p. 
 
 THE 
 
 FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 OB, 
 
 TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 BY 
 
 J. P. BRACE. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 
 
 200 BKOADWAY. 
 M.DCCC.Lin. 
 

 Entered, according to Act- of Congress,- id he year 1853, by 
 
 In the ClerkVoMce of tSe District Court of the TJnrted States for the 
 Southern District of New- York. 
 
THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS DEDICATED TO 
 
 HON. ISAAC W. STUART, 
 
 WHO 
 
 IN HIS WORK BY SC^VA, HAS ACCOMPLISHED IN HISTORY WHAT 
 THE AUTHOR HAS ATTEMPTED IN FICTION, 
 
 THE 
 
 Illustration of tfje Earliest ^ertott of our (Colonial ISiistence. 
 
 HE WILL RECEIVE IT AS A TESTIMONIAL 
 
 OF THE AUTHOR S ADMIRATION OF HIS TALENTS AS A WRITER, 
 AND HIS FRIENDSHIP AS A MAN. 
 
 M62770 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IT is usual, in writing a book, to tell, in its 
 preface, the object for which it was written, 
 and the great moral it is designed to con 
 vey. The author of this Tale, then, would 
 observe to the public that his object was to 
 please himself. That being accomplished, if it 
 please any one else, it will be so much clear 
 gain to the happiness of the world generally. 
 Its moral can be better learnt from its perusal 
 than its preface. 
 
 Although the author has employed the 
 characters of history, he has not encroached 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 upon its events. He had no desire in his at 
 tempted work, to describe what the early set 
 tlers of Hartford actually did, in their quarrels 
 with the Dutch, or their fights with the Indians, 
 or their negotiations for their territory. Such 
 descriptions are the province of the historian, 
 and though they might, with propriety, have 
 mingled themselves with the scenes he has 
 painted, they would have interfered with his 
 object, which was the delineation of character 
 alone. 
 
 To those who may assert that the charac 
 ters are too modern for the period, the author 
 would reply, that human nature, in its greatest 
 phases, is alike in all ages. Usages and cus 
 toms may differ the modes of expressing pas 
 sions and feelings may change the convention 
 alities of life may alter but the heart remains 
 the same. The heroes of Homer have the 
 same emotions with those who figure in the 
 "Keveries," or "Thoughts" of modern authors; 
 they only differ in the manner of exhibiting 
 
PRFFACE. y 
 
 them. An author, to make his book readable, 
 must make it understandable. It would have 
 been, then, as absurd to have made the charac 
 ters of this fiction converse in the dialect of 
 that day, as to have printed the work in the 
 spelling of the early records. So much for its 
 modern aspect. 
 
 No apology will be set forth in this preface 
 for its publication, for none is needed. If the 
 public do not fancy it, they will not read it. If 
 they do fancy it, an apology is only an insult. 
 
 The author trusts that the grave charge of 
 want of " Orthodoxy," which was made by cer 
 tain fastidious critics against his first work, will 
 not be repeated against this. 
 
 HABTFOED, July, 1853. 
 
THE 
 
 FAWN OF THE PALE FACES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I ve seen Connecticut s fair wave, 
 
 Still, as it flow d through rich fields, smiling ; 
 "While the tall corn its bright green gave, 
 
 The river s darker hue beguiling. 
 Fair are thy fields ; thy skies for ever shine ; 
 "Nor drinks the sea a lovelier wave than thine." 
 
 The Traveller. 
 
 THERE is hardly any stream in this land of waters 
 more beautiful in its quiet repose than the Connec 
 ticut in Hartford county. Every thing around it 
 is in keeping with its own serenity. No mountains, 
 except on the remote horizon, and they serving only 
 as appropriate frames to the beautiful picture no 
 rocks no bold and rugged cliffs, or steep and rough 
 shores, hem in its loveliness ; but meadows as green 
 as the garden of Eden skirt its low banks, while an 
 
12 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 occasional grove of willows and red maples wave over 
 the sluggish waters. Cultivation shows her power to 
 the very edge of the placid stream, making the river 
 smile, as it nourishes the bright corn on its very 
 margin. Meanwhile the stream itself, lying too low 
 to be reached by the storms, is never disturbed by 
 dashing waves, but creeps along, slowly, quietly, si- 
 lencly, almost solemnly, to its ocean tomb its waters 
 afc Jmvey limpid; .and refreshing as a mountain brook. 
 
 The exceeding crookedness of the stream adds to 
 its beauty, as it prevents any thing like tameness or 
 insipidity marking its character its quietness having 
 nothing of the stagnation of the canal. The reaches 
 of the river are short, and are terminated by the low 
 wood, or the rich cornfield, or the green meadow, or 
 the busy village with its spire, so that there is no 
 monotony in its loveliness. 
 
 There may be, elsewhere, more to excite more 
 to call out the bursts of genius in description more 
 to elevate the mind by roughness and wild sublimity 
 more to interest the bustling traveller in his love 
 of the busy or the useful ; but for a mild, calm, quiet 
 mind, sick of the bustling and the busy, tired of being 
 always " stretched on the rack of sublimity," no 
 stream presents greater interest than the Connecticut, 
 whether you sail down its peaceful tide on a mild 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 13 
 
 summer afternoon, or ride along its banks, through its 
 flourishing and "beautiful villages, catching occasional 
 glimpses of its bright blue waters, amid the brown 
 and the green around you. 
 
 Reader, have you ever seen the city of Hartford 
 its long, winding streets its elegant public build 
 ings and its commodious private residences ? Have 
 your steps ever been directed over the beautiful stone 
 bridge, rivalling, in its dimensions, many of the struc 
 tures of Europe, to the southern section of the city ? 
 Has your heart ever thrilled as you passed beneath 
 the venerable arms of the Charter Oak, and as the 
 wind whistled through its scanty and time-worn 
 branches, listened as if you heard the spirits of other 
 times whispering above you ? Have you ever fancied 
 as you have gazed at the few which remain of the 
 tenements that the early settlers erected, what strange, 
 romantic deeds their old battered timbers might tell 
 what stories of public effort, or of private joys and 
 sorrows ? If so, you will with the greater readiness be 
 prepared to follow me as I roll back the tide of time 
 far into the remote past, and bring again those streets 
 to view when they were but cow-paths through the 
 wilderness. 
 
 It is in the year 1651 that our tale opens. The 
 place had been settled some fifteen years, and many 
 
14 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 dwellings had sprung up, commencing from the banks 
 of the Little River, each way, and extending up and 
 down Main-street, with Elm, Sheldon, Coles, and La 
 fayette streets on the south side of that stream, and 
 through Arch, Front, Trunibull, and Pearl streets 
 north. We give the names by which these streets 
 are now known ; the antiquarian can consult an ex 
 cellent map of Hartford at .this period, lately pub 
 lished. 
 
 Some of the most distinguished leaders of the 
 colony resided in Coles (now Governors street), and 
 others in Arch-street. The residence of that family, 
 whose adventures and character it will be our duty to 
 delineate, was in the last-named street, not far from 
 the stone building erected by a late respected mayor. 
 Mr. Hooker, the minister, resided near. A low 
 wooden bridge crossed the Little River a few rods 
 to the east, and through Coles -street, ran down to 
 the neighboring colony of "VVethersfield, passing by 
 the residences of Edward Hopkins, William Whiting, 
 John Webster, Thomas Welles, and Greorge Wyllys, 
 all distinguished in the early., history of the place. 
 Remains of the primitive forest were frequent the 
 whole length of this road. Among the giant oaks 
 that then stretched their gnarled and twisted branches 
 across this path, was one, destined in subsequent 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 15 
 
 years to remain the glory of a rescued common 
 wealth. 
 
 Many farmers had settled all along the banks of 
 the Little River, and had commenced cultivating the 
 open meadows on its borders, many of which had been 
 denuded of their timber by the fires of the Indians, 
 long before the coming of the Pale Faces. A few, 
 more adventurous, had crept up to the neighboring 
 hills, and the sound of the axe had already echoed 
 through their heavy forests. One mill had been 
 erected on the stream, and a few workshops of abso 
 lute necessity had been established. 
 
 Northward, the path was continued through the 
 forests to the more distant settlement of Windsor, 
 and some few bold spirits had settled themselves in 
 that direction, erecting their houses as near the bare 
 meadow lands as possible for the greater convenience 
 of pasturage and mowing. 
 
 Eastward, the river rolled in its silent and quiet 
 stateliness : seldom was its glassy surface rippled by 
 the passing boat, or disturbed in its dreamy solem 
 nity, except by the numerous wild-fowl on its shores. 
 Now and then, the slight c.anoe of the savage would 
 steal along its blue and beautiful waters, stilly, as if 
 afraid to disturb their quiet sleep. The rude, flat- 
 bottomed boat of the settler, with its square sail, 
 
16 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 might be very rarely seen, coursing along between the 
 infant villages ; but seldom was the wave disturbed 
 by man. The sudden splash of the sturgeon in a still 
 evening, or the low wail of the night-heron, were 
 almost the only sounds that broke the oppressive 
 stillness of its waters. 
 
 Westward, lay the unbroken forest, in all its maj 
 esty wild tangled with all its knotted brushwood 
 untouched by man its old oaks stretching their limbs 
 athwart the sky, and its tall pines seeking the heavens 
 in their altitude. A few deer-paths or Indian trails 
 were scattered through its recesses the wolf prowled 
 through its upland glades the bear growled in its 
 leafy coverts the panther yelled in its tangled thick 
 ets the wild turkey stalked through its sunny open 
 ings and the long branches of its oaks, the thick 
 tops of its beeches, and the tall trunks of its chest 
 nuts and its hickories were alive with squirrels. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 17 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 Tis autumn now ; and every tree 
 
 Its richest splendor wears : 
 For nature shines in gayest dress, 
 
 Soon as decay appears. 
 
 Its red, seared leaves, the maple bath d 
 
 "Within the swelling stream ; 
 The birch, its yellow foliage sent, 
 
 In particolored gleam. 
 
 Story of the Niagara River. 
 
 EVERY observer of nature has noticed the extreme 
 splendor and even gayety of our autumnal woods. To 
 those foreign travellers, who were but partially in 
 structed that this splendid gayety was but the effect 
 of decay, it has appeared more brilliantly beautiful 
 than any European scenery; and from them it has 
 called forth exclamations of raptured surprise. In 
 deed, were it not for the ideas of decay and death 
 
18 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 which such scenes create, nothing could equal their 
 brilliancy. 
 
 By the first of September, the gay green of sum 
 mer assumes a dark and sombre shade. That bright 
 hue, so peculiarly characteristic of youth with all its 
 hopes, has darkened to the tinge of sober age, and the 
 first feeling of the approach of decay strikes upon the 
 heart with a knell too solemn to be misunderstood, 
 while in sad premonition, a rustling leaf, untimely 
 torn from its stem, flutters in the blast. 
 
 Let but a single frost pass over this dark green 
 wood, and how changed ! From the most sombre 
 hues of thoughtful age, how sudden the transition to 
 the gayest green and brightest yellow, while beauty 
 and brilliancy smile, once more, over the prospect. 
 
 The birch is the first tree to fade, or rather to re 
 new its beauty, and it now shines in a yellow dress, 
 harmonizing, with surprising exactness, to the green 
 around. The monarch oak still reaches forth his 
 giant arms, in all their gnarled and twisted contortions, 
 covered with the same dark garment : many frosts 
 are needed to decorate that robe. The varieties of 
 maple are early in their change. On a sloping hill, 
 covered with various forest trees, you can perceive 
 their almost golden spots, specking the dark green 
 mount, like some gay island on the green ocean s 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 19 
 
 wave. While to harmonize the coloring, the brown 
 seared walnut skirts the forest, "blending its hues 
 with the light green chestnut leaf, and the darksome 
 oak. 
 
 In a few weeks, or, if a severe frost succeeds, a 
 few days, the appearance of the same sloping hill will 
 be still more splendid, the walnut has a still darker 
 frown, the oak holds his crown of green, the chest 
 nut flings to the passing breeze its long and light 
 brown leaves, the poplar rears its yellow head, 
 sparsely scattered o er the wood, while the brightest 
 red paints the large maple leaves, and flings an almost 
 meteoric glare over these scenes of decay and death ; 
 and, as the morning sun shines o er the brilliant pros 
 pect, the whole seems like some fairy land, decked 
 with the flowers of plenty, and blazoned with unde- 
 caying beauty. 
 
 Co.uld we but for one little hour forget ourselves 
 so lovely is the " rapture of repose that s there" 
 so bright the smile of lingering, slow-paced death, we 
 should at once indulge the hope that it might be ever 
 thus but in vain. The work of death goes on. 
 More and more frequent is the leaf borne off by the 
 blast, and more and more brown is the hue of the 
 forest. 
 
 Sometimes, if the October is serene, and free from 
 
20 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 wind and frost, this splendid mixture of red <ind yel 
 low, and green and brown, continues to deck tliu forest 
 for weeks, but now often have we seen this splendid 
 sight, gazed upon by the last rays of the setting sun, 
 as if they sorrowed in taking leave of its brilliancy, 
 in one night ruined by the storm that swept over it, 
 and, the next morning, showing none of those varied 
 and beautiful tints which glowed in the evening sky. 
 A uniform brown gloomily frowned over the whole 
 scene, save the light yellow spots of the poplar, and 
 the dark red of the high oak. In a few more days, 
 every brown leaf is prostrated on the earth, and the 
 blast sighs as it passes through the bare boughs. 
 
 Through the whole of this change, so much like 
 the pleasures of this world, one uniformity is perceiv 
 able one tree stands untoucned by the frosts and 
 storms, and stretches far its dark green head above 
 the destruction around it. It is the evergreen pine, 
 directing, like the hope of eternity which it resem 
 bles, its undecaying top towards heaven, unseen amid 
 the bright green of prosperity s summer, but well 
 distinguished when the storms of adversity s autumn 
 strip earthly pleasures of their foliage. 
 
 It was in the midst of this annual splendor that 
 our tale commences. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 two sons they had : 
 
 Two olive branches round their table grew ; 
 Nourished in growth by mother s smiles and tears, 
 And checked by father s frowns. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 OUR story opens on the east brink of the small 
 stream that runs through the city of Hartford. 
 There is a ledge of high rocks, forming the brow of 
 the hill over which Washington-street runs, at the 
 foot of which the river, or the brook, as it might then 
 be called, wound sluggishly along, until it precipi 
 tated itself over a ledge of rocks, where now stands 
 the dam of the Flouring Mill. A heavy growth of 
 large timber covered the ledge, and extended to the 
 very brink of the rivulet, while in the low glades of 
 the opposite bank, the scattered trunks left a more 
 
22 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 open prospect, and indicated that the spring floods 
 had deadened the lower limbs and the brushwood. 
 
 On a jutting rock, beneath the arms of a huge 
 oak, there reclined two youths, whose ages might be 
 from eighteen to twenty-one, in that careless or reck 
 less manner which showed no apprehension of danger 
 from roving Indians, and indicated their satiety in 
 the pursuit of game. Their fowling-pieces leaned 
 against the oak; over the muzzles of which were flung 
 two strings of the small game, of which they had 
 been in search, consisting of hares, squirrels, par 
 tridges, quails, &c. A large hound lay at their feet 
 in a lazy attitude, watching languidly the movements 
 of his masters, who seemed to be in no hurry to leave 
 their situation, though the sun was now verging to 
 wards the horizon, and cast a checkered light upon 
 the brown rock and green turf around them. 
 
 It was early October, and the woods were begin 
 ning to lose their solemn green for the livelier color 
 of decay. As the young men sat, they could notice 
 the variegated hues of the scattered trees in the oppo 
 site valley and on the rocky and oak-covered slope of 
 the neighboring hill. The air was still, and the tread 
 of the cautious squirrel on the dry leaves sounded 
 distinct across the intervening distance. 
 
 The dress of the young men was something simi- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 23 
 
 lar. It consisted of a doublet, or outer, coat-like gar 
 ment, open from the neck to the middle, made of 
 coarse woollen, dyed in the dingy brown derived from 
 the juice of the butternut or other simple pigments 
 which the forest supplied. It had no collar, other 
 than a mere seam, and was decorated with a row of 
 large buttons, as far as it opened, and confined 
 around the waist with a belt or sash. The inner vest 
 was of the same material, as were the nether garments. 
 Their simple equipage was completed by the hat with 
 its steeple crown, and the flexible boots with their 
 wide tops so constructed as to fall in a roll around 
 the calf of the leg, but were capable of being drawn 
 up and tied over the knee, for duty on horseback, or 
 for the more rapid passage through the morass and 
 tangled brushwood. 
 
 Though there was a great similarity in the dress 
 of these youths, yet a careful observer might have 
 readily traced such a difference as could have fur 
 nished some clue to their characters. The difference 
 of their ages would of necessity give some diversity 
 to the expression of their countenances, and in the 
 tendencies of their moral habits. The face of the 
 eldest youth was sedate, sober, considerate, contem 
 plative all of which was manifested in the calm 
 brow, pale cheek, compressed lips, and clear, open 
 
24 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 eye. That of the younger brother for that they 
 were brothers the strong family resemblance indi 
 cated was impulsive, ardent, excitable, independent, 
 perhaps ungovernable, which was plainly taught by 
 the flushed brow, the florid cheek, the thick lip, and 
 the haughty gaze of the bright, restless eye. The 
 stern sobriety of the Puritan was readily seen in the 
 perfect simplicity of attire, and entire freedom from 
 ornament of the eldest. But, though coarse and 
 rough, his garments showed that a mother s hand and 
 a mother s eye had formed the habits of neatness and 
 order in the young man s mind, and taught him that 
 the rigid simplicity of Puritanic clothing was no 
 apology for dirt or disarrangement. 
 
 Is there not a connection between purity of mind 
 and neatness of attire ? Does not the latter become 
 the natural, external exponent of the former ? We 
 believe so. There is an ornamental, finical particu 
 larity that is called neatness, that does not, of neces 
 sity, prove the reigning purity of the heart, but rather 
 indicates that vanity, the love of admiration, and the 
 desire for display are the governing traits. But no 
 one ever comes in contact with that loveliest of all 
 God s creations, a pure mind, without seeing, instan 
 taneously, that purity shining out in every external 
 appendage simple, perhaps severe but still in en- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 25 
 
 tiro keeping with the character within. Such was 
 Edward Dudley, the eldest of the two youths who 
 are now before us. 
 
 In the dress of the youngest, there was the plain 
 ness and simplicity which the habits of the people, 
 the poverty of the colonists, and the instructions of 
 parents would create, but an evident leaning towards 
 some ornamental exhibition. As he sat under the 
 tree, he unbuckled the long rolled tops of his boots, 
 and disposed of them in graceful folds around his 
 well-formed limbs an act which his brother evident 
 ly deferred to the period of night and rest. He 
 carefully brushed his hat, to clear it of all the dust 
 and scratches it had received in his ramble through 
 the forest. He brought the broader or flapped part 
 of the brim more on one side, and looped it higher to 
 give a smarter air to his beautiful countenance, and 
 he even, while turning it around, seemed to regret 
 that he had left at home, for his rough hunting expe 
 dition, the English buckle which had ornamented it. 
 
 It was evident that the eldest brother felt that all 
 these attentions to the ornaments of his apparel arose 
 from some concealed motive, and gravely said, " Me- 
 thinks, Henry, you have some other design after this 
 hard day s hunting than to spend the approaching 
 
26 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 evening, and Saturday evening too, under your father s 
 roof." 
 
 The younger slightly colored at the intimation, 
 but soon raised his head haughtily, and, looking into 
 his brother s face, replied: "If I have, why should 
 you heed it, or interfere in that which does not con 
 cern you ? " 
 
 " Nay, iny dear brother, it does concern me. I 
 know too well the desires of our parents, and their 
 commands even, not to check you when erring, though 
 I do it with a brother s love." 
 
 " My father s commands ! True : but why doth 
 he lay such strict commands on us at our advanced 
 age, not to be absent after nightfall, especially on 
 Saturday evening, and not to visit at some particular 
 houses ? Can he not trust us ? " 
 
 " Our father never does any thing unreasonable 
 or harsh. The Bible and the magistrates both ex 
 hort us to implicit obedience. You need not chafe 
 at the word obedience. He, undoubtedly, has wise 
 reasons of his own for refusing to allow you to visit at 
 Captain Seymour s. The magistrates have the same 
 good reasons for their requisitions, that all the inhab 
 itants should be safely housed before the bell tolls 
 the hour of nine. And, as for Saturday night, you 
 well know that the Bible considers the Sabbath as 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 27 
 
 commencing at sundown of the day before. The sav 
 ages, too, are dangerous, and are more particularly 
 prowling near the settlement in the dark hour. Be 
 sides, our father does not wish that any children of 
 his should be the first to break those strict rules of 
 ward and watch, which he himself has so loudly advo 
 cated, and, as one of the magistrates, must enforce. 
 He would not have it said that the noble blood of 
 Dudley would not, in the wilderness, be submissive to 
 the very laws which he recommends for those of lower 
 origin, or that his children should rebel against the 
 supremacy of Law, to establish which, he came into 
 this savage wilderness ; or that his sons should resist 
 the authority of that Religion, for the free observance 
 of which he sought these wilds." 
 
 " Edward, Edward, you irritate me by these very 
 reasons. Why must I be called upon so constantly 
 to submit to these plebeian regulations and infringe 
 ments of my liberty as the son of a gentleman ? By 
 Heaven, I will not ! Besides, Edward, what right 
 have you to suppose I intend going to Captain Sey 
 mour s ? Have you been sneakingly inquiring into 
 my affairs ? " 
 
 The elder brother paid no attention to this ques 
 tion, but calmly replied : " Nay, nay, dear Henry, 
 make use of no oath on the occasion ; it is against the 
 
28 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES j 
 
 laws both of God and the settlements. Lay aside a 
 spirit which will be sure to entail trouble upon you, 
 and bring our parents hairs in sorrow to the grave. 
 But, let us haste. We shall be late for supper and 
 the evening s devotions." 
 
 " Brother," said Henry, as he arose, " as for our 
 father s hairs being brought in sorrow to the grave on 
 my account, I fully believe there is not affection and 
 feeling enough in his stern heart to allow a pang to 
 rend it, even if I lay in my winding-sheet before 
 him." 
 
 " Hush, hush, Henry, you know not our father 
 aright. But you cannot say the same of our 
 mother." 
 
 A shade of uneasiness passed over the haughty, 
 but beautiful, face of the youth, as his brother spoke, 
 and he pursued the rest of his way in silence, evident 
 ly with conflicting views in his thoughts. They 
 crossed the river by the shallow ford at the bottom of 
 the hill where High-street now runs, and were prepar 
 ing to take the path which led along the north bank 
 of the Little River, when Henry, suddenly turning, 
 gave his game to his brother, and, with a flushed 
 face, exclaimed : " I will not return now. I will be 
 with you long before nine. I am ready to brave the 
 punishment both of the magistrates and my father, 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 29 
 
 rather than relinquish my object. Nay, detain me 
 not. I am resolved." 
 
 So saying, he burst from his brother, notwith 
 standing his efforts to hinder, and took the hunter s 
 path that had been formed along the banks of the 
 small brook that there entered the river, the densely- 
 timbered borders of which soon hid him from view. 
 
30 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 They do say, Ealph, that he is so cross a man that he never loved 
 in his life. Do you think it is true ? 
 
 Ralph. True 1 no ; hasn t he two children ? 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 BEFORE we follow the fortunes of either brother, a 
 few words are necessary respecting their parents. 
 
 Colonel Thomas Dudley was one of the earliest 
 settlers in Hartford, and enjoyed an enviable reputa 
 tion in the infant colony. He was descended from a 
 noble family in England, whose members had been 
 prominent in English history. His early life had 
 been like that of the Cavaliers of the day, thought 
 less and dissipated. A sudden and mournful event 
 had checked the progress of his vice, and turned his 
 thoughts to the future interests of his soul. In due 
 time, he became noted among the Puritan leaders by 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 31 
 
 the extraordinary contrast the present austerity of his 
 character bore to his former excesses. His religion 
 was stern and unbending, and he exercised but little 
 charity towards those whose youthful faults and fol 
 lies were like his own. He married a woman of his 
 own rank in life, of amiable, mild, yielding virtues 
 so submissive to a man that she loved, that she felt it 
 not only a duty but a pleasure to follow him in the 
 same religious steps. The world, who only saw the 
 stern, outward virtues of the husband, wondered how 
 a " tender and true " woman could love him. But she 
 did love him, and that with an ardent devotion that 
 seemed almost adoration. She often felt that her 
 intense love was the only cloud between God and her 
 soul. Sometimes she shuddered as she perceived his 
 image rising up before her. as if it were the idol to 
 which she prayed. Were they then ill-matched ? 
 
 But Thomas Dudley s soul was not all granite. 
 Like many excellent men of his stern, unyielding 
 character, there was in his heart of hearts a never- 
 failing fount of tenderness and true affection. It 
 seldom welled up to the surface. It did not even 
 show its hidden existence by the green which its 
 moisture caused to spring forth on the surrounding 
 soil. But it was there. He heard, himself, the voice 
 of its clear bubblings within him, and was cheered by 
 
32 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 its refreshing power cheered in his hard, cold, toil 
 some pilgrimage. She knew it, too ; and as she drew 
 close to that manly breast, felt the beatings of the 
 heart within, and knew that its pulses were for her. 
 But he never spoke his love or his paternal affection. 
 No words of endearment ever passed his lips. No 
 danger, or sickness, or unhappiness of his loved ones 
 ever drew out one word of comfort, or encouragement, 
 or affection. None but his God received the tribute 
 of his lips. 
 
 The same sternness that appeared in his private 
 and religious character was carried into his public 
 relations. He knew his duty, and performed it. 
 Commendation drew out no lines of exultation on his 
 cold, calm face. Censure drew no furrows on his 
 rigid brow. He was a republican to those beneath 
 him, but still retained enough of his early aristocrat- 
 ical haughtiness to feel that he had no superiors. 
 
 The peculiar sentiment of hostility which King 
 Charles felt to all those of noble families who had 
 joined his enemies, was the means of Dudley s early 
 expatriation. On the banks of the Connecticut, he 
 had sought for that peace and security which he could 
 not enjoy at home for the maintenance of his political 
 rights, and the uninterrupted enjoyment of his reli 
 gion. His fortune had been sufficient to enable him 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 33 
 
 to collect around him as many comforts as his neigh 
 bors enjoyed. Here, for several years, had he lived, 
 with his wife and two children,- laboring hard for the 
 common necessaries of life, and using the power of his 
 intellect and the weight of his character to build up 
 and perfect the growing community around him. 
 
 We have already given the reader, we are afraid 
 too plain a map of the character of our PURITAN, and 
 must permit his other and minor traits, or the work 
 ing of those we have enumerated, to develope them 
 selves as we proceed. 
 
 To go on with our tale : Edward stood long and 
 anxiously watching the retreating form of his brother, 
 and when he lost sight of him amid the clumps of the 
 alders that covered the banks of the brook, he sighed 
 audibly and then, raising his eyes devoutly to hea 
 ven, exclaimed, " May God protect him, and give 
 him a more docile disposition!" Stooping, he at 
 tached his brother s game to his own, and flinging it 
 over his shoulders, seized his gun and commenced his 
 walk along the north bank of the Little River. 
 
 He soon came up to the place on the road to the 
 mill, where the ordinary daily sentinel was posted,: 
 who hailed him as he passed with the inquiry, "What 
 luck? but I see well, that s doing pretty well. 
 Howsever, I had better luck last Saturday week. 
 
34 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ] 
 
 You know my old gun, Eddy. I used to let you 
 shoot with it when you was a boy. Well, I started 
 out with that, and had gone down in the path to 
 Wethersfield, almost to the Folly, meaning to turn 
 out there, and follow the worn brook down to the 
 swamp But how s this how s this, Eddy? your 
 brother where s Henry ? he went with you. I 
 must know and report all goings out and all comings 
 in that s the way my commission reads, and that s 
 the way (governor Haynes told me to do. "Where s 
 Henry?" 
 
 "Good Mr. Bull" 
 
 " Corporal Bull, if you please. I m no Mister." 
 
 " Good Corporal Bull, be not harsh. My brother 
 left me at the Gully Brook." 
 
 " Where gone ? where gone ? " 
 
 " I know not, Corporal Bull, and I do not know 
 as I should inform you if I did. You are exceeding 
 your instructions." 
 
 " Heyday, Mr. Malapert, who told you to instruct 
 your betters ? But come, come, Eddy, you are a 
 brave lad, and will be a credit to the colony when 
 you have remained in Jericho long enough for your 
 beard to grow. I have been with you too often not 
 to know that there is more calm bravery, and cool, 
 prudent action in that slow-moving body and quiet 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 35 
 
 face of yours, than in any lad of the town. I love a 
 bold brave man, and a bold brave lad. You are both, 
 but you need rousing ! You need rousing ! " 
 
 " But I must go on, Master Corporal Bull ; the 
 sun is near setting, and I have my game to dress 
 before the Sabbath begins." 
 
 " Whist, whist, youngster ; why must you be al 
 ways talking ? Where s your brother ? where s Hen 
 ry ? You know it is a part of my commission and 
 orders to make all necessary inquiries concerning all 
 who enter or leave, of all the in-comings and out 
 goings : these were Governor Haynes own words, 
 and I must know where your brother is?" 
 
 " He left me, as I told you, at the Gully Brook. 
 Where he has gone I do not certainly know, though 
 I can conjecture. Your authority, however, does not 
 allow you to do more than merely to collect facts, not 
 to ask reasons." 
 
 " I always heard that they intended to make you 
 a lawyer, and I see you begin already with your 
 whys and your wherefores. But, Eddy, lad, you are 
 a bold and brave lad, and I love you. I am correct 
 in asking, for I saw several Indians skulking along in 
 the direction of the Cow Pasture, and I feel troubled. 
 But here is some one else coming. Go on, lad, 
 go on." 
 
36 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 Edward walked on rapidly, with not a little addi 
 tion to the weight upon his mind, by the only real 
 information he had gathered from the worthy Corpo 
 ral, who, though well known for his garrulity through 
 the whole community, was a brave and useful soldier, 
 and made himself famous in the subsequent history 
 of the colony. 
 
 A few minutes longer walk brought him round 
 to the little wooden bridge that then crossed the Lit 
 tle River on the road to Wethersfield, not far from 
 the present termination of Prospect street. Near 
 this bridge stood his father s small framed house, a 
 neighbor to that of Rev. Mr. Hooker, the godly min 
 ister of the colony. Edward entered the back yard, 
 and went round at once where he could commence 
 the preparation of his game. He did this, partly 
 because the sun was near the horizon on Saturday 
 evening, and he feared lest holy time should com 
 mence before he had completed his labor; and, 
 partly, to put off as long as possible the inquiry that 
 he knew his father would make respecting the absence 
 of his brother. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 37 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 What power creeps in, 
 Like the sly serpent into Paradise, 
 To poison all our joys ? Tis worse than death ; 
 Worse than disease, the famine, or the plague. 
 It leaves its withering touch o er every plant 
 Of human bliss that blossom d in our bower: 
 Tis Sin. 
 
 The Old Man. 
 
 A MOTHER S impulses are soon alarmed. It may be 
 called presentiment, but we are rather inclined to 
 attribute it to the delicate maternal instinct, which 
 gives an intuitive warning that something is wrong. 
 She was soon in the outhouse, where Edward sat, 
 rather pensively and slowly finishing the dressing of 
 his game, and inquired for Henry. 
 
 " Mother, he left me at the mouth of the Gully 
 Brook, and I saw him last, forcing his way through 
 the low alders and blackberry bushes on its banks." 
 
38 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 " You know where he has gone ? " 
 
 " Mother, I do not know, except from conjecture." 
 
 " Will you not tell me that conjecture ? " 
 
 " It is my brother s secret ; I am "bound, mother, 
 in honor to keep it." 
 
 " I do not wish, my son, to weaken the ties of 
 honor or what was once chivalry in your heart. You 
 came from too noble a stock to lead me to wish to 
 crush a single sentiment of honor in you. But, Ed 
 ward dear, your father will think differently, and will 
 demand an answer." 
 
 " I know my duty, mother, and I trust God will 
 enable me to perform it. What I shall do in any 
 given conjuncture, I leave for His decision. I never 
 form plans beforehand. In the hour of trial, Grod 
 will direct." 
 
 " Amen, my dear son ; would that your brother 
 was governed by the same principle, and possessed 
 the same self-control." 
 
 Edward did not meet his father until the hour for 
 supper had arrived. He took his stand by his chair 
 at the family board. His father looked at the empty 
 seat of his youngest son, and frowned. But not a 
 word was spoken until the long blessing was pro 
 nounced over the food in a standing posture ; and 
 then, the chairs being taken, Colonel Dudley com- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 39 
 
 menced : " Where is your brother, my son ? why is 
 he absent from the family meal, and away from the 
 town after the Sabbath has commenced 1 ?" 
 
 There was a calm, severe solemnity in the tones, 
 which partook not in the least of irritability, but 
 savored strongly of deliberate determination to en 
 force parental authority, coolly and resolutely. The 
 same thing was expressed in the high white forehead, 
 cold gray eye, large shaggy eyebrows, bloodless cheek, 
 and firm closed lip. Edward gave the same answer 
 that he had previously done to his mother. 
 
 His father looked at him, while speaking, with a 
 penetrating glance : " I have taught my sons to speak 
 the truth, and I believe you, Edward ; but it is 
 strange that Henry should have ehosen for his even 
 ing rambles such an unfrequented and dangerous 
 route, contrary both to my regulations, and those of 
 the magistrates of the town. His leave of absence 
 was only for hunting, and that to expire at the going 
 down of the sun. Where has he gone? Knowest 
 thou, Edward?" 
 
 " I know nothing of his movements, for he refused 
 to tell me." 
 
 " But you can conjecture. What is your opinion? 
 Tell me at once." 
 
 " Father, it is a case of conscience with me. Why 
 
40 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 should I be called upon to repeat conjectures that 
 are probably baseless? Besides, it is my brother s 
 secret, and honor forbids the tale." 
 
 " Honor ! an empty bubble, fit only to be played 
 with by courtiers and children in Charles s court. 
 The laws of honor are as arbitrary as they are falla 
 cious. The only true honor comethfrom God alone." 
 So saying, the father raised his eyes fervently to 
 heaven. " A case of conscience, ha ! Conscience 
 should teach, as the word of Jehovah does, implicit 
 obedience to parents." 
 
 " Father, you know that I have always obeyed 
 you in all things. I know and feel my duty in that 
 holy relation." 
 
 The father was slightly softened by this deference 
 of his eldest born, whose character was so much after 
 his approbation, but not a shade of that softened feel 
 ing was written on his face. 
 
 " Must I command you to obey ? " 
 
 " In obedience to that command, then, father, I 
 can conjecture that he has taken that route, as the 
 less observed one to the dwelling of Capt. Seymour, 
 who resides, as you know, some distance to the west 
 of the Cow Pasture." 
 
 Col. Dudley started, and, for the first time in the 
 conversation, a shade of indignation tinged his cheek. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 41 
 
 His voice almost trembled in its rage, as lie hissed 
 out, rather than uttered, " Has not the boy forgotten 
 his childish passion for that girl ? My curse " 
 
 " Hush 1 hush ! dearest," said the mother ; " re 
 member he is your son." 
 
 " Woman, be quiet. I tell thee that, sooner than 
 see him the husband of Jane Seymour, I would pre 
 fer to follow him to the grave." 
 
 " Oh, husband, this is dreadful ! " and the mother, 
 like most women in such a storm, took refuge in tears. 
 
 " But, father," modestly interrupted Edward, 
 " you once permitted us to mingle with Capt. Sey 
 mour s family, and to be familiar with its inmates." 
 
 " Son, be silent! You are but adding fuel to the 
 fire you essay to quench. Let me hear no more of 
 this. Your brother has been guilty of a grievous 
 fault, and great must the chastisement be." 
 
 Not another word was spoken during the com 
 fortless meal. The red spot soon died away on Col. 
 Dudley s cheek, and the stern, cold, gloomy look suc 
 ceeded, rendered still more wintry and granite-like 
 than before. 
 
 The time for the evening worship had arrived. 
 The family were seated around the log fire on- the 
 great hearth, which the coldness of the evenings in the 
 early autumn demanded. Col. Dudley selected for 
 
42 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 the evening exhortation to his family the story of the 
 life, rebellion, and death of Absalom. Severe were 
 the rules of parental authority that he laid down in 
 his comments on this portion of Scripture history, 
 and much did he expatiate on the punishment due to 
 rebellious children. The solemn yearnings of David s 
 heart over the death of his wayward son, where the 
 slighted monarch forgets his rebellion, and the out 
 raged father remembers no more the unnatural crimes 
 of the guilty son, but pours out the grief of an afflicted 
 soul, in the mournful exclamation, " Oh, Absalom, 
 my son, my son ! would God I had died for thee!" 
 all this tenderness of paternal grief had no apparent 
 effect upon our Puritan s heart. He read it as if he 
 were above such earthly feelings. But his son was 
 not lying dead before him, and the smart of despised 
 authority and disobeyed commands was still stinging 
 his spirit. 
 
 The mother, however, wept silently as she shroud 
 ed her face from the light ; while Edward sat with 
 his pale, mournful brow, from which all emotion but 
 solemnity had been banished by an effort that showed 
 he inherited his father s self-control. 
 
