f
 
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 1 Y E T I S, 
 
 WITH OTHER 
 
 ETCHINGS AND SKETCHINGS. 
 
 MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 82 CLIFF STREET.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 In the Clerk s Office of the Southern District of New York.
 
 GEORGE GRIFFIN, ESQ., LLD,, 
 
 A FRIEND TO THE LITERATURE OF HIS COUNTRY, 
 
 AS WELL AS AN ELOQUENT SUPPORTER 
 
 OF HER LAWS, 
 
 Volume Is JicUfcatetr, 
 
 WITH THE GRATITUDE AND RKSPECT OF 
 
 ITS AUTHOR. 
 
 2051391
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 MY publishers, whose judgment I hold in high 
 regard, indicate that there should be a Preface. 
 It might not be entirely courteous to the reader 
 to omit it. So, as I have great respect for my 
 readers also, there shall surely be a Preface. 
 Yet, as I have little to say, I trust to be excused 
 if I say little, and if that little should not be re 
 markable. 
 
 Portions of this volume, in other forms, the 
 public have already seen. Still, I flatter my 
 self, they may not be wholly unworthy of an 
 other interview ; since it is a poor face that will 
 not bear twice looking at. With other parts, it 
 is not possible they should be acquainted, as I 
 have been but recently introduced myself. But 
 I am doubtful whether the new will be found 
 better than the old. And as housekeepers are 
 wont to apologize for presenting the same dish 
 1*
 
 M Y E T I S.
 
 " Lo ! darkest hours wring forth the hidden might 
 That hath lain bedded in the secret soul, 
 A treasure all undream d of: as the night 
 Calls forth the harmonies of streams that roll 
 Unheard by day. 1 
 
 MRS. HEM ASS
 
 M Y R T I S, 
 
 TWILIGHT gathered heavily over the city of the 
 Caesars. Lights began here and there to glimmer 
 from the patrician palaces, and along the banks of 
 the Tiber. Rome, which Augustus boasted to have 
 left built of marble, had lost none of its magnifi 
 cence under Adrian and the Antonines. Effeminacy 
 and corruption were sapping the foundations of the 
 empire, though the virtue of the last of the Antonines 
 still arrested or disguised the presages of its doom. 
 
 In the gorgeous apartment of a palace a woman 
 was seated, evidently of high rank, and surrounded 
 by the appliances of luxury. Her arm rested on a 
 small, oval table, richly inlaid with ivory and gold, 
 while her jeweled hand partly shaded her features, 
 as if to conceal some emotion, in which Roman pride 
 contended with woman s nature. 
 
 Her eye was intently fixed on a young man who 
 stood near her, arrayed as if for a journey. The 
 folds of the toga fell gracefully around his lofty form, 
 and his noble countenance was marked by thought 
 even to sadness. He appeared to wait her words, 
 which at length were slowly uttered. 
 
 " Go, then, my son, since the gods and the emperor 
 have thus willed it. Would that this trial might have
 
 4 M V R T I S. 
 
 been spared my widowed heart. Yet go, for the hour 
 of thy departure hath come." 
 
 The young Roman knelt at her feet, and pressed 
 her hands to his lips. His voice was scarcely aud 
 ible as he besought her blessing. 
 
 " The gods of thy fathers will not forget thee. My 
 vows shall keep thee ever in their mind. Already 
 have the salted cake, and a pure lamb crowned with 
 flowers, been offered, with costly libations, for thy 
 sake. I have vowed to Apollo a rich temple if thou 
 return in safety. Daily shall the Lares and Penates 
 be invoked for thy protection in a far clime." 
 
 Then, determining not to weaken his purpose by 
 vain regrets, she arose, and threw all the strength of 
 a loving soul into the farewell smile. There was no 
 tear in her eye, and she trembled not at the last, long 
 embrace. 
 
 He departed. She listened to the echo of his foot 
 steps, and gazed to catch the last glimpse of him and 
 of his train. Then burst forth the sorrows of the 
 mother. She dismissed her attendants, that no eye 
 might witness her grief. Only the surrounding stat 
 ues beheld her with their marble brows. But the 
 frown of warriors or philosophers from their pedes 
 tals reproved her in vain. She remembered only that 
 she was a mother, and desolate. 
 
 Day was high in the heavens ere she arose from 
 the couch, where, in the anguish of parting, she had 
 thrown herself, burying her face deep among the 
 pillows. The Emperor Marcus Aurelius was an-
 
 M Y R T I S. 5 
 
 nounced, and she started from her wildering trance 
 as one ashamed. Hastily she arranged her disor 
 dered robes, and washed the traces of the burning 
 sorrow from cheek and brow. 
 
 Calm, serene, and like a habitant of a higher sphere, 
 Marcus Aurelius entered. That philosophic emper 
 or, who, according to the creed of the Stoics, was 
 never known to change countenance, either for grief 
 or joy, regarded her steadfastly, yet without reproach. 
 He saw how deeply flowed the inward tide of emo 
 tion, and seemed to await its ebbing ere he spoke. 
 
 " Thy son hath gone forth on a noble mission, to 
 gain the wisdom and philosophy of Greece. He is 
 an honor to thee, and to the manes of his father. 
 Deeply wouldst thou hereafter have reproached thy 
 self hadst thou withheld him by the weakness of love 
 from this discipline, so essential to a finished educa 
 tion. Had I not beheld in ^lius Marcellus so much 
 of noble promise, I had not prompted him to the ef 
 fort, nor thee to this sacrifice." 
 
 " Sire ! emperor ! Thou art ever good, and thy 
 wisdom shall be our guide. From earliest remem 
 brance thine affection was my chief treasure. In 
 widowhood, thou hast been a solace and protector; 
 to my only child, more than a father." 
 
 Tender recollections stirred anew the fountain of 
 grief. Her compressed lips quivered, and she burst 
 into a passion of tears. 
 
 " Annia Cornificia, my sister, pray unto the gods. 
 Offer sacrifices for thine absent son ; and for me 
 A 2
 
 6 M Y R T I S. 
 
 also, not so happy as to be bound, like him, to the 
 sweet fields of heaven-born philosophy, but to the 
 banks of the Danube, to quell an insurrection of the 
 barbarians. Rest and contemplation are most sweet ; 
 yet I shrink not from privation or peril. Comfort 
 Faustina in my absence, and throw the mantle of thy 
 tender virtues over the boy Commodus. Let thy 
 wounded, maternal love expand itself on him. So 
 shall it find healing, and bear fruit worthy of the 
 gods." 
 
 The ardent woman felt the channel of her grief 
 divided. The all-absorbing image of her absent and 
 only child faded for a time in sympathy for her im 
 perial brother, and she fondly expressed her appre 
 hensions for his safety. 
 
 " The life of man," he said, " is but a vapor. What 
 folly to seek to preserve that, and neglect those du 
 ties in which alone is its happiness. If I return no 
 more, my sister, shed not such passionate tears for 
 me as thou hast shed at the parting of thy son ; for 
 when this little voyage is over, and we reach the 
 shore, shall we not get calmly out of the ship into 
 another life ] Are not the gods there ?" His voice 
 deepened as he added : 
 
 " Annia Cornificia, my sister, if it be my lot to die 
 among the barbarians, I commend unto thee the 
 Prince Commodus. Remind him of what he owes 
 to the people of Rome, and to the memory of his 
 father. Teach him that he who restrains not his own 
 passions can never rule a realm justly or with pros-
 
 MYRTIS. 7 
 
 perity. I charge thee, let thy son freely associate 
 with him, that through his example the follies that T 
 fear may be repressed." 
 
 The imperial father, who seemed to have before 
 his eyes some prophetic vision of the turpitude of his 
 successor, listened with complacency to the promises 
 of his sister, that his wishes should be held sacred; 
 and, taking an affectionate leave, soon departed with 
 his legions to subdue the rebellious tribes of the Q,ua- 
 di and Marcomani. 
 
 Among the ti ibutaries to Roman power, Greece 
 stood like a temple, dismantled, yet beautiful. The 
 wrath of conquest had crushed some of its fairest 
 columns, and stripped the acanthus leaf from their 
 capitals. Yet the divinity had not forsaken its shrine. 
 The whispers of an eloquent philosophy, to which 
 the world had knelt, still drew votaries from distant 
 climes, and the sons of her haughty victor came as 
 pilgrims to linger and to listen amid the groves of 
 the Academe. 
 
 At the period which we contemplate, Athens had 
 arisen from her deepest degradation. The intellect 
 ual and magnificent Adrian had taken her by the 
 hand, and striven to efface the ravages of his prede 
 cessors. Antoninus Pius and his successor sought 
 to restore her fallen dignity. Many of her desecra 
 ted edifices had been rebuilt, and her privileges re 
 stored. 
 
 Still the footstep of the Roman made but harsh 
 echo among her shades. Though reinstated in her
 
 8 M Y R T I S. 
 
 seat of honor, it was with a melancholy brow and a 
 shuddering heart. On the hope held before her, she 
 gazed like the pale planet, drooping from the recent 
 deluge, remembering rather the bitterness of the wa 
 ters, than the promise on the prismed cloud, that she 
 should be submerged no more. 
 
 Yet it was not held a slight honor in Athens, that 
 among the noble youths whom the study of arts and 
 letters attracted to her clime, should be the favored 
 relative, perhaps the presumptive heir of him, who 
 wore the imperial purple. Marcus Aurelius Anto 
 ninus, whose own intense love of philosophy had 
 been imbibed from the Greek sages who instructed 
 his youth, had decided that the mind of his nephew 
 should be enriched by the same lore, gathered in its 
 own native soil ; and overruled, as we have already 
 seen, the reluctance of his solitary sister to the con 
 sequent separation. 
 
 The virtues and accomplishments of JElius Mar- 
 cellus fully justified the affection of his mother, and 
 the earnest cares of the emperor, who, disgusted with 
 the vices of his colleague Lucius Verus, and inly 
 shuddering at the developments of his son Commo- 
 dus, perhaps coupled with the training of his neph 
 ew, the future prosperity of the realm. 
 
 It was an autumnal evening when the young and 
 noble traveler first entered Athens. A liquid moon 
 light bathed her towers, and heightened, like the sil 
 ver veil of the bride, the beauty of her sculpture. 
 But the proud and enthusiastic stranger contempla-
 
 M Y R T I S. 9 
 
 ted with disappointment that melancholy symmetry. 
 He turned dissatisfied even from the Acropolis and 
 the Parthenon, with their coronet of moonbeams, and 
 sought some counterpart for the Coliseum, some sub 
 stitute for those ranges of patrician structures which 
 clothed with gorgeousness the eternal city. Patri 
 otism swelled his bosom, while his thoughts recur 
 red to Rome, portraying her as she lay that night in 
 queenly repose, conscious that at her wakening the 
 world would be at her feet. 
 
 Such were his feelings as he looked on Athens in 
 the garb of Autumn ; yet the young vernal moon 
 had scarcely filled her horn ere a change stole over 
 his spirit. No longer he trod those streets with the 
 haughty consciousness of being one of the masters 
 of the world. The solemn beauty of fallen Greece, 
 the antiquity of her lore, softened and subdued him. 
 Yielding to the enchantment of her eloquence who 
 breathed her antique history on the harp, he made 
 the pages of Herodotus the companion of his pillow, 
 or inhaled, amid the murmurings of Ilissus, the sweet 
 ness of the Doric muse. 
 
 But most, the enthusiasm -of philosophy stole into 
 and ruled his soul. He communed with the shade 
 of Plato, as with a visible friend, in those gardens 
 where his voice still lingered, an imprisoned mel 
 ody. The sculpture which he had once passed with 
 indifference, now stood forth in severe sublimity, the 
 sad and silent statues seemed to beckon and com 
 mune with him, till he felt that it was better to sigh
 
 10 MYRTIS. 
 
 in Athens than to reign in Rome. The new atmos 
 phere breathed on him like magic, enkindling a new 
 existence. 
 
 Yet was it not solely the scenery of Greece, nor 
 the exquisite symmetry of her architecture, nor the 
 charm of her language, nor the ideal presence of her 
 sages, that enchained the heart of the young Roman. 
 The touch of pity and the breathings of philosophy 
 prepared it for another guest. Love had been to it 
 like the angel at the Pool of Bethesda, and its troub 
 led fountains were gushing upward with strange un- 
 tasted streams. His favorite instructor in philoso 
 phy was Demetrius, a follower of Plato. He pos 
 sessed a serene, contemplative character, and an in 
 nate eloquence, which delighted the intellectual and 
 ardent disciple. The liberality of the Antonines had 
 placed the teachers of philosophy beyond the reach 
 of want. Their restricted finances no longer justi 
 fied the caustic reply of Diogenes to the question 
 " why philosophers followed rich men, and not rich 
 men philosophers 1" " because one know what they 
 have need of, and the others do not." 
 
 The house of Demetrius was adorned with taste, 
 and ^Elius Marcellus was there a distinguished guest. 
 He was pleased to study the manners of the sage in 
 his own home, and to perceive how beautifully they 
 confirmed the theory of their common master, that 
 " happiness is the fruit of virtue." He could not but 
 remark how the spirit of Attic grace modified even 
 the most common household utensils. The lamps,
 
 MYRTIS. 11 
 
 the pitchers, the vases, illustrated the taste of Peri 
 cles. The very slave, who bore on his head a bas 
 ket of grapes, the young female, who presented the 
 ewer of water for ablution, gave the rudiment of 
 those attitudes which guided the chisel of Phidias. 
 Then the Roman learned that the nation which would 
 be perfect in the arts must take the graces home to 
 its hearth-stone, and make for them a place at its 
 board, an indwelling amid its domestic sanctities. 
 
 But the most exquisite specimen of grace in the 
 household of the philosopher was a maiden of the 
 noblest blood of Athens, who, by the affliction of or 
 phanage, had passed under his protection. She, with 
 an infant sister, had been bequeathed by their parents 
 to the charge of Demetrius, a distant relative, and a 
 friend in whom such high confidence was wisely re 
 posed. Over the fortune of the orphans, which was 
 considerable, he exercised a paternal care, and they 
 entwined around his aged heart like the ivy, cover 
 ing it with the fresh green of hope. 
 
 Myrtis was one of those beautiful creations which 
 fancy sometimes forms when her revery has been 
 among seraphs. Her sylph-like step, her smile, im 
 parting happiness, without seeming to expect it again, 
 her manner, gentle almost to pensiveness, finely ac 
 corded with features formed on the most perfect 
 Grecian model, with a complexion transparent as 
 light, and eyes often downcast, but never raised, and 
 quickened by speech, without interesting or affecting 
 the beholder. Unoccupied with self, and ever seek-
 
 12 MYRTIS. 
 
 ing to promote the enjoyment of others, she evinced 
 gratitude to her protector by the most affectionate 
 deportment, by skill in the arrangement of his house 
 hold, and attention to the comfort of his guests. 
 
 But it was more particularly in intercourse with 
 her little sister, the sole surviving scion of their an 
 cient house, that the fullness of her soul was poured 
 forth. To enrich her unfolding mind with the treas 
 ures of knowledge, to fashion her docile dispositions, 
 to supply to her the place of the mother who had died 
 at her birth, were the highest efforts and purest pleas 
 ures of her existence. It was this sweet illustration 
 of the sisterly virtues, which, more than any symmetry 
 of form or feature, won the heart of the young noble. 
 He had, indeed, admired her exquisite beauty, but 
 with such lineaments he had been familiar among 
 the patrician daughters of Rome. It was not till the 
 grace of a lovely and sublime spirit looked through 
 and gave life to it, that he felt it to be irresistible. 
 He saw her toiling with an earnest eye, to simplify 
 and adapt the precepts of wisdom to the compre 
 hension of a child of eight summers, or cheering her 
 to playfulness by merry music, or, with a mixture of 
 maternal pride, wreathing fresh vine-leaves among 
 her luxuriant, golden curls. 
 
 It was thus that ^Elius Marcellus, the favored rel 
 ative of an emperor, the unmoved idol of the more 
 ambitious beauties of Rome, became the willing cap 
 tive of an artless Athenian maiden. His letters to his 
 mother gradually assumed the coloring of the image
 
 MYRTIS. 13 
 
 that absorbed him. If he began a synopsis of the 
 lectures of the philosophers, it suddenly diverged 
 to Myrtis ; his praise of the perfect language of 
 Greece took the name of Myrtis as a key-tone ; and 
 if he attempted a description of that architecture 
 which the world will never be too old to admire, it 
 was transformed into an encomium on Myrtis. 
 
 He was surprised at the ease with which his 
 thoughts arrayed themselves in a Grecian garb. Con 
 versations with Myrtis, in which he was as frequently 
 indulged as the somewhat reserved courtesies of 
 Athens admitted, untwisted the idiom of a foreign 
 dialect, and taught it to " run smoothly o er the lip," 
 as the accents which a mother softens for her babe. 
 And, apart from the necromancy of love, he who 
 would so conquer the difficulties of a new language 
 as to speak it with fluency and grace, should seek the 
 society of educated females, for with them is the col 
 loquial affluence of their mother tongue, and the clew 
 that most readily guides a stranger through its laby 
 rinthine refinements. 
 
 While /Elius Marcellus was sounding the depths 
 of a passion which, as yet, his lips uttered not, she 
 who inspired it had not even advanced so far as to 
 assign its true name. All her life she had been 
 sighing for a brother. She supposed herself to have 
 found one. In the loneliness of early childhood, 
 and amid the sorrows of orphanage, she had painted 
 fraternal intercourse as the fullness of bliss. She 
 believed, in her crystal singleness of heart, that her 
 B
 
 14 MYRTIS. 
 
 new happiness sprang from this adopted relationship, 
 and rejoiced to see the little Alethea greet their 
 brother, at every interview, with the overflowing 
 warmth of an affectionate heart. 
 
 One evening, ^Elius Marcellus entered with a 
 troubled countenance. He had received tidings of 
 the dangerous, perhaps fatal, illness of his mother. 
 Tears started to the eyes of Myrtis. Memory turned 
 to the death-bed of her own parents, and her sympa 
 thies were strongly moved. The young Roman add 
 ed that his immediate return was required, and that 
 the period of his absence from his studies in Athens 
 was uncertain, and might be protracted. Tears now 
 gushed from an unexplored source, and blushes of 
 a stronger tint than the maiden had yet known suf 
 fused both cheek and brow at finding herself address 
 ed by a fonder name than that of sister, and feeling 
 that it awoke a true echo in her heart. 
 
 The discoveries of that parting hour were price 
 less and indelible. Yet, to describe love-scenes is 
 but a losing office. He who attempts it is unwise ; 
 for the dialect of love, counting speech impotent, is 
 especially ill represented on paper ; as if it were pos 
 sible that light, in its most subtle transmission, should 
 borrow, or bow to the stammerings of sound. Love, 
 scorning so slow a medium as language, except the 
 eye be interpreter, is indignant at the tardier minis 
 try of the pen. The words of lovers dilated upon 
 the dead page, are, like the shorn locks of Samson, 
 stripped of their talisman and scattered to the winds.
 
 MYRTIS. 15 
 
 Yet, in the few tones of that Athenian maiden, 
 when her heart first awoke to self-knowledge and to 
 reciprocity, there was a treasure which her lover felt 
 the world were poor to purchase. It was with him 
 on his journeyings as a spell, annihilating distance and 
 neutralizing fatigue. He best loved the lonely val 
 leys, where he might repeat its sweetness unheard, 
 and the hermit cell by night, that he might invoke it 
 as the tutelary goddess of his repose. 
 
 He arrived at the eternal city like one traveling 
 on the wing of dreams. His mother, the noble An- 
 nia Cornificia, lay in the last stages of a fatal disease. 
 She had caused it to be concealed from her son as 
 long as hope remained, and summoned him only to 
 receive her parting counsels and benedictions. Yet 
 the declining flame of life, revivifying and feeding on 
 the affections, lingered for a time on the verge of the 
 grave, cheered by the kind attentions and filial piety 
 of -her earthly idol. He passed almost his whole 
 time by her bedside, striving to assuage her suffer 
 ings, and receiving, when she was able, her directions 
 respecting the fortune which had been intrusted by 
 his father to her care. The emperor, whose pres 
 ence in her last extremity she greatly desired, was 
 still absent from Rome, engaged in the wars of Ger 
 many. 
 
 While these mournful duties occupied ^Elius Mar- 
 cellus, there remained with the bereaved Myrtis an 
 interminable void. He whom she had long loved as 
 a brother, and more than a brother, -without being
 
 16 MY RTFS. 
 
 conscious of it, whom she had just permitted herself 
 to regard as the dearest of all earthly objects, seemed 
 to have taken away with him the life of life. De 
 metrius, prizing him as a scholar and a friend, and 
 the affectionate Alethea were incessantly talking of 
 him ; while she, whose heart was most interested^ 
 seldom trusted to her voice the utterance of his name. 
 There was about his image a sacredness which she 
 reserved for the hours of solitary meditation, when 
 she might embalm it with such tears as do not cover 
 the face. Yet that chemistry in which the most per 
 fectly balanced minds are the best adepts, gradually 
 taught her that the duties of benevolence contain a 
 balm for sorrow. She sought out with increased 
 zeal the poor and afflicted, and, in distributing con 
 solation, derived comfort. Among her pensioners 
 was an aged man, who had held in her father s house 
 hold the rank of steward. His intelligence and fidel 
 ity caused him to be considered by her parents less 
 as a servant than a friend, and his grateful attach 
 ment was unbounded. He was now, in his childless 
 age, the inmate of a small tenement connected with 
 the garden of Demetrius, where it was convenient 
 for Myrtis daily to visit him, and cheer the languor 
 of his decline. Her attentions to this lonely and 
 worthy retainer now redoubled, as it became obvi 
 ous that his span of life rapidly decreased. 
 
 " Myrtis, I am not well pleased, said the little 
 Alethea, "that you sometimes go to see poor Proclus 
 without me, and that you stay so long. I love him
 
 M Y R T I S. 17 
 
 as much as you do. And what is that book which I 
 wake at midnight and find you reading 1 and why do 
 you hide it so carefully away ] Sister, sister, you 
 never used to have secrets from me. And now that 
 our brother is gone, you ought to be kinder to me 
 than ever, and not begin to shut me out of your 
 heart." 
 
 Myrtis hasted to reassure the little trusting being, 
 reproaching herself that she should thus have grieved 
 her, for she found that in her dreams she sometimes 
 convulsively sobbed out complaints Singled with the 
 name of Proclus. 
 
 One morning the sound of heavy steps was heard 
 advancing toward the inner apartment, and Deme 
 trius entered, with more of agitation than his calm 
 philosophy, and his still calmer nature, were wont to 
 indulge. Following him was the proconsul of Ath 
 ens, to whom he said, in hurried tones, 
 
 " Will there never be an end of slanders 1 Behold 
 the noble maiden, whom you so unjustly suspect. Is 
 it necessary that here, in the very home of her pro 
 tector, she be insulted by the question, whether she 
 be a Christian V 
 
 " There needs not this clamor," replied the pro 
 consul. " It is sufficient if the lady simply indicate 
 whether she will sacrifice to the gods." 
 
 "What an jjflignity is this doubt of her piety! 
 Think you sfte could be thus faithless to her long 
 line of ancestors, to her teachers to herself] In 
 structed in our most ancient rites, would it be possi- 
 2 B 2
 
 18 MYRTIS. 
 
 ble to adopt an odious heresy, which is but of yes 
 terday 1 Myrtis, daughter, will it please you by a 
 single word to dismiss the proconsul ]" 
 
 Thus invoked, the maiden arose. Her slight, but 
 perfect, figure seemed to assume new height and 
 majesty. There was no fading of lip or cheek, as 
 she firmly pronounced, " I am a Christian" 
 
 The philosopher stood as if the blast of Heaven 
 had dried up his spirits. He listened, gasping, for 
 some recantation. He feared to speak, lest there 
 might be a repetition of those fearful words. 
 
 At length, overcome with agony, he fell prostrate 
 and powerless, and the pi oconsul, with a glance of 
 triumph and of scorn, departed. Newly clothed with 
 deputed authority, he was eager to turn it to the best 
 advantage. The single prominent blemish in the 
 character of Marcus Aurelius was severity to the 
 Christians. Mild and forbearing to all besides, he 
 seemed to concentrate the whole bitterness of the 
 Portico to pour it upon the Cross. The governors 
 of the subjugated provinces found the most direct 
 road to his favor lay through the persecution and 
 punishment of that sect which was " every where 
 spoken against." This new proconsul, a bold man 
 and a bad, was neither insensible to such ambition, 
 nor averse from the machinery which it involved. 
 
 Our next scene is in the prison at Athens. It was 
 thronged with habitants. In one of its cells was 
 a fair young creature, and a child ever near her 
 inseparable as the shadow from the substance.
 
 MYRTIS. 19 
 
 By their side was seen a hoary-headed philosopher, 
 whose " beard descending, swept his aged breast." 
 He came with early morn, and late departed. In 
 cessantly he argued of the antiquity and omnipotence 
 of the gods of Greece, and condemned the madness 
 of those who followed the Crucified. But the beau 
 tiful being whom he addressed spake with a gentle, 
 yet clear voice of the hope that was in her, or read 
 to him from a hallowed page in which was the reas 
 on of that hope ; and every evening he bade fare 
 well with a paler and more trouble ^rbrow. 
 
 One day he announced to her that he had obtained 
 permission, though not without difficulty, that she 
 should visit the cell of Proclus; for age and sickness 
 had been no protection against his being torn from 
 his humble home, and subjected to the rigors of im 
 prisonment. Breathing gratitude for a liberty so 
 long sought in vain, she took the hand of Alethea, 
 and followed Demetrius and the guard who accom 
 panied him. 
 
 The old man lay on a little straw in the corner of 
 his narrow cell. His eye, dim with the gloom of the 
 prison, and with a deeper darkness which had begun 
 to settle upon it, saw not who approached him. But 
 those sweet, low tones that he loved called back the 
 life-tide to his marble features. 
 
 " Art thou here, Angel of .Mercy 1 Once more, art 
 thou by the side of the poor old man, thou who art 
 so soon to be an angel indeed ] Often, since I have 
 lain here, have I wept to think that in the beauty and
 
 20 M Y R T I S. 
 
 flush of life thou must be cut off. But it was a thought 
 of earth. I ought to have remembered, and given 
 thanks as I now do, for the portion that awaits thee, 
 for the blessing, and the glory, and the honor, and 
 the eternal life. " 
 
 " Bless me also, good Proclus," said Alethea. " I 
 too am standing by thy bed. I read in the book of 
 the true God with Myrtis, and she teaches me to 
 worship him." 
 
 " Ah ! art thou here, youngest scion of my master s 
 house 1 What it doom for thee, thou lamb reared 
 in green pastures, beside the still waters ! I pray 
 thee come nearer, that I may lay my hand on thy 
 head, and name over thee the name of Jesus. Who 
 will raise this dead hand for me, and place it among 
 the curls of that beautiful one whose welcome to this 
 sad life was the bosom of a dying mother ]" 
 
 " Blessed saint," said Myrtis, " from whom I first 
 heard the hope of immortality, how can I comfort thy 
 soul in its passage 1 Shall I read for thee from the 
 book of our faith, or sing a hymn to the Redeemer ]" 
 
 " Fain would I listen to thy voice," said the dying 
 man, " for it is melody. But now I may not stay. 
 They call me. My soul exults. I come. Is there 
 yet one drop of water, sweet one ? The last want of 
 this poor clay. Moisten my parched lips, that I may 
 go with singing unto Him who loved me, who gave 
 himself for me." 
 
 And, with a faintly warbled strain of praise, the 
 soul of that old man went upward.
 
 MYRTIS. 21 
 
 The mind of Myrtis was prepared by its own struct 
 ure, as well as by its high culture, for a more consist 
 ent belief than the mythology of her country afforded. 
 The very philosophy by which it had been refined 
 taught it to seek for some more stable foundation. 
 Her simple and severe rectitude was confused by the 
 countless deities naturalized at Athens, where it was 
 said to have been " easier to find a god than a man." 
 Her purity revolted from the rites of " gods, partial, 
 changeful, passionate, unjust, whose attributes were 
 rage, revenge, or lust." Plato led* her to the gate 
 of truth, and taught her to breathe the pure atmos 
 phere that surrounded it ; a humbler hand was ap 
 pointed to open that gate for her, and light and ra 
 diance flowed through its portals, and she became a 
 faithful worshiper. 
 
 By the bedside of the lonely retainer of her fami 
 ly, where she went in the ministry of her single-heart 
 ed benevolence, she was first initiated into the ru 
 diments of Christianity, and gained a gift of inesti 
 mable value a copy of the Sacred Scriptures. This 
 was her daily study. The faith derived from it she 
 received in humility, and was ready to maintain with 
 fortitude. Yet martyrdom, which holy men counted 
 as a crown, and enthusiastic devotion sometimes too 
 eagerly coveted, was not, to her gentle spirit, an ob 
 ject of ambition. To renounce life just as a newly- 
 admitted love had given it the coloring of Eden, could 
 not be desired. Her young heart, won by the noble 
 Marcellus ; his heart, beating, as it were, in her bosom ;
 
 22 M Y R T I S. 
 
 she weighed for him and for her the claims of this 
 world and the next ; and her constant supplication, 
 amid her prison solitude, was, that her Father in 
 heaven would reveal her duty, and gird her to un 
 swerving obedience. 
 
 Once, while the philosopher sat gazing in silent 
 affliction upon the sisters, the massy bolts of the prison 
 were suddenly withdrawn, and yElius Marcellus en 
 tered. Astonishment, dismay, and indignation con 
 vulsed his noble features for a moment ; but love, like 
 the lightning flash, dispersed all their cloudy sym 
 bols. Myrtis vainly strove to give utterance to the 
 emotions that oppressed her. Sensation forsook her, 
 and her brow, paler than marble, drooped over her 
 lover s shoulder. But the deadly faintness was short. 
 The long fringes of her dark eyes unclosed, and a 
 tint, like the young rose-leaf, started to her cheek, 
 still deepening and spreading, till the very snows of 
 her temples caught its trembling suffusion. Then, 
 in tones like the varied melody of a fresh-tuned lute, 
 she hastened to relieve his anxiety, whose breath 
 seemed to depend upon her own, and to cheer the 
 bewildered spirits of her sister and their foster-father. 
 Supported by YElius Marcellus, and with Alethea 
 seated at her feet, a conversation of the deepest in 
 terest commenced. 
 
 The philosopher felt the kindlings of a hope to 
 which he had been long a stranger. The agitation 
 of Myrtis, who, amid all other remonstrances, had 
 remained serene and passionless, proved to him the
 
 M Y R T I S. 23 
 
 omnipotence of her love. Retiring to the extremity 
 of the cell, he enveloped his head in his garment, and 
 prepared, by an elaborate orison to Minerva, to ac 
 celerate the victory which he predicted. Notwith 
 standing the fervor of his devotions, the accents of 
 the speakers sometimes arrested his attention or lin 
 gered upon his ear. The tones of the Roman were, 
 at first, as one who complains, or, perhaps, contends, 
 but with the consciousness of wearing invincible ar 
 mor. The response was tender and subdued, yet 
 musical as the wind-harp swept by the " sweet south 
 west." Then there was a tide of manly eloquence, 
 rushing like a river which surmounts every barrier 
 when the spring rains have swollen it. " For my 
 sake for my sake," seemed the burden of every ar 
 gument, and it was echoed in the sobbing of a child, 
 " for my sake, too, dearest sister." Demetrius bless 
 ed the youth in his aged heart, and began a prayer 
 of thanksgiving to Pallas, with vows of a costly liba 
 tion. At length the Roman was silent, and, suppos 
 ing him to have destroyed the last defenses of that 
 stubborn faith which all the weapons of philosophy 
 had assailed in vain, he removed the robe from his 
 face, and looked up. 
 
