
 written on the earth, — in the blood of our warriors. 
 It is upon the air, — in the red blaze of our wigwams. 
 And thou art a king of the Narragansetts, and 
 dost ask of me if there is any cause why a white 
 man should die ?" 
 
 " Think not that I forget the slaughter of my peo- 
 ple," said the king : — " But they were the hands of 
 Enghshmen, that dropped with their blood. What 
 have this man, or his brethren, done 1 They are of 
 
44 
 
 LEGEXD OF OXFORD. 
 
 another race. They came not hither to waste us. 
 They only mark furrows upon the green earth, and 
 the corn rises. I myself have been in their dwell- 
 ings-, but not as a kino;. I went thither as the fox, 
 and they were before me like doves, without guile. 
 I was weary, and they spread for me a bed. Tliey 
 believed that I slumbered. But my eye, like the 
 eagle's, was upon all their ways. They spake no 
 evil of Indians. No — in their prayers they asked 
 good things for us, of their Great Spirit. There is 
 no bitterness in their hearts, towards red men. Son 
 of Wisdom, why should we lift our hand against the 
 innocent ?" 
 
 *' Thou art deceived, son of Philip !" answered 
 the Prophet. " They are moles, mining around thine 
 habitation. Their path is in silence and in darkness, 
 and thy heart is simple as the babe. Ere thou art 
 aware, thou shalt struggle like the fish in the net, 
 and who can deliver thee ? The crested snake 
 cometh forth boldly, and the poisonous adder work- 
 eth her way beneath the matted grass. Are they 
 not both the offspring of the deadly serpent ? This 
 m.an, and his brethren, and they who have long 
 slaughtered us, are all of one race. They are but 
 the white foam of that ocean, which the Great Spirit 
 hath troubled in his wrath. Art thou the son of 
 Philip, standing still, till its billows sweep thee, 
 and thy nation, away 1 That lion-hearted monarch 
 was not so. Rivers of blood flowed before him in 
 battle. Even now, his soul is angry at the sight of 
 

 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 45 
 
 white men. Last night, in visions, it stood beside 
 me. Its brow was hke thine, O king, but frowns 
 of vengeance made it terrible. His eye was dark 
 Hke thine, but the hghtning of the brave made its 
 glance awful. His voice was hoarse and hollow, 
 as if it rose from the sepulchre. Ice entered into 
 my blood, as its tones smote my ear. ' I cannot 
 rest,' it said. ' White men multiply, and become 
 as the stars of heaven. My people fade away like 
 the mist, when the sun ariseth. On their own land, 
 they have become strangers. My son hideth, with 
 the remnant of his tribe, in the borders of another 
 nation. The]} call him King. Why doth he not 
 dare to set his feet, where his father's throne stood 1 
 I see cities there, and temples to a God whom our 
 fathers knew not. Our canoes ride no longer on 
 the tides of the Narragansett. Proud sails are there, 
 whiter than the curl of its ^vaters. Doth the son 
 of Philip sleep ? Tell him, if he be a king, to write 
 it in blood, on the grave where my bones moulder. 
 Tell him, if he be my son, to sheath his spear in the 
 breast of every white man, till the soul of his father 
 is satisfied.' The spirit vanished, and the blackness 
 of midnight glowed like a gush of blood. I have 
 spoken its message unto thee, king of a perishing 
 race. Yonder is a victim, provided by the Great 
 Spirit. Bid it soothe the sorrowing shade of thy 
 father." 
 
 The forest echoed to the furious voice of the in- 
 censed prophet. The king covered his face with 
 
\ 
 
 46 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 his hands. Then pointing mournfully toward me, 
 he said, — " Take him, and do with him what ye will. 
 It is not the king, but the prophet, that demandeth 
 his blood." 
 
 I would have spoken, but he walked hastily away. 
 The old man gazed after him with a reproachful eye, 
 and then spoke rapidly to the people, in their own 
 language, giving, as I supposed, directions for my 
 death. I observed him closely, to discover whether 
 argument or supplication might be hazarded. But 
 in his stern, stony features, there dwelt no touch of 
 human sympathy. The victim might as well have 
 hoped to propitiate the Druid, whose pitiless hand 
 grasped the sacrificial blade. I suffered them to lead 
 me away, in silence. 
 
 They conducted me to a level spot, from whence 
 the trees had been partially cleared, as if by fire. I 
 believed this to be the place of execution. They 
 desired me to sit, and the women and children flock- 
 ed around me. Yet I saw not upon their brows 
 aught of hatred or exultation. Some were strongly 
 marked with pity. Even the little ones regarded 
 me with melancholy attention. Towards noon, a 
 plentiful repast was brought me. It would seem 
 that they had put in requisition all their culinary 
 skill, to furnish my last feast on earth. Fish, birds, 
 and the flesh of the deer, with cakes baked in the 
 ashes, and parched corn, varied the banquet. They 
 spread it before me, and retired to some distance, 
 taught by Nature the simple politeness of not dis- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 47 
 
 turbing the stranger. Returning, they brought water 
 for my hands and face, and the children, venturing 
 nearer, decked my hair with wild flowers. I felt 
 that they were adorning the victim for the altar, yet 
 I could not but look on them with kindness, for their 
 guileless manners and simple ceremonies served to 
 soothe apprehension, though they might not nourish 
 hope. The men consulted in groups. Probably, 
 the arrangements for my martyrdom occupied 
 them. Yet they displayed neither the impatience 
 to hasten it, nor the savage triumph, that I had 
 been taught to expect from descriptions of similar 
 scenes. 
 
 At the decline of day, they stripped a small tree 
 of its boughs, and cut off its trunk at the distance 
 of six or seven feet from the earth. As the shades 
 of evening deepened, they kindled a large fire, 
 around which they began to dance, with dissonan*' 
 music, and violent gesticulation. Becoming excited 
 almost to madness, they approached and bound me 
 to the tree. 
 
 Hitherto, I had but imperfectly realized my doom. 
 Illusions of escape and of deliverance had been flit- 
 ting through my imagination. Even when the 
 branches were heaped around that were to consume 
 me, I could not dismiss these illusions. They put 
 fire to the encircling fuel. It was green, and the 
 thick smoke almost suffocated me. Horrible visions 
 swam before my eyes. Unutterable thoughts rush- 
 ed through my brain. My soul could not bid adieu 
 
4 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 to the objects of its love. It was tossed upon a sea 
 of wild emotion, like a reeling bark before the tem- 
 pest. I strove to recall the instructions of my revered 
 pastor, but Memory was a wreck, amid the billows 
 of Fate. 
 
 Before me was a steep hill, interspersed with rocks 
 and thickets. There my eyes fixed, until every 
 bush seemed to cluster with fiery faces. At length, 
 on the summit of that precipice, where dark clouds 
 rested, a light shone, above the brightness of the 
 moon. A form, of more than mortal height, came 
 gliding thence, in a path of living flame. In its 
 right hand glittered the semblance of a sword, ai>d 
 on its left came forth fire, which seemed to kindle 
 the firmament. I thought I beheld the Kina; of Ter- 
 rors. I wished that I could welcome his approach. 
 
 The fearful form came nearer. It stood before 
 me. Awful tones, in an unknown tongue, proceeded 
 from its lips. At their sound, my foes shrieked 
 and fled. Like the host of Israel, at the terrible 
 voice from the flames of Sinai, they could ngt endure 
 that " those words should be spoken to them a second 
 tune." 
 
 I was writhing before the scorching flame. A 
 hand of power loosened my bonds. " Follow me," 
 said a tremendous voice ; " but gaze not on me, lest 
 thou perish." I obeyed, and shading my eyes with 
 my hand, walked in the path of light, that gleamed 
 before me. I trembled, lest I might accidentally 
 look upon one, whom " no man can see and live." 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 49 
 
 It seemed that the way was long, but my mind 
 was in that state when the unities of time and space 
 are annihilated. I thought that the drapery of a 
 diseased intellect enveloped me, or that I had already 
 passed the gulf of death, and was gliding through 
 the region of disembodied spirits. But still before 
 me moved, in mysterious majesty, that " pillar of 
 cloud, and pillar of flame." At length, we stood 
 upon the banks of a river, which I recollected to 
 have crossed soon after my capture. The difficulty 
 which we had encountered in fording it, was the 
 first circumstance that perfectly restored my senses 
 from their stupor, after the stroke that prostrated me. 
 
 " Pass through the stream," said the same tre- 
 mendous voice. I shuddered at its tone. " Pass 
 through the stream. If its waters oppose thee, ask 
 aid of Him who taught the wavering disciple to 
 walk upon the sea. When thou reachest the shore, 
 kneel, and pay thy vows to Jehovah." 
 
 I plunged into the swollen waters. Thrice, their 
 current thwarted me. Once, 1 found myself beyond 
 my depth, and exhaustion came over me. I spake 
 to my Redeemer. Still the pure ray of that mys- 
 terious light gleamed around me, till I gained the 
 opposing shore in safety. There I knelt, in obedi- 
 ence to the command of my deliverer. My heart 
 was full of unutterable aspirations. When they 
 ceased, I arose, but there was no longer any bright- 
 ness in my path. I saw that the night had fled, and 
 
 the gray dawn trembled in the east. 
 
 E 
 
 !! 
 
50 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 As I drew near these beloved abodes, the appre- 
 hensions which had distressed me, at the return and 
 mysterious recital of the Indian warriors, again re- 
 sumed their sway. How shall I describe the rapture, 
 with which the light of morning gave to my view, 
 the smoke curling in peaceful volumes above these 
 trees ! I seemed to surmount the space that divided 
 me from you, as the swift-winged bird cleaves the 
 air. Methought I could pour out existence to 
 Him who had preserved it, in one unending hymn 
 of joy. 
 
 Friends, ask me neither for explanation nor com- 
 ment. I have given you the truth, as it dwells in 
 my soul. Bewildered, I scarcely know what to say, 
 save that I stand here among you, look on faces 
 that are dear, and know that God, by some myste- 
 rious messenger, hath snatched me from destruction." 
 
 As he ceased, his friends thronged around him, 
 with the most affectionate congratulations. Little 
 children, who had often wept during the narrative, 
 pressed near, that they might lay their hand upon 
 one, who had witnessed such marvellous things. 
 
 The pastor came forward into the centre of the 
 circle, as a father enters among his children. Laying 
 his hand solemnly on the head of Laurens, he said, 
 " This, my son, was dead and is alive again, was 
 lost and is found." They understood his inference 
 unspoken, and kneeling upon the green turf, joined 
 the holy man, in fervent thanksgiving to their 
 Almighty Protector. 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 51 
 
 To this scene of pious gratitude, succeeded a re- 
 cital of the danger and preservation of the colony, 
 to which the rescued hrother listened with intense 
 interest and deep astonishment. Features of simi- 
 larity were recognized in the mysterious being who 
 had effected this double deliverance, though a highly 
 excited imagination had, in the case of Laurens, in- 
 vested him with more of supernatural influence. 
 Those events long supplied the colony with a sub- 
 ject for the hour of twilight musing and midnight 
 vigil, a theme for the wonder of childhood, the ter- 
 ror of superstition, the conjecture and speculation 
 of all. But the lapse of years drew the curtain 
 from this mystery, by revealing the history of the 
 reo;icide Judsjes. 
 
 After the restoration of Charles the Second to the 
 throne of Ensiand, and his execution of several of 
 the judges by whom his father had been condemned, 
 most of the others fled to foreign climes. Three 
 of them sought refuge on the shores of New-Eng- 
 land." Massachusetts and Connecticut alternately 
 afforded them protection. A cave in the neighbor- 
 hood of New-Haven was frequently their abode, and 
 their piety and dignity of manner propitiated the 
 favor and respect of the people. 
 
 When it was understood in Great Britain, that the 
 Colonels Whalley, Dixwell, and Goffe, had escaped 
 to New-England, they were demanded by the king. 
 But the colonists continued to shelter them. The 
 Governor of Connecticut, and the settlement of New- 
 
52 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 Haven, particularly incurred the displeasure of the 
 cabinet of James II., by their persevering republican- 
 ism, and incipient spirit of independence. 
 
 In 1687, Sir E'dmund Andrus, a sycophant of the 
 House of Stuart, in its vacillating and vindictive 
 policy, entered New- England, with the authority 
 and disposition of a petty tyrant. Arriving at Hart- 
 ford, he demanded the Charter of Connecticut. Sud- 
 denly, in the room where the consultation was held, 
 the lights were extinguished, and the important 
 parchment disappeared. A bold and cautious hand 
 deposited it in the hollow heait of an oak, — which 
 henceforward acquired imperishable fame, and still 
 flourishes in vigorous and green old age. 
 
 Sir Edmund Andrus, proceeding to New-Haven 
 fixed his suspicious eye on a stranger whom he ac- 
 cidentally encountered, and pronounced to be one 
 of the resricides in dissjuise. He instituted a strict 
 search for the man, but both vigilance, and bribe 
 proved ineffectual. This was indeed Col. Dixwell 
 who, with his associates, had been " hunted as a par 
 trid^e on the mountains." Having; for a Ions; pre 
 vious period been unmolested, he occasionally ven 
 tured to walk in the streets, and even to attend pub 
 lie worship. Reading in the eagle glance of the 
 haughty minion, that lie was singled out for immo- 
 lation, he instantly withdrew, and was long invisible 
 to his most faithful adherents. Sometimes caverns 
 afforded him refuge ; at others, he threw himself 
 on the good faith of strangers, and found conceal- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 53 
 
 ment. It was asserted that a cave in the vicinity 
 of Oxford was among his favorite retreats, and 
 the date of the events which we have just record- 
 ed, corresponds with this period of his flight and 
 seclusion. 
 
 Bein^ a man of native address, and military en- 
 terprise, he had previously mingled, though unknown, 
 in scenes of conflict with the ahorigines. Their 
 traits of character had interested him as a study, 
 and having become acquainted with some words of 
 their lan^yuafre, it was said that he made use of them, 
 together with a wild and imposing suit of apparel, 
 a blazino- torch, and a sword which had served in 
 the wars of Cromwell, to accomplish such results 
 as those which we have related. It was also said 
 that Father Daille had visited him in his subterra- 
 nean retreat, and been intrusted confidentially with 
 his agency in these occurrences, and with other parts 
 of his history. Be that as it may, Col. Dixwell, who 
 was a man of superior talents, and religious sensi- 
 bility, and, as the quaint writers of that age assert, 
 " possessed of manifest great education," took plea- 
 sure in evincing, as far as his precarious situa- 
 tion admitted, his grateful sympathies in the wel- 
 fare of a people who had saved him from the scaf- 
 fold. 
 
 The settlement at Oxford continued gradually and 
 
 steadily to attain prosperity. An air of neatness 
 
 and comfort pervaded its rustic dwellings. In the 
 
 vicinity of many of them, the vines of France 
 
 ' E2 
 
54 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 were seen reaching forth their young tendrils, and 
 striving to sustain existence with the smiles of a less 
 genial sun. The pastor, who had led his flock into 
 foreign folds, shared in all their concerns with a sym- 
 pathy and zeal that knew no declension. In their 
 secular affairs he aided with his advice, in their sick- 
 nesses he sat by their bed, combining the skill of the 
 temporal healer with the higher offices of the spirit- 
 ual physician. Piety was not worn by him, only 
 as a sabbath garb. Every day he wrapped its man- 
 tle around his spirit. It attended him in his domes- 
 tic duties, in all his companionship with men. It was 
 like an undying lamp, of the mildest radiance, ever 
 beaming on his path, and enlightening the steps of 
 others. No one could be long in his presence, with- 
 out perceiving that his heart was above. Yet this 
 was not evinced by moroseness, or contempt of 
 earthly cares, or sternness towards weaker spirits, 
 but by a gentle and powerful influence, which ele- 
 vated the thoughts and affections of those around. 
 In his visits to his people, the unrestrained flow of 
 discourse prompted every heart to pour itself out to 
 him. Little children gathered near him, and learn- 
 ed to associate the name of their Redeemer with the 
 sacred lips that told them of his love. Amid the 
 unchecked pleasure of this parochial intercourse, the 
 simple raising of his benign eye to Heaven, was 
 understood by his confiding and affectionate peo- 
 ple, as a signal for the spirit to commune with 
 its Father, if it were only through the aspiration of 
 a moment. 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 55 
 
 In his partner, he found a congenial mind, and a 
 helper in every toil. Though her education and 
 manners might have qualified her to move in courts, 
 she found no greater delight than in zealously aid- 
 ino- her husband in his responsible duties, particular- 
 ly'in the instruction of the children of the commu- 
 nity, and the comfort of disease and affliction. Ac 
 customed to the pursuits and accomplishments of 
 refined society, the only recreation in which she now 
 indulged herself, was the culture of a few flowers ; 
 and o"ne of the highest gratifications which they fur- 
 nished her, was sometimes to lay them, m all their 
 beauty and breathing fragrance, upon the pillow of 
 the sick. The same benevolence induced her to turn 
 her knowledge of the physiology of plants to practical 
 use. A part°of her garden was devoted to the rear- 
 incr of medicinal herbs, and her skill in their applica- 
 lion enabled her often to alleviate physical suffering. 
 Yet no diseases of a serious nature had hitherto appear- 
 ed amoncr them, notwithstanding the influence of a 
 comparatively severe climate, might have been ex- 
 pected to put in requisition the more efficient aids 
 of medical science. But their state of society for- 
 ciblv illustrated, how industry, moderated desires, 
 and habitual cheerfulness, promote health of body, as 
 well as health of mind. 
 
 Somewhat more than three years had elapsed, 
 since the establishment of the colony. The autumn 
 of 1690 was advancing towards its close. Copse 
 and forest exhibited those varied and opposing hues, 
 
56 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 which array in such surprising beauty and brilliance, 
 the foliage of New-England. The harvest was com- 
 pleted, and every family was in preparation for the 
 claims of a cold and dreary season. Children might 
 still be seen, bearing toward their habitations, bas- 
 kets of those nuts, which were to vary the banquet 
 of their winter evenings. The elastic atmosphere 
 gave vigor to their spirits, and their Uttle voices 
 clamored joyously and incessantly. It was pleasant 
 to see their healthful and innocent faces, like bright 
 flowers amid those wilds, so lately tenanted by the 
 copper-colored Indian, and the sable bear. 
 
 Among these happy groups, were the beautiful 
 children of St. Maur ; — Antoine, a boy of eight, and 
 Elise, four years younger. They were peculiarly 
 dear to their father, from the circumstance of his 
 having the sole charge of them. Their mother, 
 whose delicate frame had been exhausted by the 
 hardships of persecution, died during her voyage to 
 America. The passage had been rude and boister- 
 ous, and the fearful tempests which marked their 
 approach to a wintry coast, annihilated that feeble 
 hope of her recovery, which affection had cherished. 
 During a violent storm, while the ship tossed as if 
 the deep were about to engulf her, that pale mother 
 sat the whole night, with her infant on her bosom. 
 She was not willing to transfer it to other arms. 
 Her eyes were fixed upon it : — their long and tender 
 glance seemed to say, — " It is the last time." When 
 the morning dawned, she kissed the baby, and laid 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 57 
 
 it in her husband's bosom. Antoine remembered as 
 long as he lived, that she clasped her cold hands 
 upon his little head, and said faintly, — " The cup 
 that my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?" 
 — and that in a few moments she was stretched out, 
 motionless, and dead. 
 
 It was not wonderful that St. JMaur should regard 
 these motherless ones, the companions of his exile, 
 with extreme tenderness, — that he should desire to 
 watch over them every moment. With his permis- 
 sion to join tlieir companions, in nut-gathering, he 
 mingled an injunction to return home before sunset. 
 Delighted with their enlivening occupation, they saw 
 with regret the sun declinino- toward the west, but, 
 obedient to their father's command, took leave of 
 their companions, and departed from the forest. On 
 their homeward path, they discovered profuse clus- 
 ters of the purple forest-grape, and entered a rocky 
 recess to gather the additional treasure. Suddenly, 
 they were seized by two Indians. Antoine strug- 
 gled violently, and every feature was convulsed with 
 ann-er. His little sister stretciied out her hands to 
 him for protection, but in vain. When the first tu- 
 mult of surprise had subsided, the keen eye of the 
 boy took note of every angle in the path, every brook 
 that they forded, every hill that was ascended, deter- 
 mining, if possible, to effect an escape. He was 
 grieved that darkness so soon prevented his observa- 
 tion of the country. 
 
 The night was considerably advanced, ere the 
 
5S LEGEND OF OXFORD 
 
 Indians halted. They kindled a fire, and offered 
 the children some of the food which they carried 
 with them. The heart of Antoine swelled high, 
 and he refused to partake. But the little girl took 
 some parched corn, and sat on the knee of the rude 
 Indian. He smiled, when he saw her eat the kernels, 
 and look up in his face with a trusting, reproachless 
 eye. Then they lay down to sleep, each with a cap- 
 tive in his arms. 
 
 Antoine wisely restrained his impatience, and re- 
 mained perfectly still, until the grasp that confined 
 him relaxed, and deeper breathing denoted slumber. 
 Then, scarcely daring to breathe, he crept away 
 from the side of his captor. Softly rismg on his 
 feet, he looked on the sleeping group. Nothing was 
 heard, save the crackling of the fire, which blazed 
 up high and bright in the forest, and the distant growl- 
 ing and moaning of a bear, as if bereaved of her 
 cubs. The heart of a child at the lone hour of mid- 
 night, who had never before been separated from the 
 side of a parent, might well shudder at a scene so 
 awful. But new and strange courage enkindled, when 
 he recollected that he was the sole protector of his little 
 sister, and that their father was now miserable for 
 their loss. 
 
 The innocent child lay sleeping upon the damp 
 ground, her head resting upon the shoulder of the 
 dark, red man. She seemed like a rosebud broken 
 from its stalk, and dropped in some dismal vault, 
 where the slimy snake gliding from its nest, enfolds 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 5 ) 
 
 it in a venomous coil. Her tiny hand, pure as wax, 
 lay among the long, black locks of the Indian, and 
 her ruby lips were slightly parted by her soft and 
 quiet breathing. 
 
 Her brother, brushing away the thick, dark curls 
 that clustered around his forehead, bent over her. 
 He wished to snatch her from durance, and bear her 
 to her home. He espied a tomahawk, and seized it. 
 Terrible designs took possession of his mind. He 
 believed that he could cleave the skull of the sleep- 
 ing Indians. At that moment, his guard awoke. 
 What was his astonishment at beholding a child, 
 whom he had deemed incapable of meditating resist- 
 ance, armed with a deadly weapon, and his dark 
 eyes flashing with all a warrior's spirit ! He could 
 not but gaze on him for a moment with admiration, 
 for the son of the forest respects valor in a foe, and 
 to the sight of the brave he was beautiful. 
 
 Disarming, and securely pinioning the infant \yar- 
 rior,he again stretched himself upon his bed of turf. 
 Antoine struggled vainly, and at length, overcome 
 with fatigue and sorrow, mourned himself into a 
 broken slumber. Yet in his dreams, he incessantly 
 started and complained, sometimes exclaiming,— "Oh 
 my poor father,"— or, « See ! see ! they have mur- 
 
 dered the child." 
 
 When it was discovered in the colony, that the 
 children of St. Maur had not returned, alarm and 
 sympathy became general. Every spot was explor- 
 ed, where it was supposed possible that they might 
 
60 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 have lingered, or wandered. Lights wera seen, in 
 every direction, to glimmer and recede hke the lamp 
 of the fire-fly ; and for hours, upland and valley re- 
 sounded with their names. But when their little 
 baskets were found overturned, and their contents 
 scattered in disorder, one terrihle conclusion burst 
 upon every mind, that they must have been captur- 
 ed by Indians. 
 
 With the dawn of morning, the men of the colony 
 were assembled at the door of St. Maur. Many of 
 them bore arms, anxious to go immediately and de- 
 mand the lost. Their pastor was already there, 
 consultino; with the agonized father. The gestures 
 of St. Maur were strong, and his voice fervent in 
 argument, but the countenance of the sacred teacher 
 was fixed, as one who prevails. At length. Father 
 Daille, advancing, said, — 
 
 "It is decided that only St. Maur and myself, go, 
 and require our lost babes of the savage king. If 
 it be true, as we have supposed, that some germ of 
 goodness still dwells in the hearts of this fierce peo- 
 ple, they will listen to a sorrowing father, and a man 
 of God. Go to your homes, and pray, that we 
 may find favor in his sight. We give you thanks 
 for your sympathy, but resistance unto blood might 
 end in the destruction of our colony. It might fail 
 to restore the lambs who are lost : it might lay our 
 whole fold desolate. Return to your homes, my 
 children. Not by the sword, or the bow can ye 
 aid us, but by the uplifting of humble hearts and 
 faithful hands." 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 61 
 
 The ambassadors to a savage monarch, pressed 
 the hands of their friends and departed. They met 
 an Indian pursuing the chase, who had occasionally 
 shared their hospitality, and consented to become 
 their guide. After travelling till the evening shades 
 approached, they encountered a number of warriors, 
 attended by one who seemed to exercise the func- 
 tions of Chief. His eyes were fixed on the earth, 
 like one addicted to melancholy thought, and as he 
 raised his brow, it exhibited deep furroWs of age 
 and sorrow. His glance was unspeakably stern, 
 as if it suddenly met objects of disgust, or hatred. 
 
 " Our Prophet," said the guide, bending low in 
 reverence. " He understands your language. He 
 can interpret the will of the Great Spirit. Our people 
 fear him." 
 
 Father Daille respectfully accosted him, — " Pro- 
 phet of the Great Spirit, we come in peace. We 
 are told that thou revealest hidden things. Canst 
 thou tell us au2;ht of two wanderinsf babes ? When 
 last the sun sank behind the mountain, we gathered 
 our lambs into the fold, but these came not. If, in 
 thy visions, thou hast heard the cry of the lost, we 
 pray thee to guide a mourning father, where he may 
 once more shelter them in his arms." 
 
 The Prophet remained silent for several minutes, 
 haughtily surveying them. Then in a hoarse, hollow 
 tone, he replied — 
 
 " What should the red man know of the offspring 
 of his enemies 1 — What ! but to appoint to the sword, 
 
 F 
 
62 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 such as are for the sword, and to cast such as are 
 for the burnmg, into the flame?" 
 
 " Hath thy Great Sph'it," said the Pastor, " any 
 deho-ht in the blood of babes ? The God whom we 
 worship, saith from heaven, that ' He hath no pleasure 
 in the death of him that dieth.' " 
 
 " Go your way," said the hoary Prophet, '• go 
 your way, and teach white men not to swear falsely, 
 and not to steal from the sons of the forest, the lands 
 that their fathers gave. Go, and when thou hast 
 taught them these things, tell me the words of thy 
 God, and I will hear thee. Since the eye of the pale 
 race first looked upon us, we have had no rest. We 
 ask only to hunt in our own woods, to guide the 
 canoe over our own waters, as we have done from 
 the beginning. But you breathe upon us with thun- 
 der-blasts, you pour poison into our veins, you pur- 
 sue us, till we have no place even to spread out our 
 blankets. We die. But we may not hide even in the 
 grave. From thence, ye cast out our bones. Ye 
 disturb the ashes of our fathers. Why do ye tell 
 us that your God hath made us brethren ? Your 
 words and your ways war together. They are as 
 the flame and the waters. One riseth up to heaven, 
 and the other quencheth it." 
 
 The meek Christian answered, — " All white men 
 obey not the truth. When they seek to do good, 
 evil overtakes them, and their hearts are v/eak. Is 
 it not so with some of our red brethren? Yet v/e 
 despise not the words of thy Great Spirit, because 
 some of his followers are false." 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 63 
 
 While they were conversing, a man of a noble 
 countenance approached, who by his coronet of 
 feathers seemed to be the king, and St. Maur ad- 
 dressed him. 
 
 " Kino- of the Red Men, thou seest a father in 
 pursuit of his babes. He trusts himself fearlessly 
 with you, for he has heard that your people will not 
 harm the stranger in distress. The king of our own 
 native land, who should have protected us, turned to 
 be our foe. We fled from our dear homes, and from 
 the graves of our fathers. The ocean- waves brought 
 us to this New World. We are a peaceful race, 
 pure from the blood of all men. We seek to take 
 the hand of our red brethren. Of my own kindred 
 none inhabit this wilderness, save two little buds 
 from a broken and buried stem. Last night, bitter 
 sadness was on my pillow, because I found them 
 not. If thou knowest, O king, where thy people 
 have concealed them, I pray thee to restore them to 
 my lonely arms. So shall the Great Spirit shed 
 pure dew upon thy tender plants, and lift up thy 
 heart when it weigheth heavily in thy bosom." 
 
 The Indian monarch bent on the speaker a scru- 
 tinizing glance, and inquired — 
 
 " Knowest thou this brow ? — Look in my eyes, 
 and answer me,— are they those of the stranger ?" 
 
 St. Maur, regarding him attentively, replied, — " I 
 have no knowledge of thy countenance, save what 
 this hour bringeth me." 
 
 "Thus is it ever with the white man. He is 
 
64 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 dim-eyed. He cannot see through the disguise of 
 garments. Where your ploughs wound the earth, 
 I have oft stood, watching your toil. There was no 
 coronet upon ray brow. But I was a king, though 
 your people knew it not. I saw among them nei- 
 ther violence, nor pride. I went thither as an enemy, 
 but returned a friend. I said to my warriors, ' Do 
 these men no harm. They are not like the Englisli. 
 They do not hate Indians.' The Prophet of our great 
 Spirit rebuked me. He brought me angry words 
 from the shade of my buried fathers. 
 
 " Again I sought the spot where thy brethren dwell. 
 Yes, — I entered thy house. And thou knowest not 
 this brow ! I could read thine at midnight, thoug;h 
 but a single star trembled through the thick cloud. 
 My ear would remember thy voice, though the loud 
 storm was abroad with its thunders. I came to thy 
 home hungry. Thou gavest me bread. My head 
 was wet with the tempest. Thou badest me to lie 
 down beside thy hearth. Thy son, for whom thou 
 mournest, covered me with a blanket. I was heavy 
 in spirit, and thy little daughter whom thou seekest 
 sat on my knee, and smiled when I told her how 
 the beaver buildeth his house in the forest. My 
 heart was comforted. It said, she does not hate 
 Indians, for she looked on my face, as the lamb 
 turneth to the shepherd. Now, why dost thou fix 
 on me such a terrible eye? Thinkest thou that I 
 could tear one hair from the head of thy babes ? 
 Thinkest thou that the red man forgetteth kindness ? 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 65 
 
 Thy children are sleeping in my tent. No hand 
 should ever have harmed them, and when I had but 
 one blanket, it should have been their bed. Yet I 
 will not hide them from thee. I know a father's 
 heart. Take thy babes, and return unto thy people." 
 
 He waved his hand, and two warriors ran toward 
 the royal tent. In a moment, Antoine and JElise 
 were in the arms of their father. The twilight of 
 the next day bore upward from the rejoicing colony, 
 a prayer for the heathen of the forest, and that hymn 
 of devout thanksofivinsf which mingles with the music 
 around the throne. 
 
 The bordering aborigines now desisted from inter- 
 ference with the settlement at Oxford. The offices 
 of hospitality were renowned, and it appeared that 
 quietness and confidence had been again restored. 
 Doubtless, the native urbanity of the manners of 
 France, pervaded, with a softening and conciliating 
 influence, even the savage breast. 
 
 An industrious and intellectual community, thus 
 suffered to be at rest, and expand itself, began to 
 examine its resources, and to balance them with its 
 wants. The elders, sensible of the value of educa- 
 tion, for Louis 14th, amid all his faults, had taught 
 his realm the reverence of Knowledge, dreaded lest 
 their descendants should forfeit that privilege, or, 
 relapsing into a rude state of society, forget to esti- 
 mate it. Therefore, they continually endeavored 
 to inspire the young with a reverence for letters. 
 
 The few books which they retained, in their sudden 
 
 F ^ 
 
66 
 
 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 flight from the kingdom, and the treasures of their 
 own cultivated minds, were held in faithful steward- 
 ship for the rising generation. The winter evening 
 fire-side was a perpetual school. Knowledge planted 
 by the hand of affection in the hallowed sanctuary 
 of home, is wont to take deeper root, than " seed 
 sown by the way-side." Parents, who write with 
 their own pencils, lines of heaven upon the fresh 
 tablet of their children's souls, who trust not to the 
 hand of hirelings, their first, holiest, most indelible 
 impressions, will usually find less than others to blot 
 out, when the scroll is finished, and to mourn for 
 when they read it in eternity. 
 
 In the establishment of a system of education, 
 the pastor was a guide, an adjunct, and a counsellor. 
 The instruction of youth, he had ever considered as 
 one of the most sacred departments of his office. 
 Since their removal to this new land, he felt it as 
 involving peculiarly the felicity and even safety of 
 his people. Apart therefore from the religious in 
 struction which he delighted to impart, he statedly 
 convened the youth for examination in the various 
 departments of science, and by brief and lucid lectures 
 imparted explanation, heightened curiosity, and en- 
 couraged perseverance. Ambition was thus strongly 
 excited, and the processes of agricultural labor were 
 lightened and elevated by intellectual discussions. 
 He had the satisfaction of seeinir his beloved charge 
 initiated into the rudiments of that general know- 
 ledge which gives liberality to thought, and also of 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 67 
 
 perceiving the unbounded influence he was thus 
 obtaining over their opinions and affections. 
 
 Madame Daille extended the same benevolent care 
 to the young females. Thrice a week, she assem- 
 bled them around her. The studies which had been 
 assigned to them, and their different grades of profi- 
 ciency, then passed under her strict observation ; and 
 with a union of tact and tenderness, she often closed 
 these interviews with some historical fact, or concise 
 story, illustrating a moral principle, reproving the 
 errors that she discovered, or enforcing the precepts 
 of piety. To gain her approbation, was deemed a 
 sufHcient reward for every effort, and her frown was 
 deprecated like the rebuke of conscience. It was 
 impossible that an intercourse of this nature should 
 subsist, without \^sible benefit from her superior 
 inteUigence and accomplishments ; and it was 
 remarked that these young Huguenot females 
 evinced a courtesy of manner, and correctness of 
 style, which are usually acquired only among the 
 more polished classes. Yet she was far from so 
 refining the minds of her pupils as to induce dislike 
 to those domestic duties which devolve upon their 
 sex. She was aware, that in an infant colony, 
 they were severe in their nature and of imperative 
 necessity. Her instructions required their faithful 
 and cheerful performance. Pointing to the fields of 
 flax, whose blossoms tinged with a fine blue, the fair 
 vale around them, she expatiated on the excellence of 
 those arts which could render that beautiful plant so 
 
68 
 
 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 subservient to the comfort of those whom they loved. 
 Hence the distaff, the loom and the needle were 
 deemed the legitimate companions of the books that 
 gave knowledge, or of those domestic and social 
 enjoyments to which both industry and knowledge 
 were consecrated. 
 
 To the energy which toil bestows and the con- 
 templative habits which seclusion induces, the 
 Huo-uenots added the softening influences of music. 
 Sometimes a provincial ballad, or a national air, 
 warbled bv those who had learned them as cradle- 
 melodies in their own vine-clad realm, would touch 
 like the Ranz des Vaches, the fountain of tears. 
 Yet it was seldom that they indulged in these ener- 
 vating recollections. Music of a sacred character, 
 was their choice. It mio;ht be called one of their 
 occupations. It entered into Education as a science. 
 It walked hand in hand with domestic toil. It min- 
 gled with the labors of the field. It sanctified the 
 bridal festivity, and blessed the cradle dream. It 
 aided the sick, to suffer and be still, and breathed 
 out its dirge-like consolation when the dying went 
 " downward to his dust." It was at every family 
 altar, morning and evening, when prayer unfolded 
 its wing, and in their rustic church it heightened the 
 thrill of devotion, and gladdened the holiness of the 
 Sabbath. 
 
 It had been the ambition of Father Daille that his 
 whole congregation, from the infant to him of hoary 
 hairs, should be qualified to lift up in unison, the 
 
 *tt.^ 
 
 ''*—*'*-*~*»'^' »»J I J 1M W » H<l i 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 69 
 
 higli praises of their God. And it was sweet to 
 hear those accordant voices swellino- forth from their 
 temple in the wilderness, while the echo of the sur- 
 rounding woods prolonged the cadence, and fostered 
 the stranger melody. 
 
 Thus peaceful and happy were the colonists of 
 Oxford. Competence and health sprang up as the 
 fruits of industry, and the union of physical with 
 intellectual labor, was found to be neither impracti- 
 cable nor ungraceful. There came no vision of 
 wealth to inflate their imagination, no poison of am- 
 bition to corrode their hearts. They dwelt together 
 in guileless and trusting brotherhood, and the pastor 
 and Patriarch daily praised the Eternal Sire, that 
 one soul of harmony and love seemed infused into 
 all his children. 
 