 The prayer that succeeded was less vindictive 
 than the exhortation, as if the intercourse commenced 
 with God, required the banishment of those irritated 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 43 
 
 feelings of the father. Still, as he approached, in the 
 usual range of topics, the circumstances of his family, 
 he plead for the restoration and forgiveness of his 
 erring son, and that he might return to his home, like 
 the prodigal of the Gospel. 
 
 
44 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Justice. The magistrates are reverend, grave, and quiet men, neighbor 
 Sly ; they will do you no harm. 
 
 Sly. It may be so: but what business have reverend, grave, and quiet 
 men in my house, at this time of night ? 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 THE long services were just ended when a loud rap 
 ping was heard at the door, and three staid, dignified- 
 looking gentlemen, entered the room. Col. Dudley 
 arose at their entrance, and greeted them formally as 
 Gov. Haynes, Rev. Mr. Hooker, and Deacon Nichols. 
 Looking surprised at the rather unusual visit, consid 
 ering the time of the week, he requested his visitors 
 to be seated, when Gov. Haynes, with bland but se 
 vere courtesy, requested a private interview. In ac 
 cordance with the request, Madam Dudley and her 
 son sought some other apartment. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 45 
 
 Gov. Haynes commenced : " Colonel Dudley, we 
 have always looked to you as a man who, by himself 
 and his family, would constantly support the legal 
 authorities of our rising republic. Your station as a 
 magistrate would have warranted this expectation, as 
 well as your character as a man. How is it then we 
 hear from our worthy watchman on the mill road, the 
 faithful Corporal Bull, that your youngest son did not 
 return to-night within the settled limits at the required 
 time ? " 
 
 Col. Dudley was about to speak, when Rev. Mr. 
 Hooker interrupted : " You are a beloved and faith 
 ful brother of our church, Col. Dudley ; how happens 
 it, then 5 that one of your sons has not been better 
 taught than thus to set at naught both magisterial 
 and parental authority ? Methinks theYe must have 
 been some defective training here." 
 
 " Brethren," replied the Colonel, " you judge me 
 harshly. That my youngest son is absent, I wot. 
 That it is against my wishes and commands, I like 
 wise know. My evening exercise in my family has 
 been upon the same topic. As virtuous and religious 
 Hezekiah had a worthless and irreligious son, Manas- 
 seh, so also have I a reckless, disobedient youth, as 
 one of the thorns in the flesh that is, reckless and 
 disobedient on this one point. I have been instant, 
 
46 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 in season and out of season, with him, to but little 
 effect." 
 
 " We know your zeal in the right cause, and your 
 energy in your duty," replied Mr. Hooker, " and we 
 mean to make this topic a subject of public exhorta 
 tion on the morrow, God willing ; but another sub 
 ject now awaits us, and our worthy brother in Christ, 
 Deacon Nichols, has something to communicate." 
 
 " Do you know," said the person alluded to, 
 " where your son has gone ? " 
 
 " My eldest born left him at the mouth of the 
 Gully Brook, going up," said the Colonel, unwilling 
 even to mention the conjecture which had given rise 
 to so much passion. 
 
 " So I heard," replied the Deacon, " and I feel 
 alarmed for l^s safety. Returning late from the Cow 
 Pasture, I observed several Indians in their war 
 paint, attended by that deceitful Tunxis, Samoset, 
 with whom your son has been lately so familiar." 
 
 Col. Dudley started, and stepped at first rather 
 wildly to the door by which his wife and son had de 
 parted, but hesitated, and then turned with perfect 
 external composure to his guests : " What is your 
 advice?" 
 
 " In anticipation of what your decision or wish 
 might be," said the Governor, " I have ordered Ser- 
 
^ OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 47 
 
 geant Wadsworth to call out a platoon of the train 
 bands, with their pikes and matchlocks, to go in pur 
 suit immediately ; and have ordered Capt. Mason to 
 hold a large body at the central school-house, ready 
 to march at a moment s warning. In the mean time, 
 Sergeant Wadsworth, with whom the young man is a 
 great favorite, wishes your eldest son to accompany 
 the scouting party, as being best acquainted with the 
 probable course whicl^our son took, and with the 
 intricacies of all the forest, this side of the Tunxis. 
 It is true that he has already been enrolled in the 
 train-bands, and his duty of watch and ward assigned 
 to-morrow in the Wethersfield road, but I will see 
 that his place is supplied, if he accompanies the expe 
 dition." 
 
 For an instant, a deeper shade of regret crossed 
 Col. Dudley s countenance, but the feeling of old 
 Jacob arose, " If I am bereaved of my children, I 
 am bereaved." The only words that were audibly 
 uttered were, " Take him. and may God be with him." 
 He then opened the door into the next apartment. 
 
 When Madam Dudley and her son found them 
 selves alone, Edward immediately accosted his mo 
 ther : " Why, mother, does our father feel so strongly 
 opposed to any connection of my brother with Capt. 
 Seymours niece ? He once permitted our visits there, 
 
48 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 and, you well remember how, in her childhood, you 
 took an interest in Jane s improvement, and how 
 frequently she was here." 
 
 " Your father s reasons, my dear son, are many 
 of them private. But you do know that Capt. Sey 
 mour is a man of the world, and has no part nor lot 
 in the Christian church. He has opposed your 
 father in the town councils, and aimed at the 
 magistracy, but was not allo\^i to be considered as a 
 candidate, because he was not a member of the church 
 in good standing ; and he accuses your father with 
 being the author of the rule, for the mere purpose of 
 excluding him." 
 
 " Still, it seems to me that there is something yet 
 behind that you do not mention. Such sudden out 
 bursts of excited feeling are exceedingly rare with 
 him. This will be a severe blow to Henry, for he 
 loves Jane Seymour ardently, with all the strength 
 of his untamed spirit." 
 
 * "I thought once, my son, that you too were en 
 tangled by her bright beauty and her gentle charac 
 ter ; and I thought her much better fitted for a calm, 
 quiet, contemplative person like yourself." 
 
 The color rushed in rich effusion over Edward s 
 cheek even to his forehead, and a shade of intense emo 
 tion crossed his face, but he replied calmly : " My 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 49 
 
 friends, I fear, will never understand me. But I, 
 certainly, my dear mother, will never be in the way 
 of my brother s happiness. If he has gone to have 
 an interview with her, I regret that he has taken this 
 time, or has gone in the night : he had better have 
 taken the day-time." 
 
 The father now entered the room with a quick 
 step : " Edward," said he, " it is feared that your 
 brother is in danger. Indians have been seen, within 
 a few hours, lurking in the direction which he took. 
 Governor Haynes has ordered out the train-bands, 
 and is about dispatching Sergeant Wadsworth to find 
 their trail, if possible ; if that cannot be done in the 
 night, to follow the brook. He wishes you to accom 
 pany him as a guide ; and accordingly, Governor 
 Haynes has detailed another man as sentinel to-mor 
 row, near Coles s, and has authorized you to march 
 with the party." 
 
 The utmost animation spread over the usually 
 calm face of Edward, as he rapidly proceeded to 
 equip himself for the expedition. His mother sank 
 into a chair, without strength. "What, husband, 
 both in one night ! " 
 
 Mr. Hooker, who had followed, anticipating such 
 an effect, stepped rapidly up, and commenced the 
 words of support and comfort. Any one who had 
 3 
 
50 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 heard his tones of denunciation or of exhortation in 
 the pulpit, would never have recognized the low rich 
 voice, in its depth of sympathy, pouring out the balm 
 of the Gospel s consolations into this sorrowing wo 
 man s heart, and leading her thoughts to confidence 
 in her God. 
 
 During that employment of the worthy minister^ 
 the father was assisting the son to clothe himself in 
 the panoply of war, with untrembling fingers and a 
 firm countenance. After some brief instructions from 
 Governor Haynes, and a short prayer, or rather bless 
 ing, from Mr. Hooker, Edward sought the rendez 
 vous, where he was warmly received by Sergeant 
 Wadsworth and the detachment of soldiers, with 
 whom he was a favorite. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 51 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " The plumage close to the vulture s heart is soft as the cygnet s down, 
 and, over her unshell d brood, the murmuring ring-dove sits not more 
 
 gently." 
 
 Kotzebue. 
 
 COL. DUDLEY attended his visitors to the door with 
 solemn courtesy, and held the candle in his hand until 
 they had closed the front gate of his little yard. 
 Not a hue of emotion deepened the color of his face, 
 as he bade his son adieu, and exchanged the formal 
 " God be with you," to his departing church brethren. 
 He silently and deliberately closed and barred the 
 door which shut in himself and his wife ; entirely cut 
 off from the rest of the world. As silently and de 
 liberately did he place the candle upon its stand, and 
 then turned round to his wife, who sat audibly sob 
 bing in her chair. " Anne," said he, in a tone, oh, 
 how different from the cold, stern tone of the Puritan 
 magistrate ! 
 
 The wife sprang up at the voice, rushed to his 
 
52 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 open arms, and flung herself, in an agony of sorrow, 
 on his manly breast. He soothed her with the kind 
 est* words, directed her thoughts to God, to heaven, 
 to an overruling Providence, to the promises made to 
 those who serve their Maker. The voice could not 
 have been heard across the room, so low were its 
 tones ; but their low, solemn richness, entered the 
 heart of the distressed mother, and calmed the agony 
 of her spirit ; though she still lay helpless and con 
 fiding on his bosom. 
 
 Folding his arms around her, he raised her, as if 
 she had been an infant, and carried her gently into 
 their small bed-room, which adjoined the common 
 sitting-room, and laid her on their humble couch. 
 Kneeling down by her side, with her hand in both of 
 his, he prayed earnestly and confidently for her, for 
 their children, but not one word for himself. No sel 
 fish, personal thought, then filled his heart. The 
 pure and holy love he felt for her who had shared 
 his brief prosperity, and borne the sorrows of his 
 long and toilsome exile, was the governing emotion. 
 He loved her now with a stronger, holier feeling, 
 than he did, when, in their youthful days, they stood 
 together before the altar. 
 
 "What is there on earth that equals in its pure in 
 tensity the emotions of long-wedded love ? 
 
The Author of the " Velvet Cushion " observes, 
 " that, to most people, the progress of affection in 
 youth is alone beautiful, but that he admires not only 
 how people grow up together, but how they wear out 
 together." 
 
 What more interesting contemplation can that be, 
 than to trace the progress of true affection at the 
 close of a long and laborious life ; when youth and 
 beauty, the far-famed incentives to love, have expired. 
 
 " Then, then, thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power 1 " 
 
 The well-tried affection of a whole life, ---the 
 manners and habits, which, by long use, have run 
 into the same channel, the remembrance of an active 
 life of usefulness, the recollection of sons and 
 daughters which have stood " like olive plants around 
 their table," all conspire to consecrate their affec- 
 tion, to purify it from all dross of earth, and to ele 
 vate it to heaven. 
 
 To such, the evening of life can bring no discom 
 fort, for they look forward to the bright morning of 
 eternity, when, cleansed from every stain, and, leav 
 ing their frail and crumbling tenements behind, they 
 shall be clothed in robes " white and clean," and 
 walk together down the long reach of eternity. 
 
54 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 Death to them cannot appear so dreadful as it 
 once did. It cannot separate them long. When one 
 leans his head on the cold pillow of the grave, the 
 other will soon follow ; and the tree which waves its 
 summer branches over the tomb of one, shall scatter 
 its autumn leaves over that of the other. 
 
 As Col. Dudley finished his prayer and rose from 
 his knees, he printed a long, passionate kiss on her 
 still beautiful lips, and gently said : " Rouse yourself, 
 Anne, and prepare for rest ; the Sabbath approaches, 
 let us not desecrate it by earthly love." 
 
 " Surely, dear husband, God cannot be displeased 
 with the existence of those natural and holy affections 
 which he has given us." 
 
 " Natural affections, my beloved, are given to us 
 for our happiness below, but as subaltern and subor 
 dinate to those higher and holier and purer affections 
 we give to our Maker and Redeemer. The former 
 become blamable when in excess, or when they ob 
 scure the latter. The Sabbath, God has devoted to 
 himself and to heavenly affections. The week is for 
 the world, its duties, labors, trials, and blessings ; 
 let us not mingle the peculiar province of the two." 
 
 " May God forgive then, my dear husband, a 
 weak and erring woman, whose heart swells with 
 unutterable human affections !" 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 55 
 
 " Amen!" replied her husband, solemnly, but af 
 fectionately ; and, kissing her once more, he passed 
 into the outer room to attend to his own nightly re 
 ligious duties. 
 
 Madam Dudley, as he left the room, arose from 
 the bed, and commenced her arrangements for repose. 
 She whispered, almost audibly, " Oh husband, dear 
 husband ! I sometimes fear that you are, in my 
 heart, but another name for the Deity, and that my 
 love to God is only a reflective love of you ! K 
 
 As she lay upon her couch, she could occasionally 
 catch the words of her husband s earnest prayer for 
 the colony, for her, for each of their children, and, 
 finally, for himself, that early personal sins might be 
 forgiven. He appeared to wrestle hard that his 
 youthful follies or crimes might not be visited upon 
 his children. 
 
 It was late before he sought his pillow by the 
 side of her who had wept herself to sleep. 
 
56 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Ah, my poor heart ! thy tumults cease, 
 And give this fluttering bosom peace : 
 No, thou canst never be at ease, 
 Nor ever more beat soberly 
 
 ** Ah, my poor heart! what could st thou da, 
 "When, from an eye of liquid blue, 
 A killing glance, like lightning, flew, 
 And caught thee, past recovery ? " 
 
 "Sorrows of My Lord Plumcake" 
 
 BUT it is now time for us to pursue the fortunes of 
 Henry Dudley, with whom we parted at the mouth of 
 the Gully Brook. 
 
 He had with him only his snap-hance, or fowling- 
 piece, and his hunting-knife, with the usual charges 
 of powder and ball, without which the colonists never 
 left the settlement. He crowded his way through 
 the alders and briers that beset his path, scaring up 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 57 
 
 many a whirring partridge. He appeared particu 
 larly anxious to examine the banks of the brook, to 
 detect, if possible, the trail of any straggler who 
 might have passed before. 
 
 He, at length, reached a partially cleared spot, 
 where two large elms stood on a little rising ground, 
 with no underbrush beneath them. This elevation 
 gave a slight view of the surrounding valley, but 
 Henry could see nothing beyond the long and tangled 
 alder swamp, through which the brook forced its 
 sluggish way, and the rising hills that shut him from 
 the world, their slopes covered to the very top with 
 the dense oak forest. 
 
 " Samoset is not here," said the youth, as he 
 gazed around the opening. " He promised to be 
 here before the sun struck yon huge pine." 
 
 " Sam set be here," said a voice in broken Eng 
 lish, so near him that the youth started as he turned ; 
 "Sam set no break word with Young Eagle." 
 
 " Well, it may be so," said Henry, speaking in 
 the Indian tongue, in which language the remainder of 
 the conversation was carried on ; " it may be so, but 
 I was impatient." 
 
 " That very impatience will be the ruin of Young 
 Eagle yet : he will fly where the hunter s shaft will 
 
 be sure to meet him." 
 3* 
 
58 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 " Be it so : I had rather die in the open field, as 
 iny ancestors did before me, than meet my fate 
 among the wily stratagems of your nation, Samoset. 
 I had rather be the eagle scorning the sun, than the 
 fox stealing secretly after his prey, or the serpent 
 winding his slimy folds in the grass." 
 
 " I understand the taunt ; but when the eagle lies 
 fluttering in death agony on the rock, perhaps, he 
 will then envy the quieter and more secure life of the 
 fox or the snake." 
 
 " There may be a kind of threat under all these 
 figures, but you know I care not for threats, whether 
 literal or figurative (this he spoke in English), so let 
 us to the object of our meeting. Will Jane grant me 
 the interview ? " 
 
 " The Fawn of the Pale Faces will see you at the 
 going down of the sun, though she hesitated much, 
 and it was only granted at my request." 
 
 " Your request !" said Henry, with an unrepressed 
 sneer. 
 
 " Yes : the Bright Eye remembered that the Rat 
 tlesnake of the Tunxis saved her from the bear s 
 grasp." 
 
 " How ? When was that ? Tell it as we go on." 
 
 ." It is useless to proceed until the time she desig- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 59 
 
 nated. You will only be impatient, expose your per 
 son, and be seen by the people of the house." 
 
 " What if I am ? 
 
 " Only this, that you will lose the opportunity of 
 seeing the Bright Eye." 
 
 " True, true, Samoset, your coolness gets the bet 
 ter of my impatience. But why did she place the 
 meeting so late ? She must know that I must return 
 so as to pass the sentinel by sundown." 
 
 " Perhaps the Rattlesnake will bring you within 
 the town without its being perceived. But have you 
 brought the powder and shot as my promised reward ? " 
 
 " I know you are cunning, Samoset, or Rattle 
 snake, or by what other name you may choose to be 
 called," said Henry, speaking in English ; " but I 
 have trusted to you, perhaps rashly, though I never 
 should have so done, had I not seen how much influ 
 ence you possessed over one dearer than life to me. 
 But as for the powder and shot, you don t have them 
 until I have seen the Bright Eye, as you call her ; 
 you may look as grim as you please, I shall not break 
 the strict law of the colony, unless I have had my 
 advantage of the bargain first. So drop that subject, 
 and go on with your tale." 
 
 " It is short," said Samoset, speaking evidently 
 with some irritation at the haughty tone of the youth. 
 
60 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 " The young maidens of the English were washing 
 their household garments on the banks of the brook, 
 during last summer s drought. The Bright Eye had 
 wandered from them, and was busy in collecting the 
 flowers that spotted the brook. As she looked up, 
 she saw a huge bear but a little distance from her, 
 hastening towards her. In her eagerness to escape, 
 she stumbled and fell. The enraged animal had 
 nearly reached her, when an arrow from my bow was 
 buried deep in his eye, and, in an instant, my knife 
 across his throat. Ever since then, the old Indian, " 
 he added, speaking in English, " has always been 
 welcome at her uncle s fireside, and the fire-water and 
 the apple-water given me when I asked it. When I 
 took your message to her, she at first refused. But I 
 told her that I desired it, and spoke of the bear. 
 She then said, Bid him come to the old oak in the 
 rear of the garden, at sunset ; I will see him, but it 
 must be for the last time. " 
 
 Henry frowned, and looked upon the earth for 
 several minutes. At last, he said, " Samoset, let us 
 go on, I will not stay here in suspense any longer. 
 Lead the way." 
 
 Silently and slowly, the Indian crept through the 
 bushes, and, followed by Henry, took the direction of 
 Capt. Seymour s dwelling, who lived considerably 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 61 
 
 beyond the other settlements, having chosen the 
 place, as more consonant with his solitary and uncom 
 promising disposition. 
 
 Several times, Samoset checked Henry for his im 
 petuosity, in not following directly in his rear, and 
 for making the trail so broad ; and as often did Henry 
 reply with an expression of contempt for his Indian 
 customs ; and, purposely, it appeared, as a matter of 
 contradiction, would he break out and leave broad 
 marks of their progress. The Indian bore this petu 
 lance with apparent equanimity, but only proceeded 
 the more cautiously himself. 
 
 At length, they approached the borders of a clear 
 ing. The blackened stumps took the place of the 
 oaks, while, in some places, the newly-felled trees 
 covered the ground. In the centre of the clearing, 
 appeared the house of which they were in search 
 small, in comparison with modern tenements, but large 
 for the time and place. 
 
 Around the house, a few apple trees were growing, 
 and three large oaks and one pine had been left foi 
 shade or ornament. It was a quiet spot. The ani 
 mals employed for labor, the cows, and the sheep were 
 all collected in a strongly palisaded inclosure. Tho 
 framework of a new barn arose near it. South 
 of the house stretched a long garden, filled with ne- 
 
62 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 cessary vegetables, and considerable Indian corn. 
 Beyond its extremity, separated from it by a worm 
 fence, there was a cluster of oaks and pines over 
 hanging a small, round, stagnant pond, common in 
 those parts. A huge grape vine had twined itself so 
 round the lower limbs of the trees, as to create a nat 
 ural arbor, under which a rude seat had been con 
 structed, where Jane Seymour often sat on a warm 
 summer s day. The whole furnished a very romantic 
 trysting-place for lovers. 
 
 To the right and left were the cleared fields be 
 longing to Capt. Seymour, from which the summer 
 crops had just been taken, but which were still hold 
 ing their ripening burden of yellow corn. Just down 
 the hill from the bank on which the oaks grew, rolled 
 sluggishly along a branch of the Little River, in 
 whose muddy waters the forest branches stooped to 
 lave their thirsty leaves. 
 
 As Henry crept cautiously along the valley be 
 tween him and the oak opening on the little hill, he 
 requested Sanioset to await him in the forest, as he 
 wished this interview to pass without witnesses. His 
 patience was sorely tried, and he cast many a re 
 proachful giance upon the slow descending sun, before 
 the fair maiden of his choice made her appearance. 
 
 But our heroine must not be introduced at the 
 very close of a chapter. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 63 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " But it was not that beauty had moulded her face, 
 Where the white rose and red rose had mingled their grace ; 
 Twas not the soft glance of a mild beaming eye ; 
 Twas something more lovely than youth s roseate dye. 
 
 " Twas that virtue and feeling, commingling with truth, 
 Had added new graces to beauty and youth ; 
 And show d how the charms of the person increase, 
 "Where virtue and truth with the heart are at peace." 
 
 Parody on. Vale of Avooa. 
 
 CAPT. RICHARD SEYMOUR was an early settler of 
 Hartford. But few knew the reasons why he migrated 
 to a Puritan colony, perhaps, none but himself the 
 true reason. He was a cavalier of the roughest and 
 most profane stamp, and held every thing connected 
 with Puritan doctrine and discipline in the utmost 
 contempt. He made no secret of this disdain, but 
 manifested it on all occasions ; and seemed to take 
 delight in thwarting the plans of the founders of the 
 
64 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 new settlement, in every matter pertaining to republi 
 canism and religion, though, never in such an overt 
 manner as to make himself amenable to their strict 
 laws. Demagogues know, how, under the forms of 
 law, and adhering to its strict letter, they are able to 
 thwart its operations, or to ridicule its folly. 
 
 Capt. Seymour was particularly hostile to Ool. 
 Dudley, "that canting, psalm-singing, hypocrite of a 
 Puritan," as he always called him. It was supposed 
 by many that some cause of quarrel had existed in 
 their native country. At first, the colonel defied 
 him with more than his wonted haughtiness and 
 severity, and urged the magistrates to put a law of 
 the colony, then just formed, in force against him, 
 that of punishment for not attending meeting on the 
 Sabbath. Seymour paid his fine, and then stepped 
 up to Dudley, w r ith a countenance in which the demon 
 of revenge was revelling in every line, and shaking his 
 fist in his face, demanded a private interview. 
 
 When the magistrates present, fearing a resort 
 to a duel, or some personal rencontre, forbade it, Sey 
 mour replied ; " I shall not hurt the town s very up 
 right darling ! Let the cowardly Roundhead just lean 
 his head forward, so that I can whisper in his ear what 
 will crush the hypocrite, who is a saint, forsooth, on 
 the Connecticut, but a sinner on the Thames." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 65 
 
 " I am ready," calmly replied Col. Dudley, " to 
 hear what that man has to say. I fear him not. 
 Follow me into the anteroom." 
 
 So saying, he flung his sword upon the table in 
 front of the magistrates, and walked, unarmed, into 
 the designated apartment. Capt. Seymour followed 
 him. They remained absent some time, and the 
 magistrates, especially the Governor, waved back any 
 one who sought to appoach them. 
 
 When they returned, a smile of the most exulting 
 revenge lighted up Seymour s face, while Dudley was 
 as white as the dead. He passed by the bench, and 
 said, in almost a whisper, " I withdraw the remaining 
 complaints," and left the Town House immediately. 
 From that time, neither spoke to or of the other, or 
 suffered the least greeting to take place in public or 
 in private. 
 
 Capt. Seymour brought no family with him but 
 the daughter of his brother. He was, as the times 
 were then, a wealthy man. He had a large household 
 of slaves and laborers, and managed the concerns of 
 the farm he selected, with great ability. Still he was 
 not a happy man. He knew the dislike of his neigh 
 bors, and his total unfitness for the principles and 
 feelings that reigned around him. He was often heard 
 to say , " if heaven was like Hartford, he had no wish 
 
66 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 to be in it." How true it is, that our own feelings 
 make the hell or the heaven of the mind, whatever 
 may be the outward condition. 
 
 In the midst of these deleterious influences, with 
 out a mother or any other female friend to guide her, 
 with none but domestics around her, had Jane Sey 
 mour grown up. It is no wonder that she felt most 
 keenly the occasional attentions which Madame Dud 
 ley was able to pay her, and was a frequent visitor in 
 the family, during childhood. Capt. Seymour seem 
 ed, at first, to fancy this friendship for his niece, and 
 encouraged it. Whatever might have been his mo 
 tive, Jane profited by it, both in body and in mind. 
 
 She thus became familiar with both the young Dud 
 leys, who in childhood, regarded her as a sister. But 
 this affection, in the youngest brother, assumed, very 
 early, the form of the most intense passion, which, 
 from his usual impetuosity of character, had been re 
 peatedly urged upon her, and as constantly evaded 
 rather than rejected, on ac count of the difference in 
 their ages, she being several years his senior according 
 to the statement of her uncle. 
 
 In society and by strangers, Jane Seymour would 
 have been called a showy girl. She possessed precise 
 ly that style of beauty that strikes beholders at once 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 67 
 
 from its gorgeousness. It was like seeing, for the first 
 time, the sun rise at sea. 
 
 Her figure was perfection, in its full, round, swell 
 ing voluptuousness. There was nothing of the little 
 or the pretty about it. " Magnificent," would be the 
 first impulsive expression at its sight. Her very walk 
 had music in it, it was so measured and stately. 
 There never was any hurry in her dignity, but a queen- 
 like simplicity in every motion. There was the same 
 majestic grace in all her menial employments and, 
 in that rude period of an early colony, they were many 
 she gave a dignity to even common acts. 
 
 Her face, like her form, was large, full, but fault 
 less in its perfect outline, and in the relation which 
 every feature bore to each other and to the whole 
 frame. Her hair was of the deepest, richest black, 
 and was braided and folded about her head, after the 
 existing fashion, without a curl, leaving her slightly- 
 formed ears, and, what little of her neck her ruff or 
 stomacher did not cover, without a straggling lock to 
 stray over ;their charms. 
 
 In accordance with the whole style of her beauty, 
 both of person and face, her lips were large, red, and 
 almost pouting. Her mouth was capable of assuming 
 a variety of appearances, though its ordinary expres 
 sion was that of quiet reserve, almost severity. But 
 
68 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 few ever saw her smile : when she did, it seemed like 
 an "angel visit," it was so rare and so beautiful. It 
 was the sun breaking away the clouds of a November 
 storm. It was the distant light-house to the tempest- 
 tossed mariner. 
 
 But her eye was the most striking feature. It is 
 too general an expression to say that it was black. 
 Besides several minor varieties, there are two great 
 species of the black eye in woman the active and the 
 passive. The former is intensely black keen, pene 
 trating, sly, passionate in temper but not in body. 
 Byron well compares its strength to "night and storm 
 and darkness." The latter is large, of a brownish 
 black hue, moist, contemplative, mild. It indicates 
 sensibility, but not irritability, and is usually associ 
 ated with an amiable disposition. If it fails in any 
 thing, it is in the possession of energy and the govern 
 ment of the affections. The women of the first kind 
 are better fitted for the active duties of life ; the latter, 
 for the contemplative. In the domestic relations, the 
 former will govern their children the best ; the lat 
 ter, love their husbands the warmest. The former 
 will express the most love before marriage, but the 
 flame will burn no brighter for being relighted at the 
 altar of Hymen. The latter will show to man, "how 
 much dearer the wife is than the bride." The one 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 69 
 
 will be attentive as a wife ; the other, confiding. The 
 one, if ambitious, will desire to govern ; the happi 
 ness of the other will consist in submission. 
 
 Of this latter kind were our heroine s eyes, and 
 carried all those characteristics with them. They 
 were large, lustrous, varying in their hue from a light 
 brown almost to a black. They never seemed to be 
 looking at you, but simply opening themselves to be 
 looked into. They were like two deep wells, down 
 whose darkening depths you gazed for truth at the bot 
 tom. Wells ! yes : wells of pure, intense feeling, from 
 which none but one could ever drink, in life. 
 
 Does she stand before you, reader, in the quiet 
 calmness of her trustful and truthful character a 
 treasure to be buried in the heart s core ? Do you 
 see her, in her distinctness, born to that highest, no 
 blest, holiest destiny of woman to love and be be 
 loved ? 
 
 But we have kept poor Henry waiting a tremen 
 dously long time for the appearance of Jane, while we 
 have been decorating her for the reader s admiration, 
 
 Did he deserve her ? 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 When first I attempted your pity to move, 
 
 Ah, why was you deaf to my prayers ? 
 Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, 
 
 But why did you kick me down stairs ? 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 " I PERCEIVE, by that frown on your brow, that your 
 usual impatience has been uppermost, Henry, but I 
 am not a minute behind the time I designated to Sa- 
 moset. I agreed to see you here, though, perhaps, I 
 have done wrong in so doing, in order, if possible, 
 that I might disabuse your mind of the folly it has 
 conceived." 
 
 " Hear me swear " 
 
 " I wish to hear no oaths nor protestations, Henry, 
 the scene will be painful enough without them, for I 
 must, at once and for ever, put an end to this insane 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 71 
 
 love of yours to one so much your senior. I cannot 
 love you. Your character is not in the least assimi 
 lated to mine. I have endeavored in all sisterly affec 
 tion to amend the numerous faults of your character, 
 but I cannot go beyond that feeling." 
 
 A paleness like that of death spread over the young 
 man s countenance at these words. He fairly gasped 
 for breath as he uttered, 
 
 " But can you not alter ? Cannot a life-long devo 
 tion to you win one emotion of favoring affection ? 
 Cannot the whole devoted fondness of a heart, yours 
 to its very core, win your love ? I would," said he, 
 kneeling, " dedicate life and body, and spirit and soul 
 to your happiness. Every action of my life should be 
 centred in you. It has been so for a long, long time. 
 Even in my childish years, I loved you with an in- 
 tenseness that led me to hate any thing on which your 
 regards or smiles were bestowed. And now, as a 
 youth of strong passions and concentrated purposes, 
 as one, nearly a man by law, and fully a man in 
 strength and stature, in vigor of body and firmness 
 of unbending resolution, I love you the same, with 
 the whole powers, energies, and capacities that I pos 
 sess." 
 
 The maiden leaned her head against the tree near 
 
72 
 
 the trunk of which she sat, and the tears dropped 
 down on the dying leaves around her. 
 
 " You weep you relent." 
 
 "No: no: Henry, I do not relent. I weep for 
 the pain I must give you." 
 
 " Have you no heart ? " exclaimed the young man, 
 starting to his feet, the red flush of anger succeeding 
 the pallor on his cheek. " Have you no heart, that 
 you drive me thus to desperation ? Your tears fall 
 on that flinty rock, not more frigid nor harder than 
 your heart. You cannot love !" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " What ! Is it so ? You love another then ? 
 Who is it ? Tell me, for I will know." 
 - It was Jane s turn to color now, and she did, over 
 cheek and neck and brow. The emotion was but mo 
 mentary, however. The tears dried up in their foun 
 tains. A calm dignity overspread her countenance, 
 and she answered severely, though not with irritation 
 for temperaments like hers feel indignation, not 
 anger : 
 
 " Henry, you have no right to make the inquiry ; 
 no right to take even for granted the feeling on which 
 you have founded it." 
 
 " I know who it is. It is my brother, with his 
 smooth-faced hypocrisy. Woe be to him ! " 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 73 
 
 " Henry, Henry, you do injustice to your brother 
 and myself. I will not endure such rudeness ; I 
 have already staid too long." 
 
 She arose to go, but ere she had left her seat, 
 Henry fell prostrate at her feet, levelled by a blow 
 on the back of his head, which stretched him sense 
 less. At the same moment, two or three Indians 
 seized her, and threw a blanket over her head. She 
 had only time to give one faint scream, when her 
 mouth was stopped by a belt, and she felt herself 
 dragged off to the forest between two of the assail 
 ants, while the remainder of the band, amounting to 
 some ten or twelve, seized the prostrate form of young 
 Dudley, and followed rapidly. 
 
 Jane fainted under the surprise. When she re 
 vived, it was nearly dark, and the predatory band 
 were in the dense forest, wading in the middle of the 
 brook to hide their trail. She was lying, at length, in 
 a bark canoe, bound tightly, with the belt still passing 
 around her mouth. She could feel by the motion 
 that she was being carried along rapidly by the two 
 men that bore her. Once, as she was let down from 
 their shoulders, to enable them to creep under the 
 projecting alders and grape vines that overhung the 
 brook, she saw the indistinct forms of several others 
 conveying Henry in the same manner. 
 4 
 
74 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 The leader of the party there stopped, and ex 
 changed a few words with his followers in a low tone 
 of voice, and they all turned suddenly off at right 
 angles to the brook, ascended an eminence, and then 
 struck off into the forest at a rapid pace. 
 
 Their passage was extremely inconvenient to their 
 prisoners. The limbs of the forest trees struck 
 across their faces, as they were borne thus aloft, and 
 the cold vapors of the autumn evening were shaken 
 upon them. Their limbs were stiffened by being 
 cramped into such an uneasy posture, and their jaws 
 ached with the pressure of the belts drawn over their 
 mouths. 
 
 They crossed many gentle hills, covered with the 
 primeval forest, until, at the foot of one, their captors 
 entered the channel of another smaller brook, and 
 followed its tortuous course for a mile, when they 
 arrived at the base of a high rocky ledge, a part of 
 the present Talcott Mountains, from which the 
 brook descended with velocity. Its spring floods and 
 summer freshets had deposited a large quantity of 
 sand and pebbles near the base of a little cliff, which 
 rose precipitously some fifty feet. 
 
 In front there lay some rugged fragments of the 
 rock, which had been precipitated from the mountain, 
 over which the little brook dashed in a brawling cur- 
 
OR. TWO CENTURIES AGO. 75 
 
 rent, amid the debris of the hill, the stunted alders, the 
 gnarled and twisted birches, and the prostrate and dis 
 torted shrubs that grow in such rocky and sterile soils. 
 
 The brook itself furnished no path to the seques 
 tered nook, that lay concealed by these rocky coverts, 
 a fit retreat for a Naiad or a Dryad. The entrance 
 was through a long and narrow fissure between two of 
 the rocks, only broad enough to admit one person at 
 a time. 
 
 In the inclosure a space of some quarter of an 
 acre there were huddled together eight or ten rude 
 huts, constructed by leaning poles against the bare 
 rock, and covering them with twigs and branches, 
 with all their leaves. Jane had but a few moments 
 to make even these observations by the obscure light 
 produced by a single pitch-pine torch, projecting from 
 a cleft in one of the rocks, when she was uncere 
 moniously tumbled out of her rather uneasy cradle 
 upon the pebbles, and the belt taken from her mouth. 
 As this last act was done, one of her captors ex 
 claimed in exceedingly broken English, shaking his 
 tomahawk over her head, as he spoke: "No squall, 
 white squaw you feel this." 
 
 She knew from the distance they had come, that 
 screaming would be of no avail, and sank down on 
 the sand, being unable to move. 
 
76 
 
 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 Henry was, likewise, very unceremoniously ejected 
 from the canoe in which be had been carried, and left 
 bound upon the sand. The blow he had received had 
 been a severe one, though not intended to kill, the 
 object, it seemed, being simply to make prisoners. 
 The motion of the conveyance had aroused him, but 
 he was too tightly bound for resistance, and, as yet, 
 too much under the influence of the stupidity pro 
 duced by the blow to reflect very correctly or very 
 accurately upon his condition, or to take any note of 
 the route which had been taken. Even if he had 
 been in the full enjoyment of his capacities, he would 
 have been no match to the wily Indian. He was too 
 impetuous too full of the notions of chivalric honor, 
 noble descent, and the hope of yet accomplishing in 
 life some gallant deeds, to pay the proper regard to 
 the innate deceitfulness of the Indian race, or be any 
 thing more than a victim to its duplicity. He now 
 lay, however, too much injured to take notice of pass 
 ing events, but he was slowly recovering, in conse 
 quence of the cessation of the motion. 
 
 Jane looked in sorrow at the sad condition in 
 which her late impassioned lover lay. She felt that 
 it was, in part, owing to herself. She had been im 
 prudent in permitting a meeting, though she had 
 been anxious to place the matter of his solicitations 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 77 
 
 at once at rest between them. She felt, however, 
 that her imprudence lay in trusting Samoset, and in 
 allowing him to exercise any influence over her in so 
 important a matter, even if she- did feel the proper 
 gratitude to him for her preservation. 
 
 She strongly suspected that Samoset had been 
 treacherous. As soon as she found herself carried 
 along on the shoulders of the men, as we have de 
 scribed, and knew that the immediate danger of death 
 was over, the natural calmness and self-control of her 
 mind returned, and she felt it necessary to be alive 
 to all the circumstances of the singular and trying 
 situation in which she was placed. Though her face 
 was partially covered, she listened with all the inten 
 sity which, in a dangerous crisis, we can so often give 
 to a single sense when necessary to our safety. She 
 gathered little, however, except that the language of 
 the party was not that of the Hartford or Tunxis 
 Indians. Several times she thought she discovered 
 the voice of Samoset, conversing in a low tone, 
 though in the unknown dialect of the men who car 
 ried her. But, in the feeble light which the torches 
 spread, she could not distinguish him." Every time 
 that she made the least effort to stir, or arise to look 
 around, the Indian, who officiously watched her, bran 
 dished his tomahawk. 
 