 But the evidence of the eye overthrew the exulta 
 tion which the more obtuse ear had fostered. She, 
 whom he had so long pictured to himself as the list 
 ener, convinced, confuted, repentant, was speaking 
 with an upraised, soul-lighted eye. He knew that it 
 was not of earth that she spoke ; for such holiness as
 
 24 M Y R T I S. 
 
 of a seraph would not then have settled upon her 
 countenance. Her hand rested upon the open page 
 of a book which she had drawn from her bosom. 
 Every trace of earthly passion had faded from her 
 features, and her whole soul seemed to pour itself 
 forth as an essence of truth and power, and such love 
 as hath root fast by the throne of God. 
 
 The young Roman leaned his head upon his hands, 
 with every lineament of entranced attention. Deep 
 sighs burst from his bosom, like the dividing of the 
 soul from its terrestrial companionship. The maiden, 
 bending tenderly toward him, pointed on the page 
 which she held, to the words, " I am the resurrection 
 and the life." He covered his eyes with his hands, 
 but tears gushed through his fingers like those large 
 rain-drops that herald the tempest. Starting from 
 his seat, he strained her in one short, agonized em 
 brace, and rushed from the cell. The philosopher 
 hastened after him, amazed at such abruptness, yet 
 dreading to decipher the cause. 
 
 " Sister, dear sister," said Alethea, clinging round 
 the neck of Myrtis, " ./Elius Marcellus will return no 
 more. I know it. His heart is broken. But I will 
 never leave you. No; we will die together;" and 
 she sobbed out her deep love as the nursling pours 
 its griefs into a mother s bosom. 
 
 " Alethea, beloved one, go forth and breathe the 
 fresh air. A prison cell suits ill with the free spirit 
 of childhood. The flush is fading from your cheek, 
 and your fair flesh wastes away ;" and she folded the 
 dove-like child in her arms.
 
 MYRTIS. 25 
 
 " Myrtis, I do not wish to go. The gai dens are 
 changed. Your voice is no longer there. The turf 
 is neither green nor beautiful. The oleanders do 
 not look as they once did, and my white cyclamen 
 has a tear in its eye as it puts forth its feeble buds." 
 
 " Little Alethea, Demetrius will lead you to see 
 how our birds fare, and our bees. You shall bring 
 me word again. The comfort of the humblest in 
 sect that God has made should be dear to us. In 
 the health and industry of those innocent creatures 
 you shall once more be glad. I will leave them to 
 your care, and my amaranths." 
 
 The fair child kneeled by her sister, and hid her 
 face in her lap. She was silent for a few minutes. 
 Then, raising her head, she said, calmly and solemnly, 
 
 " Speak no more to me of the charge of birds, and 
 bees, and flowers. I shall die with you. Never 
 more will I press you to live, and cease to be a 
 Christian ; for now I know that it gives you pain. 
 I love the same Jesus Christ that you love. Tell me 
 more of Him, that I may love Him better. Then, 
 when I stand up to die with you, I shall wear the 
 same smile that makes your brow like the angels , 
 when you kneel and pray for me." 
 
 It has been mentioned that the Emperor Marcus 
 Aurelius was engaged in wars with the Quadi and 
 Marcomani. They involved a long absence from 
 Rome, and many hardships. The barbarians suc 
 ceeded in shutting him up between the mountains 
 and themselves. The heat of summer, the privations 
 C
 
 26 M Y R T I S. 
 
 of an uncultivated region, and the most distressing 
 thirst, annoyed and discouraged his army. Forced, 
 under these adverse circumstances, to meet the ene 
 my, the Roman cohorts might have whitened with 
 their bones the wilds of Germany, and scarce a sur 
 vivor have escaped to tell their fate. They invoked 
 the gods of their nation, and the boasted idols of 
 Egypt, in vain. At length a legion of Christian sold 
 iers knelt on the arid battle field, and besought help 
 of Jehovah. A plentiful and blessed rain, which fell 
 as the conflict began, and which the famishing soldiers 
 caught in their helmets and the hollow of their shields, 
 so invigorated them, while the tempest, with thunder 
 and lightning that followed, so terrified the barbari 
 ans, that victory declared for those who, but a moment 
 before, seemed ready to yield without a struggle. 
 
 Even pagan history scruples not to connect this 
 wonderful event with the prevalent prayers of those 
 Christian soldiers, enforced, as they were, to follow the 
 fortunes and share in the battles of a persecuting em 
 peror. She bestowed on them the distinctive name 
 of the " thundering legion ;" thus perpetuating at 
 once her gratitude, and the terrible voice from Heav 
 en that discomfited the barbarians. They were per 
 mitted to have a thunderbolt engraven on their shields 
 a coat of arms of high and peculiar heraldry. The 
 beautiful Antonine column, boldly resisting the tyr 
 anny of time, still preserves the scenery of that re 
 markable occurrence, among other imperishable rec 
 ords of Roman glory.
 
 MYRTIS. 27 
 
 At evening the emperor sat in his tent, revolving 
 the wonderful deliverance of the day, and thanking 
 the gods to whose interposition he ascribed it. He 
 mused, also, upon the evils of war, which drew him 
 from his palace and his people, to do deeds from 
 which his better nature revolted, and to forego that 
 philosophical retirement which declining years ren 
 dered still more dear. The revery was disturbed by 
 tidings that a young Roman, apparently charged with 
 urgent dispatches, claimed admission to the imperial 
 presence. 
 
 The next moment ^JElius Marcellus was at his feet. 
 After salutations of surprise and reverence; he re 
 ceived permission to unfold the cause for which he 
 had thus dared long travel, and an enemy s land. As 
 he proceeded, the brow of the emperor grew stern, 
 and darkened. 
 
 " Would that thy first mediation had not been for 
 one of that race, whom duty to the gods requires me 
 to humble, perhaps to extirpate. A Christian maid 
 en ! What has she to do with the son of the noble 
 Marcellus, the nephew, perhaps the heir, of him who 
 wears the imperial purple V 
 
 Again he listened to the suppliant, till his lofty fore 
 head lost its painful contraction, and his classic features 
 resumed their native cast of contemplative thought. 
 
 " The Christians have ever been represented to 
 me as disaffected to our laws, and leaders of tumult 
 and rebellion. Yet I am not ignorant that there are 
 in my army some of their soldiers who have done
 
 28 MYRTIS. 
 
 good service in this very war. To-day they knelt 
 upon the field of battle, and prayed their God for 
 succor, and lo ! the elements came to our rescue, 
 and Heaven s thunder-bolts discomfited the barbari 
 ans. My heart even now swells with gratitude to 
 them. Thou knowest that I seek to show "justice to 
 all men. What is thy petition 1" 
 
 " A mandate to the proconsul of Athens, overruling 
 this doom of death, which he purposes to inflict." 
 
 " By my decree have the governors of the provinces 
 punished the Christians. How shall this discrepan 
 cy be reconciled]" 
 
 " Thy noble and just nature has been deceived by 
 the falsehood of those who hold the Christians in ab 
 horrence, or by their avarice coveting the gains of 
 confiscation. If they have now proved themselves 
 faithful in camps, and brave amid the disasters of 
 war ; if, through their prayers, the legions have been 
 rescued, an emperor, so generous to foes, will not 
 surely withhold from his own soldiers the approval 
 due to them and honorable to himself." 
 
 Marcus Aurelius paced the tent in silence and agi 
 tation. Then, fixing on his nephew eyes that seem 
 ed to read the soul, he said, " Art tJtou a Christian "?" 
 
 Color rushed to the brow of the young man, as he 
 half indignantly replied, 
 
 " No, I have never abjured the gods of Rome. 
 At my last intei-view with her for whose sake I thus 
 venture to implore thee, I sought vehemently to draw 
 her from what I deemed delusion and madness. But
 
 MYRT1S. 29 
 
 I love that maiden better than my own soul. If she 
 must perish, trample, I pray thee, on my life as a 
 rootless weed, for henceforth I am nothing to Rome 
 or to thee." 
 
 The emperor, still hesitating, murmured, half aud 
 ibly, half in self-communion, 
 
 " Did I not sanction the doom of Polycarp, and of 
 Dionysius, and of the multitudes whose blood satu 
 rated the valleys of Gaul ]" 
 
 Marcellus, pressing his hand in both his own, ex 
 claimed, 
 
 " If an old man, weary of life, took only one step 
 toward his grave ; if an enthusiast, greeting martyr 
 dom as the crown of earthly glory, eagerly seized 
 that crown ; if those who were represented to thee 
 as ripe for insurrection, and subverters of the gods 
 of our nation, have shed their blood; what then 1 ? 
 canst thou restore them ] But a maiden, nurtured in 
 simplicity and in philosophy, no troubler of thy realm, 
 no sower of sedition, must she be sacrificed because 
 she hath drawn secretly into her bosom some form of 
 faith which, to her purity, seems more pure 1 Have 
 I said that she is the daughter of one who was hon 
 ored as the munificent patron of philosophers the 
 friend of Rome 1 Have I said that insolence dared 
 even to outrage the domestic sanctuary, and drive her 
 thence in her beauty and innocence to such a prison 
 as felons share? Let her look, in her desolate or 
 phanage, to thee as her protector from such tyranny." 
 
 The emperor regarded him, as he ceased to speak, 
 C 2
 
 30 M Y R T I S. 
 
 with deep and tender attention. He scanned his 
 haggard eye, and the marks of rugged travel that 
 he bore. The sympathies of kindred blood wrought 
 strongly within him. 
 
 " My son, since last we met, the soul of thy moth 
 er hath been summoned to the eternal gods. She 
 was my only sister, dear to me from the cradle. Her 
 love shall be thine. Even now her voice pleads with 
 in my heart for thee. Not in vain shall be thy per 
 ilous appeal for this Grecian maiden." 
 
 He traced a few lines, and gave them folded into 
 the hand of the youth. 
 
 " This will suspend all execution of Christians, on 
 account of their faith, until my arrival in Athens, for 
 I purpose to visit that illustrious city ere I return to 
 Rome." 
 
 "Emperor! father! yet more to me than either 
 father or emperor ! Representative of the mercy of 
 the heavens ! how shall I give vent to my eternal 
 gratitude ]" 
 
 " Go to thy rest, my son, for thou art sore wearied. 
 In the morning I will confer with thee 6f the philos 
 ophy of Greece. It will refresh my spirit under the 
 toils and burdens of this war." 
 
 " Forgive me," said the youth, embracing his 
 knees. " I may not tarry for a night. Sleep is a 
 stranger to mine eyelids. Even the moment in which 
 I so vainly strive to utter thanks, may frustrate the 
 very purpose of thy goodness/ 
 
 The lips of the emperor trembled. Scarcely had
 
 MYRTIS. 31 
 
 he articulated, " the blessing of the holy gods be with 
 thee," ere the flying tramp of a departing steed was 
 heard, though the storm still raged, and the darkness 
 of midnight overspread the landscape. 
 
 The summer sun lay bright and broad upon Ath 
 ens. Footsteps hurried through the streets, and the 
 low murmur of suppressed voices was heard from a 
 spot where the dense throng congregated. Prepara 
 tions were seen for tlie extinction of life. The fatal 
 pile, rising here and there, bore witness that this ex 
 tinction was to be through the torturing agency of 
 fire. Individuals of various ages composed the band 
 who were sentenced to look that day for the last time 
 on the waving olives and fair skies of their beautiful 
 clime. There the hoary-headed man came to give the 
 remnant of his life joyfully away, and the delicate fe 
 male, made strong by the faith of her Redeemer, stood 
 forth a spectacle to men and to angels. Amid all the 
 softening influences of nature and of art, the same spir 
 it was dominant which adjudged Socrates to the hem 
 lock, and it was enraged to find that neither threat nor 
 torture could intimidate those whom it had marked 
 for its prey. Still a semblance of justice and moder 
 ation was preserved. Opportunity was offered to 
 each of the victims to sacrifice to the gods, argu 
 ments to persuade recantation were adduced, and an 
 affected reluctance testified to inflict the doom which 
 multitudes had assembled to witness ; but the alter 
 native was refused by every Christian, and death no 
 bly welcomed.
 
 32 M y R T i s. 
 
 Then there was a moment of awful silence. It 
 was broken by sounds strangely sweet the hymn of 
 the martrys. Its prelude was tender, almost trem 
 ulous, as of souls spreading a timid wing over the 
 crushing of their clay casket, fragile, and beloved. 
 But then it swelled out in fuller chorus, as if angels 
 from the open gates of heaven took up the melody 
 a7id made it a song of triumph. 
 
 The listeners were appalled. Those who con 
 ducted the execution, dreading a revulsion of popu 
 lar feeling, strove by the clamor of martial instru 
 ments to interrupt that solemn, unearthly music. 
 Among the little band of martyrs was one on whom 
 the universal gaze settled. Youth, and a beauty ren 
 dered more exquisite by seclusion from crowds, were 
 suddenly exposed to the rude glare of the multitude. 
 By the side of the maiden stood an ancient philoso 
 pher, wasted to a skeleton, a mute effigy of powerless 
 sorrow. Clasping her hands was a fair child, whose 
 exuberant curls partially shaded a face ever raised 
 upward to the object of its love, as if frohi thence it 
 derived breath and being. 
 
 The time arrived when the victims must be bound 
 to the stake. Orders were given that the child should 
 be removed ; but, embracing her sister with a con 
 vulsive grasp, she declared her determination that 
 nothing should separate them. The martyr soothed 
 her in low tones, and strove gently to put her hand 
 into that of the philosopher ; but in vain. She clung 
 to her as the clay to the struggling spirit when Death
 
 M Y K T I S. 33 | 
 
 summons it to be free. A murmur of sympathy ran 
 through the populace. The proconsul approached. 
 
 " Maiden, art thou so rashly bent upon death, that 
 nothing can annul thy choice 1 Have all the joys of 
 life no weight with one so beautiful ]" 
 
 " Speak not to me of the alternative by which life 
 is purchased. Am I again to repeat the assurance 
 that 1 will never deny my Savior ?-" 
 
 " Then bid farewell to this child. Or is it thy 
 pleasure that she make trial of the flame ]" 
 
 The martyr bowed down and clasped her soul s 
 darling in one long embrace. She pressed her lips to 
 hers, as if she fain would breathe there her last breath. 
 As she withdrew them, she said gently, but firmly, 
 
 " Dearest, go now to our father Demetrius. If we 
 both leave him, he will die comfortless, he who has 
 for so many years been as father and mother to us. 
 Go, cheer his aged heart. This is your duty. Be 
 a daughter to him. Remember my last message to 
 your brother, to ^Elius Marcellus. And now, little 
 sister, farewell. We shall meet again. There is a 
 place for you in heaven. I will watch over you, and 
 welcome you there." 
 
 Her words fell unheeded. The lips and forehead 
 of the child were cold, but the pressure of her em 
 brace relaxed not. 
 
 " Old man," said the proconsul, " take away this 
 child." But the hoary- headed philosopher moved 
 not. He stood as the statues that in their marble 
 majesty looked down upon him. 
 3
 
 34 M Y R T I S. 
 
 At a glance from the proconsul, a .soldier laid his 
 hand upon Alethea. Even his iron nature recoiled 
 | at her piercing scream. 
 
 " No, no ! I shall die with my sister. I worship 
 the Christian s God. I love Jesus Christ. I hate 
 the idols of Athens. Let me stand up in the fire by 
 my dear sister s side. I will not shrink, nor cry out. 
 My heart grows to hers. It can not be torn away. 
 I have a right to die with her. Do I not tell you that 
 I am a Christian 1" 
 
 " Away with her, then," said the proconsul : " let 
 her test her young* courage by a taste of the flame, 
 if so it pleaseth her." 
 
 There was a tumult among the throng. A shout 
 of " Tidings from the emperor!" A horseman was 
 seen approaching with breathless speed. He leaped 
 from his gasping steed, which the same moment fell 
 dead at his feet. He caught in his arms the sen 
 tenced maiden and the pale child, who adhered to 
 her with the clasp of the drowning when he sinks to 
 rise no more. Hurling toward the proconsul the 
 edict which he drew from his bosom, he exclaimed, 
 
 " Hence, persecutor ! with thy minions. Thou 
 shall answer this before the emperor. See that these 
 Christians, in whose tortures thou wert so ready to 
 exult, are sent peacefully to their own homes ; and 
 let this multitude disperse." 
 
 The proconsul read the writing, and quailed before 
 the wrath of the young Roman. He dared not meet 
 the lightning of his eye, for there is in every tyrant
 
 M Y R T I S. 35 
 
 the rudiments of a coward. And the fickle thousands 
 who, but a moment before, condemned the Christ 
 ians to the stake, departed with curses on their lips 
 for the baffled proconsul. 
 
 The next gathering of a throng in that amphithe 
 atre was for a different purpose the triumphal 
 entry of Marcus Aurelius into Athens. The car 
 of the emperor was attended by his conquering le 
 gions, whose invincible might Greece well remem 
 bered, and could too feelingly attest. Captives, torn 
 from the German wilds, with dejected countenances 
 and wild elf-locks, swelled the pageant of the victor. 
 He was welcomed by all that Athens could devise 
 of pomp or of music, of procession or of praise. 
 Flowers were strewn as he passed, and clouds of in 
 cense ascended as to a god. Since the entrance of 
 Adrian, to whom the Eleusinian mysteries were re 
 vealed, Athens had beheld nothing so imposing. She 
 hoped to receive from Marcus Aurelius such bene 
 factions as were then heaped upon her; and the 
 splendid edifices which Adrian had erected, especi 
 ally his library, with its alabaster roof and its hundred 
 columns of Phrygian marble, glowed with the richest 
 wreaths and echoed to the rarest minstrelsy. 
 
 But peculiarly did philosophy regard this festival 
 as her own. Never before had she seen one of her 
 own votaries robed in imperial purple, and wielding 
 the scepter of the globe. With all her boasted in 
 difference to earthly pomp and pride, she might have 
 been forgiven the quickened step and flushed brow
 
 36 M Y R T I S. 
 
 with which she threw her garland at his feet. Es 
 pecially did the disciples of Zeno lift up their head 
 with unwonted dignity. Marcus Aurelius Antoni 
 nus was a brother of their order, an adept in their 
 lore. His constant favor had distinguished them, his 
 eloquent pen maintained their tenets. The point of 
 precedence was therefore, on that memorable day, 
 conceded to the scholars of the Portico ; but press 
 ing near them, and with more of heart-felt joy in his 
 demeanor, was a Platonist, the silver-haired Deme 
 trius. Regarding the emperor as a beneficent deity, 
 he poured forth a tide of scarcely audible gratitude. 
 
 Yet he, to whom every eye was lifted, bent his own 
 with serene earnestness on a single group. There 
 knelt at his feet a lordly Roman, and a graceful fe 
 male, enveloped in a veil, to whose side clung a beau 
 tiful child. The vast multitude listened in breathless 
 attention as the youth broke silence. 
 
 " Emperor ! Sire ! Behold the maiden for whom 
 I besought thee. Since we last met, a change hath 
 passed over me. I am no longer able to resist the 
 truth. I have embraced the faith that once I con 
 demned. I am a Christian, To whatever punish 
 ment thou shalt adjudge, we submit ourselves. If 
 our doom be death, suffer us to share it together, that 
 together we may be with the Lord." 
 
 He who was thus addressed, bending from his lofty 
 seat, united the hands of the lovers ; and Marcus 
 Aurelius, the heathen and the Stoic, sanctioned, not 
 without a tear of tenderness, the bridal of Christians.
 
 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE.
 
 " Fare ye well ! fare ye well ! 
 To joy and to hope it sounds as a knell ; 
 Cruel tale it were to tell 
 How the emigrant sighs farewell." 
 
 TOPPER.
 
 TliE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 Two rather antique-looking people were con 
 versing cozily, toward the close of a vernal day. 
 The bay window where they sat, looked out upon 
 lawn and garden, and was partially shaded by the 
 convolvulus, so redolent at dewy morn, of its deep 
 blue and crimson bells. 
 
 " Brother, did you ever think our Susan had some 
 thoughts she did not reveal 1" 
 
 " What kind of thoughts 1" 
 
 " Why, has it never crossed your mind that she 
 might be in love 1" 
 
 " In love ! The child ! What can you be dream 
 ing of, Sister Sibyl?" 
 
 " Child indeed ! Eighteen next Candlemas, Mr. 
 Mortimer. If I am not mistaken, her mother was 
 younger when she stood at the altar with our broth 
 er. Perhaps I might say, when she led him there, 
 for he was utterly bewildered, and blinded by the 
 love of her." 
 
 " She was truly lovely. But tell me whose image 
 your imaginings have coupled with our pretty 
 niece 1" 
 
 " Whose image 1 Why, the young spark Henry 
 Elton, of course. A fine match, upon my word ;
 
 40 T HE EMIGRANT B R I L> E. 
 
 he having nothing, or next to nothing, and of no 
 family, as you may say. I always thought Susan 
 ought to marry some nobleman ; and so she might, 
 with a proper ambition. Such sights of money as 
 you have lavished on her education, too playing on 
 the spinnet, and working tent-stitch. Of what great 
 use will these be, when she is the wife of so very un 
 distinguished a personage ] I think she is ungrate 
 ful to you ; indeed, to us both." 
 
 " It is most probable that your fancy outruns all 
 fact. Still, if your suspicions prove true, I should 
 regret it not so much for the reasons you have given, 
 as that the young man has some spice of wildness 
 and want of consideration, which might affect the 
 happiness of the poor girl. Shall I speak to her?" 
 
 " O mercy, my dear brother ! not for the world. 
 You men are always so hasty. Such matters need 
 the utmost tact and delicacy. The young heart is an 
 exquisite harp, which few can play upon without 
 disordering its sti ings. Trust that to me. There 
 she is, coming from her walk, and that very Henry 
 Elton with her, to be sure ! Have the goodness, 
 brother, to leave the room. No time like the pres 
 ent time, as the proverb says." 
 
 A fair girl was seen approaching the house, the 
 rich curls of auburn hair escaping from under her 
 hat upon neck and shoulder. By her side was a 
 graceful young man, who bore upon his arm her 
 basket of wild flowers. A ramble in the green 
 lanes of merry England had given them new spirits,
 
 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 41 
 
 and their voices, mingling in occasional laughter, 
 rang out joyously. Her companion took leave, and 
 she entered with a light step. 
 
 " See, aunt, these fresh violets, and this " 
 
 " Bless me ! Miss Mortimer, I suppose it is highly 
 decorous to walk with your hat untied, and to chat 
 ter so long at the gate with a gentleman." 
 
 Amazement seized the young creature, a moment 
 since so gay. Miss Mortimer ! This was always 
 an epithet of great displeasure. What could have 
 happened ] The full, blue eyes, which just before 
 had sparkled like sapphires, dilated, and with lips 
 slightly parted, and foot advanced, she stood, check 
 ed and silent, a song-bird startled by the thunder. 
 
 " Do you know that every body is talking of your 
 familiarity with that Henry Elton, and of his awful 
 dissipation, too ; your uncle and all ?" 
 
 " My dear aunt !" 
 
 " Yes ! dear aunt indeed ! Your uncle is not 
 quite blind, nor deaf either. Poor man ! he might 
 have had higher hopes for his favorite brother s 
 daughter. So liberal, too, as he has always been 
 no expense spared. It is a burning shame to show 
 no more regard to his feelings." 
 
 " I assure you, aunt " 
 
 " You need not assure me at all ; I m able to as 
 sure myself. But, if you do not see fit to give up 
 Henry Elton, and mate yourself with some titled 
 person, or one more fitting for our family, it will not 
 be so well for you, I can assure you of that. It will 
 D2
 
 42 T II E E M I G U A N T H HI D K. 
 
 not be difficult to find one who will show more 
 gratitude to us, for lesser favors. You need not 
 take the trouble to answer me." 
 
 The surprise of the listener gave way to a rush of 
 other feelings. The color deepened in her pure 
 Saxon complexion, but she replied not, though the 
 compression of her bright lips proved that it cost 
 some effort to be silent. Henceforth a new subject 
 occupied her meditations, and the floating filament 
 and shadow of a preference became a fixed thought. 
 
 Miss Sibyl lost no time in reporting to her broth 
 er that Susan was deeply in love, and desperately 
 bent on having her own way. 
 
 " I could see it in every movement. She is her 
 mother over again, whom I never could bear. Her 
 father, too, had a right obstinate temper. Consider 
 ing he was only a half-brother, I have sometimes 
 wondered at your partiality for his daughter. I am 
 sure our own dear sister would be glad to give us 
 her Euphemia, who would not make us half the 
 trouble that Susan has." 
 
 This matter had been hinted before by the adroit 
 lady, but her brother s heart still continued to turn 
 to his orphan protege. Yet, having always main 
 tained toward Susan a reserved and dignified manner, 
 she was not aware of his attachment, and too timid 
 to approach him with freedom. Mutually misun 
 derstanding each other, constraint deepened into ap 
 parent coldness, and diffidence was mistaken for 
 pride. The blight of a joyless home fell on the
 
 THE E M I G R A X T B 11 1 D E. 43 
 
 spirit of the young girl, and she grew care-worn 
 before her time. 
 
 Days passed away on leaden feet, and the early 
 flowers, for whose birth she had waited, withered, 
 scarcely noticed, in their turfy beds. At the foot of 
 the pleasant garden of the Mortimers was a sum 
 mer-house. The full moon, looking through 
 vines and lattice-work, saw that it was not untenant- 
 ed. Two persons were discoverable, with heads de 
 clined, as if in conversation more profound than the 
 gayety of youth would prompt. 
 
 Suddenly one starts into action, genuflection, ges 
 ture, such as excited feeling or eloquence inspire. 
 It might be seen that he had an auditor absorbed, 
 and not unmoved. 
 
 The pantomime, though protracted, has a close. 
 Of its scope and result, somewhat may be gathered 
 by the bearing of the parties, as they issue from the 
 bower. Moving slowly through the long lines of 
 shrubbery, the manner of one is earnest, tender, 
 and tinctured with the power of prevalence. The 
 other leans heavily on his arm, her fair brow inclin 
 ing toward his, and as they reach the porch where 
 they are to separate, her clear, lustrous eye gazes 
 steadfastly into his, as if to gather one more assu 
 rance that the image of her own love is fully re 
 flected there. 
 
 A ship rides at anchor on the English coast. The 
 night is rayless, and winds moan with a hollow 
 sound. The midnight watch is called ; but the cap-
 
 44 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 tain still lingers on deck, as if engaged in some 
 preparation for his expected departure at early 
 morn. 
 
 The tramp of flying steeds on the shores is heard, 
 then the dash of an oar. A boat has put out into 
 the thick darkness. Soon a group, muflled in cloaks, 
 ascend the deck of the vessel. One seems exhaust 
 ed, and is supported by a stronger arm. 
 
 Then, by the dull, red light of the barnacle, a cav 
 alier stands forth, with uncovered head, and by his 
 side a vision of beauty. The melody of the mar 
 riage service trembles strangely upon that bleak, 
 midnight air. Hands are joined. 
 
 " Till death ft* do part." What a place, timkl 
 and tender creature ! for vows like these the rough 
 ship and the tossing sea. None of thy kindred blood 
 near to bless thee, or soothe the pulsations of thy 
 fluttering heart. 
 
 " Safe from all persecution ! Mine own for 
 ever !" 
 
 Well-timed words, young bridegroom. They bring 
 a faint rose-leaf tinge over cheek and brow, so dead 
 ly pale. The benediction of the priest fell like oil 
 upon the troubled waters ; and throwing himself, 
 with his attendants, into the waiting boat, he rapidly 
 regained the shore. 
 
 The next morning beheld the ship and her two 
 companions, with unfurled sails, leave the harbor of 
 Plymouth. Cloud and blast had passed away with 
 night, but were replaced by a dense fog. So they
 
 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 45 
 
 still hovered, like half-wakened sea-birds, lazily 
 along the coast. 
 
 At mid-day a barge was seen approaching. With 
 a buoyant movement it skimmed the waves, now 
 rising half upright upon some crested billow, and 
 anon sinking gracefully into the intermediate vale 
 of waters. 
 
 Among the many who watched her progress, 
 none testified such overwhelming anxiety as Henry 
 Elton and his bride. Apprehension that they might 
 be the objects of pursuit, raised a tide of tumultuous 
 emotion. The young man walked apart with the 
 captain, vehemently demanding that the ship should 
 hold on her course ; and when he again seated him 
 self by her side, whose azure eye followed his ev 
 ery movement, weapons were observed to glitter 
 beneath his mantle. 
 
 A cavalier, closely muffled, with a single servant, 
 leaped on board. Requesting a private interview 
 with the captain, they descended together to the 
 cabin. Henry Elton, passing one arm firmly around 
 his bride, whispered in her ear, " Till death us do 
 part,"" while a sword, partially drawn from its scab 
 bard, gleamed in his right hand. How endless 
 seemed that interval of suspense ! 
 
 At length ascending footsteps were heard, with a 
 suppressed murmur of " Sir Walter Raleigh !" The 
 eye of every gazer testified pleasure as it rested on 
 the noble form of the most accomplished knight of 
 his times. His Spanish cloak, thrown over one arm,
 
 40 THE E M I G R A X T B II 1 1) E. 
 
 discovered that magnificence of costume in which 
 he delighted, and which his elegance of person so 
 well became. To all who surrounded him he ad 
 dressed some kind or courtly phrase, with his habit 
 ual tact and fluency. Fixing his eagle eye on the 
 bride, he drew her toward him, and said, 
 
 " And thou, too, here, pretty dove ] I knew thy 
 father well, in the wars of the Low Countries. A 
 brave man was he, and a noble. Heaven help thee 
 to build thy nest in yon far flowery groves, where I 
 would fain myself be." 
 
 Pressing a paternal kiss on her pure forehead, 
 and once more heartily shaking the hand of the 
 commander, he said, 
 
 " My good people, that you will sm>w all- due re 
 spect and obedience to so excellent a seaman as 
 Captain White, I make no doubt. But more than 
 this: I present him to you as the future governor of 
 the colony which, God willing, you are to plant in 
 the new Western World." 
 
 Then placing in his hand a sealed paper, contain 
 ing instructions for the new government, and the 
 names of the twelve assistants by whose aid it was 
 to be administered, he bade all a courteous farewell, 
 with " good wishes, and a golden lot." 
 
 Loud and long was the voice of cheer and gratu- 
 lation as he departed. He bowed his thanks, and 
 then standing erect in the tossing boat, waved his 
 hat, with its fair, white plumes. Far in the distance 
 they saw it dancing amid the sea-foam, and con-
 
 T H E E M I G R A N T B U I D E. 47 
 
 versed enthusiastically of the man who, yet scarcely 
 thirty-five, had already become illustrious in arts 
 and arms, a scholar, courtier, poet, and statesman ; 
 liberal as a patron of literature, and the very soul of 
 all enterprise for the settlement of the new-found 
 continent of America. As they watched him until 
 his barge was a speck on the far waters, no pre 
 science revealed the darkening of his fortunes, the 
 conspiracy of his foes, a tyrant king, the prison, and 
 the scaffold. 
 
 Three small ships, long beaten by the Atlantic 
 surge, approached the shores of that region which, 
 less than a cenrary before, the world-finder had un 
 veiled. The conflict of months with blast and bil 
 low had not left them unscathed, and they moved, 
 like the flagging sea-gull, toward the desired haven. 
 
 It was the summer of 1587, when Virginia, in her 
 gorgeous robes, gleamed out to the worn voyagers, 
 like the isles of the blessed. Her flowering trees 
 and shrubs sent a welcome on the wings of odors, 
 ere the embroidered turf kissed their feet. 
 
 Vines, loaded with clusters, enriched field and 
 grove ; here forming dense canopies and bowers of 
 shade, and there springing loftily from tree-top to 
 tree-top, with bold festoons and flowing drapery. 
 Deer glanced through the forest, and birds of gay 
 plumage filled the balmy air with music. 
 
 The strangers sought out the spot, near the fair
 
 48 T H E n M I G R A N T B R I D E. 
 
 waters of the lloanoke, where, two years before, Sir 
 Richard Greenville had planted a colony of frail 
 root, whose remnant had been borne back by Sir 
 Francis Drake to its native soil. 
 