 This was the aspect of the settlement, in the spring 
 of 1700. It is with sorrow that we darken this 
 -scene of more than Arcadian felicity. It has been 
 *xientioned that the greater part of the lands com- 
 ^>rehended in the original purchase were held in 
 undivided, undisputed possession ; that the harvest 
 was apportioned without jealousy, and the herds 
 drew nutriment from a common pasture. Ten years 
 of peace and amicable intercourse with the abori- 
 gines had lulled their apprehensions, and with their 
 increase of prosperity and of numbers, came an 
 increasing demand for the means of subsistence. 
 It was therefore deemed expedient to reduce to cul- 
 tivation a large expanse of land, at some distance 
 
70 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 from the field of their accustomed labor. Thither, 
 one fine vernal morning, the whole effective strength 
 of the colony was gathered. Their toil on the hither- 
 to unbroken soil, was animated by a common inter- 
 est, and enlivened by conversation which partook 
 of fraternal sympathy. Father Daille, who, like 
 pastor Oberlin, took a personal interest in all that 
 regarded his people, reminded them that the ensuing 
 day was the fourteenth anniversary of their colonial 
 existence, and heightened their emotions of gratitude 
 by contrasting the comforts of their present sim- 
 plicity of life, with the sorrows, persecutions, and 
 tears from which they had escaped. 
 
 Suddenly, the report of muskets in the direction 
 of their distant homes, filled every heart with con- 
 sternation. Hastening toward their abodes, with 
 agonized speed, many a husband and father was 
 met by those dearest to him, communicating intelli- 
 gence, that the Indians had been among them. 
 As a fearful proof that their visit had not been in 
 friendship, the body of Jeanson, one of the most 
 esteemed of their number, lay weltering in blood, 
 upon the green turf that skirted his threshold. They 
 entered his house, and saw that the work of savage 
 vengeance was perfect. Not one had been spared. 
 The mother, with the infant that she would gladly 
 have died to shelter, lay a lifeless , wreck, with its 
 mangled form clasped firmly in her arms. Two 
 other innocents whose heads had been dashed against 
 the hearth-stone, where they had been nurtured, left 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 71 
 
 the stains of their life-blood, to tell the story of the 
 extinction of a whole family. 
 
 The astonishment and grief of the colonists, it 
 would be in vain to describe. A part rushed in the 
 direction where the spoilers were said to have dis- 
 appeared, and the remainder considering this as the 
 prelude of a general attack, removed all the women 
 and children to the fort. At night they were joined 
 by their friends in arms, who had through the day 
 vainly sought to track, or to obtain information of 
 the murderers. But they had learned, in the course 
 of their pursuit, the alarming fact, that the king, the 
 tried and faithful friend of the colony was no more, 
 — that he had been assassinated for his attachment 
 to the whites, by his own people, instigated by the in- 
 furiated prophet. Sentinels were placed, as the dark- 
 ness deepened, and the elders met in consultation. 
 
 It would seem that only three Indians had been 
 seen on this errand of death. They started from an 
 adjoining thicket, just as Jeanson, who had been 
 detained at home later than his associates, was de- 
 parting to join them. His destruction, and that of 
 his family, was the work of but a few moments, and 
 they disappeared, ere the distant protectors could be 
 summoned, or even the settlement generally alarmed. 
 " We will again pursue them, with the dawn of 
 morning," said Bethu, the nearest neighbor of the 
 dead. " We will press, with arms in our hands, 
 through the line of their fiercest warriors, and demand 
 hose blood-stained barbarians of their prophet 
 
72 LEGEXD OF OXFORD. 
 
 The shades of Conde and Coligni shall not reproach 
 us with suffering our brother to fall unavenged.*' 
 
 Boudineau spoke next, — an elder whose hair was 
 silvered. '• Their mode of warfare is as peculiar 
 as their habits of life. They avoid every encounter 
 of regular and open battle. Who can pursue them 
 into their wilds with effect, or even with rational 
 hope of return ? While we strive to carry retribu 
 tion into their miserable wigwams, will they not 
 suddenly fall upon the precious pledges we leave 
 behind, and extinguish our light for ever ] Have we 
 any mode of defence, but perpetual vigilance, and 
 never losing sight of our habitations ?" 
 
 " Who," exclaimed Pintard, " can endure this spe- 
 cies of oppression, this spiritless submission to an abject 
 foe, this everlasting dying to avoid death 1 If we are 
 to live the lives of cowards, it were better to do so 
 amono" civilized men, than to teach the free-born 
 spirits of France to shudder and watch the skulking 
 steps of savages, those links between animal nature 
 and humanity." 
 
 *' Our fallen brother," said Sejournie, " could not 
 have awakened the personal hatred of the natives, 
 he who was even proverbially peaceful and amiable. 
 P.Iay we not therefore suppose that the situation of 
 his house being on the outskirts of the settlement, 
 Induced the murderers to select it, as affording facili- 
 ties for their purpose, with the least danger of re- 
 taliation? Is it not also probable that the absence 
 of the men of the colony was known to them, and 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. "73 
 
 that this determined their choice of time for the de- 
 predation 1 If there was no individual enmity, this 
 fearful deed marks latent hostility to the whole, and 
 a hostility distinguished by that cunning which pre- 
 dominates in their character. May we not consider 
 this unprovoked act, as the beginning of a series of 
 the same complexion? The murder of the pacific 
 king, and the predominance of the prophet's influ- 
 ence, give us fearful premonition of what we are to 
 
 expect." 
 
 « Let us," said Rollin, resign these lands, and 
 incorporate ourselves with some larger colony. Our 
 force is inadequate to cope with the tribes upon our 
 boundary. It is better to bear the charge of pusil- 
 lanimity, which this measure might involve, than to 
 have our blood wasted drop by drop, by a foe not 
 tangible, who springs like a Hon from the thicket, or 
 breaks with his war-whoop upon the midnight dream, 
 or desolates the fire-side and the cradle, if the father 
 forsakes it but for a moment." 
 
 '' We came to these wilds," said Boudoin, " to wor- 
 ship God freely, and to live in peace with man : yet 
 we still seem to be in warfare, or in dread of it, or 
 as a city besieged. While we thus stand in armor, 
 the toils by which we gain subsistence must lan- 
 guish or be laid aside. So, that the death which we 
 ward off by the sword, comes by famine. To a people 
 of peaceful creed, this military watchfulness, and 
 sleepless dread, and continual declension, rob fleeting 
 
 life of its value." 
 
 G 
 
74 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 All expressed their opinions, as varying judgment 
 or different tides of emotion dictated, and then, ac- 
 cording to their patriarchal form of government, ap- 
 pealed to the pastor as umpire. He spoke deliber- 
 ately, as one v/ho felt the importance of every 
 word : 
 
 " We know that the tribes upon our borders are 
 formidable in their combination. Their king has, 
 under God, been the bond of peace between us and 
 them. That bond is severed for ever. We owe a 
 tear to his memory, for his friendship to white men 
 has cost him his life. The counsel of Moloch has 
 prevailed ; the fierce and vindictive prophet is stir- 
 ring up his people to the utter extermination of our 
 colony. The blood-hounds of savage war are doubt- 
 less to be let loose upon our peaceful settlement. The 
 disaster which has now convened us, in mournful 
 consultation, is, we have reason to believe, only the 
 precursor of the storm — the first blast of the hurri- 
 cane. It would seem, therefore, the dictate of wis- 
 dom, if not of necessity, to return to that happy city 
 which first sheltered us, when as exiles we sought 
 this New World. We shall there find that safety, 
 which we must here purchase at the expense of blood 
 too precious ; perhaps, which we are even too few 
 in numbers to secure to the helpless ones, who have 
 trustingly followed us to this wilderness. We may 
 there, by other employments, as well as those of 
 agriculture, gain subsistence for those who depend 
 on us ; and these lands may eventually be disposed 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 75 
 
 of, to a colony of more effective strength, or one 
 that may more readily command the aid of the go- 
 vernment, in repelling aggressions of the aborigines. 
 Brethren, and sons, I have spoken my opinion. But 
 I am free to confess, that I have spoken it under the 
 pressure of emotion. I am this night as a father 
 beu'eaved of his children. Mv decision is made in 
 sorrow. Ye, whose hearts are less bowed down, 
 decide in this matter. Judge, and we will abide by 
 your decision, and may the spirit of unerring wisdom 
 preside in your council." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, and spoke no 
 more, till they ended their consultation. They pro- 
 tracted it, till the morning shone full and fair upon 
 the green hill, and the rough, gray stones of the fort 
 where they were assembled. After canvassing every 
 argument, and discussing every point of feeling, the 
 decision of the majority was in favor of imm.ediate 
 removal. The opinion was unanimous, that in or- 
 der to avoid a recurrence of savage depredation, no 
 delay should take place, except for unavoidable pre- 
 paration and the obsequies of the departed. 
 
 The succeeding day drew near its close, when, 
 bearing the bodies of the slaughtered family, the 
 whole colony in solemn procession entered the hum- 
 ble building which had served for a church. When 
 the dead were stretched out, side by side, in that 
 sacred tenement, the wailing was deep and univer- 
 sal. The father smitten in full strength, — the mo- 
 tlier, with her youngest born strained to her bosom 
 
76 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 in death's convulsive grasp, — and two little mangled 
 forms, whose exceeding beauty was remembered by 
 all, — lay in silent and awful repose. 
 
 The man of God waited until the first waves of 
 ao-ony were broken. Furrows of painful thought 
 were upon his brow, but his bearing was like one 
 whose heart is in heaven. When there was silence, 
 he stretched forth his hand to the people. 
 
 " Ye know, that this is the fourteenth birth-day 
 of our village. We hoped to have celebrated it with 
 songs of festivity. Now, our melody is mingled 
 with the voices of those who weep. The sweet in- 
 cense that we would have offered at the altar, is 
 heavy with the odor of bitter herbs. Yet He who 
 hath caused mourning, is also the God of compas- 
 sion. He will not break the leaf driven before the 
 tempest. 
 
 " Many thoughts press upon me to be spoken. But 
 ye cannot bear them now. Ye come as the Israel- 
 ites to their passover, with loins girded and staves 
 in your hands, as men in haste for a journey. But 
 go not forth despairing, though ye pass beneath the 
 cloud. Take the Ark of the Covenant upon your 
 shoulders. Let the wing of the cherubims oversha- 
 dow you. Arise and depart, for this is not your 
 
 rest. 
 
 " Scene of our Refuge ! — when our own land cast 
 us out, — thou little Zoar, where we prayed that we 
 might enter from the storm of the Lord, — vales, 
 where the sounds of our industry have arisen, — for- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 77 
 
 ests, that have yielded to our strokes, — homes of our 
 happiness, every year more dear, hallowed by the 
 interchange of joy,— the voice of supplication,— we 
 bid you all adieu ! Holy Church '.—consecrated by 
 our united prayers, our sacred symphonies, — oui 
 hopes that rested not upon this earth, we bid thee 
 farewell, in the name of the Lord. Wherever we 
 wander, though our tears should drop in the foun- 
 tains of strange waters, never will we forget thee, 
 our Zion in the wilderness. Lifeless remains of the 
 brave and the beautiful, the virtuous and the beloved, 
 
 severed branches — crushed blossoms — what shall 
 
 we say ? — Ah ! how often will our mourning hearts 
 recall your images, as they once were, as they now 
 are, stretched in ruins before us. 
 
 Souls of our departed friends !— if ye have attain- 
 ed that heaven where the storm beateth not, where 
 tears are wiped from all eyes for ever,— if from that 
 cl^-me of bliss, ye behold us compassed with infirm- 
 ity and woe, teach us how slight all the thorns, the 
 tempests of this pilgrimage, seem to you, now you 
 are at rest. My children, what awaits it where we 
 pitch our tents for the brief remnant of this shadowy 
 life ?— what avails it, if the angel who removeth their 
 curtains in a moment, but find the spirit ready to meet 
 
 its God?" 
 
 He ceased,— and the services of devotion rose in 
 low and solemn response among the people. Parents 
 knelt among their children, and with one voice in- 
 voked and blessed the King of kings. The memory 
 
 G 2 
 
78 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 of their sorrows and fears, for a season flee'ed away 
 on the soul's high aspiration, as the pure flame dis- 
 perseth the smoke with its heavenward spire. Hands 
 hardened with labor, and brows pale with watching, 
 the tender, tearful eyes of the mother and the babe, 
 were alike raised upward, while they gave thanks to 
 the Father of Mercies. 
 
 A pause of silence ensued, and every head was 
 bowed, while the unuttered individual orison as- 
 cended. They arose, and still the pause continued. 
 The people lingered for their wonted benediction. 
 
 " Part we hence," said the pastor, " part we hence, 
 without one sacred melody ? While the fountain of 
 breath is unsealed, shall it not give praise to the 
 Preserver ?" 
 
 He designated a plaintive anthem, from the se- 
 venth of Job. It burst forth harmoniously, but soon 
 the dirge-like tones became tremulous. After the 
 strain " Oh, remember that my life is wind," the 
 cadence was protracted, as if all melody had ceased. 
 Still faintly, the m.usic revivified : — " As the cloud 
 is consumed and vanisheth away, so he that goeth 
 down to the grave shall come up no more. He shall 
 return no more to his house, the places that have 
 known him shall know him no more." 
 
 The pastor listened as one who hears for the last 
 time, sounds most dear. But the thrilling strain with 
 which the anthem closes, commenced so feebly, as 
 to be scarce audible. It trembled, like the sighs of 
 a broken harp, — it faltered, — one or two quivering 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 79 
 
 voices prolonged it for a moment,— it ceased,— and 
 the wail of sorrow rose up in its stead. Music could 
 no longer contend agamst the tumultuous tide of 
 
 grief. 
 
 The man of God stood up, and blessed the people, 
 and led the way to the church-yard. There, upon 
 the fresh, vernal turf, each coffin was laid by its open 
 cell. Kneeling among the graves, he poured forth 
 fervent supplications, like the Prophet of Israel, lift- 
 ing his censer between the dead and the living. Tears 
 were upon all faces, as the bodies were deposited in 
 their narrow house. Children sobbed aloud, and 
 groans burst even from manly bosoms, as the earth, 
 falling upon the coffins, sent forth that hollow sound, 
 which he who hath paid the last duties to the be- 
 loved dead, hath felt in his inmost soul, but never 
 
 described. 
 
 The patriarchal teacher spoke, and into every tone 
 
 his overflowing heart poured the feeling that it was 
 
 for the last time. 
 
 " Graves of our friends !— those that have been 
 long sealed, and those now enriched with new trea- 
 sure, we thought that our bones should here have 
 rested with you. Looking upon your turf-covering, 
 how often have we said, ' Here shall we also be ga- 
 thered unto our people !' Jehovah humbleth the fore- 
 sight of man. He may not even point out where his 
 bed shall be, when the wasted clay falleth like a fret- 
 ted garment. 
 
 « Graves of our friends !— We part from you to re- 
 
80 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 turn no more. Our steps may no more wander amid 
 your sacred mounds, nor our tears nourish your 
 greenness. Keep what we have intrusted to you,, 
 safe in your cold embrace, until summoned to re- 
 store it, by the voice of the archangel, and the trump 
 of God. 
 
 " My children ! what were man without the pro- 
 mise of the resurrection? How could he endure, 
 when the grave whelms his joys, but for the sure 
 hope of eternal life 1 How could he dare to lay 
 down in the dreary tomb, in all the misery and sin- 
 fulness of his nature, but for the merits of his Re- 
 deemer 1 Ah ! what would be now our mourning, 
 if forced to ask in uncertainty and anguish, who will 
 roll us away the stone from the door of these sepul- 
 chres 1 
 
 " Stricken and sorrowing flock, turn again unto the 
 Shepherd of your souls. He hath smitten, and he 
 alone can heal. He hath dispersed, but shall again 
 gather you into his fold. He hath troubled the wa- 
 ters that were at rest. But the angel of mercy still 
 waiteth there, — the wounded spirits shall be made 
 whole." 
 
 They turned from the place of sepulchres, and the 
 next sun saw their simple habitations desolate. Not 
 a sound of rural labor was heard there. No child- 
 ren were seen searching for the violets which early 
 sprmg had awakened. Scarcely the striking of the 
 Arab tents, produces a more profound silence, or a 
 wider solitude. The sons of the forest roamed at 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 81 
 
 will among the tenantless dwellings, and the wild 
 fox found in their ruins a covert for her young. 
 
 Nothing now remains of the history of the Hu- 
 guenots, but a few statistical facts. The romance 
 of their legendary lore, termmated with the abdica- 
 tion of their colony. From the year 1700, they be- 
 came incorporated with the inhabitants of Boston. 
 Their habits conciliated respect and regard, and their 
 character is still maintained by their descendants. 
 In 1713, the lands which they had vacated were 
 occupied by a second colony, who still retained for 
 their settlement and for the river that environs it, the 
 names of their Huguenot baptism. The pastor Daille, 
 beloved almost to adoration by his flock, and revered 
 by all around for his example of amiable and con- 
 sistent piety, was taken to his reward, in the year 
 1715. His successor in the sacred office was the 
 Reverend Andrew de Mercier, author of the "Church 
 History of Geneva, with a political and geographical 
 account of that Republic." The church, which it 
 was the care of this religious people to erect soon 
 after their removal to Boston, was situated where the 
 present Universalist Church, in School-Street, now 
 stands, and is designated in the records of that date, 
 as the " French Protestant Church." 
 
 May I be forgiven for adding one more matter of 
 fact, as an additional witness to the integrity of my 
 Legend ? In the Granary Burying-Ground in Bos- 
 ton"", two lowly graves still legibly bear the simple 
 mscription of the " Reverend Pierre Daille, and 
 
1 
 
 82 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 Scyre, his wife." Yet it is amid the fair scenery 
 of Oxford, that we gather the strongest evidence of 
 the truth of this narration, and most visibly com- 
 mune with the images of a race, whose serene pa- 
 tience, and unwavering faith, render them models 
 of primitive devotion. There, a gray-haired man 
 has long pointed the traveller to a deep hollow in 
 the turf, and told him, " This is the spot where the 
 house of Jeanson stood, the French Protestant, who 
 with his whole family were here massacred by the 
 Indians." 
 
 The most aged inhabitants of that pleasant region 
 assert, that within their remembrance, the empur- 
 pled hearth-stone, on which the heads of those beau- 
 tiful babes were dashed, was still seen, resisting with 
 its indelible record the action of the elements, long 
 after every other wreck of the dwelling had perish- 
 ed. But among the most striking vestiges of this 
 interesting people, are the ruins of the Fort con- 
 structed for their defence, and bearing the antiquity 
 of a century and a half. There, within a quadran- 
 gle of ninety feet, whence the stones have been prin- 
 cipally removed in the processes of agriculture, may 
 be still traced, the well, from whence they drew 
 water in their rude, foreign home. Asparagus, from 
 the original germs of France, annually lifts its bul- 
 bous head and its feathery banner, to attest the iden- 
 tity of its perished plants. Fruit-trees, said to be 
 descendants from their ancient nurseries, still flour- 
 ish, and are entwined by the coarse vines, and en- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 83 
 
 livened by the deep blush of the indigenous rose 
 of our country, fondly striving to naturalize the 
 strangers. 
 
 There are probably some, who will doubt the 
 truth of this narrative, and still more, who will turn 
 from the simple vestiges of its veracity with indiffer- 
 ence. But there are others of a different class, who 
 could not wander amid those disjointed stones, once 
 the rude barrier against the ruder savage, nor ex- 
 plore through matted grass the paths of those per- 
 secuted and peaceful emigrants, nor reclining be- 
 neath the shades so often hallowed by their prayers, 
 recall their firmness in danger, — their chastened joy 
 in prosperity, — their serene and saint-like patience, 
 in affliction, — without feeling like the Law-giver of 
 Israel, constrained to " put their shoes from their 
 feet, because the ground on which they stand is 
 holy." 
 
HYMN OF NATURE. 
 
 ! BLEST art thou whose steps may rove 
 Through the green paths of vale and grove. 
 Or, leaving all their charms below, 
 Climb the wild mountain's airy brow ! 
 
 And gaze afar o'er cultur'd plains, 
 And cities with their stately fanes, 
 And forests, that beneath thee lie. 
 And ocean mingling with the sky. 
 
 For man can show thee nought so fair, 
 As Nature's varied marvels there ; 
 And if thy pure and artless breast 
 Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest ! 
 
 For thee the stream in beauty flows, 
 For thee the gale of summer blows ; 
 And, in deep glen and wood-walk free. 
 Voices of joy still breathe for thee. 
 
 But happier far, if then thy soul 
 Can soar to Him who made the whole, 
 If to thine eye the simplest flower 
 Portray His bounty and His power : 
 
 If, in whate'er is bright or grand. 
 Thy mind can trace His viewless hand, 
 If Nature's music bid thee raise 
 Thv song of gratitude and praise ; 
 H 
 
86 
 
 THE LOST STAR. 
 
 If heaven and earth with beauty fraught, 
 Lead to His throne thy raptured thought ; 
 If there thou lovest His love to read ; 
 Then, wand'rer, thou art blest mdeed ! 
 
 THE LOST STAR. 
 
 A LIGHT is gone from yonder sky, 
 
 A star has left its sphere ; 
 The beautiful — and do they die 
 
 In yon bright world as here ? 
 Will that star leave a lonely place, 
 
 A darkness on the night 1 — 
 No ; few will miss its lovely face, 
 
 And none think heaven less bright ! 
 
 What wert thou star of? — ^vanish'd one, 
 
 What mystery was thine 1 
 Thy beauty from the east is gone : 
 
 What was thy sway and sign 1 ' 
 Wert thou the star of opening youth?— 
 
 And is it then for thee, 
 Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth, 
 
 So early cease to be ? 
 
 Of hope — and was it to express 
 
 How soon hope sinks in shade ; 
 Or else of human loveUness, 
 
 In sign how it will fade? 
 How was thy dying ? like the song, 
 
 In music to the last, 
 An echo flung the winds among. 
 
 And then forever past ? 
 
HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. 87 
 
 Or didst thou sink as stars whose li^ht 
 
 The fair moon renders vain? 
 The rest shone forth the next dark night, 
 
 Thou didst not shine again. 
 Didst thou fade gradual from the time 
 
 The first great curse was hurl'd, 
 Till lost in sorrow and in crime, 
 
 Star of our early world ? 
 
 Forgotten and departed star ! 
 
 A thousand glories shine 
 Round the blue midnight's regal car, 
 
 Who then remembers thine? 
 Save when some mournful bard like me 
 
 Dreams over beauty gone, 
 And in the fate that waited thee. 
 
 Reads what will be his own. 
 
 HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 O WANDERER ! would thy heart forget 
 Each earthly passion and regret, 
 And would thy wearied spirit rise 
 To commune with its native skies : 
 Pause for a while, and deem it sweet « 
 
 To linger in this calm retreat ; 
 And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, 
 Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. 
 
 Unmix'd with aught of meaner tone, 
 Here nature's voice is heard alone : 
 When the loud storm, in wrathful hour. 
 Is rushing on its wing of power, 
 
88 HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 And spirits of the de^p awake, 
 And surg-es foam, and billows break, 
 And rocks and ocean-caves around, 
 Reverberate each awful sound 
 That mighty voice, with all its dread control, 
 To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling souL 
 
 But when no more the sea-winds rave, 
 When peace is brooding on the wave, 
 And from earth, air, and ocean rise 
 No sounds but plaintive melodies ; 
 Sooth'd by their softly mingling swell, 
 As dayhght bids the world farewell. 
 The rustling wood, the dying breeze, 
 The faint, low rippling of the seas, 
 A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, 
 A gleam reflected from the realii.<? of rest. 
 
 Is thine a heart the world hath stung, 
 
 Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung? 
 
 Hast thou some grief that none may know, 
 
 Some lonely, secret, silent woe ? 
 
 Or have thy fond aflections fled 
 
 From earth, to slumber with the dead? 
 
 Oh ! pause awhile — the world disowTi, 
 
 And dwell with nature's self alone ! 
 
 And though no more she bids arise 
 
 Thy soul's departed energies, 
 
 And though thy joy of life is o'er. 
 
 Beyond her magic to restore ; 
 Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal, 
 And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal 
 
A FLOWER IN A LETTER. 89 
 
 A FLOWER IN A LETTER. 
 
 My lonely chamber next the sea 
 Is full of many flowers set free 
 
 By summer's earliest duty ; 
 Dear friends upon the garden-walk 
 Might stop amid their fondest talk, 
 
 To pull the least in beauty. 
 
 A thousand flowers — each seeming one 
 That learnt, by gazing on the sun, 
 
 To counterfeit his shining — 
 Within whose leaves the holy dew 
 That falls from heaven, hath won anew 
 
 A glory ... in declining. 
 
 Red roses used to praises long, 
 Contented with the poet's song, 
 
 The nightingale's being over : 
 And lilies white, prepared to touch . 
 The whitest thought, nor soil it much, 
 
 Of dreamer turned to lover. 
 
 Deep violets you liken to 
 
 The kindest eyes that look on you. 
 
 Without a thought disloyal : 
 And cactuses, a queen might don. 
 If weary of her golden crown, 
 
 And still appear as royal ! 
 
 Panises for ladies all ! I wis 
 That none who wear such brooches, miss 
 A jewel in the mirror : 
 H2 
 
 M- 
 
 «' 
 
90 A FLOWER IN A LETTER. 
 
 And tulips, children love to stretch 
 Their fingers down, to feel in each 
 Its beauty's secret nearer. 
 
 Love's language may be talked with these ! 
 To work out choicest sentences 
 
 No blossoms can be meeter, — 
 And, such being used in Eastern bowers, 
 Young maids may wonder if the flowers 
 
 Or meanings be the sweeter. 
 
 And such being strewn before a bride, 
 Her little foot may turn aside, 
 
 Their longer bloom decreeing ! 
 Unless some voices whispered sound 
 Should make her gaze upon the ground 
 
 Too earnestly — for seeing. 
 
 And such being scattered on a grave, 
 Whoever mourneth there may have 
 
 A type that seemeth worthy 
 Of a fair body hid below, 
 Which bloomed on earth a time ago. 
 
 Then perished as the earthy. 
 
 And such being wreathed for worldly feast, 
 Across the brimming cup some guest 
 
 Their rainbow colors viewing. 
 May feel them, — with a silent start, — 
 The covenant, his childish heart 
 
 With nature, made, — renewing. 
 
 No flowers our gardened England hath, 
 To match with these, in bloom and breath, 
 Which from the world are hiding 
 
A FLOWER IN A LETTER. 91 
 
 In sunny Devon moist with rills, — 
 A nunnery of cloistered hills, — 
 The elements presiding. 
 
 By Loddon's stream the flowers are fair 
 That meet one gifted lady's care 
 
 With prodigal rewarding ; 
 But Beauty is too used to run 
 To Mitford's bower — to want the sun 
 
 To light her through the garden ! 
 
 And here, all summers are comprised — 
 The nightly frosts shrink exorcised 
 
 Before the priestly moonshine ! 
 And every wind with stoled feet, 
 In wandering doAvn the alleys sweet, 
 
 Steps hghtly on the sunshine ; 
 
 And (having promised Harpocrate 
 Among the nodding roses, that 
 
 No harm shall touch his daughters) 
 Gives quite away the noisy sound, 
 He dares not use upon such ground, 
 
 To ever-trickhng waters. 
 
 Yet, sun and wind ! what can ye do, 
 But make the leaves more brightly show 
 
 In posies newly gathered? — 
 I look away from all your best ; 
 To one poor flower unlike the rest, — 
 
 A little flower half-withered. 
 
 I do not think it ever was 
 A pretty flower, — to make the grass 
 Look greener where it reddened : 
 
92 A FLOWER IN A LETTER. 
 
 And now it seems ashamed to be 
 Alone in all this company, 
 
 Of aspect shrunk and saddened! 
 
 A chamber-window was the spot 
 It grew in, from a garden-pot, 
 
 Among the city shadows : 
 If any, tending it, might seem 
 To smile, 'twas only in a dream 
 
 Of nature in the meadows. 
 
 How coldly, on its head, did fall 
 The sunshine, from the city wall, 
 
 In pale refraction driven ! 
 How sadly plashed upon its leaves 
 The raindrops, losing in the eaves 
 
 The first sweet news of Heaven ! 
 
 And those who planted, gathered it 
 In gamesome or in loving fit, 
 
 And sent it as a token 
 Of what their city pleasures be, — 
 For one, in Devon by the sea. 
 
 And garden-blooms, to look on. 
 
 But SHE, for whom the jest was meant, 
 With a grave passion innocent 
 
 Receiving what was given, — 
 Oh ! if her face she turned then^ . . . 
 Let none say 't was to gaze again 
 
 Upon the flowers of Devon ! 
 
 Because, whatever virtue dwells 
 In genial skies — warm oracles 
 For gardens brightly springing,— 
 
THE pilgrim's REST. 93 
 
 The flower which grew beneath your eyes, 
 Ah, sweetest friends, to mine supplies 
 A beauty worthier singing ! 
 
 "THE PILGRIM'S REST. 
 
 55 
 
 Pilgrim, why thy course prolong? 
 Here are birds of ceaseless song. 
 Here are flowers of fadeless bloom, 
 Here are woods of deepest gloom, 
 Cooling waters for thy feet ; 
 Pilgrim, rest ; repose is sweet. 
 
 Tempt me not with thoughts of rest : 
 Woods in richest verdure dressed, 
 Scented flowers and murmuring streams, 
 Lull the soul to fruitless dreams. 
 I would seek some holy fane, 
 Pure and free from earthly stain. 
 
 Based upon the eternal rock, 
 Braving time and tempest's shock ; 
 Seest thou not yon temple gray 1 
 There thy weary steps may stay. 
 There thy lowly knees may bend, 
 There thy fervent tears descend. 
 
 Has that temple stood the storm"? 
 Could no touch of time deform? 
 Was the altar there so pure. 
 That its worship must endure ? 
 Whence those noble ruins then? 
 Why the wondering gaze of men ? 
 
94 THE pilgrim's rest. 
 
 No. The Sibyl's power is gone ; 
 Hushed is each mysterious ton^e ; 
 Closed the eye, whose upward gaze 
 Read the length of human days; 
 Blindly darkened to her own, 
 Shrine and goddess both are gone. 
 
 Onward, then, my feet must roam ; 
 Not for me the marble dome. 
 Not the sculptured column high, 
 Pointing to yon azure sky. 
 Let the Heathen worship there, 
 Not for me that place of prayer. 
 
 Pilgrim, enter. Awe profound 
 Waits thee on this hallowed ground. 
 Here n-o mouldering columns fall, 
 Here no ruin marks the wall ; 
 Marble pure, and gilding gay, 
 Woo thy sight, and win thy stay. 
 
 Here the priest, in sacred stole, 
 Welcomes every weary soul. 
 Here what suppliant knees are bending! 
 Here what holy incense lending 
 Perfume to the ambient air ! 
 Ecstasy to praise and prayer ! 
 
 Pilgrim, pause ; and view this pile : 
 Leave not yet the vaulted aisle : 
 See what sculptured forms are here ! 
 See what gorgeous groups appear ! 
 Tints that glow, and shapes that live, 
 All that art or power can give ! 
 
THE pilgrim's REST. 96 
 
 Hark, the solemn organ sounds ! 
 How each echoing note rebounds ! 
 Now along the arches high, 
 Far away it seems to die. 
 Now it thunders, deep and low, 
 Surely thou mayst worship now. 
 
 Tempt me not. The scene is fair, 
 Music floats upon the air, 
 Clouds of perfume round me roll ; 
 Thoughts of rapture fill my soul. 
 Tempt me not, I must away, 
 Here I may not — dare not stay. 
 
 Here amazed — entranced I stand, 
 Human power on every hand 
 Charms my senses — meets my gaze, 
 Wraps me in a wildering maze. 
 But the place of prayer for me, 
 Purer still than this must be. 
 
 From the light of southern skies, 
 Where the stately columns rise — 
 Wanderer from the valleys green, 
 Wherefore seek this wintry scene ? 
 Here no stranger steps may stay, 
 Turn thee, pilgrim — haste away. 
 
 Here, what horrors meet thy sight ! 
 Mountain- wastes, of trackless height ; 
 Where the eternal snows are sleeping, 
 Where the wolf his watch is keeping, 
 While in sunless depths below, 
 See the abodes of want and woe ! 
 
I. 
 
 96 THE pilgrim's rest. 
 
 Here what comfort for thy soul ! 
 Storm and tempest o'er thee roll, 
 Spectral forms around thee rise, 
 In thy pathway famine lies ; 
 All is darkness, doubt, and fear, 
 Man is scarce thy brother here. 
 
 Tempter — cease. Thy words are vain. 
 'Tis no dream of worldly gain, 
 'T is no hope in luxury dressed, 
 'T is no thought of earthly rest, 
 Earthly comfort, or repose, 
 Lures me to these Alpine snows. 
 
 I would seek, amid this wild. 
 
 Fervent faith's devoted child. 
 
 Holy light is on his brow. 
 
 From his lip are words that glow, 
 
 In his bosom depths of love 
 
 Filled from heaven's pure fount above. 
 
 I would follow, where his feet 
 Mountain-rocks and dangers meet. 
 I would join his simple band. 
 Linked together, heart and hand ; 
 There I fain would bend my knee, 
 'T is the place of prayer for me ! 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Blest be that art, which keeps the absent near, — 
 The beautiful, unchang'd, — from Time's rude theft 
 Guards the fresh tint of childhood's polish'd brow — 
 And when Love yields its idol to the tomb, 
 Doth snatch a copy. 
 
 Love of Fame, has been called by philosophers, 
 the universal passion. The desire of adhering to 
 the memory of those we love, is an integral part of 
 our nature. We need not turn to the costly mauso- 
 leum, or the pyramid on the sands of Africa, to 
 prove this " longing after immortality." It is equal- 
 ly illustrated, though on an humbler scale, by the 
 boy, who climbs a tree, to carve his initials on its 
 trunk, — the student, who defaces the college pre- 
 cincts with multiplications of his nomenclature, — the 
 guest, who graves it upon the grotto of his host, 
 — the traveller, who inscribes it in the Alpine Al- 
 bum. 
 
 Yet there is one modification of this sentiment, at 
 which I have ever marvelled, viz, — the bequeathing 
 of our bodily presence to posterity, in a style calcu- 
 lated to disgust, or alarm them. When I have gazed 
 at Family Portraits, whose ugliness and quaintness 
 of costume, scarcely the deepest reverence for their 
 
 I 
 
98 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 antiquity could tolerate, I have wondered at the am- 
 bition to be exhibited to one's unborn relatives, in a 
 deformity which nature never gave. It is but a 
 doubtful compliment to the master of an ancient 
 mansion, to be obliged to contemplate the founder 
 of his house, perhaps the architect of its fortunes, 
 expanded with angular joints, and an idiotic physi- 
 ognomy, over several square feet of canvas ; and 
 awkward flattery to a blooming belle, to be told that 
 the demure, ill-arrayed, and hideous beings, who 
 stare at her from their frames, as she hurries through 
 some unfrequented apartment, are her progenitors. 
 Yet there are remedies for such mortifications, — a 
 refuge in garrets, — a deposit among lumber, — the 
 teeth of rats, — the voracious perforation of worms. 
 So that those worthies, who in their prim and pro- 
 tracted sittings to the artist, trusted to have been ho- 
 nored as the Lares and Penates of their descendants 
 for ever, to have been produced as the Egyptian 
 brings forth his embalmed ancestor, to preside at the 
 banquet, and be the chief ornament of the festival, 
 may esteem themselves happy, should their effigies 
 escape utter annihilation. 
 
 Why I have been led to this train of moralizing, 
 the sequel of my sketch will unfold. The opening 
 of its simple drama is in Boston, about the year 
 1722. According to the most authentic statistics, 
 it then comprised a population not exceeding 10,000, 
 and sustained three weekly newspapers. The ex- 
 citing objects which now occupy the community, — 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 £9 
 
 canals, — rail-roads; — and the transmigrations of the 
 power of steam, — had then no existence. Had any 
 speculator in the wildest excursion of his brain, ven- 
 tured to present such visions to the grave politicians 
 of that day, his reception would have been much 
 like that of Columbus, when before the University 
 of Salamanca, he broached his theory of an undis- 
 covered world, amid frowns and threats of the Inqui- 
 sition. 
 