78 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 She saw, as we have said before, the desperate 
 condition of Henry Dudley, and pitied him ; for, by 
 his passion for her, as she well knew, he had been 
 duped by the crafty Samoset, and thus led into the 
 extremest peril. She could have shed tears over the 
 prostrate form,. which lay helpless and exposed, though 
 in its youthful beauty, but a short distance from her. 
 
 " Well : didn t she at once, of course, love him ? 
 Pity is akin to love." 
 
 My dear madam, or miss, you never was more 
 mistaken in your life, mistaken, in point both of 
 fact and theory. Pity is not akin to love ; and he, 
 who attempts to win a female heart by exciting pity, 
 when other means have failed, will find himself worse 
 mistaken than you are. The moment there is an 
 appeal to a woman s pity, respect is weakened. A 
 true woman never loves, unless she can look up to the 
 object of her attachment. There must be some sense 
 of superiority in something, or there is no love in the 
 female mind. Pity weakens or destroys this sense 
 of superiority, and leads, more frequently, to con 
 tempt than to love. 
 
 There may be exceptions to these positions, as 
 there are exceptions to the true female character; 
 but the true woman realizes the fragility of her 
 frame, the dependence of her situation, the weakness 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 79 
 
 of her relative position, and delights that it is so. It 
 is the greatest source of enjoyment in her attach 
 ments to feel that she has found a firm and manly 
 breast on which to lean, a strong and vigorous arm 
 for her defence, a concentrated and governing will 
 on which to depend. Submission to the one she 
 loves is her happiness. To twine around his man 
 hood, as the tendrils of the vine seek the sturdy oak, 
 is her delight. Her comfort consists in quietly lying 
 beneath the shadow of the rock that shelters her. 
 
 You may depend upon it, madam, if you do not 
 feel as I have described, that you have never truly 
 loved, or loved only in that way in which those coarse 
 and vulgar sticklers for woman s rights, the he- 
 women of modern society, think they love. 
 
 No, no, my dear madam, you are mistaken in 
 your theory. Pity is not akin to love ; it belittles 
 the beloved object too much. If your theory is true 
 in any sense, it only applies to the possibility that 
 love may be thus excited in man towards woman. 
 Man loves to compassionate, for, by so doing, he feels 
 his own superiority. 
 
 Let the lover, then, be careful of appealing too 
 frequently to the pity of his mistress ; by such a 
 course, he ruins the feeling of superiority on which 
 alone he can build success. If he is constantly en- 
 
80 
 
 deavoring to make himself an object of interest, by 
 exciting her sympathy and compassion for any mental 
 or bodily suffering, he will gradually fret away the 
 texture of her respect, and eventually lose her love. 
 
 But this is a strange disquisition, while two per 
 sons, in whom we wish to interest the reader, are 
 lying on the damp sand of a ravine, away up in the 
 Talcott Mountains. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 81 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Men have died, aud worms have eat them ; 
 
 But none of love." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 WHEN the day dawned over the ravine, it presented a 
 rough picture to the prisoners. The place had been 
 selected, unquestionably, for concealment, and the 
 rudeness of the encampment showed that it was 
 merely a temporary residence, and arranged in haste. 
 A predatory band of Mohawks (as it was after 
 wards ascertained), with their squaws and pappooses, 
 had settled here for purposes of plunder. They had 
 crossed the Hudson and Housatonic in their bark 
 canoes, which they had brought here on their shoul 
 ders, filled with their young children and their scanty 
 apparatus for cooking. It was a roving expedition, 1 
 conducted in a leisurely manner. The whole summer 
 had been spent in it, and they now planned a journey 
 4* 
 
82 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 to the sea-side as the autumn advanced, where they 
 intended to winter. 
 
 Nor were these expeditions uncommon. Game 
 was plenty, and the roving disposition of the Indian 
 inspired the thought ; while, by taking their families 
 with them, they could make longer stays, and in some 
 cases thus form permanent colonies in the places 
 where they settled. 
 
 In the present case, they had been persuaded by 
 Samoset, who had accidentally come across them, 
 while roving through the valley of the Tunxis, to un 
 dertake a foray against the English at Hartford. 
 The wily Samoset had two* objects in view. One was 
 to prevent their incursions from becoming trouble 
 some to his own tribe, and the other was to revenge 
 himself upon the whites at Hartford. He expected 
 likewise, in his craftiness, to be able to keep his 
 agency concealed, in bringing them upon the colony ; 
 and, if found necessary, to make some profit by their 
 betrayal. 
 
 The scene was a wild one. The brook, in dashing 
 its impetuous spring-torrents down the mountain, had 
 worn a deep, narrow ravine, expanded only in the 
 selected place. The twisted and crooked birches and 
 beeches of the forest flung their limbs athwart the 
 ravine, high in air, and screened the huts by a canopy 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 83 
 
 of leaves, yellowed by the progress of autumn. The 
 brown-leaved oak and the red-foliaged maple stood 
 sentinels at the mouth of the gorge, and shut up the 
 passage of the brawling brook from view. It was a 
 well selected spot in its security. 
 
 The pain of his wound, and the tightness of the 
 withes which bound him, had prevented young Dudley 
 from sleep, and now deterred him from taking the 
 beauty, or even the fitness of the selected encamp 
 ment into his mind s eye. He thought only and 
 his thoughts burnt his very soul as they rose in his 
 excited mind of the treachery of Samoset, to whom 
 he, in his suspicions, ascribed his present situation, 
 and of the sad condition of the one he so madly loved. 
 Of himself, he thought little let us, at least, give 
 him this credit, and, though he may have faults, ex 
 onerate him from this selfishness. He only regretted 
 his inability to do battle for Jane. 
 
 But, then, the sad termination of all the long 
 cherished hopes of his passion poured the bitter tide 
 of its memory upon his soul, and unnerved his cour 
 age. As it occurred to his mind, it seemed as if a 
 hand of icy-cold fingers were laid upon his heart to 
 freeze it as it beat. 
 
 The destruction of hope always inflicts a keen 
 pang on the human heart, and the more the object 
 
84 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES j 
 
 hoped for fills the mind, the more acute and pungent 
 is the pain at its destruction. When a passion for a 
 worthy object has filled up the whole channel of the 
 heart s affections with its swelling flood, the death of 
 the hope that fed it casts a blight over all creation. 
 Sometimes, in its excess, .it prompts to violent deeds, 
 to insanity, and to suicide. Sometimes it becomes a 
 deep-rooted grief, 
 
 " A fatal remembrance, a sorrow, that throws 
 Its bleak shade alike o er our joys and our woes, 
 To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, 
 For which joy has no balm, and affliction no sting. 
 
 "Oh, that thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, 
 Like a dead, leafless branch, in the summer s bright ray ; 
 The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, 
 It may smile in its light, but it blooms not again." 
 
 The effect, however, of disappointed love on ardent, 
 impulsive, and impetuous minds, is strongest at first. 
 It is the first blow that is the keenest. Each day, 
 the smart of the wound grows less, until, at length, 
 another object usurps the place of the last, and 
 hardly a scar on the heart shows where the wound 
 had been. But to the contemplative and reflecting 
 mind, the memory of the loss is lasting as time. 
 When such a mind loves, .it is for ever, for the love 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 85 
 
 begotten in such a heart is basecUon the existence of 
 qualities of the intellect and the character, and not 
 on the animal impulses of beauty and youth, which 
 are too apt to exclusively influence the impulsive. 
 Love, based on passion, makes a great crackling, and 
 a stupendous blaze for a time, and then expires in its 
 own ashes. Love, based on the esteem of virtues 
 and sensibilities, is a constant light, burning clearly 
 and vividly through life, and flashing its brightness 
 even across the darkness of the grave. 
 
 Disappointment, in the first, may lead to rash 
 acts ; but if not, it is soon rubbed out of the heart by 
 other impulses. Disappointment, in the last, becomes 
 keener, the more it is reflected upon ; and, in many 
 cases, has led the man who has experienced it to a 
 life-long contemplation over the love entomb d in the 
 catacomb of his own heart. The world knows it not. 
 Benevolence is as active as ever. Duties are per 
 formed with punctuality, even with cheerfulness. 
 There is no moroseness of manner. Even the smile 
 is on the face as usual, but it is a wintry smile, for an 
 eternal winter holds its icy reign over a heart that 
 can never throb in love again. 
 
 The peculiar ^ circumstances in which she was 
 placed had kept Jane awake. Her position was an 
 uneasy one, although one of the older chiefs had gen- 
 
86 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 erously flung her a bear-skin, and she could partially 
 lean against the rock near her. She felt uncertain 
 of the intentions of her captors, or of the motives of 
 Samoset in his treachery. She reflected, if scalps 
 alone had been wanted, the Indians never would have 
 brought her such a distance, or taken such pains for 
 her transportation. She shuddered, as she contem 
 plated the possibility of another and more fearful 
 result than death ; but Jane Seymour was not of an 
 excitable disposition. She had been accustomed to 
 view things calmly and deliberately. She never suf 
 fered her imagination to lead her ahead of reality, 
 even in trifles. Her faculties were now all awake, 
 and ready for any emergency. 
 
 The little encampment was soon aroused and busy 
 about preparations for their morning s meal. Scouts 
 had been early sent out to obliterate such impressions 
 of their trail as they might have left in the darkness 
 of the night before, who returned with a report that 
 all was safe. As there might be a long day s journey 
 before them, with less of leisure, the Indians resolved 
 to make a hearty meal. Game was abundant, and 
 had been supplied by the hunters of the day before, 
 and was soon roasted before a fire, which, with ears 
 of roasted corn, that had been stripped from some 
 luckless farmer s field, furnished the breakfast. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 87 
 
 The oldest chief offered some food to Jane, who 
 ate, though with reluctance, but from the necessity 
 of support in a trying hour. None was offered to 
 Henry, whom the Indians seemed reserving for some 
 torment, for he asked in the language of the Tunxis 
 Indians for water, such was the excess of his thirst, 
 brought on by the fever of his wound and the agony 
 of his mind ; but no notice was taken of the request. 
 
 The attentions of the old chief to Jane seemed to 
 excite the jealousy of an old hag of the party, who, 
 stalking up to where she was leaning against the rock, 
 addressed her in a dialect unknown to her, but evi 
 dently, from the violent gestures, and the savage ex 
 pression of the blood-shot eyes, in vengeance. She 
 drew her knife, or dagger, formed of a deer s-horn, 
 sharpened to a keen point, and seemed threatening 
 her with its use. A few words from the old man 
 sent her muttering to her hut. 
 
 The feast was a long one, for, where leisure and 
 opportunity occur, the Indian indulges in a gluttony 
 as extraordinary as his capability of abstinence. When 
 it was finished, the males of the party collected near 
 the place where Jane was sitting, and then, for the 
 first time, she had a full view of the wily Samoset, 
 whose twinkling eyes were placed upon her counte 
 nance with a startling, loathsome expression. Jane 
 
88 
 
 shuddered as she saw the glance dwelling with keen 
 familiarity upon her beauties, and now felt she had 
 some key to the difficulties of her situation. 
 
 A long discussion ensued. There appeared by 
 their gestures to be some difficulty in assenting to 
 some proposition, which Samoset had made them, in 
 the long speech with which he had opened the con 
 ference. The language was not the dialect of the 
 tribes near the Connecticut, but occasionally the 
 Tunxis word for liquor fire-water would occur. It 
 appeared as if Samoset were describing its proper 
 ties and effects, and promising some to the other In 
 dians as a reward, or as a bargain for Jane. It 
 appeared at once that young Dudley was to be given 
 up to them. Some of the middle-aged of the party 
 cast scowling glances upon Jane, as they senten- 
 tiously gave their opinion, as if they doomed her at 
 once to death. 
 
 One of the younger men, when it was his turn to 
 speak, evidently made a demand for himself that 
 irritated and alarmed Samoset, whose tones of cun 
 ning were softened into expostulation. 
 
 Once Samoset turned to Jane, and said in the 
 Tunxis dialect, " The Fawn of the Pale Faces must 
 be my squaw, and live in my wigwam for ever." 
 
 The discussion grew exciting, and the formality 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 89 
 
 of a regular council was soon destroyed. Several 
 spake together, and some drew their tomahawks, 
 and, leaping high in air, brandished them about their 
 
 heads ; and were only prevented by the elders from 
 
 
 hurling them at the heads of the prisoners. The 
 
 opponents of Samoset appeared to have been success 
 ful, and several of the younger men were hurrying 
 towards Jane, when an event took place, which 
 changed the whole circumstances of her situation. 
 
90 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACZS J 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Come back ! come back ! he cried in grief; 
 
 Across this stormy water : 
 And I ll forgive your Highland chief: 
 My (laughter ! oh, my daughter ! " 
 
 Campbell, 
 
 As soon as Edward Dudley joined Sergeant Wads- 
 worth, they commenced a march through what is now 
 called Mill-street, by the margin of the stream. Ed 
 ward and the Sergeant, with whom Edward was a 
 particular favorite, passed on a little in advance of 
 the party, when the Sergeant said, in a low voice, for 
 his military discipline would not allow him to speak 
 evil of his superiors before the common train-band : 
 " I wish Captain Mason had given us some more 
 definite orders. I have hardly any idea of the object 
 of this expedition, but to assist you in the search for 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 91 
 
 your brother. The Captain said that Governor 
 Haynes spoke something of Indians being seen, but 
 gave no special instructions, except to commence the 
 search for Henry Dudley at the mouth of the Gully 
 Brook. Here is the place to turn off towards that 
 brook." 
 
 " There is some misconception, assuredly," said 
 Edward ; " I parted with my brother, it is true, by 
 the Gully Brook, but I have no intention of seeking 
 him there. I believe that Captain Mason said that I, 
 as guide, would direct the platoon." 
 
 " True, true, and a trustier guide could not be 
 found. When you shall have once smelt gunpowder, 
 and bloodied your pike in a real fight with these 
 troublesome Redskins, you will be as fine a fellow of 
 your inches to follow as any in the township. Lead 
 on ! lead on ! we are ready to follow. But why do 
 you not go to the Gully Brook ? " 
 
 " Simply, Mr. Sergeant, because my brother went 
 up the brook some five hours ago, and it is too dark 
 to follow the trail now ; and if we go up the brook, 
 we shall only confuse the trail by our steps. Be 
 sides, I know pretty well where I shall either hear 
 from him or find him. I do not anticipate trouble 
 yet, though he promised to be home before the bell 
 rang for eight, and some danger may have taken 
 
92 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 place. I do not like the idea of strange Indians be 
 ing seen lurking around. Let us hasten." 
 
 " You have always a good reason for every thing, 
 Edward. But, pray tell me, was Samoset with him ? 
 You know that they are much too familiar of late." 
 
 " I know it, and regret it. He spoke this after 
 noon about anxiously wishing to see Samoset, but he 
 was not with him." 
 
 This was spoken so loudly, that one of the party 
 stepped forward, and touching his hat to the Sergeant, 
 said : " May it please you, Master Wadsworth, I saw 
 Samoset as I was driving home my cows from the 
 Cow Pasture, going towards the west." 
 
 " How often must I tell you, Thomas Goodwin, 
 that when we are on parade, or on duty, you must 
 address me as Sergeant. But your news comes in 
 good time, and I fear much, my young friend, that 
 your red-skinned villain has something to do with this 
 affair." 
 
 " I fear it," was the sad reply, as the proofs of 
 his brother s danger pressed upon him. He said no 
 more, but quickened his pace in the direction that 
 led to Capt. Seymour s house, on the Cow Pasture 
 road. 
 
 On his arrival he found the house closed, and 
 only a few lights appearing in the windows, as if the 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 93 
 
 whole of his many domestics were preparing for bed. 
 Upon knocking, the Captain himself opened the door, 
 with a candle, and looked out in the darkness, sur 
 prised at seeing so many armed men. 
 
 Eecognizing Edward in an instant, he began : 
 " Thou spawn of the puritan and the rebel, what do 
 you disturb my house for, so late on the Saturday 
 evening ? Do you not know, according to the sancti 
 monious customs of your accursed sect, that the sab 
 bath has begun ? What secular business, as you so 
 piously term it, has driven you here to manifest thus 
 openly your hypocrisy by your actions ? Come, be 
 brief and be rapid ! I waste no words on the son 
 of your father." 
 
 " My brother Henry started for your house an 
 hour before sundown, and has not yet returned. "We 
 seek him here. We are anxious, for there are strange 
 Indians around." 
 
 " And what, most worshipful Edward, would 
 bring your dare-devil of a brother to my irreligious 
 roof on Saturday night ? " 
 
 " I fear I suppose," said Edward, hesitating, 
 " that he wished to see your niece." 
 
 " My niece ! " said the old man violently, losing 
 his sarcastic tone ; " if any of your accursed race has 
 
94 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 any thing to do with my niece, I ll disinherit her 
 I ll confine her I ll " 
 
 " Will you be so kind," said Edward, calmly, 
 " to inquire of Miss Seymour whether she has seen 
 my brother? " 
 
 " That I will quickly, and find some means of 
 punishing her if she has. Go, Hannah," to a do 
 mestic, who had entered the room, " and tell Jane 
 to come here instantly. If she is in bed, tell her to 
 rise. I suppose she thinks sleeping is the most 
 sanctimonious mode of keeping Saturday night. She 
 was not at supper, and may have been sleeping all 
 the afternoon. Has any one been here, Esther," 
 speaking to another maid, " to see Jane to-day ? " 
 
 " Only Samoset, about an hour before sundown." 
 
 " I wish any one else had killed that bear besides 
 that sneaking, two-sided Indian. He will be round 
 the house as long as he can get any rum or cider." 
 
 " Where s your mistress, Hannah ? is not she 
 coming ? What do you look so pale for ? Have you 
 seen a ghost ? " 
 
 " Miss Jane is not in her bedroom. Her bed 
 has not been used, and her bonnet is not in the 
 room." 
 
 " She has run off with that scape-grace brother 
 of yours. She shall never darken my doors again. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 95 
 
 I ll see if I cannot have vengeance out of some of 
 
 you by . Hand me my gun, that I may shoot 
 
 this brat." 
 
 " Captain Seymour, let there be no violence," in 
 terrupted Sergeant Wadsworth in his deliberate style ; 
 " I shall report you to the magistrates for the utter 
 ance of a profane oath, and for an attempt to break 
 the peace. But, Edward Dudley, how pale you are ! " 
 
 " It is nothing don t notice it. Hannah, when 
 did you see your mistress last ? " 
 
 " About sundown she went through the garden 
 to the Oak Clump, near the little pond ; and I now 
 remember I have not seen her since." 
 
 " Captain Seymour, my brother is incapable of 
 doing so wicked an act as eloping with your niece. 
 I fear much that those strange Indians have seen her. 
 They were observed coming in this direction." 
 
 The old man was totally unnerved at the sugges 
 tion. " Hasten ! " cried he, " every one of you to 
 the trees. It is a favorite place of Jane s. Roger, 
 call the whole household ! Hannah, bring torches ! " 
 
 The Oak Clump was soon reached ; but as they 
 approached, Edward pushed the eager ones back: 
 " Look," said he, as he held the torch on the ground ; 
 " see the moccasson tracks ! Let every one stand back 
 so as not to mar the foot-prints I Here s Jane s bon- 
 
96 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES j 
 
 net and her pocket-handkerchief trod into the ground ! 
 Here, too, is Henry s hat, with blood upon it ! Tha 
 Indians have been here, and have seized them." 
 
 Capt. Seymour was so much affected by these 
 discoveries, that he seemed to have lost all the pow 
 ers of his mind, and stared in almost idiocy at the 
 tracks. 
 
 " What s to be done think for me, Sergeant," 
 said Edward ; " I cannot plan." 
 
 " It will be of no service to attempt to pursue the 
 trail to-night. We could not see any thing of it. 
 Let us go back, and remain at the Town House, and 
 then, as soon as light appears, return, and trace these 
 marauders to their hiding-place. We shall need pro 
 vision, more ammunition, and perhaps directions from 
 Captain Mason." 
 
 " You are right, Sergeant ; there is no other way. 
 No one could trace these cunning Indians in the 
 darkness of this night. Roger, see that your master 
 has the necessary attendance, and that a watch is 
 kept around your premises ; and be ready to report 
 any remarkable appearance to us to-morrow. Han 
 nah, your mistress will have a sad night of it. Ser 
 geant, let us to the Town House." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " It seems to ine, neighbor Sirnpkins, that, in your village, you dove 
 tail religion and war most singularly together. There was a regiment of 
 laughing red-coats in one gallery, and a bevy of praying damsels in the 
 other ; while the people below were so distracted between curiosity and 
 worship, that they did not do but half of each. What s the matter ? " 
 
 Simpkins."- It s a way we have." 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 GOVERNOR HAYNES was stirring early that Sabbath 
 morning. He gave Capt. Mason permission to detach 
 a party to follow the trail of the Indians, who, after a 
 prayer by Rev. Mr. Hooker, started upon the expedi 
 tion at the first dawn, with Edward to act as scout. 
 They were all well armed and prepared with such 
 articles as were necessary for a day s sojourn in the 
 woods. They were directed by Mr. Hooker not to 
 converse on any secular or trifling topics, it being the 
 Holy Sabbath. The necessity of the duty on which 
 
98 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FAU;S j 
 
 they were engaged was their excuse, he said, for not 
 attending divine worship ; but stillness and quietness 
 would consecrate the LorcT.s day even in the wilder 
 ness. He exhorted them, when they did converse, 
 to do so only on the soul s concerns, and to refresh 
 each other s spirits by holy consolations. 
 
 This done, he obeyed the summons of the Gover 
 nor to make a prayer at a special council of the 
 Magistrates, to be held at the Meeting-House, before 
 the hour of breakfast. The peculiar contingencies 
 of the case were a sufficient warrant for the meeting, 
 and the early hour would prevent its interference 
 with the ordinary Sabbath worship. 
 
 Governor Haynes was a prompt man, and he 
 knew, from the report he had received from Edward 
 Dudley and Sergeant Wadsworth, the night before, 
 that immediate measures were to be taken for the 
 recovery of the lost, besides dispatching the band 
 under Wadsworth s command. 
 
 " Colonel Dudley, you are welcome to the coun 
 cil," said the Governor, after Mr. Hooker s prayer 
 was over. " Under your peculiarly distressing cir 
 cumstances, I hardly expected to see you in your 
 usual seat among the Magistracy. You have heard 
 the particulars from your eldest son, I presume." 
 
 " My son has had other duties to perform than 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 99 
 
 even to visit his parents. Duty, with him and me, is 
 paramount to affection or grief. But, nevertheless, 
 I heard from private Thomas Goodwin, whom Ser 
 geant Webster sent to my house, early this morning, 
 the details of my son s probable capture. I am here, 
 Governor Haynes, agreeably to your summons, to 
 consult for the public good." 
 
 " How is your most excellent lady ? How does 
 she bear herself under these afflictions ? " 
 
 " She has the support of the Most High, who has 
 placed the arms of divine love beneath her, and is 
 able to say, the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken 
 away, and blessed be the name of the Lord. But 
 these are private griefs : let us to the business that 
 has called us together on God s holy day." 
 
 Governor Haynes then concisely detailed the cir 
 cumstances already known, and the steps he had 
 taken for the rescue of the captives. He also advised 
 the immediate doubling of the sentinels, and that 
 mounted men be sent to patrol the few roads that 
 were then cut through the forest. All this was ap 
 proved of by the council ; and orders were issued 
 that every one should attend divine service armed, 
 and that the cattle should not be driven to the two 
 pastures, but guarded and fed at home." 
 
 " All these things are necessary to be done," said 
 
100 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES 
 
 Governor Haynes, " and will furnish a sufficient reason 
 for any breach of holy time." 
 
 " As your spiritual pastor," said Mr. Hooker, "I 
 express my approval of these measures." 
 
 " As the chief civil Magistrate," said Governor 
 Haynes, turning round calmly but firmly to the min 
 ister, " I do not require the approbation of church 
 authority for what I do my office is paramount to 
 the power, which the duties of a pastor gives you, 
 Brother Hooker." 
 
 Mr. Hooker shook his head, and slightly smiled, 
 as if the remark reminded him of some old unfinished 
 controversy. 
 
 " As the business may it please your Excellency 
 is finished, which called us together," said Deacon 
 Nichols, " allow me to say, publicly, that the private 
 admonition we were under the necessity of giving 
 Brother Dudley, last night, for the neglect of his son 
 in not returning at the appointed hour on the Satur 
 day evening, is now excused by the exigency of the 
 case, and to move that the censure be rescinded." 
 
 " The motion is a proper one," said Governor 
 Haynes, " and, if there are no objections, will be 
 considered passed." Col. Dudley bowed. 
 
 " Methinks," said Mr. Hooker, rising, " that a 
 church censure should be released bv church author- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 101 
 
 ity only. Brother Dudley was visited as a church 
 member only." i ; >v > , o> , ., ! 
 
 " The law made; the rule," relied i thti & lvernor, 
 " and the law only can give the censure. * 
 
 " But it is a church ordinance, likewise." 
 
 " We, as the constituted authorities of this new 
 colony, settled in the wilderness, are the church ; 
 you are "but the selected pastor to guide our devotions, 
 and instruct our minds in matters purely religious, 
 and, even then, we feel called upon, as part of the 
 body of Christ, to exercise an entire control over 
 your teachings, your doctrines, and your discipline. 
 As a freeman, Brother Hooker," continued the Gov 
 ernor, " you must feel the principle, that you are but 
 as a man among free men." 
 
 " Were it not," said Colonel Dudley, rather hasti 
 ly W ere it not for the extreme respect and affec 
 tion which I entertain towards our beloved pastor un 
 der God, I would inquire of him, by what right, or, 
 under what authority, he speaks at all in this board 
 of Magistrates. The people, who elected us, have 
 given him no such power. If he claim it as the pas 
 tor of our assembly, I would say to him," and the 
 martial eye of the old Colonel kindled as he spoke 
 " I would say to him that we have opposed even unto 
 blood the encroachments of the ecclesiastical over the 
 
.02 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 civil power and the rights of the people, in our mother 
 country. i. We certainty oLird not seek this howling wil 
 derness f to Sqbini b to [the same tyranny here. We 
 are independent men freemen equally opposed to 
 oppression in church as in state. We allow no spir 
 itual authority to rule us. Our minister is no priest. 
 He is, as his name denotes, the servant of God only. 
 That he should be set apart from common and secular 
 employments, to be able to attend, the more closely, 
 to his peculiar duties, is best ; because, the relation 
 which the church bears to the world requires men to 
 defend religion by learning and argument and study, 
 as well as by piety. But as to the internal relation 
 of the pastor to the church, there is no peculiar sa- 
 credness, no necessity of consecration. He is but a 
 man among sinful men, to set before the flock he feeds 
 the example of humility, holiness, and a heaven 
 directed soul. But in this relation, he is not required 
 to be any more humble, holy, devout, devoted to God, 
 than every member of his community. As an inde 
 pendent collection of the saints of God, organized and 
 associated for mutual edification, we fully believe that 
 it is competent, proper, and Scriptural for any mem 
 ber of that association to break the bread of life to 
 the rest, if God so call him. Such is the custom of 
 the faithful in England. Such is our right here. 
 
103 
 
 But the dictates of expediency, the love of order, and 
 the necessity of learning for the edification of those 
 without, have led us here in Connecticut to select our 
 stated and ordained pastors. But to no usurpation 
 of their power will I submit, while a drop of blood 
 flows from my heart. To no spiritual tyranny will I 
 ever succumb, so long as I have a weapon to wield, or 
 a hand to guide it." 
 
 So saying, he brought down his match-lock in pro 
 digious emphasis on the oak floor, till the very sleep 
 ers trembled. 
 
 " Excuse me, brethren, if I feel this subject 
 strongly and express it warmly. But it is the very 
 principle that governed our exile, and led us to the 
 creation, in these desolate wilds, of a republic based 
 on religion." 
 
 " No apology is needed," said Governor Haynes. 
 " You but express the feelings and views of every 
 one, and, I presume, of Brother Hooker himself, 
 when he reasons as a republican. We are all desirous 
 that the church should lend her influence to the sup 
 port of the state, but the latter must be paramount, 
 or we once more sink under the hierarchy from which 
 we have escaped." 
 
 " Will not that desire lead," said Mr. Hooker, 
 " at some future time, to the casting off of all connec- 
 
104 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 tion between church and state ? The period may 
 arrive when a majority of men in the state may not 
 be governed by Gospel principles. If the state, then, 
 is paramount, and cuts herself adrift from the church, 
 will not the latter suffer, and religion be a loser ? " 
 
 " The great difficulty," said Mr. Culick, rising and 
 speaking in his calm and lawyer-like manner " the 
 great difficulty with the reverend gentleman is, that 
 he reasons and feels as if the church were a reality 
 a separate, tangible existence whereas, it is a mere 
 abstraction. Neither the church nor the government 
 have a real existence. Nothing exists and acts but 
 individuals. It is idle to speak of the prosperity or 
 declension of a church, as separated from its individ 
 ual members. We are a collection of independent 
 individuals, associated for mutual benefit in religious 
 things, and name our association, a church. Under 
 this mere name of organization we do not lose our in 
 dividual rights, or separate independence. "We have, 
 as individuals, our right to put what construction we 
 please on the declarations of Scripture, if we adhere 
 to truth. We retain all the powers of private judg 
 ment, to be guided into right by the arguments of the 
 pastor, not to be forced into his conclusions by his 
 spiritual authority. All such tyranny we opposed in 
 England, and will oppose it here. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 105 
 
 " As individuals, desiring peace, security, justice 
 and good order, we have voluntarily selected a govern 
 ment. This government is no abstraction, like that 
 which is called of divine origin in Europe. It is the 
 collected rights of individuals surrendered to the men 
 of our choice for our own benefit. Our rulers are 
 individuals selected from among ourselves. "We be 
 lieve in the divine right of government not in the 
 divine right of the governors. 
 
 " The same individuals who form our church like 
 wise form our government, but, by our own individual 
 authority, we make the latter paramount. We do 
 not demand the church to submit to the government, 
 for the church has no separate reality. We demand 
 every individual member of the one association, to 
 submit himself to those rules which, as an individual 
 member of the other, he has assisted in framing." 
 
 "But," interrupted Mr. Hooker, "suppose the 
 decisions of the church and the government clash, 
 which shall be obeyed ? " 
 
 " You are still reasoning, Brother Hooker, upon 
 your abstraction. Is it not absurd to say that when 
 the same individuals constitute both the church and 
 the government, that, under one relation, they will 
 make one decision, and, under the other, a totally 
 opposite one ? If you consider the church as having 
 5* 
 
106 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES 
 
 
 no real, separate, tangible existence, but as composed 
 of individuals merely, and the same individuals who 
 compose the government, you will avoid such an ab 
 surdity." 
 
 " Brethren." said Governor Haynes, " though 
 this discussion is useful, the time will not admit its 
 being pursued further. We each have our families 
 to instruct before the hour of public worship arrives. 
 I therefore adjourn this meeting of the Magistracy, 
 after a prayer by Brother Hooker." 
 
 Mr. Hooker, though a warm controversialist, was 
 a good man, and a Christian man. He commenced 
 his prayer in that low, solemn tone, which, when not 
 a matter of affectation, comes from the heart, and 
 speaks to the heart. He was no spiritual dictator 
 now, but the organ of depraved and sinful men to 
 carry their desires and aspirations to the throne of 
 eternal purity. The humble confession of sin the 
 deep, deep sense of abiding depravity the awful dis 
 tance of the Deity from such worms the justice of 
 punishment were all dwelt upon until every heart 
 forgot its late risings of pride and independence, and 
 was abased before God. He then opened the gates 
 of mercy and of Heaven, and let the light of salva 
 tion through the Mediator pour upon the sin-crushed 
 soul. He painted the character of that Mediator, 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 107 
 
 until every heart was softened bathed in the dew of 
 penitence, and swelling with unutterable love. He 
 alluded then to the cause that had collected them, 
 and prayed for the erring and suffering son, and the 
 distressed parents, in an affectionate eloquence that 
 vibrated on every chord of Col. Dudley s hidden affec 
 tions. Not one of that body but went to their 
 homes that morning with softened and subdued spir 
 its, with bosoms swelling with the kindliest emotions 
 of benevolence, prepared the better to perform the 
 sacred duties of the Sabbath morning s instructions. 
 A calm, holy confidence in Jehovah throbbed in every 
 breast, prepared to submit to all that his providence 
 required of them to do or suffer. 
 
 As they were leaving the meeting house, Capt. 
 Seymour, under the most powerful excitement, rushed 
 through the council until he reached Col. Dudley, 
 and accosted him rudely and violently : " Give me 
 back my niece, which your scoundrel of a son has 
 carried off ! Where have they gone ? Where have 
 you concealed them from me, that you may marry 
 them by force, and thus demand the old man s pro 
 perty ? Where are they? Give me back my niece, 
 you bloody, deceitful Roundhead ! " 
 
 " I know nothing of your niece, rude man. I may 
 have the same reason to suspect that you have spirited 
 
108 THE FAWN OF THE FALE FACES; 
 
 away my son. But pursuit has been ordered, and 
 will, we trust, be effectual. I have no more desire 
 that my son should marry your niece than you have. 
 You can spare those taunts." 
 
 " Captain Seymour," said Governor Haynes, 
 " every measure that prudence and wisdom have sug 
 gested, has been taken for the pursuit and rescue of 
 the captives. This violence, and rude, loud, boister 
 ous speech is unbecoming both the day and the occa 
 sion. But we can excuse much to the irritation of 
 your feelings. Brethren, let us to our family duties." 
 
 " What is all this I hear, neighbor Bull," said 
 George Steele to his near neighbor, when going home 
 from meeting on the noon of this same day, after they 
 had left their brethren, who resided nearer than they 
 did, and were climbing the hill that now leads to the 
 College. " I did not understand all Parson Hooker s 
 prayer, about the dangerous errand of some of the 
 brethren. What has happened? You can speak 
 low, and Deacon Nichols yonder won t hear what we 
 are talking about." 
 
 " Why, you see, neighbor Steele," said the Corpo 
 ral, " Ned and Hal Dudley went out a hunting yes 
 terday, and Ned came back all alone. I was on 
 guard, and, according to Gov. Hayncs s instructions to 
 
OR, TWO CENTUR-IfiS AGO. 109 
 
 record all the goings out and the comings in, so my 
 instructions read, I had to report to his Excellency 
 that Hal Dudley was out of the settlement on Satur 
 day evening. Well : I went home, but late in the 
 evening my wife went down to Deacon Nichols, to get 
 some herbs, for Asa was sick, and she said, when she 
 got back, that the Deacon had heard that the Indians 
 had killed and scalped Hal, and carried off Captain 
 Seymour s Jane, and that Sergeant Wadsworth and 
 his platoon, with that nice lad, Eddy, were going 
 after them in the night." 
 
 " Why wasn t you sent ?" 
 
 " Oh, I am wanted too much in the street to keep 
 guard." 
 
 " More likely," whispered Steele s wife to her 
 daughter, who were walking a little in the rear, " they 
 feared that you would talk too much for an Indian 
 hunt." 
 
 " But did they find Hal Dudley s body ? " 
 
 " They found something, for I overheard Jim 
 Cook, who works up to Seymour s, say that they 
 found something, but whether it was his body, or his 
 hat, I did not hear." 
 
 " Who s gone ?" said Steele. 
 
 " Well : I rather think that Wadsworth took the 
 guard for to-day. lie certainly did take Corporal Web- 
 
110 
 
 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES 
 
 ster, who is the most expert woodsman we have, and 
 William Sheldon, who is next to him. Tom Goodwin 
 wa n t to meeting, nor Hutchins, nor Smith, nor Pond, 
 and I suspect they are all gone." 
 
 "Hush, husband," said Mrs. Steele, "Deacon 
 Nichols is looking round, and he will think we are 
 engaged in some idle talk on the Sabbath." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " this Elm that o er iny head 
 Its aged boughs in shade has spread 
 How many years have glided by 
 Since, first, it stretch d its limbs on high. 
 A thousand suns have o er it stream d ; 
 A thousand frosts in morn have gleam d. 
 "When first a tender twig it stood, 
 There wav d around a verdant wood ; 
 The river roll d beneath its streams, 
 A mightier wave than now it seems : 
 No human foot had trod the scene ; 
 The laurels flung a tangled screen, 
 And scarce the deer could stoop to drink, 
 So close the shrubbery twin d the brink." 
 
 Old Times : a Poem. 
 
 As soon as there was light sufficient to discern any 
 thing, Sergeant Wadsworth, with his party, were on 
 their way to Capt. Seymour s, and soon reached the 
 foot of his garden. 
 
112 
 
 "Stop, men!" said the Sergeant; "let Edward 
 Dudley go alone, and examine with care the place of 
 the encounter, and the trail leading from it. He is 
 one of the best scouts in the colony, and has a quick 
 eye. and keen judgment in all such things. We shall 
 only confuse the tracks It is important to know the 
 exact path they have taken." 
 
 While Edward went upon this errand, with every 
 sense and faculty in acute exercise, the Sergeant col 
 lected his party for a short breakfast. The men un 
 strapped their knapsacks, and taking out their corn 
 bread and pieces of cold salt meat, and each his little 
 flask of spirits, sat down to eat, but not until the 
 Sergeant had reverently asked a blessing upon the 
 food, which some of the men thought rather long, as 
 they stood uncovered in a frosty morning." 
 