 These guests of the hospitality of the broad, green 
 West were full of exultation, and zealous to con 
 struct places of shelter and repose. None more 
 ardently rejoiced when a little dwelling was ready, 
 which they might call their own, than Henry Elton 
 and his bride. Its rudeness, its narrow limits, were 
 naught to them, so entirely happy were they to pos 
 sess a home amid the charms of nature and the soli 
 tude of love. Here was their most romantic wish 
 fulfilled a lodge in the green wood, and a beauti 
 ful world to themselves. 
 
 Alas for Susan, when a change first stole over her 
 dream. Enthusiastic, and turning, like the flower of 
 the sun, to one alone, she had not taken into view 
 that the cloud and the frost must have their season. 
 At first she wondered that Henry could so often 
 leave her and so long be gone, or that, at his return, 
 he omitted the tender words she had been accustom 
 ed to hear. But the smile was ever radiant on her 
 brow when he appeared, and during his absence 
 she found solace in household toils, putting her slen 
 der, snowy hands, with strange facility, to the hum 
 blest deeds that might render a poor abode com 
 fortable, or vary his repast who was ever first m her 
 thoughts. While thus employed, her voice rang out 
 sweetly from the catalpas that embowered her dwell-
 
 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 49 
 
 ing, so that it would seem that the birds and herself 
 were at a loving strife. But the tuneful emulation 
 soon ceased, and her song rose sad and seldom, and 
 then was heard no more. 
 
 A deeper shadow had fallen upon her lot. Cap- 
 tiousness was added to indifference by him for whom 
 she had literally given up all besides. A fearful 
 conviction, which she strongly resisted, forced itself 
 upon her, of his frequent intemperance. Careless of 
 the duties of a protector, he would sometimes be 
 away whole nights, while at his return she was 
 doomed to witness the disgusting gradations from 
 stupidity to brutality. 
 
 Compunction, indeed, occasionally seized him, and 
 at his reviving kindness her young hope whispered 
 that all would yet be well, and her woman s love 
 forgot that it had ever wept. The adversities of the 
 colony proved, also, a temporary remedy. Poverty, 
 and a scarcity of the means of subsistence, checked 
 the power of revelry, and taught inebriety absti 
 nence. Some fear of savage warfare drew the lit 
 tle band more firmly together, for consultation and 
 safety. The fierce Wingina, with his followers, 
 were observed prowling around the settlement. 
 There was then no Powhatan to succor the stran 
 gers, no Pocahontas to save the victim, at the jeop 
 ardy of her own life. 
 
 In the mean time, she who had staked her all on 
 love, and lost, was fondly tenacious of its fragments. 
 Every pleasant look or gentle word, though few and 
 4 E
 
 50 THEEMIGRANTBRIDE. 
 
 far between, was treasured as an equivalent for 
 many sorrows. She was learning, day by day, the 
 lesson that human love may never lay aside the ele 
 ment of forbearance. It was touching to see so 
 young and fair a creature so sad, and yet so calm. 
 
 One evening she had waited long for her husband, 
 but he came not. A step was heard. Can that be 
 his so stealthy 1 ? The slight fastening of the door 
 was burst in. Dark faces peered, wild forms glim 
 mered. The stroke of a hatchet, and the red flame 
 bursting from the jow roof-tree, were the work of a 
 moment ; and from the girdle of the tallest warrior, 
 when he strode from the spoil, hung a fresh auburn 
 tress. 
 
 That night the wail of a wretched man was heard 
 over the ashes, and the dead. Daybreak beheld 
 him, with others, armed, and going forth in quest of 
 vengeance. The fires of wrath fell on many a quiet 
 wigwam, and innocent women and babes perished 
 for the crime of their chieftain. Such is the justice 
 of the war spirit blind, bloody, and ferocious. 
 
 Three years notched their seasons on the trees, 
 and threw their shadows over the earth, ere England 
 stretched forth her hand to that far, forsaken colony. 
 Then three storm-driven vessels, as the dog-star 
 commenced his reign, were seen contending with 
 the terrible breakers of Cape Hatteras. Outriding 
 both surge and tempest, at length, with strained 
 cordage and riven sails, they neared the shore. 
 
 They fired signal-guns, and anxiously listened.
 
 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 51 
 
 But there was no sound. They pressed on toward 
 Roanoke, Governor White, who had been absent on 
 an agency to England, taking the lead. Where was 
 his sweet daughter Ellinor Dare, whom he had left 
 in her green-wood home, singing the lullaby to her 
 young babe, Virginia, the first-born of English pa 
 rents in the New Western World 1 As he drew 
 near the spot, he kept his eye fixed, with agonizing 
 earnestness, on a copse of lofty pines that had encir 
 cled her habitation. Smoke reared its curling vol 
 ume among them, and his heart leaped up. It was 
 the smouldering council-fire of the Indians. 
 
 Not a home of civilized man was there, not a 
 form or face of kindred or of friend. They call. 
 There is no answer, but echo murmuring from rock 
 and ravine. 
 
 Names and initials are still cut deeply on the 
 trees, but where are the hands that traced them ? 
 All is silent save the steps of those who search, and 
 the sighs of those who mourn. 
 
 By the shore there was no boat. Over some bro 
 ken oars, grass and weeds had crept. Ruins of for 
 mer abodes were here and there visible ; portions of 
 household utensils and implements of agriculture 
 scattered along the sands, and corroded with moist 
 ure ; mingled with these were fragments of chests, 
 torn charts, and mutilated books. 
 
 Among the latter was a thrilling relic a Bible 
 with the name of "Susan Mortimer Elton" covered 
 with sanguine spots. Ah! were those fair eyes rest-
 
 52 THE EMIGRANT BRIDE. 
 
 ing upon that blessed book when the destroyer 
 came ] Was that pensive pilgrim there gathering 
 strength for her thorn-clad journey, when that jour 
 ney was about to close 1 Sacred pages ! did she 
 learn from you that earthly love, without divine, is 
 unsafe for the heirs of immortality 1 When her 
 heart s idol was broken, did she hearken to your 
 whisper, "Come, weary and heavy-laden, and I will 
 give you rest ?" 
 
 Blood-stained Bible from Virginian sands ! we 
 thank thee for thine enduring friendship, for thy last 
 holy offices to the Emigrant Bride.
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 E 2
 
 " The honeysuckle o er the porch hath wove its wavy bowers, 
 And by the meadow trenches blow the first sweet cuckoo flowers ; 
 The wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows 
 
 grey, 
 And I m to he Q.ueen of the May, mother I m to be ftueen of 
 
 the May. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 The building rook will caw from the wind-swept, tall elm tree, 
 And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
 And the swallow will come back again, with summer o er the wave, 
 But I shall lie alone, mother, in my far mouldering grave." 
 
 TEVNYSO.S.
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 " MOTHER," said the sweet voice of a young and 
 happy girl, " shall I pass for a May queen of the old 
 en time 1 A deal of trouble have I, and my tire 
 woman had to study out and fit up this antique cos 
 tume." 
 
 The Countess of Lincoln might be forgiven for the 
 flush of maternal pride that passed over her usually 
 pallid and serious face as she gazed on the exquisite 
 beauty of the joyous creature before her. 
 
 " Go to your grand-mother, my love ; she can in 
 struct you in all the mysteries of the toilet of her 
 own day. Though, if your dress should be some 
 what of the composite order, it is surely not unbe 
 coming." 
 
 With buoyant step the fair being glided through 
 the lofty halls of the baronial castle, and bowed her 
 graceful form before the stately countess dowager, 
 whose hair was silvered by time, though the fire of 
 her dark, aristocratic eye was but slightly changed. 
 
 " Heyday, my Lady Arabella ! Queen of the May 
 indeed ! Come nearer, and let me arrange your 
 shoulder-knots. There should have been more starch 
 in your standing ruff. Turn round, and walk before
 
 56 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 me a few times. Well, on the whole, it is quite as 
 well as could be expected. A merlin on your hand, 
 too ! Indeed, where did you obtain that fine bird V 
 
 " I supposed that a falcon was indispensable to the 
 array of a fine lady of the last century." 
 
 " True ; but I think I asked you where you ob 
 tained it." 
 
 " It has been trained for the occasion, and was lent 
 me by a friend of the family." 
 
 " Trained for the occasion and lent by a 
 friend of the family ! What possible need can there 
 be of blushing, my Lady Arabella, about a goshawk 
 and a friend of the family 1 I wish, however, that 
 you could have seen some of the belles of my day. 
 Why, I might have lent you some rich ornaments, had 
 you condescended to apply to me." 
 
 " Dear grand-mother, have you forgotten how often 
 I consulted you about the dress worn by the queens 
 of May in the times of Mary and Elizabeth 1 ?" 
 
 " No, child, no ; I gave you the best advice I could. 
 I was never fond of this kind of mummery for noble 
 men s daughters ; it savors too much of the common 
 people. Would that you had been taught the court 
 ly science of hawking. That was a right royal sport. 
 Majestically indeed did Queen Elizabeth ride ; and 
 well do I remember when my Lord Montacute en 
 tertained her at his castle for I had also the honor 
 to be invited how she would take with her falcon 
 several birds before breakfast. One morning early, 
 a cross-bow being delivered into her hand, with due
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 57 
 
 ceremony she rode into the park and shot four fine 
 deer in the paddock, and was back before you would 
 think of rising. Truly, after she was seventy years 
 of age, she delighted in the chase, and managed her 
 steed and falcon as well as ever. How many of 
 you, dainty, fair-weather dames, will do as much ]" 
 
 Arabella had been trained to listen with a martyr s 
 patience to the repetition of old-world stories ; but 
 now, as soon as she perceived that she might be re 
 leased, bending with respectful observance, she bound 
 ed away like a young gazelle. 
 
 The park, to which she hastened, was like shorn 
 velvet ; and the feet of those high-born ladies tripped 
 there as gayly as those of the peasant girl who feels 
 the breath of spring in her heart, and exults, she 
 knows not why. A select party were assembled, and, 
 amid songs and flower strewings, a crown of fresh 
 blossoms was placed on the head of the chosen Queen 
 of May. A sumptuous entertainment was spread in 
 bovvers erected for that purpose, and under the king 
 ly oaks. 
 
 Afterward the servants, in their best attire, danced 
 around the lofty May-pole, and partook of refresh 
 ments bounteously distributed. It was the pleasure 
 of the young Earl of Lincoln to retain some of the 
 festivals of the olden time, and to make his domestics 
 happy. He felt that their toils were thus lightened, 
 and their homes rendered more dear. 
 
 On his arm leaned his widowed mother. Near 
 them stood a man of middle age and thoughtful as-
 
 58 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 pect. This was Dudley, the friend and faithful as 
 sistant of his father, through whose financial talents 
 the ancestral estate, formerly impaired, had become 
 unencumbered and rich in revenue. 
 
 " Seest thou, my lord," he said, in a somewhat 
 quaint tone, " the comely countenance of the damsel 
 who hath just crowned the Lady Arabella? She is 
 the daughter of the pious Lord Say. Heretofore I 
 have spoken of her unto thee. Right happy would 
 be the young nobleman who should win her to his 
 house and heart." 
 
 Color deepened on the cheek of the earl, and he 
 turned to speak to a young man in the group, of lofty 
 form, with a broad, pure forehead. Still the words 
 fell on an almost unconscious ear, so fixed was the 
 gazer s eye upon every movement of the Lady Ara 
 bella, who, with perfect grace, and the lightness of a 
 happy heart, sported among her companions. When 
 the revels drew near a close, she waved her hand, 
 and the bird flew from it to his ; and, though the 
 smile that accompanied the deed spoke only the lan 
 guage of girlish and guileless simplicity, yet to him 
 it was beautiful and priceless. 
 
 When another May shed its gifts on the earth, 
 the loveliness of that fair creature had come forth 
 into rarer and more exquisite ripeness. It had taken 
 a different and higher character. Deeper thoughts 
 sat upon the brow, and a more serenS happiness ; 
 the thought gave proof of an earthly love, the happi 
 ness of a heavenly piety. Both these guests had be-
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 59 
 
 come residents in her bosom. One spoke in the ten 
 der glance, in the varying rose-tint of the alabaster 
 cheek ; the other, in forgetfulness of self, in high re 
 solve, in tireless charity, in every meek and sweet 
 modification of womanly duty. 
 
 Month after month glided away on swift and 
 blissful pinions. Pure love clad earth in bright 
 ness, and the faith of the Gospel made it as the gate 
 of heaven. 
 
 Winter resumed its sway. Ample fires diffused 
 warmth through the spacious apartments appropria 
 ted to the Countess Dowager of Lincoln, and the 
 evening lamp revealed her in close conversation with 
 the young earl. 
 
 " My lord, I have no doubt that this reference to 
 me is but an idle ceremony. Young people make 
 up their minds about matrimony, and then consult 
 their elders, merely to give countenance to their 
 choice. Yet I must say, that I deem you no very 
 vigilant guardian of the noble blood of our house. 
 Your own meek bride, the daughter of the Lord Say, 
 I like well. The marriage of Frances with Sir Fer- 
 dinando Gorges I approved ; but I never sanctioned 
 that of Susan with Mr. Humphrey ; and now it seems 
 you advocate the suit of another commoner, and that 
 to the most beautiful of your sisters." 
 
 " Mr. Johnson, madam, is my friend. His love is 
 reciprocated by Arabella. It was not the question 
 of their union which I wished to submit to you, but 
 one still more trying. You know, -dear and honored
 
 60 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 lady, that the signs of the times are dark. Relig 
 ious liberty is invaded, and portents of revolution are 
 abroad. Attention has been turned to our American 
 colonies as a place of refuge in case these fears should 
 be realized. It has been deemed expedient that 
 they receive accessions of men of wealth, influence, 
 and education. Such are ready to proceed thither. 
 Among them, Mr. Johnson has received a high ap 
 pointment in the government of New England. He 
 has accepted, and, of course " 
 
 " Of course what, my Lord of Lincoln ] Of course, 
 Arabella is to have a hut on that bleak shore, and, 
 should she chance to escape the perils of the sea, may 
 either die of starvation, or be scalped and eaten by 
 savages. Has her mode of life fitted her for such 
 hardships ]" 
 
 " It has not ; but in her soul is a heroic courage, 
 a holy desire to do good. My revered father, your 
 beloved son, would have strengthened her in this self- 
 devotion. Methinks I hear his voice from the man 
 sions of celestial joy, Daughter, go, and the Lord 
 be with thee. " 
 
 A chord was touched, to which the heart of the 
 aged countess ever responded. The image of her 
 son still ruled her spirit with a magician s power. 
 Her voice grew tremulous as she inquired, 
 
 " Has the mother consented ]" 
 
 " She freely gives her darling to the great duties 
 which she has chosen, and to God, in whom she has 
 believed. Let her cheerful resignation be our ex-
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 61 
 
 ample. Will you give me permission to bring Ara 
 bella to receive your blessing, ere you retire to re 
 pose ]" 
 
 He left the room, and soon re-entered, leading his 
 sister. She knelt at the feet of her father s mother, 
 and buried her face in the deep, rich folds of her 
 garment. The pride of the aged countess was van 
 quished by this affectionate and lamb-like deport 
 ment. Tears coursed down her withered cheeks as 
 she laid both her hands upon her head, and whispered, 
 " God bless thee, my poor child ! God Almighty 
 bless thee !" 
 
 Spring began to breathe upon the frosts ; but she 
 wrought tardily, as if her heart was elsewhere, or as 
 if she even bore traitorous likeness to the winter she 
 had promised to subdue. The sigh of her fitful winds 
 added sadness to the parting scene in the castle of 
 the Earl of Lincoln. There a young bride, around 
 whom the spell of loveliness was wrapped as a man 
 tle, bade adieu to the objects of her earliest love. 
 She had taken her last look from every window on 
 each feature of the landscape ; she had stood under 
 the ancestral oaks, and blessed them for the many 
 times they had taken her lovingly under their can 
 opy ; and lingered among her flower-beds, though 
 only the snow-drop and the crocus came forth to bid 
 her farewell. 
 
 And now, the last hour had come. Inexpressibly 
 tender, yet calm as a seraph, was her parting from 
 the aged countess, and her brothers and sisters ; 
 F
 
 62 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 though the two youngest ones, in whose sports she 
 had mingled, while she aided in their education, clung 
 sobbing to her garments. A second time she threw 
 her arms around her eldest brother. 
 
 " My noble brother, thou hast been to me as a fa 
 ther. Heaven reward thee !" 
 
 Still she paused. The most bitter drop in the cup 
 remained. She evidently shrank from it. Yet it 
 was but for a moment, and that moment was a prayer. 
 Then she flung herself upon the neck of her mother. 
 Long and tearful was that embrace. And then the 
 beautiful being raised her head like a lily from the 
 rain-storm. There was a murmured solace, each 
 to the other, as they parted, 
 
 " In that brighter world, sweet soul, in that bright 
 er world !" 
 
 Ships were riding at anchor on a thronged shore. 
 There were tender partings, sad separations of " link 
 ed spirits" ere the sails spread, and glided gracefully 
 along their path of waters. Then burst forth a strain 
 of music, solemn, sonorous, the hymn of the pilgrims. 
 It grew sweeter and more faint on the distance. A 
 freshening gale swept its cadence from the listeners 
 on the strand. But the enthusiasm of the moment 
 died not away, among those voyagers to the far west 
 ern world. Unblenching spirits were there, stayed 
 upon omnipotent strength. 
 
 In a recess of the cabin of the principal ship sat 
 the bride of Johnson. He knelt beside her. Her 
 face, veiled by its wealth of tresses, rested upon his
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 63 
 
 shoulder. As she raised it, there was the calm ex 
 pression of a holy trust. 
 
 " Think not, my love, that my heart misgave me, 
 because it so clung in the last embrace to her who 
 watched over my cradle ; for, as my Redeemer liv- 
 eth, I had rather thus follow thee over the sea to a 
 home in the wilderness, than, without thee, to dwell 
 in the courts of princes. Where thou diest will I 
 die, and there will I be buried." 
 
 As she spoke, her tender tones gathered depth, 
 and light streamed through her eyes from the altar 
 of a fervent soul. The voice of him who responded 
 was choked with emotion. 
 
 " The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught 
 but death part thee and me. Yet the vow of the Mo- 
 abitess is weak. Death shall not separate us. It 
 will be but the dawn of a brighter day, of an eter 
 nal union." 
 
 Slowly the patient vessels ploughed the deep. 
 The second moon was approaching its wane. Its 
 rays silvered the broad Atlantic. Many of the 
 emigrants paced the deck, gazing upon the quiet 
 scsne. 
 
 " See," said Johnson, whose arm supported the 
 fragile form of his wife, " how every rising billow 
 takes a portion of brightness, and bowing its laden 
 crest, is seen no more." 
 
 " Methinks we are long upon these waters," uttered 
 a deep, manly voice. Turning, they saw Winthrop, 
 the appointed Governor of the Massachusetts, stand-
 
 64 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 ing in the strong shadow of a mast, against which he 
 leaned. 
 
 " Were my Margaret thus by my side, Johnson, I 
 might moralize like you about the tossing ocean, and 
 still keep my happiness secure." 
 
 " I see not here your son, young Henry Winthrop," 
 said the Lady Arabella. " I thought he was to have 
 been of our company." 
 
 " He was left behind when we sailed from the 
 Cowes. Doubtless, he is now upon the wide sea in 
 some one of the fourteen vessels that compose our 
 fleet. I regret the mistake that separated him from 
 me." 
 
 " An eye that never slumbers will look with a 
 fatherly care upon both." 
 
 " Ever ready art thou, with sweet and devout con 
 solations, my Lady Arabella. But a parent hath 
 many cares which the newly-wedded comprehend 
 not." 
 
 " Truly, Henry Winthrop is a sprightly youth, and 
 of an amiable spirit." 
 
 " From his very accomplishments, his faults do 
 grow. He is warm-hearted and trustful. Impatient 
 is he, also, and balanceth not means with ends. He 
 hath been some time married, and yet is he but a boy. 
 Had he the gravity and discretion of John, my first 
 born, I should feel no anxiety though he were a voy 
 ager among strangers, or even with evil men." 
 
 " Do you not often think of your babes, sporting 
 under the shady trees of their fair home at (rroton ?"
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 65 
 
 " I see them in my dreams ; their little voices 
 come to me like the chirping of young birds. And 
 at midnight my prayer goes upward that He who 
 forgetteth not the raven s nest will keep them and 
 their loving, brooding mother." 
 
 " See how the Talbot seems to sleep upon the wa 
 ters," said Dudley, joining their group. " I saw the 
 Ambrose when the sun went down, looming up, large 
 and high, like a living thing. A sharp look-out do I 
 keep upon our three companions, pioneers as we are 
 in this expedition. But none cut the waves with such 
 dignity as the Arabella. Feels she not the honor of 
 the name she bears 1" 
 
 "I have ever thought," said the Lady Arabella, 
 " that her old name, the Eagle, was fitter for an ad 
 miral-ship, because the king of birds doth bear him 
 self so nobly. But look how the Jewel, our light- 
 bearer, runs before us toward yon dark-lined cloud, 
 like a glow-worm." 
 
 " The evening air grows chill, my love," said John 
 son. " It would be safest to be sheltered from it ;" 
 and he wrapped his cloak around her as she descend 
 ed, with a nursing tenderness. 
 
 " I like not that circle around the waning moon," 
 said Winthrop to the captain. 
 
 " It bodes no good, governor. God grant us soon 
 to see the fair New England coast." 
 
 The next morning lowering clouds skirted the 
 horizon. Winds muttered in the distance, and slow 
 ly rose, as if for vengeful deeds. The ships tossed 
 5 F 2
 
 G6 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 wildly. Night closed in with thick darkness, save 
 when lightnings pierced its sable canopy. Every 
 timber creaked and groaned. It would seem that 
 the ships themselves, in pain, mourned the misery of 
 those whom, having received to their bosom, they 
 were too weak to succor. 
 
 To the uninitiated, the tumult of a storm at sea is 
 ever appalling. Shut below, they hear the fearful 
 conflict of blast with billow, the moan of the smitten 
 vessel, the shriek of the commander s trumpet, the cry 
 and confusion of the people, who are at their wits 
 end. The " thunder of the captain s, and the shout 
 ing," alarm the poor novices, and the crashing of ev 
 ery spar is to them as a death signal. Neither are 
 their apprehensions quieted, if, venturing to look 
 above, they see the sailors running hither and thith 
 er with their dim lights, or climbing, with spectral 
 aspect, among the slippery shrouds. 
 
 In the cabin of the Arabella, friends and families 
 were clustering together. From many an agonized 
 group rose the wail of grief, the weeping of child 
 hood, or the voice of prayer. 
 
 " Husband," said the Lady Arabella, " if our bed 
 is now in the deep, our spirits shall go up together, 
 and so be forever with the Lord. Glorious hope ! 
 How much sweeter to me than the thought of hav 
 ing thee first taken, and living on lonely years of bit 
 terness without thee." 
 
 " Would to God, my dearest, in this most awful 
 hour, thy calmness was mine. Would that no strong
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 67 
 
 desire of life with thee, no memory of un repented 
 sin, rose up to trouble the soul." 
 
 He clasped her closer to his bosom, as though he 
 would fain shield her from the surge, which they ex 
 pected soon to ingulf them. 
 
 " Why dost thou withdraw from me, love 1 It is 
 impossible for thee to stand, while the ship so terri 
 bly rolls and plunges." 
 
 She pointed him to a female who lay in the deep 
 sickness of fear, and whose wailing infant had fallen 
 from her arms. She desired to receive it in her own, 
 and Johnson laid it there. She pressed its little chill 
 cheek to hers, and lulled it with a low, whispered 
 melody. The poor innocent moaned for a while, 
 then, clinging closer to its protector, seemed ready 
 to pass into a peaceful dream. 
 
 " Dearest, let me take the child, or restore it to its 
 mother. Its weight oppresses you." 
 
 " Oh no, so please you, let it rest here. See, the 
 poor mother is almost as helpless as itself. How its 
 little hand clasps mine ! It will be pleasanter to die 
 giving comfort to something, even the humblest creat 
 ure. How much pleasanter than worn out with dis 
 ease, and distressing others by groans and agony. 
 Is it not so, my love 1" 
 
 But he who was thus addressed, lingering on her 
 pure, heavenly smile, answered not. His heart was 
 absorbed in her, and in her danger. The hope of 
 life was not perfectly renounced, and the being who 
 made it most dear filled every thought.
 
 68 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 All that night, and through the next day, the tem 
 pest raged. Then its violence abated, and the sob 
 of the sea, for many hours, was like that of a spent 
 maniac. The storm-driven vessels sought to draw 
 near each other, to consult how their rent sails, shat 
 tered cordage, and broken masts, might be best re 
 paired. 
 
 The sun of the third day rose cloudless from the 
 deep. It was the Sabbath. What soothing repose, 
 what unutterable gratitude did it bring to hearts so 
 long agitated and sorrowing. 
 
 The deck of the Arabella was cleared for divine 
 service. Two clergymen, the Rev. Mr. John Wil 
 son, and the Rev. Mr. George Phillips, were of their 
 company. One led the devotions of the people in a 
 long and fervent prayer, the other rose to speak from 
 the words of the Psalmist, 
 
 " He maketh a storm, a calm ; so He bringeth 
 them to their desired haven." 
 
 After opening, and applying the beautiful passage 
 to their recent danger and deliverance, he ex 
 claimed, 
 
 " What favored orator hath such magnificent sound 
 ing-board as your preacher? What proud cathedral 
 hath such canopy as yon blue, unsullied, immeasura 
 ble skies ? 
 
 "Who hath such an audience? The huge billows, 
 and tho domineering waves that lash them, and the 
 monsters of the deep that play around us ; the whale, 
 lifting up his huge bulk like an island, and the shark
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. GO 
 
 with his terrible teeth, who following, would fain de 
 vour us, did not God stay him. 
 
 " Again, I say, who hath such an audience 1 Ex 
 iles from the home of their fathers ; crusaders, with 
 out the red cross banner, not stirred up by monkish 
 eloquence to fight the infidels for the tomb of Christ, 
 but going to tell the roving and red-browed heathen, 
 that Jesus died. I see before me the governor and 
 deputy-governor of the future colony, the worship 
 ful assistants, who are to share in the cares of gov 
 ernment, the pillars of the Church, the parents of an 
 unborn nation, the babe born upon the waters, the 
 mother who is to nurse her offspring in a land un 
 known ; pilgrims, strangers, yet princely heirs of an 
 inheritance that fadeth not away." 
 
 With a freedom from constraint, which their situa 
 tion justified, he spoke tenderly of their native realm, 
 of Charles, their monarch, then in the fifth year of 
 his troubled reign, and expatiated on the past, the 
 present, and the future, till the tears of memory and 
 of hope mingled on many a lifted brow. His hear 
 ers shrank not from the multiplied heads of his dis 
 course, nor were anxious lest its length should weary 
 them, but treasured up the " precious word of doc 
 trine as seed that was to fructify in their souls," liv- 
 ino- bread that could sustain them in the wilderness. 
 
 O 
 
 Still long days and wearisome nights were appoint 
 ed to the voyagers. How often was the desired coast 
 hailed in imagination only to resolve itself into a 
 cloud again. Once, at the peep of dawn, a cry from
 
 70 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 the helm of " Land ahead /" brought upon the deck a 
 rush of footsteps. Pale, haggard faces saw the ob 
 ject of their desire, and brightened with joy. 
 
 Soon after was a clapping of hands, and a cry of 
 young voices, " The bird ! the bird 1" A pigeon from 
 the shore folded its weary wing, and alighted among 
 the shrouds. The children regarded it with delight, 
 as, turning its head from side to side, it revealed the 
 changing shades of its irised neck. They crumbled 
 their stale bread, which the long voyage had ren 
 dered scanty, and strove to allure to nearer compan 
 ionship this pretty aerial messenger from the New 
 World. 
 
 " Oh ! wife, dearest one," said Johnson, " scent you 
 not the sweet land breeze 1" 
 
 " It comes to me like the breath of my own gar 
 den, where I sported with my little sisters. It lifts a 
 weight from my spirit." And she clasped her thin, 
 white hands in silent devotion. 
 
 They came to anchor in a narrow strait, between 
 islands whose green copses and thickets, seemed to 
 eyes which had so long gazed but upon sea and sky, 
 like the waving shades of Gerizzim to the Israelites. 
 
 " Is not this one of the happiest days of our lives ]" 
 said Dudley, as the barque cut the waters which was 
 to bear them to their new home. " Seventy-five days 
 confinement on ship-board is long enough for a lands 
 man." 
 
 "How count you, Governor Dudley ?" asked the 
 Lady Arabella. " I scarcely dare to question your
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 71 
 
 accuracy, but yet, from April 6th to this blessed 12th 
 of June, 1630, I make but sixty-seven days." 
 
 " Ah ! dear lady, you are thinking of your lover- 
 like walks with Isaac Johnson amid the picturesque 
 scenery of the Isle of Wight, where you stopped to 
 refresh yourselves. But remember, only a few par 
 took that privilege. We, poor matter-of-fact peo 
 ple, who went not on shore since we weighed anchor 
 at the Coves on the 29th of March, have we not been 
 these seventy-five good days and nights on the salt 
 sea 1 Cupid may make his notes on a rose-leaf, or 
 a butterfly s wing, but deprived husbands, or still 
 sadder bachelors, must needs notch our records on 
 the dull log-book of lonely hearts." 
 
 Salem, where they landed, was pleasant, even in 
 its scarce-unfolded rudiments. Endicot and his peo 
 ple, had labored there diligently, and judiciously. 
 Their welcome to the new-comers was warm, and 
 they gladly lent every aid in their power, to comfort 
 and accommodate them. One by one, the other ves 
 sels of the fleet arrived. In the course of that year, 
 seventeen were sent from the mother country, with 
 rich accessions to the colony. 
 
 A fortnight had elapsed since the arrival of the Ar 
 abella, when a group were observed coming from 
 the water with slow, sad step. Evidently they were 
 bearing the dead. Suppressed murmurs rose here 
 and there : " The poor governor ! such a beautiful 
 young man! only yesterday arrived drowned in 
 bathing ! Who can bear the news to his father ]"
 
 72 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 Ere they were aware, Winthrop stood among them. 
 There lay his son, whom but the day before he had 
 welcomed in the bloom of health. For a moment he 
 was pale as the clay over which he bent. The be 
 reavement sank into his soul, and he sought his God. 
 He was long in solitary prayer. From that time he 
 spoke not of his sorrow. He gave himself day by 
 day to those cares for the colony which, from his 
 high station, devolved on him. But at night, in his 
 lone recess, the image of the fair youth, with his drip 
 ping locks, cut down in a moment, came over him, 
 and the cry of " Oh, Henry ! my son ! my son !" 
 showed how the unbending magistrate melted in the 
 agonized father. 
 
 Rude were the habitations that sheltered the early 
 colonists. In one of these, with a countenance light 
 ed up by cheerfulness and love, Lady Arabella John 
 son received her husband on his return from a short 
 but toilsome journey. Such comforts as she could 
 procure were around them ; and, while she presided 
 at their rude table, she listened with delighted inter 
 est to the narrative of his expedition. 
 
 " Separation from you but for one day, how pain 
 ful, dearest Arabella. Earnestly did I long for you 
 by my own side, July 30th, amid those solemn exer 
 cises in which we made covenant with God. It was 
 beneath the lofty canopy of a broad-spreading oak in 
 Charlestown that our pastor, John Wilson, prayed 
 and preached with a holy fervor. Then he, with the 
 Governors Winthrop, Dudley, and myself, taking sol-
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 73 
 
 emn vows, laid the foundation of our infant Church. 
 It was a season to repay us for every hardship, every 
 toil, yea, to lift the soul gloriously above the earth. 
 How I regret that the laborious traveling in this un 
 cleared land, prevents thy participation in scenes thou 
 wouldst so much enjoy." 
 