 Still, there was at this period, no paucity of sub- 
 jects for conversation: and the most engrossing one, 
 was the contested system of Innoculation for the 
 Small Pox. Divines attacked it from the pulpit, 
 styling it, " an invasion of heaven's prerogative, a 
 most sinful lacking of faith, a high-handed doing of 
 evil, that good might come." Lady Mary Wortley 
 Montagu had first ventured to naturalize this Turk- 
 ish practice in the person of her only son ; and Dr. 
 Boylston, of Boston, who hazarded the experiment 
 upon his son and servants, with a happy, result, was 
 pronounced by an historian of the day, " the first 
 physician in the British dominions, that had dared 
 such a deed." Among the few firm advocates of 
 the system of innoculation, at this period, was Dr. 
 John Ranchon, a native of France. He had resided 
 a number of years in Boston, and being in posses- 
 sion of a competent estate, had withdrawn from the 
 labors of his profession. Still he could not but sur- 
 vey with deep anxiety the ravages of that terrible 
 disease, which during the year 1721, had swept 
 
ICO THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 nearly 800 persons from their ct)mparatively sparse 
 population. 
 
 But, de facto, our business is with this same Dr. 
 Ranchon, and circumstances which transpired in his 
 family, more than with any dogmas he might adopt 
 respecting the science of Esculapius. The cause of 
 his emigration to this country, was the expected ven- 
 geance, consequent upon a clandestine marriage. 
 Louise Beauchamp, whom he loved, and whose rank 
 was higher than his own, had been immured by her 
 relations in a convent, to prevent their anticipated 
 union. But her favorite brother, Edward Beauchamp, 
 favoring the pretensions of the lover, an elopement 
 ensued, and the parties immediately embarked for 
 this New World. The young and beautiful wife, 
 after the residence of a few years in Boston, gave 
 birth to an infant daughter, and died. The bereaved 
 husband, in devotion to this little orphan, and occa- 
 sional intercourse with the natives of his own coun- 
 try, passed most of his time, and gradually found 
 solace. A colony of Huguenots, who, after the re- 
 vocation of the Edict of Nantz, had formed a settle- 
 ment at Oxford in Massachusetts, and were driven 
 thence by an incursion of the Indians, had fixed 
 their permanent residence in Boston. Among these 
 he found kindred spirits, and extended to them every 
 office of kindness and hospitality. 
 
 At the period of which we now speak, — the year 
 1722, — he had arrived at his grand climacteric, with 
 robust health, and an unbroken constitution. He 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 101 
 
 possessed an irascible temper, andadecifiGn,of!rp^n- 
 ner approaching to sternness, yet modif.^^l l}y. ivitix^ 
 benevolence. Though somewhat uaipopula.r, fivxn 
 his strong prejudices and disregard of ' ^'ouj'vf;??^;, : h© , 
 was still treated with deference by some who respect- 
 ed his professional skill, and by more who rendered 
 homage to his wealth. Especially as it became 
 generally known, that he had an only daughter, fair, 
 and approaching woman's estate ; the discernino- 
 beaux were particularly assiduous in their attentions. 
 He was by no means indifferent to the flattery of 
 marked politeness, though his simplicity of heart 
 induced him to consider it as a spontaneous tribute 
 to his merits. Yet he could not avoid sometimes 
 remarking, in his curiously laconic style, to Beau- 
 champ, who continued a member of his household, — 
 
 " These young fellows are better bred than their 
 fathers. The coming of so many French people 
 to live here, has been a great advantage, no doubt." 
 
 His brother, more a man of the world, and skil- 
 ful in decyphering its motives, would reply — 
 
 " Indeed, the young men of the city seem to bow 
 lower, as your daughter Mary rises higher. They 
 carefully proportion their attentions to her increasing 
 stature, and comfortable expectations. Ever since 
 her fourteenth birth-day, a rapid improvement in 
 their manners has been visible. Your cane cannot 
 drop in the market-place, but half-a-dozen white 
 hands with rings and ruffles, are thrust forth to seize 
 and restore the precious treasure to its venerable 
 
 12 
 
 ^ 
 
 > '. 
 
 i.~ 
 
102 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 ewrer. Tea years since, you might have fallen your- 
 seif, \yi^i6ut a single shrug of compassion from these 
 exquisites. - Doubtless, my good brother, your fame 
 \ras'K&ver-' fully understood, until Mary became its 
 interpreter. Happy father ! whose beautiful daugh- 
 ter has no employment for her tongue, so agreeable 
 as to publish his excellencies." 
 
 But to Dr. Ranchon, who continued to view Mary 
 as scarcely emancipated from the nursery, and who 
 daily addressed her by his favorite appellation of 
 " baby," the hints of Beauchamp were altogether 
 unintelligible. He still persisted in the course which 
 he had originally adopted, of sending her to the 
 most expensive schools, asking her once a week 
 how her music and French came on, and praising 
 every flower or landscape which she produced, how- 
 ever carelessly executed. Within a year or two, 
 since her uncle had reminded him that she was as 
 tall as her mother, he had begun to inquire if she 
 knew what went to the composition of a pudding, 
 and whether she could " foot up an account neatly, 
 in pounds, shillings, and pence ?" This new class 
 of interrogatories he usually interlarded with — 
 
 " Well ! well ! shan't marry, except to a genuine 
 Huo-uenot ! — remember that !" 
 
 Then patting her cheeks, as the blood mantled 
 higher in them, would bid her be a "good baby." 
 This injunction respecting marriage, though it might 
 seem to be given in a trifling manner, was neverthe- 
 less decided. It was founded on the old gentleman's 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 103 
 
 national partialities, which were exceedingly strong, 
 and was understood by his family to rank among 
 those few positive commands of the Doctor's which 
 it was never safe to disobey. 
 
 Mary, from the blind indulgence which had almost 
 invariably entered into her education, would have 
 been in imminent danger, had it not been for a large 
 share of native good sense. This, however, was 
 inadequate effectually to control passions naturally 
 ardent, or to eradicate vanity which, had her look- 
 ing-glass been broken, would still have gathered nu- 
 triment from the flattery of her school-companions. 
 She possessed symmetry, though not delicacy of 
 form, a profusion of raven hair, a clear, brown com- 
 plexion, quickened by a bright bloom, and a dark, 
 piercing eye. The expression of her countenance, 
 varying as she spoke, would have rendered her pe- 
 culiarly interesting, had not her striking features 
 betrayed some consciousness of their own power, and 
 the curl of her rose-tinted lip betokened haughtiness. 
 Still, few could look upon Mary Ranchon in the 
 early blush of womanhood, without repeating the 
 crlance ; though the more judicious were compelled to 
 temper their admiration with pity, for her early loss 
 of maternal culture. Her self-exultation was held 
 considerably in check, by the penetrating eye of her 
 uncle, whom she knew to be a better judge of 
 female elegance than her father, and whose keen 
 sarcasms she exceedingly dreaded. 
 
 Beauchamp, though not under the guidance of that 
 
 i 
 
104 
 
 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 refinement which appreciates the unostentatious vir- 
 tue of the sex, if unadorned by wealth or beauty, 
 still possessed that acute perception of propriety, 
 courtesy, and accomplishment, which springs from 
 intercourse with the more elevated ranks of society, 
 and is sometimes rendered even moi'e watchful by 
 an acquaintance with the abandoned. Love for his 
 niece prompted him to permit no error in manner, 
 no consciousness of beauty which might weaken its 
 effect, to pass without the lash of his satire. Find- 
 ing herself the object of such close criticism, a sal- 
 utary restraint was laid upon a deportment which 
 would otherwise have been wholly without control ; 
 and while she shrank from the wit of Beauchamp, 
 she respected his judgment. She could not but per- 
 ceive that the partiality of her father often moved 
 him to countenance, or even to applaud in her, ac- 
 tions and expressions which conscience told her de- 
 served reproof. Sometimes when she quitted the 
 room covered with blushes of chagrin and anger, 
 because some questionable deed or opinion had been 
 placed in a strong light by her uncle's bold raillery, 
 the kind-hearted old gentleman would say — 
 
 " Seems to me, Ned, you are rather too sharp with 
 the girl — pretty clever body, after all." 
 
 " The misfortune is, my sapient Doctor, that she 
 is altogether too clever for thy straight- forward ho- 
 nesty. She compasseth thy path, and thou knowest 
 it not. Thy astronomy is baffled by the " chang- 
 ing Cynthia in the female heart." Thou wert never 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 105 
 
 expert in computing its phases. I assure thee, that 
 I only keep a brotherly watch over thy interests. 
 Why, baby Mary, as you call her, with her hot- 
 house politics, would bring a plant to perfection, — 
 germ, flower, and fruit, — while thou wert learnedly 
 puzzling over its botanical genus." 
 
 The truth was, that Mary had already permitted 
 herself to be addressed in the language of love. Its 
 foundation had been in a thoughtless emulation, a 
 proud determination not to be outdone, as many 
 young ladies at the boarding-school where she at- 
 tended as a day-scholar, were boasting of the gallant- 
 ries of their admirers. Yet as he who tampers with 
 flame is not always certain of being able to extin- 
 guish it, she found that what had begun in vanity, 
 threatened to end in pain. The man whose atten- 
 tions she encouraged, scarce knowing that she did 
 so, was her senior by more years than she had num- 
 bered, and no novice in the science of entrapping 
 the aftections. She knew little respecting him, ex- 
 cept that he was called Patten, to which the title of 
 Captain was appended, — that his exterior and style 
 of conversation were imposing, — and that he was 
 extravagantly praised for elegance of dress and man- 
 ner, by her giddy associates. But she was also 
 apprized that he was a native of Ireland, and conse- 
 quently, without the line of her father's demarcation. 
 She continually promised herself that should the 
 affair take the form of serious declaration, to repulse 
 all proposals and be governed solely by filial duty. 
 
106 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 But her hand was upon the mane of the Hon, and 
 she knew it not. Her lover readily perceived that 
 she had too much feeling for a coquette, and decided 
 to protract his operations, until hy inducing her to 
 accept, under the mask of friendship, those attentions 
 which belong to love, her generosity or her gratitude 
 should at length render her unable to repel his se- 
 rious advances. 
 
 His design was to possess himself of her fortune, 
 and he saw no practicable avenue to this point, but 
 through her affections. He therefore made his ap- 
 preaches with that combination of perfect respect 
 and tender observance, against which the heart of a 
 female is seldom proof. The prohibition of her fa- 
 ther, which had reached him by the voice of rumor, 
 rendered his visits at the house inadmissible. Hence 
 their interviews were limited- to the school which 
 Mary attended, where they were imprudently con- 
 nived at by her governess. She feared even to accept 
 him as a companion in a walk or ride, lest Beau- 
 champ, who was a man of leisure, and continually 
 traversing the streets, should detect the acquaintance. 
 Yet, though her lover was fully sensible of the ad- 
 vantage which he had gained, in persuading her to 
 accept concealed attentions, she could not long per- 
 sist in such a course without self-reproach. She en- 
 dured the remorse of a generous mind, which, find- 
 ing itself involved in the mazes of duplicity, gradu- 
 ally loses the power of retracing its path. Some- 
 tinies she resolved to reveal the whole to her father, 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 107 
 
 and throw herself upon his compassion : again she 
 saw her lover, and the resolution vanished before his 
 powers of fascination. With the simplicity of a 
 first-love, she began to regard his protestations as 
 truth, to believe that his felicity was indeed at her 
 disposal, and that her smile or frown was to be the 
 arbiter of his destiny. She became uneasy thus to 
 trifle with the happiness of one so perfectly subser- 
 vient to her wishes, and who constantly assured her 
 that he would rejoice to lay down life for her sake. 
 Should any grave female within the safe precincts 
 of single blessedness, condemn this credulity, as 
 peculiar weakness of mind, let her retrace the an- 
 nals of her own romantic days, and inquire if there 
 is no vestige of sympathy with Mary ; and though 
 she may not have partaken in her follies, let her ask 
 if she rose wholly superior to her delusions. 
 
 Captain Patten now supposed that he had gained 
 an eminence from whence the attack might be suc- 
 cessfully opened. He pressed for permission to soli- 
 cit her father to sanction his addresses. This was 
 what she could not grant,— but ah ! the dismission 
 which she had always promised herself should meet 
 such a proposal, was withheld by the hesitancy of 
 her traitorous affections. Angry at her want of 
 decision, she yielded to all the miseries of mental 
 conflict,— like the man who, half a convert to piety 
 and half the servant of sin, " resolves, and re-re- 
 soives,— then dies the same." The tumult of her 
 spirits created a temporary indisposition, and she con- 
 
108 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 filled herself to her chamber. Madelaine Dubelde, 
 a waiting-maid, who had attended her mother in her 
 removal from France, and since her death had gra- 
 dually elevated herself into the office of house-keep- 
 er, and humble companion to her young mistress, 
 endeavored to divert her chagrin by such conversa- 
 tion as would best have dissipated her own. 
 
 "Ah, IMademoiselle ! if you were but in Paris, with 
 that beautiful face, and that air so graceful, so de- 
 gagee, you would have no time for such terrible fits 
 of ennui. Why, you would be followed by more 
 adorers than could stand upon the common. Not 
 such dowdies as you see in this country, who dare 
 not look at or speak to a young lady, when they 
 meet her. Oh Mon Dieu ! I had rather have a lodge 
 in the crookedest part of the Rue St. Denis, than 
 the grandest house in the whole of this mean village 
 of Boston. I certainly have seen nothing fit to eat 
 or drink, since I came to this vile America. I am 
 sure I should never have become such a perfect rack- 
 a-bone, if any thing could have been found here, which 
 a lady ought to eat. Why, dear IMademoiselle, if we 
 were only in France, you would have been present- 
 ed at court by your mother's relations, long before 
 this, — and think what a stir you would have made 
 among the princes of the blood ! Now here you sit 
 moping, day after day, like a creature shut up in a 
 pound. ^ am absolutely afraid you \yill lose your 
 senses, and I cannot see you suffering as you do, 
 without thinking of some beautiful lines of a great 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 109 
 
 French poet, about a rose fading in the wilderness. 
 Once 1 could say them all by heart, and sing them 
 too, but I have lost my memory, and my voice, and 
 every thing else, since I have been obliged to breathe 
 the dull, heavy air of Boston. Why, your father 
 invites nobody to visit at the house, but a parcel of 
 half-starved Huguenots. I wonder which of them 
 he proposes shall swallow you alive. I hope I shall 
 not live to see the day. Your mother would have 
 looked a deal higher for you. She was the right 
 sort, you may depend. But she grew melancholy 
 after coming to this land of wild beasts, and was not 
 the shadow of her former self. You can judge a 
 little by Beauchamp, how she once looked. He has 
 not the air of these yankee bodies." 
 
 " Did my mother resemble Beauchamp ?" inquired 
 Mary, yawning, and desirous to turn the channel of 
 discourse from herself. 
 
 " Something between Monsieur Beauchamp and 
 yourself," rephed the waiting-maid, " would be more 
 as she was in the height of her beauty. She was 
 like Venus, in that picture in your uncle's cham- 
 ber, where Paris (I believe it was he who built 
 the city of Paris,) is choosing between three god- 
 desses." , 
 
 « Why did not my father have her portrait taken .' 
 
 « He did, several years before your birth. I always 
 
 told him that nobody but one of the court painters 
 
 from France was fit to do it. But he must needs 
 
 patronize the jackasses of this country. So there the 
 
:r?&.- 
 
 110 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 poor lady sat face to face with one of them, to please 
 her husband, day after day, till she was ready to 
 faint with disgust. But when it was done, O Lord ! 
 — the thoughts of it drive me mad. It was so bolt 
 upright, so stiff, staring, and with such an abomina- 
 bly silly expression, so entirely out of character, 
 holding in one hand a huge bunch of pinks and 
 marigolds, and in the other, a book, looking vastly 
 like a bible, which was quite as much out of charac- 
 ter too, for she had too much good sense to put her 
 eyes out, with poring over dull, godly books. 
 
 " When Beauchamp saw the production, he told 
 the pcunter to take it with him to the devil ; but your 
 father thought it had better be hung up a while for 
 the colors to mellow. At last it proved rather too 
 bad even for him, though he did not say much about 
 it. One day, I smelt smoke, and an awful odour of 
 oil, and ran into the dining-room, screaming, — 
 ' Lord, Sir ! the house is on fire.' What do you 
 think I saw, but that vile picture, split all to pieces, 
 and laid on the fire, burning with a terrible flame, 
 and the old gentleman thrusting it in further with his 
 cane, never speaking a word, or so much as turning 
 his head towards me." 
 
 " How old was my mother, when she left her 
 native country ?" 
 
 *' Just your own age, my sweet Mademoiselle, 
 about sixteen. I never saw any mortal being so 
 resplendent as she was, the night of her escape from 
 the convent. Down she came by a ladder of ropes 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. Ill 
 
 from a high window, that would make your poor 
 weak head dizzy to look up at. IMonsieur Beau- 
 champ held it firm, and carried her in his arms to 
 the carriage which waited in a dark thicket at the 
 end of the avenue. There was I in it, and your 
 father standing near, and the two postilions drove 
 like lightning till we readied the coast, where a priest 
 performed the ceremony, and we all embarked with- 
 out a moment's delay. When she was first brought 
 to the coach, she v/as as white as your robe, but as 
 soon as she found herself out of the clutches of the 
 nuns and their tribe, and safe with me, and her 
 lover, and her brother, she dazzled like a wreath of 
 rubies and diamonds. If she had not shown her 
 Beauchamp blood, and ran away just at that time, 
 she would have been moped to death in a convent, 
 just as you are likely to be in your own father's 
 
 house." 
 
 This episode touched a chord that vibrated pain- 
 fully, for Mary's lover at their last interview had 
 urged her to an elopement, and though she had re- 
 jected the proposal with spirit, it still remained as a 
 thorn in her memory, as a thing to which she ought 
 never to have listened. 
 
 « Dubelde," said she, " I wish for rest. You for- 
 get that your tongue has been in motion without 
 cessation, these two hours." 
 
 " Two hours !— Oh mon Dieu !— It is just five 
 minutes by my watch, since I came up from order- 
 inrr Brido-et about the ragout. The stupid wretch !— 
 
1J2 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 I dare say she'll spoil it. Not a soup have I seen 
 in this countrv, that would not turn the stomach of 
 a horse. Why, we had scarcely been here a month, 
 when I sent to the market for some frogs, thinking 
 to i-nake a pasty myself, to tempt your mother's 
 palate, for she was even then beginning to pine away 
 with starvation. Would you believe it! — the beast 
 of a servant never returned till night, and then came 
 brin^nno- a huo-e pot of vile, fat toads, for which he 
 said the market-man must have six livres, having 
 spent most of the day in hunting them. Your poor 
 mother was not the shadow of herself, for years 
 before vou were born. And you are in the same 
 way, I perceive. All your charming naivete quite 
 gone. You cannot even bear a few minutes' discourse 
 with a friend. Ma foi !— But how can I wonder, 
 when I am so changed myself? My nerves have 
 been shattered by hearing of the horrid Indian sav- 
 ages of this country. And my eyes, — it does not 
 become me, to be sure, to tell what was said of them 
 in France, — but one might be apt to think that time 
 had changed them. No such thing, — it's more sor- 
 row, and weeping after Paris. More than once, 
 when I have been walking on the Louvre, a great 
 Prince, brother to Louis the king, has bowed to me. 
 I suppose he mistook me for one of the Duchesses. 
 But you must not speak of that, Mademoiselle. Lord ! 
 1 dare say you did not so much as hear me, for you 
 are dying with sleep." 
 
 Mary was relieved by the absence of her waiting- 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 113 
 
 woman, who, like many other persons of a low mind, 
 thought to magnify her consequence by a strain of 
 disco'itentment, and expatiating on the superior ad- 
 vantages of a former situation. Dr. Ranchon received 
 immediate information from her, that her young 
 mistress was in a fixed consumption, and that no- 
 thing but a voyage to France could possibly restore 
 her.° Credulous, and prone to agitation, where his 
 daughter was concerned, he ransacked his library 
 for authors who had written upon this disease, col- 
 lected his antiquated manuscripts lo search for cases 
 within the range of his own practice, and turned the 
 whole current of his thoughts and conversation upon 
 the phthisis pulmonalis. 
 
 A few evenings after the communication of this 
 intelligence, as Dubelde was assisting her young 
 lady to retire, she began in a whimpering tone to 
 upbraid her want of confidence. 
 
 « Madelaine," she exclaimed, " what have^I con- 
 cealed which was proper for you to know?" 
 
 " Alas ! every thing," replied the querulous dam- 
 sel. " Have I not carried you in these arms whole 
 years, and accompanied your mother in her flight 
 across the tossing ocean? And now to be treated 
 like an underling. Ah, mon coeur ! She never 
 would have done so. Why, here is the story of 
 your love, and your marriage that is to be, all over 
 town, and I never to be told a breath of it." 
 
 "All over town !— Explain yourself," said Mary, 
 lettino- her long and beautiful hair fall uncurled over 
 
 K2 
 
]14 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 her shoulders, and seating herself in deep surprise 
 on the side of the bed, her night-robe flowing in loose 
 and graceful drapery around her. 
 
 " O, that air of astonishment is vastly becoming," 
 replied Dubelde ; " only it brings rather too fine a 
 color over the brow, for a lady already so far gone 
 m a hectic. There was I, and your poor father, 
 fretting ourselves to death about asses' milk, and 
 how to make you put on flannel, and he was dis- 
 tracted to have a monstrous blister laid upon your 
 breast, though I told him he might as well undertake 
 to persuade you to have your head cut off*. But after 
 all, it seems that you are likely to let the doctors 
 alone, and die a natural death at last, since all this 
 alarm is only an affair of the heart, as Monsieur 
 Beauchamp says." 
 
 " My uncle ! — What does he know of this strange 
 story of yours V inquired Mary with evident alarm. 
 
 " Nothino- that I know of," answered Dubelde, 
 " and he never would have heard it from me, had 
 you but seen fit to honor me with your secret. I 
 have had grander love-matters than yours, brought 
 me for advice, I assure you, young lady. I have had 
 experience enough too, in such sort of things myself, 
 (forcing a sigh) — to be a counsellor. But courting 
 is nothing in this country to what it is in France." 
 
 " How did you obtain the information of which you 
 speak ?" asked Mary. 
 
 " How did I obtain it? — Oh, to be sure ! — What 
 if I should take it into my head to be as close-mouth- 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 115 
 
 ed as other people ? Why, if I must tell, I obtained 
 It in the streets, where it is in every body's mouth 
 for aught I know. I saw the man with my own 
 eyes, Madam. He is a perfect Adonis. I had never 
 expected to see such grace and symmetry in this 
 land of savages. He is the very picture of the prince 
 who bowed to me on the Louvre, only he is rather 
 more em-bon-point, and his shoulders a trifle broader. 
 But such life and spirit, ma foi ! — and such a fine 
 dress, — a perfect courtier too, in speech and voice." 
 " Speech and voice ! — Of whom are you under- 
 taking to prate ?" 
 
 " Why, of Captain Patten. Who did your lady- 
 ship suppose? I should not have mentioned his 
 voice, to be sure ; I only meant to have said, what it 
 would be if he had spoken, for high-bred gentlemen 
 always abound in fine words. I had been walking up 
 Winter-street, for a little airing, as you know I have 
 been moped to death in your chamber for more than 
 this whole week, and I saw him coming down the 
 mall. I could do no less than just stop to admire him, 
 for I thought he must be some foreign prince. Who 
 is that ? says I. Why, don't you know ? says they. It 
 is Captain Patten, Miss Mary Ranchon's admirer 
 You doii't say so ? says I. Oh, the wedding-dresses 
 are all made, says they, and she is going to settle 
 on him the whole of her mother's fortune, because 
 that is at her disposal. See, he wants to speak to 
 you, says they." 
 
 "Says who?" interrupted the young lady, in. 
 
 dignantly. 
 
116 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 " Why, they that was with me, to be sure. Peo- 
 ple need not be so mighty inquisitive unless they 
 (iould contrive to show a little more frankness them- 
 selves. Well, as I was saying, I stopped one mo- 
 ment, and he came directly up. Such a how I have 
 not seen, since I turned my back on dear Paris. 
 ' Mademoiselle Madelaine Dubelde, I presume,' said 
 he Lord ! how should he know my name. I was 
 abashed at such politeness, and felt my cheeks red- 
 der than a piony. ' You are, I understand,' he went 
 on, ' a particular friend of that paragon of beauty 
 and loveliness, who holds mv heart as the fowler 
 holds the pierced bird. Commend me most favor- 
 ably to her clemency, and say' " 
 
 " Dubelde," rejoined Mary, with all her father's 
 sternness, which she v/ell knew how to assume, — 
 *' either speak the truth, or leave my presence.'"' 
 
 The narrator, regarding her eye for a moment, 
 and perceiving that her tissue had been woven with 
 too little art, and that falsehood could not elude the 
 quick penetration of her mistress, laid aside the flip- 
 pancy which had hitherto marked her recital, and 
 thus proceeded, — 
 
 " Since a slisrht embellishment so much offends 
 your delicate nerves, I will give you the plain fact. I 
 was accosted, as I came from the market, by a fine- 
 looking man, who, after mentioning his name, and 
 inquiring earnestly after your health, begged me to 
 deliver you this letter, and suddenly vanished among 
 the crowd." 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 117 
 
 " I shall not take the letter." 
 « As you please, Madam. I shall just la)^ it on 
 your dressing-table. It will do no harm there, I 
 trust. It is a mere complimentary note, I dare say, 
 and sealed just like the court billetdoux." 
 
 Mary desired to be left alone, and throwing her- 
 self upon her couch, ruminated painfully. She was 
 confounded at the rashness of Patten, in thus reveal- 
 ing himself to Dubelde, and felt there was great 
 ha°zard in trusting one so naturally indiscreet, and 
 whose confidence she had taken no care to propitiate. 
 Again she recalled the circumstances of her last 
 interview with her lover, and blamed herself as the 
 cause of his precipitation, by the anger which she 
 had testified at his solicitation to elopement, and by 
 her subsequent seclusion from him. Sometimes she 
 condemned herself for evincing too much spirit ; then 
 for not assuming enough to reject him utterly. 
 
 Still she was determined not to read his letter. 
 What could he possibly say in it, more than he had 
 said] A tumult of thought banished sleep until 
 midnight. She rose to extinguish the lamp which 
 beamed too strongly upon her eyes. The letter lay 
 near it upon her toilette. It was sealed with a head 
 of Venus. The writing was elegant. What harm 
 could arise from just looking at its contents ? Would 
 it not be wiser to read it, and then inclose it in a 
 note, commanding him to forget her? Perchance, 
 thus reasoned our mother, when beneath the fatal 
 tree in Paradise, "she plucked, she ate." The 
 
118 THE FAMILY PORTilAITS. 
 
 maiden trimmed lier decaying lamp. Twice she 
 took the letter, and twice restored it to its place, ere 
 slie M'oke the seal. She perused it, and it fell to the 
 flooi Reclining her head upon her hand, while her 
 luxuriant tresses fell around her like a veil, she con- 
 templated its pages with an air of vacancy, and with 
 scarcely a connected thought, until advancing dawn 
 admonished her to retire. She rested her throbbmsc 
 temples upon the pillow, but no slumber visited her. 
 The bitterness of self-reproach, and the collision of 
 love with duty, rendered her an object of commiser- 
 ation. The letter contained ardent protestations of 
 attachment, — deprecated the misery which the ru- 
 mor of her ill-health had caused him, — conjured her 
 to suffer him to remove the veil which had so Ions 
 concealed his faithful love, and ventured to urse that 
 if her father should prove inexorable to his prayers, 
 she would not shrink from a step which many of the 
 most excellent of her sex had taken, nor condemn 
 to eternal despair, a heart devoted to but one object 
 with unalterable fidelity. Nothing was written 
 which had not been previously adduced, but the ar- 
 guments seemed to gather strength by condensation. 
 An eye accustomed to the vernacular of love-epistles 
 would have discovered in this, more of studied ar- 
 rangement than of artless passion, with somewhat 
 of that style which betrays expectation of success 
 But to a novice, with an advocate in her own bosom, 
 the appeal, if not irresistible, was at least dangerous 
 It rendered the writer an object of more undivided 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 119 
 
 contemplation, and th^ lover who succeeds in mono- 
 polizmg the thoughts of an inuncent heart, is like 
 the conqueror who cuts off the channels of supply 
 from a besieged citadel. Madelaine found her young 
 lady in the morning, changed both in appearance 
 and manner, and with rapture listened to the request 
 not to divulge her secret. 
 
 "Never fear me, my sweet Mademoiselle," she 
 answered : " it is safe as in your double-locked cas- 
 ket. Now you will be well again, — at least I must 
 tell my master so, for he is in such a panic, that he 
 will be sure to lay on a blister as big as a Parmesan 
 cheese before night. But, Lord ! how shockingly pale 
 you look ! Just touch a little of my rouge to your 
 beautiful cheeks. Mon Dieu ! how awfully obstinate 
 you are ! It won't hurt your complexion, — you may 
 tell that by mine. It only keeps one from looking 
 like a downright fright. The finest complexions on 
 earth would be utterly ruined, by the vile easterly 
 winds that are for ever blowing here. I protest that 
 even mine is hardly fit to be seen now, though it 
 was so much admired in France. But, my lovely 
 creature, I am delighted that you have read that 
 charming letter ;" bending towards it with intense 
 
 curiosity. 
 
 Mary, blushing at her faithlessness to her own 
 resolutions, snatched it from the carpet, and press- 
 mg it together, hid it in her bosom. This was the 
 most wretched day that she had ever passed. Com- 
 pelled to counterfeit cheerfulness during the visits of 
 
120 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 her father, in order to countenance the report of her 
 recovery, she reproached herself for duplicity, until 
 she loathed her very being. When she observed 
 his eyes resting upon her with affectionate solicitude, 
 she wished to throw herself at his feet, and acknow- 
 ledge that she was unworthy to be called his child. 
 Dreading the scrutiny of Beauchamp's glance, she 
 excused herself from his proffered visit, with the 
 promise of appearing below on the ensuing day. 
 The attentions of the waiting-maid were indefatiga- 
 ble, and her exultation as extreme, as if she had 
 again been promenading the Louvre, and receivino- 
 a bow from some imagined Prince. Her extravagant 
 praises of Patten would have excited suspicion that 
 she was bribed to his interest, had the mind of her 
 mistress been suiHciently at case for clear investiga- 
 tion. So much had poor Mary sunk in her own 
 opinion, that not only was the impertinence of the 
 menial tolerated, but even her suggestions accom 
 panied with some degree of influence. 
 
 "Why, an elopement is no such terrible thing, my 
 adored lady. Your mother did it before you, and 
 yourfather, of all men, would have no right to com- 
 plain. A few words before the priest, a short jour- 
 ney, return home, with a shower of tears, would 
 appease the old gentleman, and then all set ofl' toge- 
 ther somewhere, — to France, I hope, — Ah ! how de- 
 lightful. But suppose. Mademoiselle, you dismiss this 
 elegant lover, as your heart does not seem very sus- 
 ceptible, and so marry one of these starveling Hu- 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 121 
 
 guenots. Perhaps you would prefer one of that q\ieer 
 sort of bodies. Well, there 's no accounting for 
 tastes, and every one has a right to choose their own 
 den, as the bears say, in the fable. You '11 be set to 
 work like an ox, and what good will your guitar or 
 your piano do ye, where no music but the whirling 
 of a spinning-wheel is desired or understood 1 You 
 can do it, I suppose, if you prefer it, and so have 
 nothing fit to eat, or decent to wear, and pine away 
 and die, like your poor dear mother. But if you 
 can't quite bring your stomach to that, what 's to be 
 got by waiting l How long will it be, before Beau- 
 champ will hear this news in the streets ? And how 
 long, think ye, will he keep it from your father? O, 
 mon Dieu ! what a terrible storm will be then. Much 
 worse, than if you had eloped and got back again, 
 for then he would have to make the best of what 
 could not he helped, and there would be only a show 
 of anger with a yearning heart underneath, and so 
 delighted would he be to see you, that he would soon 
 drop his frowning mask, and in one month's time, 
 I promise you, would be proud of such a son-in- 
 
 law." 
 
 Mary did not admit the force of these arguments, 
 but she evidently listened to them, and on ^ such a 
 point, " the woman who deliberates is lost." That 
 night, as she was about to retire, exhausted for want 
 of^repose, but with little expectation of enjoying it, 
 she was startled at the sound of a violincello, direct, 
 ly under her window. 
 
122 THE FAMILY POP.TRAlTs. 
 
 Alarmed lest the proximity of her uncle's cham- 
 ber should occasion her some embarrassing ques- 
 tions respecting the serenade, she bent from the 
 window, and seeing the form of Patten indistmctly 
 by the light of the moon, motioned with her hand 
 peremptorily for him to retire. Still the strain con- 
 tinued its impassioned melody. Bending lower from 
 the casement, she said in a tone scarcely audible, — 
 
 " Go ! — I command you." 
 
 He obeyed, — but again from a great distance, she 
 cauo-ht the echo of a different lav, which was a fa- 
 vorite among her companions. Almost the words of 
 its chorus seemed to be articulated, so perfect was 
 the modulation : — 
 
 " I go, proud heart I — Remember mc, — 
 Remember him, who dies for thee." 
 
 This occurrence effectually prevented her slum- 
 bers for another night, and she rose with disordered 
 nerves, and a tremulous anxiety of spirit. Hearing 
 that she was expected in the breakfast parlor, she 
 hastily arranged her dress, and required repeated 
 assurances from Dubelde, that Beauchamp could 
 possibly know nothing of her secret, ere she ven- 
 tured into his presence. He met her at the staircase, 
 and takinsr her hand, led her into the breakfast-room, 
 but forbore any except general inquiries about her 
 health, and regarded her with so little scrutiny, that 
 she felt at ease, and resumed something of her native 
 hilarity. Dr. Ranchon was so delighted at her re- 
 appearance, that he could scarcely take his repast, 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 123 
 
 for the number of greetings that he had to be^stow, 
 mincrled with occasional commendations of his own 
 medical acumen, and precise knowledge of her con- 
 stitution. After breakfast, at taking his cane for his 
 morning walk, he recommended her to retire to her 
 room, and compose herself after this first exertion 
 of strength, and to take a wine-glass of the decoction 
 of valeHan, with a little hartshorn to temper the 
 effect of the sedative. At his departure, Beauchamp 
 drew her into the recess of a window, under pretence 
 of showing her a new volume of colored prints. He 
 amused himself for some time in pointing out the 
 elegant execution of the landscapes, and the life and 
 pro°minence which characterized the figures. \Vhile 
 she was admiring the plumage of a bird, which she 
 did not perceive was the Hibernian thrush, he cover- 
 ed with her hand, all the letters of the name except 
 Hibernia, and said with marked expression,—" As 
 you are doubtless better acquainted with the ornitho- 
 logy of that island, than your uncle, can you tell him 
 whether this is one of the songsters which warble in 
 
 the night 1" 
 
 Then casting at her an oblique glance from be- 
 neath his long eye-lashes, v/hile his fine eyes seem- 
 ed to say, that her soul was open before him, he 
 
 added, — 
 
 "AZZ birds understand not the word of command 
 trom a fine lady, nor is the same o?ie equally obe- 
 dient at all times, ma belle Marie." 
 
 Compassionating the extreme conti.ision with which 
 
 it- 
 
124 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 she was covered, he drew her to a seat by his side, 
 and attempted to turn her attention to other designs 
 of the artist. But complaining of an head-ache, 
 which she really had, she disengaged herself, and 
 hastened to her chamber. Rushing by Dubelde, she 
 covered her face with lier hands, exclaimino; — 
 
 " He knows it ! — he knows all ! — Beauchamp has 
 discovered all !— I wish that I were hidden in the 
 earth." 
 
 " Ma foi !" shrieked the chamber-maid, " and if 
 that is indeed the case, you have no time to lose. 
 This night must you be on your way, or Patten is 
 lost for ever." 
 
 " This night !" said the infatuated girl, " seems to 
 be the only time, for I heard Beauchamp say that 
 he was to go to Milton-hill, on a party of plea- 
 sure, and not return until to-morrow. So that it 
 would not be in his power to discover any movement 
 here, and probably he will have no opportunity to 
 inform my father before he goes. Oh ! I would suf- 
 fer anything rather than encounter such another 
 harrowing, humiliating glance. That miserable 
 serenade has been the cause of all this." " 
 
 Madelaine exclaiming with delight, — " Now you 
 are yourself again, — your mother's child," — hasten- 
 ed to make necessary arrangements, acknowledo-in"- 
 that she had already held three assignations with 
 Patten on this subject. Mary permitted her to depart, 
 continually repeating to herself, — 
 
 '•' It is impossible that I should be more wretched 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 125 
 
 than I now am," not knowing that there is no wretch- 
 edness like that which a woman suffers, who has 
 aiven her affections where they can never be return- 
 ed,— trusted her earthly all to one frail bark, and 
 found the wreck total. 
 