 " There is a large band of them," said Edward, 
 as he joined the breakfast ; "I could plainly discover 
 that fact around the place where the hat and other 
 articles were picked up, last night. But our steps 
 there had so confused the other tracks that I could 
 learn little from them. Following them down by the 
 margin of the pond to the brook beyond, I then ex 
 amined them with more caution. There must have 
 been some ten or twelve, as I saw nearly as many 
 very distinct foot-prints. They were Indians, and not 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 113 
 
 Dutch, as I knew by their moccasons. They belong 
 to none of our tribes here. The mode of the cutting 
 out of the moccason is more like the French fashion. 
 Two marks I could not account for. These were 
 long hollows in the mud, pressed down as if with con 
 siderable weight ; they looked as if made by a very 
 long sap-trough, with a smooth bottom. From these 
 holes, the regular march seems to have been taken 
 up. There was but a single track, or foot-mark, as 
 if each one had been careful to step in the tracks of 
 the other. Indeed, such must have been the case, for 
 the foot-print sank deeper into the mud than if one 
 man had made it alone. Near these two round, regu 
 lar holes in the mud, were fragments of that little 
 shrub which the Indians employ for making ropes 
 and withes. The captives, I presume, were tied with 
 them. I should have said that, among the foot 
 prints, was that of a moccason of the fashion our In 
 dians, near the colony, wear." 
 
 " That s Samoset s, I ll bet," said Isaiah Pond, 
 one of the privates. 
 
 " Private Isaiah Pond," said Sergeant Wads- 
 worth, " how often must you be checked for that pro 
 fane and godless habit of offering to bet ; and think, 
 Isaiah, it is the Sabbath-day, too, when such worldly 
 vanities ought not to pass through your mind. Your 
 
114 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 conjecture, however, is probably accurate. But go 
 on, Edward." 
 
 " I saw not much more ; after some rods, the trail 
 led into the brook, which was probably followed to 
 some distance, as I could see scratched and broken 
 twigs hanging down in front of me." 
 
 "Let us depart at once," said Sergeant Wads- 
 worth. " Corporal Webster, take half the men, and 
 proceed on the right bank of the stream in single file, 
 and keep a good look out. I will tal^e the left bank 
 with the remainder of the men, in the same order. 
 Edward Dudley, do you proceed slightly ahead of 
 both parties for observation. Remember, Corporal 
 Webster, the object is to note the indications that 
 the Redskins have kept in the brook, and especially 
 to observe when they left it, and in what direction. 
 Let not a word be spoken, and keep your matches 
 lighted in readiness. You need not be cautious about 
 your trail, for we are not the pursued." 
 
 The men were supplied with matchlocks. Each 
 had a short, stout cutlass at his side, and a pair of 
 pistols and a large knife in his girdle. They were 
 clad in quilted coats, which were thick enough to pre 
 vent an Indian arrow from penetrating. They were 
 all thus heavily armed, and sank, every step, deep 
 into the mud. But the loose tops of their boots were 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 115 
 
 not rolled down, as in days of peace, but were 
 brought up over the knee, and tied around the thigh, 
 for the protection of the limb. They were, however, 
 stout, hardy men, patient of fatigue, and accustomed 
 to a rough life; and plodded steadily along, with 
 their guns at a trail, and their eyes searching around 
 at every appearance of the bushes overhanging the 
 brook. 
 
 They had not proceeded a quarter of a mile, when 
 young Dudley stopped and made a gesture for a halt. 
 " What is it, Edward ? " said the Sergeant. 
 
 " Look there," said the youth. 
 
 It was a place where the alders had swung down 
 almost into the stream, so that whoever waded the 
 stream must have done it almost on the hands and knees. 
 In the middle of the brook, there was a low, mud- 
 covered rock, over which some smooth, heavy object 
 had been dragged, and on which it had been suffered 
 to rest for a moment, while the branches above were 
 ragged and much torn. The men all gathered round. 
 
 " That is something in which they are carrying 
 their prisoners," said Edward. 
 
 " It is a birch bark canoe," said Corporal Web 
 ster, who was an old man, and experienced in Indian 
 skirmishes ; " I see the grain of the bark printed in 
 the mud." 
 
. 16 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 " That s it," said the Sergeant ; " and there are 
 two of them." 
 
 They pursued their way for several miles by the 
 side of the brook, breaking their way through the 
 cold, dank alders. 
 
 It was a beautiful autumn morning. The sun 
 soon came out bright and clear, and drove off the un 
 healthy and unwelcome fogs ; and drank up the thin 
 coating of slight, white frost, that covered the leaves. 
 The delicate tread of the timid squirrel could be heard 
 far off in the still forest ; the partridge rose whirring at 
 their approach, and sailed off through the red and 
 seared wood; the rabbit glanced at them from his 
 thicket, and hid himself in his hole. 
 
 There were evident signs that they were on the 
 right trail. The night march of the Indians had not 
 been so carefully conducted as to leave no trace. 
 The breaking of the limbs of the alders, the mocca- 
 son print on some little sand-bar, the occasional 
 dragging of the canoes under the overhanging bushes, 
 were all indications of their passage. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO 17 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " At length the bank where now he, sleeping, lay 
 The huge o erhanging oaks, in all their pride ; 
 The dashing stream, seen through the alder boughs ; 
 The hazel branches, bending o er his face, 
 Were seen. He dreamt, that, motionless, he lay, 
 And powerless : around his arms, there wound, 
 In multitudinous folds, a serpent huge. 
 In vain he strove to shake the monster off; 
 Still it wound round ; tighter it drew its folds, 
 When, with a start, he woke, and found not all 
 A dream." 
 
 Altawmah; Canto II. 
 
 THEY had proceeded thus for some time, when Ed 
 ward again called out for a halt. 
 
 " They have turned off here, and gone due west." 
 Corporal Webster was called from his side of the 
 stream, and coincided in the opinion. The trail was 
 
118 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 now plainer, as if less caution was thought to bo 
 needed. This new track was followed along the top 
 of several eminences, on one of which the Indians 
 appeared to have rested and renewed their torches, 
 which the first and last of the files carried. The 
 print, where the canoe rested, might be seen on the 
 wet leaves and crushed ferns of the damp forest 
 ground. 
 
 Several branches of the West Hartford River, 
 which of itself is a branch of the Little River, were 
 crossed by accessible fords ; and the trail thus con 
 tinued in a westwardly direction, until another small 
 stream was reached, when it again terminated. 
 
 "They have taken the brook again," said Cor-- 
 poral Webster to Edward and the Sergeant, who 
 were in the van ; " search carefully for their steps on 
 the rotting moss." 
 
 But, notwithstanding their severe scrutiny, no 
 traces of the progress of the Indians could be de 
 tected. After a walk of a quarter of an hour, over 
 ragged stones and tangled shrubs, making no discov 
 ery, Sergeant Wadsworth called a halt, and advised 
 to return and examine the trail, as it seemed to enter 
 the brook, in order to ascertain if the pursuers had not 
 left it ; for the stream deviated considerably from 
 the former straight western line. 
 
OR, TWO CENTUPdES AGO. 1 19 
 
 " No, no," said Corporal Webster, " the cunning 
 dogs took the brook, and we are either nearing their 
 hiding-place, or else their passage across the moun 
 tain. We must search the more carefully." 
 
 " The bushes are so thick," said Edward, " that 
 we cannot accurately examine the brook. I must do 
 as they did, and follow up in the brook itself." 
 
 " A good idea," said Webster ; "and I will go 
 on the side as near to you as I can, and assist you. 
 Sergeant, do you and the party drop a little into the 
 rear ; but watch the banks closely lest they should 
 have suddenly left the stream." 
 
 They had not proceeded far, when Edward pointed 
 to Webster where some more careless foot had slipped 
 off a rock, and, in falling, had caught hold of a bush, 
 which was torn up by the roots, and the elbow of 
 the man sunk into the deep soil of the bank. 
 
 Soon the passage of the party in that course was 
 abundantly exhibited by their approach to a little 
 fall in the stream, where their efforts to pass on 
 without leaving the brook were very evident. 
 
 When on the eminence over which the rivulet 
 fell, Sergeant Wadsworth again halted his party, and 
 sent Edward to the top of the highest tree to recon 
 noitre. 
 
 " Follow with your eye," said Corporal Webster, 
 
120 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 " the course of the brook ; you can easily tell it by 
 the greener appearance of the leaves of the bushes." 
 
 Upon his descent, Edward reported that the 
 stream made a sudden turn to the west, and that he 
 could trace it up to the very foot of the mountain, 
 perhaps a mile off. " Just where it leaves the 
 mountain, there is a pile of rocks, and I thought I 
 could trace the faint outline of a thin wreath of 
 smoke, ascending the lull from, that spot." 
 
 " We have them," said the Corporal, " if we work 
 warily. The rascals are now preparing their break 
 fast in one of the ravines, previous to a long march. 
 They will gorge themselves for a fast of several 
 days. We are sure of them, if we approach quietly, 
 and can reach them before they commence their 
 march." 
 
 " Onward, then," said the Sergeant, " and pro 
 ceed." A long distance was passed in an exceed 
 ingly cautious passage through the low bushes by the 
 now small brook, when they came to a narrow ravine 
 worn by the stream through a rocky hill, and, as 
 they could see through the trees, the mountains rising 
 very near them. The Sergeant halted and assembled 
 the men in the mouth of the small gorge, and rested 
 there for a few minutes. A small portion of spirits 
 was dealt out to each, which they drank diluted in 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 121 
 
 the cold water of the stream. Their arms were all 
 examined, their matches lighted, and every thing in 
 readiness for a contest. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that the heart of Ed 
 ward Dudley fluttered a little in his bosom as he 
 watched these precautions, and knew the high reputa 
 tion of both Wadsworth and Webster in Indian war 
 fare, warranted their use now. 
 
 " Corporal Webster," said the Sergeant, in a 
 whisper, which every man imitated when he spoke, 
 " was you ever here before ?" 
 
 " I remember the place well, now. A deer once 
 took me up this ravine. At its top, the brook issues 
 from the mountain, by forcing its way over some 
 scattered fragments of rocks. Just beyond that 
 mouth, there is a little recess between the rocks, of 
 hard sand, made by the freshets of the brook. It can 
 hardly be called a cave. They are no doubt there, 
 and I suspect, shrewdly, that Samoset led them there, 
 for there were indications when I saw it, last year, 
 that Indians had been in it." 
 
 " Corporal," said the Sergeant, " do you and Ed 
 ward go forward and reconnoitre. He ll make a good 
 soldier as soon as he has had experience. Take the 
 hill, and proceed as you think best. Private Shel- 
 
 6 
 
122 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 don, follow up the brook stealthily ; be ready to sup 
 port them if attacked, or to observe what you can. 
 Let the sharp whistle of the killdeer be the signal for 
 our onset." 
 
 The men departed ; Webster and Edward, climb 
 ing up the hill and going round the gorge, reached 
 its termination before Sheldon. As they advanced, 
 Edward s quick eye saw the head of a young Indian 
 appear for an instant above the rocky barrier, over 
 which the brook fell, but looking in the direction of 
 the ravine, as if some noise had produced suspicion. 
 Concealed behind some fallen logs, they looked 
 through the interstices of the limbs of a thick cedar 
 at the same spot, when the same eager face was appa 
 rent again still gazing down the gorge. " Sheldon 
 has betrayed himself by his noise," whispered Web 
 ster ; " let us crawl nearer, while that Redskin is 
 watching him." 
 
 As it chanced, just at the moment, a large rabbit 
 sprang across the gorge, and stood on the farther 
 eminence, amusing himself by his gambols. This 
 seemed to have satisfied the young Indian, and to 
 have allayed his suspicions ; and, as he watched the 
 movements of the animal, he exposed his whole side 
 and back to the skulkers. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 123 
 
 As they crawled nearer, says the corporal, a I 
 could fetch him now, but the report of the gun would 
 alarm the whole body behind these rocks. Stay here, 
 Edward, and keep my gun and ammunition. I must 
 try skulking. Don t rise or fire, unless he makes a 
 noise, and then the quicker you act the better, both 
 in helping me and in making the signal." 
 
 In saying this he left the logs, where they were 
 lying, and was soon out of sight. Edward could 
 occasionally see him, as he crawled from one rocky 
 dell to another, until he was in the rear of the savage 
 sentinel, and among the rocks that concealed him. 
 The young Indian appeared taken up with the gam 
 bols of the rabbit, but still, at intervals, looked cau 
 tiously down the gorge. He fitted his arrow to- the 
 string, as the rabbit for a moment stood still ; as if 
 he wished to add his flesh to the meal he still hoped 
 to eat before the march commenced. He hesitated 
 several times, as the animal changed his position, 
 little knowing how two experienced woodsmen were 
 closely watching every movement. Just as he let 
 the arrow fly from the bow, the powerful arms of 
 Webster were around him, and his own blanket thrown 
 over his head. 
 
 At the same instant, Edward and Sheldon sprang 
 forward, the one from the gorge and the other from 
 
124 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 the cedar-bush, and assisted in gagging and shackling 
 him ; while, in a moment more, the hoot of the kill- 
 deer sounded through the clear atmosphere, and the 
 whole party noiselessly approached. Not a word was 
 spoken, as they tied the sentinel to a sapling, and 
 silently crept over the rocks. 
 
 The first thing that Edward saw, as he and Web 
 ster rushed forward in the van, was a huge Indian, 
 standing over Jane Seymour, and brandishing his 
 tomahawk, while Samoset seemed holding him off; 
 and Henry lay struggling on the sand with another. 
 The shot from Edward s well-aimed gun struck the 
 Indian in the head, who fell backward dead over the 
 body of Samoset, whom he had prostrated by his fall. 
 In an instant, the whole English party were in the 
 cave, in a hand-to-hand conflict with the cutlass. 
 The surprise was complete, and every member of the 
 marauding band lay in death immediately. The 
 prisoners were released, the huts fired, and the fe 
 males and children, brought with the party, were left 
 to find their way back as well as they could. Upon 
 gathering the bodies of the dead for some sort of in 
 terment, Samoset was found unhurt, lying beneath 
 the body of the dead chief. He was bound in readi 
 ness to be carried to Hartford, there to be judged, as 
 he was considered, in some sort, a subject of the 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 125 
 
 colony. The young sentinel was conducted as a 
 prisoner in the same manner ; and Sheldon took care 
 to place the rabbit, with the arrow through his body, 
 in his knapsack, for his night s supper. 
 
126 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Oh Jealousy, thou green-eyed fiend! what deeds 
 Of mischief and of wrong hast thou not wrought ! 
 Because a piece of finely-painted flesh 
 "Will choose to smile in preference on one, 
 The other fools are paving mad, and long 
 To cut each other s throats, as if there was 
 One only black-eyed being in the world ! 
 
 Out on such folly ! 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 THE march home was conducted in a very different 
 manner from the pursuit. Corporal Webster led the 
 band in a direct line, by certain marks of his own, to 
 the colony, and Wadsworth brought up the rear. 
 The prisoners and the rescued were placed in .the 
 centre, and the whole company marched with a more 
 extended front. 
 
 Edward, at first, busied himself in assisting Jane 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 127 
 
 over the difficulties of the way, when Henry rather 
 rudely interposed, and told him he would take care 
 of the lady, and begged him not to interfere in his 
 affairs. It was uttered in so stern and almost inso 
 lent a tone, that the soldiers near turned round to 
 see the cause. 
 
 Jane, at first, with a flushed cheek, prepared to 
 reply, but Edward said, very calmly, " As you please, 
 brother Henry," and sought, at once, the van, where 
 Corporal Webster, in his blunt, woodsman kindness, 
 endeavored to soothe him, supposing that it was 
 Jane that had driven him away. 
 
 " See," said the honest Corporal, " she is weep 
 ing already about it. But don t mind her tears, Ed 
 ward ; they are the women s match-locks, and do 
 more mischief than shot a hunter never heeds them. 
 I always think of the old saying, * that there is as 
 much consideration to be taken of a woman s weep 
 ing, as of a goose s going barefoot. But she seems to 
 have huffed your brother, and he is looking like a 
 thunder-cloud about it. But I see you are troubled, 
 Edward, and do not wish me to talk. It is the Sab 
 bath, too, and we had better march on, and silently 
 thank the Lord that none of us have been killed." 
 
 When Edward left Jane, Henry endeavored to 
 assist her in passing through the under-brush, but 
 
128 
 
 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 Jane resolutely refused his aid, and finally spoke 
 rather indignantly to him, as pursuing her too perse- 
 veringly. This did not serve to diminish Henry s 
 petulance, but he left her to walk by herself, and 
 sought Samoset, as if the fittest object on which to 
 vent his ill-nature. 
 
 " You red-skinned rascal, it is you that brought 
 me into this trouble, and came near depriving me of 
 life. If you was not bound, I would stab you to the 
 heart, you lying varlet." 
 
 This was said partly in Samoset s own dialect, but 
 produced no other reply, beyond that of deepening 
 the light of intense hatred in his swarthy eye. 
 
 " Speak, you dog : what had I done that your 
 spite should be turned towards me. Oh ! I remem 
 ber now. And so your copper-skinned bosom had 
 been pierced by the darts of love, had it 1 And you 
 wanted the bright-eyed Fawn of the Pale Faces in 
 your lodge ? Out upon such preposterous desires !" 
 
 The sarcasm ruffled the Indian enough to disturb 
 his assumed equanimity, and he hissed low through his 
 teeth, " She would not have you either. I heard it 
 last night." 
 
 " Take that, you vile copper-colored scoundrel, for 
 your insolence," said Henry, striking him in the face 
 with a stick he carried, he having no arms. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 129 
 
 " Master Henry Dudley," said private Sheldon, 
 who guarded the pinioned prisoners, " it is unmanly 
 to strike a man whose arms are tied." 
 
 " Keep your advice to yourself, Goodman Shel 
 don. I will hear no more impertinence from you 
 than from the Redskin, you plebeian boor." 
 
 " "When this duty is over, I ll let you know, young 
 malapert, that in these woods we are all equal, and 
 that nobility of birth is of little service against a 
 good strong arm and a hickory switch. You will 
 never be a man like your brother. Every one loves 
 him." 
 
 Here Sergeant Wads worth pressed through the 
 files, and cried out : " Stop this unnecessary talking 
 in the ranks, in such a loud voice. Remember, it is 
 the holy Sabbath day, and must be kept sacred, 
 even in the wilderness." 
 
 " I shall not stop at your bidding, most puissant 
 Mr. Sergeant Wadsworth," said Henry ; " I am not 
 under your command, so give me none of your inso 
 lence." 
 
 " Young man," said the Sergeant, solemnly, "you 
 are bringing up yourself to be a despiser of dignities, 
 and to a certain fall. I shall not have my authority, 
 as commander of this party, disputed. I arrest you 
 in Governor Haynes s name, for insubordination, con- 
 6* 
 
130 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 tempt of your superior officers, and for a disregard 
 of the Sabbath." 
 
 At the same time, he held him tight in his iron 
 grasp, and tied his hands behind him, despite his 
 frantic struggles and violent exclamations. Putting 
 him under the care of a private, he ordered the 
 inarch to recommence in silence. 
 
 No sooner did Edward hear the condition to 
 which his brother had reduced himself by his petu 
 lance, than he turned back to the centre of the de 
 tachment, and demanded firmly, though with perfect 
 calmness and respect, for what reason his brother was 
 thus treated, and by what authority. Sergeant Wads- 
 worth replied by relating the circumstances. 
 
 " But," said Edward, " do you pinion him on 
 the military or civil charge ? " 
 
 " Come, come, Edward, you are a good fellow and 
 a first-rate scout and soldier, but a little too much of 
 a lawyer in your whys and wherefores." 
 
 " I am in no mood for trifling now," said Ed 
 ward. " Why do you pinion him ? " 
 
 " Lest he should escape, Master Questioner." 
 
 " But, prythee, whither should he escape ? He 
 has no place but his father s house to flee to, and 
 Colonel Thomas Dudley is. the last man to screen one 
 of his sons from a legal process, lawfully served. 
 
OH, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 131 
 
 Besides, if yon accuse him of a military crime, and 
 pinion him accordingly, you are transgressing your 
 military power. He is not one of your party, and 
 owes you no obedience, either by enlistment, or agree 
 ment, or order of the court. You are therefore sub 
 jecting yourself to an action of false imprisonment. 
 If you arrest and pinion him for the civil crime of a 
 breach of the Sabbath laws, you are transcending your 
 authority, for you are no constable, and act with no 
 warrant. Remember, Sergeant Wadsworth, that we 
 came into this wilderness for the enjoyment of liberty 
 liberty from ecclesiastical, royal, or military tyran 
 ny but liberty under law. Law cannot be re 
 spected among a people unless all its forms are ob 
 served with strictness, and the military power kept 
 in entire subordination to the civil authority. Let 
 me urge you, then, Sergeant Wadsworth, to take a 
 correct view of your present proceedings, and let me 
 warn you of their consequences." 
 
 " Well, well, Edward Dudley, I suppose you are 
 right; and will, therefore, release the youth from 
 durance. But, I assure you, a report of his conduct 
 shall be laid before the magistrates." 
 
 " Edward," said Henry, " I suppose I must 
 thank you for your lawyer-like speech and its effects. 
 If you had possessed the spirit of our ancestors, you 
 
132 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES 
 
 would have cleaved the low fellow s head to the brain 
 with your cutlass." 
 
 " Brother, in this our new community, we must 
 lay the foundations of a reverence for law deep in 
 the human mind, if we wish to form, what our leaders 
 have planned, a successful Christian republic." 
 
 " Pshaw, pshaw, brother of mine, let us hear none 
 of your low republican doctrines ; give me the chival 
 rous warfare of our knightly ancestors the court 
 the king" 
 
 " Hush, brother, you will be overheard, and re 
 ported to those able to punish you. Be more guarded." 
 
 Henry was about to reply, when, looking round, 
 he saw Jane Seymour s lustrous eyes fixed in admira 
 tion on Edward s eloquent face, and a new train of 
 unpleasant thoughts passed through his breast, and 
 his old petulance revived. He turned from his bro 
 ther, and fell back to the rear, where he sullenly 
 marched for the rest of the route. 
 
 As the settlement was approached, and the last 
 ford of the Little Eiver crossed, privates Steele and 
 Hutchins were sent on as an escort with Jane to her 
 uncle s house, which stood, as we have observed, in 
 the direction of the Albany turnpike. The remain 
 der of the party crossed the hills directly to the river 
 settlement, which they reached just at the conclusion 
 of the afternoon religious service. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 133 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 " Well did he hail the prodigal s return, 
 And kill for bis repast the fatted calf; 
 Such fathers are a wonder in the land." 
 
 The Good Father : a Tragedy. 
 
 SERGEANT WADSWORTH made his military report very 
 briefly to Governor Haynes direct, who replied, rather 
 coldly, that he would hear it more in detail the next 
 day. The Sergeant had alluded to Henry Dudley s 
 arrest, which the Governor waived in the same man 
 ner, saying : " Although it may be proper on the 
 Sabbath, when circumstances require it, to act, or to 
 deliberate how to act, it is not proper nor commend 
 able, when action is finished, to talk over its results ; 
 the morrow will be time enough. Let the two In 
 dians, that you have brought as prisoners, be con- 
 
134 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 ducted to the jail. Let the young Dudley be called 
 upon for his answer to-morrow. In the mean time, 
 Sergeant, dismiss your party, after a thanksgiving 
 from Brother Hooker that you have returned safely, 
 which we will tarry to hear. Let the rest of the 
 brethren retire to their own residences, and reflect 
 upon the instructions the day has given them. Col. 
 Dudley, we hold you responsible for the attendance 
 of your son before the magistracy to-morrow. Breth 
 ren, depart in peace." 
 
 Solemn was the meeting around the family altar 
 that evening, in the little dwelling of Col. Dudley. 
 There was that expression of unchecked passion and 
 haughty irritation in the face of the younger son 
 that excited the ire of one parent, and alarmed the 
 anxieties of the other ; while the still and wordless 
 grief of the elder struck both parents with solicitude. 
 
 " The first thing of which I ought to inquire, 
 Henry," said the father, is, " why you did not return 
 with your brother, last evening, before the sun went 
 down ? Methinks, the command of a parent and 
 the laws of the colony require a prompt obedience." 
 
 " I had made such arrangements as I supposed 
 would enable me to return in season," said Henry, 
 sullenly. 
 
 " Why then" and the old man s face began to 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 135 
 
 gather its sternness, and to flush as he spoke " why 
 then did you disobey my repeated commands, not to 
 have any communication with Captain Seymour s 
 niece ? " 
 
 " Methinks, father, a son just saved from the 
 cruel death which the savages threatened, might meet 
 with a kinder reception when he first steps over his 
 father s threshold." 
 
 " Son, don t bandy words with me. The Bible, 
 and the laws of the land, give me a power that I 
 shall exercise." 
 
 " Husband !" said a mild voice, while the implor 
 ing eye s of the mother of his children, moistened 
 with tears, were fixed mournfully upon his face. It 
 called up the father within ; and the puritan and the 
 magistrate were forgotten. 
 
 " Anne, I will forbear. He is our son. But let 
 rne tell you, Henry, that no excess of love on your 
 part to that girl will ever justify me in giving consent 
 to your marriage ; and, if you persevere in your at 
 tachment, you are only heaping up sorrow on your 
 own head, that will burn into your very heart s core." 
 
 " And does my mother join in this hard decree ?" 
 said Henry, taking her hand. 
 
 " Your mother, my dear boy, says the same thing. 
 You cannot marry Jane Seymour, and any farther 
 
136 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 acquaintance with her will carry desolation to your 
 own heart." 
 
 " There will be desolation enough, if I cannot. 
 But I see how it is she is reserved for the eldest 
 foorn. That smooth-faced hypocrite must have her, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Henry, Henry ! you grieve me beyond account. 
 Edward can no more marry her than you. God grant 
 that he may never love so hopelessly, so madly." 
 
 " Son Henry," said the Colonel, " your conduct 
 is beyond endurance. To your brother s prudence, 
 zeal, and perseverance, you owe your release from the 
 torture of the savage, and do you dare, in your wild, 
 insane passion, to taunt him thus ? But let us hear 
 what is the nature of the accusation that hangs over 
 you, to-morrow." 
 
 The mother started, and, turning pale, cast her 
 imploring eyes upon Edward, who had hitherto sat 
 silently behind the group. He advanced, and re 
 peated the difficulty with Sergeant Wadswortb, as 
 favorably to Henry as he could ; and detailed the 
 arguments he had made use of. 
 
 " Son Edward, you reasoned incorrectly respect 
 ing the Sergeant s military power. He must have 
 authority, while engaged in an expedition, over all 
 concerned in it, or who seek its protection as an 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 137 
 
 escort. Still, the Sergeant ratlier transcended his 
 authority in pinioning Henry. But we will see to 
 that to-morrow. The faults charged are such, that 
 submission to the law will be all that will be neces 
 sary. And now, my sons, our opinions having been 
 expressed decidedly to both of you, respecting the in 
 dulgence of any attachment to your old playmate, 
 and its utter impossibility, let us close the ordinary 
 duties of the day, arduous and exciting to you, by an 
 exposition of its religious uses and improvements." 
 
138 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " TJntutor d Love ! E en in the wilderness, 
 Thou pour st thy flood of passion o er the heart 
 ****** 
 
 For not alone, in the warm climes, beams warmth 
 Of heart : thy power controls the wanderer 
 On Heckla s side, until his bosom burns, 
 Strong, as the lava stream, descending there. 
 On the North Sea, mid everlasting ice, 
 The Greenland youth thy powerful influence feels, 
 As bounds his light skiff o er the mountain wave. 
 Tis false, that cold in clime are cold in blood. 
 The heart, beating beneath the storm-rock d pines, 
 That writh d their gloomy tops on Bantum Lake, 
 Glow d strong, as if a Grecian sky she breath d, 
 Or tun d her lute with Andalusia s maids." 
 
 Altawmak; Canto III. 
 
 LET us now intrude, dear reader, into a young maid 
 en s chamber, and, if possible, into a young maiden s 
 heart. 
 

 OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 139 
 
 There are periods in one s lifetime, when one 
 lives years in a single day ; especially, when the veil 
 is torn off from one s own heart, and all its secret 
 hopes and fears, unacknowledged to one s self, have 
 been laid naked and bare to the conscience and the 
 understanding. 
 
 Jane had retired early. The fatigues and the 
 dangers of the last twenty-four hours were a sufficient 
 excuse. For though, like all the women of a young 
 colony, she labored hard, and could endure great 
 fatigue, there had been excitement and danger, and 
 mental pain, that had mingled with the fatigue, until 
 nature was nearly exhausted. She read her custom 
 ary portion of the Sacred Scriptures, and, on her 
 knees, gave her Heavenly Father thanks for the pre 
 servations of the day ; and commended herself to his 
 protecting care for the night. She divested herself 
 of the torn and soiled clothing which she had worn in % 
 her forced expedition ; and, having arranged her gar 
 ments for the next day, she extinguished her light, 
 and for a moment before she sought her couch, looked 
 out on the dark night. 
 
 The evening fogs were already rising and curling 
 over the spot where she had rejected the advances of 
 her impetuous lover. The tall pine-tree, against 
 which she had then leaned, was almost shrouded by 
 
140 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 the damps that were fast forming from the neighbor 
 ing marshes. She sighed as she thought how the 
 mists of sorrow had arisen and shrouded, in the same- 
 manner, the heart of the young man who so ardently 
 loved her. 
 
 She sought her pillow, but not to rest. There 
 were too many objects of thought crowding on her 
 mind to allow her to sleep. Indeed, the very fatigue 
 itself had produced a preternatural state of excited 
 nerves that effectually banished sleep. She must 
 think ; and strong and vivid as the lightning s glare 
 were the flashes of intense thought that rushed over 
 her heart. 
 
 She thought of Henry, of her final and forcible 
 rejection of his love, and of the evil traits that he 
 had manifested that day. She still felt inclined to 
 palliate them in her ingenuous heart, and ascribe 
 them to the blow his affections had received. She 
 endeavored to think of his good qualities, and to re 
 capitulate them, as a kind of offset to the growing 
 disapprobation of her opinions. 
 
 It has often been a matter of philosophical in 
 quiry how a woman feels towards a man she has 
 rejected. He has paid her the highest compliment 
 that man can pay a woman, and yet, in too many 
 cases, that compliment has been the means of produc- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 141 
 
 ing contempt and hatred. Women differ in this re 
 spect ; and the goodness of their dispositions, and 
 the correctness of their amiability, may "be estimated 
 by their conduct under such circumstances. Some 
 girls will ever afterwards favorably remember the 
 excellent qualities of the rejected suitor, follow his 
 path in life with anxious thoughts, feel humbled if 
 he degrades himself, feel an additional self-respect 
 if he becomes distinguished. 
 
 How much of regret mingles in this self-respect, 
 the world never knows. They never acknowledge it 
 even to themselves, unless caprice had, in part, im 
 pelled the rejection. 
 
 Others, again, magnify the faults of the late lover, 
 as a kind of excuse to themselves ; and are rather 
 pleased than otherwise at his departure from the path 
 of duty, as if justifying them in that rejection. 
 
 Such was not Jane Seymour. She was pained at 
 the necessity of the course she had long resolved to 
 take, but she had not repented nor regretted it yet. 
 She was grieved at the painful exhibitions of ill tem 
 per and of petulance which the day s adventures had 
 drawn out ; but she never, one moment, thought of 
 recalling her decision. Girls have done it. Com 
 passion for the pain they have produced has led them 
 to encourage addresses, when their heart was not 
 
142 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES: 
 
 much interested ; and they have lived and died as 
 wives, without that absorbing passion which idolizes 
 its object. 
 
 Jane was compassionate. Every corner of her 
 soul was full of woman s tenderness. It breathed in 
 every breath she uttered, beat in every pulsation of 
 her blood. and filled up and pervaded every affec 
 tion of her heart. She felt severely and keenly for 
 Henry, but another and subtler flame was creeping 
 over her soul, consuming, as it glided on, every spare 
 sympathy, every new-born offspring of compassion. 
 She thought less of Henry than of herself and her 
 own danger. 
 
 Henry s question of the night before had let the 
 first light into her wilfully dark mind ; and the blush, 
 that unbidden then rushed to her face, was the first 
 acknowledgment to herself of the truth. She now 
 thought over the whole day. Edward s conduct had 
 been kind to her, but nothing more. He, evidently, 
 had yielded her in his own mind to his brother ; and 
 even, she said to herself, should his brother inform 
 him of the result of our conference, he will not inter 
 fere with his brother s pursuit. 
 
 She started as she caught herself thinking of the 
 possible love of one who never had given her the 
 least encouragement that he thought of her otherwise 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 143 
 
 than as his brother s love. She felt even then, alone 
 as she was, and dark as the night was, the blush of 
 shame mantling her cheek at the idea that she loved 
 one who had never sought her affections. She felt 
 as if even the purity and modesty of her own heart 
 were compromised by thus loving unsought. 
 
 " Thank God," she exclaimed, " he never knew 
 it, or suspected it. He never shall. He cannot look 
 down into the depths of my soul, and see his image 
 hidden there. But there is not much danger of ever 
 meeting him again. The last thing my uncle said to 
 night was, that Colonel Dudley was his enemy, and 
 that no son of his should ever marry his niece. He 
 knew how to prevent it, and would do it. What did 
 he mean ?" 
 
 Alas ! poor Jane, the course of true love will not 
 run very smoothly with you. You go to sleep with 
 the resolution formed to think no more of Edward 
 Dudley, but the effort will be in vain. On a heart like 
 yours, the impression once made is made for ever. A 
 new impulse has been given to every thought, feeling, 
 and action of your existence, that will never leave 
 you amid the toils and trials of time, or the joys and 
 fruitions of eternity. To a soul, such as beats ir 
 your bosom, to love once is to love for ever. Hence 
 forward, there is no more the calm and quiet happi 
 
144 
 
 ness of a free and light-hearted life. One passion 
 has entered your soul, that will color every thought 
 and mingle in every feeling. You will strive against 
 it in vain. Every struggle but winds its coils the 
 more closely around your heart. The rose may leave 
 your cheek, the rich, red poutiness of your lip may 
 fade into whiteness, the large and lustrous eye may 
 grow languid in its hidden grief, but the soul will 
 not lose its tyrant passion. It has commenced its 
 reign, and will hold its sceptre over your heart for 
 ever. 
 
 Poor Jane ! 
 
 How wonderful is the instinctive impulse given us 
 by our Creator to love. In its regulated purity, how 
 valuable it is to the happiness, nay, the very exist 
 ence of the race. The mere intellectuality of friend 
 ship does not account for it ; the mere tie of animal 
 convenience does not produce it. When it bubbles 
 up in a young heart, it is but the welling forth of a 
 sacred instinct, designed by Grod to furnish the full 
 tide of the heart s feelings, on which may float all 
 that is joyous and happy and heaven-directed in our 
 nature. 
 
 The dear and tender ties of the family, with all 
 their lovely and loved connections on earth, and the 
 dearer and more enduring ties of the great family of 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 145 
 
 heaven, depend upon this instinct. Let it not be 
 checked when it buds in the young heart. There are 
 but fewer happier moments on earth than when the 
 fragrance of a new passion begins to exude from the 
 soul. Its purity is unmixed by a single stain of earth ; 
 cherish it in its simplicity and delicate innocence. 
 It is a fragrance that ne er again shall steep the 
 senses of the soul in its new-born joy. Extinguish 
 not the infantile flickering of its innocuous blaze. " It 
 is a light that ne er can shine again on life s dull 
 stream." 
 
 Happy Jane ! 
 7 
 
146 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 CHAPTEK XIX. 
 
 " Section. Which be the malefactors ? 
 Dogberry. Marry 1 that be I and my partner." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 11 WELL, neighbor Steele, are you ready to go up to 
 the court-room to-day. I have finished picking my 
 corn, and there is no hurry about the potatoes, so that 
 I can spend a half day as well as not ; so I think I 
 shall go and hear all this strange news." 
 
 " I have determined to do the same thing, Cor 
 poral Bull, and am all ready. But what is the 
 news ? " 
 
 " Why, you see, John Barnard was in my house 
 this morning to borrow my drogue to draw stone, and 
 he said that Sergeant Wadsworth had returned last 
 night, bringing Samoset and Hal Dudley as prison- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 147 
 
 ers. They say that Samoset and Hal gathered a 
 large band of Indians, and carried off Jane Seymour, 
 when she was walking in her uncle s garden. "Wads- 
 worth found the Indians out in the woods, and killed 
 the most of them. Samoset and Hal were brought in 
 as prisoners, with their arms tied, and are to be tried 
 to-day." 
 
 "You don t say so!" 
 
 " Yes : and they do say that Edward and Hal 
 had a fight, and that Hal was dragged into town." 
 
 " I don t believe that Edward Dudley fought with 
 his brother, Corporal, he is too good a lad for that ; 
 but that Hal is a perfect cavalier, and rants and 
 raves about, and orders common men around, just as 
 if, here in the wilderness, one man is not as good as 
 another. But was there any thing else ? Was Jane 
 Seymour hurt ?" 
 
 " No : some persons do think she went off on pur 
 pose to live with Master Hal in the woods with the 
 Indians ; and some say she was carried off. We shall 
 learn the whole truth in the court-room." 
 
 The magistrates, with Governor Haynes at their 
 head, had assembled at the Town House for the trial 
 of the various cases that came before them. 
 
 The first case that was called was the complaint 
 made by Sergeant Wads worth against Henry Dudley. 
 