 But there existed a deeper reason why the affec 
 tionate wife should not accompany her husband. It 
 was written on her wasting brow, in the strange and 
 fitful brilliance of her eye. Still he, who was most 
 of all concerned in this change, was the last to per 
 ceive it. Her sweet smile, her animated manner, 
 whenever he was near, deceived him. He, indeed, 
 could not fail to observe the emaciation of her frame ; 
 but he imputed it to the long, tedious voyage, an ef 
 fect, in some degree, common to them all. Zealous 
 ly, and with the sleepless ingenuity of love, he strove 
 to shelter her from every privation. It affected him 
 sometimes even to tears, to see her sustain the strong 
 contrasts between her present and former modes of 
 life, with a spirit as lucid and playful as the sun 
 beam. 
 
 But, as the summer verged toward its close, he 
 became alarmed at a debility which she could no 
 longer conceal. Then his apprehensions wrought 
 painfully with regard to the approaching winter. 
 
 " I shall rear thee a bower, my love, which no blast 
 
 can penetrate. The imperishable heart of yon mighty 
 
 forest-trees shall be its walls, and I will line it with 
 
 the warmest fur of the beaver. "Winter shall not 
 
 G
 
 74 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 dare to look at thee, my bird, in the nest that I shall 
 build thee." 
 
 " Be not anxious about me, dearest husband. This 
 rude hut is more precious to me than the proudest 
 castle without thee. I bless God for having brought 
 me to this New World." 
 
 Ho was troubled at the paleness of her brow, and 
 drew her head to rest upon his bosom, as he said, 
 
 " I am ever hoping for the day when thou canst 
 travel with me to the beautiful tri-mountain, where 
 I trust to persuade the governor to establish our 
 principal city. As yet there is no residence upon 
 it save the lonely cottage of William Blackstone. 
 But the softness of its peninsular verdure, and its 
 swell above the blue waters, is picturesque beyond 
 description." 
 
 Raising upward, and fixing her eyes, she murmur 
 ed, " Behold, I see a more goodly mountain. Are 
 not yonder the trees of lign-aloes, which the Lord 
 hath planted V Or are they the groves by my fa 
 ther s house, under whose shade I reposed, and 
 through whose boughs the trembling moonbeams 
 looked down?" 
 
 Startled at her hollow tone, the fearful thought 
 for the first time swept over his soul, that the young 
 and beautiful wife was about to go home to the coun 
 try of perfect love. 
 
 It was so. That strong pressure of her hand was 
 the death-clasp. There was no farewell save a moan, 
 in which the spirit had no part. It seemed but the
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 75 
 
 passing forth of breath from tubes where it had long 
 made music, or the sigh of a closed instrument, vi 
 brating for a moment after melody had forsaken it. 
 
 And there sat the survivor, with the precious burd 
 en in his arms, the marble cheek resting against his 
 own. Expect us not to describe his grief, nor the 
 mourning of the colony over its benefactress and its 
 pride. 
 
 The desolated one lifted feebly his head from the 
 grave of his idol, to discharge the duties that devolv 
 ed upon him. The welfare of a young country strug 
 gling into existence, and the relief of poverty and 
 sorrow, were his cares. He sustained them faithful 
 ly, and in the spirit of meekness, but for pleasure on 
 earth he sought not. 
 
 It was on the 7th of September, 1631, that the 
 beautiful site of his selection received the name of 
 Boston. He was present at its baptism. But so 
 changed ! It was evident to all observers that he 
 only endured life. For every service of liberality 
 or piety he girded himself, but his heart was with 
 the treasure that had flown. 
 
 Ere another autumnal moon had filled its horn, the 
 turf where he had projected a garden and a bower 
 for his beloved companion, was laid upon his breast. 
 The father of Boston gave to its Chapel-burying- 
 ground the first hallowed dust. 
 
 The lives of our colonial ancestors abound not 
 in romantic adventure. Yet they are rich in exam 
 ple, and in such traces as the heart cherishes with
 
 76 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 pride. And if the name of Cecrops, through the dim 
 and distant wastes of time, hath come down to us, 
 burning like a " bright, particular star," as the found 
 er of Athens, let not his name be forgotten who plant 
 ed in the western wild our crowning city, the Athens 
 of New England.
 
 MARY RICE.
 
 "A violet by a mossy stone, 
 
 Half hidden from the eye, 
 Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky." 
 
 WORDSWORTH.
 
 MARY RICE, 
 
 A FAIR girl was getting water at a spring. It bub 
 bled up, clear as crystal, in its bed of shelving rock. 
 All around was in the deep solitude of nature. The 
 path to the fountain was imperfectly wrought out by 
 the track of feet, amid the tangled thicket. The un 
 peopled \vild was overshadowed by dense masses of 
 forest-trees, which were now glowing with the rich 
 tints of a New England autumn, softened by the slant 
 rays of a declining sun. 
 
 But the being who alone gave life to this land 
 scape, bore no brow of hermit or of ascetic. Appa 
 rently between sixteen and seventeen, her fully- 
 rounded form combined strength with the grace of 
 early womanhood. The beauty of health spoke 
 through her fine complexion and unconstrained 
 movement, while her hazel eye beamed with a 
 cheerful courage, as if, from the habit of looking on 
 the bright side of things, it had gathered brightness. 
 The light of her glad spirit seemed to flow forth 
 and mingle with the pure sunbeam, that was stream 
 ing through every nook and glade of the wilderness. 
 
 Suddenly a boy, younger than herself, made his 
 way through the interwoven copse-wood. " Mary 
 Rice ! sister! why did you not tell me that you need-
 
 80 MARY RICE. 
 
 ed water from the spring ] It is not my will and 
 pleasure that you should be either a hewer of wood 
 or a drawer of water." 
 
 Regarding him with an affectionate smile as she 
 resigned her burden to him, they began to ascend 
 together a long and steep hill. Then a voice of 
 clear, rich music broke the silence. 
 
 " Brother mine, I have thought of late that there 
 was sadness on your brow. Am I right 1" 
 
 " Yes, to be sure. How can it be otherwise in 
 this strange, lone place. I have never been content 
 ed, the whole year that we have lived here. I won 
 der why father removed from our old home in Marl- 
 borough. It was far pleasanter there, where we 
 could see some other smoke besides our own, go 
 Curling up into the blue sky. Here, if you take a 
 walk into the woods and there is nowhere else to 
 walk the deadly snake shakes its rattle at you, or 
 some serpent darts out a forked tongue, while the 
 only music is the howling of wolves, or the wild cat 
 pun-ing in its lair." 
 
 " Except the merry song of birds. Open your 
 ears just a moment now, to their melody. They 
 seem to be pouring out a full chorus, perhaps for our 
 especial benefit, perhaps their own sweet good-night 
 to each other." 
 
 " The birds and you are particular friends, I per 
 ceive. As for me, I think more of the war-whoop 
 of Indians. It is rather singular that father should 
 choose to settle on the very spot where they mur-
 
 M A R Y U I C E. 81 
 
 dered Serjent, and carried his family away captive. 
 They would naturally come to the old place again 
 when they prowl for prey. Now you need not look 
 so sharp at me, Madam Rice, as though you took me 
 for a coward. I tell you, if the worst comes to the 
 worst, you ll find me as good a soldier as ever taught 
 the red-skins how to skulk back to their wigwams." 
 
 " In the mean time, bold brother, let us try to be 
 happy, and to make others so. Is it not the duty of 
 us, who are young, to help and cheer our parents, 
 and not hang like mill-stones around their necks, to 
 sink them in deeper waters 1" 
 
 " Many thanks for your sermon, most revei end 
 teacher. It is right good and wholesome doctrine. 
 But if Uncle Gershom Rice should remove here, as 
 I understand he talks of doing, and my eyes behold 
 another roof among yonder tall, gloomy trees, so. that 
 we are not quite cast out from all the world beside, 
 it would vastly add to the force of your exhortations." 
 
 " Dear brother, as long as there is love in our own 
 hearts for each other and our Father in heaven, let 
 us not displease Him by complaining. Come, cheer 
 up for my sake. I dare say you ll live to see this 
 fine country full of people. Who knows but a fu 
 ture race will number you among its very worthy 
 and renowned ancestors. Will not that be some 
 payment for fighting rattlesnakes, and running away 
 from bears and panthers ? Come, my soldier that is 
 to be, bring us fresh milk from the cow, and see 
 what a nice supper I ll spread for you." 
 6
 
 82 MARY RICE. 
 
 And the tender, earnest kiss which she pressed on 
 the brow of the boy, rekindled that blessed strength 
 which springs from the certainty of being beloved. 
 As he turned from her, she called playfully after 
 him, 
 
 " Don t forget to put up our few sheep securely 
 for the night, from the visits of your particular friends, 
 the wolves. And look you, come back with a pleas 
 ant face. It mightily helps on the work of the fam 
 ily." 
 
 They parted at the door of a rude habitation, the 
 only one for miles. Its owner, Mr. Jonas Rice, a 
 man of singular firmness and intrepidity, resided 
 here with a large family of children, of whom Mary 
 was the eldest. He was literally the father of the 
 settlement ; for, though an attempt to plant it had 
 been made nearly forty years before, the settlers 
 were soon dispersed through dread of the natives, 
 and the hardships of colonial life. After the death 
 of King Philip, and the cessation of the wars that he 
 sustained, another effort was instituted, which also 
 proved abortive. 
 
 A small tenement had been erected twelve years 
 before, near the site of the present lonely dwelling ; 
 but it was soon destroyed by hostile Indians, and its 
 inmates massacred or made captive. To Mr. Rice, 
 therefore, belongs the honorary title of the father of 
 Worcester. Much would it have cheered him, amid 
 toil and peril, might he have caught a prophetic glance 
 of its present beauty, with its fair structures, its anti-
 
 MARY RICE. 63 
 
 quarian halls, its polished society, and its flourishing 
 schools, pulsating in full prosperity, like a busy heart 
 in the bosom of its rich territory. 
 
 As Mary Rice entered their humble abode, a con 
 cord of young voices greeted her. A flock of chil 
 dren were gathered round the fire, which the chill 
 of an autumnal eve rendered acceptable. One little 
 girl was bemoaning a finger torn by a thorn. The 
 good sister bound up the wound, and comforted her, 
 enjoining upon all to be quiet, and not disturb their 
 mother, who, with feeble health, had charge of a very 
 young infant. She herself fed, and lulled to needful 
 rest a child of two summers, and then, with elastic 
 step and skillful hand, busied herself in preparations 
 for the evening meal. 
 
 The table of rough boards was soon covered with 
 a coarse white cloth, in whose spinning and bleach 
 ing her industry had aided that of the mother. The 
 light corn-cakes and fresh butter were of her own 
 making. Large clusters of the native grape, now 
 fully ripe, were added by the care of her young 
 brothers.. And as she arranged the simple viands, 
 and poured out the pure milk, her face was radiant 
 with that joy which gives health to the heart ; a con 
 sciousness of making those whom it loves comforta 
 ble and happy. 
 
 The father came home from his work, and, raising 
 his hands, implored Heaven s blessing upon the 
 household board. By his side sat the meek and 
 cherished wife, pale, but convalescent ; and while the
 
 84 MARY RICE. 
 
 children partook, nothing loath, of the refreshment 
 provided, the hum of their voices, reverently lowered 
 in the parental presence, was like the music of a 
 bee-hive. 
 
 The repast finished, they drew around the blazing 
 fire. Young eyes turned spontaneously to Mary s 
 sweet, cheerful face, as buds to the sunbeam. 
 
 " Tell me a story," said one, " as you do, when we 
 have been good, about him who slew the giant with a 
 sling, and the smooth stones from the brook." 
 
 " And about the gleaner who gathered sheaves in 
 the field to feed her poor mother." 
 
 4 And sing us some of those sweet songs that you 
 sing when the great wheel goes round, where you 
 spin the wool for our stockings, and our warm win 
 ter clothes." 
 
 " It is time for your own evening hymn, and to go 
 to sleep, my little ones," said the kind sister, holding 
 the young babe for them all to kiss, and then placing 
 it tenderly in the father s arms. 
 
 There was a low, buzzing whisper among the chil 
 dren, and close approximation of heads, as if in a 
 cabinet council. At length a chubby girl, who had 
 sometimes been called the favorite of her sire, taking 
 courage from that flattery, stood up close beside his 
 knee and said, 
 
 " Father ! we children want to know what you 
 are going to call the baby." 
 
 " His name is Adonijah," was the emphatic reply. 
 Then, still more slowly, as if dictating for a family
 
 MARY RICE. $5 
 
 record, he repeated, " Ad-o-ni-jah Rice, born No 
 vember 7th, 1714, at Sagatabscot Hill, Worcester, in 
 the Bay State." 
 
 Whereat young eyes opened wider, and small 
 heads bobbed up and down, and here and there a 
 lisping tongue essayed the burden of the mighty 
 name. But the youngest framed their lips in vain to 
 the wonderful cognomen, and looked with new pride 
 on each other, and on the puny infant so unconscious 
 of its magnificent heritage. 
 
 " That is just the grandest name I ever did hear," 
 said the child whose successful diplomacy had drawn 
 it from the paternal treasure-house. 
 
 " Father must have read all the books of history 
 in the world, to have it ready so, the very minute he 
 is asked." 
 
 " Sister Mary says it s in the Bible." 
 
 " Yes," answered one of the older childi-en, " it is 
 the name of a man in Israel who was crowned king." 
 
 "I wonder if our baby won t be a crowned king 
 when he grows up V 
 
 " King, I dare say, over the rattlesnakes and 
 wolves of Sagatabscot Hill," murmured the queru 
 lous brother. 
 
 Now came the singing of their simple hymn, in 
 which every little one, quietly seated, and with a 
 countenance composed to gravity, mingled an up 
 lifted voice. Then the good sister, bending over 
 their pillows, heard each utter the prayer in which 
 the devotion of childhood, half slumber and half 
 H
 
 86 MARY RICE. 
 
 trust, had wrapped itself for ages. Perhaps the 
 scenery of their dreams was that night varied by the 
 image of their baby brother, with the unspeakable 
 name. Fancy, however, doubtless failed in present 
 ing the picture that time unfolded the first-born son 
 of Worcester, in the garb, and with the dauntless 
 bearing of a soldier, jeoparding his life at the siege 
 of Louisburg; or, amid the carnage of West Point, 
 solacing himself, in the interval of many campaigns, 
 with the comforts of his home amid the Green Mount 
 ains of Vermont ; or, after the independence of his 
 country was secured, passing on within the limits of 
 another century, and bearing on his hoary head with 
 honor the weight of almost ninety winters. 
 
 In the course of a few evenings, one of those sud 
 den changes that mark the climate of New England 
 brought a tempest of snow, wildly sweeping over the 
 earth. The family grouped themselves around a fire 
 of huge logs, that imparted a strong heat and ruddy 
 flame. The father was busied in examining for one 
 of his sons some arithmetical exercises, made with 
 a fragment of chalk upon a slab of slate-stone. In 
 the long, quiet evenings, he pursued with the older 
 children a system of instruction, which Mary, dur 
 ing the day, as household duties permitted, modified 
 for the younger ; a system which afterward, as pop 
 ulation increased, he was induced to carry out more 
 efficiently, as the first preceptor of the infant set 
 tlement. Such was the high regard for education 
 among our ancestors, that, ere it was possible to es-
 
 MARYRICE. 87 
 
 tablish schools in the wilderness, the fireside was a 
 school, and themselves teachers, of the rudiments of 
 knowledge and the fear of God. 
 
 The little ones were gathered in a circle, murmur 
 ing in subdued tones, or listening to their elders. 
 Mary pressed the new-born infant to her bosom as 
 though it were her own, ana the mother, who sat by 
 her side plying the knitting-needles, said tenderly, 
 
 " Children, do you hear how the storm rages 1 
 When the blast strikes the tall forest trees, they groan 
 as if in pain or fear. Shall we not love the good God 
 who shelters us, and spares our life and health ]" 
 
 She had scarcely done .speaking, when one ex 
 claimed, 
 
 " Father ! do I hear footsteps around the house ? 
 The dog pricks up his ears as if he thought some 
 thing was wrong." r ;: 
 
 The fine large dog, who had been carrying on his 
 back the youngest girl until she grew weary of sport, 
 and then stretched himself before the fire to sleep, 
 was seen occasionally to start and listen ; then, as if 
 satisfied that his vigilance was misplaced, laid his 
 broad head upon the warm hearth again. Now he 
 sprang up growling, and rushed from corner to corn 
 er of the room, with his nose to the floor, as if search 
 ing for some crevice in the walls, and then made his 
 stand at the door, barking violently. 
 
 The husband, perceiving the faint color leave the 
 lips of his invalid wife, spoke of the hoarse echo of 
 the storm, and bade the dog be still.
 
 88 MARY RICE. 
 
 " But, father, father, I hear the moan of a human 
 voice. Some one is there, and in distress. Shall I 
 open the door?" 
 
 The thoughtful colonist was not ignorant that the 
 Indians often counterfeited the wail of suffering, as 
 well as the howl of the wolf, when intent on cruelty. 
 Anxious not prematurely to alarm the mother, in 
 whose mind the tragedy once enacted on that spot 
 was ever vivid, he saw with satisfaction that his 
 gun, ready loaded, was at his hand, and that the eld 
 er boys came resolutely to his side, grasping such 
 weapons as they had been trained to wield. Mary, 
 with a clear, calm brow, sheltered the little ones, 
 who flew to her, and threw one arm around her 
 mother, speaking in a cheering voice, words of com 
 fort. 
 
 " Sister Mary knows how to load and fire as well 
 as any body," said a boy of five. "She can take aim 
 too, for I ve seen her practicing, and I ll help her, 
 and fight for her, as long as I live ;" breaking from 
 the circle of alarmed little ones. 
 
 There was a brief interval of breathless anxiety. 
 Separated for miles from any other habitation, who 
 could think of approaching their premises amid the 
 howling of such a pitiless storm, except some savage 
 horde intent on massacre 1 Footsteps were now dis 
 tinctly heard, and a voice which the howling blasts 
 made unintelligible. Every hand except that of in 
 fant weakness grasped some defensive weapon, and 
 the feeble mother, inspired with courage, rose up
 
 MARY RICE. 8 9 
 
 and wrapped her young babe for flight, speaking in 
 her heart to the God of strength. 
 
 A lull of the loud tempest made earnest words 
 audible. 
 
 " Have pity ! Oh, have pity ! My father was mur 
 dered hei-e. I have escaped from the Indians. I am 
 Thomas Serjent. Give me shelter, ere I perish." 
 
 The door flew open. A youth partially clad in 
 Indian costume, and half enveloped in blinding and 
 adhesive snows, entered with feeble steps. A mo 
 mentary excitement lighted up his wan countenance, 
 and " God bless you !" trembled on his lips. Then he 
 sank exhausted and fainting to the floor. The alarm 
 ed family chafed his temples and rubbed his chilled 
 limbs, eagerly essaying every means of restoration. 
 When somewhat revived and comforted by the 
 warmth of the fire, and nutriment cautiously admin 
 istered, to which he seemed to have been long a 
 stranger, but, more than all, cheered by expressions 
 of human kindness, his sad heart expanded, and he 
 would fain have related his story, with mingled sobs 
 of gratitude and grief. 
 
 But they forbade, and insisted on his retiring to 
 that rest which he so much needed. That night the 
 prayers of the father, in the midst of his kneeling 
 dear ones, went up with unusual fervor to Him who 
 had graciously overruled their fears, and, instead of 
 the ruthless savage, brought to their humble dwell 
 ing the exile and the orphan, that they might do 
 him good. 
 
 H 2
 
 90 MARY RICE. 
 
 The pale and care-worn face of their guest, gradu 
 ally assumed the hue of health and happiness. In 
 vited by the master of the habitation to remain as 
 one of his own children, until something better should 
 offer for him, his gratitude to his benefactor knew no 
 bounds. All labor and service were counted joy, 
 and an added sense of security in their lonely situa 
 tion was derived from his presence. Portions of 
 his history, which from time to time he related, and 
 whose features of death and sorrow were but too fa 
 miliar to the ears of our early settlers, awakened 
 among the fireside listeners strong emotions of sym 
 pathy. 
 
 " It was in such a fearful storm as that from which 
 I found shelter under your blessed roof, that the sav 
 ages attacked my father s habitation. He had been 
 warned of the peril of dwelling in so solitary a spot, 
 while proofs of Indian depredation and massacre 
 seemed to multiply in the land. But he had become 
 attached to the fields which he cultured, and his na 
 ture knew no fear. It had become mid-winter, and 
 the cold was intense. The darkness of a tempestu 
 ous night gathered around us in the wilderness, yet 
 the five children sat happily with their parents at the 
 fireside, while the wild snows fell, and the forest 
 shivered at the shrieking blast. 
 
 " We fancied that we heard, at first, sounds as of 
 the prowling wolf. Then the door was cleft by the 
 Indian tomahawk. My father rushed forward with 
 his gun to defend his family, and fell, covered with
 
 M AR Y RICE. 91 
 
 gashes, a lifeless corpse. They drove my mother 
 and her children out into the tempest. She folded 
 in her bosom the youngest, little Mary, a sickly babe, 
 not two years old, and began, at their command, a 
 toilsome march through the drifted snows. We were 
 about to ascend a steep hill, when, oppressed with 
 grief and misery, and weak from ill health, she fell 
 in the rear of the train. The leader of the party 
 paused, and, not appearing to notice her, bent his 
 keen eye into the depths of the forest, as if descrying 
 game, or apprehensive of pursuit. 
 
 " Thus the whole file passed by, and when the wea 
 ried woman came slowly on with her deep heart- 
 wail, and her head bowed down upon the face of 
 her little one, a single stroke from his hatchet laid 
 her low. The affrighted child rolled from her arms. 
 As if something like pity dwelt in their savage na 
 tures, they took up the poor babe, who was creeping 
 to cling again to its dead mother, and wrapped it in 
 their blanket, and gave it parched corn, and told it 
 not to cry. I was permitted to lead by the hand my 
 sister Martha, a child of four summers, while my two 
 brothers, eight and ten years old, were forced on in 
 front. We were separated ere we reached the bord 
 ers of Canada, and I saw them no more. Whether 
 they all fell a prey to the tomahawk, or to the linger 
 ing pains of Indian captivity, or whether that still 
 worse fate befell them, of adopting the hateful cus 
 toms of Roman and pagan life, is known only to that 
 God who, through stern trials of bereavement, fam-
 
 92 M A R Y R I C E. 
 
 ine, and misery, so mercifully led me to this ark of 
 refuge." 
 
 A burst of sorrow closed his narrative. Yet at dif 
 ferent times resuming it, he depicted the hardships 
 of his own lot amid Canadian wilds the strange 
 mixture of noble traits with degrading cruelty, that 
 often marks the character of the aboriginal Ameri 
 can, and the remarkable providences that favored 
 him in effecting his escape, during a nightly revel, 
 when his usually watchful masters ventured from 
 their northern clime to explore the interior of New 
 England, having been lulled to security by his appa 
 rent contentment during a captivity of twelve years. 
 
 Reinforced by this youth, the industrious settler, 
 with his two eldest boys, vigorously pursued the toils 
 preparatory to winter s comfort,which were facilitated 
 by the return of a brief interval of mild weather. In 
 the house was heard the clear voice of a happy child, 
 
 " Mary, sister Mary, you promised us, if we would 
 learn our lessons well for a whole week, to take a 
 walk with us, and gather nuts on some fine day. Have 
 we not been good ] See ! the snow is all gone, and 
 the sun shines bright and warm. The squirrels have 
 been busy so long in carrying the nuts to their hous 
 es, that we shall scarcely get our part." 
 
 " So you wish to rob the poor squirrels. Your 
 brothers have already been beforehand with them, 
 and secured quite a hoard. But I surely gave you 
 such a promise, dear little scholars. And as you 
 have kept your part of the contract, I must not fail
 
 M A U Y R t C E. 9 3 
 
 in mine. If our mother consents, we will go early 
 this afternoon with our baskets, a rare party of 
 gleaners." 
 
 They leaped and shouted for joy. How happy is 
 childhood with simple pleasures, ere the tastes of ar 
 tificial life tinge and trammel its enjoyments. Au 
 tumn, which had been unusually changeable, some 
 times fostering the misty, luxuriant loveliness of the 
 Indian summer, and anon breaking out in the harsh, 
 fitful caprices of winter, was now taking a final fare 
 well. It moved mournfully, like one bearing adver 
 sity, and musing upon lost wealth. It seemed to be 
 contrasting the memory of golden harvests with the 
 penury of naked trees and frost-bound earth, while 
 the cold, blue streams, ready to become ice, mocked 
 at its broken sway and departed glory. 
 
 But no such sad reflections oppressed the merry 
 troop who bounded through the forest glade. Their 
 glad hearts made the drear landscape beautiful. 
 They indeed found themselves rather too late for the 
 autumnal spoil of nuts, yet occasionally a few were 
 discovered, over which they exceedingly rejoiced. 
 
 At length, the careful elder sister warned them that 
 it was time to return home. Just then a strange 
 sound in the thicket alarmed them, and through tan 
 gled branches they saw two large, glaring eyes of a 
 panther. He at first seemed in a quiescent state, 
 but rising leisurely, prepared to move toward them. 
 Mary, seizing the two youngest children by the 
 hand, and bidding the others not to separate from
 
 94 MARY RICE. 
 
 her, fled with breathless speed. The frightful crea 
 ture followed, not with rapid pace, but steadfastly ; 
 his feet patting among the rustling leaves and fallen 
 underwood, and his cat-like breathing convinced 
 them that he was near. As if sure of his prey, lie 
 glided quietly along, till, growing excited in the pur 
 suit, he gained upon them, and reaching a more open 
 place, seemed crouching for a spring. Mary, with 
 her flying group, turned a short angle to a more 
 closely-wooded path, illusively hoping that if the 
 leap were in a right line, they might thus avoid it. 
 
 At that moment was heard the sharp report of a 
 rifle. The huge monster sprang high in air, uttering 
 a shrill cry, and then, with a deep, prolonged growl, 
 rolled and quivered in tides of blood. 
 
 A stately Indian emerged from the forest. The 
 dread of captivity gave new speed to the fugitives. 
 A commanding yet gentle voice arrested their flight. 
 
 " Stay ! I will not hurt a hair of your heads. 
 Poor tremblers ! Ye are taught to hate alike the 
 wild beast and the Indian. Look ! Did not the In 
 dian slay the fierce creature that would have destroy 
 ed you 1 Go now in peace, and when you reach 
 your home, say that the outcast Indian saved you." 
 
 Tears of gratitude flowed over the face of the 
 young girl. Yet strange awe enchained her tongue, 
 so that she could scarcely articulate " Thanks ! 
 thanks !" 
 
 Rushing feet approached. The sound of the rifle 
 spread alarm, and Jonas Rice, with all the efficient
 
 MARY RICE. 
 
 members of liis family, flew in arms to the spot. A 
 little girl hasted to meet them. 
 
 " Oh father ! father ! he saved our lives. He 
 killed the dreadful beast. He, the good red In 
 dian." 
 
 What painter could have sketched that group on 
 the verge of the forest. In the center, the excited fa 
 ther, his vengeful purpose suddenly checked, clasp 
 ing the little daughter who had borne the embassy 
 of peace, like the dove with the olive leaf, over the 
 heaving deluge ; by his side, his two sons, gazing 
 on the monster, still writhing in its death-gasp ; and 
 the rescued youth shading his eyes with his hand, 
 as if forbidden by innate hatred to look upon an 
 Indian except as a foe. 
 
 Opposite was the red man, erect and lofty, his 
 temples sprinkled with gray. Mary stood near him, 
 pale as marble, yet more beautiful than ever, with 
 holy emotions ; two fair children clung to her side, 
 and a little one of three summers, hid its sweet face 
 in her garments. 
 
 The stately chieftain, resting on his rifle, spoke as 
 one in sadness, yet. with a firm tone. 
 
 " White man, these forest lands were my fathers . 
 I roam here this day, a stranger and alone, yet not 
 unarmed. Since thy people came among us, we 
 have need of such weapons. With mine have I 
 saved the lambs of thy flock. Take them back to 
 thy fold, and when ye too much hate the poor In 
 dian, remember that he slew them not."
 
 00 MARY RICE. 
 
 Tears glistened in the eyes of the father. He 
 stretched out his hand : " Come, come to my house, 
 that we may bless you there." 
 
 " Sagamore John enters not the cabin of any white 
 man. The ghosts of his fathers murmur at midnight 
 that he is the enemy of their race. This hand hath 
 shed their blood; yes, the blood of fighting men. 
 But that of the woman and the babe hath not stained 
 my garments. 
 
 " Sagamore John is old. His head used to tower 
 among the warriors, like Wachusett above the hills. 
 Now the snows that settle upon it melt not away 
 when spring returneth. The blood that used to burn 
 in his breast at the sight of thy fighting men is like 
 the brook that the frost overtaketh. What have I 
 to hope or to fear any more from man ? 
 
 " Go now, if thou wilt, to thy governor, and de 
 nounce me. I read hatred in the eye of one nearest 
 to thy side. Drag me, if thou canst, before thy courts. 
 At their word have my people been shot down like 
 dogs, with none to bury them. I, too, have been in 
 their prisons. I know the mercies of white men. 
 But my soul defieth their power. Brave, and with 
 out shame, shall it go to the shades of its fathers." 
 
 And he drew himself up haughtily to his full 
 height, while his brow enkindled with a chieftain s 
 pride. Mary laid her hand upon his arm, and said, 
 
 "We bless you; we will pray for you to our God." 
 
 His fiery eye grew calm, and assumed its native 
 coldness.
 
 MARY RICE. 97 
 
 " Thy soul is beautiful, though thou art of that 
 pale race whose hearts are hollow and cold. Know- 
 est thou that I have seen the teacher Eliot, that old, 
 good man ] He hated not the poor Indian. He 
 came to my cabin. The best of my food I set be 
 fore him. He slept upon my own bed of skins. I 
 could not have harmed him any more than the moth 
 er who nourished me. 
 
 " I was then young, and the blood in my heart was 
 high ; but I bowed down when he prayed. He told 
 us of a Great Spirit whose name was love. He said 
 it was written in His Book that men should do good 
 to their enemies. Thy God is not my God, yet I 
 remembered His words. They fell from the lips of 
 that old, meek prophet like music. 
 
 " Now I go back to my woods, to be hunted like a 
 beast of prey. But my heart will be lighter in my 
 bosom when death cometh, that I have saved the 
 poor innocents." 
 
 He disappeared in the recesses of the forest, and 
 they returned to their dwelling. Henceforth their 
 history was unmarked save by those events that 
 checker the course of an advancing colony, which in 
 about four years numbered two hundred settlers, 
 and more than fifty habitations. 
 
 Mr. Gershom Rice, the brother of its bold pioneer, 
 was the first to plant a family by his side. He has 
 also the honor of being the first to open his house for 
 the social worship of God, and the first to call forth 
 from the half unbroken wild the blossoming boughs 
 7 I
 
 98 M A R Y n I C E. 
 
 of a fair fruit- orchard. The benefit of his labors and 
 example was protracted to extreme longevity. In 
 the words of the Swedish poet, 
 
 "There flow d behind that old man s ears 
 The silver of a hundred years." 
 
 The ancestor of Worcester also lived to a good 
 old age, until he saw the slender branch of his plant 
 ing, ingrafted on the stock of a broad-shadowing and 
 independent nation. Mary, our heroine, carried into 
 her own home the virtues which had rendered that 
 of her father so happy ; for whoever is faithful in the 
 duties and affections of a daughter and elder sister, 
 has given hostages not to fail in those of a wife or 
 mother. 
 
 In those early days, when a man s house was lit 
 erally his castle, and his means of defence within his 
 own domestic circle, the gentler sex partook of his 
 heroic spirit. The languor of delicate nerves then 
 constituted no attraction. The dangers that sur 
 rounded woman, awakened no morbid apprehension, 
 but girded her with new strength to act, to suffer, or 
 to solace. She vindicated her title to the name by 
 which she was first introduced to her partner in 
 Eden, " a help-meet for him." 
 