 Most persons will condemn our herome, for lis- 
 tening to the opinions, and employing the interven- 
 tion ol* so contemptible a woman as Dubelde. Let such 
 critics themselves beware of the first step in a wrong 
 course ; for who can tell where the last may lead I 
 Most of us, when disposed to candor, can recollect 
 passacres in our own history, where the commenca- 
 tions of one whose judgment we might habitually 
 despise, if it happens to fall in with the current of 
 our partialities, has had some agency in determmmg 
 a doubtful and important choice. Dubelde was ab- 
 sent at intervals during most of the day. Toward 
 its close, she brought a letter from Patten, expressive 
 of the m.ost extravagant gratitude. 
 
 " Every arrangement is made," said she. " All 
 that you have to^ do, is precisely when the clock 
 strikes twelve, to come down, looking like a goddess 
 as you do now, all arrayed for a ride in this fine 
 moonUo-ht. Your lover m.eets you at the door of the 
 little summer-parlor, opening into the garden, leads 
 you through that into the next avenue, where a post- 
 chaise waits, and a servant on horseback. Then you 
 drive to Providence, get the ceremony performed, 
 pnd take an excursion just where your ladyship 
 pleases, until you are ready to come back and be 
 ^' L2 
 
126 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 pardoned. Oh ! how interesting you '11 look on your 
 knees, with the old gentleman a little stern at first, 
 because he'll feel obliged to be so, though he'll be 
 panting, at the bottom of his heart, to cry welcome. 
 Lord ! how much better is this, than one of the dull 
 weddings of this miserable country ! Why, a fune- 
 ral is nothing to them for sadness. There sit the 
 bride and bridegroom, as starched and stiff as buck- 
 ram, and a parcel of friends who came only to stare 
 at them, and eat vile cake, and drink muddy wine, 
 till they are all as dull as asses. The parson too 
 pipes up such a doleful exhortation about honoring 
 and obeying, and then the old women snuffle and 
 cry, because they hiow what it means^ and the young 
 ones hide their faces behind their fans, because they 
 wish to laiow. Then they all creep in mournful pro- 
 cession, two and two, to congratulate the bride, with 
 such woe-begone faces, that she dreams of them in 
 her sleep, and screams out with the night-mare. 
 Mon Dieu ! T could not survive, through such a stu- 
 pid scene. How much better to have a little life, 
 and motion, and spirit, and joy ! And then to lay 
 your lover under such an obligation, when, in one of 
 these petrified marriages, ten to one but he 'II think 
 that he conferred one on you. But I 'm distracted 
 to run on so, when I 've all your wardrobe to put up 
 for your journey. Let me see : your crimson satin, 
 and your blue neglige, you '11 take by all means, and 
 you 'II need the* pearl lutestring for a morning dress, 
 with shoes, and ear-rings, and ruffles, and so forth, 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 127 
 
 to match. Will you take your best brocade ? Lord ! 
 who knows but you 'II be robbed by the Indians. 
 Here 's the beautiful new brown tabby, that suits 
 your shape so exactly. You 'il ride in this, I trust, 
 
 with the Brussels lace tucker" 
 
 « For heaven's sake," exclaimed Mary, " say no- 
 thing about clothes. I '11 go in the plainest dress I 
 have, and take one or two changes." 
 
 " Ma foi !" shrieked Madelaine, " you 've lost your 
 senses. But so does every body, who 's in love. 1 
 shall make bold to use my own judgment, and select 
 such things as are decent to wear. No good would 
 come from looking like a beggar, and disgracing your 
 lover at the very outset." 
 
 " Prevent my father from coming to my room, 
 this evening," said Mary. "J cannot endure to look 
 at him. Sm-ely, surely, I am on a wrong course, or 
 
 it would not be so." 
 
 " Now you 're getting into the dumps again," re- 
 plied Dabelde. " Here, take your smelling-bottle, I 
 pray. Better do a thing gracefully, or not do it at all. 
 The old gentleman is safe enough. He 's got some 
 of the Huguenot bodies to une petite soupir with him, 
 and they 're telling old world stories with such eclat, 
 that they won't know what world they 're in, till the 
 dining-room clock strikes nine. Then they '11 be off 
 like the firing of a pistol,for they 're so superstitious 
 they durst not be out in the night. And your father 
 is always in such a hurry to get to bed, and Beau- 
 champ is out : what better could you possibly desire ? 
 
128 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Come, be gay : you '11 affright Patten with that pale, 
 ghostly visage." 
 
 Thus rattled on the interminable waitins-maid 
 and Mary, whose object was to banish thought, felt 
 even her impertinence preferable to silence. Pride, 
 and a sense of decorum, would but a few days since 
 have strongly revolted against submitting to the gui- 
 dance of a menial ; now the haughty spirit was pas- 
 sive both to arrangements and to opinions which it 
 despised. " Bound on a voyage of awful length," 
 the unhappy victim prolonged every hindrance that 
 detained her on shore. The last hour of probation 
 seemed as a few minutes, yet was almost insupport- 
 able. She wished to fly from herself, to plunge in 
 the waters of Lethe, — to obliterate all the past, — to 
 forget even her own name and existence. There 
 was a settled misery in her countenance, which might 
 have awakened the obdurate to pity. 
 
 Thrice Madelaine repeated, " The clock has struck 
 twelve," ere she heeded it. 
 
 *' You mistake," she replied, " it is scarcely past 
 eleven." Fain would she have added, — " Ah ! 1 
 cannot go," — but shame at exposing such indecision 
 to a servant, sealed her lips. At length she in- 
 quired, — 
 
 " Does my father sleep ?" 
 
 " Lord bless me, my sweet Mademoiselle, are you 
 deaf, that you have not heard him snoring these three 
 hours, as steady as the fall of a mill-dam, and loud 
 as the screech of a trumpet ?" 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 1£9 
 
 " And the servants ?" 
 
 '• All in their lofts, like swallows. I gave them 
 a swig of double-distilled, and I dare say, there '11 be 
 no such thing as getting them up in the morning." 
 
 "And Beauchamp?" 
 
 " Mn foi ! — Have you forgot he does not return to 
 nicrht 1 This is vour only time. Do vou wish to wait 
 for his arrival, and so have your lover shot through 
 the heart, and be pointed at, and laughed at, all your 
 davs ? Oh ! I know vou 're not one of the sort, to 
 enlist and run away, at the first skirmish. Collect 
 your spirits, my princess. You are beautiful as the 
 moon, when she peeps from some silver cloud. You 
 have the very soul of the Beauchamps. You are 
 equal to what the poor spiritless creatures of this coun- 
 try would be frightened to think of, but what is as 
 common in France as a jewel in the head of a Duch- 
 ess. Remember your mother did it before you, 
 when she was just about your age. Think of the 
 delight and rapture of your lover. Do you know 
 it is believed that he is some foreign prince in dis- 
 guise? and no more a Captain than I ami I've no 
 doubt of it. I see a throne in his eye. Who knows 
 but you '11 yet hold the sceptre of Great Britain in 
 that lily hand." 
 
 Unconscious of a word that was uttered, iVIary 
 suffered herself to be led down the staircase, while 
 Dubelde, amid all her fidgeting, and pride of direc- 
 tion, and fears lest they should not tread lightly, 
 could not avoid exclaimino; with her native volatility, 
 
ISO THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 " Lord ! I 'm dead with the nose-itch." As they 
 reached the landing-place, they heard a gentle tap 
 at the glass door which led into the garden. It was 
 the black servant, come to see if all was ready, and 
 to convey the package to the carriage, which waited 
 at the avenae passing the foot of the garden. He 
 was admitted, and Madelaine ran hastily to the cham- 
 ber of her mistress, for the clothes which had been 
 preparedo At her return, she saw him setting down 
 a champaign glass, which, having stood near a bot- 
 tle upon a table in the recess, he could not resist the 
 temptation of filling, and decanting through his lips. 
 The moment she observed him, foro-ettincp her own 
 reiterated injunctions of breathless silence, she 
 shrieked — 
 
 *' Mon Dieu ! The black whale has swallowed all 
 my rings ! — the ruby, — the beautiful emerald, — and 
 the turquoise that was given by, — Oh, Lord ! — and 
 the supei b hair-locket too ! Did'nt that stick in 
 your throat, you insatiable hawk V 
 
 The bereaved waiting-woman had thrown her 
 jewelry, en passant, into this casual place of depo- 
 sit, that her hands might be more at liberty in pack- 
 ing for her mistress ; for, since the access of years 
 had rendered them somewhat more lean and skinny, 
 the ornaments of her buxom vouth were in contin- 
 ual danger of escaping from her attenuated fingers, 
 when summoned to any active duty. Her distress 
 at the rifling of her most beloved treasures, quite 
 annihilated the unities of time and place, and her 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 131 
 
 first shnek was passionately loud. But she had 
 scarce a moment to compute the probabilities of the 
 extent of its echo, ere the door from the dining-room 
 burst open, and Dr. Ranchon appeared in his night- 
 dress, advancing a long, rusty rapier. Suddenly 
 awakened, and anticipating no enemy but thieves, 
 he armed himself with great dispatch, and stood 
 forth, a formidable antagonist, with great personal 
 strength, and equal courage. Great was his aston- 
 ishment to find his daughter arrayed as for an ex- 
 pedition, and fainting in the arms of Madelaine. The 
 negro, profiting by the moment of consternation, 
 dropped the package and vanished. 
 
 *' What ! in God's name, is the meaning of all 
 this r'^-exclaimed the hoarse, harsh voice of the old 
 gentleman, raised to its upper tones. 
 
 " Oh ! take her in your arms, — support her, my 
 dear master, till I run for some hartshorn, or she 'II 
 die," screamed the waiting-maid, anxious to turn his 
 attention to an object that would disarm his rage, 
 and still more anxious to convey her own person out 
 of reach of the rapier. She soon saw him engaged 
 in loosing the ligatures of his daughter's dress, and 
 too much occupied with her situation, to inquire the 
 cause. Carefully measuring her distance, so as to 
 be out of the range of the weapon, she commenced 
 a plea of defence, forgetful of the impatience which, 
 a moment before, she had testified, to obtain some 
 remedy for her fainting lady, — 
 
 " Oh ! that I had never seen this night," she cried 
 
132 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 sobbing. Thousands of times have I tried to dis- 
 <;uade her from leaving her poor, dear father. Hours 
 without number, have I set before her the deadly 
 sin of an elopement." 
 
 "Who told you 'twas such a deadly sin, you 
 meddling Jezebel?" vociferated the father. 
 
 Dubelde perceiving that in her haste she had touch- 
 ed a key to which her master's feelings always an- 
 grily vibrated, cried in a whining tone, — 
 
 " Oh no, my dear Sir ! — not to elope with a pro- 
 per person, Sir, such as an honorable gentleman 
 from France ; that would have been a glory to her, 
 as it was to her mother. But to run away with an 
 Irishman that nobody knows, that was the tiouble. 
 She was set enough in her way, God knows. She 
 takes it from the Beau champs. She was angry 
 enough to have struck me, for saying so much in 
 your favor, Sir." 
 
 " So, you knew that my daughter was about mar- 
 rying an Irish devil, and never told me of it, you 
 infernal deceiver ! Get out of my house !" — rising 
 with his unconscious burden, as if to force her from 
 the door. But reminded of Mary's situation, by the 
 lifeless weight with which she hung upon his arm, 
 he changed his purpose, and exclaimed, — 
 " Run ! — fetch the hartshorn." 
 " Mademoiselle has some drops in her dressing- 
 case, your honor, which always do better for her 
 than hartshorn. I '11 bring them in one moment." 
 
 She disappeared on the staircase, muttering to 
 herself, — 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 133 
 
 " I shan't break my neck with haste to accommo- 
 date him. Get out of his house ! — Indeed ! — A vile 
 wolf! This is what people of my talents get, by 
 demeaning themselves to such vipers !" 
 
 She lino;ered as Ions; as was convenient to herself, 
 but came down stairs with rapidity, saying — 
 
 " I thought I should never have found the phial. 
 Things are hid in such strange places now-a-days." 
 
 But ere she arrived, she heard the old gentleman 
 speaking in a hurried but gentle tone to Mary, who 
 was slowly recovering from the air of the open 
 door. 
 
 "There ! there ! look up again ! breathe better now, 
 baby ? — don't swoon again, as soon as you see me. 
 A'nt angry — No, no — shall marry who you please 
 — did'nt mean you should marry a Frenchman 
 against your will. — No, no. — May have whoever 
 you wish, only let father know it. — That 's all. — A'nt 
 angry the least in the world, — do speak one word, 
 baby xMary." 
 
 This colloquy, or rather soliloquy, was terminated 
 by Beauchamp, who rushed in at the garden-door, 
 and as Mary feebly retired with Dubelde, still in a 
 state of doubtful consciousness, he exclaimed — 
 
 " Clumsily executed, by the gods ! This same 
 elopement is a true Irishman's bull. A carriage in 
 full view, beneath a full moon, scarcely a stone's 
 throw from the house, — a tattling chamber-maid for 
 confidante and mistress of ceremonies, and a devil- 
 jsh nesfro dispatched to receive the dulcinea. Tliis 
 
 M 
 
134 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 bog-trotter is either a fool, or desirous of being dis 
 covered." 
 
 " How did you know anything of this affair, bro- 
 ther ?" inquired the old gentleman. 
 
 " How do we know that our visage is furnished 
 with a nose, instead of horns?" he replied. "Simply 
 by the use of the eyes. I am amazed that any one 
 could be in the house with that girl, and not perceive 
 her change of manner, — her suppressed sigh, swal- 
 lowed in a smile, like the whale gorging the prophet, 
 and compelled to cast him forth again, her efforts to 
 appear unconstrained, and her inability to be so. 
 None but a doating father could be blind to all this 
 parapharnalia ; and none seeing it, and having been 
 once in Cupid's court, could doubt the author. My 
 eyes having opened the cause, my ears soon purvey- 
 ed sufficient testimony. What is committed as a 
 secret to school-girls is better published than if the 
 town-crier were employed. I have long had my eye 
 u}X)n this jewel of a man, who imagined that he was 
 walking in darkness, and wasting at noon-day. Not 
 many days since, did I see this same Captain Patten 
 presenting a letter in the streets to the most discreet 
 and excellent Mademoiselle Dubelde." 
 
 " Captain Patten ! is that his name ? — why did not 
 you inform me of all this, Beauchamp V 
 
 " Frankly, because it would have done no good. 
 You would only have fallen into a passion, and by 
 forbidding Mary to see her lover, have blown up a 
 girlish fancy into an unconquerable flame. Were I 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 135 
 
 desirous of precipitating a marriage, 1 would hire 
 either the parents or some old maiden aunt to op- 
 pose it. The passions excited by such a collision, 
 are Hymen's engines. The young lady views her 
 lover as a martyr, mistakes her own obstinacy for 
 love, — marries, and is undeceived. No, no, my 
 dear sir. — I have too much attachment for the sole 
 offspring of my favorite sister, to hazard such a re- 
 sult. I preferred coming in with my countercheck 
 at the crisis, as the best method of discomfiting this 
 rascally Irishman, and of giving Marie, through the 
 mortification that must ensue, such a lesson upon 
 the misery of imprudence and duplicity, as will pro- 
 bably save you from their recurrence." 
 
 " But how did you discover the proceedings of to- 
 night?" inquired Dr. Ranchon. "I thought you 
 were out of town." 
 
 " A mere bagatelle. 1 have not lost sight of your 
 mansion to-day. I was nearer to your daughter than 
 you, when the shriek of that abominable Madelaine 
 broke your trance. It was my intention to have re- 
 ceived the loving pair, when they should issue from 
 the woodbine porch, in whose purlieus I was very 
 fragrantly accommodated. Finding that an underplot 
 was accidentally got up in the house, I varied the 
 last act of the drama, and drawing my sword, pro- 
 ceeded to seek an interview with Honey, ere his ebon 
 emissary should return to report the misadventure. 
 He was quite comfortably watching his horses, muf- 
 fled in a cloak, and did not perceive me, until I was 
 
lo6 THE FAMILY FORTRAITS. 
 
 within five paces, and called, 'Draw, rascal !' Having 
 some secret impression of his cowardice, I had so 
 placed myself with regard to the gate opening on the 
 avenue, that his retreat should not be that way. 
 Father Jupiter ! I had not anticipated that he was 
 so complete a dastard. I did look for two or three 
 passes at least. Yet nothing saw I, but a pair of 
 heels kicked up in flight. As he was about to leap 
 the wall, I overtook, and closed with him. But un- 
 fortunately entangling myself in the cloak which he 
 threw ofl^, I lost my sword, and we should have had 
 nothing but a wrestling match, in which my jewel, 
 being the most powerful man, would probably have 
 had the advantage. This also he avoided, for giving 
 a leap over the high wall, he threw himself ' sheer 
 out of Eden.' Having regained my sword, I fol- 
 lowed, taking care to secure a pocket-book, which 
 in the scuffle had fallen from him. But findino- it 
 was hopeless to pursue the bog-trotter, though I am 
 somewhat fleet at a race, I turned, and met his neo-ro 
 servant driving off* the chaise. I menaced the horses 
 with my sword, and ordered him to drive to the devil. 
 The rest you know, and now I have considerable 
 curiosity to see the contents of this fortune-hunter's 
 port-feuille." 
 
 He produced a rather spacious red leather pocket- 
 book, in which were various receipts, papers, and 
 letters of little consequence. At length Beauchamp 
 discovered one in a female hand, considerably mu- 
 tilated, though one page continued legible, and bore 
 a recent date. 
 
i 
 
 i 
 
 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 137 
 
 "Cork Marcli. ]7tli, 1724. 
 
 "Surprised will ye be, my loving husband, to 
 receive a letter from me in Cork ; but the last long 
 winter was so tediously cold, and our cabin by the 
 pool of Ballyclacklin so shackling and bad, that my 
 brother was fain for me to be removing to Cork, 
 where he kindly gives me the use of one half of his 
 I own house. I don't wish to be complaining too 
 
 much of hard times, but would be right glad to see 
 your sweet face again, or to receive any little mat- 
 I ter you could send me, to help on with the children. 
 
 I Dick has got to be a stout boy, and looks with his 
 
 I eyes as you do, and little Biddy has learned from 
 
 I him to say, « Arrah ! when will that daddy of ours 
 
 i be for coming bock a^ren V — I had 'nt heard where 
 
 j you was for a year, or thereabouts, till last week, | 
 
 i Mr. Patrick Thady O'MuUigan, of this place, re- 
 
 I turned from Boston, in America, bringing news that 
 
 you was there. He says, he was a little bother'd 
 at first, and came nigh not knowing you, because 
 you had taken a new name ; something like Paten, 
 or Patin, and wore a marvellous rich dress of a reg- 
 iment officer. He says too, that at first you declared 
 it was not you, but he swore that he 'd know your 
 father's son all the world over, — and then you told 
 him that it was you. Right glad was your loving 
 wife to hear that you was not drowned in the salt 
 
 sea, and" — 
 
 Here the epistle was torn across. — Beauchamp 
 hnd F,?nrcely patience to complete its perusal. 
 
 M 2 
 
138 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 " Oh !" he exclaimed, brandishing his sword, " that 
 the Powers above had suffered but three inches of 
 this blade to sound that wretch's heart !" 
 
 Dr. Ranchon traversed the room, ravins in an 
 excess of passion. He clenched his hands, and ere 
 the reading was concluded, had vociferated more evil 
 wishes and epithets, than it would be either conve- 
 nient or fitting to repeat. Snatching the mutilated 
 letter, he exclaimed — 
 
 " Let her see it ! Let her see it ! Show her what 
 an infernal gulf she sported near." 
 
 Then clasping Beauchamp in his arms, with a 
 violence that almost suffocated him, he said, half in 
 tears, " and r/ow, you have saved us !" Beauchamp 
 placing his hand upon his brother's arm, as soon as 
 he could extricate himself from his powerful embrace 
 said, — " Stay ! Enough has been done for safety. 
 There is yet sufficient time for suffering. — She can- 
 not bear all at once. — I should not be surprised, 
 were you to have occasion for all your professional 
 skill in her chamber, this fortnight. This revulsion 
 of feeling, call it what you will, vanity, lunacy, or 
 love, cannot be without physical sympathy. This 
 ' last, unkindest cut of all,' must be softened to her, 
 as she can endure it. In the meantime send out of 
 your house that walking pestilence, in the shape of 
 a chamber-maid. A ship this week sails for France. 
 — Furnish part of its freight with her carcase, and 
 give thanks as the Jews did, when they were clear 
 of the leprosy. — If it sinlcs, so much the better.— 
 
 lU 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 139 
 
 Give her money enough to become a petty shop- 
 keeper in the Rue St. Denis,— the height of her am- 
 bition, where she will soon complete the climax of 
 
 her folly." 
 
 Dubelde was accordingly dismissed, the fortune- 
 hunter vanished, and the prophecy of Beauchamp, 
 respecting Mary, was but too literally fulfilled.— 
 Long and severe sickness, with partial delirium, 
 were the consequences of her folly ; and though her 
 firmness of constitution eventually prevailed, yet 
 she came forth with wasted bloom, scarcely the 
 shadow of her former self. This protracted period 
 of reflection and remorse was salutary.— The fabrics 
 of vanity wherein she had trusted, fell around her, 
 and her principles of action became reversed.— With 
 subdued pride and renovated feelings, she strove to 
 atone for her faithlessness to her father, and her for- 
 getfulness of her God. 
 
 In due time, she admitted the addresses of a de 
 scendant of the Huguenots, one in character and ac, 
 complishments altogether worthy of her affections. 
 His elevated mind, and susceptible heart, induced 
 her to cherish for him that mixture of gratitude, 
 esteem and confidence, which if it pretend not to the 
 enthusiasm of ^ first love, is something in itself far 
 
 It is that state of feeling into which requited and 
 virtuous love eventually subsides; that pure and 
 self-devoted friendship which the author of the Spec- 
 tator has pronounced the '' perfection of love:' ^ 
 
140 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Each revolving year continued to convince Mary of 
 what wayward and romantic youth are often scepti- 
 cal in believing, that the illusion of a first love, in 
 all its charm and enthusiasm, is but misery, if un- 
 sanctioned by duty, in comparison with that union 
 of hearts, which judgment approves, which piety 
 confirms, and whose crown is the smile and blessing 
 of a parent. 
 
 Perchance some of my readers, if haply any have 
 attended my lucubrations thus far, may marvel why 
 I have seen fit to entitle them family portraits. The 
 truth is, that two antiquated personages have for 
 several years been looking down upon me from their 
 ample frames, whenever I pass a particular part of 
 our mansion. One is a lady dressed in a brown silk, 
 with raven hair parted plainly upon her forehead, and 
 holding in her hand a snuff-box, with an aspect rather 
 grave than beautiful. The partner is a most portly 
 and respectable gentleman, with wig and ruflles, 
 pointing with a spy-glass to the distant Ocean, as if 
 in expectation of the amval of some richly-laden 
 vessel. Both portraits are in far better taste than is 
 usual for those that bear the date of more than a 
 century : the hands in particular, which are allowed 
 to be some criterion of an artist's style, are elegant- 
 ly finished. 
 
 Having been divers times puzzled with inquiries 
 from visitants, respecting these venerable personages, 
 I set myself seriously to search our family records, 
 and you have seen the result, in the foroQoin'r sheets. 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 141 
 
 I found that the grave lady who looks as if she might 
 have read daily lectures against coquetry and elope- 
 ment to her children, was no other than the once 
 celebrated Mary Ranchon, and that the gentleman 
 in such undivided proximity was that Huguenot 
 husband, who so greatly enhanced her happiness by 
 his love, and her respectability by his wisdom. Should 
 any person continue sceptical as to the truth of the 
 facts herein related, he may see, should he travel in 
 the land of steady habits, those same family portraits, 
 gratis, and be told the name of the husband of Mary 
 Ranchon. 
 
%■:■(, .,/ 
 
 1. 
 
 
 "X- 
 
 >s 
 
AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. 
 
 " I come 
 To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree 
 And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, 
 And thymy mound that flings unto the winds 
 Its morning incense, is my friend."-Barry ComwM. 
 
 There were thick leaves above me and around, 
 
 And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's sleep, 
 Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 
 
 As of soft showers on water ;— dark and deep 
 Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still 
 They seemed but pictured glooms ; a hidden rill 
 Made music, such as haunts us in a dream, 
 Under the fern tufts ; and a tender gleam 
 Of soft green light, as by the glowworm shed, 
 
 Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down, 
 And steeped the magic page wherein I read 
 
 Of royal chivalry and old renown, 
 A tale of Palestine.* — Meanwhile the bee 
 Swept past me with a tone of summer hours, 
 A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, 
 Blue skies, and amber sunshine : brightly free, 
 On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly 
 Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by ; 
 And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell 
 Where sat the lone wood-pigeon : 
 
 * The Talismaa— Tales of the Crvaadei* 
 
:s::f 
 
 144 GOD IS LOVE. 
 
 But ere long 
 All sertse of these things faded, as the spell 
 
 Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong 
 On my chained soul ; — 'twas not the leaves I heard ;— 
 A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirred, 
 Through its proud floating folds : — 't was not the brook 
 
 Singing in secret through its glassy glen ; — 
 
 A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
 Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
 The burning air. — Like clouds when winds are high, 
 O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
 And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 
 Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, 
 Shadowed by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout 
 Of merry England's joy swelled freely out, 
 Sent through an eastern heaven, whose glorious hue 
 Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue ; 
 And harps were there — I heard their sounding strings. 
 As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings. — 
 The bright mask faded. Unto life's worn track, 
 What called me from its flood of glory back 1 
 A voice of happy childhood ! — and they passed, 
 Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast; 
 Yet might I scarce bewail the splendors gone, 
 My heart so leaped to that sweet laughter's tone. 
 
 GOD IS LOVE. 
 
 Sweet the sound of Nature's voice. 
 Where the crystal waters flow 
 
 Swiftly down from distant hills. 
 Murmuring music as they flow. 
 
GOD IS LOVE. 
 
 Sweet the breath of summer gale, 
 Sweet the fall of summer shower, 
 
 When the breeze of evening bears 
 Perfume from each dewy flower. 
 
 When, amid unfading 1 'owers, 
 
 Ever blooming, ever gay ! 
 Indian birds of golden wing 
 
 Sing their happy lives away ; 
 
 Sweet, where Eastern climes are bright, 
 
 Ere the day begins to fade. 
 There to watch the yellow light, 
 
 GUst'ning through the palm-tree's shade,- 
 
 Sweet, beneath those cloudless skies. 
 
 Peace below, and light above. 
 There to wander forth, and feel 
 
 God is light, and God is love. 
 
 Sweet— but, ah ! What temples there 
 Meet the inquiring wanderer's eye ! 
 
 Are these Indian shrines as pure 
 As the breeze, the flowers, the sky? 
 
 In this soft sequestered spot, 
 
 All is lovely, all is bright ; 
 Woods adorned with deepest green. 
 
 Mountains bathed in liquid light ; 
 
 Well may such a scene inspire 
 Hopes, a grovelling world above ; 
 
 But within those temples fair 
 No one knows that God is love. 
 
 N 
 
 145 
 
=^^ 
 
 146 THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 
 
 Cruel thoughts, and guilty prayer, 
 Treacherous schemes of vengeance dire, 
 
 Wake an echoing anthem-peal, 
 Kindle into kindred fire. 
 
 Where the car of triumph rolls, 
 See their hideous monster-god ! 
 
 Mark their worship — human blood. 
 Human tears bedew the sod. 
 
 Human misery swells the cry, 
 Vice and folly reign around ; 
 
 While un pitied victims fall 
 
 Crushed, and quivering on the ground. 
 
 Such their worship, such their creed ; 
 
 Sons of darkness, poor, and blind ! 
 Who shall wake their slumbering souls, 
 
 Who shall tell them God is kind 1 
 
 Blessed dawn of happier day. 
 
 When these guilty rites shall cease ! 
 
 Come, thou Dove with heavenly wing ! 
 Hail, thou harbinger of peace ! 
 
 Shadowing o'er that Eastern land, 
 Showering mercies from above ; 
 
 Come, and swell the tide of joy! 
 Come, and teach them God is Love ! 
 
 THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 
 
 No shadow rests upon the place 
 Where once thy footsteps roved ; 
 
THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 147 
 
 Nor leaf, nor blossom, bear a trace 
 
 Of how thou wert beloved. 
 The very night dew disappears 
 Too soon, as if it spread its tears. 
 
 Thou art forgotten !— thou, whose feet 
 
 Were listened for like song ! 
 They used to call thy voice so sweet ; — 
 
 It did not haunt them long. 
 Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth — 
 How could they bear their lonely hearth I 
 
 There is no picture to recall 
 
 Thy glad and open brow ; 
 No profiled outUne on the wall 
 
 Seems like thy shadow now ; 
 They have not even kept to wear 
 One ringlet of thy golden hair 
 
 When here we sheltered last, appears 
 
 But just like yesterday ; 
 It startles me to think that years 
 
 Since then are passed away. 
 The old oak tree that was our tent. 
 No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent. 
 
 A shower in June — a summer shower, 
 
 Drove us beneath the shade ; 
 A beautiful and greenwood bower 
 
 The spreading branches made, 
 The raindrops shine upon the bough 
 The passing rain— but where art thou? 
 
148 THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 
 
 But I forget how many showers 
 Have washed this old oak tree, 
 
 The winter and the summer hours, 
 Since I stood here with thee : 
 
 And I forget how chance a thought 
 
 Thy memory to my heart has brought. 
 
 I talk of friends who once have wept, 
 As if they still should weep ; 
 
 I speak of grief that long has slept, 
 As if it could not sleep ; 
 
 I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness, 
 
 Have I, myself, forgotten less 1 
 
 I 've mingled with the young and fair, 
 Nor thought how there was laid 
 
 One fair and young as any there. 
 In silence and in shade. 
 
 How could I see a sweet mouth shine 
 
 With smiles, and not remember thine? 
 
 Ah ! it is well we can forget. 
 
 Or who could linger on 
 Beneath a sky whose stars are set. 
 
 On earth whose flowers are gone ? 
 For who could welcome loved ones near, 
 Thinking of those once far more dear, 
 
 Our early friends, those of our youth'? 
 
 We cannot feel again 
 The earnest love, the simple truth, 
 
 Which made us such friends then. 
 We grow suspicious, careless, cold ; 
 We love not as we loved of old. 
 
THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 
 
 No more a sweet necessity, 
 
 Love must and will expand, 
 Loved and beloving we must be, 
 
 With open heart and hand. 
 Which only ask to trust and share 
 The deep affections which they bear. 
 
 Our love was of that early time ; 
 
 And now that it is past, 
 It breathes as of a purer clime 
 
 Than where my lot is cast. 
 My eyes fill with their sweetest tears 
 In thinking of those early years. 
 
 It shocked me first to see the sun 
 Shine gladly o'er thy tomb ; 
 
 To see the wild flowers o'er it run 
 In such luxuriant bloom. 
 
 Now I feel glad that they should keep 
 
 A bright sweet watch above thy sleep. 
 
 The heaven whence thy nature came 
 
 Only recalled its own ; 
 It is Hope that now breathes thy name, 
 
 Though borrowing Memory's tone. 
 I feel this earth could never be 
 The native home of one like thee. 
 
 Farewell ! the early dews that fall 
 Upon thy grass-grown bed 
 
 Are like the thoughts that now recall 
 Thine image from the dead. 
 
 A blessing hallows thy dark cell — 
 
 I will not stay to weep. Farewell ! 
 N2 
 
 149 
 
 
150 SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 SUMIMER WOODS. 
 
 Come ye into the summer-woods ; 
 
 There entereth no annoy ; 
 All greenly ware the chestnut leaves, 
 
 And the earth is full of joy. 
 
 I cannot tell you half the sights 
 
 Of beauty you may see, 
 The bursts of golden sunshine, 
 
 And many a shady tree. 
 
 There, lightly swung, in bowery glades 
 
 The honey-suckles twine ; 
 There blooms the rose-red campion. 
 
 And the dark-blue columbine. 
 
 There grows the four-leaved plant " true lore," 
 
 In some dusk woodland spot ; 
 There grows the enchanter's night-shade, 
 
 And the wood forget-me-not. 
 
 And many a merry bird is there, 
 
 Unscared by lawless men ; 
 The blue-winged jay, the wood-pecker, 
 
 And the golden-crested wren. 
 
 Come down and ye shall see them all. 
 
 The timid and the bold ; 
 For their sweet life of pleasantness, 
 
 It is not to be told. 
 
SUMMER WOODS. 151 
 
 And far within that summer-wood, 
 
 Among the leaves so green, 
 There flows a little gurgling brook, 
 
 The brightest e'er was seen. 
 
 There come the little gentle birds, 
 
 Without a fear of ill, 
 Down to the murmuring water's edge, 
 
 And freely drink their fill ! 
 
 And dash about and splash about. 
 
 The merry little things ; 
 And look askance with bright black eyes, 
 
 And flirt their dripping wings. 
 
 I 've seen the freakish squirrel drop 
 
 Down from their leafy tree, 
 The little squirrels with the old, — 
 
 Great joy it was to me ! 
 
 And down unto the running brook 
 
 I 've seen them nimbly go ; 
 And the bright water seemed to speak 
 
 A welcome kind and low. 
 
 The nodding plants they bowed their heads, 
 
 As if, in heartsome cheer, 
 They spake unto those little things, 
 
 " 'Tis merry living here !" 
 
 Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy ! 
 
 I saw that all was good. 
 And how we might glean up delight 
 
 All round us, if w^e would ! 
 
 k^ 
 
152 HALLOWED BE THY NAME. 
 
 And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there, 
 Beneath the old wood-shade, 
 
 And all day long has work to do, 
 Nor is, of aught, afraid. 
 
 The green shoots grow above their heads, 
 And roots so fresh and fine 
 
 Beneath their feet, nor is there strife 
 'Mong them for mine and thine. 
 
 There is enough for every one, 
 And they lovingly agree ; 
 
 We might learn a lesson, all of us, 
 Beneath the green-wood tree ! 
 
 HALLOWED BE THY NAME. 
 
 List to the dreamy tone that dwells 
 
 In rippling wave or sighing tree ; 
 Go, hearken to the old church bells. 
 
 The whistling bird, the whizzing bee. 
 Interpret right, and ye will find 
 
 'Tis " power and glory" they proclaim : 
 The chimes, the creatures, waters, wind, 
 
 All publish, " hallowed be thy name !'* 
 
 The pilgrim journeys till he bleeds, 
 
 To gain the altar of his sires ; 
 The hermit pores above his beads, 
 
 With zeal that never wanes nor tires ; 
 But holiest rite or longest prayer 
 
 That soul can yield or wisdom frame, 
 What better import can it bear 
 
 Than, *' Father ! hallowed be thy name !" 
 
LOW SHE LIES, WHO BLEST OUR EYES. 153 
 The savag-e kneeling to the sun, 
 
 To give his thanks or ask a boon ; 
 The raptures of the idiot one, 
 
 Who laughs to see the clear round moon ; 
 The saint well taught in Christian lore; 
 
 The Moslem prostrate at his flame — 
 All worship, wonder, and adore ; 
 
 All end in, " hallowed be thy name !" 
 
 Whate'er may be man's faith or creed, 
 
 Those precious words comprise it still : 
 We trace them on the bloomy mead. 
 
 We hear them in the flowing rill. 
 One chorus hails the Great Supreme ; 
 
 Each varied breathing tells the same. 
 The strains may differ ; but the theme 
 
 Is, " Father ! hallowed be thy name !'* 
 
 LOW SHE LIES, WHO BLEST OUR EYES. 
 
 Low SHE lies, who blest our eyes 
 
 Through many a sunny day : 
 She may not smile, she will not rise, — 
 
 The life hath past away ! 
 Yet there is a world of light beyond, 
 
 Where we neither die nor sleep ; 
 She is there, of whom our souls were fond, 
 
 Then wherefore do we weep ? 
 
 The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told 
 In each glance of her glad bright eye ; 
 
 And she lies pale, who was so bright 
 She scarce seemed made to die. 
 
154 LOW SHE LIES, WHO BLEST OUR EYES. 
 
 Yet we know that her soul is happy now, 
 Where the saints their calm watch keep ; 
 
 That angels are crowning that fair young brow,- 
 Then wherefore do we weep ? 
 
 Her laughing voice made all rejoice, 
 
 Who caught the happy sound ; 
 There was a gladness in her very step. 
 
 As it lightly touched the ground. 
 The echoes of voice and step are gone, 
 
 There is silence still and deep ; 
 Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne,— 
 
 Then wherefore do we weep? 
 