148 
 
 The Sergeant stated the double cause of his com 
 plaint, the contempt of his military authority, and 
 the breach of the Sabbath laws by unnecessary loud 
 talking on other than religious topics, in a blustering 
 manner. 
 
 Henry was asked for his defence, and whether he 
 had employed counsel. His brother very modestly 
 stepped forward, and said, that though only a student 
 of the law, he requested the privilege of being his 
 brother s advocate ; which privilege was accorded to 
 him by the General Court. 
 
 No attempt was made to deny the first charge ; 
 but Edward claimed, that if it was a crime against 
 the military authority of Sergeant Wads worth, the 
 present court was incompetent to hear the complaint, 
 not being a regularly constituted court-martial 5 and 
 that it could be tried only by such a court. Also, 
 that as Henry was not an enlisted soldier, and be 
 longing regularly to the party, he was not under the 
 strict obligations of military rule, so far as respect to 
 the commander was concerned. 
 
 All this Edward stated in a modest and calm 
 manner, that was not in the least offensive to the 
 General Court. He argued that supreme military 
 authority or rule was one of those subjects from which 
 the honorable Court had fled into this wilderness ; 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 149 
 
 that the principle under which the new colony was 
 founded was the paramount character of the civil 
 law ; and that law should be above both the tyranny 
 of the church and the power of the sword. 
 
 As to the second offence, he begged the magis 
 trates to consider his brother s situation, all that he 
 had endured, and all that he had feared, and re 
 member that the operation of such causes would lead 
 him to forget the sacredness of the day in his irrita 
 bility. .. 
 
 During this first public effort of his eldest son, 
 Col. Dudley sat unmoved in his usual seat on the 
 magistrates bench. He listened calmly, as the other 
 judges. Not a feeling of the relation in which he 
 stood to the accused and his advocate could be traced 
 on his immovable countenance. 
 
 After a short deliberation, in which Col. Dudley 
 was consulted, and in which he acquiesced, Governor 
 Haynes arose, and gave the decision of the Court : 
 " That, inasmuch as the power of the General Court, 
 which commissions military officers, must be consid 
 ered involved in the creations which it makes, the 
 Court consider that they have jurisdiction in the 
 present case, and must equally uphold the military as 
 the civil authority emanating from themselves ; and, 
 moreover, secondly, as the Sabbath is made binding 
 
150 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES I 
 
 by God himself upon all mankind, it must be binding 
 under all circumstances in which man can be placed, 
 and under all frames of temper and modes of dispo 
 sition ; they, therefore, do find the accused, Henry 
 Dudley, guilty of the two offences alleged against him 
 by Sergeant James "Wadsworth : but that, in consid 
 eration of the youth of the accused, and the trial 
 which he had undergone from the wily adversaries 
 which surround us, they do adjudge him to be pub 
 licly reprimanded by the General Court; and that 
 after the reprimand, he be dismissed from custody." 
 
 The reprimand was a solemn one, delivered by 
 Governor Haynes ; but, we fear, had little other 
 effect than to excite still farther the irritation of 
 our young hero. He was about leaving the Court 
 without expressing it, when the case of the Indian 
 prisoners was called, and he was ordered to stay as a 
 witness. 
 
 As arrangements were making for the bringing in 
 of the criminals, Mr. Culick whispered to Edward, 
 " Very well, my young pupil, for a first effort. But 
 remember, in your pleas, never to adduce arguments 
 that will contradict each other. One reason, strongly 
 dwelt upon, will have more effect than several inde 
 pendent arguments, where one must of necessity tram 
 ple down the others." 
 
OE, TWO CENTURIES AGO. i51 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " Barnardine. I will not consent to die, this day, that s certain. 
 Duke. O, Sir, you must : and therefore I beseech you, 
 
 Look forward on the journey you shall go. 
 
 Barnard. I swear, I will not die to-day for any man s persuasion." 
 
 ShaJsspeare. 
 
 SAMOSET and the young Mohawk were then intro 
 duced by the jailer, an interpreter sworn, and their 
 indictment read. As the trial proceeded, Henry s 
 testimony was delivered fully and clearly as to the 
 deception practised upon him by Samoset, and the 
 stratagems employed to obtain possession of himself 
 and Jane. He swore distinctly to Samoset s agency 
 in bringing about the interview, and the reason he 
 had to desire it. As he loudly and promptly repeated 
 his love for Jane Seymour, as the excuse or reason 
 for soliciting the interview, he looked at his father, 
 
152 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 any one acquainted with their disagreement on that 
 topic, would have said, with an air of defiance. But 
 the Colonel preserved the same imperturbable ex 
 pression of countenance, like a second Brutus. When 
 Henry arrived at the conversation he had held with 
 Jane, he hesitated, and finally said he had been un 
 successful in his suit. 
 
 Samoset knew only enough of English to follow 
 him a little, but the interpreter rendered the sub 
 stance to him in his own language. When Henry 
 mentioned his rejection, Samoset turned, with his 
 glistening eye, upon Henry, and uttered, with a sarcas 
 tic sneer, in English, " Good good ! " Henry shook 
 his fist at the prisoner with ungoverned rage, but 
 Samoset had assumed his usual stolidity of aspect. 
 
 The facts against him were abundantly proved by 
 Sergeant Wadsworth, Corporal Webster, and one or 
 two of the privates. Against the Mohawk, the fact 
 of his connection with the marauding band and with 
 the abduction of both Dudley and Jane, was abun 
 dantly proved. Corporal Webster swore to his cap 
 ture and his resistance. 
 
 When Samoset was asked for his defence, he 
 flung oif at once the sneaking, wily, deceptive charac 
 ter he had hitherto sustained, and replied boldly in 
 his native language : " Have I aught to say in my 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 153 
 
 defence ? Yes, Judge of the Pale Faces. I have 
 but acted up to the nature of my race. The Young 
 Eagle had insulted me and my nation, by making 
 me his slave to fetch and carry his messages. I 
 chose to let him see I was his dog no longer. The 
 bright-eyed Fawn of the Pale Faces had been 
 rescued by this arm from death ; by the laws of our 
 tribes, she was my wife, and I but seized my own. 
 Your whole race have been the enemies of me and 
 of my kin. You have wrested from us, by what you 
 choose to call a purchase, the very homes of our tribes 
 and the burial-places of our fathers. Think you not 
 that we shall avenge whenever in our power ? You 
 have driven us from our hunting-grounds ; the game 
 is no longer in plenty around us, and we are con 
 strained to travel far towards the setting sun to reach 
 enough to save us from starvation. You have driven 
 us from our fishing-grounds, and we are now restricted 
 to the little streams near yonder mountains. You 
 have driven us from our corn-grounds, and they now 
 smile in their ripeness under your culture. The Red 
 Man has a body that requires to be fed, he cannot 
 live upon air, he feels thesp deprivations, and he re 
 sents them. The Red Man has a soul; an insult 
 stings him as deeply and rankles as sorely as it does 
 
 in the Pale Face s spirit. Will he not revenge? 
 7* 
 
154 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES 
 
 The Red Man has a heart ; he can feel the beauty of 
 the Fawn of the Pale Faces as well as the white 
 stripling. He protected her from the bear, the 
 young Pale Face could not from the Red Men. Has 
 he not a right to what he has conquered ? Such is 
 my defence, Sachem of the Pale Faces. Torture me 
 as you will, a Red Man can endure it." 
 
 Upon this speech being interpreted, though 
 most of his hearers knew enough of the dialect of the 
 neighboring tribes to follow the oratory of the Indian, 
 Governor Haynes rose, and turning calmly to 
 Samoset, said : " All that you have uttered furnishes 
 no excuse for the violence of which you have been 
 guilty. This is not the place to enter into a contro 
 versy respecting the rights of purchase under which 
 we hold that property which once was yours. Allow 
 ing that every one of your reasons has a foundation 
 in truth, they apply not to you as an individual to 
 cover your individual wrong actions. They apply 
 only to your nation. Neither do the laws of civilized 
 man, nor any laws that we recognize, allow such deep 
 revenge for fancied insults, or admit such a futile 
 claim to the woman you may have rescued. 
 
 " Interpreter, ask the other criminal whether he 
 has any thing to offer in his defence." 
 
 It was in vain that the interpreter spoke to him 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 155 
 
 in the Tunxis language. He stood in the box, with 
 eyes seemingly fixed on the distance, as if the scenes 
 and deeds, and words, passing around him, were but 
 the idle wind. Samoset was ordered to address him 
 in his own tongue, to whom the Mohawk replied in a 
 low, quick tone, as if unwilling that his intense medi 
 tations should be disturbed. Samoset, directing his 
 looks at the Court, said, " The young Mohawk de 
 clares that through his carelessness as sentinel, in his 
 first war-path, this evil has come upon his father and 
 brothers, and the braves of his tribe. He asks no 
 favor, but will show the Pale Faces how a Mohawk 
 can endure the torture and triumph at the stake." 
 
 After some short consultation, the decision of the 
 Court was, that the two Indians, Samoset and the 
 unknown Mohawk, should remain in close confinement 
 until the sailing of the next vessel to the "West In 
 dies, which would be in a few days, when they were 
 to be consigned to the captain to be sold as slaves, as 
 a punishment for the crimes which they had com 
 mitted. 
 
156 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 "He who 
 
 Once hates, may smile, may flatter, may assist, 
 But ne er forgives. He smiles to lure the wretch 
 More surely to the net, and favors given 
 Are but the fattening that the cannibal 
 
 His victim gives." 
 
 Revenge : a Drama. 
 
 THE morning after the trial, the town was agitated 
 by the rumor that the Indian prisoners had escaped 
 from the jail during the night before a foggy and 
 dark night. It seemed evident that they had received 
 assistance from some lurking Indian without, for the 
 tracks of three pairs of moccasons were traced to the 
 ford of the Little River in the rear of the prison, on 
 the next morning. The bars of the windows had 
 been pushed from their fastenings, and a leap of 
 some fifteen feet had been taken from the window. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 157 
 
 Governor Haynes collected his council, who or 
 dered Webster and six others to follow the trail, 
 while they summoned the jailor and his assistant, 
 fined them two pounds apiece, and dismissed them 
 from their employments. 
 
 Webster returned by noon, without having been 
 able to discover the trail, beyond the Little River. 
 Some excitement prevailed at this escape, and more 
 was experienced when intelligence was received in the 
 afternoon, that two cows had been killed with arrows, 
 in the Cow Pasture, and some of their flesh carried 
 off, and that Robert Deming had been shot at, as he 
 was returning from beyond the Ox Pasture. 
 
 The fear of an Indian attack was much increased 
 in the evening early, by the burning of John Bar 
 nard s barn, beyond what is now Cooper Lane. Gov 
 ernor Haynes s measures were prompt. He made a 
 speech to the people, in which he told them that pro 
 bably three or four men constituted the whole number 
 of their foes. He sent a guard to Barnard s, sum 
 moned the men-at-arms, and doubled the town senti 
 nels . 
 
 Meanwhile, the attacks of the few concealed In 
 dians seemed now to concentrate on Capt. Seymour s 
 premises. A burning arrow was shot on the roof of 
 one of the barns, but was extinguished. 
 
158 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 While Jane stood at an open garret window, 
 watching the distant blaze of Barnard s barn, an ar 
 row struck near her on the window-frame. She closed 
 the sash, and carried the weapon to her uncle, who 
 fairly boiled with rage at the insult. 
 
 " This is Samoset s," said Jim Cook, one of the 
 Captain s hired men ; " I saw him last week, making 
 just such an arrow, and he took our turkey s feathers, 
 that we had just killed." 
 
 As a security, the Captain ordered lights into 
 every room, to show the Indians that the family were 
 aroused, and set guards of his men and maids in 
 various parts of his premises, with orders to fire at 
 once upon any intruders. At the same time, he de 
 spatched a messenger to the Magistrates, with a re 
 quest for assistance. The old soldier knew enough 
 of border warfare to be prepared at every point for a 
 savage attack, but failed in that essential requisite in 
 all night skirmishes coolness. He was a warrior of 
 the old chivalrous stamp, ready to give and take 
 blows in open encounter, in daylight, and to be among 
 the foremost in a desperate assault. But night work 
 and savage fighting were too sneaking, as he called it, 
 to be submitted to with patience, and he fumed and 
 fretted around his inclosures, now in one spot and 
 now in another, not in the most amiable frame of 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 159 
 
 mind, waiting for the attack that did not seem ready 
 to come as he called for it. 
 
 He made himself hoarse at once by calling out : 
 " Come on, you copper-colored villains ; show your 
 selves in fair, open fight : no dodging behind the 
 trees in the dark. Come on, the old man is ready for 
 you." 
 
 But he fumed still more when his messenger re 
 turned from the settlement, and brought word that 
 the Magistrates had no reinforcements to spare, but 
 urged him to seek the shelter of the block-house with 
 his family. 
 
 The old Captain went raving mad. He cursed 
 the souls and bodies of all the dastardly Roundheads 
 that governed Hartford. He swore that he never 
 would sneak into the block-house, but defend himself 
 as he might on his own premises, and be burnt with 
 all his buildings and goods, if the Indians so chose. 
 
 " Did nobody say any thing in help of the old 
 Cavalier ? Did none of the rascally, snivelling, 
 psalm-singing, hypocrites offer to assist an old man 
 in his extreme trouble ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the messenger, " Edward and 
 Henry Dudley both offered to accompany me, but 
 the Colonel, who was with the Magistrates, would not 
 allow it." 
 
160 
 
 "By ," said the irritated Seymour, "I ll pay 
 
 the old Roundhead to-morrow, if God and these 
 cursed Indians spare my life. I ll go to the council 
 and shame him before them all. I will so help me 
 Satan ! But stir, stir, all of you. There is another 
 fiery arrow darting through the sky, down near the 
 sheep barn. Thank G-od, the fog is up and heavy, 
 and the shingles are new. But run run." 
 
 No evil was experienced from the arrow, for it 
 was extinguished before it reached the roof. 
 
 " I saw," said Cook, running in breathlessly, 
 " where the rascals stood that fired that arrow. I 
 can mark them, if they fire again, by creeping through 
 the tall corn of the garden and corn-field down to the 
 white oak in the corner, near the pond." 
 
 " Run run, then, Jim, and pick them off." 
 
 " Don t expose yourself, James," said Jane, " un 
 necessarily ; we cannot spare one of our defenders." 
 
 " Go in the house, wench ; what do you know of 
 war ? Soldiers must expose themselves. Go into the 
 house, and keep out of harm s way." 
 
 As he spoke, an arrow, shot up in a circle, de 
 scended and struck on her shoulder. She pulled it 
 out, and stanched the blood with her handkerchief. 
 " What, wounded ? I told you so. Go into the 
 house, and some one will see to it." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 161 
 
 The report of fire-arms now came booming through 
 the fields. " There goes Jim Cook s matchlock. 
 He had a good rest behind the white oak, and has 
 done something, I hope, with one of the tawny-skinned 
 rascals." 
 
 " I hope," said another of the hired men, " that 
 Jim -remembers the rule in savage fights, not to re 
 main behind the tree he shot from long, but to rush 
 to another. Ah ! here he comes ! " 
 
 " I saw the rascal step out of the bushes into the 
 cleared ground, to direct his arrow at the house, and 
 took long aim, but my rest slipped. He stood still, 
 however, to watch the effect of his arrow, as he heard 
 Miss Jane scream. I had then an opportunity to fix 
 the rest again, and took good aim with the match 
 lock. I knew I hit him, for he jumped up several 
 feet in the air, and fell on the dark ground. I could 
 not see him stir afterward, but I thought he could as 
 well lie there till to-morrow, for I did not know how 
 many more there might have been concealed." 
 
 So passed the night, in agitation and alarm. 
 Jane s wound was not dangerous, but kept the fe 
 males of the family busy. No further attempt was 
 made on Seymour s premises, though strict watch was 
 kept up during the night. 
 
162 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 "Who will believe tbee, Isabel? 
 My unsoil d name, the austereness of my life, 
 My vouch against you, and my place i the state, 
 Will so your accusation ovenveigh, 
 That you shall stifle in your own report, 
 And smell of calumny." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 ON the next morning, an early investigation ascer 
 tained that the Indian killed by Cook the night 
 before was the young Mohawk who had escaped from 
 prison, and it was at once concluded that all the mis 
 chief and alarm, attempted or perpetrated, the night 
 before, had been accomplished by him and Samoset. 
 
 The Magistrates were called to an early session 
 to examine into the various transactions of the previ 
 ous night. The death of the Mohawk being reported, 
 a coroner s jury was empanelled, as a mere matter of 
 form, before his burial. Of course, Capt. Seymour, 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 163 
 
 his servants and family, were summoned to testify. 
 The Captain, irritated by the .refusal of assistance 
 during the past dangers, was very ready to attend, 
 declaring that he would give the Magistrates and Col 
 onel Dudley a piece of his mind. 
 
 " He was determined," he said, " to be revenged 
 on the old Puritan Roundhead for all the evil he had 
 done to him." 
 
 He, therefore, ordered his whole household to at 
 tend, heavily armed ; and even his niece, though fee 
 ble from her wound, was compelled to be present. 
 The old man was in a feverish state of anxiety all the 
 morning, as if he meditated something to which he 
 could hardly reconcile his conscience or his feelings. 
 
 The Magistrates Court opened early, and, after 
 hearing the report of the sentinels and scouts, and all 
 the evidence that could be collected respecting the 
 burning of John Barnard s barn, the coroner s in 
 quest was called. 
 
 In the mean time, Seymour had sat, lowering 
 through his shaggy eyebrows on the whole body, but 
 more especially on Col. Dudley. When his eyes 
 rested on him, it seemed as if the most intense 
 hatred lighted up their orbs, but the same uneasiness 
 of expression mingled with the hatred. 
 
 Jane had taken her seat in the corner of the 
 
164 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 court-room, pale from the effects of her wound, her 
 left arm in a sling, and her face sometimes flushed 
 with the novelty of the situation, and, at others, wan 
 from the loss of blood. Henry Dudley was at her 
 side in a moment, regardless of the gaze of the multi 
 tude, the frowns of his father, or the low muttering 
 of Capt. Seymour, " You ll wish yourself somewhere 
 else, soon." 
 
 Edward Dudley was among the lawyers on their 
 usual seats, but regarding the whole scene with an 
 interest that would betray itself in spite of his usu 
 ally well-governed feelings and well-regulated coun 
 tenance. 
 
 The examination of the family of Capt. Seymour 
 was full as to all the events of the previous night, as 
 the Magistrates wished not only to satisfy the requi 
 sitions of the law respecting the death of the Indian, 
 but to obtain information concerning the whole trans 
 actions of the night, and ascertain how general an 
 Indian insurrection was to be apprehended. 
 
 Capt. Seymour dwelt with considerable length and 
 some exaggeration on the danger of his family, and 
 the " dastardly cowardice and partiality," as he 
 termed it, of the Magistrates, in not sending him as 
 sistance. To these allusions, Governor Hayncs 
 gave no apparent attention. He was very much 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 165 
 
 in the habit of investigating but one particular at a 
 time. 
 
 Jane s testimony was simple and to the point, of 
 her wound s being caused by an arrow shot from the 
 very spot where the Mohawk was killed. There was 
 a murmur of approbation in the crowded court-room 
 at the exceeding fascination of her beauty, as she 
 modestly but clearly told her story. Even the older 
 men among the Magistrates were softened at her ap 
 pearance, and listened with deference all but Col. 
 Dudley, who shut his eyes as she was called, and 
 never opened them until her testimony was ended. 
 
 This being finished, Governor Haynes very briefly 
 directed the foreman of the Jury what verdict to 
 render, and ordered the proper oflicers to see to the 
 burial of the body. He then turned to Capt. Sey 
 mour : " The subject of law being settled, the Ma 
 gistrates are now ready to answer and reprove such 
 complaints as may be made against their decisions. 
 They stand ready, Captain Richard Seymour, to in 
 flict a fine upon you, for an open contempt of their 
 decisions, but take into consideration the peculiar ex 
 citement under which you labor. The erection of 
 your house at such a distance from the settlement 
 has always been disapproved of by the General Court. 
 It has placed you out of the reach of the spiritual 
 
166 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 privileges every true well-wisher of the colony values. 
 It has cut you off from those legal and necessary re 
 straints and duties of watch and ward, to which we 
 are all subject. This being the case, we have thought 
 it best to leave you to your own resources of defence, 
 and, as you had not cast in your lot among us, not to 
 protect you in return. It was therefore resolved, 
 last night, on motion of our beloved brother, Colonel 
 Dudley, not to send such reinforcements as you de 
 manded, especially as they were believed to be more 
 needed in another quarter." 
 
 " And so, unless I will unite in the farce of what 
 you call divine worship, and become as sneaking and 
 vile dissenters as ye are, I and mine are to be left to 
 the tender mercies of the savage? Is this your 
 boasted piety ? I claimed the protection of the law 
 you boast of, and am told I cannot have it, unless I 
 cant, and whine, and sing psalms, like you ! So it 
 was our beloved brother, Colonel Thomas Dudley, 
 that left me to the attacks of the savages ? I ll un 
 mask you, you hypocrite ! I ll tell a tale that shall 
 make your blood forsake your cheeks more than it 
 does now. Listen, ye holy and pure men, as ye think 
 yourselves, and. know what a hollow-hearted and 
 worthless wretch ye have fostered among you." 
 
 Here several of the Magistrates arose to interrupt 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 167 
 
 him. " Let him alone," said Col. Dudley, calmly, 
 though very pale ; " if it must eome, it may be as well 
 now as at any time." 
 
 " Listen ! " bellowed out the enraged and excited 
 old man, fairly frothing at the mouth in his fury. 
 " Ye guardians of the public morality, and planters 
 of the only pure and true faith in the wilderness, as 
 ye call yourselves, your hero and saint, who sits among 
 you as a beloved brother, was a rake and a de 
 bauchee before he left his native England, and yon 
 affrighted girl, that sits trembling in the corner, is 
 the offspring of his illicit love. I have told you this 
 before, Thomas Dudley, and you know that she, who 
 is called in the world by the name of Jane Seymour, 
 is the daughter of Alice Lee, whom you betrayed in 
 the bloom of her youth. Do ye hear it, ye canting 
 hypocrites ?" 
 
 Oh, how different was the aspect of the two men ! 
 They were both pale, but Seymour s eyes were blaz 
 ing in the light of gratified hatred and consummated 
 revenge, while Dudley s fixed gaze seemed to express 
 sorrow and shame more than anger. He did not 
 turn his eyes towards his sons, nor notice the confu 
 sion in the corner where Jane sat. He was standing, 
 and essayed to speak, though evidently almost chok 
 ing under the attempt. 
 
168 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 " I warned you of this," broke in Capt. Seymour, 
 with increased violence, " when you insulted me be 
 fore the General Court, last year. I warned you of 
 this when I privately showed you the proofs of this 
 secret, and made you acknowledge my pretended niece 
 was the perfect image of Alice Lee. I told you, 
 then, that the next insult would meet with public dis 
 grace, and you have it now, you canting, sneaking hy 
 pocrite ! And yet you went on, and allowed your 
 son to play the lover to his own sister, and to court 
 her affections ; and you did not dare, coward as you 
 are, to confess to him what a bed of coals he was 
 kindling for his own affections. But now the secret 
 is out, I shall not even give up the long-neglected 
 daughter. She shall be my niece still, and inherit 
 my property. I swore to Alice Lee that I would 
 protect her child, as long as the blood flowed in my 
 veins. That oath I shall keep. I have left misery 
 enough in your family to satisfy my revenge. It 
 shall never be visited on her head, but I thank God, 
 none of your breed can now marry her." 
 
 Col. Dudley again calmly waved his hand to speak, 
 when Governor Haynes interfered : " Permit me, 
 Brother Dudley ; this matter belongs to the church 
 and to us. Bold, bad man," said he, turning to Sey 
 mour, " do you take your oath that this tale is true ?" 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 169 
 
 " So help me God," said the Captain, trembling 
 with rage, " if this damsel, called Jane Seymour, is 
 not the daughter of Alice Lee ! " 
 
 " Enough," responded the Governor. " Brethren 
 of the Church of Hartford, and Magistrates of the 
 colony of Connecticut, hear ye. This story is no new 
 one to us, and to the pastor and committee of our 
 church. When Col. Dudley presented himself to 
 unite with this church, he told us how, in the dissipa 
 tions and excesses of youth, Satan lured him astray, 
 and that, as he g jposed, there existed a proof of the 
 great sin lier days. He related to us the 
 
 circumsta e intimate connection with Alice 
 
 Lee, his s -" ; <ent separation from her, and ardent 
 but unsuccessful endeavors to trace her out, until he 
 had, as he supposed, abundant proof of her death. 
 Not until long after this, did he unite himself to 
 Anne Stanley, his present worthy lady. Nor did he 
 form that union without relating to her every circum 
 stance of his early, unfortunate, but apparently guilty 
 attachment. Being convinced of his deep penitence 
 of this and of his other faults, and of his trust that 
 his guilt had been washed out in the blood of the 
 Saviour, we admitted him to regular standing in the 
 church. The expected disgrace of this assault, there 
 fore, falls to the ground, and the malice of that wick- 
 8 
 
170 THE FAWN OF THE TALE FACES , 
 
 ed man fails of its aim, except as it crushes the affec 
 tions and harrows up the feelings of the young." 
 
 " I have but to add," said Deacon Nichols, " that 
 the church did not think this youthful crime of Bro 
 ther Dudley required any public atonement, in a set 
 tlement so distant and a period so remote from the 
 event. It was therefore resolved to keep it within 
 the breast of the church committee. If it has in 
 jured the happiness of the young, I shall grieve that 
 such a decision was formed." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 171 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 "Sins of my youth! 
 
 That stand, in troops, about my memory, 
 And hover blackly o er my path of life, 
 Haunt me not thus ! Are ye not wash d away 
 In the Redeemer s blood ? Has not true faith 
 And penitence the mighty balance struck ? 
 Hence ! Let me die in hope 1 " 
 
 The Convict : a Tragedy. 
 
 " THE "brethren," said Col. Dudley, " will allow me 
 to state a few circumstances connected with this long- 
 repented crime if crime it be. When my heart was 
 young, and my affections warm, I came across the 
 beautiful Alice Lee, at the house of a distant relative. 
 I need not describe to you how beautiful her very 
 image has stood before you this day, and excited your 
 murmuring approbation. She was ignorant of the 
 world artless and confiding. A violent attachment 
 
172 THE FAW^T OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 arose between us. I wonder now at the strength and 
 unreasonableness of that attachment, as I look back 
 upon it. It was idolatry the creature was really 
 worshipped. Our attachment was kept secret, of ne 
 cessity for she was dowerless, and my father, in the 
 haughtiness of his nobility, would have disdained to 
 sanction a union between his son and the portionless 
 Alice Lee. Whether he had any suspicion of our 
 love, I knew not, but he ordered my instant return 
 to his castle, with a determination to send me imme 
 diately to the continent. We had one more night 
 before we parted our last interview on earth. None 
 but those who have loved madly can tell the agony 
 of that meeting and that parting. I obtained from 
 Alice the promise of an immediate private marriage, 
 which was at once accomplished by the aid of a priest 
 in the immediate neighbourhood, without the regular 
 license, without witnesses or certificate. We did not 
 separate until the carriage which my father had sent 
 for me came to the door. 
 
 " There was no deliberate, guilty seduction, as 
 that bad man would intimate. Alice was trusting as 
 a child, and believed that a legal marriage had taken 
 place ; and such was my belief, until I subsequently 
 ascertained that the marriage, in the eye of the law, 
 was null, on the ground of the absence of witnesses, 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 173 
 
 the want of a license, and of the consent of friends, 
 we both being under age. I did not know, until after 
 wards, that even the priest who married us had been 
 suspended by the Bishop for irregularities, and had no 
 power of performing the marriage ceremony. That 
 man has asserted before now that I knew he was 
 under suspension. As true as there is a God in 
 heaven, brethren, I knew it not ; and, under the ig 
 norance and impulsiveness of reckless youth, I did 
 not stop to inquire how much or how little earthly 
 form was necessary to legalize a marriage. I only 
 knew that we had taken each other as husband and 
 wife in the sight of God, and supposed we had com 
 plied with the laws of man. The wrong which I did 
 was not what the malice of my enemy asserts, but it 
 consisted in connecting my destinies with hers, when 
 I had no control over them myself. 
 
 I went abroad, and staid there years, until the 
 death of my father. On my return, I made every 
 inquiry for Alice Lee, intending, at once, to repair 
 the involuntary wrong I had done her. I could dis 
 cover nothing of her. The friends, with whom she 
 had been staying when I knew her, had died or were 
 gone none knew whither. During this search it was 
 that I became acquainted with Richard Seymour, 
 who declared to me that Alice Lee had been dead 
 
174 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 several years. I grieved over this result of my 
 youthful and reckless passion, but soon found com 
 fort in the society of Anne Stanley, and in the grow 
 ing love of liberty and hatred of oppression. My 
 history, since I came to this land, to enjoy this liber 
 ty, you all know." 
 
 As his father finished, Edward raised his head 
 from his arms, where it had been placed at the very 
 commencement of this scene, and looked with swim 
 ming eyes towards his parent, as if confidence in his 
 integrity had not been shaken. 
 
 Capt. Seymour sat, discomfited and uneasy, look 
 ing furtively at Jane, but never casting his eyes to 
 wards his opponent, whose sincere tone and manly 
 confession brought conviction even to his heart. He 
 had shot his shaft, and the arrow had fallen harmless 
 from the breast of him against whom it was aimed ; 
 but, alas, how deeply had it wounded three young 
 hearts, one of which was the only being he really 
 loved ! 
 
 It would be difficult to describe the effect which 
 Capt. Seymour s communication had upon some of 
 those most interested in it. At his commencing de 
 nunciation, Jane looked up in broad amazement, fear 
 ing lest the exciting scenes of the last night had so 
 acted upon the irritable mind of her uncle, as to have 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 175 
 
 deranged his faculties. As the truth dawned on her 
 mind, she covered her face with her hands, but lis 
 tened still intensely to the conversation. 
 
 When such a sudden, unlooked-for, unexpected 
 event occurs to us, where there is nothing on our part 
 but a passive attention to it, the first effect is stun 
 ning. It does not produce tears or fainting, or even 
 much external manifestation- of sensibility or excite 
 ment. It is as if the senses of the soul had been 
 numbed by the blow. Such were Jane s feelings, as 
 she thought of herself. She was roused from this 
 partial stupor, and obliged to uncover her face, on 
 hearing the stifled gasp which Henry gave, who stood 
 by her side as the communication was made. He 
 fell, like one shot down, at her feet, and seemed be 
 reft of sensation. He struggled for breath, but 
 waived off all assistance that others attempted to 
 bring. 
 
 " Henry," said the maiden, very low, " compose 
 yourself. I rejoice that you are my brother. I can 
 now bestow on you the affection and friendship of a 
 sister, which your former feelings have prevented me 
 from exhibiting." 
 
 Foolish maiden ! to suppose that when the very 
 heart-strings were cracking, that the offer of your 
 calm friendship could be any solace. The insatiate 
 
176 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES 
 
 demands of Love can never be fed by the cold 
 baked meats of a sisterly friendship ! 
 
 For once, the impetuosity of his temper, and the 
 pride of his character, were of service to him. The 
 blood went back to his heart oh, how much colder 
 than when it rushed forth ! He arose and left the 
 court-room to seek in solitude the indulgence of the 
 feelings that gushed in lava floods of hot, boiling, 
 seething passions over his soul. 
 
 " Would that I could have calmed him by a sis 
 ter s love," thought Jane, but at the thought there 
 came the suffocating gush of reflection : " Edward, 
 too, is my brother. Can I feel towards him a sis 
 ter s love ? " 
 
 The icy hand of despair was laid on her heart 
 likewise the hum of the voices in the court-room 
 sounded more and more confused the objects swam 
 before her eyes, and soon, in senseless forgetfulness, 
 she lost all consciousness of the present, nor did she 
 awake to that knowledge again until she found her 
 self upon her own bed, with the anxious faces of the 
 attendants around her. At first, she gazed around 
 in astonishment. " Where am I ? What have I 
 done ? What has happened ? " 
 
 Slowly the tide of recollection rolled back its bit- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 177 
 
 ter waves over her mind, and she turned upon her 
 pillow and wept. 
 
 Edward started convulsively, as Jane* fainted and 
 was borne from the court-room. He seized his hat to 
 accompany her, but checked, in an instant, all exter 
 nal indications of emotion, and was proceeding calm 
 ly, though with a pale countenance, to her assistance, 
 when Capt. Seymour rudely seized him by the arm : 
 " No, no, young Puritan, you do not go near her. I 
 claim a right over that girl, obtained by the support 
 of her infancy and childhood. Your own canting 
 laws give me that power, and no son of Thomas Dud 
 ley shall ever make love to his own sister. Back 
 with you." 
 
 Edward glanced at his father, and saw the same 
 feeling in his eye, and quietly returned to his seat 
 and his duties. What he felt, no one knew. It was 
 sufficient always for him to know what he felt him 
 self. He never displayed his emotions, and always 
 despised himself when accident or sudden excitement 
 had drawn them forth. " People may call me cold," 
 he often said to his mother, " I know what hidden 
 fire there is in my own heart. It is enough to light 
 my path of life, what need for others to know its 
 strength or its weakness." 
 
178 THE FAWN OF THE TALE FACES 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " God may forgive, but cannot blot them out. 
 Systems begin and end. Eternity 
 Eolls on his endless years, and men, absolved, 
 By mercy, from the consequence, forget 
 The evil deed, and God imputes it not; 
 But neither systems, ending nor begun, 
 Eternity that rolls his endless years, 
 Nor men absolved, and sanctified, and wash d 
 By mercy from the consequence, nor yet 
 Forgetfulness, nor God imputing not, 
 Can wash the guilty deed, once done, from out 
 The faithful annals of the past." 
 
 Pollok. 
 
 WHEN Col. Dudley returned to his house that noon, 
 he walked with a sadder step. The blow he had 
 been long anticipating had fallen, and had scathed 
 others with its withering stroke. His wife was alone. 
 She saw the unwonted trouble on his brow, and was 
 alarmed. 
 
179 
 
 " Husband, what ailetli thee 1 " 
 
 " Anne, the bolt, long threatened, has been shot. 
 Seymour has made his denunciation." 
 
 " Dear husband," said the loving wife, folding her 
 arms around him, " you must have had a day of se 
 vere trials. But," added she, looking up lovingly 
 into his stern, sad face, " you have held fast to your 
 integrity ?" 
 
 " Yes, Anne, God supported me ; and I related 
 every event as it occurred. How have I appreciated 
 this day the judgment and the kindness of your ad 
 vice, sweet wife, to relate to the church .or its officers 
 when I united with it these sad events of my early 
 life ; I then thought the church had no business with 
 the past, on the profession of repentance. How sound 
 was your advice, then, dear Anne ; to-day, I have 
 reaped its benefit." 
 
 " Rather say, dear husband, that you owe it to 
 the dictates of your own integrity in informing me of 
 all the facts, even before I had decided to love you, 
 in order that the knowledge of the past might not 
 afterwards put me to shame. It was that very in 
 tegrity of heart that made me cleave to you for time 
 and eternity ; would that I could put that aching 
 head upon my bosom, and lull you to sleep and for- 
 getfulness." 
 
180 
 
 Edward then entered for dinner; and the wife 
 sank back to her submissive look, and the husband 
 banished from his countenance the tenderness and the 
 confidence of love ; and was once more the stern, 
 cold, sad Puritan, rendered still more wintry by the 
 events of the morning. 
 
 The afternoon of that day was the weekly lecture, 
 which all felt under as much obligation to attend as 
 to be present at the exercises of the Sabbath. Here 
 was Mr. Hooker s peculiar province. The Sabbath 
 he devoted exclusively to spiritual instruction. But 
 he made his week-day lecture the opportunity of re 
 proving his people for faults or follies other than 
 those connected with religious discipline. It was 
 here that he attacked any political principles broached 
 in the Council, where he could not enter his protest 
 He was a sound Republican, and a sturdy Independ 
 ent in religion , but, at times, a little too much dis 
 posed to dictate on both temporal and spiritual mat 
 ters. These lectures were always interesting from 
 their containing allusions to the current events of the 
 day. 
 
 Mr. Hooker, in his prayer, alluded to the events 
 of the night. He prayed for Barnard by name, that 
 the loss of his barn might be sanctified to his use, in 
 preserving him from too great an attachment to thi? 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO, 181 
 
 world s goods, a fault that poor Barnard was too 
 prone to indulge in ; and that it might be blessed to 
 the whole public, by rousing up their charities and 
 sympathies, until they all joined to erect a new barn 
 for the sufferer. He alluded to the alarms produced 
 by the Indian attacks, and prayed that the whole 
 congregation might realize how Satan, in spiritual 
 matters, was roaming round their souls in the same 
 dark way for their injury. 
 
 The text of his sermon was from Numbers xxxii. 
 23, " Be sure your sin will find you out." The doc 
 trine that he deduced from it was the certainty of the 
 Divine punishment for sin. He argued, " that pun 
 ishment under the administration of God was two 
 fold : the satisfaction of justice, as it may be called, 
 that is, the rendering of so much pain for so much 
 guilt ; and, secondly, the naturally constituted conse 
 quences of the act itself. Of the first kind of pun 
 ishment, we may say, that God has determined that 
 repentance and faith in the Saviour can release man 
 kind from it. Of the second, that God has deter 
 mined that nothing shall exempt the sinner from its 
 effects." 
 