 The simple life of our early settlers, though re 
 plete with hardship, was favorable to the growth of 
 domestic virtues. Like a rough and thorny sheath, 
 it guarded well the hidden kernel. The philosophy 
 of moderated desires, which in our own times is too 
 oft an unlearned or a despised lesson, was the birth-
 
 M A R Y R I C E. 99 
 
 right of our ancestors. Courage was kept in exer 
 cise. Industry had no time to slumber. Faith sprang 
 upward to a stronger life. 
 
 These habitudes wrought visibly on the nature of 
 woman. Lofty rooms, and luxurious carpets, and 
 the attendance of many servants, were not essential 
 to her happiness. So that her heart was right and 
 her hands busy, health was wont to invigorate her 
 frame, and her brow to be tinged with the beauty of 
 the affections. Wealth and fashion, which often fos 
 ter but the weeds of our nature, had no chance to 
 sow for her, seeds of self-indulgence and vanity. The 
 temptations of artificial life were not there to lead 
 her away from the plain intent of her Maker, until 
 she became no longer a helper to her husband or a 
 true mother to her children. 
 
 Not by indolence or extravagance did she place 
 obstacles in the way of matrimony, thus driving to 
 disappointment or vice those to whom she might have 
 been as a ministering angel. Why is it not so still 
 in every part of our Republic 1 Why should she 
 ever choose to be as a bubble on the foam of life, or 
 a burden to sink her companion deeper in troubled 
 waters 1 Rather let her firmly bear with him its 
 storms, and redouble its sunbeams by reflecting them 
 from the mirror of a cloudless spirit, until, " time s 
 brief voyage past," they enter the haven of eternal 
 life.
 
 FALL OF THE PEQUOD.
 
 " We, the rightful lords of yore, 
 Are the rightful lords no more ; 
 Like the silver inist we fail, 
 Like the red leaves in the gale, 
 Fail like shadows when the dawning, 
 Waves the bright flag of the morning." 
 
 M LELLAN.
 
 FALL OF THE PEQUOD. 
 
 THE infancy of Connecticut was replete witli peril. 
 The dangers that surrounded its cradle, seem suffi 
 cient to have extinguished any common germ of co 
 lonial existence. 
 
 The pilgrim-fathers at Plymouth possessed some 
 advantages over the other settlers of New England. 
 They held the right of primogeniture, a prescriptive 
 claim to the regard of posterity. They came first to 
 its solitary shores. They first breathed amid its un 
 broken forests the name of Jehovah. Their foot 
 steps have been traced with somewhat of that enthu 
 siasm which hovers like the white-wing d sea-bird 
 around the voyage of Columbus, the world-finder. 
 There was a severe, yet simple, majesty in their at 
 titude, which history has preserved and mankind 
 venerated. Their privations have been recorded and 
 remembered. If they have not Monopolized our sym 
 pathies, they have put in a prior claim to them. They 
 have made the Rock of Plymouth a Mecca to the 
 patriot, and it is right that it should be so. 
 
 Still it is questionable whether their sufferings sur 
 passed those of the little band who, in the year 1635, 
 took leave of their friends in the Massachusetts, and 
 came as pioneers to the banks of the Connecticut. A
 
 FALL OF THE P E U U O D. 
 
 trackless wilderness lay before them. The compass 
 and the stars of heaven were their guides. Mount 
 ains, and thickets, and morasses, and unfordable 
 streams were among the obstacles of their path. 
 The shortening days of autumn interrupted their 
 progress ; and for the chill and dreary nights their 
 shelter was the forest, and the earth their bed. 
 
 Among the sharers in this adventurous enterprise 
 were delicate women, inured to affluence in the soft 
 British clime, and young infants, who must have per 
 ished had it been possible for the heart of the mother 
 ever to grow cold. The season was inauspicious, 
 and marked by violent storms. So protracted had 
 been their journey, that, ere they could make prep 
 arations for safety and comfort, Winter, coming be 
 fore his time, surprised them. Connecticut River, 
 so long the object of their hope, presented, on their 
 arrival, a broad surface of ice. It is recorded as al 
 most an unparalleled circumstance, that it was that 
 year frozen entirely over on the 15th of November. 
 
 There was no welcome from Nature to the toil- 
 worn strangers. The trees were leafless and silent. 
 The birds had migrated, and the provident animals 
 hidden themselves from the cold. The snow came 
 deep and drifted, and wild winds swept through their 
 insufficient habitations. To crown all, the vessels 
 which contained their provisions and articles for 
 household comfort, were wrecked in a tempest ; so 
 that the sufferings of famine were added to their list 
 of hardships.
 
 FALL OF THE PEdUOD. 105 
 
 The red men of the forest, then numerous and 
 powerful, looked with pity on the pale, perishing 
 race. They saw them feeding upon acorns, and 
 brought them corn, and covered them with the skins 
 of the beaver from the- terrible cold. They discov 
 ered, and lent them aid in their perils through the 
 wilderness. Taking the sick and feeble in their 
 arms, they bare them through morasses and rivu 
 lets. " They did make of their bodies bridges and 
 boats unto our people," said a historian of the early 
 times. 
 
 But where now are the vestiges of that race whose 
 friendship preserved our ancestors 1 They who, to 
 the number of 20,000, spread themselves by the fair 
 streams and along the sea-coast of Connecticut, wlierc 
 arc they ? Is a single one of their arbor-like dwell 
 ings to be found 1 Does a solitary canoe break the 
 surface of any of our streams ] And who among us 
 remember the race who gave bread to our perish 
 ing fathers, or repay the deed of gratitude to their 
 wandering and degraded children ? 
 
 The clergymen Hooker and Stone, who, with their 
 congregations, traversed, in 1637, the same interven 
 ing wilderness, to commence the settlement of Hart 
 ford, wisely chose summer as the season of their ex 
 pedition. 
 
 Hooker, to whose learning and eloquence the no 
 ble and the pious in his own native land had borne 
 high testimony, took part in every hardship with the 
 most cheerful courage. Sometimes bowing his shoul-
 
 106 FALL OF THE PEdUOD. 
 
 der to the litter in which his sickly wife was carried ; 
 then raising in his arms some child of the party whose 
 little weary feet lingered behind ; then comforting 
 the faint-hearted ; and again, with inspiring smile, 
 recounting the joy of Israel, drawing near the prom 
 ised land, until his flock fancied that in their own 
 path was the same guiding "pillar of cloud by day, 
 and of fire by night." 
 
 A fortnight was spent in their journey, and, like 
 their predecessors, they slept without shelter. Yet 
 faith, continually sustained by the zeal and patience 
 of their guides, communicated vigor to their bodies, 
 and they endured without murmuring. The forests 
 through which they passed, and whose echoes had 
 hitherto replied only to the wolf, or the panther, or 
 the hunter s cry, became familiar with other sounds. 
 For, as the Christians proceeded, 
 
 " They shook the depths of the forest gloom 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Not a year had transpired since their choice of a 
 locality on the banks of the beautiful river which was 
 to give name to a state. May morning smiled on 
 them for the first time in their new abode. Rich 
 verdure quickened beneath their feet, and Nature 
 seemed anxious to efface the memory of winter s 
 unkindness. But deep care was on the brow of those 
 who watched over the welfare of the young colony. 
 The fathers of Connecticut met on that first day of 
 May in solemn council. A delegation from the sen 
 ior settlements of Windsor, and Wethersfield, were
 
 FALL OF THE PEaUOD. 107 
 
 convened with the magistrates of Hartford, on affairs 
 of high import. 
 
 The Pequods, a fierce and powerful tribe of na 
 tives, had discovered a spirit of aggression. Inroads 
 upon property and destruction of life were charged 
 against them. The expediency of a war was imme 
 diately decided upon, the number of soldiers deter 
 mined, and preparations commenced without delay. 
 To meet these requisitions, every family drew upon 
 the resources of its strength, or put in jeopardy the 
 springs of its existence. 
 
 It was on Wednesday, the tenth of May, that nine 
 ty soldiers, with military equipments, stood on the 
 banks of the broad river. True and faithful to their 
 need, their red-browed allies were ranged by their 
 side. 
 
 The Mohegan king, with seventy warriors, waited 
 the signal of his pilgrim friends. 
 
 It was an hour of stirring emotion. None spoke 
 or moved. It was felt that but one man could break 
 that silence, and that his words must be to God. 
 Hooker came forward. At his right hand were his 
 brethren, his flock, who had crossed with him a tem 
 pestuous ocean, exiles from the land of their fathers. 
 Which of these should return no more 1 Who should 
 fall in blood, and see his home no more? Mingled 
 with these was a more helpless group : the wife, the 
 mother, the sister, and the babe. They had come 
 down to the waters to bid farewell. 
 
 The holy man felt that he " bare their griefs and
 
 108 FALL OF THE PEaUOD. 
 
 carried their sorrows," as he came forth into the 
 midst. His prayer was to the God of battles, the 
 "God of the spirits of all flesh;" and it lifted up the 
 souls of those who were to go, and of those who re 
 mained behind, till there seemed to them neither 
 danger nor sorrow in this brief world worthy to ap 
 pall the heirs of immortality. 
 
 The voice of supplication ceased. There was a 
 brief pause. Then, stretching forth his arms, he 
 blessed the people in the name of the God of the 
 armies of Israel. In that high faith they parted. 
 Tender ones restrained the tear, lest it might weak 
 en the heart of some loved protector. Children imi 
 tated the dignity of their parents. 
 
 The barques received their freight ; the sails were 
 unfurled. One man lingered yet a moment behind 
 the rest. It was the Rev. Mr. Stone, the chaplain 
 of the expedition. He stayed to press the hand of 
 his colleague in the Church, and his friend in the 
 Gospel. 
 
 " Go forth," said Hooker, " blessed and holy broth 
 er, bearing the armor of the Gospel. When the wa 
 ters of strife abate, give heed to pluck the first leaf 
 of olive, for so it becometh a servant of the Prince of 
 peace." 
 
 The little fleet moved slowly and gracefully from 
 the shore. The fair river sparkled in the sunbeam, 
 and gave back the tint of the deep blue sky. The 
 foliage upon its banks was of surpassing beauty. 
 The towering oak lifted its unshorn head, and the
 
 FALLOFTHEPEQUOD. 109 
 
 elm spread its umbrageous arms in rival majesty. 
 Amid the interstices of the forest, the sassafras and 
 dog-wood thrust forth their pale flowers, the wild 
 cherry hung out its feathery banner, and the fragrant 
 breath of the indigenous apple blossom was detected 
 in every breeze. Animal life, in its unresting forms 
 of pursuit or enjoyment, roved amid the luxuriant 
 vegetation. The squirrel threw itself from bough to 
 bough, as if ambitious to belong to the winged ten 
 antry ; the fox ventured fearlessly from his covert ; 
 and the otter, from some sloping declivity, plunged 
 suddenly into the deep waters, or, fearlessly emerg 
 ing, resumed his amphibious pastime. The thrush 
 poured forth from her newly-built habitation wild 
 strains of the richest melody ; the azure plumage of 
 the jay gleamed in strong contrast with the garb of 
 the black-bird, whose keen eye was ever searching 
 for some planted maize-field ; the partridge rose up 
 heavily on whirring wing; the shy quail sent forth her 
 clear, shrill whistle ; and throngs of pigeons darkened 
 the bending branches. 
 
 " This is truly a land," said Mason, the command 
 er of the troops, " for which a warrior might be will 
 ing to fight." 
 
 " God hath given us a goodly heritage," replied 
 the chaplain. " Would it were his will that we might 
 keep it for our sons, without this shedding of blood." 
 
 And there they stood together on the prow of the 
 leading vessel ; the bold, strong man who had made 
 war his trade when the banner of England was borne 
 K
 
 110 FALLOFTHEPEQUOD. 
 
 high in the battles of the Netherlands, and the meek, 
 unswerving servant of the cross, who deemed war 
 among the heaviest judgments of the Almighty. Not 
 inaptly did they personify their different professions, 
 like Gerizzim and Ebal, amid the mountains of Is 
 rael, uttering the blessings or the penal thunders of 
 Jehovah. 
 
 As twilight drew her curtain, the banks between 
 which they glided, became more bold and steep. 
 Rocks reared castellated summits, till their frowning 
 shadows mingled on the bosom of the river, which 
 became compressed, and flowed on complainingly, 
 like an unsubdued spirit, chastened by adversity. It 
 seemed faintly to imitate the majesty with which the 
 more imposing Hudson \vins the pass of the High 
 lands ; and then expanding in freedom and beauty, 
 embellished the romantic scenery where Middletown 
 was to choose her seat. 
 
 Yet the Connecticut gave but a tardy passage to 
 her first naval armament. On the third day of the 
 voyage, the Indian king demanded to be put on 
 board the vessel of the commander. 
 
 " Chief of the white men, my warriors are not 
 content. They say your tall, white- winged birds 
 tread not the waters like their own light canoes. 
 They see the salmon leap up, and there is none to 
 take it. They see the horns of the deer glancing 
 through the forest, and their bows are hot in their 
 hands." 
 
 " The waters and the winds are in the hands of
 
 FALL OF THE P E a U O D. 
 
 Ill 
 
 the Great Spirit," replied Mason. " They obey him, 
 and not us. King of the red men, what shall be done 
 to satisfy your people ]" 
 
 " Put our feet upon the green earth. Let these 
 great water-birds go on without us. We will meet 
 you at your fort, where the river weds the sea." 
 
 The Indians, according to their request, were set 
 on shore. They were seen pressing through the 
 closest thickets, and ascending the steepest rocks with 
 fleet foot and unbending form. In a few minutes 
 they disappeared amid the deep green of the forest. 
 But their shouts of wild delight were longer heard, 
 as they traversed their native soil, inhaling, with free 
 spirit, the pure, elastic atmosphere. 
 
 Five days these three vessels toiled on their tedious 
 voyage. Unskilled in the navigation of the river, 
 the mariners repeatedly ran aground, or laboriously 
 ploughed their way in the teeth of opposing winds. 
 Before their eyes was no vision of that stupendous 
 power which was yet to arise, binding both blasts 
 and billows in strange obedience. The plodding and 
 patient people of that age were cheered by no pa 
 geant of steam-propelled palace, instinct as with a 
 living soul, and treading down in the pride of its own 
 strength all elemental opposition. They would not 
 have believed, that on the very tide they buffeted so 
 wearily, an agent should come forth, resistless as the 
 planet in its orb, yet fashioned by the weakness of 
 human hands. They would have marveled at the 
 assertion that the mightiest effort of man, since he
 
 112 FALL OF THE P E Q U O D. 
 
 became lord of this lower world, was not to rear the 
 wall of China, or to erect the Cathedral at Rome, 
 but to render the potent and tremendous power of 
 steam the vassal of his will, to " play with him as 
 with a- bird, and to bind him for his maidens." 
 
 The arrival of the fleet at the fort of Saybrook was 
 an occurrence of no slight moment. The tossing 
 pinnaces were moored, and the junction of the slen 
 der marine and land forces effected, where the Con 
 necticut, with her dower of mountain-rills and quiet 
 streamlets, meets her imperious lord, and loses her 
 sky-born tint in his fathomless wave. 
 
 The welcome of Captain Underbill, with his garri 
 son of twenty men, notwithstanding the simplicity of 
 the times, was not wholly devoid of " pomp and cir 
 cumstance." A broad banner floated, and a rude 
 flourish of maitial music sounded from the shore as 
 the troops disembarked ; and the two commanders 
 tendered each other the salutes which military cour- 
 tosy prescribes. 
 
 " We can spread for you no field of the cloth of 
 gold," said Underbill, " nor even bid you to a palace, 
 notwithstanding we chance to be the highest repre 
 sentatives of England s sovereign majesty in this 
 corner of the New World." 
 
 " Yet our meeting," replied Mason, " involves 
 higher consequences than the boasted interview of 
 Henry VIII. and Francis I. No point of kiogly 
 etiquette is here to be settled, but the life or death 
 of a nation. Here, too, are truer friends than are
 
 FALLOFTHEPEQUOD. 113 
 
 wont to wait upon royalty," pointing to the Me/began 
 allies, and cordially taking the hand of Uncas. 
 
 " Indian friendship)," said the chaplain, "shows it 
 self by deeds more than words. It does not think 
 first of its own safety, or stop to calculate expediency, 
 when its object is in danger." 
 
 The hospitality of the fort was as ample as the re 
 sources which could be commanded in a primitive 
 state of society. The game furnished by the Mohe- 
 gan hunters at their arrival was an important and 
 acceptable addition. In that stage of the colony 
 hospitality was not, like the careful sister of Betha 
 ny, " cumbered with much serving." Her aim was 
 not to consult variety, or to indulge cost, or to dis 
 play competition, but simply to satisfy appetite. The 
 climax of her ambition was to hear her guest say, it 
 is enough. 
 
 During detention by a storm, the leaders con 
 versed freely on the plan of their projected expe 
 dition. 
 
 " The instructions of the court," said Mason, " are 
 precise, to land at Pequod harbor and proceed direct 
 ly to their fort. But the moment our sails are dis 
 cerned we shall be watched with Indian vigilance, and 
 the attempt to disembark may cost the lives of half 
 our men. Even should a landing be safely effected, 
 we may be entrapped in some ambuscade, ignorant 
 as we are of their country ; so that it is possible for 
 us to fall without a battle, leaving none to bear tidings 
 of our fate. My advice is, therefore, to come upon 
 8 K 2
 
 114 FALLOFTHEPEQUOD. 
 
 them unawares, through the Narragansett country, 
 and attack them by surprise." 
 
 " I am averse," said Underbill, " to a departure 
 from the injunctions of the honorable court. Neither 
 do I like that resort to stratagem which we blame 
 so much in the Indians. Our men would dread a 
 march through the wilderness. By detaining them 
 longer from their homes, the agriculture on which 
 their subsistence depends must be impeded. Who 
 can say, also, that their families, by this protract 
 ed absence, may not be exposed to savage mas 
 sacre 1" 
 
 " Delay," said Mason, " is a lighter evil than ex 
 termination. You will not, I trust, doubt my cour 
 age ; yet prudence is an essential ingredient of a 
 well-balanced courage. With all our devotion to 
 our country, we are not a match for twenty times 
 our number. By passing through the territory of 
 the king of the Narragansetts, we may obtain his 
 aid. Uncas, what is your counsel in this matter?" 
 
 The red-browed chieftain had been a silent, but 
 deeply attentive listener. Now, though summoned 
 to give his opinion, he answered reluctantly. 
 
 " Miantonimoh looks one way and rows anoth 
 er." 
 
 " What does he mean ]" said Mason. 
 
 " That the Narragansett king is double-minded, 
 and not to be trusted," replied Underbill. 
 
 " Uncas has somewhat of the wily policy of Ulys 
 ses," said Mason. " He fears to commit himself.
 
 F A L L O F T H E P E Q, U O D. 115 
 
 In this case, he has probably some personal pique. 
 His suffrage goes for nothing." 
 
 Neither commander was disposed to recede from 
 his ground. Their officers were also divided in opin 
 ion. In this dilemma, they agreed to submit to the 
 decision of the chaplain. In those days, veneration 
 for the sacerdotal character was exemplified by men 
 of the highest rank, and an essential element of edu 
 cation. The chaplain, fully aware of the importance 
 of this arbitration, would, perhaps, willingly have 
 avoided its responsibility. But his creed taught him 
 not to shrink from duty. That night no slumber vis 
 ited his eyes. In deep solitude he viewed the con 
 tested point in all its bearings. He weighed every 
 argument that had been adduced. He pondered their 
 probable results. He spread the cause before Him 
 who heareth prayer, and implored the guidance of 
 his wisdom. 
 
 With the early light of morning, he communicated 
 to the council his opinion in favor of the route 
 through the Narragansett country. That day the 
 Captains Mason and Underbill sailed with their 
 forces for Narragansett Bay. leaving twenty men be 
 hind for the defence of the colony. On Saturday, 
 May 20th, they landed, and marched to the planta 
 tion of the sachem, Canonicus. From thence they 
 sent an embassy to Miantonimoh, asking permission 
 to pass through his territory, and soliciting his aid 
 against the common enemy. He came to meet them 
 with a large body of warriors. He was tall, slightly
 
 116 FALLOFTHEPEQUOD. 
 
 made, and of a less commanding presence than the 
 Mohegan king. The plan of thus assaulting the Pe- 
 quods surprised him by its boldness. Still he main 
 tained that unmoved manner and countenance, be 
 neath which the pride of the Indian is accustomed to 
 conceal emotion. He received the confidence of 
 the colonial commanders in silence, and requested 
 an interview with Uncas. 
 
 " Does Mohegan go with the pale faces T was his 
 first question. 
 
 " The chain of our friendship is bright," replied 
 Uncas. " One end of it is in the hand of the Great 
 Spirit, and the other in the grave of my nation. Un 
 til it sleeps there, the chain must not rust or be bro 
 ken." 
 
 " Sassacus can bring as many arrows as the spring 
 puts forth green leaves in the forest." 
 
 " We shall steal upon Sassacus as the snake winds 
 through the sleeping grass. He shall see blood ere 
 he knows what hand hath drawn it." 
 
 "Sassacus hath a quick ear and a long arm. 
 Twenty-six chiefs obey him. Whom he will, he 
 slayeth. He is among them as a god." And a 
 gleam of superstitious awe passed over the brow of 
 Narragansett s king at the thought of that fierce mon 
 arch, who struck terror into every foe. 
 
 " Miantonimoh, go with us ! You are a brave 
 man. If we can shake the Pequods from their strong 
 holds, you may sit down upon the sea-coast, and be 
 as great as Sassacus."
 
 FALL OF THE PEQ.UOD. 
 
 117 
 
 This double appeal to ambition and cupidity, was 
 not in vain. The king of the Narragansetts paused, 
 as if balancing the probabilities of profit and loss. 
 He then suddenly exclaimed, 
 
 "But what are these English, for whom you are so 
 ready to raise the tomahawk 1 Before the Pequod 
 warriors, will they not be as old women 1" 
 
 " Come and see," was the laconic and somewhat in 
 dignant reply. 
 
 " I will go with you," said Miantonimoh, proudly. 
 " Five hundred bows shall accompany me." 
 
 Uncas imparted the result of his negotiation to the 
 commanders, who greatly rejoiced, and viewed it as 
 a divine interposition in their favor. Leaving their 
 vessels, they commenced the march through the wil 
 derness. Tangled forests, thorny thickets, and pro 
 tracted swamps of coarse grass, which sometimes at 
 tained a height of three or four feet, opposed their 
 progress. Added to these obstructions were the op 
 pressive warmth of the weather, and a scarcity of 
 provisions. The new corn having been but recently 
 planted, and that of the previous year expended, they 
 had scarcely a better substitute for bread than the 
 roots dug at random in their march. A small quan 
 tity of parched corn from their Indian friends, was 
 esteemed a luxury. 
 
 Almost exhausted with their toilsome march 
 through this trackless country, they arrived, at the 
 close of a sultry day, within two miles of Fort Mys 
 tic, and made their humble encampment in a valley
 
 118 FALLOFTHEPEdUOD. 
 
 between two hills. Even the rocky pillow was sweet 
 to our wearied ancestors. Little did they imagine 
 that they rested so near the spot where Groton mon 
 ument should arise, to tell the traveler of battle 
 between the land of their birth and that of their 
 adoption. Had their slumbers been visited by visions 
 of such warfare, would they not have accounted it as 
 the strife of the brothers in Eden, and grieved like 
 our first parent, when it was shown him by the arch 
 angel 1 
 
 The sentinels, who were placed considerably in 
 advance of the army, heard repeated echoes of wild 
 laughter and savage mirth, breaking upon the still 
 ness of midnight. They came from the fort where 
 the Pequod warriors held a festival, their last on 
 earth ; ominous as the revelry of the armies of France 
 on the eve of the battle of Agincourt. At length, 
 deep silence settled on the fortress of the red men. 
 The moon came up clear in the heavens. Mason 
 and Underbill roused their soldiers. Quickly array 
 ing themselves, the chaplain, in few and solemn 
 words, commended them to God. They mused in 
 their hearts on those deep, low tones, which linked 
 their hopes with the name of the Highest, while pur 
 suing their way without a whispered sound, guard 
 ing even their lightest footfall. In the heart of every 
 man was a picture of his home, where wife, or chil 
 dren, or aged parents lay in the arms of sleep, and 
 whose helplessness he felt himself commissioned to 
 defend. The valor that springs from such guardian-
 
 FALL OF THE PEQUOD. 119 
 
 ship is not like other valor. It imagines itself an 
 image of His might, who protects a slumbering 
 world, and believes even its severity to be holy. 
 
 They reached the hill which was crowned by the 
 rude, yet formidable fortress of the Pequods. As 
 they began to ascend, their allies, the Narragansetts, 
 were perceived hanging back, like a dark cloud 
 around its base. Mason commanded them to ad 
 vance. They still lingered. 
 
 " Is it perfidy or terror that detains them 1" he de 
 manded of the Mohegan king. 
 
 " They fear Sassacus," he replied, calmly, " more 
 than the Spirit of Evil. Miantonimoh s heart is now 
 like Water at the sight of yonder fort." 
 
 " Give them orders not to fly," said Mason, " but 
 to stand still, and see how brave men fight." 
 
 He then divided the little band of seventy-seven 
 soldiers, between himself and Underbill, for the at 
 tack. So silent were their movements, that they 
 stood under the very walls of the fort without dis 
 covery. Just at that moment a dog bai ked. Like 
 the winged sentinel of Rome, he alarmed the be 
 leaguered citadel, but might not save it. 
 
 Starting from the deep sleep which succeeded 
 their revel, the Indians evinced a lion-like courage. 
 They rushed unarmed upon drawn swords ; they 
 grasped the bayonets in their hands ; they wrested 
 the weapons from their foes ; they grappled with 
 desperate strength ; and yielded only when they 
 were cut in pieces. While blood was pouring in
 
 120 FALL OF THE P E a L* O D. 
 
 torrents, Mason gave the terrible order to burn the 
 fort, and the village that was sleeping beneath its 
 wing. Columns of fire sprang up from seventy cone- 
 like roofs of combustible material, spreading a red 
 glare over the darkened heavens. The affrighted 
 inmates, whose dream was broken by the flames 
 that were to destroy them, rushed forth. Mothers 
 with babes in their arms, little ones shrieking in vain 
 for protection, flitted like shadows and vanished. 
 Death was ready for them. Scarce one escaped. 
 Some, at the sight of their enemies, fled back to 
 their flaming dwellings to die there, like the misera 
 ble Jews, preferring the burning coals of their be 
 loved temple, to the mercy of the Romans. 
 
 Scarcely in the records of history, has war done 
 her work with greater dispatch or more entire deso 
 lation. The hour opened upon a slumbering village 
 and a fortress quietly crowning the wooded hill-top. 
 It closed, and six hundred souls had taken their 
 flight : every dwelling was ashes, and every family 
 extinct. Where the tower of their strength frown 
 ed was a mound of blackened cinders, smoldering 
 in the blood of their bravest hearts. 
 
 The victorious army commenced their returning 
 march. They had not escaped unscathed, though 
 few were left among the slain. A fourth part of 
 their number were disabled by wounds. In this 
 emergency the friendship of their Mohegan allies 
 was invaluable. Constructing litters of the woven 
 branches of trees, they bore the sufferers on their
 
 FALL OF THE P E a U O D. 121 
 
 shoulders, and by their knowledge of the styptic and 
 healing virtues of plants, assuaged their sufferings. 
 
 Neither was the retreat without danger. The up 
 roar of conflict had been heard afar, startling the ear 
 of night. Throngs of enraged Pequods hung upon 
 their rear, taking deadly aim from the height of 
 rocks or the covert of trees. Mason found him 
 self called upon, like Xenophon, to the difficult task 
 of conducting a retreat through an enemy s country; 
 imitating him, also, in becoming the historian of his 
 own expedition. A distance of six miles was to be 
 achieved, with the foe in their footsteps. But for the 
 aid of their red brethren, they would probably have 
 been intercepted and cut off. They protected the 
 harassed army, often forming a circle, and literally 
 receiving the exhausted veterans in their friendly and 
 faithful bosoms. At length, the white sails of the 
 waiting vessels were seen, expanded by a favoring 
 breeze, the harbor attained, and the wasted and 
 wearied, yet triumphant band embarked on their 
 homeward voyage. 
 
 During the tumult of battle, the chaplain retired 
 to a deep- woven thicket, and lifted up his prayer to 
 the Father and Judge of all. He besought the pres 
 ervation of his brethren, and that the needless effu 
 sion of blood might be restrained. While Faith 
 maintained a painful struggle with the emotions of 
 his gentler nature, there was a rushing toward the 
 thicket, as of a deer pursued by the hunters. Ere 
 he could rise from the humble posture of devotion, a 
 L
 
 122 FALLOFTHEPEdUOD. 
 
 young girl threw herself on the earth and clasped 
 his feet. It was with difficulty that he disengaged 
 himself. Her grasp was like the rigor of death. 
 Fixing her wild eyes for a moment on his counte 
 nance, she shrieked fearfully and long, and closed 
 them, as he thought, forever. There was blood on 
 her forehead and bosom. He believed that, in the 
 torture of a mortal wound, she had fled, not knowing 
 whither. 
 
 " The Savior, of whom thou hast never heard, 
 have mercy upon thy poor soul," said the man of 
 peace. Bending over her with pity, as she lay at 
 his feet, like a beautiful bronze statue, he thought, 
 
 " Surely my people might have spared to take the 
 life of the child." 
 
 She seemed at that period when childhood and 
 youth mingle, in doubtful yet pleasing union. At 
 length her respiration became distinct a succession 
 of deep sighs. Life stirred in her deadened cheek. 
 The trance of fear was broken. She partially raised 
 herself; but when she beheld the face of a white 
 man, covered her eyes with a shrill, shuddering cry. 
 It was not her own blood that was upon her breast, 
 but the blood of her mother and of her little sisters, 
 to whom she had clung through the flame and under 
 the sword. The holy man laid his hand upon her 
 throbbing forehead, and strove to assure her spiik. 
 by the smile and tone of kindness, that universal lan 
 guage, intelligible to the heart of the savage, and 
 which even the eye of the brute deciphers.
 
 FALL OF THE P E Q. U O D. 123 
 
 " Poor bird ; God hath sent thee unto me, perhaps, 
 to save a soul alive ;" and he threw his mantle around 
 the shivering child. When the battle was done, and 
 the shouting victors sought him in their joy, he led 
 her through ranks of scowling soldiers and wonder 
 ing red men. 
 
 "God hath given her to me," said he, and they 
 were silent. He protected her through the perilous 
 retreat and upon the waters, and brought her home 
 to his wife and to his daughters ; so at their family 
 altar, morn and even, was a petition that the soul of 
 the red-browed orphan might be dear to their Father 
 in heaven. 
 
 Gentle treatment arid Christian culture were as 
 the dew and sunbeam, to this broken forest flower. 
 Her feelings expanded in gratitude, and confirmed 
 into the most affectionate trust. Every service with 
 in the measure of her power was cheerfully rendered 
 to her benefactors. She learned to love the God of 
 Christians, and early sought permission to enrol her 
 self among the followers of the Redeemer. 
 
 Seven years passed away, and brought to this 
 gentle creature the ripeness of youth. There was 
 about her a flexibility of form and movement ap 
 proaching to grace, and that peculiar sweetness of 
 voice which distinguishes our aboriginal females. 
 Her raven locks, profuse and glossy, twined in thick 
 braids around her head, and gave strong relief to a 
 complexion whose dark hue did not prevent the el 
 oquent blood from revealing its frequent rush to
 
 124 FALLOFTHEPEdUOD. 
 
 cheek or temple. Every physical and intellectual 
 development indicated exquisite sensibility, over 
 which pure religion diffused a serenity which made 
 her interesting to the most careless beholder. 
 
 I have said that seven years had elapsed since the 
 destruction of Fort Mystic. Connecticut had, in 
 that interval, rapidly gathered strength and import 
 ance. Already had she stretched forth her hand to 
 aid the incipient efforts of her elder sister, Massa 
 chusetts, in the cause of education. Her simple of 
 ferings, though of only a few bushels of corn or 
 strings of wampum, came up with acceptance to an 
 cient Harvard s mite-replenished treasury. 
 