 The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe, 
 
 That lies like a shadow there, 
 Were beautiful in the eyes of all, — 
 
 And her glossy golden hair ! 
 But though that lid may never wake 
 
 From its dark and dreamless sleep. 
 She is gone where young hearts do not break,-— 
 
 Then wherefore do we weep ? 
 
 That world of light with joy is bright, 
 
 This is a world of woe : 
 Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight, 
 
 Because we dwell below? 
 We will bury her under the mossy sod. 
 
 And one long bright tress we '11 keep ; 
 We have only given her back to God, — 
 
 Ah ! wherefore do we weep 1 
 
ORIANA. 
 
 •Where was she ?— 'Mid the people of the ^^^ld,— 
 
 By the red hunter's fire— An aged Chief, 
 
 Whose home look'd sad,-for therein dwelt no child. 
 
 Had borne her in the stillness of her grief 
 
 To his lone cabin : and thai gentle guide 
 
 By iaith and sorrow rais'd and purified,— 
 
 To the blest Cross her Indian fosterers led, 
 
 Until their prayers were one." 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Amots'G the customs which distinguished the na- 
 tives of our country, ere the originality of then- char- 
 acter became prostrated, and its energies broken, 
 few were more unique and interesting, than the cere- 
 mony of adoption. This was the selection of an 
 individual to fill the place of some near relative re- 
 moved by death. It was more generally the resort 
 of families bereaved of a son, and the choice was 
 often from among prisoners taken in battle. It has 
 been known to snatch the victim from the stake, and 
 to encircle him with all the domestic charities. The 
 transferred affection of parents was often, m such 
 cases, most ardent and enduring. Especially if any 
 resemblance existed between the buried and the 
 adopted object, mothers were prone to cherish an 
 idolatry of tenderness. Instances have been record, 
 ed in which the most ancient national ammosities, 
 
156 ORIANA. 
 
 or deep-rooted personal hatred, have yielded to this 
 rite of adoption. It has even been extended to the 
 offspring of the whites, during periods of deadly war- 
 fare. When we consider the implacable temper of 
 our aborigines, and that it was an article of their 
 creed, never to suffer an injury to pass unavenged, 
 this custom of naturalizing a foe in their homes, and 
 in their hearts, strikes us as prominent, peculiar, and 
 worthy to be held in remembrance. 
 
 The tribe of Mohegans were formerly owners of 
 an ample territory in New-England, and were uni- 
 formly friendly to our ancestors. Their kings and 
 chieftains became allies of the colonies in their in- 
 fancy, and the bravery of their warriors aided in 
 their struo-o-les with the surrounding tribes. Their 
 descendants have now become few in number, and 
 abject in mind. A circumscribed and inalienable 
 territory, in the south-eastern part of Connecticut, 
 furnishes subsistence to the remnant which has not 
 emigrated, or become incorporated with other na- 
 tions. Emphatically, their glory is departed, and of 
 their primeval energy and nobleness, no vestige sur- 
 vives. Yet slight kindlings of national pride con- 
 tinued at intervals to gleam faintly forth from be- 
 neath incumbent ruins, as embers, apparently long 
 quenched, will sometimes smoulder and sparkle amid 
 the ashes that cover them. One of the latest evi- 
 dences of this spirit, was the watchful affection with 
 which they regarded their royal burying-place. No 
 vulgar dust was ever suffered to repose in the sepul- 
 
ORIANA. 157 
 
 chre of their kings. No Cambrian point of genea- 
 logy was ever more vigilantly traced, no restriction 
 of°the Salick Law more tenaciously guarded, than 
 was the farthest and slightest infusion of the blood 
 of Mohegan monarchy. Long after the royal line 
 became extinct, and they were decreed, like ancient 
 Israel, to dwell " without an ephod and without a ter- 
 aphim," they guarded with fierce and unslumbering 
 jealousy their consecrated cemetery from profana- 
 tion. 
 
 Its monuments are still visible within the limits ot 
 the city of Norwich, and sometimes strangers visit with 
 pitying interest, the lowly tombs of the monarchs 
 of the soil. The inhabitants of that beautiful city, 
 in whose vicinity the village of Mohegan is situated, 
 have ever extended their sympathies to their " poor 
 brethren within their gates." Still their Christian 
 benevolence strives to gather under its wings, the 
 perishing remnant of a once powerful race. Teach- 
 ers are among them, of those sciences which render 
 this life comfortable, and throw the light of hope on 
 the next. Their little children are taken by the hand, 
 and led to Jesus. The white spire of a simple 
 church, recently erected for their benefit, points to 
 that world where no heritage is alienated. 
 
 The period selected for this sketch, is soon after 
 the close of our War of Revolution. There then 
 existed in the little settlement of Mohegan, some in- 
 dividuals worthy of being rescued from oblivion. 
 Amon^ them was the Reverend Samson Occum, the 
 
 O 
 
158 ORIANA. 
 
 first native minister of that tribe, whose unostenta- 
 tious fortunes are interwoven with the ecclesiastical 
 history of that day. The benevolence of the Rev- 
 erend President Wheelock of Dartmouth College, 
 drew him from the vagrant habits of the Indian 
 hunter, and touched his mind with the love of letters 
 and of piety. Ten years before our Declaration of 
 Independence, he made a voyage to England, and 
 was received with the most kind and gratifying at- 
 tention. Among the treasured memorials of this 
 visit, were correspondences with some of the wise 
 and philanthropic of the mother-country, which he 
 faithfully maintained, and the gift of a library of con- 
 siderable value, which after his decease was pur- 
 chased by a clergyman in the vicinity. His discourses 
 in his native tongue often produced a strong impres- 
 sion on his hearers, and those in the English lan- 
 guage displayed an acquaintance with its idiom, and 
 a facility of rendering it a vehicle for strong and 
 original thought, highly creditable both to his talents 
 and their application. He possessed a decided taste for 
 poetry, especially that of a devotional cast ; and a 
 volume of this nature, which he selected and pub- 
 lished, evinces that he fervently appreciated the pa- 
 thetic and the powerful. His deportment was grave 
 and consistent, as became a teacher of divine things, 
 and his overflowing eyes, when he strove to allure 
 his people to the love of a Saviour, testified his own 
 warm religious sensibilities, and revealed the found- 
 ation of his happiness and hope. 
 
ORIAJfA. 
 
 159 
 
 The native, untaught eloquence of the tribe, had 
 also a representative. Robert Ashbow was collater- 
 ally of the royal line, and held in high reverence by 
 his people. His commanding stature and lofty brow 
 marked him as one of Nature's nobility. He was 
 respected by our ancestors, and when their govern- 
 ment became permanent, was permitted to represent 
 his people in their national council. Among their 
 senators, his words were few. But in his \?ell- 
 weighed opinions, in his wary policy, they were ac- 
 customed to liken him to the wise and wily Ulysses. 
 They understood him not. His eloquence was like 
 a smothered flame, in their presence. It spoke not 
 even through the eye, wdiich was ever downcast, 
 nor lighted the brow that bore a rooted sorrow. 
 It burst forth only in his native wilds, and among 
 his own people. There, like a torrent, it swept all 
 before it. It swayed their spirits, as the tempest 
 bends the lithe willow. 
 
 Though he keenly felt the broken and buried ma- 
 jesty of his nation, he cherished no vindictiveness 
 towards those who had caused it. He had a deep 
 reverence for knowledge and its possessors, whicli 
 neutralized this bitterness. Like the tamed lion, ne 
 yielded to a force which he did not comprehend. 
 Thouo-h by nature reserved and dominant, he almost 
 crouchingly sought the society of educated white 
 men, for among them alone could his thirst of know- 
 ledge be satiated. He v/as an affecting instance of 
 savage pride, humbling itself before the might of cul. 
 
lt)0 ORIAXA. 
 
 tivated intellect. At times, his melancholy mood 
 predominated, and for days and nights he withdrew 
 to pathless forests, holding communication with none. 
 He might occasionally be discovered, amid the crags 
 of some scarcely accessible rock, with his head bow- 
 ed low in frowning and solitary contemplation, like 
 I\Iarius amid the ruins of Carthage. There was 
 about him, the waywardness of genius, preying upon 
 its#f, and the pride of a wounded spirit, which would 
 have grasped the hoof that trampled on it, and hurl- 
 ed the rider to the dust. Yet there was an innate 
 check in his own native nobleness, in his power of 
 appreciating superior mental excellence. Knowledge 
 had stood before him, in her majesty and mystery, 
 and the haughty orator of the forest was subdued 
 like an awe-struck child. 
 
 Arrowhamet, the warrior, or Zachary, as he was 
 generally called, by the name of his baptism, was 
 an interesting specimen of aboriginal character. 
 Stately, unbending, and of athletic strength, he 
 seemed to defy the ravages of time, though the re- 
 cord of his memory proved that he had passed the 
 prescribed limit of threescore years and ten. He had 
 been a soldier in the severe campaign that preceded 
 the defeat of Braddock in 1755, and had borne the 
 hardships and perils of the eight years' war of our 
 revolution, with an unshrinkino; valor. With the 
 taciturnity of his nation, he seldom spoke of the 
 exploits in which he had been engaged. Yet when 
 sometimes induced by urgency, to give a narrative 
 
OKI AN A. 1^1 
 
 of the battles where he had fought, his flashing eye, 
 and form rising still more loftily, attested his warlike 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 His wife, Martha, who had, with him, embraced 
 the Christian religion, possessed that gentleness of 
 deportment, and sweetness of voice, by which the 
 females among our aborigines were often distinguish- 
 ed. His attachment to her was evinced by more 
 of courteousness than comported with their national 
 coldness of manner, and was reciprocated by a ten- 
 der and unvarying observance, which might have 
 adorned a more refined state of society. Their lit- 
 tle abode had an aspect of neatness and comfort, 
 beyond what was often attained by the supine habits 
 of their contemporaries. It was environed by a 
 tolerably well-cultivated garden, and sheltered by a 
 rude tenement ; in its rear, a cow quietly ruminated. 
 Other indications of care and judicious arrangement 
 miaht have marked it out as the dwelling of a white 
 man, rather than an Indian. A mysterious person- 
 acre had been added to the family, which, within the 
 memory of the young, had comprised only Zachary 
 and Martha. Since this accession, many improve- 
 ments in their humble establishment had been visible. 
 Fragrant shrubs were taught to flourish, and flower- 
 ino- vines trained against the window. Bee-hives, 
 clusterincr near, sent forth the cheerful hum of wing- 
 ed indusU-y. Beds of aromatic herbs were reared 
 for the accommodation of their busy inmates, and 
 thev mi-ht be seen settling upon them, with intense 
 ^ ° 2 
 
^62 ORIAi\A. 
 
 delight, and pursuing their exquisite chemistry, be- 
 neath the earUest smile of morning. The baskets, 
 in whose construction Martha had been ions: accus- 
 tomed to employ her leisure, now displayed on their 
 smooth compartments the touches of a more delicate 
 pencil than the natives could boast, or perhaps ap- 
 preciate. 
 
 The neighboring Indians had remarked, that this 
 guest of their friends was a female, and some of 
 them had testified surprise, and even disgust, that 
 she was of the race of the whites. It was also ob- 
 served that she seemed to be in ill-health, and sel- 
 dom quitted the dwelling ; but as she' spoke mildly to 
 all its visitants, and treated their children with kind- 
 ness, they became conciliated and friendly. Any 
 inquiry respecting her, received only the laconic an- 
 swer, — " She is our daughter.''^ It was at once 
 perceived that their friends wished to make no dis- 
 closures. Their right to preserve secrecy was con- 
 ceded, and never more encroached upon. 
 
 The Indian yields such a point, with far more 
 grace than his Yankee neighbors. They, indeed, 
 admit, that a man's house is his castle, but deny his 
 right of excluding, by bolt or bar, their exploring, 
 unslumbering curiosity. The privilege of prying 
 into, questioning, and canvassing the concerns of 
 every household, and trying all men, and their mo- 
 tives, without a jury of peers, is their Magna Charta. 
 For this, they are ready to contend as manfully 
 as the barons before whom king John cowered at 
 
ORIANA. ^'^ ^ 
 
 Runimede. To the exercise of such a prerogative, 
 competent knowledge of the doings of every domi- 
 cile is requisite, and the power of making every body's 
 business their own. How much espionage, gossip- 
 ing, and travelling night and day, is essential to this 
 system of policy, let the inhabitants of almost any 
 of the New-England villages testify. In these re- 
 spects, the native Indian is surely a model of polite- 
 ness for them. 
 
 It has been remarked, that the guest of the aged 
 warrior and his wife, was in feeble health. Their 
 tender and unceasing cares, — their expedients to 
 promote her comfort and alleviate her suffering, were 
 truly paternal. The hoary-headed man would go 
 forth as a hunter, or urge his boat into deep and dis- 
 tant waters, to obtain something that might tempt 
 her declining appetite. He would pass with the agile 
 step of youth, the several miles, that intervened be- 
 tween their settlement and the city, to procure for 
 her some of those tropical fruits which are so grate- 
 ful to the parched and febrile lip. Martha exerted 
 constantly, but almost in vain, her utmost skill in 
 the culinary art; she brought statedly the draught 
 of new, warm milk, and added to her dessert the 
 purest honey. She explored the fields for the first 
 ripe strawberries, which she presented in little bas- 
 kets of fresh, green leaves, garnished with flowers. 
 She sat whole nights by the couch of the invalid, and 
 was near her side at every indication of pain, as the 
 nursinp--motber watches the cradled infant. These 
 
 U 
 
 L_ 
 
164 ORIANA. 
 
 attentioPaS were received with a grateful smile, or with 
 the softest voice of thanks ; but they availed little. 
 The lily grew paler on its stem, and seemed likely 
 to wither away in its unrevealed loveliness. 
 
 Advancing spring was now every day dispensing 
 some new gift to the earth. Her lavishness seemed 
 pro])ortioned to the brevity of her stay, and each 
 hour exhibited some bright memorial of her parting 
 bounty. The two most delightful seasons of the year 
 lingered for a moment on each other's boundary. 
 They stood forth in their unadjusted claims to supe- 
 riority, scanned each other's drapery, dipped their 
 pencils in each other's dyes, and like rival goddesses 
 contended before the sons of men, for the palm of 
 beauty. The rude domain of the children of the 
 forest, put on its beautiful garments. They, whose 
 pretensions to equality were denied by their more 
 fortunate brethren, were not excluded by nature from 
 her smiles, or her exuberance. Through the rich 
 green velvet of their meadows, pure fountains look- 
 ed up with their crystalline eyes, wild flowers un- 
 folded their petals, and from every copse issued 
 strains of warbling melody, as if a voice of praise 
 perpetually repeated, — " Thou makest the outgoings 
 of the morning and of the evening to rejoice." 
 
 The abode of Zachary and Martha felt the en- 
 livening influence of the season. Their fragrant 
 shrubbery exhaled a purer essence, a sweet-brier 
 near their door expanded its swelling buds, and tho 
 woodbine protruded its young tendrils to reach the 
 
ORIANA. 165 
 
 window of the invalid. But within its walls, was 
 age that knew no spring, and youth fading like a 
 blighted flower ; night, that could know no dawning, 
 and morning that must never ascend to noon. 
 
 Day had closed over the inhabitants of that peace- 
 ful dwelling. The warrior and his companion were 
 seated in the room appropriated to their mysterious 
 guest. Languidly reclining, she watched the rising 
 of the full, unclouded moon, like one who loves its 
 beams, and in gazing, contemplates a returnless fare- 
 well. The bright profuse tresses of that beautiful 
 being, twining in braids around a head of perfect 
 symmetry, formed a strong contrast to the snowy 
 whiteness of her brow, and seemed to deepen the 
 tint of her soft, blue eye. But the paleness of her 
 cheek was now tinted with that ominous hectic flush 
 which Death kindles, as the signal of his approaching 
 victory. Sometimes, it lent to the eye, a ray of 
 such unearthly brightness, that the Indian mother 
 could not look on it, without a tear. She had recent- 
 ly remarked to her husband, that the form of the 
 uncomplaining victim was becoming daily more 
 emaciated, and her respiration more impeded and 
 laborious. 
 
 The invalid gazed long on the moon, with a fore- 
 head resting on a hand of the purest whiteness, and 
 so attenuated, that it seemed to display the flexile 
 fingers of childhood. Turning her eyes from that 
 beautiful orb, she observed those of the aged pair 
 fixed upon her with intense earnestness. A long 
 
 iL 
 
'-~] 
 
 166 ORIAJfA. 
 
 pause ensued. Something that refused utterance 
 seemed to agitate her. Marking the emotion which 
 varied a countenance usually so serene and passion- 
 less, they forbore to interrupt her meditations. They 
 even dreaded to hear her speak, lest it might be of 
 separation. At length, a voice, tremulous and mu- 
 sical as the stricken harp, was heard to say, — 
 
 " Father, I desire to partake of the holy commu- 
 nion. I have not enjoyed that privilege, since 
 leaving my native land, and my soul desires it." 
 
 " He who interprets to us Indians, the will of 
 God," said Zachary, " is now among our brethren, 
 the Oneidas. Three moons may pass, ere he again 
 return." 
 
 *' That may be too late, father," replied the same 
 tuneful, subdued tone. "Wilt thou seek for me some 
 other clergyman?" 
 
 The warrior signified his assent, and rising, took 
 from her hand a paper which she held to him. 
 
 *' Some explanation of my history is necessary, 
 ere I could expect this favor. I have here written 
 it, for thou knowest that I cannot now speak many 
 words. I am weak, and must soon pass away." 
 
 Martha rose with that indefinable sensation which 
 prompts us to shrink from any subject that agonizes 
 our feelings. Throwing up the casement, through 
 which the balmy humid air of spring breathed, she 
 said, — 
 
 " See, Oriana, how thy woodbine grows ! Soon, 
 its young blossoms will lift their heads, and look at 
 thee throush the window." 
 
OKI AN A. 167 
 
 " Let it remind thee of me, kind mother. May its 
 fragrance be soothing to thee, as thy tenderness has 
 been, to my lone heart." 
 
 Again there was silence. And then the hoary 
 warrior, raising his head from his bosom, where it 
 had declined, spoke, in a voice which as he proceed- 
 ed, grew more audible and calm, — 
 
 " Daughter, I understand thee. I am glad, that 
 thou hast spoken thy mind to us. Yet is my heart 
 now weak, as that of an infant, — the heart that in 
 battle hath never trembled, or swerved. My daugh- 
 ter, Zachary could lie down in his own grave, and 
 not shudder. Yet his soul is soft, when he sees one 
 so young and fair, withering like the rose, which the 
 hidden worm eateth. He hath desired to look on 
 thy brow, during the short space that remaineth for 
 him on earth. Every night, he hath prayed to the 
 Eternal, that his ears might continue to hear the 
 music of thy voice. He wished to have something 
 to love, that should not be like himself, an old tree, 
 stripped of its branches, and mouldering at the root. 
 But he must humble his heart. Thou hast read to 
 him from the holy and blessed Book, that God giveth 
 grace unto the humble. He hath asked with tears, 
 in the silence of midnight, for that salvation through 
 Christ, of which thou hast told him. Yet, to whom 
 will he and Martha turn, when thou art no longer 
 here ? Who will kindly lead their steps to the tree 
 of life ? Ask I what we shall do, as if we had yet 
 a hundred years to dwell below ? Soon shall we 
 sleep in the grave, to which thou art hastening." 
 
16S ORIANA. 
 
 " Whither I go, ye know," said the same sweet, 
 solemn voice, — " and the way ye know. Trust in 
 Him, whom ye have beheved. Like me, ye must 
 slumber in the dust ; His power shall raise us all, 
 at the last day. The Eternal, in whose sight, shades 
 of complexion and distinctions of rank are nothing, 
 He, who looketh only upon the heart, guide us where 
 we shall be sundered no more." 
 
 Laying her hand upon a small bible, which was 
 ever near her, Martha arose to bring the lamp, 
 that she might as usual read to them, before re- 
 
 tn*mg. 
 
 " It is in vain, mother," she said, with a lamb-like 
 smile. I may not now say with thee, our evening 
 prayer. But let us lift up our hearts to Him who 
 heareth, when the weak lips can only utter sighs." 
 
 Then, as if regretting that they should separate 
 for the night, without mingling in devotion, she re- 
 peated with deep pathos, a few passages from the 
 beloved disciple, — 
 
 " ' Let not your heart be troubled : ye believe in 
 God, believe also in me. In my father's house are 
 many mansions.' " 
 
 The warrior, rising to take his leave, laid his hand 
 gently upon her head, and pronounced his customa- 
 ry paternal benediction : — 
 
 " The Great Spirit, who dwelleth where the Sun 
 hideth himself, and where the tempest is born, gird 
 thee with strength. He who maketh the earth green, 
 and the heart of man glad, smile on thee, and bless 
 thy slumbers." 
 
ORIANA. 1^'-^ 
 
 Martha remained, to render her usual attentions 
 to the sufferer. She dared not trust her voice be- 
 yond a whisper, lest it should wholly yield to her 
 emotions. Still, after her services were completed, 
 she lingered, unwilling to leave the object of her 
 
 care. , . 
 
 " Mother," said a faint voice, " kind, tender mo- 
 ther go to thy rest. Oriana hath now no pam. 
 Sleep will descend upon her. She feels that she 
 shall not leave thee this night. But soon she must 
 beo-in her journey to the land of souls. She hath 
 hope in her death, to pass from darkness to eternal 
 sunshine. Weep not, blessed mother. Lift thy 
 heart to the God of consolation. I believe that 
 whither I go, thou shalt come also. I shall return 
 no more. Thou, and thy beloved, shall come unto 
 me. There will be scarcely time to mourn ; for, like 
 the gliding of a shadow, shall the parents follow the 
 child of their adoption." 
 
 A smile so celestial was on the brow of her who 
 spoke, that it would have cheered the heart ot the 
 aged woman, but for the afflicting consciousness, 
 that she must soon behold it no more. 
 
 The ensuing day, the summoned clergyman 
 sought the settlement of the natives, and entered the 
 houle of Zachary and Martha. He received their 
 respectful salutations with benignity, and seemed 
 struck with the exceeding beauty of the stranger- 
 guest. After a conversation, in which he was con- 
 vinced of her religious education, correct belief, and 
 
 P 
 
170 
 
 ORIANA. 
 
 happy spiritual state, he prepared to administer the 
 rite which she had desired. Beckoning to her side 
 the old warrior and his wife, she said, — 
 
 " These are Christians. They were baptised, 
 many years since, by Mr. Occum, their absent min- 
 ister. I can bear witness, that they know and love 
 the truth. May they not join in this holy ordinance, 
 to the edification of their souls ?" 
 
 The clergyman, regarding them steadfastly, in- 
 quired, — 
 
 " Are ye in perfect charity with all men ?" 
 
 Bowing himself down, the aged man replied, so- 
 lemnly, — 
 
 " We are. — The religion of Jesus Christ hath 
 taught even us, Indians, to forgive our enemies." 
 
 They kneeled around the bed. The stately war- 
 rior, whose temples had been whitened by the snows 
 of time, and the storms of war, humbled himself as 
 the weaned child. The red-browed woman, whose 
 tears flowed incessantly, was not able to turn her 
 eyes from that fading flower, which she had shelter- 
 ed, and which she loved, as if it had sprung from 
 her own wild soil. But the beautiful being for whose 
 sake these sacred services were thus performed, was 
 calm and untroubled as the lake, on which nothing 
 save the beam of heaven hath ever shone. Raised 
 above earthly fears and hopes, she seemed to have 
 a foretaste of the consummation that awaited her. 
 The heart of the man of God was touched. His 
 voice faltered as he pronounced the closing bene- 
 
jORIANA. 171 
 
 diction, and a tear starting to his mild eye, attested 
 the accordance of his soul with the sympathies of the 
 
 scene. 
 
 A brief pause ensued. Each was fearful of inter- 
 rupting the meditations of the other. Like the guests 
 at some celestial banquet, earth, and the things of 
 earth, seemed emptiness to the sublimated spirit. 
 She dreads too suddenly to efface the brightness 
 which has gathered around her, and which like the 
 witness on the brow of Moses, descending from the 
 mount, proves communion with the Eternal. 
 
 To the inquiry of the departing clergyman, in 
 what way he might impart temporal comfort, or 
 whether the visits of a physician were not desirable, 
 Oriana replied, — 
 
 " T have no want, but what these kind and watch- 
 ful beings tenderly supply. Their knowledge of 
 medicine is considerable, and they prepare with skill, 
 soothing and assuasive remedies, drawn from that 
 earth, to whose bosom I am hastening. With the 
 nature of my disease, I am acquainted. I saw all 
 its variations in my mother, for whom every exer- 
 tion of professional skill was fruitless. I feel upon 
 my heart, a cold hand. Whither it is leading me, I 
 know. To you. Sir, I shall look for those spiritual 
 consolations, which are all that my brief earthly pil- 
 grimage covets. W^hen my ear is closed to the sound 
 of other voices, speak to me of my Redeemer, and 
 the eye that is dim in death, shall once more bright- 
 en, to bless you." 
 
] 72 ORIAXA. 
 
 Zachary and ■Martha poured forth, with the t'lo- 
 quence of the heart, their thanks to the servant of 
 peace and consolation. Even the skirts of his gar- 
 ments were dear to them, since he had thus impart- 
 ed comfort to tlie object of their affections. 
 
 Exhausted in body, but confirmed in faith, Oriana 
 awaited her dissolution. Such was the wastinsf of 
 her frame, that she seemed like a li2;ht essence, 
 trembhng, and ready to be exhaled. Every morn- 
 ing, she requested the casement to be raised, that the 
 fresh air might visit her. It came, loaded with the 
 perfume of those flowers, which she was to nurture 
 no more. But what was at first sought as a plea- 
 sure, became necessary to aid the struo-crles of labo- 
 rious respiration. The couch became her constant 
 refuge. The debility of that fearful disease, whicii, 
 delighting to feed on the most exquisite food, selects 
 for its victims the fair and excellent, increased to an 
 almost insupportable degree. A tranquil loveliness 
 sat upon her features, occasionally brightening into 
 joy, like one who felt that " redemption draweth 
 nigh." 
 
 One night, sleep had not visited her eyes. When- 
 ever her senses inclined to its transient sway, the 
 spirit revolted against it as oppression, anticipating 
 the approaching delights of that region, where it 
 should slumber no more throuo-h fullness of bliss. 
 
 Calling to her bed-side, at the dawn of morning, 
 the aged warrior, for her mother had not quitted her 
 room for several nights, she said, — 
 
ORIANA. 173 
 
 " Knowest thou, father, thcat I am now to leave 
 thee 1" 
 
 Fixing his keen glance on her for a moment, and 
 kneeling at her side, he answered, — 
 
 " Daughter, I know it. Thy blue eye hath al- 
 ready the light of that sky, whither thou art ascend- 
 ing. Thy brow is bright with the smile of the angels 
 who wait for thee." 
 
 Martha covered her face with her hands and hid 
 it on the couch, fearful lest she might see the agony 
 of one so beloved. Yet she fixed on those pale fea- 
 tures, one more long, tender, sorrowing gaze, as the 
 expiring voice uttered — 
 
 " I go, where is no shade of complexion, no tear 
 of mourning. I go to my parents, who died in faith, 
 — to my husband, whose hope was in his Redeemer. 
 I shall see thy daughter, and she will be my sister, 
 v/here all is love. Father ! — Mother ! — that God 
 whom you have learned to worship, whose spirit 
 dwells in your hearts, will guide you thither, also." 
 
 She paused, and gasped painfully for breath, as 
 if to add more. Then, extending to each a hand 
 cold as marble, she faintly whispered, — 
 
 " I was a stranger, and ye took me in : — sick, and 
 ye ministered unto me. And now, blessing you, I 
 go unto Him, who hath said, the ' merciful shall 
 obtain mercy.' He will remember your love to her 
 who had none to pity." 
 
 They felt that the chilling clasp of her fingers 
 relaxed. They saw that her lips moved inaudibly. 
 
 P2 
 
 ^■'^-- gwr ' >«> i n w^gg-^.-^-.*^ 
 
174 
 
 ORIANA. 
 
 They knew, by the upraised glance of her glazed 
 eye, that she spoke to Hun who was receiving her 
 to himself. A smile, not to be described, gleamed 
 like a ray of sunshine over her countenance. Bend- 
 ing over her pillow, they heard the words, — "joy 
 unspeakable, and full of glory." Something more 
 was breathed inarticulately. But she closed not the 
 sentence : — it urns finished in Heaven ! 
 
 Deep silence settled over the apartment of the 
 dead, save the sobs of the bereaved Martha, and at 
 long intervals a sigh, as if rending the breast of the 
 aged warrior. At length, he spoke with a tremulous 
 and broken tone, — 
 
 " She was as the sun to our path. Hath she faded 
 behind the dark mountains ? No, — she hath arisen 
 to brighter skies. Beams of her ]io;ht will sometimes 
 visit and cheer us. Thou hast wept for two daugh- 
 ters, Martha. One, thou didst nurse upon thy breast. 
 But was she dearer than this ? AVas not the child 
 of our adoption, near to thy heart, as she to whom 
 thou gavest life ? Henceforth, we can be made child- 
 less no more. Let us dry up the fountain of our 
 tears, lest they displease the God to whom she hath 
 ascended." 
 
 The day seemed of interminable length to the 
 afflicted pair. Long accustomed to measure time by 
 the varieties of solicitude, the loss of that sole object 
 of their care, gave the tardy hours an almost insup- 
 portable weight. Towards evening, the clergyman 
 who, since the administration of the communion to 
 
ORIANA. 175 
 
 Oriana, had repeatedly visited her, was seen to ap- 
 proach. Zachary hastened to meet him. The agi- 
 tation which had so long marked his countenance, 
 with anxiety for the sufferer, had passed away, and 
 he resumed his native cahnness and dignity of de- 
 meanor. His deportment seemed an illustration of 
 the words of the king of Israel, when his child was 
 
 smitten, — 
 
 " He is dead. Wherefore should I mourn 1 Can 
 I bring him back again ? I shall go to him, but he 
 shall not return to me." 
 
 Bowing down to the man of God, he said, — 
 
 " She, whom thou seekest, is not here. She is 
 risen. She went her way, ere the sun looked upon 
 the morning. Come, see the place where she lay." 
 
 Departing from that distance of respect, bordering 
 upon awe, which he had hitherto testified to the guide 
 of Oriana, he took him by the hand, and led him to 
 her apartment, as if he felt that in the house of 
 death, all distinctions were levelled, all ranks made 
 equal. There lay the lifeless form, in unchanged 
 beauty. Profuse curls shaded with their rich and 
 glossy hue, the pure oval forehead, which bore no 
 furrow of care, nor trace of pain. It seemed as if 
 the exquisite symmetry of those chiselled features, 
 had never been perfectly revealed but by the hand 
 of death. The long, silken eye-lashes lay in pro- 
 found repose, and it was thrilling even to awe, to 
 gaze upon that surpassing loveliness, rendered more 
 sacred by having so peacefully past the last dread 
 ordeal. 
 
] 
 
 ^o 
 
 (C 
 
 ORIA^'A. 
 
 It is finished," said the divine, but no tear start- 
 ed to his placid eye. He believed, that if there is 
 joy in heaven among the angels, over one sinner 
 that repenteth, there should be, at least, resignation 
 on earth, when a saint is admitted to their glorious 
 company. He kneeled in prayer with the mourners, 
 and spoke kind words of comfort to them, as to his 
 brethren, and made arrangements with them, that 
 the remains of their beloved one might rest in con- 
 secrated earth. 
 
 Three days elapsed, and the scene changed to the 
 burial-ground in Norwich, where a few forms, seen 
 indistinctly through drooping shades, were watching 
 the arrival of some funeral train. 
 
 Perhaps, amid that musing group, were some re- 
 cent mourners, who felt their wounds bleed afresh, at 
 the sight of an open grave. Some parent might be 
 there, lingering in agony over the newly-covered bed 
 of his child ; some daughter, kneeling to kiss the 
 green turf on the breast of her mother ; some lover, 
 passionately weeping over the ruins of the fondest 
 hope. How many varieties of grief had that nar- 
 row spot witnessed, since it cast its heavy mantle 
 over the head of its first tenant ! How many hearts 
 had there laid the cherished roses of their bower, 
 and passed the remainder of their withering pilgrim- 
 age beneath the cloud ! And with those mournful 
 recollections, did no pang of compunction mingle ? 
 Can affection always say, when it lays its idol in the 
 tomb, that there is on Memory's tablet no trace that 
 
 
ORIANA. ^'7' 
 
 she would fain expunge 1-no act of tenderness un- 
 returned]— no debt of gratitude uncancelled ?— no 
 kind word left unspoken ?-no heaven-prompted 
 intention unfulfilled ] Amid that pensive tram, was 
 there no unhappy heart, where the thorn of con- 
 science must rankle, after the wound of God's visita- 
 tion had healed ? 
 
 Others too might have wandered there, irom whose 
 bosoms the corrosion of sorrow had been easily ef- 
 faced, whose determination to " go down to the grave, 
 to the lost one, mourning," had yielded to the eager 
 pursuit of other pleasures,— whose once desolated 
 shrine resounded with the worship of some new 
 image, proving that there is nothing unchangeable 
 in man, save his tendency to change. 
 
 Yet of whatever nature were the reflections of the 
 train that thus circled the " cold turf-altar of the 
 dead," they were interrupted by the approach of a 
 funeral procession. Next to the bier, walked those 
 whom the rite of adoption had made parents, the 
 settled D-rief of whose countenances seemed as if 
 deploring the loss of a first-born. Partaking in 
 their sorrow, and desirous of paying the last offices 
 of respect to the departed, almost the whole tribe 
 had gathered, walking two and two, with solemn and 
 dejected countenances. There was something un- 
 speakably affecting: in the mourning of that heart- 
 broken mce for the fallen stranger. Strangers 
 themselves, in the land that was once their own, their 
 humbled spirits seemed in unison with the sad scene, 
 
178 ORIANA. 
 
 and with the open grave. Indeed, every heart seem- 
 ed touched with peculiar sympathy, at this burial, 
 in foreign earth, of the lone, — the young and the 
 beautiful, — 
 
 "By strangers honor'il, and by strangers mourn'd." 
 
 At the close of the obsequies, the clergyman drew 
 near to the aged warrior. His few silver locks waved in 
 the light summer breeze, and his eyes, intently fixed 
 upon the new-covered grave, were red and tearless. 
 Roused by affectionate v/ords, he replied, but ab- 
 stractedly, and as speaking to himself, — " She told 
 us of the resurrection, and of Him who is the truth 
 and the life." Martha, taking with reverence the 
 hand that was offered her, placed a small packet in 
 it, and said — " She left this for you ; and she bless- 
 ed you, when the cold dew stood on her forehead, 
 like rain-drops." 
 
 After his return to his habitation, the clergyman 
 perused with deep interest, the parting bequest of 
 Oriana. 
 
 " You have expressed a wish, my dear and reve- 
 rend benefactor, for a more minute detail of my his- 
 tory, than my weakness has permitted me orally to 
 impart. I will, therefore, recount with my pen some 
 of its particulars, to meet your eye when my own 
 shall be closed in dust. It will then be time to lift 
 the veil of mystery, when I can no longer be pained 
 by the curiosity of strangers, nor affected by their 
 opinion. 
 
 " You, Sir, have without suspicion reposed confi- 
 
ORIANA. 1 '^^ 
 
 dcnce in the imperfect narrative which has been in- 
 trusted to you. You have not, as the cold-hearted 
 multitude might have done, wounded with the cruel- 
 ty of distrust, a heart long sinking beneath the visi- 
 tation of God. You will not now believe, that a 
 spirit nurtured in the love of truth, could use subter- 
 fuge or guile, when on the threshold of His presence, 
 who ' hateth every false way.' 
 
 " I am a native of England, and of respectable, 
 though not wealthy parentage. Among my first, 
 and most agonizing remembrances, is the death of 
 my father. Our residence was in a neat and retired 
 cottage, where my mother solaced her early widow- 
 hood, by an entire devotion to my welfare. Her 
 education had been superior to what is usually found 
 among those of our rank, and she led me almost in 
 infancy to prize intellectual pleasures. I can scarce- 
 ly imagine a lot, more congenial with happiness than 
 our own. Our income was adequate to every want, 
 and that industry which preserved health, gave us 
 also the power of administering to the necessities 
 of others. When my daily tasks were accomplish- 
 ed, my recreations were to tend my flowers, to read, 
 converse, or walk with my mother, in the romantic 
 country that surrounded us, or to join my voice to 
 the birds that warbled near our habitation. To men- 
 tal cultivation, my affectionate parent added the 
 most assiduous religious instruction, and to the bless- 
 ing of the Holy Spirit on her guidance, do I impute 
 it,'that the foundation of my faith was so strongly 
 laid, as not to fail me now, in my hour of trial. 
 