 The application was evident to all. Indeed, 
 though he mentioned no names, he spoke often of 
 " our beloved brother," and of the trials he now en- 
 
182 THE FAWN OF THE TALE FACES J 
 
 durea as the consequential punishment for his sin. 
 " Be careful then, young men," he continued, " how 
 you allow unbridled passions to obtain dominion over 
 your souls. They govern with a tyrant s grasp ; they 
 leave a scar which all the blood of a Saviour cannot 
 obliterate. God may pardon sin through Jesus 
 Christ, but he never erases the record, Sedet, eter- 
 numque sedebit. On the great ledger of heaven it 
 stands for ever in its flaming characters. There may 
 be, it is true, a balance struck on the opposite page 
 written in the blood of Christ, but the sin, once com 
 mitted, retains its hue for ever. Tears cannot blot 
 out or wash away the records of Heaven. Penitence 
 cannot erase from the great system of God s govern 
 ment the consequences of the one wrong act. Re 
 pentance and faith in Jesus Christ, though they may 
 remit the penalty of the broken law, cannot alter the 
 motion of a single wheel in the mighty chariot of 
 God s Providence, as it rolls its endless cycle through 
 the universe. The consequences of guilt are as irre 
 versible as the decrees of God ; they stand as un 
 shaken as the foundations of the battlements of Hea 
 ven 5 they will last until eternity sighs out its dura 
 tion. Give heed, then, young men, to the warning 
 voice, and walk the safe, straight path of integrity 
 and holiness. Give heed, then, young women, and 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 183 
 
 avoid the least breath which pollution may breathe 
 upon your purity ; when lost, it can never be re 
 gained. It glitters in the early spring-time of life 
 like the morning dew in the tender flowers, and, like 
 that, too soon to vanish from the heart for ever. If, 
 dew-like, it is exhaled by the heat of passion, or 
 evaporated by this world s sun, it never recondenses 
 on the heart. Virtue may follow vice, the heart 
 may be brought back to honesty and truth, principle 
 and religion may resume their reign, but purity 
 once lost is never recovered. The tear of repentance 
 may wash and soften the stony heart, but it brings not 
 again that early perfume which innocence and delicacy 
 spread over the soul. 
 
 " Of the wrong done by this early submission to 
 the recklessness of the passion of the moment, our 
 brother repented long since ; and if a life of rigid 
 self-denial, of eminent holiness, of a constant and 
 ardent devotion to the cause of Christ, is any evi 
 dence, then we may feel that he has been pardoned 
 for the sins of his youth ; but their consequences, 
 under the punitive justice of God, are not obliterated. 
 Here they stand out in all their horrible freshness ; 
 here, even in this distant country, and at this distant 
 period, as if it were the very sunset of the day on 
 which they were enacted, blasting the affections of 
 
184 
 
 the young like the simoom of the desert, mildewing 
 the peace and happiness of the aged like a pestilential 
 vapor. Be warned then, my hearers, against the in 
 dulgence of wrong, for be sure that your sin will find 
 you out." 
 
 Henry had not been seen all day. For his ab 
 sence his father made no inquiries, and uttered no 
 reproaches. Late in the evening he came home, hag 
 gard, worn out, with the settled paleness of deep de 
 spair painted on every feature. He went at once to 
 the room which he and his brother occupied, and 
 found Edward sitting up for him, appearing nearly as 
 much distressed as he. 
 
 " Do not say a word to me, Edward ; do not at 
 tempt to comfort me. There is no word that can 
 alleviate the pain of this blow; no consolation that 
 can assuage its agony, for, Edward, Edward, there 
 is no hope ! If she were false, or even married to 
 another, there would still be some lingering ray of 
 future hope left in the mind ; but there can be none 
 here. It is madness even to think of it. Oh, how I 
 have cursed my existence this day ! cursed her, and 
 my father, and every one." 
 
 " May God forgive you, my suffering child," said 
 his mother, who had silently entered the room ; " and 
 may he give you strength to sustain this fearful fate. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 185 
 
 "We have warned you of this, as soon as it was known 
 to us. We hoped it would not be necessary to say 
 more. Be calm, my dear boy, and submit to this 
 chastisement." 
 
 She lavished upon him those caresses which she 
 thought necessary to wean him from his suffering, 
 and to show him there was still affection in the world 
 left for him, little thinking in her partiality that there 
 was another present on whom such caresses had never 
 been lavished, and who would have given worlds for 
 these very manifestations of a mother s love, which 
 Henry, in his despair, rather pushed from him. 
 
 " Was he not suffering too ?" he thought ; " did 
 I not love her likewise with as strong a flame ? But 
 she knows it not, and, thank G-od, no one does. I 
 would not have been my brother s rival, even if my 
 love ate out my very heart." 
 
 " Good night, beloved Henry. Good night, son 
 Edward ; comfort your brother. Your calm, equable 
 mind, can be of some service to him now." 
 
 Did either of those brothers sleep that night ? 
 
 " Where have you been to-day, Corporal Bull ? " 
 "On duty, up to Centinel Hill. I meant to 
 have gone with you to the court-room, as I told you 
 I would last night, when we were up at John Bar- 
 
186 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES: 
 
 nard s fire ; but I was sent on guard to watch for 
 those plaguy Indians, as if they would think of com 
 ing in the day-time. But, neighbor Steele, did you 
 go up, and what was done ? " 
 
 " Oh, the magistrates, as usual, inquired into the 
 fire, and the other attacks ; and I suppose came to 
 the wise conclusion, by an unanimous vote, that In 
 dians were around. Jim Cook shot one up to old 
 Captain Seymour s, that had wounded Miss Jane 
 with an arrow, and tried to set fire to the barns. His 
 body was brought down, and a jury sot on t. He was 
 that smoky-looking youth of the Mohawks who ran 
 away from jail." 
 
 " Well, I guess they settled that verdict pretty 
 quick. There ain t much crying over a dead Indian 
 now-a-days." 
 
 " You may say that. But the strangest thing to 
 come is, that old Captain Seymour, who was towering 
 mad, because the magistrates did not choose to send 
 him some musketeers last night, proved there, in 
 court, that his niece, Jane Seymour, was Colonel 
 Dudley s daughter ; and the Colonel owns it : and 
 Jane fainted, and Hal Dudley had a fit ; and old 
 Colonel Dudley looked as if he could have eaten up 
 the Captain for telling the truth ; and your favorite 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 187 
 
 Edward sat as calm and as cold as if lie were glad of 
 the whole." 
 
 " You shan t abuse Eddy, for he is a good lad, 
 and will be an honor to us. What a strange affair ! 
 but I can t stay any longer. There are the cows 
 to milk, and the pigs to feed, and lots of other 
 chores; so, good night." 
 
188 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " I wore Bill Martin s wig, 
 
 When I train d, when I train d : 
 I wore Bill Martin s wig, 
 "When I train d. 
 I wore Bill Martin s wig; 
 Twas fixed up very trig ; 
 And I felt darnation big, 
 When I train d." 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 EARLY on the next morning a summons for the 
 Magistrates and Council was early sent around the 
 settlement. Rumors began to prevail that important 
 measures were to be taken. It was soon certainly 
 known that a courier had arrived from Massachusetts, 
 giving intelligence that a new Indian war had com 
 menced within their domains ; and requesting that 
 their brethren of Connecticut would send as soon as 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO, 189 
 
 possible a detachment of soldiers as a reinforcement 
 to the Springfield and Hadley settlements, that were 
 threatened with an attack. 
 
 It was resolved, that, as the request was urgent, 
 fifty men should be dispatched that day, and that 
 Capt. John Mason should prepare the remaining 
 train-bands to follow at another day. 
 
 An increase of the military force occasioned 
 some promotions. Sergeant Wadsworth was made a 
 Lieutenant, and had the command of the detachment 
 given to him. Edward Dudley solicited, through 
 Mr. Culick, the appointment of Ensign, and obtained 
 it. Corporals Webster and Bull were both made 
 Sergeants, and with two Corporals were sent in the 
 detached party. 
 
 The day was a busy one, and by noon the little 
 band was ferried across the river, and set out upon 
 their errand. 
 
 About half of the men were armed with match 
 locks, the remainder with pikes ; each man was fur 
 nished with a cutlass, pistols, and a knife in his belt. 
 Their dress was of woollen, the home-made, sad- 
 colored cloth of the period, made double, and quilted 
 with cotton, so that an Indian arrow could hardly 
 penetrate it. They carried no extra clothing, except 
 a pair of stockings ; though the careful wives of 
 
190 
 
 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 some had provided them with thread and nee 
 dles against contingencies. In his knapsack each 
 carried provisions, Indian bread, boiled pork, and 
 cheese, with a metallic cup. Some of the younger 
 pikemen were provided with fowling^pieces, in case a 
 supply of game should be needed. Each had two 
 blankets rolled up on the top of his knapsack, but 
 no arrangements for tents or an encampment had 
 been made, for the party expected to reach the settle 
 ment of Springfield, where the danger was, the next 
 day ; and one night s bivouac did not distress them 
 in anticipation. The steeple hat, with no feather or 
 ornament, and the boot hose tied up over the knee, 
 completed their equipment ; and they presented an 
 array of stern, solemn men, with firm mien and un 
 daunted front, entering upon what might prove a 
 dangerous enterprise ; but a danger to be met firmly, 
 solemnly, seriously, with no lightness of affected 
 courage or of wanton bravado, but with that depend 
 ence on the care of Jehovah that had accompanied 
 them through all the vicissitudes of their eventful 
 lives. 
 
 Lieutenant Wadsworth and Ensign Dudley were 
 
 not dressed differently from the rest, except in the 
 
 superior excellency of the same fashioned equipments. 
 
 They kept, in their route, as near the river as they 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 191 
 
 could, as their best guide ; but were obliged to make 
 considerable detours into the country to avoid the 
 low grounds on the margin of the river, and the 
 various streams and rivulets that entered it. Ser 
 geant Webster was placed in the van to select the 
 best path through the woods, his hunting experience 
 having often taken him up to the Podunk country. 
 The soldiers marched compactly, with no particular 
 order, but none were suffered to lag by Wadsworth, 
 who brought up the rear. No attention was paid to 
 circumspection as to their trail. They had no ene 
 mies in the rear to fear, and were too formidable a 
 body for the Po dunks to attack. 
 
 After crossing the Podunk, their course was again 
 towards the river ; and they kept along on the top of 
 the eminence, next west of the present East Hart 
 ford and East Windsor road, until they reached the 
 Scantic. Here they were obliged to make another 
 detour into the interior, over the brooks and branches 
 of the Scantic, well known in modern times by the 
 trout fisherman. About half an hour before sun 
 down, they reached the banks of that branch which is 
 now termed Broad Brook, some sixteen miles from 
 the settlement at Hartford. Here Lieutenant Wads- 
 worth ordered a halt, and sent Sergeants Webster 
 and Bull to select a place for a night encampment. 
 
192 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES j 
 
 They returned soon, and conducted the company to 
 the spot which they had selected. Ah ! well we 
 know that spot ; many a nice trout have we taken 
 from yonder deep, dark pool, near the foot of that 
 yellow birch. A slight hill, covered with a copse of 
 oak-trees, arose near the bank of the brook, but left 
 a pebbly margin of a few feet, over which the stream 
 dashed furiously in its freshets, now it murmured 
 along sullenly at their base. The underbrush had 
 principally died away under the shade of the old oak, 
 and a few minutes work with the cutlasses cleared 
 the rest. Preparations were made for cooking their 
 game on the pebbly bank of the b ook, by Webster s 
 advice, that the current of air which the brook cre 
 ated by the motion of its waters should carry the 
 smoke with it down stream, and not unnecessarily 
 betray their encampment. . 
 
 On their arrival, the roll was called over, and 
 David Rice, one of the privates, marked as missing. 
 Upon inquiry being made, Corporal Goodwin said 
 that Rice told him in the morning that he could 
 not start as early as the rest, but would follow their 
 trail, and reach them before night ; " Rice is a queer 
 fellow ; he never is ready for any duty, but he is a 
 good woodsman, and can reach us if any one can." 
 
 A sentinel was placed on the beach under the 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 193 
 
 shadow of the rocks, and two more near each extreme 
 of the encampment. 
 
 Before eating, Lieutenant Wadsworth called the 
 men together, and after reading by torch-light a short 
 passage from a small Bible he carried with him, he 
 prayed for a blessing upon their food, for protec 
 tion during the night, and for assistance in the du 
 ties and under the trials of the next day. He then 
 exhorted the men to place their confidence in God, 
 to repent of all their short-comings during the day, 
 and, after their repast, to seek sleep as soon as pos 
 sible j giving them notice that their march would be 
 resumed as soon as day broke. He then assigned to 
 Corporal Goodwin the care of relieving the guard, 
 and to Sergeant Bull, the Quartermaster s depart 
 ment, of arranging the conveniences far food, both 
 for supper and an early breakfast ; and for the ac 
 commodation of the men during the night. 
 
 Supper was nearly finished, when the loud voice 
 of the westernmost sentinel was heard to call, " Who 
 goes there ? who goes there ? Answer quick, or I 
 shall fire." At the same time, they heard him fix his 
 rest in the ground. 
 
 The soldiers all started to their feet, but they 
 soon heard the voice of Rice, crying out, " You need 
 not shoot, Steele ; it s only I, David Rice." 
 9 
 
194 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 Rice then approached the encampment, accompa 
 nied by Henry Dudley, who was followed by his 
 faithful hound. 
 
 " Lieutenant Wadsworth," said Rice, " I got here 
 just as quick as I could. I had some corn to pick 
 this morning, and the old woman had not mended 
 my coat ; but here I am, and have brought you a 
 volunteer beside." 
 
 " Lieutenant Wadsworth," said Henry Dudley, 
 rather haughtily, " I choose to accompany this ex 
 pedition. I have learnt from one of our townsmen, 
 that Samoset has probably joined this new Massachu 
 setts outbreak ; and I wish to settle accounts with 
 that rascal." 
 
 "We receive you as a volunteer," said Wads- 
 worth ; " but expect you to submit to the necessary 
 discipline of military authority. I am sorry you 
 have joined us, for I have already had some experience 
 of your disobedience to authority. But we cannot 
 send you back now. But as for that dog, he cannot 
 remain with a party and a trail like this ; he will 
 betray our approach at once by his barking. He 
 must be killed." 
 
 " Let me see the man who dare kill my dog," said 
 Henry, flaring up at once ; " he will have to take a 
 blow from my cutlass." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 195 
 
 " I rather think," said Wadsworth, coolly, " you 
 will find out who is master here before we part." 
 
 " There is no need of altercation," said Edward, 
 " the dog is a faithful and obedient one. He may be 
 of use to us in the trail. At any rate, Lieutenant, I 
 will be accountable for its behaviour, and will confine 
 it if it proves troublesome." 
 
 " The dog," cried out Rice, " is a perfect Chris* 
 tian. Once or twice to-day, when we were at fault 
 on the trail, the dog set us right, and seemed soon to 
 understand what we needed, and kept ahead of us 
 directly in the right course." 
 
 " Why do you speak so irreverently, and like a 
 blustering cavalier, David Rice," said Wadsworth; 
 " it is not seemly for a godly man to use such lan 
 guage." 
 
 " Edward," said Henry, sullenly, " have you any 
 supper for me ? Here are some partridges and a 
 rabbit." 
 
 " I ll attend to the supper," said Rice, " my old 
 woman says I m a capital cook." 
 
 They descended to the level of the brook, the dog 
 quietly following them ; and David Rice soon put his 
 roasting and broiling propensities to the test, in pre 
 paring a good supper for himself, Henry Dudley, and 
 the " Christian" dog, who had his share. 
 
196 
 
 CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 " Oh, the doleful, dismal suz ! 
 Oh, the doleful, desperate suz ! ! 
 Oh, the doleful, dreadful suz ! ! ! 
 The Indians lay behind the fence, 
 And shot him down, stone dead ! ! ! ! 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 WHEN Henry sought the resting-place of his brother, 
 the latter found that he had left home wholly unpre 
 pared for the expedition. He had a fowling-piece 
 and a knife of course, but nothing else except a cut 
 lass. Edward gave him up one of his blankets and a 
 knapsack for his pillow, resting his head himself, as 
 he slept, against a huge oak. 
 
 "When they had lain down, Edward said, "We 
 had looked for you for some time this morning, when 
 the news of the requisition from Massachusetts ar- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 197 
 
 rived, but you was not to be found. Our mother 
 said she was glad of it, for she could not permit you 
 to go." 
 
 " It was afternoon when I returned ; I cannot 
 stay at home and see every thing that reminds me of 
 Jane Seymour. Jane Seymour ! rather Jane Dudley 
 that maddens me. I have been wandering around 
 to-day in some hopes of tracing out the course of 
 Samoset. I have no other one on whom I can re 
 venge my losses. I urged father and mother to per 
 mit me to join the expedition as a volunteer. Father 
 at length gave his consent for me to wait and march 
 with Captain Mason, but I could not assent to this. 
 Mother, for once, was firm, and absolutely prohibited 
 my going. I left the house in a rage, determined to 
 follow, if I stole a boat to cross the river with. Poor 
 Bevis, here, had been with me all the day, and I 
 could not drive him back, and shall not, let yonder 
 old bigot say what he will. As I was looking along 
 the bank for a boat, I saw Dave Rice just entering 
 one, sleepy David, as the boys call him ; I found 
 him all prepared for the expedition. He said he had 
 been belated by the corn, and then he had to run 
 down to Nichols store for some salt and pepper, he 
 could not go without them ; and altogether he was 
 late. I soon stopped his chattering, and he, very 
 
198 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 willingly, consented to have me go with him, as he 
 had only a pike, and I had a fowling-piece; and 
 Look here, said he, here is a little iron kettle in 
 my blankets ; a very small one, that will answer to 
 make a stew in to-night. " 
 
 Edward permitted him to run on, glad that his 
 mind could find a diversion in any thing. 
 
 " But, brother, I am sadly grieved that you should 
 have gone- contrary to mother s commands. She so 
 seldom lays them upon you that I should think you 
 would find it difficult to disobey." 
 
 " Perhaps that is the very reason. I have some 
 times thought that had my mother commanded me 
 more, I should have been less reckless and head 
 strong. It is rather too late for her to begin now, 
 however; and so I started." 
 
 " Brother, brother, I am afraid that an expedition 
 commenced in disobedience to .a mother s commands 
 will have but an unfortunate termination." 
 
 " No croaking, Edward ; no utterance of evil 
 omens. But why should I care; life has lost its 
 charm, and the sooner its fevery dream is over in the 
 sound sleep of death the better. But come, let us 
 sleep ; I am tired." 
 
 " Oh, brother," thought Edward, though he did 
 not speak it, " think of the waking from that sound 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 199 
 
 sleep in the light of eternity, with its realities around 
 your soul. May God pardon you." 
 
 The tired frames of the brothers soon yielded to 
 sleep, although many distressing thoughts pierced the 
 bosoms of both. The other inmates of the grove 
 had sunk to slumber long since, and the beams of 
 the young moon shone on the sleeping group, the 
 huge oak trees, and the solemn pace of the vigilant 
 sentinel ; while beneath the rock, on the pebbly 
 beach of the murmuring brook, the relief guard, under 
 Corporal Goodwin, sat around the embers of the 
 decaying fire, occasionally supplying them with fuel, 
 and nodding in partial sleep, as the lulling sound of 
 the brook over its pebbly bottom hushed them to 
 rest. The night was still and clear. A faint vapor 
 rose from the brook, and curled up the side of the 
 rocky hill ; the screech-owl s boding scream echoed 
 from her nook in the high oak, as the wind gently 
 rustled its seared and dying leaves ; the insect cre 
 ation of summer were mostly hushed by the early 
 frosts, and the prowling wolf was far up the distant 
 mountain. As the slanting light of the setting moon 
 struck upon the dark pool near them, the hermit 
 trout, who had lain there quietly during the day, 
 dashed at the bright leaves that floated on its sur- 
 
200 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 face, or grasped the struggling cricket that had un 
 wittingly leaped to destruction. 
 
 The march was resumed early in the morning, 
 after a hearty breakfast. Lieutenant Wadsworth ad 
 vised the men that circumstances might prevent a 
 meal being taken before night. As they approached 
 the Massachusetts line, , greater precautions were 
 taken against surprise, and the summits of those hills 
 chosen where, through the trees, the distant river 
 could be seen as the only guide to their place of des 
 tination. Webster and Dudley still kept in the van, 
 while Wadsworth brought up the rear. Henry trod 
 rather moodily along. No conversation was al 
 lowed in the ranks, and the want of excitement in 
 the regular monotony of the progress was annoying 
 to one of his temperament. 
 
 Noon found them within the bounds of Massachu 
 setts, and very near, as they supposed, the objects of 
 their march. They had crossed one Indian trail 
 going eastward, but did not pursue it, lest it should 
 take them from their main object, that of giving aid 
 to their distressed brethren. At noon, they seated 
 themselves on the brow of a hill sloping to the north, 
 at the foot of which ran a cold stream, and snatched 
 a hasty repast of the remains of their ample break 
 fast. As they were seated, Webster was seen sud- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 201 
 
 denly to rise, and go to the very brow of the hill, and 
 stand attentively, holding his head back in the air. 
 
 " What is it, Sergeant ?" said Lieut. Wadsworth; 
 " what do you see or hear ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Webster, returning to his seat, 
 " nothing ; but I smell the smoke of a distant fire, 
 and it is not the smoke of leaves or of fresh cut 
 wood." 
 
 They all sprang to the ledge, and snuffing up the 
 air, which, being rather brisk from the north, brought 
 the smell of smoke from a great distance. 
 
 "Do you smell it, Lieutenant?" said Webster. 
 " Very plainly. It has a mixed smell of various de 
 scriptions." 
 
 " It is the smell of old timber and seasoned pine," 
 said Webster. " There is a framed dwelling burning 
 somewhere at the north. Ensign Dudley, you are 
 young ; will you climb yon high oak that hangs over 
 the cliff, and look in the direction of the smoke ?" 
 
 Edward unbuckled the belt of his cutlass, and left 
 his knapsack and his weapons at the foot of the tree, 
 with his tat. He was young, agile, and fearless. 
 The highest branch he could reach and preserve his 
 position was attained, and he looked out on the sur 
 rounding country. The river lay at his left, moving 
 sleepily amid the gay autumn-colored forests that 
 9* 
 
xiUAl THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES j 
 
 surrounded it, its waves slightly ruffled by the north 
 ern wind. No farm-houses, and villages, and steeples, 
 and cultivated fields, were seen rising in the distance, 
 as now, from that same high cliff, but one unbroken 
 belt of heavy trees skirted the horizon, rich with the 
 dying hues of the vegetable year. Over their varie 
 gated tops, at a point on the north verge of the hori 
 zon, a heavy black smoke arose, with its lower edges 
 tinged with flame. Its lurid masses surged up in 
 succession over the gay woods, like death amid the 
 brilliancy of a ball-room. He hailed them below, 
 and pointed out its -direction. 
 
 " Come down, Ensign," shouted the Lieutenant ; 
 " we must hufy. The enemy are at work." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 "Thou know st," he sternly said, " that ne er 
 
 An insult I forgive ; 
 
 Nor does there breathe a man who dares 
 Provoke my rage and live. 
 
 " This night my foeman I surpris d, 
 
 His fresh torn scalp I bear ; 
 His blood, the signal of my tribe, 
 Upon my brow I wear. 
 
 " E en now, around his smoking home 
 
 My warriors watch the fire ; 
 That home, Ompoia, once was thine ; 
 That foeman was thy sire." 
 
 Nootonuc and Ompoia. 
 
 A NEW arrangement was now made in the march. 
 The scouts were called in. Wadsworth himself took 
 the lead with Webster, and Edward was sent to 
 bring up the rear. Their ranks were now condensed, 
 
04 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES j 
 
 and they stalked through the wood at a quicker pace. 
 Two flankers were placed at about twenty rods from 
 the front rank ; two of the best and most experienced 
 men of tho company. Henry sought the rear with 
 his brother, but felt the excitement and enthusiasm 
 of the moment with the rest ; and even, of his own 
 accord, attached a leash to his dog s neck, and held 
 him in from rambling. 
 
 An hour was spent in this rapid march, the in 
 creasing smoke being their guide. At length, they 
 came out upon a clear piece of land, on a hill but a 
 little distance from the river, and saw the object of 
 their search. They had come too late. The smok 
 ing remains of the frame and the roof were blazing in 
 the cellar, and the blackened stone chimney stood as 
 a solemn beacon of what the savages had done. They 
 had come too late ; for on that sandy knoll there lay 
 a man in the vigor of life, two grown-up lads, their 
 mother, and three young girls, in the cold embrace 
 of death. They were nearly stripped of their gar 
 ments, and their disfigured heads showed that it was 
 not prisoners but scalps that their merciless enemies 
 had desired. 
 
 The expression on the faces of the man and the 
 youths was calm, though solemn, showing that then* 
 death-wound had been made by the bullet before 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 205 
 
 their scalps were taken. But the distortion and pain 
 expressed in the countenances of the females indi 
 cated that they had been scalped, and left to die in 
 their agony. 
 
 The party halted as they came upon the clearing, 
 and stood gazing in silent sorrow at the mournful scene. 
 Each one thought of the little ones he had left, and 
 how such might be their fate. 
 
 When the whole party had deployed into the in- 
 closure, and all were assembled around the dead, 
 Lieutenant Wadsworth spoke : " Friends, there is 
 one duty that remains for us before we go farther, 
 to give a Christian burial to these, our murdered 
 brethren ; and not leave their bones to be gnawed by 
 the wolves and the catamounts. Ensign Dudley, you 
 are detached to superintend this solemn business. 
 Sergeant Webster, select a man, and ascertain from 
 their trail the number of our foes, and the direction 
 which they took. Henry Dudley, restrain that dog 
 of yours, or he must be killed." 
 
 The dog, as he saw the bodies, had set up a long, 
 unearthly howl, which would have soon given to the 
 pursued foe a knowledge of their approach. Henry 
 obeyed, for the solemnities of the scene and the firm 
 ness of the command overawed him. 
 
 Edward set about his duty immediately. In a 
 
206 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 rude log barn, which had been overlooked by. the 
 savages, he found two shovels, a spade, and a hoe. 
 With the latter, he scraped off the top of the ground 
 in the place which he had selected, in the midst of 
 their little garden, where no roots would retard their 
 digging. The soil was light and sandy, and the labor 
 of excavation easy. Three men took the implements, 
 and worked with all their strength for a few minutes ; 
 and then, at a nod from Edward, three others took 
 their place. In a short time a trench was thus dug, 
 deep enough to hold the bodies, and wide enough for 
 two to lie abreast. Reverently was each corpse 
 borne to its last resting-place in the garments that 
 their murderers had left ; the father, the mother, the 
 noble boys, and the blooming girls, were all carefully 
 deposited in that rough tomb, by men who felt the 
 reality and the solemnity of the occasion. 
 
 Edward, himself, threw the first shovel-full of 
 earth on the bodies, and the zeal of the men soon 
 filled the grave ; loose stones were heaped up upon 
 the mound, and the buried were thus left until the 
 resurrection morning. 
 
 This work being done, Edward then reverently 
 took off his hat, which he laid upon the rock ; and 
 spreading out his hands, addressed the Father of us 
 all in Heaven. Each rough soldier uncovered his 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 207 
 
 head, and bent his eye in reverence. Edward s prayer 
 was short. There was too much work to perform for 
 a long address. He begged for a sanctification of 
 this event to the soldiers before him ; that each arm 
 might be strengthened, and each heart nerved by the 
 sight which they had seen ; that Grod might see fit to 
 make them the instruments of punishing this atrocity, 
 and preserve their lives for it. 
 
 When he concluded, and had replaced his hat, he 
 drew his cutlass with a jerk and a rattle that made 
 the pine-woods resound again. 
 
 " Brethren," said he, waving his sword over his 
 head, " we have done the last duty to the dead but 
 one, and that is to avenge them. Their souls are 
 in God s hands ; vengeance is in ours. Are you 
 ready?" 
 
 The low murmur, " We are ! " was the response 
 of the men. 
 
 They then gathered their arms and their knap 
 sacks, and resumed their march. There was no word 
 of threatening, no huzza of excitement. They were 
 men who went to such a work calmly, deliberately, 
 solemnly. With them, it was a religious duty. The 
 scene of devastation before them was but another 
 argument, added to the long chain of reasons, that 
 the native tribes should be exterminated ; and not a 
 
208 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 soul present stepped forward on the coming march 
 with any feelings of compunction or compassion to 
 wards the savage race. What had been the fate of 
 the family of this settler might be theirs, unless the 
 whole race were cut off. 
 
 The character of the Puritan was precisely fitted 
 to the conquest and settlement of a new country. 
 There was a solemn sternness about all his resolves 
 that conducted to ultimate success, even under the 
 most discouraging obstacles. These settlers never 
 sat down to weep under the pressure of their lot, but, 
 with a trust on high, rose up to work. The same 
 solemnity and sternness ran through all their domes 
 tic life. They were kind, but never indulgent. Rigid 
 in their discipline, they formed men to be the future 
 lawgivers and citizens of the great Republic that was 
 to arise. 
 
 Henry was surprised and awed at the new light 
 in which his brother now stood before him. He had 
 thought of him, hitherto, as the sharer of his bed, the 
 companion of his sports, the partaker of his labors. 
 He now saw him commencing the great struggle of 
 life, a man among men, swaying their passions, 
 governing their wills, influencing their decisions, 
 and he was awed. It was no longer his brother Ed- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 209 
 
 ward that he saw, but one destined to wield the 
 power of the rising community. 
 
 Sergeant "Webster had returned from his assigned 
 duty before the ceremony of interment was finished. 
 He leaned upon his gun, watching with solemn sever 
 ity the whole scene. He then remembered the log- 
 house near the Little River, where sons and daugh 
 ters called him father ; and that they too were sub 
 ject to a similar fate, unless such enemies were 
 exterminated. 
 
 When Dudley had finished, Webster advanced to 
 Lieut. Wadsworth, and said in a low, stern voice, 
 " Follow me." He led them to the borders of the 
 little cleared corn-field of the cottager, where the 
 freshly made foot-prints of a large body of Indians 
 could be perceived crossing it. He called attention 
 to one larger, and with a very differently constructed 
 moccason. 
 
 Tis Samoset s," said Lieut. Wadsworth and 
 Edward, in a breath ; "we examined that foot-print 
 too closely but a short time since not to remember it." 
 
 " The other Indians are some French tribe," said 
 Webster ; " they have the Canadian form in their 
 tracks." 
 
 "Where s Samoset s track?" said Henry; "show 
 it to me. Here, Bevis, smell him." 
 
210 
 
 He took the dog by the leash, and put his nose 
 into the foot-print. " Hie, hie, find him ! " 
 
 " Well thought of," said Wads worth ; "keep him 
 before you, and hold him in ; and we can pursue that 
 track by his aid." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 "Now in that bushy dell, the echoes rose 
 Of many a dreadful sound; the crash of tomahawk, 
 Drinking the life blood of the sever d brain ; 
 The scream of parting life heard loud and shrill 
 Amid the storm of war ; the deep-toned curse 
 As broke the fragile spear, when needed most ; 
 While, over all, the shout Altawmah gave, 
 Exulting, as he drove the death-axe home." 
 
 Altawmah : Canto III. 
 
 THE march was again commenced. Each matchlock 
 man unbound his rest from his gun, and examined his 
 powder and his match. Cutlasses were loosened in 
 the sheath, and pistols examined. The pikemen fell 
 in the rear, as less fitted to carry on a tree fight, if 
 such was to be the order of battle. 
 
 The march had not been continued more than 
 half an hour, thanks to Bevis s assistance in finding 
 
212 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 the trail, when Wadsworth halted the party and lis 
 tened. The dog could hardly be restrained, for dis 
 tant shots were now plainly heard, and the faint echo 
 of the terrific war-whoop generally a fearful sound 
 to the settlers ears, but one which the Connecticut 
 men were beginning, to despise. 
 
 The order was given for all the matchlock-men 
 but ten to deploy on the flanks of the foe, each seiz 
 ing a tree, and advancing, while a pikeman was to 
 cover him at the same tree, to protect him from a 
 sudden rush. Edward was ordered to remain in the 
 rear with the ten matchlock-men, to act as a reserve, 
 and strengthen where a reinforcement might be 
 needed. 
 
 " You do not intend to follow this mean, dastardly 
 mode of tree fighting, do you, brother ? " said Henry. 
 " How our knightly ancestors would have blushed at 
 such a departure from the rules of chivalry ! Why 
 not march out, at once, and drive them from their 
 covert ? " 
 
 " Henry, you speak foolishly. Every nation has 
 its customs. We have no means of encountering a 
 foe like this, but by imitating his own mode of fight 
 ing, and there prove our superiority. Watch the 
 fight, and you will learn something to guide you in 
 after life." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 213 
 
 A shot was heard nearer. " Men, to your trees," 
 said Edward. Each took a huge tree in front of him, 
 and peered cautiously around its trunk. Edward 
 beckoned Henry to him. " Follow me, brother, and 
 do as I do. Tie Bevis to this tree, and leave him 
 for the present. He will only be injured." 
 
 A bullet from a distant gun struck very near 
 Henry, which led him to imitate Edward s example. 
 
 " Oblique to the left," was the word passed from 
 tree to tree, " to fall on the enemy s flank, we are 
 too near the flank of our own friends." 
 
 Henry wondered at the ease and precision with 
 which the manoeuvre was executed, each soldier pass 
 ing rapidly from one tree to another, bearing to the 
 left, but still advancing, until a rising ground was 
 reached, from which the van of the extreme left 
 could see the encounter beneath them. 
 
 The Massachusetts men were but a small band, 
 and were retreating, having evidently lost many of 
 their number, but still turning behind each tree, and 
 firing as they retreated. The Indians, flushed with 
 success, were pressing on in a direction that brought 
 the Hartford reinforcement on the flank and even 
 rear of their extreme right. Wadsworth s disposi 
 tions were soon made. He headed the men who 
 pressed down obliquely on their flank, while Webster 
 
 
214 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 led a second division to the left, and Ensign Dudley, 
 with the reserve, passed round the base of the hill to 
 attack the rear and cut off the retreat of the Indians 
 in that direction. 
 
 The first intimation of the presence of the Con 
 necticut men which the savages had, came from a 
 murderous discharge from Wadsworth s division, 
 which cut down many of their ablest men. The 
 right wing of the Indians wheeled at once, and took 
 another station behind the trees, while Wadsworth s 
 division, under the cover of the smoke and confusion, 
 seized a station considerably in advance.- 
 
 Seeing a reinforcement, the Massachusetts men 
 turned and pressed forward in their turn, thus bring 
 ing the Indians partly between two fires. 
 
 Webster s division, of course, had farther to go 
 to reach the rear of the Indian line, and Dudley s 
 still farther. But the fire of Webster s division 
 scattered the Indians, and the battle was decided 
 before Dudley reached the assigned ground. 
 
 Indians are never good soldiers under a surprise. 
 They broke in confusion at once, and endeavoured to 
 escape by their own left flank. But here they were 
 met by the Massachusetts men, and assailed in the 
 rear by Webster s division. A few broke from their 
 covert, and endeavoured to rush by the flank of Web- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 215 
 
 ster s force, but were met with a heavy tire, and 
 pinned to the earth by the pikes as they passed. 
 
 Dudley s corps now came into action, and picked 
 off many of the stragglers. One powerful Indian, 
 formidable with European arms, and frightful in his 
 war-paint, had nearly reached Edward s left, when 
 Henry called out, " It is Samoset ; give him to me 
 to fill up my vengeance ! " So saying, he sprang for 
 ward from his covert, and madly pursued his foe. 
 Samoset heard the shout of, " Stay, you scoundrel 
 of an Indian," and stepped behind a tree. In vain 
 Edward cried out to Henry to be wary, and exposed 
 himself to rush to his rescue. Samoset discharged his 
 piece ineffectually, and flinging it away, he rushed upon 
 Henry, struck him with his knife in the breast, and 
 seizing him in his arms, flung him with great violence 
 to the ground. He stepped one foot on him, and had 
 raised his tomahawk to strike the blow for the scalp, 
 when Edward, outstripping the men, struck him with 
 his cutlass, and then seized him around the arms. 
 
 A struggle for life and death ensued. Samoset 
 was older, heavier, and stronger, but he had to con 
 tend in this wrestling match with one more agile and 
 active, whose muscles were all flexible and at his com 
 mand. Edward tried to fling him, but in vain. 
 Samoset endeavored to release his arms to use his 
 
216 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES! 
 
 tomahawk, but was unable to do it. The men could 
 not fire without injury to Edward, but they ran as 
 rapidly as their heavy armor would permit. 
 
 But a new combatant was before them on the 
 scene of action. Bevis, when he was tied at a dis 
 tance, had heard his master s shout as he pursued 
 Samoset, and breaking his leash, came .bounding to 
 wards the combatants. Springing up, he seized Sam 
 oset by the shoulder, and brought him to the ground, 
 where the blows of the pikemen, who first reached the 
 spot, soon put an end to his existence. 
 
 The victory was complete ; hardly ten of the sav 
 ages escaped towards their canoes, and many of them 
 were shot by their pursuers before they reached 
 them. 
 
 When Wadsworth and Webster returned from 
 the pursuit, they found Henry nearly dead from his 
 wounds and bruises, while the men were stanching 
 his blood, and Edward was supporting his head. 
 Bevis, too, was alternately licking his dying master s 
 hand, and then growling over and tearing, in his rage, 
 the lifeless body of Samoset. 
 