 Hartford had also assumed an aspect of compara 
 tive comeliness and vigor. One of its beautiful 
 heights was adorned with a spacious mansion, far 
 exceeding in elegance the other structures of that 
 newly-planted colony. It was the seat of the Wyllys 
 family, whose founder was not less conspicuous for 
 wealth than for saintly piety, and adorned by a lawn 
 and garden, in imitation of his own fair estate in 
 Warwickshire. Among the ornaments of his domain 
 was an oak, the monarch of the forest, honored after 
 ward in annal and song as the refuge, not of his 
 " sacred majesty," but of the charter which his sa 
 cred majesty s brother would fain have rifled. Still 
 revered, and introduced to strangers as the "Charter 
 Oak," it flourishes in green old age, though gener 
 ation after generation have withered beneath its 
 shade.
 
 FALLOFTHEPEdUOD. 125 
 
 At the period of which we speak, the year 1644, 
 a funeral train passed forth from that stately dwell 
 ing. The head of that ancient house was no more. 
 Not slightly mourned, did he part from a colony, 
 which had conferred on him the highest office in its 
 power to bestow. Hartford and the vicinity poured 
 forth their inhabitants, from the child, to him of hoary 
 hairs, to attend those obsequies. There Hooker 
 lifted up his voice, and with fervid eloquence blessed 
 the dust of him who " for righteousness sake had 
 preferred a wilderness to the palaces of Mammon, 
 and, like the prophet borne on angels wings from 
 Pisgah, esteemed the reproach of Christ greater 
 riches than the treasures of Egypt." 
 
 " Behold," exclaimed he, " in what manner Death 
 despoileth man. He doth not uproot the groves which 
 he planted or the gardens that he adorned, but he 
 chaineth the -foot that walked there. He taketh not 
 away the pleasant pictures from the walls, but he 
 taketh light from the eye that looked upon them. 
 The desirable children, the loving wife are left, but 
 the head, and husband, is cut down with a stroke. 
 He burneth not the fair and goodly mansion, but he 
 taketh the master out of it. He doth not destroy his 
 honors, but he summoneth him away from them. 
 This night ! this night / is the cry, and immedi 
 ately he giveth up the ghost." 
 
 His eulogium upon the departed was minute, and 
 according to the quaint taste of the age. He spoke 
 of his doctrines and of his deeds ; of his genealogy, 
 L 2
 
 126 FALLOFTHEPEdUOD. 
 
 clearly traced back to the times of the fourth Ed 
 ward in wealth and honor, and throughout the 
 stormy feuds of the houses of York and Lancaster, 
 maintaining a consistent valor. Yet his aim was not 
 to magnify adventitious distinction, but the grace of 
 God, and to show that the " glory of man, at his best 
 estate, is altogether vanity." Impressed with these 
 sentiments, the weeping multitude followed in sol 
 emn order the corpse to its last narrow habitation. 
 The long procession moved slowly down the hill, 
 and extended itself toward the cemetery. Scarce 
 one remained behind, save the Indian maiden, who, 
 pensive and alone, wandered to the brow of the 
 eastern declivity, which commanded a noble view 
 of the valley of the Connecticut. She fixed her 
 eye upon its line of blue, seen in sparkling snatch 
 es through the foliage of embowering trees. Her 
 revery was broken by a muffled form springing to 
 ward her from a copse, just beneath the height where 
 she stood. She would have started away like the 
 bounding fawn, but the complexion, the gesture of 
 her own people, the murmured tones of her native 
 language, arrested her. With a consciousness as 
 rapid as the memory of the heart, she recognized the 
 young warrior Ontologon, of the ancient line of her 
 nation s royalty. Anxious to avoid discovery, and 
 more by gestures than words, he signified that he 
 had tidings of importance to communicate, and re 
 quested an interview in the grove that skirted her 
 residence. Scarcely had she assented ere he vanish-
 
 FALL OF THE PEdUOD. 127 
 
 ed so suddenly, as to leave on her mind the bewil 
 dering recollection of a phantom visitant. Twilight 
 had faintly taken the hue of evening when she re 
 paired to the grove in which the garden of her pro 
 tector terminated. 
 
 " Orramel," said a voice, whose deep inflections 
 thrilled through every nerve, and the lofty young 
 chieftain of her people stood before her. For a mo 
 ment he regarded her in silence with the keen glance 
 of the eagle, who, balanced on the cloud, gazes into 
 her nest to see if aught evil hath befallen her nurs 
 lings in her absence, and to exult in their beauty. 
 
 "Orramel, thou rememberest me. I saw it in the 
 flash of thy wondering eye, when on the hill-top I 
 stood suddenly before thee. I knew it from the 
 blood in thy cheek, which spoke its message ere thy 
 lips parted. 
 
 " Ontologon, thy tones open all the cells of mem 
 ory. They call back the dead. I see my mother 
 fondling her babe. I sit by her side with my little 
 sisters. Again our home seems peaceful and happy, 
 as when thou didst bring to my childish hand birds 
 of bright plumage, which thy young bow had taken." 
 
 " Where are that mother and those little ones, play 
 ful and timid as the fawns 1 Where is thy home, so 
 softly visited by the sea-breeze ] Where are thy 
 people 1 Black ruins, and the grass that grows so 
 rankly where blood is spilt, answer thee. Thou 
 canst tell me of the flame and the battle ^when our 
 fortress fell. I saw them not. I was far away with
 
 128 FALL OF THE PEdUOD. 
 
 our king. Would that I had been there, that I might 
 have died when my people died, or cut in pieces 
 their oppressors." 
 
 The maiden replied only with deep sobs, and the 
 warrior continued. 
 
 " Where are all our nation ] Parceled out as 
 slaves, or covered in the grave. The grave, did I 
 say 1 That were too blessed a refuge. They cast 
 us out from thence. The ploughshare turneth up 
 the bones of our fathers for the dogs of white men. 
 They hunt down the Pequod like the wolf. How 
 long have I lurked among these hated dwellings that I 
 might thus look upon thee 1 Were it known that my 
 feet rested upon this earth, what, suppose ye, would 
 be my doom ] The tender mercies of the honorable 
 court, the tomahawk of Uncas, or the friendship of 
 the Narragansetts ? the torture, or the flame ]" 
 
 Orramel bent on him her humid eyes, through 
 which the soul of tender pity looked forth. 
 
 " Lonely maiden ! are we not the last of our race 1 
 I have braved every peril to find and to save thee. 
 I seek to bear thee to the far west, where the eye of 
 the pale race dare not follow. I will build our cabin 
 where are many warriors, and thou shalt be their 
 queen. My voice shall control them, as the blast 
 the swelling waves. We will sweep down like the 
 mountain torrent, and destroy those accursed whites. 
 We will quench our thirst in their blood till not a 
 drop remains." 
 
 " Ontologon, the desolation of my race, the de-
 
 FALL OF THE PEQUOD. 129 
 
 struction of my kindred, are heavy on my heart, both 
 when I lie down and when I rise up. Henceforth 
 there will he another burden there, the thought of 
 thy sorrows. Yet curse not the people who have 
 given me bread and a shelter, and taught me of Je 
 sus Christ and the hope of a heavenly home." 
 
 " And so thou art at peace with the white man s 
 God /" exclaimed the chieftain, with an eye that 
 flashed through the darkness like kindled flame. 
 " They have spoken soft words to thee, till thou hast 
 forgotten the wrongs of thy people and thy mother s 
 blood. Art thou the daughter of the red man, and 
 content to crouch at the feet of his murderers 1 and 
 to take bread from hands stained with his blood, and 
 rusted with the chains that have eaten into his soul ? 
 Wert thou not dearer to me than heaven s light, I 
 should have cleft thy brow when thou didst speak 
 of loving Him whom white men worship." 
 
 " Ontologon, I have told thee truth. The God of 
 Christians is my God. I have sworn it at His altar. 
 I may not turn back from following Him. I have 
 said to thee that no music like thy voice hath met my 
 ear since I sat on my mother s knee. And I could 
 find it in my heart to dwell with thee in the deep for 
 est, as the dove dwelleth with her mate ; but I can 
 not forsake the Savior, to whose keeping I have com 
 mitted my soul." 
 
 The stately form of the chief was shaken with vio 
 lent and contending emotions, as the oak reels in the 
 storm. 
 9
 
 130 F A L L O F T H E P E Q L" O D. 
 
 " Meet me yet once more, Orramel, only once 
 more. For thy sake, I will endure to hide yet an 
 other day amid the haunts of those I hate. "When 
 again the sun sleeps, and the stars begin their watch, 
 come to me where the rivers mingle. My boat shall 
 be moored there. If thou wilt go with me, we will 
 seek a happier clime. If thou wilt not, thou shalt be 
 free to return, as the forest bird to her nest." 
 
 He plunged into the thicket, and in a moment was 
 lost to her view. The meditations of that sleepless 
 night, and of the day that ensued, were trying and 
 tumultuous to the red-browed maiden. He who had 
 prepared her innocent childhood for the germ of love, 
 had suddenly come like the husbandman to claim the 
 fruits of the vineyard, when she supposed him buried 
 with her fellow-kindred. To her kind benefactors 
 she dared not resort for counsel, since a knowledge 
 of the proximity of her lover would endanger both 
 his liberty and life. Often during this period of agi 
 tation was she on her knees in her solitary chamber, 
 imploring His aid who conh rmeth the doubting heart 
 and " giveth discretion to the simple." 
 
 Evening tardily spread her curtain over the spot 
 appointed for their meeting. It was at the junction 
 of the Connecticut with a considerable tributary. 
 The Dutch, who exhibit the same shrewdness in the 
 choice of sites favorable to commerce, which the 
 monks of England anciently discovered in selecting 
 warm and sheltered nooks for their convents and 
 cloisters, had originally erected here a fortress, or
 
 FALL OF THE PEQUOD. ,131 
 
 trading-house, which they called the " Hirse of Good 
 Hope." Though their occupancy was transient, the 
 locality still retains the designation of" Dutch Point," 
 and was long distinguished by its gentle and graceful 
 undulations, and the velvet richness of its shaven lawn. 
 
 The rising moon, whose full disk silvered the tree 
 tops, revealed the slight form of the maiden resting 
 against the trunk of an elm, while the stately war 
 rior, seated at her feet, bowed his head on his hand 
 in melancholy thought. 
 
 " Orramel, I spake strong and stormy words to 
 thee when last we parted. My heart burned within 
 me, to see thee in the coil of the serpent. Thou art 
 as the moon to my midnight path. Without thee, 
 what would be my life but a rootless weed ! I was 
 then maddened with the fear of losing thee. But 
 now I read other language in thy gentle eyes. I 
 know that thou wilt go with me. I will make thine 
 home in the heart of the green forest, where the 
 thrush and the wood-robin sing; and thou shalt bo 
 more to me than the song of birds, or the spring to 
 the ice-bound stream." 
 
 The maiden replied not. There was in the tones 
 of his deep and tender voice something, that, even 
 when it ceased, made her heart a listener. 
 
 " Our race have vanished away," he added, mourn 
 fully, " like the dew when the sun ariseth. From 
 these waters, and from the shores of the broad sea 
 where our kings held dominion, our power hath de 
 parted. Our council fires are quenched. Upon the
 
 132 F A I, L O F T II E P E a U O D. 
 
 
 
 very lands that were his at the beginning, the I J e- 
 quod dares not set his feet. As for me, who of all 
 my kindred are left ? Is there one to take Ontologon 
 by the hand, and call him brother 1 When he is 
 sick, has he a mother or a sister to spread the blank 
 et over him ? When he dies, who shall bury him 
 with his fathers 1 There is none left to remember 
 him, or to shed the tear over his grave." 
 
 "Ontologon, 1 can not bear to hear thee say that 
 our whole race have perished. My heart is sad at 
 the thought that thou hast neither brother, nor sister, 
 nor mother. I will go with thee, that thou mayest no 
 more lament in loneliness, or be sick, and find no 
 comforter. For thee I will forsake those who have 
 been to me as parents. But thou wilt not refuse 
 that 1 should remember their God and my God, that 
 I should speak to Him when the light fadeth and 
 when the morning ariseth in the east, and that I 
 should keep His Sabbaths in my soul." 
 
 " Orramel, I may not deceive thee. The white 
 man would promise thee, with the oath on his lips, 
 whatsoever thou desiredst. When thou wert in his 
 power, his vows would be lighter than the sum 
 mer wind. He would mock thee, that thou hadst 
 trusted them. The red man dares not thus to sin. 
 He knows that the Great Spirit hath an ear which 
 the lightest breath of falsehood reaches. I will not 
 consent that thou shouldst love the Christian s God. 
 I could not rest if the plague-spot of our foes was 
 upon thy bosom."
 
 F A L L O F T II E P E Q U O D. 133 
 
 " Oritologon, is not my request small ? Doth the 
 water-lily offend the flower of the sun when it bend- 
 cth beneath the waters 1 Doth the stream dishonor 
 its fountain when it findeth rest in the sea] AVould 
 it wrong thee that my hope was in Him who made 
 heaven and earth 1 that my prayer went up for thee 
 while thou didst bend thy bow in the forest 1" 
 
 " Maiden of the dark and tender eye, the path in 
 which we walk upon earth is short. Hoary-headed 
 men say it is to them as a dream. When thou di- 
 ost, could I see thee go to the white man s heaven ? 
 Could I go there with thee ] Could I remain in that 
 heaven if his soul dwelt there 1 No, no ! Our home 
 after death must be the same. Could I bear to miss 
 thee forever in those fields of light, where our fa 
 thers dwell, above the roll of the thunder? Orra- 
 mel, it shall not be so. I will lead thy footsteps 
 back to the Great Spirit. He will forgive that thou 
 hast wandered. He knoweth that the heart of wom 
 an is weak. When thy hand is in mine, thou shalt 
 fall no more." 
 
 " Ontologon, thou art more noble than the kings 
 from whom thou art descended. Thou hast not hid 
 den the truth from me. Now could I lay down my 
 life for thy sake. But I dare not lay down my faith. 
 While I live, .the Book of God must be my guide; 
 when I die, may my soul go unto the Redeeme:-." 
 
 " Is it, then, for this," said the warrior, "that I 
 have borne long years of darkness, whose only light 
 was thy childish smile, which memory held forth to 
 M
 
 F ALL O F T II K P E Q U O D. 
 
 me like a feeble lamp ] For this, that when life 
 grew hateful, and I was about to cast it away, I 
 walked onward with a strong step and a lifted brow 
 at the sound, Orramcl lircth ? Is it for this that 
 I have bowed my pride to grovel as a snake in the 
 thicket, that I might again breathe the same air that 
 thou didst breathe, and once more look upon thee ] 
 All troubles were forgotten when the sound of thy 
 voice fell upon my ear. At the words, / u- dl go 
 with thee, a new existence entered into my soul. 
 And now, have I found this treasure only to lay it 
 down? Have we met but to part forever] Must I 
 walk alone under tne cloud of midnight, till I sink in 
 the grave, the last of all my 7~ace ?" 
 
 " Let me be to thee, Ontologon. the light which 
 thou hast sought. When thou art weary and sad, 
 let me teach thee how to smile. We will walk to 
 gether till that dark angel divide us who cometh but 
 once to all. Yet let me speak to thee of my story. 
 Long after my abode was with white men, I was 
 sorrowful and without hope. He who saved me 
 from destruction was as a father, and his wife as a 
 mother, and their children spake kind words to me. 
 But I found no comfort. Every night my pillow 
 was as a fountain of tears. Thus it was, till their 
 sweet religion entered into my soul. It set the seal 
 of peace on my eyes when I lay down to slumber, 
 and when I awoke it talked with me. All day long, 
 it put meek and happy thoughts into my heart, and 
 it promised to pluck for me the sting from death, and
 
 F A LL OF THE PEQUOD. ,135 
 
 to take the victory from the grave. Then I partook 
 of its holiest rite, and bound my soul by an everlast 
 ing covenant, and took that holy Book to rny heart 
 which teaches of its precepts. Gladly would I read 
 to thee from those blessed pages of a clime without 
 sorrow or injustice, where none shall be forced from 
 his inheritance, and where all the righteous shine 
 forth as the Sun in the kingdom of their Father. 
 Yet, if it troubleth thee, I will not speak of my faith. 
 I will shut it close in my soul. Thou shalt see it 
 only by the smile that beams from it, and the cour 
 age it giveth at the gate of death." 
 
 The lofty chieftain threw himself upon the earth. 
 Groans burst from his laboring bosom, and his whole 
 form was convulsed. Let none believe that he has 
 seen anguish till he witnesses the agony of the strong, 
 proud man. He may have beheld the lightning and 
 the tempest, but not the earthquake rending the rock 
 in pieces. 
 
 At length the strife of passion yielded. He rose, 
 in heightened majesty. His voice was firm and aw 
 ful, as he extended his hand toward the maiden. 
 
 " If thou wilt be mine, wholly and forever, put thy 
 hand into my hand, and not even death shall pait us. 
 But if thou choosest the faith of the murderers of thy 
 people, and to dwell in their heaven rather than in 
 the heaven of our fathers, say so, and let me see thy 
 face no more." 
 
 The answer was distinct, though the heart s tears 
 gushed with it, " I may not renounce my Redeemer"
 
 130 FALLOFTHEPEdUOD. 
 
 "With a rush that seemed superhuman, the chief 
 tain threw himself from the high bank into his boat. 
 A few strokes of the oar, as from a giant s arm, 
 drove it from the deep shadow where it lay, out upon 
 the broad, bright waters. Then it seemed to drift 
 onward at its will. In that despairing reaction 
 which succeeds passionate excitement, he lay pros 
 trate with a powerless arm, submitting to the guicl- 
 arice of the tide, and reckless of life or death. 
 
 Orramel stood upon the point of the promontory 
 where the rivers mingle. She watched the boat of 
 her lover, until the sinuous and projecting shore shut 
 it from her view. But he raised not his head, nor 
 waved his hand. He. gave no farewell signal to soft 
 en that bitter parting. She listened for some echo 
 of his voice. Nothing was heard save the rush of 
 the waters, and the sigh of the gale through the 
 boughs of the drooping willows. 
 
 A strong burst of feeling swept over her. She 
 returned to the place where they had parted. She 
 seated herself on the earth where he had sat. She 
 strove to recall every word that he had spoken. She 
 wove every tone into the tissues of memory. It was 
 late ere she roused herself from her grief, and re 
 covered strength to retrace her homeward way. 
 
 She still continued faithful in all her duties, full 
 of gratitude to her benefactors, and humble as the 
 weaned child. It was evident to a close observer 
 that some sorrow had passed over her, but a sorrow 
 in which remorse had no part. A pure conscience so
 
 r 
 
 F A L L O F T II E P E a U O D. 137 
 
 girded the swelling heart that it broke not. Peace 
 that the world can not give made her brow its tablet. 
 Thus she lived till youth faded, respected by the 
 race among whom she had found refuge. Yet the 
 soul of her lover was ever upon her prayers, and 
 when the last pale messenger came to summon her, 
 and her eye brightened at the welcome of that Sav 
 ior in whom she had believed, the ear that approach 
 ed nearest to her dying lips perceived that their faint, 
 parting whisper was " mercy for Onfologon." 
 
 In reviewing the circumstances which have given 
 to this sketch a subject and a name, we are struck 
 with the prominence and discordance of some of the 
 features in the character of our ancestors: the bold 
 ness with which, in the very birth of their colonial 
 existence, they hazarded this formidable enterprise, 
 the cruelty with which it was consummated, and the 
 piety to which they turned for a sanction, even when 
 deed and motive seemed at variance. The unrestiiig 
 vigilance with which they blotted out the very name 
 of Pequod, partitioning the last remnant of that race 
 in vassalage between the Mohegans, the Narragan- 
 setts, and themselves, was not less arbitrary than the 
 dismemberment of Poland, and savored more of the 
 policy of heathen Rome than of Christ. 
 
 Mason, in common with the historians of that age, 
 bitterly blamed the Indians for stratagem in war, 
 but chose to adopt the creed that he had denounced, 
 and to prove himself an adept in the theory that he 
 condemned. 
 
 M 2
 
 1 38 F A L L O F T H E P E Q, U O D. 
 
 Still, we would contemplate with filial respect the 
 memory of our ancestors. We venerate their lofty 
 virtues, and view their errors with regret. Many 
 of their most prominent faults sprang from the pe 
 culiarity of their position. The light that visits our 
 advancing age had not beamed on them. Luminous 
 minds had not then arisen to present the war spirit 
 in its true aspect, or to strip it of that false glory 
 with which antiquity had invested it. No divine 
 had then eloquently pointed out that " universal bal 
 let by which mankind might cast from its seat of 
 power the bloody idol of a long-infatuated world." 
 
 The consciousness that they were the sole guard 
 ians of the " vine planted in the wilderness," and the 
 dread of its extermination, forced them into conflict, 
 which in this instance was most stern and sanguinary, 
 kindling the flame over the heads of slumbering house 
 holds, and smiting the infant in its mother s arms. 
 
 The young student of American history, in record 
 ing the date of May 20th, 1637, will remember it as 
 the era when a once-powerful aboriginal tribe ceas 
 ed to exist. It perished without a hand to write its 
 epitaph : an emblem of the fate of that vanishing 
 race to whom the brotherhood of the white man 
 hath hitherto been as the kiss of Judas.
 
 ~1 
 
 T HE Y A N K E E.
 
 Strange phrase and quaint, but spirit shrewd, 
 And heart with pious thoughts embued."
 
 THE YANKEE, 
 
 THERE is sometimes a period in -the life of nations, 
 as well as of individuals, when the energies work in 
 diseased channels, and a morbid imagination pictures 
 "destruction before them, and sorrow behind." Such 
 seemed the condition of the oldest colony, the moth 
 er of New England, when about to pass the seven 
 tieth year of her existence. 
 
 Within her borders she beheld a savage foe, wrong 
 ed and inexorable, the print of whose stealthy foot 
 step was red with the blood of the defenceless. The 
 fathers who had been her guides ; the ancient priests, 
 whose wisdom was as the Urim and Thummim to the 
 multitude, were with the dead. We, in whose minds 
 respect for age is less deeply rooted than of old, can 
 but imperfectly realize the " horror of great dark 
 ness" that settled upon her soul as the last vestiges 
 of that patriarchal race disappeared. One by one 
 the stars were muffled, the beacon-lights withdrawn, 
 and she left to steer her lonely barque amid the troub 
 led waters. 
 
 Other causes conspired to harass and depress the 
 people : heavy taxation ; the almost utter extinction 
 of commerce ; and a sea-coast infested by piratical
 
 1 42 THE YANKEE. 
 
 cruisers. France, irritated by a recent invasion of 
 Canada, menaced the colonies with her vengeance. 
 " They were becoming," says Upham, in his Lec 
 tures, " the victims of political jealousies, discon 
 tent, and animosities ; their minds were startled 
 and confounded by forebodings of dark and dismal 
 events ; and, as it were, to crown the whole, and fill 
 up the measure of their affliction and terror, it was 
 their universal and sober belief, that the Evil lie- 
 ing himself was in a special manner let loose, and 
 permitted to descend upon them with unexampled 
 fury." 
 
 It was from the midst of this discomfort and gloom, 
 this " fearful looking-for of judgment," that the delu 
 sion at Salem sprang forth. Though not without 
 precedent in an older continent, it derived peculiar 
 elements of sternness and inveteracy from the local 
 ity and circumstances of its birth. Few of those 
 influences that soften and unbend the minds of men 
 were then in operation. Literature and science gave 
 but a feeble infusion of their spirit, and social inter 
 course seldom sparkled with hilarity. Seeds of re 
 ligious dissension were vegetating, and whatever 
 form of bitterness or superstition seized upon the 
 mind, was pursued with the exclusiveness of mono 
 mania. 
 
 An isolated and ascetic state of feeling was doubt 
 less nourished by the tardy and infrequent commu 
 nication between the settlements. No post-roads or 
 periodicals diffused intelligence, and, penetrating to
 
 THE YANKEE. 1,43 
 
 the most remote solitudes, bound the extremities to 
 the heart in strong and warm vitality. The advent 
 urous traveler encountered not only fatigue, but per 
 il, for he knew that he must pass dense and over 
 shadowing forests, where the watchful Indian prowl 
 ed. So slow was the transmission of news, that the 
 awful tragedy at Salem, which commenced early in 
 1693, did not reach for several months a colony of 
 Huguenots, planted about forty miles from Boston. 
 Few in number, and occupied with those labors on 
 which existence depended, vague rumors, as of some 
 distorted and horrible dream, at length floated to 
 their hermit residence. 
 
 It was at that period when autumn fosters the fad 
 ing beauties of summer, and yet announces the ap 
 proach of winter by infusing a slight chill into the 
 evening atmosphere. The harvest of maize had 
 been principally gathered and deposited in a rude 
 tenement, which served as a public granary. Lights 
 were seen there to glimmer, after they had one by 
 one vanished from the surrounding habitations. A 
 few men, employed in separating the golden sheaves 
 from their investing sheath, still prolonged their 
 pleasant toil, listening to the narrations of a hardy 
 New England yeoman, who for the past year had 
 assisted these more delicate natives of France in the 
 ruder labors of husbandry. While in the midst of 
 an animated description of the festivities of what he 
 called a " real buskin frolic," which he had some 
 times shared among his own people, he was inter-
 
 14 i THE YANKEE. 
 
 rupted by a heavy knock at the door, and the sudden 
 entrance of a wearied stranger. A word or two in 
 an under-tone caused an exclamation of amazement. 
 
 " Why, Cousin Jehiel Wigglesworth ! it can t be 
 you ! in such torn and awful riggin ! Have the In 
 dians come down upon Maiden ] and was you ne 
 cessitated to fly for your life >." 
 
 " Indians, do ye say ] What is a host of coward 
 ly heathen to the terrible visitations of the spirits of 
 darkness ] We read in the Bible of only one witch 
 of Endor, and she busied herself with calling up the 
 dead ; but Salem town is full of witches, from one 
 eend to t other, and they do nothing but torment the 
 living." 
 
 To the inquiry of his cousin respecting the reas 
 ons of his removal from Maiden, their native place, 
 he answered, 
 
 " You know I come of age last winter, and so I 
 told father he might as well get some work out of 
 brother Titus, who is a stout youngster, and I would 
 go and hire myself out a spell and am a little mon 
 ey. I had heard of a minister in Salem, one Mr. 
 Parris, who wanted help, and I reckoned twould be 
 a good notion to live with a minister, because, their 
 portion not being in this world, they would not be 
 likely to insist on so much hard slaving. But I was 
 rather discomfited at our first meeting. He obsarved 
 that he was particular in inquiring the character of 
 sarrants, because he chose to have only those of good 
 report. Sar cants T said I ; I never was any body s
 
 THE Y A XK E E. 145 
 
 sarvant, and I never mean to be. So I turned to 
 go off , thinking he was too mighty topping for me. 
 But he said over a text or two of Scripture, which 
 made me as quiet as a lamb, how that we all had a 
 Master in heaven, and that he only wanted me to be 
 his lidp. Then I felt ashamed that I had been so 
 mad and hasty, and made an agreement with him, 
 and lived quiet and peaceable, till I was carried to 
 Salem jail." 
 
 "To the jail! to the jail! You don t say so! 
 None of our relations ever come to such disgrace 
 before ! No wonder you look so exceedin dump 
 ish. Tell me all that you did, without any prevari 
 cation." 
 
 " Cousin Jehoshaphat Jones, have a little patience. 
 Every thing in its right place. I guess you had bet 
 ter hear first consarning my dealings at the minis 
 ter s. My business was to dig in the gardin, and to 
 chop wood, and to take care of the dumb critturs, 
 which consisted of an old horse, quite lean in flesh, 
 and a cow with balls at her horns, cause she routed 
 down fences when she could get a chance, and a 
 flock of hens, which it was a power of trouble to 
 watch and scare out of the neighbor s corn ; more 
 over, to rnind the minister s wife in all she directed." 
 
 " And was it really a great sight easier to live with 
 a minister than to be on the good old farm at home ] 
 Did you get enough to eat 1" 
 
 " 1 liked all well enough except the Sabba-day 
 dinners ; for then they never got any victuals. They 
 10 N
 
 146 THE YANKEE. 
 
 are no upholders of fasting in Boston ; they under 
 stood good eating and drinking there right well. 
 But Salem folks seemed to me more for skinchinor 
 
 O 
 
 and saving. However, there was really nothing 
 worth complaining on, till them great and grievous 
 trials come down like a clap of thunder. The min 
 ister s darter and his niece, who lived with them, 
 hoth smart, sprightly gals of eleven or twelve years 
 old, were brought all of a sudden under the power 
 of the Evil One, and tormented just like the children 
 of Mr. John Goodwin at North Boston, a few years 
 before. Cousin Jehoshaphat, did not you read that 
 marvelous account published by a godly and larned 
 minister 1" 
 
 " Yes, I did ; but it seemed to me a deal more 
 like their own ugliness than any other sort of witch 
 craft." 
 
 " Jehoshaphat Jones, just in that same way other 
 bold ones blasphemed and made their mocks, but 
 some of them got hung upon the gallows like proud 
 Hainan, a spectacle to heaven and airth. It is true 
 that them two gals was the most tormentedest critters 
 that eyes ever beheld. Sometimes we d find them 
 a standing in brooks of water, saying that the Wick 
 ed One wanted to drown em ; then they d be a 
 clinging to the tops of high trees, where they d no 
 way in natur of getting, crying out that he com 
 manded em to throw themselves down from thence." 
 
 " Jehiel, wasn t there apples or some sort of fruit on 
 them trees 1 I guess I ve seen children climb pretty 
 
 i
 
 THE YANKEE. 147 
 
 decent high arter green apples, without no super 
 natural help." 
 
 " Well, what should they run upon the ridge-pole 
 of the barn, and bemoan themselves there for 1 You 
 don t s pose any green apples grew there, do ye ] 
 An4 when the poor souls set down to comfort them 
 selves with a meal of victuals, who do you calculate 
 drew their tongues out of their mouths, and laid 
 them all along upon their chins, so that they were 
 not able to eat a single mou ful ]" 
 
 " I don t know. I guess they did not see any 
 thing they liked on the table, and thought they d 
 make a push to get something more to their taste." 
 
 " Who do you reckon run pins into em, and left 
 the marks of great pinches and bites on their inno 
 cent flesh 1 And what made em, when they was 
 told only to do the least little chore, fall into fits like 
 one about to die ]" 
 
 " Why, Jehiel, I have made believe to be sick my 
 self, when I was a small boy, and told to hoe corn 
 or weed the gardin ; but I was always mighty well 
 if any play was going on. And I have seen bigger 
 folks sarve their master in that way time and again. 
 Who pinched and bit those gals, I don t undertake 
 to say ; but I rather guess, if the minister had given 
 them a smart box on the ear, as father used to me, 
 they d gone to work and felt better." 
 
 " It is very likely, to be sure, that with your poor 
 edecation you should know more of their case than 
 all the wise and rich gentlemen who come to see
 
 148 THE YANKEE. 
 
 and pity em, and the host of ministers too, who used 
 to pray and exhort over em. And when them that 
 was the most gifted, and could hold out the longest, 
 were a putting up petitions, it was awful to see the 
 sufferings of them children. Every inch of their 
 flesh would tremble, as if the Evil Spirit was about 
 to come out of em, but it was only because he was 
 mad and tired to hear the precious saints commun 
 ing so long with the Lord. Then the poor babes 
 might not enjoy the comfort of saying the Lord s 
 Prayer themselves ; for they d always be forced to 
 leave out some part of it. And when Mr. Parris 
 would say, Begin again, and say it right, they d be 
 speechless. Neither was they permitted to read a 
 single godly book, whereby their souls might a been 
 comforted under their body s tribulation. The wick 
 ed sarpent would allow them to read silly stories and 
 jeest books, to be sure, and if they was particular 
 unchristian and bad, they d giggle and shout till even 
 the neighbors heard the racket. But when the As 
 sembly of Divines Catechize was put into their 
 hands, oh ! such whooping and hollowing; and if it 
 was not taken directly out of their sight, they d have 
 the terriblest fits, and scare the minister s wife nigh 
 upon to death." 
 