=s=^ 
 
 160 ORIAA'A. 
 
 "Forgive me, for lingering a little longer, around 
 this bower of my happiness. It was the Eden of 
 my existence. It was also the birth-place of my 
 love. Here the strongest ardor of a young and sus- 
 ceptible heart awoke, and was reciprocated. The 
 ruling sentiment of my nature, and one of its ear- 
 liest developments, was a desire for knowledge. 
 To this, our restricted resources interposed a bar- 
 rier. It was the only alloy of my felicity. How 
 could I therefore but highly appreciate the acquaint- 
 ance of a man of refined education, — of splendid 
 talents, well balanced by correspondent attainments 
 and sublimated piety 1 He brought me books to 
 which I had no other means of access, and by his 
 eloquent explanations made the dim ages of remote 
 history, vivid and alluring. He took pleasure in 
 guiding my mind through the paths of science and 
 literature, with which his own was familiar, — in in- 
 troducing it to unbounded regions of thought, and in 
 tracing its delighted astonishment, when new truths 
 burst upon it in beauty, and in power. To me, he 
 seemed as a benevolent and glorious spirit, striving 
 to elevate an inferior being to his own high intellec- 
 tual sphere. So strong and pervading was this en- 
 thusiasm, that I did not imagine that the youth and 
 grace of my instructor had any agency in creating 
 It. Love stole upon my simplicity in the guise of 
 wisdom, and I was his disciple while I believed my- 
 self only the worshipper of Minerva. It was also 
 evident, that he who had opened to my enraptured 
 
ORIANA. ISl 
 
 view, the world of letters, loved the mind which he 
 had himself adorned ; like him, of ancient fable, who, 
 imparting fire from heaven to an inert mass, became 
 
 its adorer. 
 
 " Authorized by maternal sanction, in cherishing 
 this new affection, every day heightened its ardor, 
 and every night I thanked my father in heaven, with 
 exuberant gratitude, for the fullness of my joy. In 
 the enthusiasm of my attachment, I regretted that 
 the rank and fortune of my lover were so superior 
 to my own, and wished for the power of proving by 
 some severe sacrifice the disinterested spirit of my 
 affection. 
 
 " But clouds were impending over the brightened 
 scene. My mother's health declined. It was in vain 
 that she strove to conceal from me the symptoms 
 of that insidious and fatal disease which is now lead- 
 ing her daughter to the tomb. I watched in agony 
 the struggles of a pure spirit, disengaging itself 
 from clay. Even now, I think I hear her sweet, 
 broken voice, saying to me, — ' I leave you, not to 
 the bitterness of orphanage, but to the protection of 
 one who loves, and is beloved by, the orphan's God.' 
 The stream of life flowed on so placidly, when about 
 to join the ocean of Eternity, that we dreaded by 
 any turbid mixture of earth to disturb its purity, or 
 interrupt its repose. We therefore forbore to men- 
 tion to her the opposition to our union, which had 
 arisen on the part of his father, whose pride repelled 
 the thought of such alliance with a cottager. Find- 
 
 Q 
 
iS2 ORIANA. 
 
 ing, in this case, a departure from the implicit obe 
 dience that he had heretofore received, he resorted 
 to threats, and to unkindness. His sudden death, 
 which took place just before that of my mother, con- 
 firmed the truth of his menaces, by disinheritance. 
 To me, this patrimonial exclusion scarcely bore a 
 feature of adversity ; since it permitted the proof 
 that mercenary motives had no agency in my love. 
 Even the intelligence at which I should once have 
 shuddered, that his only resource was to join +he 
 army under Lord Cornwallis, then in America, was 
 received with scarcely a pang ; for I felt that my oft- 
 repeated wis^, to evince the strength of my affection 
 by the sacrifices it was capable of enduring, might 
 now be fulfilled. 
 
 "The holy service of the altar, my sainted mo- 
 ther's obsequies, and the farewell to our cottage, fol- 
 lowed each other in such rapid succession, that, lost 
 in a bewildering dream, I seemed incapable of fully 
 realizing either. Yet methought, our peaceful re- 
 treat had never worn so many charms, as at the 
 moment of quitting it for ever. Its roses and wood- 
 bines displayed all their freshness, breathed all their 
 frag-rance. The surrounding lawn was like the 
 richest velvet, and the birds whom I had loved as 
 companions, poured from the verdant branches, mu- 
 sic too joyous for a parting strain. The records of 
 childhood's deep happiness were still vivid wherever 
 1 turned, for my seventeenth birth-day had scarcely 
 past. Every path, where a departed mother's step 
 
C;Q 
 
 ORIAXA. Ibo 
 
 had trod, — every haunt which her taste had decor- 
 ated, — every vine that her hand had trained, spoke 
 to me in the voioe of deep, tender, hngering affec- 
 tion. Once, I should have exclaimed, with a hurst 
 of bitter weeping, — ' And m.ust I leave thee. Pa- 
 radise V But I went without a tear. He, who was 
 all the world to me, was by my side. His arm sup- 
 ported me, and methought all paths were alike, and 
 every thorn pointless, to one thus sustained. Me- 
 thouorht, I could be a homeless wanderer over earth's 
 face, and murmur not. 
 
 " Iwill not detain you, reverend sir, with the de- 
 tails of our voyage, or the privations of a life spent 
 in camps. Like the servitude of the patriarch, whose 
 seven years were measured by love, they seemed to 
 me as nothin^r. Yet during^ the conflicts which oc- 
 curred in fields of blood, my wretchedness was in- 
 expressible, it was then that, imploring protection 
 for my husband, I first understood what is meant 
 by the ' agony of prayer.' He was ambitious to stand 
 foremost in the ranks of danger, and his valor gain- 
 ed him promotion. When called by his duty to posts 
 of peril, and I besought him to be careful of life, 
 for my sake, he would reply with that firm piety 
 which ever characterized him ; ' Is not my protector 
 the God of battles 1 is he not, also, the God of the 
 widow V 
 
 " But from the scenery of war, I have ever shrunk. 
 And now my trembling hand and fluttering heart 
 admonish me to be brief. Seldom has one who pos- 
 
184 ORIAiVA 
 
 sessed such a native aversion to all the varieties of 
 strife, such an instinctive horror at the effusion of 
 blood, been appointed to share the fortunes of war. 
 During the investment of Yorktown, in the autumn 
 of 1781, my husband was almost constantly divided 
 from, me, by the duties of his station. Even the 
 minutest scenes of that eventful period, are graven 
 on my memory, as with the point of a diamond, 
 
 " The affairs of the English army, every day as- 
 sumed a more gloomy and ominous aspect. The 
 ships of France, anchored at the mouth of York 
 river, prevented our receiving supplies through that 
 channel, or aid from Sir Henry Clinton, who, in 
 New- York, anxiously awaited our destiny. Despair 
 sat on the countenance of Cornwallis ; and Tarlqton, 
 who had hitherto poured his intrepid soul into the 
 enterprise, was suffering dejection from a painful 
 wound. The fortifications of the allied French and 
 Americans were every day brought nearer to us. 
 They spread themselves in the form of a crescent, 
 cutting off our communication with the adjacent 
 country. The last night of my residence in that 
 fatal spot, I was peculiarly distressed with fears for 
 my sole earthly stay. I ascended to the roof of the 
 house, to take an unbroken view of that glorious 
 firmament, which had so often led my soul from the 
 woes of earth, to contemplations of heaven. But the 
 thunder of a terrible cannonade riveted my attention 
 to terrestrial scenes. The whole peninsula seemed 
 to tremble, beneath the en^n'ncry of war. Bombs, 
 
ORIANA. 1S5 
 
 from the batteries of both armies, were continually 
 crossing each other's path. Like meteors, their 
 luminous trains traversed the skies, with awful sub- 
 limity. — Sometimes, I heard a sound, as of the 
 hissing of a thousand serpents, when in their fall 
 they excavated the earth, and rent in atoms what- 
 ever opposed them. Once, I saw severed and man- 
 gled limbs from the British armaments thrown high 
 into the air, by their explosion. I fancied a groan 
 of agony in the voice that I loved, and listened till 
 sensation forsook me. 
 
 Suddenly a column of flame arose from the bo- 
 som of the river. It was of ineffable brightness. 
 Methought, even the waters fed it, and it spread 
 wider, and ascended higher and higher, as if doubt- 
 ful whether first to enfold the earth, or the heavens. 
 Two smaller furnaces burst forth near it, breathing, 
 like their terrible parent, intense fires, beautiful and 
 dreadful. I gazed, till the waters glowed in one daz- 
 zling expanse, and I knew not but the Almighty, in 
 wrath at the wickedness of man, was about to kindle 
 around him an ocean of flame, as he once whelmed 
 him with a delude of waters. 
 
 " But nothing could hush the incessant roar of 
 those engines of death. I wondered if man would 
 continue to pursue his brother, with unrelenting ha- 
 tred, even to the conflagration of the day of doom ? 
 When the influence of an excited imagination had 
 subsided, I discovered that this splendid and awful 
 
 pageant was the burnins^ of the Charon, one of our 
 
 Q2 
 
166 ORIANA. 
 
 lofty ships of war, with two smaller vessels, at an- 
 chor in the river, which had taken fire from the 
 French battery. 
 
 " Chilled by the dampness of the night air, I de- 
 scended from my post ofobservation, and threw my- 
 self on my sleepless couch. My health had long suf- 
 fered for want of exercise in the open air, from which 
 I was precluded by the impossibility of having the 
 company and protection of my husband. At the 
 close of the ensuing day, he was dismissed for a 
 time from military duty, and entered his apartmentc 
 It was on Sunday, — October 14th, — misery has 
 stamped the date indelibly on my soul. He proposed 
 a walk, to which I gladly assented, and mentioned 
 as the safest means of prolonging if to any consider- 
 able length, in streets thronged with soldiers, a wish 
 that I should array myself in a suit of his military 
 apparel. Yielding to his reasoning, I assumed this 
 disguise, and we pressed onward, admiring the au- 
 tumn scenery, which in the American climate is so 
 peculiarly brilliant. We indulged in discourse, which 
 selected from the past the most soothing recollec- 
 tions, and gilded the future with the illusions of hope. 
 We followed the course of the fortifications, until 
 unconsciously we had passed our last redoubt. Sud- 
 denly, we heard the trampling of many feet. The 
 uniform of the French and Americans was the next 
 moment visible through the trees that skirted our 
 path. My husband had scarcely time to draw his 
 sword, Pre a volley of shot wns poured upon us- A 
 
ORIANA. 1S7 
 
 bullet pierced his breast, and he fell lifeless by my 
 side. I fell with him, senseless as himself. I reco- 
 vered from my swoon, only to mourn that I sur- 
 vived, and to feel more than the bitterness of death. 
 
 " Sometimes I imagined that he returned the pres- 
 sure of my hand ; but it was only the trickling of 
 his blood through my own. Again, I fancied that 
 he sighed ; but it was the breath of the hollow wind 
 through the reeds where his head lay. I heard the 
 horrible uproar of the war, in the neighboring re- 
 doubts, — the roar of cannon, — the clash of arms, — 
 the cry of the combatants. I knew that the enemy 
 were near. But I attempted not to fly. What had 
 I to lose ? — What more remained to me 1 — That one 
 dead body, was my all the world. — 1 fell upon it. — 
 1 supplicated to be made like unto it. 
 
 " A band of men rushed by, speaking in uncouth 
 tones. I knew that they were savages. Then I 
 wished to escape, to hide myself. Yet, but a moment 
 before, like him who despaired for his smitten gourd, 
 I had exclaimed, — ' Take now away my life, I pray 
 thee ; for it is better for me to die than to live.' Sud- 
 denly they discovered, and made me their captive. 
 I expected to have been borne to the American camp. 
 But they continued to travel throughout the night. 
 From their conversation I learned that two redoubts 
 had been stormed by the French and Americans, 
 with desperate valor. This was the daring action, 
 in which La Fayette led on the Americans, and De 
 Viomenil the French, and whicli preceded but four 
 
 L 
 
188 ORIANA. 
 
 days the surrender of Cornwallis. The party by 
 v,-hom my husband had fallen, was the advance-guard, 
 under Colonel Hamilton, and I was the prisoner of 
 a small number of Indians, headed by a Delaware 
 chief. It seemed that they were connected with 
 some embassy sent to discover the state of affairs at 
 Yorktown, and were not personally engaged in this 
 rencounter. Thus was I at the mercy of beings, at 
 whom I had ever shuddered as the most savage of 
 mankind. I followed them as we roam in some ter- 
 rible dream, when motion is without volition, and 
 consciousness is misery. Stupified with grief, my 
 mind was for many days inadequate to the full sense 
 of its wretchedness. My captors, so far from testi- 
 fying the brutality that I had feared, were attentive 
 to my wants, and, in some degree, studious of my 
 comfort. I exerted myself to endure hardship as 
 unshrinkingly as possible, dreading lest they should 
 suspect my disguise ; but they referred my compar- 
 ative weakness to the effects of a civilization which 
 they decried, and occasionally satirized the effemi- 
 nacy of British officers. 
 
 " When I began to arouse from the stupor which 
 the whelming torrent of my afflictions had caused, 
 a dreadful apprehension took possession of my mind. 
 I imagined that they were guarding my life with such 
 care, in order to make me the victim of their savage 
 torture. This terror obtained predominance over 
 my o-rief. When I lay down to sleep in the forests, 
 wrapped closely in my blanket, and surrounded by 
 
ORIANA. 1S9 
 
 those rugged and red-browed warriors, though 
 wearied to exhaustion with the travel of the day, no 
 slumber visited me. Plans of escape occupied every 
 night ; yet every day revealed their impracticability. 
 During this season of excitement, I was scarcely 
 sensible of fatigue. My strength more than equalled 
 the labor imposed ; so much is the mind able to rule 
 its terrestrial companion. 
 
 " I observed that my captors, in their journey, 
 avoided the more populous settlements, and seemed 
 to regard the whites either as intruders, or doubtful 
 friends. On their arrival at a large town in Penn- 
 sylvania, they directed me to pass through the sub- 
 urbs with a guard of four men, evidently fearing 
 that some facility of escape might be afforded, if I 
 attracted the notice of strangers. Those who enter- 
 ed the town, rejoined us with demonstrations of ex- 
 travagant joy, bringing news that the surrender of 
 Cornwallis had taken place on the 18th of October, 
 and that peace was confidently expected. Pressing 
 on with unusual rapidity, they prepared to pass the 
 night within the borders of an extensive forest. Here 
 they kindled a fire, and conversed long in their own 
 .anguage. Their gestures became violent, and their 
 eyes were often bent on me, with an expression of 
 savage fierceness. 
 
 " At length, louder words, as of conflict, arose 
 between the Mohegans and Delawares, of which the 
 company was composed. I believed that the strife 
 was respecting the question of torture, and that my 
 
 I 
 
190 ORIANA. 
 
 hour had come. An aged warrior of the ibrmer tribe 
 sat sohtary, and taking no part in the contest, but 
 observing its progress with extreme attention. He 
 avoided the spirituous hquors, with which the others 
 were becoming inflamed, as if reserving himself t"or 
 action in some critical juncture. I thought that he 
 had heretofore regarded me with pitying eyes, and I 
 said mentally, Is it possible that heaven will raise me 
 up a friend, among savages ? I remembered that he 
 was called Arrowhamet, and was respected for 
 courage and wisdom. When the conflict grew vio- 
 lent, he arose and approached the Delaware chief- 
 tain. During their conversation, which was grave 
 and earnest, both parties preserved silence. When 
 they separated, the Delawares murmured hoarsely. 
 But their chief silenced them with the simple argu- 
 ment, — 
 
 " ' Arrowhamet is old. — He hath fought bravely. 
 His temples are white as the snows of the Allegha- 
 ny. — Young men must submit to the warrior who 
 weareth the crown of time.' 
 
 " They commenced their war-dance, and in its 
 maddening excitement, and the fumes of intoxication, 
 merged the chagrin of their disappointment. It was 
 past midnight, ere they lay down to sleep. When 
 all around was silent, Arrowhamet spoke in a low 
 tone. He urged me to compose my mind, and be 
 at rest, assuring m.e that the danger was past. It 
 was impossible for me to And repose. 1 saw also 
 that my aged guardian slept not. His eyes were 
 
ORIANA. 191 
 
 raised upward, as if contemplating the Maker of that 
 majestic arch, where a few stars faintly beamed. 
 Can it be, said I silently, that an Indian thinks of 
 God ? Ah ! I knew not then, of what deep devotion 
 their souls were susceptible. 
 
 " Judo-e, with what fearful consternation, I was 
 startled from my reverie, by hearing Arrowhamet 
 pronounce the name of Oriana ! Breathless with 
 emotion, I was unable to reply, and he proceeded, — 
 
 "'Wherefore fearest thou to sleep? — Thou art 
 redeemed from death. — No evil shall touch thee. — 
 Believe what the old warrior hath spoken, and rest 
 in peace.' 
 
 " ' Why do you call me Oriana V T inquired, trem- 
 bling with astonishment. 
 
 " ' Didst thou think that the eye of Arrowhamet 
 was too dim to read thy brow?— his heart so old, as 
 to forget the hand that had given him bread V 
 
 " ' Am I then known to your companions, also?' 
 I asked. 
 
 " « No thought save mine hath comprehended thee. 
 To all other eyes, thy disguise is truth. My breast 
 shall be as the bars of the grave to my secret.' 
 
 " « How have you obtained this knowledge ? and 
 what words did you speak about my having given 
 
 you food?' 
 
 " « I knew that face,' he answered tenderly, ' when 
 the torches first gleamed upon it, amid the shouts 
 of war. It was deadly pale. But how could I for- 
 get the face of her, that had given me bread ? Thou 
 
— ■%'- 
 
 192 ORIANA. 
 
 sayest, when have I fed thee ? So will the righteous 
 ask of their Lord, at the last day. Thou writest the 
 traces of thy bounty in tlie sand. But the famished 
 prisoner graveth them in the rock for ever. I was 
 with the men of Colonel Buford, on the waters of 
 the Santee river, when out of four hundred, scarcely 
 a fv)urth part escaped the sword of Tarleton. I saw 
 an hundred hands of brave men raised to implore 
 mercy. The next moment they were stricken off 
 by the sabres of the horsemen who trampled on their 
 bodies. But why tell I thee tales of blood, whose 
 heart is as tender as that of the weaned infant? I 
 have said, that a few were saved. With them, I 
 went into captivity. Some pined away, and died in 
 their sorrows. Seventeen moons have since looked 
 upon their graves. Rememberest thou an old Indian, 
 who once leaned against a tree, near thy tent ? He 
 .eaned there, because he was weak, and his flesh 
 wasted by famine. He asked not for bread. Yet 
 ihou savest it to him. And so, thou remember- 
 est him not ? — Well ! — Thou canst never forget 
 the youth who stood beside thee, in the door of thy 
 tent. His voice was like the flutes of his own coun- 
 try, when he said, Oriana. But how did I see him 
 next? His beautiful forehead was cold, and his 
 noble breast red with his own blood. I saw thee, 
 also. Thou wert as one dead. But I could not bo 
 mistaken in the hand that had given me bread. I 
 determined to take thee from my people, that I might 
 feed thee when thou didst hunger, and be thy staff 
 
ORIANA. 193 
 
 when thou wert weary. For this have I labored. 
 My desire is accomplished, and thou art safe from 
 
 harm.' 
 
 " 'Was I then right, in supposing myself desti^ned 
 
 to the torture V 
 
 « * The chief had promised that this night, his peo- 
 ple should avenge on thee, their young men, who 
 had been slain in battle. The Delawares were bent 
 upon thy death. Their eyes were fierce, and their 
 brows wrathful, that I rescued thee. It was with 
 difficulty, that thou wert delivered. The Indian is 
 taught to submit to the hoary head. But they con- 
 tinually replied,—' Our mightiest have fallen before 
 the warriors of his country. Two sons of our Sa- 
 chem were cut in pieces by their swords. The blood 
 of the brave cries for vengeance. If it is not ap- 
 peased by the death of this man, ere the rising of 
 the dawn, will not their souls frown on us for 
 
 ever?'" 
 
 " ' But how were you able to overrule their pur- 
 pose?' — Hesitating for a moment, he replied, — 
 
 " ' The natives of this country have a custom, of 
 
 which thou art ignorant. He who is deprived of a 
 
 near relative, in battle, or by disease, is permitted to 
 
 fill the void, from among the prisoners of war, or 
 
 the victims of torture. This is the rite of adoption. 
 
 It is held sacred among us all. It has given freedom 
 
 to the captive, when the flame was scorching his 
 
 vitals. Without the force of this claim, I could not 
 
 have saved thee. Long was the footstep of Death 
 
 nearer to thee than mine.' 
 
 R 
 
194 ORIANA. 
 
 " Pausing, he" added, in a tone of great tender- 
 ness, — 
 
 " ' I had once a daughter. — An only one, as the 
 apple of mine eye. But she faded. She went down 
 to the grave, while she was blossoming into woman- 
 hood.' 
 
 " There was long silence. Afterwards, I express- 
 ed my gratitude to my deliverer. 
 
 " ' Daughter, rest in peace. I watch over thee. 
 I have prayed the Great Spirit, that I may lead thee 
 in safety to my home, and put thy hand into the 
 hand of my wife. Knowest thou, why she will love 
 thee ? — why the tears will cover her face, when she 
 looketh upon thee ? Because thou wilt remind her 
 of the plant whose growth she nursed, whose blast- 
 ing she bemoaned. Be not angry at what I say. 
 She had a dark brow, and her garb was like the 
 children of red men. Yet as she went down into 
 the dust, there was upon her lips a smile, and in her 
 eye, a gentleness even like thine.' 
 
 " He ceased, oppressed with emotion. He pressed 
 his hands to his forehead, and laid it upon the earth. 
 When he raised his head, I saw that his strained 
 eyes were bright and tearless. 
 
 " ' Acceptest thou my adoption V he asked. ' Wilt 
 thou bow thyself, for a time, to be called the daugh- 
 ter of old Arrowhamet ? I have said, that it need 
 be but for a time. My home is near the shore of 
 the great waters. They shall bear thee to thy peo- 
 ple, when thy heart is sickened at the rude ways of 
 tlie sons of the forest.' 
 
ORIANA. 19-J 
 
 " I assured him of my acceptance, in such terms 
 as an outcast might be supposed to address to his 
 sole earthly benefactor. Apparently gratified, he 
 raised his loftv form erect, and stretchins; his rig;ht 
 hand toward heaven, ratified with great solemnity 
 the covenant of adoption. 
 
 " ' Thou, whose way is upon the winds, — through 
 the deep waters, — within the dark cloud, — Spirit 
 of Truth ! — before whom the shades of our fathers 
 walk in fields of everlasting light, — hear, — confrm, 
 — bless.^ 
 
 " He added a few words in his native lansruao-e, 
 with the deep reverence of prayer, and then stretch- 
 ing himself on the ground, in the attitude of repose, 
 said, — 
 
 " ' It is enough. — Go to thy rest, poor, tender, and 
 broken flower. I will pray thy God to protect thee. 
 Thy God is my God. Warriors call me Arrowha 
 met, but in my home of peace, my name is Zachary. 
 It was given me, when I bowed to the baptism of 
 Christians. Thou v/ilt no longer fear me, now that 
 thou knowest our God is the same.' 
 
 " Lost in wonderino; o-ratitude, I made my orison 
 with many tears, and sank into a more refreshing 
 slumber than had visited me since my captivity. I 
 awoke not, till the sun, like a globe of gold, was 
 burnishinii the crowns of the king-s of the forest. 
 
 " During the remainder of our journey, nothing 
 worthy of narration occurred. The supernatural 
 strength that had sustained me, gradually vanished, 
 and I was borne many days in a litter on the shoul- 
 
 u. 
 
196 ORIANA. 
 
 ders of the natives. Soon the Delawares separated 
 from the Mohegans, to return to their own territory. 
 Tn passing through a populous town, I sold a valua- 
 ble watch and necklace, the gifts of my sainted hus- 
 band, in the early and cloudless days of our love. 
 Their avails, like the cruse of oil, of her whom the 
 prophet saved, have not yet failed. They will pro- 
 bably suffice for my interment. 
 
 " My reception from good Martha, was most sooth- 
 ing to my lone heart. From that moment to this, 
 her maternal kindness has never slumbered. With 
 that tender care, so dear to the wounded, solitary 
 spirit, she has promoted my comfort, and mitigated 
 the pains of my disease. 
 
 " At my first admission to this humble abode, I 
 cherished the hope of returning to England. But to 
 what should I have returned ? Only to the graves 
 of my parents. With the disconsolate and eloquent 
 Logan, I might say, — ' There runs not a drop of my 
 blood, in the veins of any living creature. Who is 
 there to mourn for Oriana ? — Not one.'' Throuo;hout 
 the whole range of my native country, would there 
 have been a cottage to afford me shelter, or friends 
 to minister to me night and day, like these aged beings? 
 "But with whatever attractions the land where I 
 first drew breath, would sometimes gleam upon my 
 exiled eye, all hope of again beholding it has been 
 long extinguished. The disease, to which my early 
 youth evinced a predisposition, and which was pro- 
 bably inherited from both my parents, soon reveal- 
 
ORIAXA. 197 
 
 ed itself. Its progress was gradual, but constantly 
 I have been conscious of its latent ravacres. My re- 
 treat, which to most beholders misfht have seemed 
 as undesirable as obscure, so accorded with my sub- 
 dued feelings, that like the disciple upon the moun- 
 tain of mystery, I have often exclaimed, — ' jMasler, 
 it is good to be here.' 
 
 " Here, I have learned to estimate a race, to which 
 the world has done immense injustice. Once, I had 
 stigmatized them as the slaves of barbarity. Yet 
 were they appointed to exhibit to my view, In com- 
 bination with strong intellect, capabilities of invinci- 
 ble attachment and deathless gratitude, which, how- 
 ever the civilized world may scorn in the cabin of 
 the red man, she does not often find in the palaces 
 of kins-s. Here I have felt how vain is that estima- 
 tion in which we hold the shades of complexion and 
 gradations of rank — how less than nothing, the tin- 
 sel of wealth, and the pageantry of pomp, when 
 ' God taketh away the soul.' 
 
 " The pride, and earthly idolatry of my heart, 
 have been subdued by affliction ; and affliction, hav- 
 ing had her perfect work, has terminated in peace. 
 Often, during this process, have I been reminded of 
 that beautiful passage of Dumoulin, — ' Jesus, in 
 going to Jerusalem, was wont to go through Betha- 
 ny, which signifies, tlic lioiise of grief :'' so must we 
 expect to pass through tribulation, and through a vale 
 of tears, before we can enter upon the peace of the 
 
 lieavenly Jerusalem. 
 
 R2 
 
198 
 
 ORIANA. 
 
 " Still, I quit«not this existence like the ascetic, for 
 whom it has had no charms. Its opening was gild- 
 ed with what the world acknowledges to be happi- 
 ness ; and its close with that joy to which she is a 
 stranger. For your instructions, your prayers, my 
 revered friend, receive the blessings of one, who 
 will henceforth have neither name nor memorial 
 among men. Your last kind office will be to lay her 
 wasted frame where saints slumber ; may she meet 
 you at their resurrection in light. Her parting re- 
 quest is, that you would remember with the benevo- 
 lence of your vocation,' those who were to her, pa- 
 rents without the bonds of affinity, philanthropists 
 without hope of applause, — and, though bearing the 
 lineaments of a proscribed and perishing race, will, 
 I trust, be admitted to a bright, inalienable inherit- 
 
 ance." 
 
PRAYER. 
 
 How purely true, how deeply warm, 
 
 The inly-breathed appeal may be, 
 Though adoration wears no form, 
 
 In upraised hand or bended knee. 
 One Spirit fills all boundless space. 
 
 No limit to the when or where ; 
 And little recks the time or place 
 
 That leads the soul to praise and prayer. 
 
 Father above, Almighty one. 
 
 Creator, is that worship vain 
 That hails each mountain as thy throne, 
 
 And finds a universal fane ? 
 When shining stars, or spangled sod, 
 
 Call forth devotion, who shall dare 
 To blame, or tell me that a God 
 
 Will never deign to hear such prayer ? 
 
 Oh, prayer is good when many pour 
 
 Their voices in one solemn tone ; 
 Conning their sacred lessons o'er 
 
 Or yielding thanks for mercies shown. 
 'T is good to see the quiet train 
 
 Forget their worldly joy and care, 
 While loud response and choral strain 
 
 Reecho in the house of prayer. 
 
 But often have I stood to mark 
 
 The setting sun and closing flower ; 
 
200 PRAYER. 
 
 When silence and the gathering dark 
 Shed holy calmness o'er the hour. 
 
 Lone on the hills, my soul confessed 
 More rapt and burning homage there, 
 
 And served the Maker it addressed 
 With stronger zeal and closer prayer 
 
 When watching those we love and prize. 
 
 Till all of life and hope be fled ; 
 When we have gazed on sightless eyes, 
 
 And gently stayed the falling head ; 
 Then what can sooth the stricken heart, 
 
 What solace overcome despair ; 
 What earthly breathing can impart 
 
 Such healing balm as lonely prayer? 
 
 When fears and perils thicken fast, 
 
 And many dangers gather round ; 
 When human aid is vain and past, 
 
 No mortal refuge to be found ; 
 Then can we firmly lean on heaven, 
 
 And gather strength to meet and bear , 
 No matter where the storm has driven, 
 
 A saving anchor lives in prayer. 
 
 Ob, God ! how beautiful the thought, 
 
 How merciful the blessed decree, 
 That gri^ce can e'er be found when sought, 
 
 And naught shut out the soul from Thee. 
 The cell may cramp, the fetters gall, 
 
 The flame may scorch, the rack may tear 
 But torture-stake, or prison- wall, 
 
 Can be endured with faith and prayer. 
 
EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 In desert wilds, in midnig-ht gloom ; 
 
 In grateful joy, in trying pain ; 
 1 laughing youth, or nigh the tomb ; 
 
 Oh when is prayer unheard or vain ? 
 The Infinite, the King of Idngs, 
 
 WiU never heed the when or where ; 
 He '11 ne'er reject a heart that brings 
 
 The offering of fervent prayer. 
 
 201 
 
 EVENING PRAk ^^R, AT A GIRLS' SCHa)L. 
 
 "Now ia thy youth, beseec^ of Him 
 
 Who giveth, upbraiding not-, , 
 
 That his light in thy heart become not dim, 
 
 And his love be unforgot ; 
 And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
 Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
 Hush ! 't is a holy hour — the quiet room 
 
 Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
 
 A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
 
 And the sw^et stillness, down on fair young heads, 
 
 With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, 
 
 And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer 
 
 Gaze on — 't is lovely ! — Childhood's lip and cheek, 
 Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 
 
 Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
 And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? — 
 
 Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 
 
 What death must fashion for eternity ! 
 
202 EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 O ! joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest, 
 Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, 
 
 As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 
 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 
 
 Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 
 
 Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 
 
 Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs 
 Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 
 
 And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 
 Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 
 
 Yet in those flute-like voices, mino-ling" low. 
 
 Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! 
 
 Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. 
 
 And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, 
 And sumless riches, from affection's deep. 
 
 To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 
 And to make idols, and to find them clay, 
 And to bewail that worship — therefore pray ! 
 
 Her lot is on you — to be found untired, 
 Watching the stars out by the bed of pain. 
 
 With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. 
 And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; 
 
 Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay. 
 
 And, oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray ! 
 
 And take the thought of this calm vesper time. 
 With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, 
 
 On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
 As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! 
 
 Earth will forsake — O ! happy to have given 
 
 The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. 
 
DISENCHANTMENT. 203 
 
 r 
 
 DISENCHANTMENT. 
 
 Do not ask roe why I loved him. 
 
 Love's cause is to love unknown ; 
 Faithless as the past has proved him, 
 
 Once his heart appeared mine own. 
 Do not say he did not merit 
 
 All my fondness, all my truth ; 
 Those in whom love dwells inherit 
 
 Every dream that haunted youth. 
 
 He might not be all I dreamed him, 
 
 Noble, generous, gifted, true, 
 Not the less I fondly deemed him, 
 
 All those flattering visions drew. 
 All the hues of old romances 
 
 By his actual self grew dim ; 
 Bitterly I mock the fancies 
 
 That once found their life in him. 
 
 From the hour by him enchanted, 
 
 From the moment when we met. 
 Henceforth with one image haunted, 
 
 Life may never more forget. 
 All my nature changed — his beino^ 
 
 Seemed the only source of mine, 
 Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing 
 
 Thy sad future to divine? 
 
 Once, upon myself relying, 
 
 All I asked were words and thought ; 
 Many hearts to mine replying, 
 
 Owned the music that I brought. 
 
204 DISENCHANTMENT. 
 
 Eager, spiritual, and lonely, 
 Visions filled the fairy hour, 
 
 Deep with love — though love was only 
 Not a presence, but a power. 
 
 But from that first hour I met thee, 
 
 All caught actual life from you, 
 Alas ! how can I forget thee, 
 
 Thou who madest the fancied true? 
 Once my wide world was ideal. 
 
 Fair it was — ah ! very fair : 
 Wherefore hast thou made it real ? 
 
 Wherefore is thy image there 1 
 
 Ah ! no more to me is given 
 
 Fancy's far and fairy bkth ; 
 Chords upon my lute are riven, 
 
 Never more to sound on earth 
 Once, sweet music could it borrow 
 
 From a look, a word, a tone ; 
 I could paint another's sorrow — 
 
 Now I think but of mine own. 
 
 Life's dark waves have lost the glitter 
 
 Which at morning-tide they wore, 
 And the well within is bitter ; 
 
 Naught its sweetness may restore : 
 For I know how vainly given 
 
 Life's most precious things may be. 
 Love that might have looked on heaven, 
 
 Even as it looked on thee. 
 
 Ah, farewell !— with that word dying, . 
 Hope and love must perish too : 
 
THE crusader's RETURN. 205 
 
 For thy sake themselves denying, 
 
 What is truth with thee untrue? 
 Farewell ! — 'tis a dreary sentence; 
 
 Like the death-doom of the grave, 
 May it wake in thee repentance, 
 
 Stinging when too late to save 
 
 » 
 
 THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 
 
 " Alas ! the mother that him bare, 
 If she had been in presence there, 
 In hia wan cheeks and sunburnt hair 
 
 She had not known her child."— Marmton. 
 
 Rest, pilgrim, rest '.—thou 'rt from the Syrian land. 
 
 Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous east, I know 
 By the long-withered palm-branch in thy hand, 
 
 And by the darkness of thy sun-burnt brow. 
 Alas ! the bright, the beautiful, who part 
 
 So full of hope, for that far country's bourne ! 
 Alas ! the weary and the changed in hpart, 
 
 And dimmed in aspect, who like thee return ! 
 
 Thou 'rt faint— stay, rest thee from thy toils at last : 
 
 Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze, 
 The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past. 
 
 The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
 Thou 'rt faint and worn— hearest thou the fountain welling 
 
 By the gray pillars of yon ruined shrine ? 
 Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelhng? 
 
 —He that hath left me trained that loaded vine ! 
 
 S 
 
206 THE crusader's return. 
 
 He was a child when thus the bower he wove, 
 (Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood's time?) 
 
 That I might sit and hear the sound I love, 
 
 Beneath its shade — the convent's vesper-chime. 
 
 And sit thou there ! — for he was gentle ever, 
 
 With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee, 
 
 And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parched lips' fever- 
 There in his place thou 'rt resting — where is he % 
 
 If I could hear that laughing voice again. 
 
 But once again ! — how oft it wanders by. 
 In the still hours, like some remembered strain, 
 
 Troubling the heart with its wild melody ! — 
 Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou seen 
 
 In that far land, the chosen land of yore, 
 A youth — my Guide — with the fiery mien 
 
 And the dark eye of this Italian shore ? 
 
 The dark, clear, lightning eye ! — on heaven and earth 
 
 It smiled — as if man were not dust it smiled ! 
 The very air seemed kindling with his mirth, 
 
 And I — my heart grew young before my chQd ! 
 My blessed child ! — I had but him — yet he 
 
 Filled all my home even with overflowing joy, 
 Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free — 
 
 Where is he now? — my pride, my flower, my boy ! 
 
 His sunny childhood melted from my sight. 
 Like a spring dew-drop — then his forehead wore 
 
 A prouder look — his eye a keener light— 
 
 I knew these woods might be his world no more ! 
 