 " What ! Henry Dudley wounded ! Where is 
 it ? Ha ! an ugly place. Handle him gently, men. 
 Double a blanket under him, that he may lie easier. 
 Who did it ? What, that cunning serpent, Samoset ? 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 217 
 
 But I see lie has paid the penalty for all his evil 
 deeds." 
 
 His whistle called his men around him. " Friends 
 and brethren, you have gained a bloodless victory to 
 ourselves, there being no one seriously wounded but 
 Henry Dudley. It is now drawing near night. 
 Quartermaster Bull, see to the preparations for the 
 evening meal, and Corporal Goodwin, look out for a 
 proper place for an encampment. To-morrow, we 
 must proceed farther up, and drive the savages from 
 Hadley and Deerfield." 
 
 Henry, now somewhat revived, muttered, wan- 
 deringly, " Where s mother ? " 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Corporal Bull, " we must 
 contrive some means to make the night comfortable to 
 him." 
 
 " Oh, brother, brother, let me die at home. Carry 
 me back to my own little chamber. I cannot die 
 here in the dark woods. Can I not live to be carried 
 home, and die in my mother s arms ? " 
 
 What a picture for a painter did that scene fur 
 nish ? The beautiful youth, lying at his length, his 
 face in the last agony of life, his head upon his bro 
 ther s breast, whose tears fell like rain on the dying 
 Henry s head, the stalwart forms of the stern 
 Puritans, looking on in their compassion, the dead 
 10 
 
218 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 Indian, the dog crouched at his master s feet, lick 
 ing his cold hand, the eternal forest around them, 
 dressed in its autumn glories. What a picture ! 
 
 Ag;nn Henry moaned out, " Carry me home to 
 die ! I li ft my mother, contrary to her commands. 
 Let me see her only once before I close my eyes on 
 this world s scenes, and beseech her forgiveness. 
 Oh, let me die at home ! " 
 
 Poor boy ! The last drops of life were even 
 then welling from his heart. 
 
 " Brother," whispered Edward, " it is too late ; 
 there is now no refuge but in Christ." 
 
 The dying youth s mind wandered. "Who are 
 these standing around my bedside ? They all look 
 like father in his stern mood. Where s mother ? 
 Why is not she here to hold my aching head ? 
 Where s Jane ? Will she not see me once more ? " 
 
 Wadsworth stooped and gently wiped off the 
 damp dews of death that were settling on his fore 
 head, and the froth that covered his lips, for Ed 
 ward was too much overcome for even these sad 
 duties. 
 
 " Was that mother ? " said Henry, as he started 
 at the touch and opened his eyes. " Oh, no ; no : 
 trees and armed men ! Even the blue sky shut out. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 219 
 
 Give me air. Let me breathe the sweet perfume of 
 home once more ! Oh ! let me die at home ! " 
 
 The words gurgled in the throat, the breath 
 stopped, and then, with a long-drawn sigh, the spirit 
 left its clayey tenement. 
 
220 THE FAWN OF THE TALE FACES; 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " The old, old fashion ! The fashion that came in with our first gar 
 ments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the 
 wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion Death ! " 
 
 Doinbey and Son. 
 
 " LIEUTENANT WADSWORTH," said Sergeant Webster, 
 " I would advise that the corpse of our young friend 
 be immediately sent, under a proper escort, to his 
 home." 
 
 " My own decision leans that way. The mode 
 must be by the river. There is, I am told, a flat- 
 bottomed boat near us, with a square sail, which the 
 Indians stole, somewhere above, in which to cross 
 the river, in addition to their canoes. It will be 
 readily given up to us for this purpose. Ensign 
 Dudley will, of course, accompany the body, and be 
 released from the remaining labors of the expedition. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 221 
 
 David Rice and Aaron Clarke, who understand the 
 navigation of the river, will accompany them. There 
 is yet sufficient light to commence the voyage, and 
 the moonlight will last until the rapids are cleared. 
 Ensign Dudley, does this arrangement meet with your 
 approbation ? " 
 
 " Do as you list," was the reply ; "I have no 
 power of judging left." 
 
 " The sooner then that it is done the better." 
 
 The body was then enveloped in a blanket, and 
 carried by the sorrowing soldiers to the boat. Bevis 
 slowly followed, every now and then uttering a 
 mournful howl. The remains were placed gently on 
 the bottom of the boat, after packing beneafh it sev 
 eral of the bloody blankets torn from the Indian 
 corpses. The head was slightly raised and propped, 
 so that it could not roll, and a blanket spread over 
 the whole. Edward silently took his place as steers 
 man, while Rice and Clark pushed the boat off with 
 their long oars, and hoisted their sail to the north 
 wind. The boat slowly put off the shore, the men 
 with their officers standing uncovered until it had 
 reached the middle of the stream, and was fairly in 
 the current. 
 
 The moon still gave a checkered light through 
 the western trees, as the boat shot down the rapids, 
 
222 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 but left them in darkness as they skirted along the 
 sparse dwellings of "Windsor settlement now silent 
 in the embrace of sleep. The day had dawned when 
 the Hartford chimneys appeared in view, and the sun 
 had risen before the boat was moored in the Little 
 River, near the foot of Front-street. 
 
 The news of her arrival and the freight she car 
 ried, spread before she rounded Dutch Point, and 
 passed the fort : Mr. Hooker and Deacon Nichols 
 felt it their duty to break the news to the afflicted 
 parents, while Governor Haynes and some of the 
 Magistrates met the boat at the dock with the bier 
 in their hands. The procession was a long, sad one. 
 The event had collected almost every male of the 
 settlement : some from curiosity; others, from sympa 
 thy with a family that all respected ; others, to hear 
 from Bice and Clarke the events of the campaign, 
 and the safety of the little band that had left them. 
 
 The grief of the father at hearing the news, was 
 repressed, for men were looking at him, and he shut 
 up every emotion within the iron gates of his own 
 heart, but that of the mother was frantic. She had 
 been struck where the blow was most keenly felt, and 
 her exclamations were almost in so many words : 
 " Ye have taken away my gods, and what have I 
 left ? " She was for rushing to the boat, or for stop- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 223 
 
 ping the bier in its progress, but was prevented by 
 the kind firmness of Mr. Hooker. " You cannot see 
 him until he has been prepared for the death cham 
 ber," was the firm announcement. 
 
 On reaching the Chouse, Governor Haynes author 
 itatively bade the multitude to disperse, and none to 
 enter the house of mourning but those he designated. 
 He directed Mr. Hopkins and Mr. Culick to exam 
 ine the two men who had returned, and to publish 
 the full accounts of the reported battle at the town- 
 house at 10 o clock, at which hour he summoned the 
 people. He then directed the few whom he had suf 
 fered to enter the house, to wash and dress the body 
 before the parents saw it. 
 
 Edward went at once to his mother s room, and 
 related to her and his father the scenes of Henry s 
 death. 
 
 " Did you make no effort to save him? Did you 
 desert him in the hour of his greatest need ? " 
 
 " Mother, no : I have still on my body an un 
 dressed wound which Samoset gave me in the con 
 test." 
 
 " Forgive me, my son ; this blow is too heavy 
 for me. Heaven preserve my intellect." 
 
 " Anne, remember who chastens, from whom 
 the blow comes, and be humble." 
 
224 
 
 " I will, husband, I will, but not now. I cannot 
 now." 
 
 The hour for the funeral had arrived. It was 
 the custom for the early settlers of the State to hold 
 such religious services as were then common at fune 
 rals, at the Meeting-House. In small communities, 
 each person knows every other ; and in a newly- 
 settled community, a wonderful and powerful degree 
 of unanimity of feeling prevails. They are all mem 
 bers of one great family. Hence, in their small 
 houses, there never would be room enough for the 
 assembling together of the whole. As religious cere 
 monies were early considered proper, it was thought 
 best to hold funerals in the Meeting-House. 
 
 A sufficient number of men to carry the corpse 
 went to the house, but stood without in the yard or 
 street. Four of the number then went in, accompa 
 nied by some one who assumed the guidance of the 
 whole, as a kind of manager, who brought the coffin 
 out and placed it upon the bier. The mourners then 
 came out, two and two ; the bearers raised the bier 
 to their shoulders, and the men formed in procession 
 in front, while the women and children followed the 
 mourners in the rear. The bell struck its solemn 
 note, as the bier was lifted, and tolled at long and 
 measured intervals, during the progress of the pro- 
 
 
225 
 
 cession. As they marched slowly on, four from the 
 head of the procession stopped, two on each side, and 
 waited until the coffin reached them. They then 
 took their turns to "bear it, while the four relieved 
 formed in the front of the coffin, and, at the same 
 time, four more stepped one side from the head of 
 the procession to await their turn in the sad labor. 
 
 Reader ! You who have been accustomed to the 
 hearse and the carriages of a city funeral for years, 
 do you remember the awe with which this procession 
 of men struck you in your childhood ? the chill that 
 came over you, when the four in advance stepped 
 silently one side, until the dead, or, as it seemed to 
 your young imagination, death itself reached them ? 
 the shudder, as the coffin rocked, as it was shifted 
 from shoulder to snoulder, and the fear lest it should 
 fall, and the sheeted dead burst out into the gaping 
 crowd ? Do you remember the first time when you 
 was thought old enough to join in this solemn duty 
 of carrying the dead to their last resting-place ? the 
 fear lest you should stumble and fall, or allow the 
 weight to slip from your shoulders ? 
 
 But the days of the bier, the coffin borne on the 
 shoulders the long procession winding slowly on a^ 
 mild summer afternoon, far off to the solitary hill,- 
 where the dead all slept soundly together, are all 
 10* 
 
226 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 gone and with them, many of the ties which bound 
 humanity together, and many of the solemn lessons 
 taught to the living. 
 
 Such was the funeral of Henry Dudley. The 
 long procession moved through the streets to the 
 first rude Meeting- House that stood near the site of 
 the present State-House. The father stepped firm 
 ly, though there was no bravado or defiance to the 
 world on his brow ; but he saw not the groups of 
 his pitying neighbors and fellow-citizens that were 
 around him, nor heard the stifling whisper of the 
 children, as they pointed out, " That s his father." 
 His wife clung to his arm with both her hands, 
 and seemed almost to be carried by him. Her face 
 was closely shrouded by her veil, but the by-stand- 
 ers could see the shudder that ran through her 
 slight and fragile form, as she raised her head at the 
 interruptions which the change of bearers produced. 
 
 Edward walked alone in their rear fit emblem, 
 he thought, of the solitary life he must henceforth 
 lead but not the less resolved to hide every burn 
 ing feeling and ardent thought, under the same im 
 penetrable face of calm, moveless expression. Duty 
 was to be his external aim. Passion and sorrow and 
 affection were to be buried in his heart, as deep as 
 the grave now gaping for Henry. He thought of 
 
 
OR TWO CENTURIES AGO. 
 
 227 
 
 his mother, and trembled as he saw her weak frame 
 writhing under the tempest of grief which had as 
 sailed her. " She must go next," was the saddening 
 thought. "My father, too, grief must bend and 
 shake that strong, oak-like frame, and stern, unyield 
 ing character. I must take his place soon, and give 
 the whole energies of my soul, as he has done, to the 
 perfection of the principles on which this rising col 
 ony is to be built. Why, then, should I suffer the 
 same grief that hurried Henry to frenzy, to freeze 
 up the current of my soul, and to make me unfit for 
 the great duties that lie before me ? No : here, as I 
 follow the remains of my early and only playmate to 
 the grave, I form the strong resolve to crush all pri 
 vate emotions, and to live alone for my parents and 
 my country." 
 
228 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ] 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 " The lost : the lost: they re in the grave, no more my path to cheer ; 
 Their forms no more shall bless my view, a lonely wanderer here. 
 They ve breathed the last warm wish for me ; the last fond hope have 
 
 felt; 
 And in their strong desires for me, in last fond prayer have knelt." 
 
 Old Times. 
 
 WE pass over the religious ceremonies of the church. 
 After rising for prayer, as she sat down, Anne Dud 
 ley placed her husband s arm around her, and laid 
 her head upon his shoulder. The Colonel seemed, 
 at first, to feel that the exhibition of any affection 
 was out of place on such a public occasion, and par 
 tially withdrew his arm and let it fall by her side, 
 but Anne drew it up again, and he did not remove 
 it. 
 
 Much as the Puritan character revolted against 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 229 
 
 any display of affection in public, as partaking of a 
 lascivious tendency, not a soul present but felt its 
 propriety and beauty now. The idol of the mother 
 had been removed, and the loss but drew her the 
 more closely to the husband. Mr. Hooker alluded 
 to it very beautifully in his closing address to the 
 mourners. As he spoke to the bereaved mother, 
 he said, "May you find, madam, the arm of the. 
 Almighty drawn around your soul to comfort it, as 
 the arm of your husband is now drawn around your 
 body to support it." 
 
 The graveyard was north of the church, on a 
 slight eminence, now levelled, where some of our 
 public-houses now stand. Many of the trees were 
 still flourishing in their primeval majesty, but clad 
 in the brown tints of the decaying year. A slight 
 shower, the night before, had stripped them of their 
 gaudy plumage, and the yellow and red leaves of the 
 poplar and the maple were lying in heaps upon the 
 grassy graves. The coffin was stripped of its pall, 
 and lowered into the grave. 
 
 Oh ! how the mother s soul shuddered as the 
 ends of the last earthly house of her Henry grated 
 on the pebbles as it slowly sank into the earth ! A 
 few shovels full of soil were then flung upon the cof 
 fin, and the minister solemnly returned the thanks 
 
230 THE FAWN OF THE TALE FACES J 
 
 of the mourners for " burying their dead out of 
 their sight;" when the crowd dispersed, and the 
 grave-digger and his assistant shovelled in the re 
 maining earth, without any ceremony. 
 
 Col. Dudley endeavored to persuade his wife to 
 leave the place ; but no : there was a terrible fasci 
 nation to stay and watch until every glimpse of the 
 coffin of her son was hidden from sight ; and, even 
 then, it was with extreme difficulty that she could be 
 hurried away, though the flushed cheek, hot hand, 
 and trembling frame told her husband that the ex 
 citement had proved too much for her. 
 
 There is no sound in animate or inanimate nature 
 so intensely saddening as that of the fall of the first 
 clod of earth on the coffin of a beloved friend. The 
 heart never feels so utterly forsaken as at that mo 
 ment. While the friend was struggling with life, 
 there was hope. No one ever relinquishes it. Even 
 after the absolute certainty of death is forced upon 
 the understanding, there still is a kind o f lingering 
 hope that some miracle might yet take place that it 
 may be but a trance that the dead may live. We 
 think of all the miracles which Christ wrought on 
 earth, and feel as if ours was just the case to call 
 out his compassion to restore the lost one. 
 
 It is not Hope. She has left the threshold. It 
 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 231 
 
 is but clinging to the shadow which she throws on 
 the wall at her departure. 
 
 But when the coffin is closed, and the lid screwed 
 down, and the pall flung over it, we tremble, for even 
 the shadow of Hope has left us. Then comes the 
 grave the heaped up earth by its side the sobered 
 eyes of the sorrowing spectators all turned upon us 
 the grating of the coffin as it moves down the 
 deep, dark pit, and then, as the solemn sound of 
 that first shovel-full of earth comes up, deadened, from 
 the depths below, it knells death death to .the 
 heart. The last farewell of the soul until the resur 
 rection morning is then uttered. 
 
 There is another painful period, when friends are 
 lost, that the mourning heart feels. It is the first 
 meal after the funeral is over. The place at the 
 family board is empty. There is no saying that he 
 is absent or sick, or will be present soon. It never 
 more will be occupied. Move the chair away. He 
 comes no more. Meals, and days, and months, and 
 y ear g nay, a whole long lifetime may pass, but 
 the lost one comes no more ! 
 
 How well for man it is, that the sources of grief 
 dry up in the heart that time is the great softener 
 and alleviator, and that memory is less intense, as 
 the world moves on. Man could not endure and per- 
 
232 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 form the great duty which God has set before him, 
 if there were no drying up of the springs of sorrow 
 in his soul. 
 
 How well for man, that he can look beyond the 
 gates of the grave into a country of happiness, peace, 
 and love, where all tears shall be wiped away, and 
 where he hopes, once more, to meet the beloved ones 
 of earth. Were the grave "the be-all and end-all" 
 of life, how wretched would man be ! But Hope, 
 that had fled from the heart, and withdrawn even its 
 darkened shadow from the wall, comes back with the 
 sunlight of Heaven, which casts no shadow over the 
 heart, but fills the soul with the blissful anticipations 
 of the future. 
 
 The evening meal was passed in silence and in 
 tears. The evening exercise was from the fifteenth 
 chapter of the Corinthians, and the enthusiasm of 
 the belief in the resurrection lighted up the face of 
 our Puritan with the glow of consolation. But, alas ! 
 it struck no answering chord in the heart of his wife; 
 the coflm the pall the grave in the cold church 
 yard closed in over the gloomy night of her soul. 
 As she shut her eyes, the dead form of her loved son 
 came before her in such vivid distinctness, that she 
 would start as if it were real. There was no vision 
 of the future, of hearts purified arid justified, spend- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 233 
 
 ing an eternity in glowing and glorious light, such as 
 flashed over her husband s mind, and were described 
 in the bright language of his Christian eloquence ; 
 there was a long, dark journey before her ; she trod 
 it alone ; gloomy was the aspect of the strait path, 
 as she slowly forced her way through its obstacles ; 
 it was the path to the grave, and she shuddered as 
 her mind seemed compelled by some extraneous 
 power to contemplate it ; reason almost tottered on 
 its throne, when her husband closed his explanatory 
 exercise on the chapter, and rose for prayer. 
 
 There was a warm and kind vein of sympathy 
 running through his whole prayer, that soothed Anne 
 Dudley s spirit, and led the storm of her mind to 
 seek relief in tears. 
 
 As she lay that night with her head on her 
 husband s breast, she broke out suddenly with the 
 exclamation : " Husband, God is righteous, and has 
 punished me as I deserve. As I have lain here, the 
 past has been brought before me in the most vivid 
 coloring. The reckless rashness, obstinacy, and self- 
 will of our son has been my fault. He was my dar 
 ling, and I never restrained him in childhood or 
 youth. I was proud of his beauty, and thus gave 
 him vain and frivolous ideas. I was proud of 
 his spirit, as manifesting the chivalry of his an- 
 
234 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 cestors, and I never checked its unholy prompt 
 ings. God has visited me in justice, and taken 
 my idol from my heart. You restrained his petu 
 lance and his impetuosity, and I encouraged it; 
 hence he came to me under all his restraints for 
 release. It is I that have brought him up to perish 
 early. It is I that have educated him to die "by the 
 hand of violence. Do not comfort me by words, 
 dear husband it is not just ; but press me closer to 
 your breast, for, oh, my heart is cold within me." 
 
 " How hot you are, my Anne, there s fever in 
 your system. Shall I rise and prepare some medi 
 cines ? " 
 
 " Nay, nay, leave me not. I shall not hold you 
 long. Again there comes before my soul that long, 
 long, dark, gloomy path, that leads to the grave. 
 Henry s pale and bloody form beckons me forward 
 in it." 
 
 " Anne, dear Anne, your mind wanders. Let 
 me get some cooling drink." 
 
 " Not yet, not yet. Let me lie on your breast 
 yet awhile. I must soon exchange it for the damp 
 earth of yonder graveyard." 
 
 She was quiet for a while, when a violent shiver 
 ing fit succeeded to the burning fever of the moment 
 before. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 235 
 
 In these alternations of heat and cold, the night 
 was spent, and she did not slumber until the morning 
 was advancing, when Col. Dudley arose from his 
 sleepless couch, leaving the unconscious Anne in her 
 fevery sleep. He immediately despatched Edward 
 for the physician of the settlement, who at once pro 
 nounced that Mrs. Dudley had a violent attack of 
 lung fever, that disorder so disastrous and fatal to 
 the early settlers. 
 
236 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 "No : no : they are not lost to us ; the dark cold grave holds not 
 All that we priz d or lov d so well, within that narrow spot. 
 A wider home, a freer range is theirs that heavenly train ; 
 Nor shall they feel again, as once, the sting of grief or pain." 
 
 Old Time*. 
 
 ANNE DUDLEY gradually sank through several suc 
 ceeding (lays. She suffered little pain the sick of 
 that disease seldom do. For most of the time, she 
 lay in a state of stupor, where weakness and fever 
 were alternately performing their sad office. 
 
 She was seldom rational ; or, if giving rational 
 answers, forgetting them in a moment. Often, dur 
 ing her sickness, her mind wandered. There was no 
 violence in the delirium, Ibut the spirit, in its mut 
 tered words, seemed dwelling on the past. It was 
 the bright day of youth and hope once more with 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 237 
 
 Anne Stanley. Sudley Park was before her in its 
 beauties. The meadow bank, rich with the green of 
 early spring, with its bright screen of hawthorn blos 
 soms, was before her eyes. She smelt the morning 
 perfume of the violets, as the light breeze breathed 
 over their odor. She heard the evening sound of 
 the curfew, as it came softened over the low hills. 
 There was peace and joy and youthful gayety once 
 more in her old, withered, crushed heart. 
 
 Oh, how intensely did the anxious husband listen 
 to these low mutterings ; how the firm lips quivered, 
 and the stern eyes filled, as he followed these early 
 reminiscences, and heard how Thomas Dudley s name 
 mingled with their bliss. 
 
 The present was seldom with her : most of her 
 conceptions were brilliant and beautiful ; most of 
 them infantile recollections of her early home. The 
 death and funeral of her son were never pictured to 
 her imagination ; the long, long, dark gloomy path 
 that led to the gates of the grave seemed banished 
 from her soul. 
 
 Once, when an unusual pain slightly racked her 
 system, she was terrified with a scene of their early 
 life in America. The first time in which she had 
 ever seen the Indians in their war-paint, was when a 
 party of them, for some treaty-making purposes, had 
 
238 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 entered the settlement and marched through the 
 streets. The sight struck terror into the young 
 mother s heart. She seized her two little boys, and 
 fled into some dark recess of the house, from which 
 it required all the tenderness and some of the firm 
 ness of her husband to withdraw her. 
 
 This scene was re-enacted in that moment of pain : 
 the plumed and painted savage the terror the 
 agony, at first, to find her boys, who were exulting 
 in the pageant as it passed their house in its visit to 
 the Governor the vain effort to conceal them and 
 herself; all passed over her mind in their full 
 reality. 
 
 As her mind calmed, when the pain grew less, 
 the memory of that scene grew less terrific. " See, 
 husband," she said, " how our boys show out their 
 characters now. Edward looks on calmly and grave 
 ly, as if he asked himself what is the use of all this- 
 parade, while darling Henry claps his little hands 
 with glee, and imitates the strut of the savages." 
 
 Once, as reason dawned, she asked for Henry 
 and Edward. " Here I am, mother," was Edward s 
 soft reply. She looked around. " Oh, I remember 
 now," and tears came to her relief. 
 
 Her husband watched over her, night and day, 
 though every neighbor was kind, and the whole com- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 239 
 
 munity anxious. A little band of exiles in a 
 new and savage country feel powerfully drawn to 
 wards each other. 
 
 On the last night of her residence on earth, her 
 mind brightened. She spoke of her death with no 
 terror. She expressed her faith fully in her Savior. 
 
 " Husband, dear husband," said the dying wife, in 
 a voice so low that he had to stoop over her to hear 
 it, " your prayers for me have been answered, and I 
 have peace within oh, what peace and hope ! Your 
 duties to me, so cheerfully, kindly, affectionately 
 bestowed, are soon to be finished, but I cannot go 
 the way of all the living, without blessing you from 
 my inmost heart for all that you have been to me. 
 I have often grieved that I had not a stronger char 
 acter, and a stronger mind, to have assisted you in 
 the great work you have undertaken here in the wil 
 derness. I have not been a help-meet for you. I 
 have hindered you often by my fears and my follies, 
 by domestic cares perhaps by a too exacting love. 
 I am afraid I have demanded from you" that time 
 which would have been better devoted to the state, 
 or to God." 
 
 " Dear Anne, think not so. I have often blessed 
 my God, that you was just such a wife ; so entirely 
 fitted for the character I must bear in my outer des- 
 
240 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 tiny. Had you interfered with my plans by your 
 dictation, or even by your unasked advice, I might 
 have felt that you was going beyond your sphere. 
 Had you been a fretful, complaining woman, my 
 home would soon have been a wretched one. But you 
 have never presumed upon my affection to direct my 
 plans ; when I have felt doubtful about certain mea 
 sures, I have placed the subject before you, and your 
 decision has always been right. I was rejoiced to 
 find that you did not take sufficient interest in the 
 discussions going on, to feel elated or chagrined at 
 their success or failure. They were burdens that a 
 proud, firm man, as I am called, prefers to bear 
 alone. But no, my dear wife, you have been always 
 ready to soothe my cares by your affection, without 
 the curiosity to inquire what those cares were, unless 
 I chose to unburden my heart. I have given you 
 my confidence, whenever I have thought the confi 
 dence itself would not be a burden to you. But, oh, 
 how delightful has been the feeling, when, agitated 
 by the trials of a new colony, anxious for the success 
 of my measures, uneasy at the prospect of things in 
 England, or disturbed by the encroachments of the 
 Dutch, or the incursions of the Indians, how delight 
 ful it has been to me to feel that I had a home, 
 inhere I could fling them all aside, and that I had 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 241 
 
 a wife, whose ready affection would soothe my cares 
 and troubles who loved the man, not the statesman. 
 Dear, very dear to me, has been our affectionate in 
 tercourse, Anne. It has softened me, led me heaven 
 ward, destroyed the influences of selfishness and 
 pride, and strewed my path of life with all the flow 
 ers that God has chosen should adorn it. Without 
 you, I should have been a cold, hard, haughty man ; 
 forgetful, too often, of the nicer sensibilities that 
 throb in the hearts of others." 
 
 She smiled upon him as he stooped over her, and 
 raised her weak hand and felt of the beloved face, 
 pushed back the hair on the forehead, and passed 
 her hand gently over every feature, while her eyes 
 seemed devouring, for the last time, those lineaments 
 so dear to her. 
 
 Dudley started as he felt that hand. It was hard 
 and rough, with the long labors of the wilderness. 
 When he had clasped it in his own, he had not felt 
 the change, for his own were still more hard and 
 rough and horn-like by his constant labor. He 
 thought of the soft, white hand he had first pressed 
 on the violet bank in Sudley Park ; and a pang of 
 regret of almost remorse, passed across his bosom, 
 as he remembered to what labor and toil and suffer- 
 
242 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES 
 
 ing his love had subjected that tender and delicate 
 woman. 
 
 But earth, its labors, and toils and suffering, 
 would soon be over. " Husband, kiss me once 
 more once more, as in youthful love." 
 
 The last, long kiss of expiring love was taken : 
 as she sank back upon her pillow, she faintly said : 
 " Thomas, you will soon follow me, will you not ? " 
 
 That night, she died, dropping, all unconscious 
 of pain or of dissolution, into the long, last sleep of 
 death. 
 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 " Tis like those pangs the wretched know, 
 Who bury all they love below ; 
 "Who hear the clod s dead, heavy fall, 
 Upon the coffin of their all ; 
 Whose hopes all lie beneath its lid, 
 Yet long to see that coffin hid ; 
 And, turning from the narrow cell, 
 Reflect that all they lov d so well, 
 Is mute and cold beneath the clay 
 That holds them for corruption s prey." 
 
 Old Times. 
 
 AGAIN, the long funeral train of bearers, with the bier 
 on their shoulders, sought the meeting-house ; again, 
 did Col. Dudley and his son take their seat in " the 
 pew reserved for the mourners," and listen to the 
 voice of the saintly Hooker, as he preached the accus 
 tomed sermon over the dead. 
 
 In his glowing eloquence, he delineated the life 
 
244 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 of the deceased ; he spoke of her youth, spent amid 
 the luxuries of the Court in England, of the deli 
 cate, and timid, and tender female, leaving all that 
 had twined itself around an affectionate heart, to fol 
 low a beloved husband into the wilderness, there to 
 give the testimony of a well-spent life to the religion 
 she professed. He described her influence over the 
 women of the colony ; how, by her labors and toils, 
 she had shown that work was no degradation for the 
 nobly born, no objection to the delicately bred. 
 He spoke of the example of her purity and her mild 
 ness; of her home virtues, and the light she had 
 spread over that sacred inclosure. He spoke of her 
 charities ; of their quiet distillation over the neigh 
 borhood like the dew of Heaven; of the many 
 mothers in Israel that she had relieved, strengthened, 
 comforted, supported. 
 
 "Hear you that sob?" exclaimed he, in tones 
 that thrilled through every heart. "It is not from 
 the bereaved husband s heart. He looks up in faith 
 beyond the veil of time, and sees her now in all the 
 glorious garniture of Heaven. It is not from the 
 motherless son : the spirit of submission to our 
 Father, God, restrains the agony of his emotion. It 
 is from yon group of widows, whose stay and staff 
 has been rent from their hands. Were tlU the 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 245 
 
 proper place, you would see them, like the widows 
 of Joppa, not only weeping, but showing the coats 
 and the garments which Dorcas had made while she 
 was with them. Not all the solemn requiems of 
 the cathedrals of her native land could better sound 
 over her remains than those widows sobs. No 
 Egyptian spices could better embalm her memory 
 than those widows tears. No carved marble slab 
 will stand in the church of her native village to 
 record her name and preserve her memory. It is 
 recorded on the tablet of the orphans hearts, and 
 will be felt and cherished after her body has crum 
 bled into the grave." 
 
 Silently the father and the son deposited the 
 remains of their loved one in the dust. The No 
 vember wind howled bleakly through the bare and 
 leafless trees that stood over her grave. The leaves 
 fit emblems of mortality, dry and crisped, and 
 sear, whirled in giddy dances over the rough-hewn 
 tombstones of the inclosure. Far in a corner of 
 that grave-yard, they left her, to await the Arch- 
 angers trump. 
 
 Silently they passed back to their desolate home, 
 and sat down to their untasted meal. 
 
 " Edward," said the father, " we are all that is 
 left of the household. You are of age, and have al- 
 
246 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 ready entered upon the duties of manhood. Your 
 path now must be an independent one, based on your 
 own resolutions and decisions. My task, as the 
 father of a family, in this world has ended. May 
 G-od forgive its errors, and bless its efforts. My 
 plan is forme 1 Henceforward, I devote myself to 
 the interests of this rising colony. My private 
 wants are few. You know our neighbor, Peleg 
 Wright, has been obliged through misfortune to sell 
 his farm. He has no children, and it is my determi 
 nation to place him and his wife in this house to 
 take care of our domestic affairs. His wife is a 
 strong woman, and abundantly able to take upon her 
 shoulders all the labor your mother performed. 
 Wright himself has health enough left to superintend 
 on the farm such laborers as I shall hire. This ar 
 rangement will be a charity to them, and a con 
 venience to me ; and it is one respecting which no 
 scandal can be breathed. 
 
 " But, Edward, as I said before, you are now a 
 man. I have enough property for you to commence 
 life for yourself, and to begin the solemn duties of 
 the family relation. Is there no female around you 
 of the proper age, and of a suitable disposition, that 
 you can make your wife ?" 
 
 " Father, you have touched upon a delicate sub- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 247 
 
 ject ; but I will answer you in the confidence with 
 which you speak. There was one to whom I had 
 given my whole heart. Late disclosures, as you well 
 know, have forbidden the hope of possessing her. I 
 can love but once, and I shall never marry. To this 
 conclusion I had arrived long since, when I found 
 myself my brother s rival. From duty to him, I 
 had buried my feelings in my own breast. Now he 
 is no more, I can express them to you, my dear 
 father ; but I cannot comply with your wishes." 
 
 " It is strange, Edward, that I never suspected 
 this. Your brother made no secret of his attach 
 ment. It is strange. But I know your tenacity of 
 purpose, and the command you have over every ex 
 pression of emotion." 
 
 " Edward," continued he, after pondering some 
 time, " are you not afraid that this power of conceal 
 ing real emotion may prove of disservice to your 
 character ? Will it not beget not only a cold exter 
 nal habit, but, in its very self-control, produce the 
 same coldness of feeling ? The habitual restraint of 
 the expression of passion may, in time, repress the 
 emotion itself, and you become cold, calculating, and 
 feelingless." 
 
 " There is not much danger of that now, father. 
 But, whatever may be its effects, the habit is formed 
 
248 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 and fixed ; neither do I wish to alter it. Self-control 
 will give me a much greater control over men." 
 
 " Be careful that it does not make you selfish 
 and overbearing, as life advances. 
 
 " But, my son, speaking of Jane Seymour, as she 
 has been called, you may have thought it strange, 
 since my public acknowledgment of her, that I have 
 not brought her home. I could not, under the ex 
 istence of your brother s feelings, and certainly shall 
 not now with yours. I made some overtures to Cap 
 tain Seymour, through the Governor, to assist in her 
 support ; but the Captain absolutely and positively 
 refused all assistance, and declared, that while he 
 lived, she should never want support, and that she 
 should never darken my doors. 
 
 " I have reflected a great deal upon the occur 
 rence, as much, in fact, as the peculiar condition of 
 our late sorrows would allow. I cannot understand 
 the circumstances yet. If Jane Seymour is the 
 daughter of Alice Lee, and I am her father, she 
 ought to be much older; older than my early 
 recollections of her childhood, when she first reached 
 this country, would warrant. Yet, she is the perfect 
 picture of Alice Lee, as she stood before me in the 
 bloom of her youth." 
 
 " Jane used to say that her uncle made her 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 249 
 
 much older than either of us, and yet she never rea 
 lized it herself." 
 
 As Edward laid his head on his pillow that 
 night, Hope wove her silver-threaded web over his 
 heart. He ransacked his memory for early expres 
 sions of Jane and of Seymour, before the families 
 had quarrelled, to make out the fabric of another 
 airy castle, and furnish materials for Hope s woven 
 tissue. But he could not succeed ; and soon his 
 thoughts took another turn, though still every link 
 in the chain was stained with the hue that had 
 painted the first. 
 
 What a magic wand has Hope ! What an appa 
 rently firm tissue of events can she weave out of a 
 single attenuated thread ! But for hope, the world 
 would be a wilderness indeed, only surpassed by 
 the still bleaker " leafless desert of the mind," which 
 would be the lot of those who tread it ! 
 
 11* 
 
250 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES : 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 "But he who stems a stream with sand, 
 And fetters flame with flaxen band, 
 Has still a harder task to prove, 
 By firm resolve to conquer love." 
 
 Scott. 
 
 WE have left our heroine too long, and we fear lest 
 she should not be quite as much a favorite with our 
 readers as she is with us. 
 
 When the surprise and shock made by the com 
 munication of Capt. Seymour in the court-room were 
 deadened a little from their first intenseness, Jane 
 reflected long and thoughtfully upon the story. 
 There was much in it that she could not reconcile to 
 the facts in her own memory. She had heard it 
 remarked, that she and her reputed uncle reached 
 this country about five years after Col. Dudley ; and 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 251 
 
 that Edward was six years old when he came to 
 Connecticut, and his brother some three years 
 younger. She computed her own supposed age with 
 these data, and could not reconcile them. The 
 memory of her own girlhood was inconsistent with 
 the idea that she was so old as Seymour would make 
 her. The kindness, too, of her uncle had been so 
 uniform and so intense that she could not but wonder 
 why it should have been exercised towards an ene 
 my s child. But then Col. Dudley had publicly 
 acknowledged the relationship, and made overtures 
 for her support. She puzzled herself in vain efforts 
 to disentangle the intricate mazes of such a web of 
 inconsistencies. 
 
 The first time that she saw her uncle alone, she 
 inquired of him what he intended to do with her. 
 " Do with you ? why keep you, and support you, 
 and love you, as usual. That cursed old Puritan 
 wants to do something for you, but I will see him as 
 far the other side of the infernal regions as it is from 
 here there, before I will permit it. No, Jane ! I 
 promised your mother to be a father to you, and I 
 will be. So, do you call me uncle still, and be my 
 dear niece ; and don t worry your head about sup 
 port. You shall never want while I live, nor after 
 I m dead, as you ll find by my will. So cheer up, 
 
252 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 and let us hear the sound of your voice singinp- 
 through the old house, as usual." 
 
 " Indeed, uncle, I have no wish to leave you, but 
 I supposed that the laws, or some other cause, might 
 require it. I have no wish to go into Colonel Dud 
 ley s family. There are many reasons why I should 
 not. But, dear uncle, this stain upon my birth must 
 ever prevent me from going beyond the walls that 
 have sheltered me so long, for I shall be pointed at 
 wherever I go. Do not therefore urge it ?" 
 
 " Well, well, I will not. I would not have told 
 thq story, but to shame that old hypocrite. I m 
 sorry I did, if you take it so much to heart." 
 
 " Such truths are always better known than con 
 cealed. Think of the horrid situation I now should 
 be in, if, in answer to his solicitations, I had married 
 Henry Dudley. The truth is always the best, and I 
 regret that I was not informed of it sooner myself. 
 As for singing, dear uncle, songs are the language of 
 joy and happiness ; and you cannot expect them 
 from me." 
 
 " Well, then, be as happy as you can ; but never 
 talk of support while old Richard Seymour is living." 
 