 " Law, Cousin Jehiel, as for that monstrous long 
 catechize, I d have screamed as bad as they, and had 
 as many fits, if I could only frightened mother out 
 of the notion of making me larn it." 
 
 " Jehoshaphat Jones, I feel bound to say unto you
 
 THE Y A \ KE E. 149 
 
 what holy Mr. Baxter saith in his preface to the book 
 about John Goodwin s afflicted offspring : He that 
 disbelieveth, must needs be a most obstinate Saddu- 
 cee. I s pose it will be of no use to certify you that 
 there was a witch in our house ; yea, a black wench, 
 from a far-distant country, where, I m told, they have 
 daily dealings with Satan, as man with man, in buy 
 ing, and selling, and trucking of goods. The afflict 
 ed girls, when in their sorest torments, would cry out 
 upon Tituba; and there would be the cruel jade, 
 looking as much amazed as if she had never done 
 any evil in her life. But she had manifested her 
 ugly temper toward em before this calamity, by di 
 vers times discovering em in a closet where jellies 
 and such like sweet trade was kept, of which it was 
 very natural that they should be just tasting a little, 
 you know. They could not so much as hook a lump 
 of sugar, or a spunful of molasses, but they d hear 
 her muttering, I ll .tell mistress, for by-and-by sug 
 ar-pot and lasses-jug be empty, and she ll say, Titu- 
 | ba steal Tituba tief. So, don t all these doings 
 plainly prove that she was moved of old, by the Fa 
 ther of malice against these poor children 1 Well, 
 after things had gone on so for a long, lengthy time, 
 they come to a detarmination to hold a court upon 
 | these dealings of Satan, and try if the authority of the 
 | town could not cast him out, since the godly ministers 
 | was not able. Oh ! I never shall forget that dread 
 ful day. Heads was as thick in the Salem court- 
 : house as green pease in a pod, but no more noise nor 
 N2
 
 1 50 THE Y A N K R E. 
 
 shuffling of feet than if all had been dead bodies. 
 There, on a high seat, sot Governor Danforth, look 
 ing exceeding solemn, and Governor Stoughton, with 
 eyes as sharp as a needle ; and there was the Rev 
 erend Mr. Samuel Parris, with a pen to write down 
 every word that should be said. I could not help 
 thinking of the day of judgment. And when the 
 crowd was so great that we could hardly breathe, 
 the distressed children was brought in. Close behind 
 them came Tituba, rolling up the whites of her eyes. 
 Then they fell into the worst torments that I ever did 
 see. It seemed as if the Wicked One put forth the 
 whole of his power and spite in the presence of the 
 honorable court. Who hurts you V said his worship, 
 the judge. Tituba! Tituba! they both screamed at 
 once ; she afflicts us ! She is going to ride on a 
 broomstick now, and will stick pins in us. Then 
 they fell into such awful fits that the honorable court 
 injoined the black witch to make confession of her 
 wickedness. And she did confess, so far as this; that, 
 when she was a slave among the Spanish, she larnt 
 how tojind out a witch. Arid was not that just the 
 same as to be one herself? Their honors agreed it 
 was next akin to it, and ordered her straightway to 
 prison. After she got there, such a hardened sin 
 ner was she, that she denied having ever made a 
 league with Satan, and said she would not have told 
 the court what she did, only her master had* most 
 
 * See page 5G of" Lectures on Witchcraft," by the Reverend C. 
 W. Upham, published at Boston in 1931, and evincing much his 
 torical research.
 
 THE YANKEE. 151 
 
 grievously beaten her to make her confess, and, catch 
 ing his eye in the court, she was afeard of the 
 same punishment again, which was surely no worse 
 than she desarved. And what a maracle it was, that, 
 as soon as she was taken away, the poor, afflicted gals 
 sot up, and looked pleasant and satisfied. But just 
 as the crowd-was beginning to clear out, the minis 
 ter s darter betook herself to swooning again, and 
 foamed at the mouth like a barrel of hop beer a work 
 ing. And, Cousin Jehoshaphat, can you imagine my 
 situation when I heard her exclaim, Jehicl Wiggles- 
 worth ! Jehicl Wigglesicorth ! lie afflicts me / Oh ! 
 I screamed as loud as she, and took to my heels to 
 run right out of the court-house, thinking I d get home 
 like a streak of lightning to father s. But they seized 
 hold of me, and dragged me before the judges. 
 Things swum round me, and I was afeard the floor 
 would cleave asunder, and let me into the suller. So 
 I held fast on to the sheriffs, and they grabbed just 
 as tight hold of me ; so I was like a crutter shut 
 up in a vice. But when the chief judge axed me, in 
 a terrible voice, How do you afflict this young maid V 
 I found marvelous strength to reply, Please your 
 honor, I never did offend her, in thought, word, or 
 deed, saving once, when, about six weeks ago, I s pose 
 I did occasion her some sort of worriment by telling 
 her mother, who axed me the question, that I did see 
 her take apples from a cart that brought some to the 
 door to sell. But then she would not a took em if 
 we had only a bought em for her to eat ; and, as she
 
 152 THE YANKEE. 
 
 declared she never toucli d one on em, I do s pose 
 she forgot it. So, cause my memory happened to 
 be rather better than hers, she was huffy to me for 
 two or three weeks, which was no more than natu 
 ral, your honor ; and then she seemed to get over 
 her hard thoughts. Most sartingly, this is the only 
 time in which I ever crossed her since I have abode 
 under her father s ruff. 
 
 " Then the court ordered me to walk straight up 
 to her, and look her in the face ; whereat she shriek 
 ed so, and vowed that I tore her vitals, that my heart 
 misgive me, and I begun to wonder whether I had 
 not, somehow or other, made a league and covenant 
 with the Old One, and known nothing about it. How 
 soever, I would not confess, though they took vast 
 pains to make me. Whereupon they said I was obsti 
 nate, and commanded me to jail. Then she come im 
 mediately out of her fits, and was as chirk and cheery 
 as a bird out of the snare of the fowler. Oh ! the 
 wearisome days and nights that passed over me in 
 that house of bondage ! But plenty of good com 
 pany came there afore midsummer. We was like a 
 bee-hive at swarming time. From the dens around 
 I d hear the poor prisoners bemoaning themselves, 
 and saying, Oh ! that we d never told such a false 
 hood as to confess that we was witches, and so wrong 
 ed our own souls. And then the crying of children 
 would ring in my ears, for there was some shut up 
 there not over eight or ten years old. Father and 
 mother got a seat in neighbor Lynch s wagon, and
 
 T H E Y A N K E E. 1 53 
 
 come down to Salem jail to see me. We was all 
 cast down bad enough, to meet in such a dolesome 
 hole. Oh, Jehiel, said the old lady, confess ! do, 
 pray, confess ! for they tell me all that confess they 
 are witches get set at liberty, and all the rest are 
 hanged without marcy, for a stiff-necked and hard 
 hearted generation. Mother, says I, would ye have 
 me confess dealings with the Wicked Sarpent when 
 taint true V Oh ! I don t know, says she ; but do 
 be sure and save your life ; there ain t nothing so bad 
 as death. Why now, mother, says I, I remember 
 you broke me of telling lies when I was a small 
 youngster ; I don t think I shall begin again at this 
 time of day. And 1 guess there is something as bad 
 as death, and worse too, namely, the lake that burns 
 with fire and brimstone. There, said father, did 
 not I tell you twould be so I Jehiel was always a 
 good boy to larn the New Testament by heart ; and 
 now ye see he s got it in his heart. So give over 
 tempting him, mammy. " 
 
 " I should have thought," said Jones, " that Aunt 
 Jemima might have given you better advice. A pro 
 fessor o religion as she is, too ! She must have been 
 worse blinded and bewitched than even you was." 
 
 " I felt desp ate heavy," continued the narrator, 
 " when our folks left me, and went and curled down 
 in the corner upon my heap of straw. But I found 
 some comfort in a bit of cold gammon, and bread 
 and cheese they brought me, which was enough 
 better than the jail victuals. The latter part of Au-
 
 1 54 T H E Y A X K E E. 
 
 gust, five of the prisoners was taken out and hang 
 ed. One of them was a grand minister, Mr. George 
 Burroughs, whom they condemned because he had 
 e enamost the strength of a giant, which he must 
 have got from the powers of darkness, for he was 
 real slim and slender made. But never shall I for 
 get the awful 22d of September. Then we was all 
 summoned to look out and see eight of our misera 
 ble comrades marched to the gallows. First walked 
 Martha Corey, paler than ashes, whose husband had 
 been pressed to death with heavy weights, because 
 he refused to plead when he was indicted before the 
 honorable court. The next was Mary Esty, who 
 writ the most beautiful letter to the judges and min 
 isters, declaring her innocence. When she took the 
 last leave of her husband, and children, and friends, 
 she was said to look just as calm and holy as an an 
 gel. Close behind come Goody Parker, with her 
 hood partly drawn over her face, and her lips mov 
 ing in prayer, and Ann Pudeator, with the large 
 tears like hail-stones rolling down her face, and 
 Margaret Scott, with the ruddy bloom still upon her 
 cheeks, whom all the young men had so admired 
 for her beauty. There was Wilmot Read, too, with 
 whom I had played at school, and Goodman Ward- 
 well, who was accused by his own wife and daugh 
 ter, and a broken-hearted man was he, with his head 
 hanging down upon his breast. Last of all, with a 
 fresh, goodly countenance, walked Molly Parker, 
 stepping as light, as if she knew she was about to
 
 THE YANKEE, 1-55 
 
 rise above her enemies to a heavenly home. She it 
 was that spake so bold to the Reverend Mr. Noyes 
 when he bid her confess the sin of witchcraft. I 
 am no more a witch than you are a wizard ; and 
 if you take away my life, God will give you blood 
 to drink. Oh ! how my heart sunk within me, and 
 cold chills run through all my veins, to see them 
 walking along with the bright sun, and the clear, 
 blue sky over their heads, which they was never 
 more to behold. And I said to myself, Make haste, 
 Jehiel Wigglesworth, and get out of this strong hold, 
 or you will be dealt with in like manner. In the 
 arter part of that memorable day, there came a pious 
 good minister to preach to the poor prisoners, and 
 exhort them to sarch into the plague of their own 
 hearts, while yet it was a time of hope. We, in the 
 upper story, flocked together into the largest cell to 
 hear him. He spoke exceeding well, and had a 
 wonderful smooth delivery, but he d only got as far 
 as sixteenthly, when down fell Molly Lacey in a fit, 
 a curious talking creature, who had charged both 
 her mother and grand-mother with witchcraft, and 
 got them both into Salem jail with her. Down she 
 fell, calling out the name of Mr. Willard, a grand 
 Boston minister, and the names of some of the high 
 est powers of the state, saying they had a commis 
 sion from the Prince of Darkness to afflict her, and 
 to burn her flesh from her bones with fire. Great 
 was the stir indeed, and when I see the jailer was 
 as busy as the rest on em, I watched my chance,
 
 156 T H E Y A N K E E. 
 
 and glided down stairs like a sperrit. But when I 
 reached the second story, the door was locked so 
 tight that the Old Dragon himself could not start it. 
 I made for the window through which we had look 
 ed at the poor, condemned people in the morning, 
 and lo ! it was left a leetle open, to admit a morsel 
 of air. Jehiel Wiggles worth ! said I, cast your 
 self down from thence. Ain t it as well to grind your 
 bones to powder, as to have your neck stretched by 
 these Philistines? So I snatched up the minister s 
 broad-brimmed hat, which had been left on the stair 
 way, and thrust it on my head, .thinking I would not 
 go into etarnity with a broken. skull, if I could help 
 it. But what do you think appeared just at that crit 
 ical minute 1 A huge load of hay passing directly 
 under, and nobody in sight. As quick as thought, 
 I plumped down upon it, and kivered myself up in 
 the cutest manner. The boy who driv was wan 
 dering along in front, and gazing around, but hear 
 ing a strange sound as I plunged down, gave his 
 cattle a stroke or two, and said, Gee up, Dimoncl. 
 Haw! old crooked-horn! what d ye start for] D ye 
 see any o the Salem witches V So whistling, he 
 went on with his load, while the sweet smell of the 
 new-mown hay, and the fresh air that I had not 
 breathed so long, and the thought that I had got out 
 of that dismal den of lamentation, though but for 
 one half hour, even if they clawed me back the next, 
 made both my heart and head so lightish, that I 
 could scarcely keep from outright singing and shout-
 
 Til E Y A \K BE. 
 
 ing. But I took good care to hold the minister s 
 hat well under the hay, lest some of his parishioners 
 might know it and hunt me out. I obsarved the 
 boy arter a while to be looking round, and calling 
 Jehu, Jehu. Thinks I to myself, Jehu and Je- 
 hiel are pretty much alike. So when we d got past 
 the house where I used to live, I takes courage, and 
 says, What d ye want? Don t ye see that I m up 
 here on the hay V On the hay, said he. How 
 on airth did ye get there, and I not know it ] 
 Why forty people might a got up and down, and 
 stole half the hay too, while you have been lazing 
 and gazing at every thing and every body. . You 
 hain t done all your arrants, have ye V Yes, in 
 deed, long ago. Well, then, get down and drive 
 the team. Don t you know master said, . Tim, you 
 must drive till you get through the thickest of Salem 
 town, arid when Jehu has done my business there, 
 he shall see to the cattle." So make haste and come 
 down, for I m as tired as a dog. And don t you 
 think I m tired too, trotting through all the lanes 
 like a camel, while you ve been a loungin along, 
 more asleep than awake ! I declare you shall get 
 down now, Jehu, said the lad, beginning to climb 
 up the load. I ll tell you what it is, Tim, said I, 
 the great pitchfork is here, and if you come up be 
 fore I give you leave, I ll catch you on it. But if 
 you ll only drive fast and good till we get out of 
 sight of them housen yonder, I ve got a clever cling 
 stone peach here that I ll give you, and you shall 
 O
 
 158 THE YANKEE. 
 
 ride all the rest of the way. Oh yes, to be sure, 
 out of sight of them housen ! Why, that ain t a 
 quarter of a mile from the place where the man 
 lives that s bought the rowin. You re a real cross- 
 grained dog, to make me do more than master says. 
 So he walked along, muttering. When we d got 
 about through the thick-settled part, I called out 
 suddenly, Oh ! what a beast I am to forget. Hun, 
 Tim, run, as fast as ever you can, to Squire Larkin s 
 store, at the second corner, and bring a small bottle 
 of sperrit I left standing on the horse-block. I m 
 awful afeard somebody has drinked it up afore now. 
 Come, gallop, that s a good fellow, and if you hap 
 pen to take a small swig out on t, I won t tell mas 
 ter. Off he set like a catamount ; and no sooner 
 was he out of sight than I was down, and a running 
 faster than he, for I was dumb afeard that he d meet 
 the real Jehu, and both together take arter me, like 
 Jehu of old pursuing the false prophets. I struck 
 into the woods and hid till dark, and then took 
 the road and traveled right manfully all night. It 
 made me down-hearted to think I could not go to 
 father s, for I know d well that was the fust place 
 they d naturally sarch in for me, and I seemed to be 
 in a worse fix than the returning prodigal. While 
 I was doubting where to shape my course, I remem 
 bered that Cousin Jehoshaphat Jones, who had al 
 ways been a true frind, had hired himself out to 
 some Huguenot bodies, who lived in an out-of-the- 
 way sort of a hole, and thought if I could once get
 
 T H E Y A X K E E. 1 59 
 
 there, I might stand a good chance to be hid, in such 
 an outlandish region. So I turned my steps hither- 
 ward. But oh ! the torment of hunger that I ve en 
 dured. Sometimes I have thought I could e enamost 
 gnaw a sheep s head off, and eat it with all the wool 
 on. But I have not been altogether easy in my mind, 
 for fear the bears should eat me, when I dropped 
 asleep in the woods, or some ugly rattlesnake give 
 me a mortal bite, or the beastly Indians start out 
 from behind some bush and scalp me. Yet have I 
 been led through the wilderness in safety, through 
 help from above. I hope the precious minister that 
 I left preaching in the Salem jail will forgive me for 
 hooking his hat. Its broad brim has been of vast 
 use to me to dip up water from brooks, and fend off 
 the rain and musquetoes. How real thankful I was, 
 at last, to see a light glimmering here, and, looking 
 through the cracks of the corn-house, to be sure that 
 it was indeed Cousin Jehoshaphat, by the side of a 
 great pile of ripe ears. I doubt whether the poor 
 critturs who was a drowning in the flood-time could 
 have been much joyfuller to have set their feet in 
 Noah s ark, than I to behold my own blood-relation, 
 and stretch my weary limbs on this floor." 
 
 When the narrator closed his recital, all his audi 
 tors expressed sympathy for his troubles, and glad 
 ness at his deliverance, and hastened to provide him 
 with fitting refreshment, and a place of repose. It 
 was afterward decided to offer him refuge among 
 them, with such compensation for his services as
 
 1 GO T H E Y A N K E E. 
 
 should be deemed satisfactory, until " the indignation 
 might be overpast." For some time after this mis 
 erable delusion had subsided, he remained among 
 the Huguenot colonists, grateful for their kindness, 
 and pleased with their gentle manners and reasona 
 ble requisitions. 
 
 Afterward, returning to his native village, he set 
 tled for life in those peaceful agricultural employ 
 ments to which his ancestors had been inured. He 
 dwelt in rural comfort and happiness, and enjoyed 
 the respect of his neighbors and friends. Some lin 
 gering of superstition continued through life to min 
 gle with that shrewdness and simplicity which so oft 
 en mark the Yankee character ; and when, in long 
 winter evenings, beside a blazing fire, he recount 
 ed to his astonished children the evils to which he 
 had been exposed, and from which he was so re 
 markably rescued, he never failed to bespeak their 
 gratitude that they had never been tempted to the 
 sore sin of witchcraft, or brought tinder the visible 
 and fearful dominion of the great Wicked One.
 
 LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 11
 
 On the rushing tide of life, 
 
 Ever full, yet ever shifting, 
 Blinded with the smoke of strife, 
 
 We, like hattle-ships, are drifting ; 
 While the startling thunders boom, 
 
 And wreck d barques go down forever, 
 In the far horizon loom 
 
 Hopes that urge to new endeavors." 
 
 LONGFELLOW.
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 " PLEASE, tell me a tale of the olden time," said 
 a fair-haired girl, seating herself at her mother s feet, 
 and playfully seizing the knitting-needles so as to 
 suspend their operations. 
 
 Perceiving how fond was the glance that rested 
 upon her, she added, " Dear mother, you seldom men 
 tion brother Edmund. I do so wish to hear more 
 about him. Pray speak of him now, in this sweet, 
 summer twilight, an hour so fit for all tender and 
 holy thought." 
 
 " Do you not remember your brother, Malvina ? 
 you were five years old when he was taken from us." 
 
 " I remember him, mother, as we recall a vision, 
 beautiful and indistinct. Albert and myself used to 
 play all day long among the wild flowers, forcing 
 the smooth brook to fall noisily over the pebbles that 
 we placed in its channel. When he came to us, 
 there was a smile on his brow, like what we sup 
 posed might be the smile of an angel ; but he never 
 laughed with us. He drew us to his knee, and told 
 us that God was in every flower, and in the voice of 
 the tuneful brooks, and that he painted the wing of 
 the butterfly. We loved to hear his sweet tones, so 
 like a flute, but we wished that he would laugh as
 
 104 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 we did. He seemed so perfect, that something like 
 awe mingled with our love. We almost feared him, 
 for his unlikeness to ourselves. But when it thun 
 dered, and I quaked with dread, I drew closer to 
 him, and took hold of the skirts of his coat, for I be 
 lieved that no evil could touch one so good, and that 
 through his virtues I should be saved. 
 
 " Once I loved him better than ever. It was when 
 he took me under those tall elms, in a clear and quiet 
 evening, and pointed out the stars. He told me some 
 of their names, and that they were full of inhabitants, 
 over whom God ruled in his goodness. Then I 
 clasped his neck close, and wept violently, through 
 my very love and apprehension that he would die, 
 and go to those bright orbs, and I, for my faults, be 
 left behind, and never be found worthy to meet him 
 there. And I well remember a strange agony at be 
 ing told he was dead, and weeping at his funeral till 
 there were no more tears." 
 
 The mother paused, a^ if to gather strength for a 
 narrative of pain. 
 
 " It is proper, my daughter, that our domestic his 
 tory should be fully known to you. Upon some of 
 its events I have forborne to dwell, lest they might 
 sadden your young heart. Perhaps I have been too 
 reluctant to open the sources of grief; I have kept 
 them sacred to Him who can alone heal the heart s 
 troubled fountains. Those bitter waters have so long 
 subsided, that I may yet pour from their once turbid 
 dregs a pure-draught into your crystal cup.
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 165 
 
 " You know, dearest, that the birth-place of your 
 parents was in New England. Ten years have not 
 yet elapsed since our removal to Pennsylvania. 
 Then, with two hundred emigrants from Connecti 
 cut, we became inhabitants of this fair Vale of Wyo 
 ming. Never shall I forget its beauty as we first ap 
 proached it. Weary with the toils of our journey, 
 it burst upon our eyes from the brow of yonder 
 mountain, as the promised land stood forth in its robe 
 of brightness to greet the tribes long wandeiing in 
 the desert. Early spring had just tinted the green 
 hills, and the slumbering dells lay in silent beauty. 
 The Susquehanna rolled on in pride, as if claiming 
 admiration for its glorious domain. The young trees, 
 and the sweet birds, and the incense of early flowers 
 welcomed us to our goodly land. We blessed God 
 that we were not doomed, like the prophet from 
 Nebo, only to behold it with our eyes, but not to pass 
 over and take possession. 
 
 " You, Malvina, had numbered your fifth birth-day, 
 and your brother Albert was seven years old. At 
 the first view from the mountain-top, you both clap 
 ped your hands, and shouted with a pleasure whose 
 rich elements you could not fully comprehend. There 
 was a gentle being near us who gazed deeply on the 
 scene of enchantment, but spoke not your sister 
 Ellen. She pressed close and closer to my side, her 
 breathing became a quick sob, and tears of rapture 
 coursed down her cheeks. The sentiment of beauty 
 lay deep in her soul, and this Eden landscape thrilled
 
 166 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 it as a lyre, till the harmony overcame her. Twelve 
 winters only had passed over her, but her mind par 
 took of the maturity of womanhood. She drooped 
 when we first left the banks of our own Connecticut. 
 Her affections were strongly clasped around her 
 young schoolmates, and the pleasant halls where she 
 had gathered knowledge in their company. In un 
 twining them, some of the tendrils were broken ; but 
 we thought they would soon embrace other props. 
 We understood not that our frail flower could not 
 bear to be transplanted, that it was to bloom only in 
 heaven. We were deceived by the brightness daily 
 glowing upon her cheek ; we could not believe that 
 it was the flattering hectic planting there its funeral 
 rose." 
 
 " Mother, mother, were there no physicians in the 
 valley for my sweet sister?" 
 
 " They, like us, were lulled into false security. 
 One of them did, indeed, say that it was the em 
 igrant s consumption that she pined with, a consump 
 tion of the heart. But she uttered no complaint ; 
 she seemed to have no pain. She sighed continually 
 for her school for her dear companions for her 
 first home for the Church of God. Her father con 
 structed for her a rude arbor, where the vines clus 
 tered and made a thick shade. There she loved to 
 retire on a summer s day with her books, and around 
 it she planted the flower-seeds that she brought from 
 her own little garden. Especially she delighted there 
 to spend her Sabbath hours, and I could see that she
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 107 
 
 was best pleased to meditate without interruption. 
 One cloudless Sunday morning she, as usual, resort 
 ed thither. At parting, I recollected she threw back 
 her bright golden hair, and smiling, said, Moth 
 er, I am going to my home, to Connecticut, for so 
 she called that favorite recess. But to her little broth 
 er, whom she met and kissed, her words were more 
 ominous : Albert, be a good boy ; our dear Savior 
 says I may come home to-day. I observed that she 
 walked slowly, but I was not aware of her increas 
 ing weakness. Soon after I heard her sing sweetly 
 and clearly the hymn that she best loved. It was in 
 my heart to go and sing with her, but household oc 
 cupations- hindered me. When I afterward went, 
 she was reclining against a turf bank, as if in slum 
 ber. On the page of her open book lay a few violets. 
 I called, Ellen, love ; she made no reply : I touched 
 her slightly-clasped hands ; they were as marble. She 
 had found her home, and there was no returning." 
 
 " Dear, blessed sister ! when I have visited her 
 grave, I have ever wished that some memorial might 
 mark the spot. Let us raise there a simple stone, 
 with the inscription, He calleth me home; or that 
 line from your favorite poet, Her spirit was exhaled 
 and went to Heaven. " 
 
 " Still gird your heart, my dearest ; other woes 
 remain to be told. As I thus point them out to you, 
 I seem once more to move among them, and to bear 
 their impress. You know that this Valley of Wyo 
 ming has been emphatically debatable ground. The
 
 168 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 Pennsylvanians and the Connecticut colonists, author 
 ized by their respective state governments, maintain 
 ed opposing claims. Contention soon took the form 
 of border warfare. Your father bore a conspicuous 
 part in those times of danger. He was one of those 
 forty dauntless men from Connecticut who entered 
 this valley in the winter of 1769, and made prepara 
 tions for the present colony. With them, his family 
 removed the succeeding spring. Those settlers were 
 known by the name of the Susquehanna Company, 
 and came under the auspices of a council convened 
 at Hartford, and of the excellent Governor Trumbull, 
 who surely would have sanctioned nothing illegal 
 or unjust. But the permanent establishment which 
 we contemplated, was dpomed to lay its earliest foun 
 dation in blood. My anxiety for the safety of your 
 father it is impossible to describe. The activity and 
 fearlessness of his character made him indifferent to 
 peril, and obnoxious to his foes. Civil dissensions 
 are ever more relentless and tenacious than foreign 
 war, as diseases of the heart are more obstinate and 
 difficult of medication than those of the extremities." 
 
 " The history of those days of discord is but too 
 familiar to me, dear mother. Will it please you, 
 rather, to tell me of my brother Edmund ]" 
 
 " He was my first-born and my idol. The loss of 
 an infant son, three years younger than himself, bound 
 him still more closely to my heart. I made him my 
 constant companion, and early and continually infus 
 ed into him that knowledge which softens and beau-
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 169 
 
 tifies the spirit. His love of learning was too obvi 
 ous and overpowering to be counteracted, and we 
 left him in the collegiate institution of his native State. 
 His first visit was in the long autumn vacation, and 
 he moved among us like a spirit of light and peace. 
 He found me too deeply nursing the seeds of grief, 
 and ever, when we were alone, he spoke to me with 
 such a benignant smile of his beautiful sister and her 
 happy home, that I was comforted. He said that 
 Christians erred who invested death with gloom ; 
 that they were thus untrue to their faith, which was 
 able to disrobe it of terror, and to their Savior, who 
 had vanquished it for them. He said, would they 
 but lay, without repining, their friends in the grave, 
 and go thither peacefully themselves, as to a pillow 
 of repose, worldlings might thus be won to seek that 
 strength which the world is unable to give. He 
 wondered how we could ungratefully withhold from 
 Him, who for our sakes was contented to be cruci 
 fied, a suffrage which, more than all others, would 
 establish, in the opinions of men, the excellence of 
 His Gospel. And when he thus reasoned, in a low, 
 flute-like tone, and smiled on me as a seraph, who 
 had felt no stain of earth, I blessed God for the pi 
 ety which, in his soul, had so grown and flourished, 
 that mine, as a dwarf plant, gladly drank the dewy 
 superflux that was shaken from its branches. His 
 morning and nightly supplication was, that peace 
 might again dwell in our valley, and his father no 
 longer be a man of war. There came an interval of 
 P
 
 170 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 quietness, and then our happiness seemed too exquis 
 ite for earth. 
 
 " One evening I sat where we now sit, waiting the 
 return of my adored one from his accustomed walk. 
 I was finishing for him the same kind of stocking 
 which I am now knitting for Albert, and which you 
 just now beguiled from my hand, that I might spread 
 out to you this scroll of mourning and wo. I thought 
 with exultation of him for whose comfort my hands 
 were employed. His bright picture, expanded by 
 maternal love, seemed to enwrap and fold over my 
 whole soul. 
 
 " Suddenly, upon our grounds, was the report of 
 fire-arms. I hastened to the brow of the hillock. 
 There he lay, stretched at its base. His eyes were 
 fixed. The last convulsion had passed. Blood 
 poured from his mouth and breast, and covered the 
 book on which, but a moment before, he had medi 
 tated a silent student ; how soon to be made a se 
 raphic one ! I was spared the sight of the death-strug 
 gle ; but a horrible distortion of features marked this 
 violent rupture of flesh from spirit. 
 
 " The assassin had fled. The deed could never be 
 traced to its actor. I knew that the doings of war 
 were fiend-like, but had never imagined a crime like 
 this. 
 
 " Your father bore to this very bed the lifeless re 
 mains of what had been his trust and glory, perhaps 
 even more than God. A strife of phrensied anger 
 first shook him, and then that fearful anguish which
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 171 
 
 the strong man feels when his pride is extinguished 
 forever. Woman can scarcely fathom a grief like 
 that. The willow may bow, and become prostrate 
 as a wreck before the blast, yet be raised up again. 
 It may live for years with a pierced heart, and even 
 put forth green branches ; but what can it know of 
 the desolation of the scathed oak, lifting up naught 
 but a blackened beacon to the traveler, till it mould 
 ers into dust ? 
 
 " From the stupor that succeeded this paroxysm it 
 was impossible to arouse him. The powerful mind 
 which had ruled others, became incapable to rule it 
 self. Thenceforth, he walked as the dead among the 
 living. Reason dissolved fellowship with memory, 
 and thought with speech. He scarcely uttered a word 
 during the dreadful years that were appointed him, 
 save the name of his murdered first-born." 
 
 " Mother, I remember him well, and always with 
 fear, for my playmates told me he was a madman, and 
 that madmen devoured children. His large black 
 eyes often fastened strangely upon me, and I sought 
 to hide myself from him. But you bade me carry him 
 food, and gather flowers for him, and call him dear 
 father, and it seemed to soothe him. Sometimes I 
 hoped he would speak to me ; but then I heard him 
 repeating to himself, hoarsely and horribly, Ed 
 mund s blood yes, Ed?nund s Mood / and that low 
 tone, blood, blood ! haunted me both when I lay down 
 and when I rose up. I heard it in the sullen winds 
 that betoken storms, and when I stopped my ears it
 
 172 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 was louder still. But in his last sickness, when he 
 became weak as a child, and you used to lead him 
 out into the sunbeam, or under the sweet shade of the 
 flowering trees, the voice was tender and plaintive 
 with which he so often moaned, Edmund, dear Ed 
 mund / " 
 
 Tears gushed from the mother s eyes, as, embra 
 cing her daughter, she said, " It was this affliction that 
 humbled me. My other sorrows wounded and 
 shocked, without subduing my spirit. I strove to 
 bow to the All-wise, but I wondered why I, more than 
 others, should be thus bereaved. I believed myself 
 to be a Christian, yet I thought to nourish my sorrow, 
 like the anger of the prophet for his gourd, even unto 
 death. But the humiliation of the mind, in whose 
 strength I had garnered up my own, taught me true 
 submission. The tear with which I first acknowl 
 edged that it was good for me to have been afflicted, 
 marked an era in my soul s history never to be for 
 gotten. Years of reflection have since confirmed the 
 precept, that whatever God wills, we may be sure 
 is best for us ; we can not be sure of what we will for 
 ourselves. " 
 
 " Ah ! was it thus you gained that meek expres 
 sion of countenance which I so love ] and which, 
 more plainly than words, says, Thy will be done. 
 I have sometimes watched you in your slumbers, 
 and even then, those placid features are a com 
 ment on our Redeemer s petition, Not my will, but 
 Thine: "
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 173 
 
 " Malvina, where can your brother Albert be 1 
 He is not wont thus to linger at the village." 
 