 He loved me — but he left me ! — thus they go 
 
 Whom we have reared, watched, blessed, too much 
 adored ! 
 
I MISS THEE, MY MOTHER. 207 
 
 He heard the trumpet of the Red-Cross blow, 
 And bounded from me with his father's sword ! 
 
 Thou weepest — I tremble — thou hast seen the slain 
 Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair, 
 
 With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 
 
 Where hosts have met— speak ! answer ! was he there? 
 
 Oh ! hath his smile departed ?— Could the grave 
 
 Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?— 
 
 No ! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave — 
 
 . That look gives hope— I knew it could not be 
 
 Still weepest thou, wand'rer ?— some fond mother's glance 
 
 O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early years— 
 Thmkest thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, 
 
 Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears? 
 Speak, for thy tears disturb me !— what art thou ? 
 
 Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on? 
 Look up !— oh ! is it— that wan cheek and brow ! — 
 
 Is it— alas ! yet joy !— my son, my son ! 
 
 I 
 
 I MISS THEE, MY MOTHER. 
 
 I MISS thee, my Mother ! Thy image is still 
 
 The deepest impressed on my heart. 
 And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill 
 
 Ere a hne of that image depart. 
 Thou wert torn from my side when I treasured thee most— 
 
 When my reason could measure thy worth ; 
 When I knew but too well that the idol I 'd lost 
 
 Could be never replaced upon earth. 
 
 1 miss thee, my Mother, in circles of joy, 
 Where I 've mingled with rapturous zest ; 
 
208 I MISS THEE. MY MOTHER. 
 
 For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy 
 
 All the fairy web spun in my breast ! 
 Some melody sweet may be floating around — 
 
 'T is a ballad I learnt at thy knee ; 
 Some strain may be played, and I shrink from the sound, 
 
 For my fingers oft woke it for thee. 
 
 I miss thee, my Mother ; when young health has fled, 
 
 And I sink in the languor of pain, 
 Where, where is the arm that once pillowed my head, 
 
 And the ear that once heard me complain? 
 Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall — 
 
 For the fond and the true are yet mine : 
 I 've a blessing for each ; I am grateful to all — 
 
 But whose care can be soothing as tliine ? 
 
 I miss thee, my Mother, in summer's fair day. 
 
 When I rest in the ivy-wreathed bower, 
 When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray, 
 
 Or gaze on thy favorite flower. 
 There 's the bright gravel-path where I played by thy side 
 
 When time had scarce wrinkled thy brow, 
 Where I carefully led thee with worshipping pride 
 
 When thy scanty locks gathered the snow. 
 
 I miss thee, my Mother, in winter's long night : 
 
 I remember the tales thou wouldst tell — 
 The romance of wild fancy, the legend of fright— 
 
 Oh ! who could e'er tell them so well? 
 Thy corner is vacant ; thy chair is removed : 
 
 It was kind to take that from my eye : 
 Yet relics are round me — the sacred and loved— 
 
 To call up the pure sorrow-fed sigh. 
 
THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 209 
 
 I miss thee, my Mother ! Oh, when do I not? 
 
 Though I know 't was the wisdom of Heaven 
 That the deepest shade fell on my sunniest spot, 
 
 And such tie of devotion was riven ; 
 For when thou wert with me my soul was below, 
 
 I was chained to the world I then trod ; 
 My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound ; but 
 now 
 
 They have followed thy spirit to God ! 
 
 THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 
 
 I Thou 'rt bearing hence thy roses. 
 
 Glad summer, fare thee well ! 
 Thou 'rt singing thy last melodies 
 In every wood and dell. 
 
 But ere the golden sunset. 
 
 Of thy latest lingering day. 
 Oh ! tell me, o'er this chequered earth, 
 
 How hast thou passed away 1 
 Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 
 
 Thine hours have floated by, 
 To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, 
 
 The rangers of the sky. 
 
 And brightly in the forests, 
 
 To the wild deer wandering free ; 
 
 And brightly 'midst the garden flowers 
 Is the happy murmuring bee : 
 
 But how to human bosoms. 
 
 With all their hopes and fears. 
 And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, 
 
 To pierce the unborn years 1 
 
 S2 
 
210 
 
 THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 
 
 Sweet Summer ! to the captive 
 Thou hast flown in burning dreams 
 
 Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, 
 And the blue rejoicing streams ; — 
 
 To the wasted and the weary, 
 
 On the bed of sickness bound. 
 In swift delirious fantasies. 
 
 That changed with every sound ; — 
 
 To the sailor on the billows. 
 
 In longings wild and vain. 
 For the gushing founts and breezy hills, 
 
 And the homes of earth again ! 
 
 And unto me, glad Summer ! 
 
 How hast thou flown to me ? 
 My chainless footstep naught hath kept 
 
 From thy haunts of song and glee. 
 
 Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 
 
 In memories of the dead — 
 In shadows from a troubled heart, 
 
 O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 
 
 In brief and sudden strivings 
 
 To fling a weight aside — 
 'Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 
 
 And all thy roses died. 
 
 But oh ! thou gentle Summer ! 
 
 If I greet thy flowers once more, 
 Bring me again the buoyancy 
 
 Wherewith my soul should soar ! 
 
 Give me to hail thy sunshine, 
 
 With song and spirit free ; 
 Or in a purer air than this 
 
 May that next meeting be ! 
 
» » ♦ •• 
 
 ^ S'% 
 
 4 » • 'a 
 
• < 
 
« Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend,— 
 Then wretched, hopeless, in the evil days, 
 With sorrow to the verge of life they tend, 
 Griev'd with the present,— of the past asham'd,— 
 They live and are despised ; they die, nor more are nam'd 
 
 LOWTH 
 
 Where the lofty forests of Ohio, towering in un- 
 shorn majesty, cast a solemn shadow over the deep 
 verdure of beautiful and ample vales, a small fami- 
 ly of emigrants were seen pursuing their solitary 
 way. They travelled on foot, but not with the as- 
 pect of mendicants, though care and suffering were 
 variably depicted on their countenances. The man 
 walked first, apparently in an unkind, uncompromi- 
 sino- mood. The woman carried in her arms an 
 infant, and aided the progress of a feeble boy, who 
 seemed sinking with exhaustion. An eye accustom- 
 ed to scan the never-resting tide of emigration, might 
 discern that these pilgrims were inhabitants of the 
 Eastern States, probably retreating from some spe- 
 cies of adversity, to one of those imaginary El Do- 
 rados, among the shades of the far West, where it 
 is fabled that^'the evils of mortality have found no 
 
 place. 
 
 James Harwood, the leader of that humble group, 
 
212 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 who claimed from him the charities of husband and 
 of father, halted at the report of a musket, and while 
 he entered a thicket, to discover whence it proceeded, 
 the weary and sad-hearted mother sat down upon 
 the grass. Bitter were her reflections during that 
 interval of rest amoh^ the wilds of Ohio. The 
 pleasant New-England village from which she had 
 just emigrated, and the peaceful home of her birth, 
 rose up to her view — where, but a few years before, 
 she had given her hand to one, whose unkind ness 
 now strewed her path with thorns. By constant and 
 endearing attentions, he had won her youthful love, 
 and the two first years of their union promised hap- 
 piness* Both were industrious and affectionate, and 
 the smiles of their infant in his evening sports or 
 slumbers, more than repaid the Ihhors of the day. 
 
 But a change became visible. The husband grew 
 inattentive to his business, and indifferent to his fire- 
 side. He permitted debts to accumulate, in spite of 
 the economy of his wife, and became morose and 
 offended at her remonstrances. She strove to hide, 
 even from her own heart, the vice that was gaining 
 the ascendency over him, and redoubled her exer- 
 tions to render his home agreeable. But too fre- 
 quently her efforts were of no avail, or contemptu- 
 ously rejected. The death of her beloved mother, 
 and the birth of a second infant, convinced her that 
 neither in sorrow nor in sickness could she expect 
 sympathy from him, to whom she had given her 
 heart, in the simple faith of confiding affection. They 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 213 
 
 became miserably poor, and the cause was evident 
 to every observer. In this distress, a letter was re- 
 ceived from a brother, who had been for several 
 years a resident in Ohio, mentionmg that he was 
 induced to remove further westward, and offering 
 them the use of a tenement which his family would 
 leave vacant, and a small portion of cleared land, 
 until they might be able to become purchasers. 
 
 Poor Jane listened to this proposal with gratitude. 
 She thouirht she saw in it the salvation of her bus- 
 band. She believed that if he were divided from his 
 intemperate companions, he would return to his 
 early habits of industry and virtue. The trial of 
 leaving native and endeared scenes, from which she 
 would once have shrunk, seemed as nothing in com- 
 parison with the prospect of his reformation and 
 returning happiness. Yet, when all their few effects 
 were converted into the wagon and horse which 
 were to convey them to a far land, and the scant and 
 humble necessaries which were to sustain them on 
 their way thither ; when she took leave of her bro- 
 ther and sisters, with their households ; when she 
 shook hands with the friends whom she had loved 
 from her cradle, and remembered that it might be for 
 the last time ; and when the hills that encircled her 
 native villao;e faded into the faint, blue outline of the 
 horizon, there came over her such a desolation of 
 spirit, such a foreboding of evil, as she had never 
 before experienced. She blamed herself for these 
 feelings, and repressed their indulgence. 
 
214 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 The journey was slow and toilsome The autum- 
 nal rains and the state of the roads were agamst 
 them. The few utensils and comforts which they 
 carried with them, were gradually abstracted and 
 sold. The object of this traffic could not be doubt- 
 ed. The eifects were but too visible in his conduct. 
 She reasoned — she endeavored to persuade him to a 
 different course. But anger was the only result. 
 When he was not too far stupified to comprehend her 
 remarks, his deportment was exceedingly overbearing 
 and arbitrary. He felt that she had no friend to 
 protect her from insolence, and was entirely in his 
 own power ; and she was compelled to realize that 
 it was a power without generosity, and that there is 
 no tyranny so perfect as that of a capricious and 
 alienated husband. 
 
 As they approached the close of their distressing 
 journey, the roads became worse, and their horse 
 utterly failed. He had been but scantily provided 
 for, as the intemperance of his owner had taxed and 
 impoverished every thing for his own support. Jane 
 wept- as she looked upon the dying animal, and re- 
 membered his laborious and ill -repaid services. 
 
 The unfeeling exclamation with which her husband 
 abandoned him to his fate, fell painfully upon her 
 heart, adding another proof of the extinction of his 
 sensibilities, in the loss of that pitying kindness for 
 the animal creation, which exerrises a silent and sal- 
 utary guardianship over our higher and better sym- 
 pathies. They were n -.w a;i; roaching within a short 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. Slo 
 
 distance of the termination of their journey, and their 
 directions had been very clear and precise. But his 
 mind became so bewildered and his heart so perverse, 
 that he persisted in choosing by-paths of underwood 
 and tangled weeds, under the pretence of seeking a 
 shorter route. This increased and prolonged their 
 fatigue; but no entreaty of his wearied wife was 
 regarded. Indeed, so exasperated was he at her ex- 
 postulations, that she sought safety in silence. The 
 little boy of four years old, whose constitution had 
 been feeble from his infancy, became so feverish and 
 distressed, as to be unable to proceed. The mother, 
 after in vain soliciting aid and compassion from her 
 husband, took him in her arms, while the youngest, 
 whom she had previously carried, and who was un- 
 able to walk, clung to her shoulders. Thus burdened, 
 her progress was tedious and painful. Still she was 
 enabled^to go on; for the strength that nerves a 
 mother's frame, toiling for her sick child, is from 
 God. She even endeavored to press on more rapidly 
 than usual, fearing that if she fell behind, her hus- 
 band would tear the sufferer from her arms, in some 
 paroxysm of his savage intemperance. 
 
 Their road during the day, though approaching 
 the small settlement where they were to reside, lay 
 through a solitary part of the country. The chil- 
 dren were faint and hungry ; and as the exhausted 
 mother sat upon the grass, trying to nurse her infant, 
 she drew from her bosom the last piece of bread, and 
 held it to the parched lips of the feeble child. But 
 
^s^^ 
 
 216 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 he turned away his head, and with a scarcely audi- 
 ble moan, asked for water. Feelingly might she 
 sympathize in the distress of the poor outcast from 
 the tent of Abraham, who laid her famishing son 
 among the shrubs, and sat down a good way oif, 
 saymg, — " Let me not see the death of the child." 
 But this Christian mother was not in the desert, nor 
 in despair. She looked upward to Him who is the 
 refuge of the forsaken, and the comforter of those 
 whose spirits are cast down. 
 
 The sun was drawing towards the west, as the 
 voice of James Harwood was heard, issuing from 
 the forest, attended by another man with a gun, and 
 some birds at his girdle. 
 
 ''Wife, will you get up now, and come along? 
 We are not a mile from home. Here is John Wil- 
 liams, who went from our part of the country, and 
 says he is our next-door neighbor." 
 
 Jane received his hearty welcome with a thank- 
 fulspirit, and rose to accompany them. The kind 
 neighbor took the sick boy in his arms, saying, — 
 
 " Harwood, take the baby from your wife ; we do 
 not let our women bear all the burdens, here in 
 Ohio." 
 
 James was ashamed to refuse, and reached his 
 hands towards the child. But, accustomed to his 
 neglect or unkindness, it hid its face, crying, in the 
 maternal bosom. 
 
 " You sec how it is. She makes the children so 
 cross, that I never have any comfort of them. She 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 217 
 
 chooses to carry them herself, and always will have 
 her own way in everything." 
 
 "You have come to a new settled country, friends," 
 said John Wilhams ; " but it is a good country to get 
 a living in. Crops of corn and wheat are such as 
 I you never saw in New-England. Our cattle live 
 
 in clover, and the cows give us cream instead of 
 milk. There is plenty of game to employ our lei- 
 sure, and venison and wild turkey do not come amiss 
 now and then on a farmer's table. Here is a short \\ 
 cut I can show you, though there is a fence or two j| 
 
 to climb. James Harwood, I shall like well to talk I 
 
 with you about old times and old friends down east. || 
 
 But why don't you help your wife over the fence with 1 1 
 her baby 7" 
 
 " So I would, but she is so sulky. She has not i 
 
 spoke a word to me all day. I always say, let such j| 
 folks take care of them.selves till their mad fit is l| 
 over." 1 1 
 
 A cluster of log cabins now met their view through 
 an opening in the forest. They were pleasantly 
 situated in the midst of an area of cultivated land. 
 A fine river, surmounted by a rustic bridge of the 
 trunks of trees, cast a sparkling line through the 
 deep, unchanged autumnal verdure. 
 
 " Here we live," said their guide, " a hard-work- 
 ing, contented people. That is your house which has 
 no smoke curling up from the chimney. It may not 
 be quite so genteel as some you have left behind in 
 the old states, but it is about as good as any in the 
 
 T 
 
 '8 
 
218 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 Pxeighborhood. I '11 go and call my wife to welcome 
 you ; right glad will she be to see you, for she sets 
 great store by folks from New-England." 
 
 The inside of a log cabin, to those not habituated 
 to it, presents but a cheerless aspect. The eye needs 
 time to accustom itself to the rude walls and floors, 
 the absence of glass windows, and doors loosely hung 
 upon leathern hinges. The exhausted woman en- 
 tered, and sank down with her babe. There was 
 no chair to receive her. In the corner of the room 
 stood a rough board table, and a low frame resem- 
 bling a bedstead. Other furniture there was none. 
 Glad, kind voices of her own sex, recalled her from 
 her stupor. Three or four matrons, and several 
 blooming young faces, welcomed her with smiles. 
 The warmth of reception in a new colony, and the 
 substantial services by which it is manifested, put to 
 shame the ceremonious and heartless professions, 
 which in a more artificial state of society are digni- 
 fied with the name of friendship. 
 
 As if by magic, what had seemed almost a prison, 
 assumed a different aspect, under the ministry of 
 active benevolence. A cheerful flame rose from the 
 ample fire-place ; several chairs and a bench for 
 children appeared ; a bed with comfortable coverings 
 concealed the shapelessness of the bedstead, and 
 viands to which they had long been strangers were 
 heaped upon the board. An old lady held the sick 
 boy tenderly in her arms, who seemed to revive as 
 he saw his mother's face brighten ; and the infant, 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 219 
 
 after a draught of fresh milk, fell into a sweet and 
 profound slumber. One by one the neighbors de- 
 parted, that the wearied ones might have an oppor- 
 tunity of repose. John Williams, who was the last 
 to bid good-night, lingered a moment as he closed 
 the door, and said, — 
 
 " Friend Harwood, here is a fine, gentle cow, feed- 
 mg at your door ; and for old acquaintance sake, you 
 and your family are welcome to the use of her for 
 the present, or until you can make out better." 
 
 When they were left alone, Jane poured out her 
 gratitude to her Almighty Protector in a flood of joy- 
 ful tears. Kindness to which she had recently been 
 a stranger, fell as balm of Gilead upon her wounded 
 
 spirit. 
 
 " Husband," she exclaimed, in the fullness of her 
 
 heart, " we may yet be happy." 
 
 He answered not, and she perceived that he heard 
 not. He had thrown himself upon the bed, and in 
 a deep and stupid sleep was dispelling the fumes of 
 
 intoxication. 
 
 This new family of emigrants, though in the midst 
 of poverty, were sensible of a degree of satisfaction 
 to which they had long been strangers. The diffi- 
 culty of procuring ardent spirits in this small and 
 isolated community, promised to be the means of 
 establishing their peace. The mother busied herself 
 m making their humble tenement neat and comfort- 
 able, while her husband, as if ambitious to earn in a 
 new residence the reputation he had forfeited in the 
 
2£0 TKa INTEMPERATE. 
 
 old, labored diligently to assist his neighbors in ga- 
 thering of their harvest, receiving in payment such 
 articles as were needed for the subsistence of his 
 household. Jane continually gave thanks in her 
 prayers for this great blessing ; and the hope she per- 
 mitted herself to indulge of his permanent reforma- 
 tion, imparted unwonted cheerfulness to her brow 
 and demeanor. The invalid boy seemed also to 
 gatlier healing from his mother's smiles ; for so great 
 was her power over him, siiice sickness had render- 
 ed his dependence complete, that his comfort, and 
 even his countenance, were a faithful reflection of 
 her own. Perceiving the degree of her influence, 
 she endeavored to use it, as every religious parent 
 should, for his spiritual benefit. She supplicated that 
 the pencil which v/as to write upon his soul, might 
 be guided from above. She spoke to him in the ten- 
 derest manner of his Father in Heaven, and of His 
 will respecting little children. She pointed out hi^ 
 goodness in the daily gifts that sustain life ; in the 
 glorious sun, as it came forth rejoicing in the east, 
 in the gently-falling rain, the frail plant, and the dews 
 that nourish it. She reasoned with him of the 
 changes of nature, till he loved even the storm, and 
 the lofty thunder, because they came from God. 
 She repeated to him passages of scripture, with which 
 her memory was stored : and sang hymns, until she 
 perceived that if he was in pain, he complained not, 
 if he might but hear her voice. She made him ac- 
 quainted with the life of the compassionate Redeem- 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 221 
 
 er, and how he called young children to his arms, 
 though the disciples forbade them. And it seemed 
 as if a voice from heaven urged her never to desist 
 from cherishing this tender and deep-rooted piety •, 
 because, like the flower of grass, he must soon fade 
 away. Yet, though it was evident that the seeds 
 of disease were in his system, his health at intervals 
 seemed to be improving, and the little household 
 partook, for a time, the blessings of tranquillity and 
 
 content. 
 
 But let none flatter himself that the dominion of 
 vice is suddenly or easily broken. It may seem to 
 relax its grasp, and to slumber ; but the victim who 
 has long worn its chain, if he would utterly escape, 
 and triumph at last, must do so in the strength of 
 Omnipotence. This, James Harwood never sought. 
 He had begun to experience that prostration of spirits 
 which attends the abstraction of an habitual stimulant. 
 His resolution to recover his lost character was not 
 proof against this physical inconvenience. He de- 
 termined at all hazards to gratify his depraved appe- 
 tite. He laid his plans deliberately, and with the 
 pretext of making some arrangements about the 
 wagon, which had been left broken on the road, de- 
 parted from his home. His stay was protracted be- 
 yond the appointed limit, nd at his return, his sin 
 was written on his brow, in characters too strong to 
 be mistaken. That he had also brought with him 
 some hoard of intoxicating poison, to which to resort, 
 there remained no room to doubt. Day after day 
 
 T2 
 
 11 
 
222 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 did his shrinking household witness the ahernations 
 of causeless anger and brutal tyranny. To lay waste 
 the comfort of his wife, seemed to be his prominent 
 object. By constant contradiction and misconstruc- 
 tion, he strove to distress her, and then visited her 
 sensibilities upon her as sins. Had she been more 
 obtuse by nature, or more indifferent to his welfare, 
 she mio-ht with greater ease have borne the cross. 
 But her youth was nurtured in tenderness, and edu- 
 cation had refined her susceptibilities, both of plea- 
 sure and pain. She could not forget the love he had 
 once manifested for her, nor prevent the chilling con- 
 trast from filling her with anguish. She could not 
 resign the hope that the being who had early evinced 
 correct feelings and noble principles of action, might 
 vet be won back to that virtue which had rendered 
 him worthy of her alTections. Still, this hope defer- 
 red was sickness and sorrow to the heart. She found 
 the necessity of deriving consolation, and the power 
 of endurance, wholly from above. The tender in- 
 vitation by the mouth of a prophet, was as balm to 
 her wounded soul, — " As a woman forsaken and 
 grieved in spirit, and as a wife of youth, when thou 
 wast refused, have I called thee, saith thy God." 
 
 So faithful was she in the discharge of the difficult 
 duties that devolved upon her — so careful not to ir- 
 ritate her husband by reproach or gloom — that to a 
 casual observer she might have appeared to be con- 
 firming the doctrine of the ancient philosopher, that 
 happiness is in exact proportion to virtue. Had he 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. • 2l3 
 
 asserted, that virtue is the source of all that happi- 
 ness which depends upon ourselves, none could have 
 controverted his position. But, to a woman, a wife, 
 a mother, how small is the portion of independent 
 happiness ! She has woven the tendrils of her soul 
 around many props. Each revolving year renders 
 their support more necessary. They cannot waver, 
 or warp, or break, but she must tremble and bleed. 
 
 There was one modification of her husband's per- 
 secutions which the fullest measure of her piety could 
 not enable her to bear unmoved. This was unkind- 
 ness to her feeble and suffering boy. It was at first 
 commenced as the surest mode of distressing her. It 
 opened a direct avenue to her heart-strings. — What 
 began in perverseness seemed to end in hatred, as 
 evil habits sometimes create perverted principles. 
 The wasted and wild-eyed invalid shrank from his 
 father's glance and footstep, as from the approach 
 of a foe. More than once had he taken him from 
 the little bed which maternal care had provided for 
 him, and forced him to go forth in the cold of the 
 winter storm. 
 
 " I mean to harden him," said he. " All the 
 neighbors know that you make such a fool of him 
 that he will never be able to get a living. For my 
 part, I wish I had never been called to the trial of 
 supporting a useless boy, who pretends to be sick 
 only that he may be coaxed by a silly mother." 
 
 On such occasions, it was in vain that the mother 
 attempted to protect her child. She might neither 
 
£24 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 shelter him hi her bosom, nor control the frantic vio- 
 lence of the father. Harshness, and the agitation 
 of fear, deepened a disease which might else have 
 yielded. The timid boy, in terror of his natural 
 protector, withered away like a blighted flower. It 
 was of no avail that friends remonstrated with the 
 unfeeling parent, or that hoary-headed men warned 
 him solemnly of his sins. Intemperance had destroy- 
 ed his respect for man, and his fear of God. 
 
 Spring at length emerged from the shades of that 
 heavy and bitter winter. But its smile brought no 
 gladness to the declining child. Consumption fed 
 upon his vitals, and his nights were restless and full 
 of pain. 
 
 " Mother, I wish I could smell the violets that grew 
 upon the green bank by our old, dear home." 
 
 " It is too early for violets, my child. But the grass 
 's beautifully green around us, and the birds sing 
 sweetly, as if their hearts were full of praise." 
 
 *' In my dreams last night, I saw the clear waters 
 of the brook that ran by the bottom of my little garden. 
 I wish I could taste them once more. And I heard 
 such music, too, as used to come from that white 
 church among the trees, where every Sunday the 
 happy people meet to worship God." 
 
 The mother saw that the hectic fever had been 
 Ions: increasinfj and knew there was such an un- 
 earthly brightness in his eye, that she feared his in- 
 tellect wandered. She seated herself on his low bed, 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 225 
 
 and bent over him to soothe and compose him. He 
 lay silent for some time. 
 
 " Do you think my father will come ?" 
 
 Dreadinsc the aoronizincr agitation which, in his 
 paroxysms of coughing and pain, he evinced at the 
 sound of his father's well-known footstep, she an- 
 swered, — 
 
 " I think not, love. You had better try to sleep." 
 
 " Mother, I wish he would come. I do not feel 
 afraid now. Perhaps he would let me lay my cheek 
 to his once more, as he used to do when I was a babe 
 in my grandmother's arms. I should be glad to say 
 good bye to him, before I go to my Saviour." 
 
 Gazing intently in his face, she saw the work of 
 the destroyer, in lines too plain to be mistaken. 
 
 " My son — my dear son — say, Lord Jesus receive 
 my spirit." 
 
 " Mother," he replied, with a sweet smile upon his 
 ghastly features, " he is ready. I desire to go to him. 
 Hold the baby to me, that I may kiss her. That is 
 all. Now sing to me, and, oh ! wrap me close in 
 your arms, for I shiver with cold." 
 
 He clung with a death grasp, to that bosom whicli 
 had long been his sole earthly refuge. 
 
 " Sincf louder, dear mother, — a little louder. — I 
 cannot hear you." 
 
 A tremulous tone, as of a broken harp, rose above 
 her grief, to comfort the dying child. One sigh of 
 icy breath was upon her cheek, as she joined it to his 
 — one shudder — and all was over. She held the 
 
226 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 body long in her arms, as if fondly hoping to Avarm 
 and revivify it with her breath. Then she stretched 
 it upon its bed, and kneeHng beside it, hid her face 
 in that grief which none but mothers feel. It was a 
 deep and sacred solitude, along with the dead. No- 
 thing save the soft breathing of the sleeping babe fell 
 upon that solemn pause. Then the silence was bro- 
 ken by a wail of piercing sorrow. It ceased, and a 
 voice arose, — a voice of supplication for strength to 
 endure, as " seeing Him who is invisible." Faith 
 closed what was begun in weakness. It became a 
 prayer of thanksgiving to Him who had released the 
 dove-like spirit from the prison-house of pain, that 
 it might taste the peace and mingle in the melody of 
 heaven. 
 
 She arose from the orison, and bent calmly over 
 her dead. The thin, placid features wore a smile, 
 as when he had spoken of Jesus. She composed 
 the shining locks around the pure forehead, and gazed 
 long on what was to her so beautiful. Tears had 
 vanished from her eyes, and in their stead was an 
 expression almost sublime, as of one who had given 
 an angel back to God. 
 
 The father entered carelessly. She pointed to the 
 pallid, immovable brow. " See, he suffers no long- 
 er." H^e drew near, and looked on the dead with sur- 
 prise and sadness. A few natural tears forced their 
 >vay, and fell on the face of the first-born, who was 
 once his pride. The memories of that moment were 
 bitter. He spoke teu^wly to the emaciated mother; 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 22/ 
 
 and she, who a short time before was raised above 
 the sway of grief, wept hke an infant as those few 
 affectionate tones touched the sealed fountains of 
 other years. 
 
 Nei2;hbors and friends visited thern, desirous to 
 console their sorrow, and attended them when they 
 committed the body to the earth. There was a sliady 
 and secluded spot, which they had consecrated by the 
 burial of their few dead. Thither that whole little 
 colony were gathered, and, seated on the fresh 
 springing grass, listened to the holy, healing words 
 of the inspired volume. It was read by the oldest 
 man in the colony, who had himself often mourned. 
 As he bent reverently over the sacred page, there 
 was that on his brow which seemed to say, — " This 
 has been my comfort in my affliction." Silver hairs 
 thinly covered his temples, and his low voice was 
 modulated by feeling, as he read of the frailty of man, 
 withering like the flower of grass, before it groweth 
 up ; and of His majesty in whose sight " a thousand 
 years are as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch 
 in the night." He selected from the words of that 
 compassionate One, who " gathereth the lambs with 
 his arm, and carrieth them in his bosom," who, 
 pointing out as an example the humility of little chil- 
 dren, said, — " Except ye become as one of these, ye 
 cannot enter the kingdom of heaven," and who call- 
 eth all the weary and heavy-laden to come unto him, 
 that he may give them rest. The scene called forth 
 sympathy, even from manly bosoms. The mother, 
 
5 HI «, , 
 
 I 
 
 228 THE I^TEMPERATE. 
 
 worn with watching and weariness, bowed her head 
 down to the clay that concealed her child. And it 
 was observed with gratitude by that friendly group, 
 tiiat the husband supported her in his arms, and min- 
 gled his tears with hers. 
 
 He returned from this funeral in much mental dis- 
 tress. His sins were brought to remembrance, and 
 reflection was misery. For many nights, sleep was 
 disturbed by visions of his neglected boy. — Some- 
 times he imagined that he heard him coughing from 
 his low bed, and felt constrained to go to him, in a 
 strange disposition of kindness, but his limbs were 
 unable to obey the dictates of his will. Then he 
 would see him pointing with a thin dead hand, to the 
 dark grave, or beckoning; him to follow to the unseen 
 world. Conscience haunted liim with terrors, and 
 many prayers from pious hearts arose, that he might 
 now be led to repentance. The venerable man who 
 had read the bible at the burial of his boy, counselled 
 and entreated him, with the earnestness of a father, 
 to yield to the warning voice from above, and to 
 " break off his sins by righteousness, and his iniqui- 
 ties by turning unto the Lord." 
 
 There was a chano;e in his habits and conversa- 
 tion, and his friends trusted it would be permanent. 
 She who, above all others, was interested in the re- 
 sult, spared no exertion to win him back to the way 
 of truth, and to soothe his heart into peace with it- 
 self, and obedience to his Maker. Yet was she doom- 
 ed to witness the full force of grief and of remorse 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 22) 
 
 upon intemperance, only to see them utterly over- 
 thrown at last. The reviving virtue, with whose 
 indications she had solaced herself, and even given 
 thanks that her beloved son had not died in vain, 
 was transient as the morning dew. Habits of indus- 
 try, which had begun to spring up, proved themselves 
 to be without root. The dead, and his cruelty to the 
 dead, were alike forgotten. Disaffection to the chas- 
 tened being, who against hope still hoped for his sal- 
 vation, resumed its dominion. The friends who had 
 alternately reproved and encouraged him, were con- 
 vinced that their efforts had been of no avail. Intem- 
 perance, " like the strong man armed," took posses- 
 sion of a soul that lifted no cry for aid to the Holy 
 Spirit, and girded on no weapon to resist the de- 
 stroyer. 
 
 Summer passed away, and the anniversary of their 
 arrival at the colony returned. It was to Jane Har- 
 wood a period of sad and solemn retrospection. The 
 joys of early days, and the sorrows of maturity, 
 passed in review before her, and while she wept, she 
 questioned her heart, what had been its gain from a 
 father's discipline, or whether it had sustained that 
 greatest of all losses — the loss of its afflictions. 
 
 She was alone at this season of self-communion. 
 The absences of her husband had become more fre- 
 quent and protracted. A storm, which feelingly 
 reminded her of those which had often beat upon 
 them when homeless and weary travellers, had been 
 rasincT for nearly two days. To this cause she 
 
230 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 imputed the unusually long stay of her husband. 
 Through the third night of his absence she lay sleep- 
 less, listening for his steps. Sonaetimes she fancied 
 she heard shouts of laughter, for the mood in which 
 he returned from his revels was various. But it was 
 only the shriek of the tempest. Then she thought 
 some ebullition of his frenzied an^er rang in her 
 ears. It was the roar of the hoarse wind through 
 the forest. All night long she listened to these sounds, 
 and hushed and sang to her affriohted babe. Un- 
 refreshed she arose and resumed her morning la- 
 bors. 
 
 Suddenly her eye was attracted by a group of 
 neighbors, coming up slowly from the river. A 
 dark and terrible foreboding oppressed her. She has- 
 tened out to meet them. Coming towards her house 
 was a female friend, agitated and tearful, who pass- 
 ing her arm around her, would have spoken. 
 
 " Oh, you come to bring me evil tidings ! I pray 
 you let me know the worst." 
 
 The object was indeed to prepare her mind for a 
 fearful calamity. The body of her husband had been 
 found drowned, as was supposed, during the dark- 
 ness of the preceding night, in attempting to cross 
 the bridge of logs, which had been partially broken 
 by the swollen waters. Utter prostration of spirit 
 came over the desolate mourner. Her energies were 
 broken and her heart withered. She had sustained 
 the privations of poverty and emigration, and the 
 burdens of unceasing labor and unrequited care, with" 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 221 
 
 out murmuring. She had lain her first-born in the 
 grave with resignation, for faith had heard her Sa- 
 viour saying, — " Suffer the httle child to come unto 
 me." She had seen him, in whom her heart's young 
 affections were garnered up, become a " persecutor 
 and injurious," a prey to vice the most disgusting 
 and destructive. Yet she had borne wp under all. 
 One hope remained with her as an " anchor of the 
 soul," — the hope that he might yet repent and be 
 reclaimed. She had persevered in her complicated 
 and self-denying duties with that charity which 
 *' beareth all things, — believeth all things, — endureth 
 all thinc;s." 
 
 
 
 But now, he had died in his sin. The deadly 
 leprosy which had stolen over his heart, could no 
 more be " purged by sacrifice or otfering for ever." 
 She knew not that a single prayer for mercy had 
 preceded the soul on its passage to the High Judge's 
 bar. There were bitter dregs in this grief, which she 
 had never before wrung out. 
 
 Again the sad-hearted community assembled in 
 their humble cemetery. A funeral in an infant col- 
 ony awakens sympathies of an almost exclusive char- 
 acter. It is as if a large family suffered. One is 
 smitten down whom every eye knew, every voice 
 saluted. To bear along the corpse of the strong 
 man, throuo-h the fields which he had sown, and to 
 cover motionless in the grave that arm which trusted 
 to have reaped the ripening harvest, awakens a thrill 
 deep and startling in the breast of those who wrought 
 
232 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 by his side during the burden and heat of the day. 
 To lay the mother on her pillow of clay, whose last 
 struggle with life was, perchance, to resign the hope 
 of one more brief visit to the land of her fathers, — 
 whose heart's last pulsation might have been a pray- 
 er that her children should return and grow up 
 within the shadow of the school-house and the church 
 of God, is a grief in which none save emigrants 
 may participate. To consign to their narrow, note- 
 less abode, both young and old, the infant and him 
 of hoary hairs, without the solemn knell, the sable 
 train, the hallowed voice of the man of God, giving 
 back, in the name of his fellow-Christians, the most 
 precious roses of their pilgrim path, and speaking 
 with divine authority of Him who is the " resurrec- 
 tion and the life," adds desolation to that weeping 
 with which man goeth downward to his dust. 
 
 But with heaviness of an unspoken and peculiar 
 nature was this victim of vice borne from the home 
 that he troubled, and laid by the side of his son to 
 whose tender years he had been an unnatural ene- 
 my. There was sorrow among all who stood around 
 his grave, and it bore features of that sorrow which 
 is without hope. 
 
 The widowed mourner was not able to raise her 
 head from the bed, when the bloated remains of her 
 unfortunate husband were committed to the earth. 
 Long and severe sickness ensued, and in her conva- 
 lescence a letter was received from her brother, in- 
 viting her and her child to an asylum under his roof 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 233 
 
 and appointing a period to come and conduct them 
 on their homeward journey. 
 
 With her Httle daughter, the sole remnant of her 
 wrecked heart's wealth, she returned to her kindred. 
 It was with emotions of deep and painful gratitude 
 that she bade farewell to the inhabitants of that in- 
 fant settlement, whose kindness through all her ad- 
 versities had never failed. And when they remem- 
 be^-ed the example of uniform patience and piety 
 which she had exhibited, and the saint-like manner 
 in which she had sustained her burdens, and cherish- 
 ed their sympathies, they felt as if a tutelary spirit 
 had departed from among them. 
 
 In the home of her brother, she educated her 
 daughter in industry, and that contentment which 
 virtue teaches. Restored to those friends with whom 
 the morning of life had passed, she shared with hum- 
 ble cheerfulness the comforts that earth had yet in 
 store for her ; but in the cherished sadness of hei 
 perpetual widowhood, in the bursting sighs of her 
 nightly orison, might be traced a sacred and deep- 
 rooted sorrow — the memory of her erring husband, 
 and the miseries of unreclaimed intemperance. 
 