 Ever after that conversation, Capt. Seymour s 
 conduct towards Jane was of the kindest character. 
 He never blamed nor scolded her as he had often 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 253 
 
 done, but allowed her to do as she pleased ; and ap 
 peared relieved, and even gratified, if he saw a smile 
 upon her face. He was evidently in considerable 
 mental perturbation, and, seemingly, anxious to de 
 cide upon some course to which he was averse ; and 
 though kind, and even tender to Jane, was terribly 
 irascible to his whole household. 
 
 From the reports of the domestics, Jane learnt, 
 day by day, the history of the little community the 
 departure of the troops, the sudden move of Henry, 
 and the grief of his mother, were brought to her 
 with the usual exaggerations. About Henry s state 
 of mind she made many inquiries, and expressed 
 much sympathy. She made no remarks on Edward s 
 military advancement, not even expressing her 
 gratification at the evidently high reputation for pru 
 dence, forbearance, and bravery that he enjoyed 
 among the leading men of the colony. 
 
 " It is Henry after all that she loved," said Han 
 nah to Esther ; " I was not quite certain before, for 
 I thought she rather huffed him^ It is he, for she 
 has said so much about his absence A ind his feelings." 
 
 " Well," said Esther, " I m glad it was not that 
 sober, cold-hearted Edward. But, poor girl, she 
 can t have either of them now ! " 
 
 How falsely they reasoned True love is silent 
 
254 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 and reserved. It is shy of mentioning the beloved 
 name, and shrinks from commemorating even the 
 merits of the favored one. Friendship is loquacious, 
 can talk and act, and feel sympathy ; while Love 
 buries its sympathy in the inmost heart, and fears to 
 allude even to the cause that would produce it. 
 Where you see a young lady prompt in praising a 
 man s virtues or. good qualities of mind or body, 
 depend upon it there is no love there. Love ex 
 presses no sympathy or admiration, however much it 
 may feel them. There is no raising of the eye with 
 the glad gaze of welcome, as the loved one ap 
 proaches ; the welcome is in the dewy lid, the cast- 
 down look, the trembling nerve, the palpitating 
 bosom. Friendship has an open, honest, gladsome 
 gaze. It grasps you by the hand as welcome yes, 
 very welcome to the lighter feelings and emotions of 
 the heart. 
 
 He who is experienced in the knowledge of the 
 human soul, can tell, by one reception from the girl he 
 secretly loves, ho^she stands affected towards him ; 
 how much the j?Jy of seeing him is the honest ex 
 pression of open friendship, or the timid, trembling 
 concealment of hidden love. Even a lady s eye, if 
 she possesses a true character, will be guide enough 
 to her feelings. How differently the world judges ! 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 255 
 
 The news of Henry s death reached Jane sud 
 denly. Hannah and Esther heard it early, before 
 breakfast, and formed a plan between themselves to 
 settle the question of her love, by its annunciation. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Jane, only think ! Henry Dudley has 
 been killed by the Indians, and they are bringing 
 his corpse round to his home in a boat, by the Little 
 River." 
 
 She turned very pale and trembled, as what girl 
 would not at hearing of the death of one who had 
 stood to her in such a relation. 
 
 " Oh, horrible news ! Is it true ? Is Edward safe ? " 
 
 The handmaidens were satisfied, and they in 
 dulged their propensity to gossip by giving her the 
 details. 
 
 At Henry s funeral Jane took a seat in the 
 corner of the gallery, in rather a disguise, so that 
 she should not be recognized. Her tears fell plen 
 tifully, whether over Henry s bier, standing in the 
 aisle, or over the sight of Edward s calm, pale face, 
 we are unable to determine. It was a terrible fasci 
 nation, however, to sit and mark the expression of 
 that face ; there seemed to be something more manly 
 than ever before, in the rigid determination to sup 
 press all external signs of immoderate grief which 
 marked his countenance. 
 
256 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 "It is only for once. It is only for this time," 
 exclaimed she to herself. " May God forgive me ! 
 but it is the last last time ; he does not think of 
 me, he never will, only as a sister, bringing dis 
 grace to his house and his father s name." 
 
 We are afraid our poor heroine heard little of the 
 sermon that day, and did not sufficiently realize that 
 he was in the coffin before her who had loved her 
 with an Eastern fervency of passion. 
 
 That night Jane went earlier to her couch than 
 usual, but not to sleep. She held a long and solemn 
 communion with her own heart, and chid its way 
 wardness in loving one who had been declared to be 
 her brother, and who had never transcended the 
 bounds of a brother s gentle love to her. She ac 
 cused herself of a want of maidenly delicacy, in thus 
 giving her heart unsought. She accused herself of 
 crime in the nature of her attachment. But, accuse 
 as she would, the feeling would arise ; the faint 
 hope, the fancy generated by desire, that there 
 was yet some unthreaded mystery about her birth. 
 She finally came to the resolution to rouse up every 
 dormant energy, and drive his image from her mind. 
 This resolution calmed her, and she set about its 
 accomplishment with energy. She kept herself 
 busily employed ; she would not allow herself a mo- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 257 
 
 rnent for reverie, or even reflection. If his image 
 occurred (and, alas ! it would, full often), she drove 
 it from her soul by the effort that every well-regu 
 lated mind can make. A change of place would 
 have assisted her ; but she had no daily associations 
 with his presence at her own home, and change of 
 place was the less necessary. 
 
 Thank heaven ! such wounds to a sensitive heart 
 are not irremediable. There is a conservative 
 energy in a well-governed breast that will rally from 
 the effects of such a wound, and recover its healthful 
 tone. 
 
 But let such a sufferer avoid the society of the 
 one who inflicted the blow avoid even the places 
 where the loved image can be recalled by associa 
 tions, for these associations that memory cherishes 
 as the fondest, are the most opposed to the power of 
 recovery. 
 
 After all, the discharge of accustomed duty will 
 be the best remedy for the wounded spirit in all 
 such cases of despair. The consciousness of per 
 formed duty will seem, at first, but a poor exchange 
 for love unreturned or despised ; but it will soon ex 
 tract the poison from the dart, and bind up the 
 wounds of the soul. 
 
 This was Jane Sevmour s consolation ; and in 
 
258 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 the performance of her wonted duty, she sought for 
 comfort, and found it. Her uncle s health seemed 
 to be breaking up. He needed her society and her 
 assistance much, and she gave it cheerfully ; and 
 found not only comfort, but happiness ; not enjoy 
 ment, for she seldom smiled. The charms of life s 
 future prospects had been broken, and though the 
 storm was retreating, the rainbow of promise and of 
 Hope did not gild its dark border. 
 
 All her anxiety was revived by the intelligence 
 that Madam Dudley had taken cold by standing on 
 the wet grass at Henry s funeral, and had a lung 
 fever ; and that she was considered dangerously sick. 
 The daily news brought her of the sick woman s con 
 dition was a sore trial to her resolution. She re 
 membered with gratitude Mrs. Dudley s early atten 
 tion to her, and would have gladly joined the sym 
 pathizing neighbors in their care, but many things 
 intervened. 
 
 When Madam Dudley died, there were such un 
 utterable yearnings of spirit to have the power of 
 comforting Edward, that her heart rose in rebellion, 
 and seemed almost inclined to fling off those fetters 
 of stern resolve which she had bound round it. But 
 her better, firmer nature conquered, and she was her 
 self again, the stronger for her struggle, though it 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 259 
 
 had added to the pallor of her cheek and the settled 
 gloom of her dark melting eye. 
 
 She did not attend the funeral. She argued that 
 it was better for the firm decisions she had made, 
 not to see Edward under the softening influences 
 which sympathy for his loss might create. 
 
 Such was poor Jane s condition, as the cold 
 "blasts of winter whistled through the leafless forests 
 of Hartford, fit emblem which she presented of 
 
 " The shrivell d scroll, the scatter d leaf, 
 Sear d by the autumn-blast of grief." 
 
260 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 "Dear me 1 to think that Dombey and Son is a Daughter, after all ! " 
 
 Miss Tow. 
 
 THE health of Capt. Seymour appeared gradually to 
 fail, without the intervention of any particular disor 
 der. He grew melancholy ; his former swelling and 
 bravado had quite forsaken him. Once or twice he 
 was willing to allow that his Puritan neighbors had 
 some commendable traits of character : he was very 
 kind to Jane, rather oppressively so. 
 
 At first she felt inclined to be by herself, and to 
 spend her hours in silence ; but as soon as she saw 
 that her company was necessary for the old man s 
 comfort and happiness, she seldom left him, but con 
 versed with him cheerfully and quietly, though 
 never gayly. She read to him from such books as 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 261 
 
 she had access to, but more particularly from the 
 Bible. The daily lessons of the church were read 
 by her, and listened to with most devout seriousness 
 by the Captain. She tried to induce him to attend 
 meeting on the Sabbath, but was unable to accom 
 plish that object. His will was rewritten under a 
 lawyer s direction, and it secured to Jane the entire 
 control of every description of his property, brought 
 from England, or accumulated in this country. 
 
 As the earlier months of winter passed on, he 
 grew more feeble 5 and, finally, one morning, when 
 unable to rise, he listened to Jane s earnest request, 
 and sent for a physician. He told the Captain 
 plainly that his constitution had given way, and that 
 his lease of life was about to expire ; so that if he 
 had any temporal affairs to settle, the sooner he did 
 it the better. 
 
 At first Seymour rather laughed at the assertion ; 
 but finding his strength gone, and the powers of na 
 ture failing, he became alarmed. His attendants 
 got him up, and attempted to dress him; but he 
 fainted, and lay as if dead so long that all the family 
 were much alarmed. 
 
 On his recovery he called Jane to his bed-side, 
 and in a very excited voice, exclaimed ; " Yes, I will 
 do it before I die. I will not go to my last account- 
 
262 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 with a lie in iny mouth. Send as soon as possible 
 for Colonel Dudley and his son, for Governor Haynes, 
 Mr. Culick, and Parson Hooker. Let them come 
 immediately." 
 
 The persons sent for arrived as soon as practicable, 
 wondering at the sudden call. 
 
 " Mr. Culick, you are a lawyer, and have my 
 will already in your possession. I wish you now to 
 put down in a proper and legal form that which I am 
 about to say, that I may sign it, and swear to it. 
 Governor Haynes and Parson Hooker, I have sent 
 for you to be witnesses to my declaration. Thomas 
 Dudley, you and your son are interested in what I 
 have to say, for I am about to confess injustice to 
 you. Jane, do not go away, for I wish you to hear, 
 and shall have no strength to repeat it. I have 
 much to atone for even to you." After a short pause, 
 " Hannah, get writing materials for Mr. Culick, and 
 then leave the room." 
 
 The arrangements were all completed ; Culick 
 and Edward sat down to the table to write, Edward 
 with his back to the bed and to Jane, who sat weep 
 ing at its head, ready to reach any thing the sick 
 man required, but keeping her eyes studiously averted 
 from Edward or his father. Col. Dudley sat in the 
 chair given him by the bed-side, with a stern and 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 263 
 
 rather haughty look; while Haynes and Hooker 
 were grave as the presence of a dying man would 
 make them, as well as the expectation of some singu 
 lar revelation. 
 
 Seymour "began by turning entirely ground, so as 
 to face Col. Dudley, and look him full in the eyes ; 
 and then spoke : " I was acquainted with Alice Lee 
 long before you knew her, Thomas Dudley. I was 
 brought up with her from childhood. She was a 
 sweet, lovely, fragile thing, easily persuaded that 
 this world was all as honest as she, and as guileless. 
 Her great defect of character was a yielding facility 
 of disposition, accompanied by such a kind wish to 
 make every body happy, that she was ready to be 
 stow her love on any one that besought it with tears, 
 more for the sake of calming their misery, than of 
 making herself happy. 
 
 " You remember her exquisite beauty ; that I 
 loved her is no wonder. I had loved her from the 
 first dawn of human passion in my soul. With me 
 there is no change nor turning. Love and hatred 
 are equally strong, and durable as life. I love the 
 memory of Alice Lee as strongly as I loved her per 
 son, and I hate you now, Thomas Dudley, as warmly 
 as I did seven years ago, when you refused my vote 
 in the Town Meeting ; and I tell you plainly, that 
 
264 
 
 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 were it not to do justice to this dear girl, you never 
 should hear how I have wronged you, dying as I 
 may be. 
 
 " The changeful and variable disposition of Alice 
 gave me gre,at uneasiness, though she professed to 
 love me strongly. I expressed myself so warmly 
 upon what I thought the too facile character of her 
 disposition that she grew afraid of me, and, though 
 professing still to love, rather avoided me. I was 
 never gentle enough for such dispositions. Kind- 
 ness would have counteracted the evils of her deport 
 ment much more readily than severity. She went 
 to visit a distant relation, as I thought, and still 
 think, to avoid me. There she saw you, and yielded 
 to your ardently expressed attachment. You said 
 in public, last autumn, that she loved you madly ; 
 but I still believe that there was no more affection 
 than she had bestowed upon me. Perhaps she was 
 incapable of a lasting attachment. 
 
 " I followed her, as soon as I was able, and 
 found her in an agony of grief at your forced depar 
 ture. She at once appealed to my sympathies as a 
 brother, as she called me, to comfort and assist her 
 You, who know my character, can conceive of my 
 chagrin, and even rage, at being appealed to in such 
 a form, where I had every reason to believe that a 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 265 
 
 tenderer tie existed. But I dissembled, and I 
 promised. 
 
 " The first thing which I did was to examine 
 into her alleged marriage. I asked her for the cer 
 tificate : there was none signed. I inquired about 
 the license : none had been granted. I searched for 
 the priest, and without difficulty found him out ; and 
 ascertained that, for the sake of the fees, he had de 
 ceived you, and had never informed you that he had 
 been suspended by the Bishop. The whole marriage 
 was plainly illegal and void in the eye of the law. I 
 told Alice so, and made her believe that you knew 
 it, and had \jsed the deception for the purposes of 
 seduction. 
 
 " She went back with me to our own county, 
 humbled and despairing. She felt herself the victim 
 of deception, and sank under the blow. Submis 
 sively, she begged me to do what I could to hide her 
 shame. I made arrangements by which she was 
 taken care of in Wales, under a feigned name, where 
 her infant and your child died." 
 
 All his hearers made an exclamation at once ; 
 even Edward forgot his usual equanimity, and darted 
 an excited look towards Jane : but she kept her face 
 behind the bed-curtains. 
 
 " Yet you swore," said Col. Dudley, " that she 
 12 
 
266 
 
 that was called Jane Seymour was the daughter of 
 Alice Lee." 
 
 " Be patient, and hear me out. Alice was an 
 orphan, as you well know, and the death of her guar 
 dian had placed the little remains of her fortune in 
 my hands. She preferred remaining in obscurity in 
 Wales, and the civil war and its exciting scenes 
 rather obliterated her from the minds of every one. 
 I visited her constantly, and after a while, renewed 
 my suit. She resisted, although I brought evidences 
 of the illegality of the marriage, and of your appa 
 rent desertion. 
 
 " On your father s death you returned from 
 abroad, and came to Alice s native village in search 
 of her. I placed myself in your way, and persuaded 
 you that she was dead. I knew it was impossible 
 for you to discover her residence, or the falsity of 
 my representations. On my next visit to Alice, I 
 showed her from the public papers that your father 
 was dead, and left her to draw her own conclusions 
 respecting your sincerity. Your marriage to Anne 
 Stanley, which took place not long after, was like 
 wise duly reported to Alice, as a proof of your faith 
 lessness. 
 
 " This argument convinced her that you con 
 sidered the marriage illegal, and that she was your 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 267 
 
 victim. I found it easy then to induce her to be my 
 wife. A happy year was spent in retirement in 
 Wales, but at the close of it I had lost the treasure 
 for which I had played such a desperate game. She 
 died in giving birth to this dear girl, who has been 
 my companion and my solace ever since. 
 
 " Governor Haynes, and gentlemen, you all hear 
 me acknowledge that Jane Seymour is my daughter, 
 born in legal wedlock, and by inheritance and by will, 
 heiress of my estates." 
 
 "Wretch!" said Col. Dudley, "did you suffer 
 Alice Lee to go to her grave believing that I had 
 wronged her ? " 
 
 " You cannot think me such a fool, Thomas Dud 
 ley, as to suppose I would undo the effect of all my 
 schemes by the confession of such a trivial affair ? 
 Besides, of what use would it have proved ? You 
 was married, and was engaged in those political 
 events by which you had lost your property. She 
 was dying, and blessing my kindness with her dying 
 breath, that had saved her from disgrace." 
 
 " One question more," said Governor Haynes, 
 " why did you pass this young lady off as your 
 niece ? " 
 
 " I am hastening to that point. My marriage 
 was unknown to my family or friends. After Alice s 
 
268 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 death I left the scenes in Wales, that only brought 
 her to my recollection, and returned to my native 
 county. To avoid curiosity, and the possible expo 
 sure of the deception practised on Alice, I passed 
 my daughter off as an infant niece, left me by my 
 brother, who had just before died in Spain. The 
 success of the Parliamentary army led me to collect 
 all my property, which had always been kept snug, 
 and embark with my supposed niece and my servants 
 for America. New Netherlands was my destination, 
 but the vessel, for some reason, came up the Connec 
 ticut, and here I resolved to settle ; though, if I had 
 known before I left the vessel, that Thomas Dudley 
 was a member of the colony, I should have gone 
 elsewhere. But you treated me kindly, and little 
 Jane soon took great delight in Madam Dudley s 
 society and that of her boys, which intimacy I en 
 couraged, until the refusal of the Council, of which 
 you was the President, to receive me as a voter un 
 less I became a member of your Puritan church. 
 Your insults, as I considered them, to myself and 
 my religion, have been the cause of all the difficul 
 ties between us. I never forgive ; and if it had not 
 been to place my Jane in her proper position, you 
 would never have heard of this confession." 
 
 During this extended conversation, Edward had, 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 269 
 
 at first, trembled, as lie wrote, by request of Mr. 
 Culick, the outlines of this confession. Upon his 
 emotion being perceived by Mr. Culick, who slightly 
 smiled as he observed it, Edward made one of those 
 efforts for which his mind was distinguished, ban 
 ished every emotion from his pale face, and wrote 
 all that was needed with firm nerves, and a steady 
 hand. What he suffered inwardly, no one ever 
 knew ; what rising hopes and new-fledged joys were 
 nestling in his bosom, as he calmly wrote, were nevei 
 suspected. 
 
 When he finished, Mr. Culick took the instru 
 ment to Capt. Seymour, who signed it with a shak 
 ing hand ; and then it was witnessed by Gov. Haynes 
 and Mr. Hooker. 
 
 Jane, in the mean while, had buried her face in 
 the pillow, near her new-found father s head ; and 
 though her sobs shook .her whole frame, none saw fit 
 to notice it. She dared not speak, even to her 
 father, though she longed to urge him to a forgiving 
 spirit. She dared not look at Edward, lest her face 
 should betray the new-born hopes fluttering in her 
 heart. 
 
 Mr. Hooker then rose : " You have done your 
 duty, Richard Seymour, to our brother Dudley, al 
 though not with the right Christian spirit of forgive- 
 
270 
 
 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 ness. Let me urge you to lay aside your animosity, 
 and allow the light of mercy to irradiate your last 
 hours." 
 
 " Parson Hooker," said the Captain, " I sent for 
 you as a respectable and influential man to witness 
 my statements, but not to preach. So refrain." 
 
 The gentlemen, at this hint, took their leave, full 
 of thought on the strange story they had heard, but 
 perfectly convinced of its truth. 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 271 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 " The rose is fairest when tis budding new ; 
 
 And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears ; 
 The rose is sweetest, washed in morning dew, 
 And lovo is loveliest, when embalm d in tears. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 THE old man lingered till night, carefully and affec 
 tionately attended by his daughter. She never al 
 luded to his late statement, or the strange motives 
 that had led to it, or to the new views and feelings 
 which were budding in her mind. He was uncom 
 plaining and submissive, though he knew he was 
 gradually sinking. 
 
 Jane had no time to turn her eyes inward, and 
 reflect upon her altered destiny, though the feeling 
 that it was altered, would occasionally flash over her 
 soul in its brilliant joyousness, even amid the con 
 templation of the death-scene before her. It was 
 
272 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES; 
 
 impossible to prevent it. The general, steady, 
 straight-forward current of her thoughts was towards 
 her sick father and the attentions due to him. But 
 this onward tide did not prevent side eddies of re 
 flection, or rather, of sudden suggestion, where the 
 ideas connected with her present condition would 
 float round in rapid circles, as if they were in glee. 
 
 He gave many directions about his affairs at in 
 tervals, and heard very devoutly the services of the 
 church for the sick and dying, read by Jane. 
 
 As night drew on, and the darkness closed around 
 them, the Captain stretched up his arms. " Jane, I 
 am going ; kiss me for the last time ; forgive me for 
 all the pain I lately gave you." After a few more 
 gasps, he uttered : " Jane, tell Colonel Dudley that 
 I forgive him the injustice he did me. May God 
 forgive me all that I have done and felt against him, 
 for Christ s sake." "With this prayer for forgiveness, 
 his spirit fled to the tribunal above. 
 
 The day after the funeral, the trustees under the 
 will assembled at the house, by order of Mr. Culick. 
 Edward Hopkins was the principal, for Capt. Sey 
 mour had said that, though a Puritan, he could be 
 trusted. The will gave his whole estate to his 
 daughter Jane, whom he again declared to be his 
 own child, and born in lawful wedlock. Her true 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 273 
 
 age was also stated, which made her a year younger 
 than Edward Dudley, instead of several years older. 
 Mr. Hopkins was appointed her guardian until she 
 was married. A packet of letters was ordered to be 
 given to Col. Dudley, without breaking the seal of 
 the envelope, which proved afterwards to be letters 
 that he had written to Alice Lee, while abroad, 
 which Seymour had taken care should never reach her. 
 
 Soon after this, Edward Dudley requested an in 
 terview with his father, and, telling him of the love 
 he bore to Jane Seymour, requested his permission 
 to pay his addresses to her. 
 
 " To this, my dear son, I can have no objection. 
 The feud between the families was caused by a cir 
 cumstance that has no existence now ; and I am by 
 no means disposed, except for such extraordinary 
 occasions, to thwart the wishes of the young. Jane 
 is worthy of your love. She who has made an affec 
 tionate and kind daughter, will make a loving wife. 
 But, Edward, are you sure of your own feelings ? 
 Do not marry her merely for the sake of having a 
 wife, or from the idle fancy of the moment, or for 
 the property which she possesses, and for the influ 
 ence which that will give you in the community. 
 On a union, formed from such motives, there will be 
 no blessing descending from God. Do not marry, 
 12* 
 
274 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 unless there is in your heart such a fountain of 
 strong affection that it will sweep away in its courses 
 all the obstacles which the petty duties of life must 
 spread in your way. Obstacles will arise to the 
 smooth progress of married love, from unforeseen 
 dissimilarity of temper, from clashing wills, from the 
 various lets and hindrances that clog the wheels of 
 life s progress from without. To meet all these, 
 there needs that strong affection which can bear and 
 forbear, which can submit when necessary, and re 
 frain from exasperation ; an affection that makes 
 the two spirits but one in feeling, in aim, in action. 
 You have never yet shown that affection ; can you 
 feel it ? " 
 
 " Father, do not suppose, because I conceal my 
 feelings, that I do not possess them. I was early 
 taught by you to exercise self-control. Often have 
 you told me, in childhood, that its want was your 
 great defect of character your easily besetting sin. 
 I saw its want in brother Henry, and the pain which 
 this deficiency gave you and my mother. Hence, I 
 early formed the habit of self-control, and, as a con 
 sequence, of concealment. I am conscious that I 
 possess strong feelings and warm affections. I know 
 that I can make sacrifices, for I have already made 
 them. Why should the world know the same? 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 275 
 
 When ray character or acquirements or knowledge 
 will prove of any benefit to the world, it shall have 
 their exhibition, but I have no wish to carry around 
 a card on my forehead, announcing that I am a man 
 of strong feelings, warm affections, possessing deli 
 cacy and tenderness and truth ; look all ye men, and 
 admire ; ponder all ye women, and love ! 
 
 " Forgive me, my dear father, if there is any 
 thing disrespectful in this language to you or your 
 wishes. I feel assured that I shall make a kind hus 
 band to Jane, for I love her with all the energy of a 
 strong soul, exercising its power of self-control. 
 That love will be the hidden wheel that will regulate 
 every action and feeling of my life." 
 
 " Well, well, my son, I am silenced, though not 
 convinced. Depend upon it, however, if Jane Sey 
 mour possesses one of those dispositions that require 
 daily asseverations of love, as the daily food of th<? 
 heart, she has many unhappy hours before her." 
 
 " But why so, father ? She must know that 1 
 love her next to my God ; she must know from my 
 character that my affections are as unchangeable as 
 the laws of the Medes and Persians : that knowledge 
 ought to satisfy her, without my telling her of it 
 daily. I shall live and act for her ; why must I say 
 so constantly ? " 
 
276 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 " Edward, you do not know any thing yet of tlie 
 female heart, and, hereafter, when you find Jane 
 with a cloud on her brow, and her own expressions 
 of intense love becoming formal and constrained, you 
 will remember this conversation." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 277 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYI. 
 
 " "Wilt thou be mine ? Is there no distant hope 
 That time will waft me to the isle of joy 
 Rising so fair, amid the lake of life, 
 Decked with bright green and flowers that never fade ? 
 No greater joy to me, than, by thy side, 
 To push our boat to that green, happy isle ; 
 Our hearts in unison, like strokes of oars ; 
 Together braving every storm that low rs ; 
 Together smiling, as the sun basks bright 
 Upon the glassy wave, that floats us on." 
 
 Altawmati ; Canto II. 
 
 How different are the natures of man and woman on 
 the subject of that great motive power in the mecha 
 nism of human happiness Love. On the mind of 
 man it is much more violent ; in woman, more 
 lasting. Man s love is more material; woman s, 
 more intellectual. In man, it is a passion; in 
 
278 
 
 woman, an emotion. With man, it is but a transient 
 flame, burning, to be sure, with strength, but liable 
 to be interrupted by the employments of the world. 
 With woman, it is her all, " her world, her sun," fed 
 with continual fire in the inmost recesses of her 
 heart. With man, it is the relaxation of life ; with 
 woman, it is the business. Hence, if you destroy it 
 in man, you rouse his feelings for a moment, but the 
 cares of this world and the deceitfulness of employ 
 ment soon rub out the effect. His beloved sinks 
 from his heart 
 
 " As sinks the stranger in the crowded street 
 Of busy London : some short bustle s caused 
 A few inquiries and the crowd close in, 
 And all s forgotten." 
 
 Destroy the source of love in woman, however, and 
 all her comfort is withered. She has no world to 
 plunge into for relief. Love and domestic happiness 
 was her world ; and not only the streams of her hap 
 piness are destroyed, but the fountain itself is 
 dried up. 
 
 The declaration of his attachment was made by 
 Edward in the evening of a cold winter night, while 
 they were sitting around the blazing logs of the huge 
 fire-place of the sitting-room. The handmaids, Han 
 nah and Esther, had conscientiously retired to the 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 279 
 
 kitchen ; conscientiously, we say, for they were do 
 ing as they would be done by. 
 
 Edward was as usual calm, rational, dispassion 
 ate. He described his love in all its strength, but 
 he so governed his feelings and restrained his emo 
 tions as he did it, that it seemed more like the de 
 scription of another s passion than of his own. He 
 did not even tell her the extent of agony that he 
 had felt in supposing his brother was preferred, nor 
 the struggle that he underwent to make the sacrifice 
 to his brother s claims. He barely alluded to his 
 determination of making that sacrifice, for men of 
 his peculiar temperament are never boastful or vain 
 glorious. He related how he felt at her abduction, 
 and the joy he experienced at her rescue. He 
 dwelt at rather more length upon the misery pro 
 duced by the disclosure in the court-room, but he 
 said he never wished to recall it again, as it was now 
 over. 
 
 " And now, dear Jane," he continued, " are you 
 willing to spend your life with me, preparing each 
 other for eternity ? You know my character, and 
 well know whether its peculiarities will be suited to 
 constitute your happiness. Will you be mine ? " 
 
 Jane had remained during the rather long exor 
 dium to this declaration with her head partially 
 
280 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 averted, but gazing on the burning coals ; the castles 
 which those coals made as they fell among the hot 
 ashes were very brilliant and beautiful to Jane, 
 the world to her young mind looked as bright. In 
 spite of herself, her eyes filled with tears at the plea 
 sure it would give to answer affirmatively. 
 
 As he closed, she turned upon him those truthful, 
 trusting eyes, swimming in the moisture of strong 
 affection ; " I will, Edward Dudley, so help me God. 
 I will willingly spend the life that lies before me 
 with you, hoping that death will be but a passport to 
 an eternal union. No one but you has ever pos 
 sessed my youthful affections ; none but you can 
 ever have them. I give you all that a warm heart 
 can give ; your nature is not such, dear Edward, as 
 to trample it under foot. But will your father ap 
 prove of your connection with the daughter of a bit 
 ter enemy ?" 
 
 " My father has already approved my choice, and 
 is prepared to receive you as a daughter." 
 
 As the evening wore on, and their plans and du 
 ties for the future had been discussed, Jane looked 
 Edward in the face with her earnest gaze : " Ed 
 ward, you do not look fully and perfectly happy. I 
 fear lest my imperfections of education and nurture 
 will diminish your happiness." 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 28* 
 
 " Not so, dear Jane ; but understand me at 
 once. I am feeling the most exquisite happiness, 
 but see no reason why my face should tell it to the 
 world. Remember, that I love you with a fervency 
 and strength passing the love of woman ; that I am 
 unchangeable in every feeling and purpose : yours I 
 am, fully, completely, entirely ; yours I shall con 
 tinue to be while life throbs in my heart. Eest 
 satisfied with this knowledge ; it will always be so. 
 It will not be necessary for me to repeat it often, or 
 to make an every day boast of its existence by un 
 necessary external manifestation of it. You will be 
 happier to know this fact now, Jane. I am ready 
 now, and shall be at any moment of the future, 
 cheerfully to lay down my life for you. Your image 
 wiVL be always on my heart. For you will be my 
 labors and efforts ; you will know this whenever ac 
 tion is necessary. I have spoken of this now, that 
 it may never be necessary to speak of it again. I 
 had rather act than talk. I am not fond of making 
 professions, or of expressing what I feel. Rest 
 satisfied \with the knowledge of this intense, all-per 
 vading loite, even if I do not always choose to find 
 words with\which to clothe it." 
 
 That ni\ht, ere sleep came over her, Jane re 
 flected long aid solemnly on this last conversation ; 
 
282 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 but under the cheering influences of youthful hope 
 and strong affection, she did not view it as an ob 
 stacle to her happiness. But, alas ! it was the cross 
 she had to bear in life, and often, very often, was 
 she obliged to recur to it, to prevent her heart from 
 sinking within her, at the fear of the loss of her hus 
 band s love. Great things would occasionally occur 
 to draw out that hidden love in all its power. How 
 earnestly did Jane wish that such great occasions 
 were every day. There was no coldness through 
 life in Edward s treatment, no unkindness, not 
 the least neglect. He was attentive to his duties, 
 anticipated her wishes, and was a constant protector. 
 But with Jane, love was her daily food ; she needed 
 a supply each day, fresh baked in the oven of affec 
 tion, to satisfy her starving heart. She missed the 
 daily kiss, the affectionate endearments, the rery 
 words of love. She knew that Edward loved her, 
 but she would have given kingdoms had she pos 
 sessed them for a daily, or even a weekly rejetition 
 of the sounds of love. She was not exacting, but her 
 heart was lonely. It needed daily encouragements. 
 Had she been an ordinary character, her bve would 
 have grown cold, or died away in her br)ast. Such 
 lamps need their daily supply of oil, or they are ex 
 tinguished. As it was, she buried its excess in the 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 283 
 
 sepulchre of her warm heart, and built around it the 
 marble of a cold exterior ; while its flame was si 
 lently devouring her heart s core. When she had 
 children, she expended on them the superfluous 
 warmth of expressed affection, which her husband 
 did not value, and was happy. 
 
 The character of our young Puritan may not in 
 terest the ladies, but we must portray his faults as 
 well as his excellencies. We hold him as a warning 
 to those of both sexes who suppose that sensitive 
 hearts are wrong in demanding constant declarations 
 of attachment. They become necessary as the evi 
 dences that love has suffered no diminution. Jeal 
 ousy does not create this desire ; suspicion does not 
 produce it. Sometimes it arises from a want of con 
 fidence in the individual s own power of pleasing, 
 and the fear that from that cause that love has ex 
 pired, if it is not expressed. Sometimes it results 
 from the actual overflowing of an affectionate heart. 
 It must express the attachment that so constantly 
 swells it, or the heart would burst 5 and it looks for 
 the same in return. 
 
 Husbands ! wives ! if such should be the charac 
 ter of the friend you have chosen for life, do not 
 hesitate to gratify such desires, even if they may seem 
 unnecessary, or superfluous to you. They arise from 
 
284 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES J 
 
 no want of confidence in the strength or reality, or 
 continuance of your attachment, but from the gratifi 
 cation of hearing repeated often the happiness taken 
 in your love. 
 
 But all this was an after-feeling on the part of 
 Jane. She now sank to sleep, elate with her new 
 born happiness, and blessing her Creator for the 
 flowery paths of peace and felicity opened before her 
 steps. They were the flowers that the dews and the 
 sunshine of Hope, Joy, and Love, had caused to 
 spring up ; their perfume came over the senses of 
 the imagination like the odor of the earliest blos 
 soms in Eden : their hues struck the fancy as bril 
 liantly as morning in Paradise ! Did they wither ? 
 
 Edward was precisely fitted for the leader of a 
 rising State. He was brave when the exigencies of 
 the case required it, but war was no pastime to him, 
 nor did its glories bring any gratification. He was 
 one that would never hurry his infant community 
 into conquest to feed his own ambition, but he was 
 gifted with all those talents that made defence effica 
 cious. He was cool, calm, prudent, full of resources, 
 and of an unyielding pertinacity of character that 
 could never submit to usurpation. 
 
 His eloquence bore the stamp of his character. 
 It was argumentative, addressed to the understand- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 285 
 
 ing alone ; never persuading, until conviction had 
 been reached. It produced an effect upon the con 
 templative minds of the early settlers of Connecti 
 cut, much more powerful than if it had been more 
 imaginative. On very great occasions, once or 
 twice in life, the hidden fires of his soul burst out 
 in strains of overpowering eloquence, that swept 
 every obstacle away in their destructive power. He 
 early acquired an immense influence over the public 
 mind, and never lost it. 
 
286 THE FAWN OF THE PALE FACES ; 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 " The steeds were tired ; the muse is too : 
 She hopes in mercy we ve got through : 
 
 She thinks she soon must die. 
 Poor jade! I fear I ve used her ill 
 The road is bad across the hill, 
 
 Where fancy s regions lie." , . 
 
 Old Times. ^ 
 
 " FATHER," said Edward, soon after bis marriage, 
 " Jane and myself are very desirous that you should 
 take up your abode with us. Our house, thanks* to 
 Captain Seymour s care, is a very large and com 
 modious one, much preferable to yours. You will 
 then have some one to take care of you, as old age 
 creeps upon you, and be surrounded by those you 
 love and who love you." 
 
 " No, my son, it cannot be, and must not be. 
 Under such circumstances, a father is always a re- 
 
OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 287 
 
 straint. You have now commenced the life of a 
 man for yourself. You will raise up a family to 
 whom you will be the vicegerent of God on earth. 
 They must look up to you as such ; and your influ 
 ence will be weakened, if they see you looking up in 
 your turn to your father. The independence of a 
 man must be acquired by you at once, to make you 
 useful and respectable in the community. Our ideas 
 might clash ; you would then be exposed either to 
 the pain of opposing them, or to the contempt of 
 sacrificing your own views to mine. A son had bet 
 ter launch his boat on the turbid stream of human 
 life under his own pilotage. If his father still sits 
 at the helm, that son will never acquire the self- 
 dependence, firmness, and experience necessary for 
 his guidance. No, my son; I shall be better by 
 myself. I shall be near you, shall visit you fre 
 quently ; but to be an independent man among your 
 fellow men, you are better by yourself. In the 
 rough school of actual life, you will learn the severe 
 experience necessary to enable you to take my place 
 in this infant colony, when (rod shall say my labors 
 have ended. My pilgrimage hereafter in life must 
 be a solitary one, but I gird up my loins, and take 
 my staff" in hand, to walk it while God gives me 
 strength. I do not ask to die. I have yet much to 
 
288 
 
 THE FAWN OF THE TALE FACES; 
 
 do in the formation of our rising State, and in the 
 establishment of true religion and free institutions 
 in this new land. I have educated you for the same 
 duty. Go out then into the world, and begin your 
 Christian duties by raising a family of children in 
 the nurture and admonition of the Lord; and by 
 governing, controlling, and directing them, learn 
 how to govern men. 
 
 " Do not say that niy lot will be a solitary one. 
 I fear not solitude nor silence. I have made arrange 
 ments for all the necessaries, and many of the comforts 
 of life. I look not beyond. I make no complaints of 
 my loneliness ; it is the cross that Christ has laid 
 upon me, and shall I not. bear it ? Your mother s 
 sainted image is near me. She comforts me with 
 love fresh from the golden streets of Heaven. I do 
 not repine, though the zest of life s enjoyments has 
 evaporated. I shall not feel that I am flung, like 
 the wreck of what I once was, on the extreme shore 
 of my wintry life, useless and crumbling in the sand 
 that half buries me. I have still something to do to 
 glorify my .Maker, and to benefit the world. 
 
 " Go then, my children, to your own duties, and 
 may God bless you in them." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 
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