 U 2 
 
THE INDIAN GIRL. 
 
 She sat alone beside her hearth — 
 
 For many nights alone ; 
 She slept not on the pleasant couch 
 
 Where fragrant herbs were strown. 
 
 At first she bound her raven hair 
 
 With feather and with shell ; 
 But then she hoped ; at length, like night, 
 
 Around her neck it fell. 
 
 They saw her wandering 'mid the woods, 
 Lone, with the cheerless dawn, 
 
 And then they said, " Can this be her 
 We caUed ' The Startled Fawn?' " 
 
 Her heart was in her large sad eyes, 
 Half sunshine and half shade ; 
 
 And love, as love first springs to life, 
 Of everything afraid. 
 
 The red leaf far more heavily 
 
 Fell down to autumn earth, 
 Than her light feet, which seemed to move 
 
 To music and to mirth. 
 
 With the light feet of early youth. 
 
 What hopes and joys depart ! 
 Ah ! nothing like the heavy step 
 
 Betrays the heavy heart. 
 
236 THE INDIAN GIRL. 
 
 It is a usual history 
 
 That Indian girl could tell, 
 Fate sets apart one common doom 
 
 For all who love too well. 
 
 The proud — the shy — the sensitive, 
 
 Life has not many such ; 
 They dearly buy their happiness, 
 
 By feeling it too much. 
 
 A stranger to her forest home, 
 That fair young stranger came ; 
 
 They raised for him the funeral song— 
 For him the funeral flame. 
 
 Love sprang from pity, — and her arms 
 
 Around his arms she threw ; 
 She told her father, "If he dies, 
 
 Your daughter dieth too." 
 
 For her sweet sake they set him free — 
 
 He lingered at her side ; 
 And many a native song yet tells 
 
 Of that pale stranger's bride. 
 
 Two years have passed — how much two yean 
 
 Have taken in their flight ! 
 They 've taken from the lip its smile, 
 
 And from the eye its light. 
 
 Poor child ! she was a child in years— 
 
 So timid and so young ; 
 With what a fond and earnest faith 
 
 To desperate hope she clung ! 
 
THE I]?a)IAN GIRL. 237 
 
 His eyes grew cold — his voice grew strange — 
 
 They only grew more dear. 
 She sers-ed him meekly, anxiously, 
 
 With love— half faith, half fear. 
 
 And can a fond and faithful heart 
 
 Be worthless in those eyes 
 For which it beats?— Ah ! woe to those 
 
 Who such a heart despise. 
 
 Poor child ! what lonely days she passed, 
 
 With nothing to recall 
 But bitter taunts, and careless words, 
 
 And looks more cold than all. 
 
 Alas ! for love, that sits at home, 
 
 Forsaken, and yet fond ; 
 The grief that sits beside the hearth, 
 
 Life has no grief beyond. 
 
 He left her, but she followed him — 
 
 She thought he could not bear 
 When she had left her home for him 
 
 To look on her despair. 
 
 Adown the strange and mighty stream 
 
 She took her lonely way ! 
 The stars at night her pilots were, 
 
 As was the sun by day. 
 
 Yet mournfully — how mournfully ! — 
 
 The Indian looked behind , 
 When the last sound of voice or step 
 
 Died on the midnight wind. 
 
238 THE INDIAN GIRL. 
 
 Yet Still adown the gloomy stream 
 
 She plied her weary oar ; 
 Her husband — he had left their home, 
 
 And it was home no more. 
 
 She found him — but she found in vain- 
 He spurned her from his side ; 
 
 He said, her brow was all too dark, 
 For her to be his bride. 
 
 She grasped his hands, — her own were cold,- 
 
 And silent turned away, 
 As she had not a tear to shed, 
 And not a word to say. 
 
 And pale as death she reached her boat, 
 
 And guided it along ; 
 With broken voice she strove to raise 
 
 A melancholy song. 
 
 None watched the lonely Indian girl,— 
 
 She passed unmarked of all, 
 Until they saw her slight canoe 
 
 Approach the mighty Fall ! * 
 
 Upright, within that slender boat. 
 
 They saw the pale girl stand, 
 Her dark hair streaming far behind — 
 
 Upraised her desperate hand. 
 
 The air is filled with shriek and shout— 
 
 They call, but call in vain ; 
 The boat amid the waters dashed — 
 
 'T was never seen again. 
 
 * Niagara. 
 
!i — 
 
 GRIEF. 239 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless — 
 
 That only men incredulous of despair, 
 
 Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air, 
 
 Beat upward to God's throne in loud access 
 
 Of shriekmg and reproach. Full desertness 
 
 In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare 
 
 Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare 
 
 Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express 
 
 Grief for thy dead in silence like to death ; 
 
 Most like a monumental statue set 
 
 In everlasting watch and moveless woe, 
 
 Till itself crumble to the dust beneath ! 
 
 Touch it ! the marble eyelids are not wet— 
 
 If it could weep, it could arise and go. 
 
240 SUBSTITUTION. 
 
 SUBSTITUTION. 
 
 When some beloved voice, that veas to you 
 Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, 
 And silence, against which you dare not cry, 
 Aches round you like a strong disease and new — 
 What hope ? what help? what music will undo 
 That silence to your sense 1 Not friendship's sigh — 
 Not reason's subtle count ! Not melody 
 Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew — 
 Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales. 
 Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress trees 
 To the clear moon ; nor yet the spheric laws 
 Self-chanted, — nor the angels' sweet All hails, 
 Met in the smile of God. Nay, none of these. 
 Speak THOU, availing Christ ! — and fill tliis pause. 
 
COMFORT. 
 
 241 
 
 COMFORT. 
 
 Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet 
 From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, 
 Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so 
 Who art not missed by any that entreat. 
 Speak to me as to Mary at thy feet — 
 And if no precious gums my hands bestow, 
 Let my tears drop like amber, while I go 
 In reach of thy divinest voice complete 
 In humanest affection — thus, in sooth, 
 To lose the sense of losing ! As a child, 
 Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, 
 Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth ; 
 Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled. 
 He sleeps the faster that he wept before. 
 
 V 
 
242 WORK. 
 
 WORK. 
 
 What are we set on earth for 1 Say, to toil— 
 
 Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines, 
 
 For all the heat o' the day, till it declines. 
 
 And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. 
 
 God did anoint thee with his odorous oil. 
 
 To wrestle, not to reign ; and He assigns 
 
 All thy tears over, like pure crystallines. 
 
 For younger fellow-workers of the soil 
 
 To wear for amulets. So others shall 
 
 Take patience, labor, to their heart and hands, 
 
 From thy hands, and thy heart, and thy brave cheery. 
 
 And God's grace fructify through thee to a^ 
 
 The least flower, with a brimming cup, may stand. 
 
 And share its dew-drop with another near. 
 
THE BOON OF MEMORY. 243 
 
 THE BOON OF MEMORY. 
 
 "Many things answered me."— Manfred. 
 
 I GO, I go ! — and must mine image fade 
 
 From the green spots wherein my childhood played, 
 
 By my own streams 1 
 Must my hfe part from each famiUar place, 
 As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 
 
 Of its lone themes? 
 
 Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
 The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 
 
 In grief or glee 1 
 All the sweet counsel, the communion high, 
 The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, 
 
 Poured full and free? 
 
 A boon, a tahsman, O Memory ! give. 
 
 To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 
 
 For evermore 1 
 Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, 
 Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 
 
 A thought restore ! 
 
 In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
 In the dim brooding violet of the dell. 
 
 Set deep that thought ! 
 And let the sunset's melancholy glow. 
 And let the Spring's first whisper, faint and low, 
 
 With me be fraught ! 
 
244 THE BOON OF BIEMORY. 
 
 And Memory answered me : — " Wild wish and vain ! 
 I have no hues the loveliest to detain 
 
 In the heart's core. 
 The place they held in bosoms all their own, 
 Soon with new shadows filled, new flowers o'ergrown. 
 
 Is theirs no more." 
 
 Hast thou such power, O Love? — And Love replied, 
 *' It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 
 
 Of hope and trust, 
 Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
 'Tis but to write with the heart's fiery rain, 
 
 Wild words on dust !" 
 
 Song, is the gift with thee ? — I ask a lay, 
 Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 
 
 From the still breast ; 
 Filled with a tone — oh ! not for deathless fame, • 
 
 But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 
 
 Where it would rest. 
 
 And Song made answer — " It is not in me. 
 Though called immortal ; though my gifts may be 
 
 All but divine. 
 A place of lonely brightness I can give : 
 A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst Kv&— 
 
 This is not mine !" 
 
 Death, Death ! wilt thou the restless wish fulfill? 
 And Death the Strong One, spoke : — " I can but still 
 
 Each vain regret. 
 What if forgotten ? — All thy soul would crave, 
 Thou too, within the mantle of the grave, 
 
 W^ilt soon forget." 
 
SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR. 245 
 
 Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, 
 A.S from all nature's voices one reply, 
 
 But one — was given. 
 " Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone 
 To send thee back the spirit of thine own — 
 
 Seek it in Heaven." 
 
 SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Old Time has turned another page 
 
 Of eternity and truth ; 
 He reads with a warning voice to age, 
 
 And whispers a lesson to youth. 
 A year has fled o'er heart and head 
 
 Since last the yule log burnt ; 
 And we have a task to closely ask. 
 
 What the bosom and brain have learnt 1 
 Oh ! let us hope that our sands have run 
 
 With \visdom's precious grains ; 
 Oh ! may we find that our hands have done 
 
 Some work of glorious pains. 
 Then a welcome and cheer to the merry new year. 
 
 While the holly gleams above us ; 
 With a pardon for the foes who hate. 
 
 And a prayer for those who love us. 
 
 We may have seen some loved ones pass 
 
 To the land of hallowed rest ; 
 We may miss the glow of an honest brow 
 
 And the warmth of a friendly breast : 
 But if we nursed them while on earth, 
 
 With hearts all true and kind, 
 V2 
 
246 SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Will their spirits blame the sinless mirth 
 
 Of those true hearts left behind 1 
 No, no I it were not well or wise 
 
 To mourn with endless pain ; 
 There 's a better world be5"ond the skies, 
 
 Where the good shall meet again. 
 Then a welcome and cheer to the merry new year, 
 
 While the holly gleams above us ; 
 With a pardon for the foes who hate. 
 
 And a prayer for those who love us. 
 
 Have our days rolled on serenely free 
 
 From sorrow's dim alloy? 
 Do we still possess the gifts that bless 
 
 And fill our souls with joy ? 
 Are the creatures dear still clinging near ? 
 
 Do we hear loved voices come ? 
 Do we gaze on eyes whose glances shed 
 
 A halo round our home ? 
 Oh, if we do, let thanks be poured 
 
 To Him who hath spared and given, 
 And forget not o'er the festive board 
 
 The mercies held from heaven. 
 Then a welcome and cheer to the merry new year, 
 
 While the holly gleams above us ; 
 With a pardon for the foes who hate. 
 
 And a prayer for those who love us. 
 

 
 > 1 • > 
 J > ' » 
 
 •it 
 

 i 
 
r^—""^'— """^"""""'^""^^ 
 
 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 "Grently on him, had gentle Nature laid 
 The weight of years. — All passions that disturb 
 Had past away." — 
 
 SOUTHEY 
 
 Soon after my entrance upon clerical duties, in 
 the state of North-Carolina, I was informed of an 
 isolated settlement, at a considerable distance from 
 the place of my residence. Its original elements 
 were emigrants from New-England ; a father, and 
 his five sons, who, with their wives and little chil- 
 dren, had about thirty years before become sojourn- 
 ers in the heart of one of the deepest Carolinian 
 solitudes. They purchased a tract of v/ild, swamp- 
 encircled land. This they subjected to cultivation, 
 and by unremitting industry, rendered adequate to 
 their subsistence and comfort. The sons, and the 
 sons' sons, had in their turn become the fathers of 
 families ; so, that the population of this singular spot 
 comprised five generations. They were described 
 as constituting a peaceful and virtuous community, 
 with a government purely patriarchal. Secluded 
 from the privileges of public worship, it was said 
 that a sense of religion, influencing the heart and 
 conduct, had been preserved by statedly assembling 
 
248 
 
 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 on the sabbath, and reading the scriptures, with the 
 Liturgy of the Church of England. The pious an- 
 cestor of the colony, whose years now surpassed 
 four-score, had, at their removal to this hermitao-e, 
 established his eldest son in the office of lay-reader. 
 This simple ministration, aided by holy example, 
 had so shared the blessing of heaven, that all the 
 members of this miniature commonwealth held fast 
 the faith and hope of the gospel. 
 
 I was desirous of visiting this peculiar people, and 
 of ascertaining whether such precious fruits might 
 derive nutriment from so simple a root. A journey 
 into that section of the country afforded me an op- 
 portunity. I resolved to be the witness of their Sun- 
 day devotions,- and with the earliest dawn of that 
 consecrated day, I left the house of a friend, where 
 I had lodged, and who furnished the requisite direc- 
 tions for my solitary and circuitous route. 
 
 The brightness and heat of summer began to glow 
 oppressively, ere I turned from the haunts of men, 
 and plunged into the recesses of the forest. Tow- 
 ering amidst shades which almost excluded the lio-ht 
 of heaven, rose the majestic pines, the glory and the 
 wealth of North-Carolina. Some, like the palms, 
 those princes of the East, reared a proud column of 
 fifty feet, ere the branches shot forth their heaven- 
 ward cone. With their dark verdure, mincrled the 
 pale and beautiful efflorescence of the wild poplar, 
 like the light interlacing of sculpture, in some an- 
 cient awe-inspiring temple, while thousands of birds 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 249 
 
 from those dark cool arches, poured their anthems 
 of praise to the Divine Architect. 
 
 The sun was high in the heavens when I arrived 
 at the morass, the bulwark thrown by Nature around 
 this httle city of the desert. Alighting, 1 led my 
 horse over the rude bridges of logs, which surmount- 
 ed the pools and ravines, until our footing rested 
 upon firm earth. Soon, an expanse of arable land 
 became visible, and wreaths of smoke came lightly 
 curlinfT throuo;h the trees, as if to welcome the 
 stranger. Then, a cluster of cottages cheered the 
 eye. They were so contiguous, that the blast of a 
 horn, or even the call of a shrill voice, might con- 
 vene all their inhabitants. To the central and the 
 largest building, I directed my steps. Approaching 
 the open window, I heard a distinct manly voice, 
 pronouncing the solemn invocation, — " By thine 
 agony, and bloody sweat, — by thy cross and pas- 
 sion, — by thy precious death and burial, — by thy 
 glorious resurrection and ascension, — and by the 
 coming of the Holy Ghost." The response arose, 
 fully and devoutly, in the deep accents of manhood, 
 and the softer tones of the mother and her children. 
 Standing motionless, that I might not disturb the 
 worshippers, I had a fair view of the lay-reader. He 
 was a man of six feet in height, muscular and well 
 proportioned, with a head beautifully symmetrical, 
 from whose crown time had begun to shred the lux- 
 uriance of its raven locks. Unconscious of the pre- 
 sence of a stranger, he supposed that no eye regard- 
 
2^50 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 ed him, save that of his God. Kneehng around him, 
 were his " brethren according to the flesh," a numer- 
 ous and attentive congregation. At his right hand 
 was the Patriarch — tall, somewhat emaciated, j^et 
 not bowed with years, his white hair combed smooth- 
 ly over his temples, and slightly curling on his neck. 
 Gathered near him, were his children, and his chil- 
 dren's children. His blood was in the veins of al- 
 most every worshipper. Mingling with forms that 
 evinced the ravages of time and toil, were the bright 
 locks of youth," and the rosy brow of childhood, 
 bowed low in supplication. Even the infant, with 
 hushed lip, regarded a scene where was no wander- 
 ing glance. Involuntarily, my heart said, — " Shall 
 not this be a family in Heaven ?" In the closing 
 aspirations, " O Lamb of God ! that takest away the 
 sins of the world, have mercy upon us !" — the voice 
 of the Patriarch was heard, with strong and affect- 
 ing emphasis. After a pause of silent devotion, all 
 arose from their knees, and I entered the circle. 
 
 " I am a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ. 
 I come to bless you in the name of the Lord." 
 
 The ancient Patriarch, grasping my hand, gazed 
 on me with intense earnestness. A welcome, such 
 as words have never uttered, was written on his 
 brow. 
 
 " Thirty-and-two years, has my dwelling been in 
 this forest. Hitherto, no man of God hath visited 
 us. Praised be his name, who hath put it into thy 
 heart, to seek out these few sheep in the wilderness. 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 251 
 
 Secluded as we are, from the privilege of worship- 
 ping God in his temple, we thus assemble every Sab- 
 bath, to read his holy Book, and to pray unto him in 
 the words of our liturgy. Thus have we been pre- 
 served from ' forgetting the Lord who bought us, 
 and lightly esteeming the Rock of our Salvation.' " 
 
 The exercises of that day are indelibly engraven 
 on my memory. Are they not written in the record 
 of the Most High? Surely a blessing entered into 
 my own soul, as I beheld the faith, and strengthened 
 the hope of those true-hearted and devout disciples. 
 Like him, whose slumbers at Bethel were visited by 
 the white-winged company of heaven, I was con- 
 strained to say, — " Surely the Lord is in this place, 
 and I knew it not." 
 
 At the request of the Patriarch, I administered the 
 ordinance of baptism. It was received with affecting 
 demonstrations of solemnity and gratitude. The 
 sacred services were protracted until the setting of the 
 sun. Still they seemed reluctant to depart. It was to 
 them a high and rare festival. When about to sepa- 
 rate, the venerable Patriarch introduced me to all his 
 posterity. Each seemed anxious to press my hand ; 
 and even the children expressed, by affectionate 
 glances, their reverence and love for him who min- 
 istered at the altar of God. 
 
 " The Almighty," said the ancient man, '* hath 
 smiled on these babes, born in the desert. I came 
 hither with my sons and their companions, and their 
 olessed mother, who hath gone to rest- God hath 
 
252 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 given us families as a flock. We earn our bread 
 with toil and in patience. For the intervals of labor 
 we have a school, where our little ones gain the ru- 
 diments of knowledge. Our only books of instruc- 
 tion, are the bible and prayer-book." 
 
 At a signal they rose and sang, when about de- 
 parting to their separate abodes, — " Glory to God in 
 the highest, and on earth, peace, and good will to- 
 wards men." Never, by the pomp of measured 
 melody, was my spirit so stirred within me, as when 
 that rustic, yet tuneful choir, surrounding the white- 
 haired father of them all, breathed out in their forest 
 sanctuary, " thou, that takest away the sins of the 
 world, have mercy upon ws." 
 
 The following morning, I called on every family, 
 and was delighted with the domestic order, econo- 
 my, and concord, that prevailed. Careful improve- 
 ment of time, and moderated desires, seemed uni- 
 formly to produce among them, the fruits of a blame- 
 less life and conversation. They conducted me to 
 their school. Its teacher was a grand-daughter of 
 the lay-reader. She possessed a sweet countenance, 
 and gentle manners, and with characteristic simpli- 
 city, employed herself at the spinning-wheel, when 
 not absorbed in the labors of instruction. Most of 
 her pupils read intelligibly, and replied with readi- 
 ness to questions from Scripture History. Writing 
 and arithmetic were well exemplified by the elder 
 ones ; but those works of science, with which our 
 libraries are so lavishly supplied, had not found their 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 253 
 
 way to this retreat. But among the learners was 
 visible, what does not always distinguish better en- 
 dowed seminaries ; docility, subordination, and pro- 
 found attention to every precept and illustration. 
 Habits of application and a desire for knowledge 
 were infused into all. So trained up were they in 
 industry, that even the boys, in the intervals of their 
 lessons, were busily engaged in the knitting of stock- 
 ino-s for winter. To the simple monitions which I 
 addressed to them, they reverently listened ; and ere 
 they received the parting blessing, rose, and repeat- 
 ed a few passages from the inspired volume, and 
 lifted up their accordant voices, chanting, " blessed 
 be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath visited and 
 redeemed his people." 
 
 \Vhatever I beheld in this singular spot, served to 
 awaken curiosity, or to interest feeling. All my 
 inquiries were satisfied with the utmost frankness. 
 Evidently, there was nothing which required conceal- 
 ment. The heartless theories of fashion, with their 
 subterfuges and vices, had not penetrated to this her- 
 metically sealed abode. The Patriarch, at his en- 
 trance upon his territory, had divided it into six equal 
 portions, reserving one for himself, and bestowing 
 another on each of his five sons. As the children 
 of the .colony advanced to maturity, they, with 
 scarcely an exception, contracted marriages among 
 each other, striking root, like the branches of the 
 banian, around their parent tree. The domicile of 
 every family was originally a rude cabin of logs, 
 
 X 
 
254 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 serving simply the purpose of shelter. In front of 
 this, a house of larger dimensions was commenced, 
 and so constructed, that the ancient abod^ might 
 become the kitchen, when the whole was com^.leted. 
 To the occupation of building they attended as they 
 were able to command time and materials. " We 
 keep it," said one of the colonists, for " handy-w^ork, 
 when there is no farming, or turpentine-gathering, 
 or tar-making." Several abodes were at that time, 
 in different stages of progress, marking the links of 
 gradation between the rude cottage, and what they 
 styled the " framed house." When finished, though 
 devoid of architectural elegance, they exhibited ca- 
 pabilities of comfort, equal to the sober expectations 
 of a primitive people. A field for corn, and a gar- 
 den abounding with vegetables, were appendages to 
 each habitation. Cows grazed quietly around, and 
 sheep dotted like snow-flakes, the distant green pas- 
 tures. The softer sex participated in the business 
 of horticulture, and when necessary, in the labors 
 of harvest, thus obtaining that vigor and muscular 
 energy which distinguish the peasantry of Europe, 
 from their effeminate sisters of the nobility and gen- 
 try. Each household produced or manufactured 
 within its own domain most of the materials which 
 were essential to its comfort ; and for such articles 
 as their plantations could not supply, or their inge- 
 nuity construct, the pitch-pine was their medium of 
 purchase. When the season arrived for collecting 
 its hidden treasures, an aperture was made in its 
 bark, and a box inserted, into wh'ch Live turpentine 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 255 
 
 continually oozed. Care was required to preserve 
 this orifice free from the induration of glutinous 
 matter. Thus, it must be frequently reopened, or 
 carried gradually upward on the trunk of the tree , 
 sometimes, to such a height, that a small knife affix- 
 ed to the extremity of a long pole, is used for that 
 purpose. Large trees sustain several boxes at the 
 same time, though it is required that the continuity 
 of bark be preserved, or the tree, thus shedding its 
 hfe-blood at the will of man, must perish. Though 
 the laborers in this department are exceedingly in- 
 dustrious and vigilant, there will still be a consider- 
 able deposit adhering to the body of the tree. These 
 portions, called " turpentine facings," are carefully 
 separated, and laid in a cone-like form, until they 
 attain the size of a formidable mound. This is 
 covered with earth, and when the cool season com- 
 mences, is ignited ; and the liquid tar, flowing into 
 a reservoir prepared for it, readily obtains a market 
 among the dealers in naval stores. 
 
 Shall I be forgiven for such minuteness of detail 1 
 So strongly did this simple and interesting people 
 excite my affectionate solicitude, that not even their 
 slightest concerns seemed unworthy of attention- 
 By merchants of the distant town, who were in 
 habits of traffic with them, I was afterwards inform- 
 ed that they were distinguished for integrity and 
 uprightness, and that the simple affirmation of these 
 " Bible and Liturgy men," as they were styled, pos- 
 sessed the sacredness of an oath. Tlie lay-reader 
 remarked to me, that he had never known among 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
256 .THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 his people, a single instance of either intemperance 
 or profanity. 
 
 " Our young men have no temptations, and' the 
 old set an unilbrmly sober example. Still, I cannot 
 but think our freedom from vice is chiefly owing to 
 a sense of religious obligation, cherished by God's 
 blessing upon our humble worship." 
 
 " Are there no quarrels or strifes among you ^" 
 
 " For what should we contend ? We have no 
 prospect of wealth, nor motive of ambition. We 
 are too busy to dispute about words. Are not these 
 the sources of most of the ' wars and fightings' 
 among mankind ? Beside, we are all of one blood. 
 Seldom does any variance arise, which the force of 
 brotherhood may not quell. Strict obedience is 
 early taught in families. Children who learn tho- 
 roughly the Bible-lesson to obey and honor their 
 parents, are not apt to be contentious in society, or 
 irreverent to their Father in Heaver. Laws so 
 simple would be inefficient in a mixed a id turbulent 
 community. Neither could they be effectual here, 
 without the aid of that gospel which speaketh peace 
 and prayer for His assistance, who " turneth the 
 hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just." 
 
 Is it surprising that I should take my leave, with 
 an overflowing heart, of the pious Patriarch and his 
 posterity 1 — that I should earnestly desire another 
 opportunity of visiting their isolated domain ? 
 
 Soon after this period, a circumstance took place, 
 which they numbered among the most interesting 
 f ras of their history. A small chapel was erected 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 257 
 
 in the village nearest to their settlement. Though 
 at the distance of many miles, they anticipated its 
 completion with delight. At its consecration by the 
 late Bishop Ravenscroft, as many of the colonists as 
 found it possible to leave home, determined to be 
 present. Few of the younger ones had ever entered 
 a building set apart solely for the worship of God ; 
 and the days were anxiously counted, until they 
 should receive permission to tread his courts. 
 
 The appointed period arrived. Just before the 
 commencement of the sacred services of dedication, 
 a procession of singular aspect was seen to wind 
 along amid interposing shades. It consisted of per- 
 sons of both sexes, and of every age, clad in a pri- 
 mitive style, and advancing with solemn order. I 
 recognized my hermit friends, and hastened onward 
 to meet them. Scarcely could the ancient Jews, when 
 from distant regions they made pilgrimage to their 
 glorious hill of Zion, have testified more touching 
 emotion, than these guileless worshippers, in passing 
 the threshold of this humble temple to Jehovah. 
 When the sweet tones of a small organ, mingling 
 with the voices of a select choir, gave " glory to the 
 Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was 
 in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world 
 without end," the young children of the forest start- 
 ed from their seats in wondering joy, while the 
 changing color, or quivering lip of the elders, evin- 
 ced that" the hallowed music awjke the cherished 
 
 echoes of memory. 
 
 X2 
 
253 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 But with what breathless attention did they hang 
 on every word of Bishop Ravenscroft, as with his 
 own peculiar combination of zeal and tenderness, he 
 illustrated the inspired passage which he had chosen, 
 or with a sudden rush of strong and stormy eloquence 
 broke up the fountains of the soul ! Listening and 
 weeping, they gathered up the manna, which an 
 audience satiated with the bread of heaven, and pro- 
 digal of angels' food, might have suffered to perish. 
 With the hoary Patriarch, a throng of his descend- 
 ants, who had been duly prepared for that holy vow 
 and profession, knelt around the altar, in commem- 
 oration of their crucified lledeemer. 
 
 At the close of the communion service, when about 
 to depart to his home, the white-haired man drew 
 near to the Bishop. Gratitude for the high privileges 
 in which he had participated ; reverence for the fa- 
 ther in God, whom he had that day for the first time 
 beheld ; conviction that his aged eyes could but a 
 little longer look on the things of time ; conscious- 
 ness that he might scarcely expect again to stand 
 amid these his children, to " behold the tair beauty 
 of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple," over- 
 whelmed his spirit. Pressing the hand of the Bishop, 
 and raising his eyes heavenward, he said, — " Lord ! 
 now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for 
 mine eyes have seen thy salvation." 
 
 Bishop Ravenscrofl: fixed on him one of those 
 piercing glances which seemed to read the soul ; and 
 then tears, Hke large rain-drops stood upon his cheeks. 
 Recovering from his emotion, he pronounced, with 
 
\ 
 
 THE PATRIARCH. 2-59 
 
 affectionate dignity, the benediction, " the Lord bless 
 thee and keep thee ; the Lord make his face to shine 
 upon thee, and be gracious unto thee ; the Lord Uft 
 up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace." 
 
 The Patriarch, bowing down a head, heavy with 
 the snows of more than fourscore winters, breathed 
 a thanksgiving to God, and turned homeward, follow- 
 ed by airhis kindred. Summer had glided away ere 
 it was in my power again to visit the " lodge in the 
 wilderness." As I was taking in the autumn twilight 
 my lonely walk for meditation, a boy of rustic ap- 
 pearance, approaching with hasty steps, accosted me. 
 
 " Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies 
 stretched upon his bed. He takes no bread or water, 
 and he asks for you. Man of God, will you come 
 
 to him 1" 
 
 Scarcely had I signified assent, ere he vanished. 
 With the light of the early morning, I commenced 
 my journey. Autumn had infused chillness into the 
 atmosphere, and somewhat of tender melancholy 
 into the heart. Nature seems to regard with sadness 
 the passing away of the glories of summer, and to 
 robe herself as if for humiliation. 
 
 As the sun increased in power, more of cheerful- 
 ness overspread the landscape. The pines were 
 busily disseminating their winged seeds. Like m- 
 sects, with a floating motion, they spread around for 
 II miles. Large droves of swine made their repast 
 
 upon this half ethereal food. How mindful is Nature 
 of even her humblest pensioners ! 
 
 As I approached the cluster of cottages, which 
 now assumed the appf^arance of a village, the eldest 
 
260 THE PATRIARCH 
 
 son advanced to meet me. His head declined like 
 one strucrijlino: with a grief which he would fain sub- 
 due. Taking my hand in both of his, he raised it 
 to his lips. Neither of us spoke a word. It was 
 written clearly on his countenance, " Come quickly, 
 ere he die." 
 
 Together we entered the apartment of the good 
 Patriarch. One glance convinced me that he was 
 not long to be of our company. His posterity were 
 gathered around him in sorrow ; 
 
 " For drooping, — sickening, — dying, they began, 
 Whom they ador'd as God, to mourn as man." 
 
 He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of the 
 Saviour, who " went not up to joy, until he first suf- 
 fered pain," his brow again lighted with the calm- 
 ness of one, whose " way to eternal j.oy was to suf- 
 fer with Christ, whose door to eternal life gladly to 
 die with him." 
 
 Greatly comforted by prayer, he desired that the 
 holy communion might be once more administered 
 to him, and his children. There was a separation 
 around his bed. Those who had been accustomed 
 to partake with him, drew near, and knelt around 
 the dying. Fixing his eye on the others, he said, 
 with an energy of tone which v/o thought had for- 
 saken him, — "WzZZ ye thus be divided, at the last 
 day V A burst of wailing grief vi'^as the reply. 
 
 Never will that scene be effaced from my remem- 
 hranco : the expressive features, and thrilling re- 
 sponses, of the Patriarch, into whose expiring body 
 the soul returned with power, that it might leave this 
 last testimony of faith and hope to those whom he 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 261 
 
 loved, are among the unfading imagery of my exist- 
 ence. The spirit seemed to 'rekindle more and more, 
 in its last lingerings around the threshold of time. In 
 a tone, whose clearness and emphasis surprised us, 
 the departing saint breathed forth a blessing on those 
 who surrounded him, in the " name of that God, 
 whose peace passeth all understanding." 
 
 There was an interval, during which he seemed 
 to slumber. Whispers of hope were heard around 
 his couch, that he might wake and be refreshed. At 
 length, his eyes slowly unclosed. They were glazed 
 and deeply sunken in their sockets. Their glance was 
 long and kind upon those who hung over his pillow. 
 His lips moved, but not audibly. Bowing my ear more 
 closely, I found that he was speaking of Him who is 
 the " resurrection and the life." A slight shuddering 
 passed over his frame, and he was at rest, for ever. 
 A voice of weeping arose from among the children, 
 v/ho had been summoned to the bed of death. Ere I had 
 attempted consolation, the lay- reader with an unfalter- 
 ing tone pronounced, " the Lord gave, and the Lord 
 hath taken away : blessed he the name of the Lord:' 
 Deep silence ensued. It seemed as if every heart 
 was installing him who spake, in the place of the 
 father and the governor who had departed. It was 
 a spontaneous acknowledgment of the right of pri- 
 mogeniture, which no politician could condemn. He 
 stood among them, in the simple majesty of his birth- 
 right, a ruler and priest to guide his people in the 
 way everlasting. It was as if the mantle of an arisen 
 
 i 
 
262 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 my servant whom I have chosen." Every eye fixed 
 upon him its expression "of fealty and love. Gra- 
 dually the families retired to their respective habita- 
 tions. Each individual paused at the pillow of the 
 Patriarch, to take a silent farewell ; and some of the 
 little ones climbed up to kiss the marble face. 
 
 T was left alone with the lay-reader, and with the 
 
 dead. The enthusiasm of the scene had fled, and 
 
 I the feelings of a son triumphed. Past years rushed 
 
 like a tide over his memory. The distant, but un- 
 
 ! dimmed impressions of infancy and childhood, — the 
 
 ! planting of that once wild waste, — the changes of 
 
 I 
 
 I those years which had sprinkled his temples with gray 
 hairs, — all, with their sorrows and their joys, came 
 back, associated with the lifeless image of his belov- 
 ed sire. In the bitterness of bereavement, he cover- 
 ed his face, and wepl. That iron frame which had 
 borne the hardening of more than half a century, 
 shook, like the breast of an infant, when it sobs 
 out its sorrows. I waited until the first shock of 
 grief had subsided. Then, passing my arm gently 
 within his, I repeated, " I heard a voice from heaven 
 saying, — ' Write, from henceforth, blessed are the 
 dead, who die in the Lord.' " Instantly raising him- 
 self upright, he responded in a voice whose deep 
 inflictions sank into my soul, " Even so, saith the 
 spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works 
 do follow them." 
 
 I remained to attend the funeral obsequies of the 
 Patriarch. In tne heart of their territory was a 
 shady dell, sacred to the dead. It was surrounded 
 by a neat inclosure, and planted with trees. The 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 26^ 
 
 drooping branches of a willow, swept the grave of 
 the mother of the colony. Near her, slumbered hei 
 youngest son. Several other mounds swelled around 
 them, most of which, by their small size, told of the 
 smitten flowers of infancy. To this goodly compa- 
 ny, we bore him, who had been revered as the father 
 and exemplar of all. With solemn steps, his de- 
 scendants, two and two, followed the corpse. I 
 heard a convulsive and suppressed breathing, among 
 the more tender of the train ; but when the burial- 
 service commenced, all was hushed. And never 
 have I more fully realized its surpassing pathos and 
 power, than when from the centre of that deep soli- 
 tude, on the bnnk of that waiting grave, it poured 
 forth its consolation. 
 
 " Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short 
 time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up 
 and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as it were a 
 shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the 
 midst of life, we are in death. Of whom may we 
 seek succor but of thee. Oh Lord ! — who for our sins 
 art justly displeased 1 Yet, O Lord God most holy 
 — O God most mighty, — O holy and most merciful 
 Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal 
 death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts, 
 shut not thy most merciful ears to our prayers, but 
 spare us, O Lord most holy, — O God most mighty, 
 — O holy and merciful Saviour, — suffer us not, at our 
 last hour, for any pains of death to fall from thee." ^, 
 
 Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourn- 
 mg community immediately after committing tha 
 dust of their pious ancestor to the earth. They ac 
 
 ! 
 
?6i THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 companied me to some distance on my journey, and 
 our parting was with mutual tears. Turnmg to 
 view them, as their forms mingled with the dark 
 green of the forest, I heard the faint echo of a clear 
 voice. It was the lay-reader, speaking of the hope 
 of the resurrection : " If we believe that Christ died 
 and rose again, even so them also, that sleep in 
 Jesus, will God bring with him." 
 
 Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way. I 
 inquired, is Devotion never encumbered, or impeded 
 by the splendor that surrounds herl Amid the 
 lofty cathedral , — the throng of rich-stoled worship- 
 pers, — the melody of the solemn organ, — does that 
 incense never spend itself upon the earth, that should 
 rise to heaven ? On the very beauty and glory of 
 its ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and 
 go more forth to the work of benevolence, nor spread 
 its wing at the call of faith ? 
 
 Yet surely, there is a reality in religion^ though 
 man may foolishly cheat himself witli the shadow. 
 Here T have beheld it in simplicity, disrobed of" all 
 pomp and circumstance," yet with powder to soothe 
 the passions into harmony, to maintain the virtues 
 in daily and vigorous exercise, and to give victory 
 to the soul, when death vanquishes the body. So, 
 I took the lesson to my heart, and when it has lan- 
 guished or grown cold, I have warmed it by the ix^- 
 membrance of the ever-living faith, of those " few 
 sheep in the wilderness." 
 
 THE END. . 
 
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