 The time occupied in sad narration had, indeed, 
 fled unconsciously away. The rising moon, silvering 
 the tree-tops, gave silent witness of the midnight hour. 
 They waited still longer in anxiety, and then reluct 
 antly retired to rest. 
 
 But the mother slept not. She ruminated painfully 
 on her absent son. He was ardent in his tempera 
 ment. She feared that he might have been beguiled 
 by unstable companions ; and the prayer that only 
 widowed mothers breathe for an endangered child, 
 rose up, earnest and tremulous, that he might be 
 kept from temptation and delivered from evil. 
 
 Malvina, in her sleep, was beautiful. Her high, 
 polished forehead was partially veiled by curls of soft 
 brown hair, and under the slightly flushed cheek lay 
 a delicate hand, as in the helpless innocence of child 
 hood. As the maternal eye gazed on her with de 
 light, her repose became disturbed and broken. The 
 ruby lips quivered, and tears oozed forth from under 
 her long lashes. Such hold had grief on her spirit 
 even in dreams. 
 
 Morning had not far advanced when a female was 
 seen approaching. She was recognized as one of the 
 inhabitants of the village, whose time was principally 
 devoted to the transmission of news. More distin 
 guished for volubility than benevolence, it was ob 
 served that her activity in imparting the intelligence 
 which she collected, bore proportion to its bitter 
 P 2
 
 174 A LEGEND QF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 ingredients. On the present occasion her speed 
 was eminently accelerated. Her feet, if they made 
 not haste to do evil, were at least swift to con 
 vey it. To the question respecting the absent one, 
 the reply of Miss Polly Pierce was rapidly ren 
 dered. 
 
 " Your Albert ? Why, where should he be, but 
 with the sogers that marched out of Wilkesbarre 
 before the dawn of day to Forty Fort to fight the 
 British and Indians. Have you not heard how they 
 have come down from Niagara, more than a thousand 
 strong, and took Wintermoot Fort just as easy as 
 you d smash an egg-shell 1 I believe you never 
 would hear the leastest news in the world, if I did 
 not take the pains to find your queer out-of-the-way 
 place, and tell you." 
 
 Observing the mute expression of anguish with 
 which the mother clasped her hands and raised her 
 eyes to heaven, she exclaimed, 
 
 " Why, the land s sake ! Miss Dorrance, your chil 
 dren are no better flesh and blood than other folks, I 
 suppose. I am sure Albert, being sixteen, is fully 
 able-bodied enough to do military duty. You did 
 not live in our valley when Ogden s block-house was 
 besieged and taken. The firing, and all the doings 
 there, was as grand as any we read about in history 
 books ; and I dare say it will be grander to-day, 
 for at the head of the Wyoming people are Colo 
 nel Butler, and Colonel Denison, both as bold as 
 lions."
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 175 
 
 " Do you know any thing of the plan of the expe 
 dition ]" inquired the mother, faintly. 
 
 " Don t be so afeard, Miss Dorrance. I guess 
 Colonel Zebulon Butler knows what he is about. 
 There is no wiser nor better man than he. But the 
 expedition, as you call it, was got up something in a 
 hurry, I do expect. It was not worth while to wait to 
 mince matters, when Brandt, the fierce chief who tom 
 ahawks every body, had floated down the Susque- 
 hanna with a power of painted Indians. What way 
 was there but to go out and meet them, and kill them, 
 before they could get a chance to kill us 1 Why, I 
 am something of a soger myself. I remember as far 
 back as the old 63 war with the Yankees. I was 
 right glad when they were driven off, and their wom 
 en, so mighty delicate, who held their heads up so 
 much higher than the Pennsylvany people, had to 
 wade through swamps, and travel sixty miles throagh 
 an awful wilderness. I never liked them Connecti 
 cut settlers ; they felt so wonderful grand with their 
 laming, and made such a fuss about teaching the 
 children to read and write. But I beg pardon, I for 
 got that you belonged to that class of bodies your 
 self. 
 
 " Well, I hope your boy will get back again safe 
 and sound. Why, you are turning as white as a 
 sheet ! Now what s the use of making yourself sick, 
 Miss Dorrance 1 Here, Malvey ! Malvine ! what s 
 your name ] run for some water, and throw it in your 
 mother s face. I must get away, farther up into
 
 170 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 the woods, to Goody Follet s, whose husband and two 
 sons have gone to the battle, and who, I suppose, 
 knows no more about the news than you did, till I 
 took the pains to come and tell you." 
 
 Hereupon Miss Polly Pierce prepared to take her 
 departure ; yet, pausing on the threshold, added a 
 few words : 
 
 " You know to-morrow is the 4th of July, the sec 
 ond anniversary of what they call their Declaration 
 of Independence. I always thought it was a wicked 
 thing. I do not believe it will come to any good. 
 Who can say but the coming of these British and In 
 dians is a judgment upon that very account] I ap 
 prove of wars, to be sure, but then the fighting ought 
 to be between equals, and not against them that the 
 Lord has anointed and set over us. Brandt would 
 be a terrible scourge to us if they should get the vic 
 tory. He knows every cross-path and lurking-hole 
 in the land. He calls himself the son of Sir William 
 Johnson, notwithstanding he is an Indian. They sav 
 he has a great cave just on the edge of Canada line, 
 hung thick" round with scalps, all fresh and green, 
 that he peeled off with his own hands from the heads 
 of young men and women." 
 
 The lonely mother and daughter strove to comfort 
 each other, and to stay their minds upon God. It 
 was not appointed that they should long endure the 
 agony of suspense. That day, the massacre and con 
 flagration of Wyoming darkened the annals of our 
 land. The flight of the villagers from their burning
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 177 
 
 dwellings ; their temporary concealment in the mount 
 ains ; their toilsome way through pathless deserts and 
 morasses to the distant Delaware, are on the page of 
 history. Many sick and feeble ones perished. The 
 wilderness of their disastrous pilgrimage received, 
 and still retains, the appropriate appellation of the 
 " Shades of Death." The timid Malvina clung to 
 her mother, and alternately lending and receiving 
 support, they at length reached a refuge among pity 
 ing friends. 
 
 The tide of war continued to sweep with fierce 
 fluctuations through the Valley of Wyoming. In its 
 protracted struggles, it approximated to that state of 
 society where the " right of the strongest reigns, and 
 the idea of justice, if it comes at all, comes only to 
 be trodden under foot by passion." The Connecti 
 cut colonists evinced their national courage and te 
 nacity in defence of their homes, and what they 
 deemed their legal possessions. The Pennsylva- 
 nians were equally inflexible in what they considered 
 their antecedent rights. The Aborigines contended 
 for their favorite dominion with a lion-like despair. 
 Each party, alternately dispossessed or triumphant, 
 kept in exercise those energies to which war supplies 
 so abundant an aliment. Every spot of that rich vale 
 required and brought its full price in blood. While 
 Nature there lavished her sweetest charms, man 
 darkly contrasted them with his own demoniac pas 
 sions. 
 
 At length an interval of peace came, like soft blue 
 12
 
 178 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 through the rent thunder- cloud. The powerful army 
 of General Sullivan, deputed in 1779 to proceed to 
 that devoted spot, awed the Indians, and restored 
 a period of tranquillity. The fugitive colonists be 
 gan to return and rebuild the ruins of Wilkes- 
 barre. But other years elapsed ere the widowed 
 mother and daughter, with whose fortunes our tale 
 began, were induced to re-inhabit their long-desert 
 ed abode. 
 
 From its retired situation, it had eluded the eye of 
 the victors in the massacre, and thus escaped conflag 
 ration. It was not till the midsummer of 1782 that 
 its little casements were observed to be raised, and 
 the white curtains that formerly shaded them, again 
 fluttering in the breeze. 
 
 But within its walls there was a change. A lady, 
 on whom disease and sorrow seemed to have done 
 prematurely and pitiably the work of age, sat in the 
 arm-chair where of old she had reclined. Around 
 her mouth was that unvaried, perpetual smile of fa 
 tuity, which more than any frown of anger, harrows 
 the heart of love. She seldom raised her eyes, or 
 replied directly to any question. There she sat, 
 bowed over in partial unconsciousness, ever knit 
 ting, knitting. The invincible industry and the cause 
 less smile were alike sad to the beholder. 
 
 At her side, ministering to her every want, was a 
 gentle being, whose exceeding beauty, early taking 
 the cast of pensive thought, was rendered more touch 
 ing, more sublimated. She hoped, in the warmth of
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 170 
 
 her filial love, that the influence of long-remembered 
 scenes might open some of those cells where the 
 mind was bound as in a prison-house. But the un 
 complaining invalid, whom severe sickness had de 
 prived of energy, drew no prompting from the most 
 powerful associations. 
 
 " Dear mother, here are some of the flowers you 
 were so fond of cultivating. They are in the very 
 same spot where they were wont to grow. Please 
 to see how fragrant they are." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Edmund likes them. Save them for 
 Edmund." 
 
 " Will you lean on my arm and take a walk in our 
 little garden ] It is green and beautiful." 
 
 " I ll wait for Albert. He will come soon. Your 
 arm is not strong enough. You are but a baby, Mal- 
 vina." 
 
 There was still a lingering, though feeble hope, 
 that the conversation of friends might touch some 
 chord of the slumbering intellect. But the broken- 
 minded one, welcomed each visitor with the same 
 kind phrase, greeted them with the same unmeaning 
 smile, and at their departure begged them to wait a 
 little, till her two sons returned. 
 
 It was therefore with less of shuddering than could 
 have rationally been expected, that Malvina saw 
 Miss Polly Pierce enter their abode. Who knows, 
 thought she, but a rough hand may best prevail to 
 loose the seals of that gentle sufferer s soul ] 
 
 " Good morning good morning, neighbor Dor-
 
 180 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 ranee ; welcome to Wyoming again. How pleas 
 ant you look ! You love to see kind old friends, no 
 doubt. But how mighty thin and crooked you re 
 growin , and shrunk up short, like a little child." 
 
 " Have you seen my son Albert ]" 
 
 " Albert ! Your son ! The Lord bless you, my 
 good woman ! Why, nobody could be sure of his 
 corpse after the battle, it was so dreadfully hacked 
 and hewed. But one of our old neighbors picked 
 up a dead hand, and he said it was shaped so exact 
 ly like yours, Miss Dorrance, that he felt sure it must 
 have belonged to your child. And only think, it 
 was clutching a gun, notwithstanding it was cut off." 
 
 Malvina convulsively caught hold of the speaker, 
 as one who anticipates a painful operation some 
 times grasps the arm of the surgeon. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter with you, Malvina ? Be 
 like, they might have been mistaken in saying that 
 dead hand was Albert s. There was another story 
 about his being one of them who was killed at 
 Bloody Rock. The old squaw sachem had her son 
 shot by some of the white people, a year or two be 
 fore. So, after the battle, she was promised twenty 
 prisoners to pay the debt with, and she had her pick 
 and choice out of the finest-looking men of Wyo 
 ming. The savage creature took the youngest and 
 handsomest she could find, and put them to death 
 with the most awfullest tortures. She made all the 
 blood in their bodies run out upon Bloody Rock, and 
 its dark, iron-colored stains are plain to be seen
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 1,81 
 
 there now. But I never believed Albert was mur 
 dered there. Considering how spunky he was, I 
 don t think he outlived the battle. 
 
 " Well, it was hard for you to lose one that you 
 sot so much by, I dare say. But your loss is noth 
 ing to be compared to old Miss Whittlesey s. You 
 surely can t feel so bad as she. Her two sons were 
 full out as good-looking as Albert, and older too. 
 On the massaker-day, as they call it, the youngest 
 one, Will Whittlesey that was he with the great 
 blue eyes, and fair, curly hair seeing that the battle 
 was likely to go hard with us, threw himself into the 
 water, and swum like a duck to Monockenoch Isl 
 and. But close behind, pursuing him, was a white 
 man and an Indian, ready to kill him as soon as they 
 were able to seize him. When poor Will reached 
 the island, his breath was e enajust gone, and he had 
 scarce strength to hide among the bushes. The men 
 passed by again and again, searching for him. Then 
 he knew by the voice that the white man was his 
 brother Tom, who had joined the British, and his 
 heart beat freer, for he felt secure. He did not know 
 that a Tory brother was worse than an Indian foe. 
 So Tom found Will, and dragged him from his hid 
 ing-place. The poor young man, alarmed at his 
 threatening and fiery face, knelt down, and cried, Oh ! 
 brother, save me ! save me ! There is no brother 
 hood between us, said the proud Tory. Then poor 
 William reminded him how they had played togeth 
 er, and loved each other from their infant years ; and 
 
 Q,
 
 182 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 he promised to serve and obey him, and work for 
 him without wages, if he would only spare his life. 
 Seeing that his brother looked still furiously at him, 
 he clasped about his knees, and begged for his life 
 for their mother s sake. But just as he was crying 
 for our poor mother s sake, the cruel dragon shot 
 him through the breast, and his blood gushed out 
 over his brother s feet as he fell dead upon them. 
 A black boy, who had hidden in a thicket near by, 
 and was not discovered, told the story, and directed 
 poor Willy s friends where to find his body. There 
 it lay, with its gaping, deadly wound, while Cain, as 
 I call him, Cain Whittlesey, fled away, and made his 
 home with the British in Canada." 
 
 Perceiving how fast Malvina s tears flowed, the 
 narrator exclaimed, 
 
 * Now don t take on so. What I say is for your 
 good, that is, for your mother s benefit. I think it is fit 
 ting she be made to comprehend that her two sons are 
 dead, seeing she professes to be a Christian woman." 
 
 Then, advancing her chair, and raising her tone as 
 if to one hopelessly deaf, she vociferated, 
 
 " Good woman ! can t you remember about Te- 
 deuscund, the great six-foot Indian, that had his 
 throat cut and his wigwam burned by the Tuscaroras 
 in 58, because he favored the whites ]" 
 
 " Edmund remembers. 1 " 
 
 " Edmund don t ! for I take it he was not born ; 
 at any rate, you had not moved to Wyoming. Why, 
 young woman, your mother will get to be a perfect
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 183 
 
 heathen. She does not appear to know the living 
 from the dead. Who are you so busy a knitting 
 stockings for, ma am 1" 
 
 "For my two sons. Malvina must have a pair 
 when they are provided for. Poor baby ! she must 
 not be forgot when the boys are ready." 
 
 " If that don t beat all natur ! Knitting stockings 
 for men that are dead and gone, and can have no use 
 for them ! It is truly awful ! Look here, Miss Dor- 
 ranee ! can t you be made to understand that Albert 
 was cut as fine as mince-meat by the British, and 
 that Edmund was shot through the heart by nobody 
 knows who T 
 
 Malvina was sensibly relieved when the entrance 
 of other visitants put a stop to this harrowing narra 
 tion, though her mother had listened to it with that 
 fixed, inexpressive smile of the features in which the 
 soul has no part. Gradually and gently there was a 
 failing of strength, and a visible tending downward 
 to the tomb. 
 
 One night she was more than usually restless and 
 troubled. Toward the morning watch she called out 
 suddenly, though faintly, 
 
 "Daughter, daughter! my two sons have come for 
 me. Lay aside my work, and help me to get ready, 
 that I may go with them." 
 
 And then, as if death for a moment lifted up the 
 crushed organs of thought, and poured a flood of light 
 into all the curtained recesses where the mind had 
 languished, she exclaimed, in ecstasy,
 
 184 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 " Oh ! the depth of the riches, both of the wisdom 
 and goodness of God ! How unsearchable are his 
 judgments, and his ways past finding out ! One more 
 kiss, dear Malvina. Angels wait for me. The Sav 
 ior will be thy comforter, and thou shalt come to us. 
 Beloved, it is but a little while " 
 
 Her embrace relaxed, but the white lips still mur 
 mured, " Yet a little while, and thou shalt come " 
 
 A deep sigh wrought itself into the sound " be 
 loved." 
 
 It was the last, arid the clay rested in peace. 
 
 Dawn came on with a chill shudder, like the grief 
 that paralyzed the daughter s heart. Sole mourner 
 as she stood by the side of the dead, she was not able 
 at once to receive the full sense of her afflictions. 
 Almost, it would seem as if the young spirit had tak 
 en flight with the mother it had so long watched, so 
 pallid was the countenance, so immovable the eye. 
 But from the stupor of grief she was roused by the 
 pressure of duties that devolved upon her. 
 
 After the funeral obsequies, while the sympathy of 
 friends was earnest in proposing a change of resi 
 dence and proffering the requisite protection, it was 
 perceived that her plans were already formed. Dur 
 ing her exile from Wyoming she had become ac 
 quainted with the sect of Moravians, and their simple 
 and soothing spirit of piety had conciliated her confi 
 dence and regard. It had become her deliberate 
 decision to take refuge among them, when Heaven 
 should complete the bereavement for which it had
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 185 
 
 vouchsafed her so long a season of preparation. She 
 had visited their settlement of converted Indians at 
 Wyalusing, and witnessed the simple and solemn 
 worship in their chapel, and saw with delight how 
 the tenets of .Zinzendorff might soften and elevate 
 even the rude red men of the forest. 
 
 After disposing of the small estate left in her pos 
 session, she retired to Nazareth, a beautiful Moravian 
 village in Pennsylvania, and became a resident in the 
 house of the single sisters. The kiss of welcome 
 from that vestal train soothed her spirit to peace, as 
 the dove folded her ruffled pinions at the casement 
 of the ark, from a world of troubled waters. 
 
 The consistent, contemplative piety which breath 
 ed its serene atmosphere around, soothed her afflic 
 tion. Unencumbered by any vow of celibacy, which, 
 in the institutions of the United Brethren, is neither 
 proposed nor permitted to be taken, she found the 
 spot which she had chosen, most congenial to her 
 brotherless and sisterless heart. The culture of 
 flowers was a favorite solace, and those which her 
 mother had peculiarly loved she taught to blossom, 
 or to curtain her window with their fair leaves and 
 clasping tendrils. 
 
 The education of children gave early prominence 
 to the Moravian establishments of Bethlehem and 
 Nazareth. One, by its system of instruction for girls, 
 and the other for boys, acquired deserved celebrity. 
 From different and distant parts of these states, then 
 newly united after the War of Revolution, parents
 
 186 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 sent thither the young scions of their pride and hope. 
 They felt it wisdom to intrust their nurture to those 
 who made religion, "without controversy ," the root of 
 all their teachings ; appealed to it in sorrow as their 
 consolation ; derived from it the rudiments of a self- 
 denying benevolence ; mingled it, as a heightening 
 principle, with every joy ; and wore its semblance 
 on their brow in the smile that childhood loves. 
 
 Nazareth, by its seclusion from temptation and evil 
 example, revealed peculiar facilities for a nursery 
 of the young mind. It has been mentioned that it 
 was distinguished by its excellent school for boys. 
 The female children of the village, and a few others, 
 were also favored in being placed under the immedi 
 ate charge of the single sisters. In this employment 
 Malvina found delightful scope for her active virtues 
 and her ever-growing benevolence. To the lonely 
 and chastened spirit, no vocation is more salutary 
 than that of instructing the young. Association with 
 the unbowed and healthful heart, imparts elasticity to 
 that which has painfully realized either the world s 
 emptiness or its own infirmity. To feel the conscious 
 ness of doing good, to unfold the page of knowledge 
 to the enraptured mind, to gather those grateful af 
 fections whose root is in that rapture, are unspeakable 
 privileges. 
 
 Malvina, by the gracefulness of true goodness, 
 taught her pupils the happiness that it inspires. She 
 walked before them as a good angel, willing a while 
 to leave heaven s bright heritage for their sakes. The
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 187 
 
 precepts by which she allured them to piety were 
 the holy smile that she wore, and the trusting prayer 
 that she taught them to breathe, both in sorrow and 
 in joy. 
 
 Thus years passed over her, leaving her still beau 
 tiful. Time seemed to cast on her neither " spot nor 
 wrinkle, nor any such thing." His commission re 
 specting her was to modify, not to extinguish or to 
 take away ; for he has nothing to do with that beauty 
 which rests not on " a set of features or complexion," 
 but on the tincture of the soul. In the trials and 
 causes of irritation which sometimes befell her (for 
 what earthly lot excludes them ]), the subdued ex 
 pression of her calm countenance seemed to be, " I 
 am silent; I offer myself in sacrifice;" while the bright 
 ness ever beaming from her eye, replied, as if in re 
 buke, " No, not sacrifice, glad incense a hymn of 
 praise" Gathering around her the little group that 
 she so loved to guide, she sometimes said, 
 
 " My office reminds me of a dream that I once had 
 in my childhood. Methought I was feeding a white 
 lamb from a cup of milk. While it took the food, it 
 looked lovingly up to me as to its mother. Then a 
 voice, as of the harp, spake from the high clouds, 
 Bring the lamb unto me ; and I said, I will, Lord, 
 for I thought it was the voice of the Lamb that was 
 slain for us. 
 
 " I awoke, and gave that sweet dream to Memory, 
 that she might keep it among her honey blossoms. 
 Now, when she brings it freshly back, it seems that
 
 188 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 you, my docile and loving flock, are like that white 
 lamb. Then I pour out for you the pure milk of 
 the Word, and the spirit of my vision forms itself 
 into a prayer ; and to the charge of my Savior, Bring 
 them every one to me, I answer, perhaps too fond 
 ly, 7 will, Lord. Help me, blessed ones, that my 
 promise be not in vain." 
 
 It was once, near the close of a long and cloudless 
 summer Sabbath, that the sun, drawing toward his 
 rest, cast upon the peaceful roofs and quiet shades of 
 Nazareth a flood of unwonted brilliance. A train 
 was seen slowly pursuing a path over the brow of a 
 verdant hill in the center of the village. Passing 
 without a glance the beautiful public garden, with 
 its deep recesses and glowing plants, and arbors, and 
 fountains, they approached the cemetery, whose gate 
 was near that of this ornamented domain, as if to 
 teach the reflecting mind that the exit and entrance of 
 life are scarcely divided, and that man every where, 
 as well as in ancient Judea, may find in his " garden 
 a sepulcher." 
 
 They paused at the gate of the City of the Dead. 
 Music from wind-instruments, mingling with deep- 
 toned voices, swelled out on the soft breeze touch 
 ing the fountain of tender tears. At first it was 
 plaintive, as if bidding farewell to beloved scenes in 
 the name of the sleeper upon the bier. Then, thrill 
 ing more wildly, it seemed to implore of the genius 
 of that hallowed spot room for a new habitant, a nar 
 row chamber where he mi^ht be troubled no more.
 
 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 189 
 
 They entered the place of tombs. Neither weed, 
 nor bramble, nor shadow of gloom defaced it. Over 
 every grave flowers and aromatic shrubs clustered, 
 and were so thickly interwoven, that the horizontal 
 stone, bearing the name of the tenant below, was 
 partially hidden from view. 
 
 At an open grave the procession stayed. The sol 
 emn service in the deep German intonations, from the 
 lips of the venerable pastor, drew deeper power from 
 the surrounding scenery. But when the expectant 
 tomb was about to take its treasure, there was such 
 a burst of melody, of Him who "conquered death, 
 and brought life and immortality to light through the 
 Gospel," that the consignment of earth to earth was 
 not in tears, but in joyous hope. 
 
 Surely Music should consecrate the tomb when it 
 takes the Christian to its bosom. She hath a right to 
 stand wherever Faith plants an anchor. She an 
 nounced to the shepherds the coming of Him who is 
 our salvation ; let her lift up her voice when the soul 
 returneth to His arms. It is fitting that the shroud 
 ed form, which at the last day shall come forth in 
 glory, should go to its turf-pillow with a sacred song. 
 What right have despair and weeping to watch over 
 the body, while the spirit, rejoicing in its " exceed 
 ing great reward," tastes a bliss beyond earth s im 
 agining ] 
 
 The requiem ceased. Little children robed in 
 white pressed to the very verge of the grave. They 
 looked steadily into it, with calm, untroubled faces.
 
 190 A LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 It would seem that even they had learned how death 
 might be deprived of fear. 
 
 A group of beautiful girls stood near. They were 
 of that age when the blossom bursts the green envel 
 op of childhood, taking the first perfect rose-tint of 
 youth. Their heads declined toward each other, like 
 the bells of the lily of the vale, drooping and sur 
 charged with rain. They were long silent. Then 
 a low, tuneful tone breathed out, 
 
 " We will not sorrow as without hope. She was 
 an angel in our path. Will she not still be our 
 guardian spirit, watchful, though unseen?" Other 
 voices, tremulous and sweet, replied, 
 
 " It would best please her not to be remembered 
 by tears, but by the life of goodness she taught us." 
 
 Of whom did they speak? Of Malvina, the be 
 loved and sainted one, who, by the meekly-endured 
 sorrows of earth, had been fitted for an abode in 
 heaven.
 
 THE 
 
 LADY OF MOUNT VERNON.
 
 ~1 
 
 I would not have my land like Rome, 
 
 So lofty, and so coid, 
 Be hers a lowlier majesty, 
 In yet a nobler mould." 
 
 GREN*VILLE MELLEX.
 
 THE LADY OF MOUNT VERNON. 
 
 THE state of society in Virginia, a century since, 
 was unique and imposing. The " Ancient Domin 
 ion" retained stronger features of resemblance to 
 the father-land than any of its sisters. The man 
 ners of the nobility of England had been transplant 
 ed, with little external change, to the territory of 
 Powhatan. A kind of feudal magnificence, a high 
 and quick sense of honor, a generous and lordly hos 
 pitality, early characterized a State which has given 
 to this western empire so many of its mightiest and 
 noblest names. 
 
 Traces of these lineaments still exist in that sun 
 ny clime. Yet our severance from the parent coun 
 try, while it marred her likeness among all the colo 
 nies, obscured it less palpably in the countenance of 
 her eldest-born. One of the first innovations was 
 the breaking down of that courtly and almost solemn 
 etiquette, which had marked the intercourse of the 
 higher classes. " I know your age by the edition of 
 your manners," said a lady of discernment to a gen 
 tleman distinguished for politeness. " I am certain 
 that you were educated before the Revolution." 
 But the republicanism, which may have swept with 
 too full a tide over our national manners, had, at the 
 13 R
 
 104 T H E L A D Y O K M O U N T V E R N O N. 
 
 period of which \ve speak, no existence in Virginia. 
 The levees of her royal governors, though stripped 
 of monarchical pomp, displayed a remnant of those 
 " stately steppings of chivalry" with which the titled 
 and the valiant of a former age were accustomed, in 
 European courts, to pay homage to rank and beauty. 
 In the winter of 1748, the levees of Governor 
 Gooch opened with unwonted splendor at Williams- 
 burg. Many of the members of the Assembly took 
 with them the elite of their families, and this session 
 was graced by the presence of several young and 
 high-born maidens, who had never before been pre 
 sented at court. One among them was evidently the 
 theme of general admiration. Some of the statelier 
 matrons criticised her as deficient in height. But, 
 though somewhat beneath the middle stature, she 
 possessed that rounded and exquisite symmetry 
 which the early historians have ascribed to the fas 
 cinating Ann Boleyn, while her pure complexion and 
 clear eye were finely contrasted with dark, glossy, 
 and redundant hair. Still it was found difficult, by 
 common observers, to analyze her beauty ; for it rest 
 ed not on any predominant gift, but on the consent 
 of the whole person in loveliness. Grace of move 
 ment and melody of voice were among its more ap 
 parent elements. The slight rose-leaf tinge upon 
 her cheek was heightened when she spoke, or, if the 
 subject imbodied feeling, deepened to a flush of car 
 mine, disappearing as rapidly as it came. But what 
 chiefly won old and young, was a bland cheerfulness,
 
 THE L A U Y OF MOUNT V E 11 N O V. 195 
 
 the silent history of the soul s happiness, and an ex 
 pressive smile, inspiring every beholder with confi 
 dence, like a beam from the temple of Truth. Though 
 she had scarcely numbered twice eight summers, 
 there was about her a womanly dignity which chas 
 tened the most forward admiration into respect. 
 
 Among those who paid their devoirs to this lovely 
 young creature was Colonel Custis, one of the most 
 accomplished cavaliers of his time. His tall and 
 elegant form was adapted to athletic exercises, to 
 the control of the spirited charger, or the show of 
 military evolution. Still he appeared to uncommon 
 advantage in the minuet, which was then executed 
 among the higher circles in the " Ancient Domin 
 ion" with all the precision and grace by which it 
 was characterized at the court of Louis Fourteenth. 
 Yet it was observed that this favorite dance, when 
 shared with the lady whom he admired, was far less 
 prized than the conversations that followed ; when, 
 with eyes intensely fixed, as if to read the soul, he 
 recorded each fragment of a word, or the slightest 
 suffusion of countenance in his heart of hearts. 
 
 The Honorable John Custis, of Arlington, held at 
 that period the office of king s counselor, and was 
 a man of wealth and distinction. His attendance at 
 Williamsburg during the present session had been 
 somewhat interrupted by ill health ; and, while there, 
 the grave and absorbing duties of the statesman had 
 left him ignorant what reigning beauties had pro 
 duced sensation at court. Not long after the sus-
 
 196 THE LADY OF MOUNT V E R \ O X. 
 
 pension of the levees, and the return of the burgess 
 es to their homes, the counselor requested an inter 
 view in his private cabinet with his son, Colonel 
 Daniel Park Custis. There was a singular mixture 
 of gravity and condescension in his manner as he de 
 sired him to be seated, and thus opened the discourse. 
 
 " I have for some time wished to see you on an 
 interesting subject. Though still young, I consider 
 you to have arrived at years of discretion." The 
 colonel bowed. 
 
 " You know Colonel Byrd, of Westover, to be my 
 very particular friend. His daughter is one of the 
 most beautiful and accomplished ladies in Virginia. 
 It is my desire that you form with her a matrimonial 
 alliance." 
 
 " My dear sir, I have not the vanity of supposing 
 that I could render myself acceptable to Miss Byrd." 
 
 " No objection on that head. Her father and my 
 self have settled it. Indeed, I may as well tell you 
 that we have had numberless conversations on this 
 business, and that you have both been as good as 
 betrothed from the cradle. Think, my son, of the 
 advantages of such a connection, the contiguity of 
 estates, the amount of wealth and power that will 
 thus ultimately pass into your hands." 
 
 " Affection, sir, seems to me the only bond that 
 can hallow so intimate a union. Not even my rev 
 erence for the best of fathers, could induce me to 
 enter it from mercenary motives." 
 
 ! Mercenary, sir ! mercenary ! Who ever before
 
 THE LADY OF MOUNT V E R X O X. 1 97 
 
 dared to couple that word with my name?" And 
 the counselor raised himself to his full height, and 
 fixed a kindling eye upon his son. Then, pacing the 
 apartment a few turns, he resumed his theme. " You 
 speak of the affection that should precede marriage. 
 Have the goodness to understand that the misplacing 
 of yours may materially affect your patrimonial in 
 heritance." He waited for a reply, but in vain. 
 " May I inquire if you have thought fit thus early 
 to decide seriously on the preference of any young 
 lady as a companion for life V 
 
 " I have, sir." 
 
 " May I be favored with a knowledge of her 
 name ]" 
 
 "Miss Martha Dandridge." 
 
 The high-spirited gentlemen parted in mutual re 
 sentment. But the reflection of a night restored 
 both to better feelings. The father began to excuse 
 the son by recalling the warmth of his own early at 
 tachment ; while the son referred the testiness of the 
 father to the sudden disappointment of a long-cher 
 ished plan, and the querulousness of feeble health. 
 Still, as it usually happens with proud men, neither 
 would make the first advance to open his heart to 
 the other ; and a slight, though clearly perceptible 
 shade of coldness gathered over their intercourse. 
 So this interview served as a stimulant to the prog 
 ress of matrimony. The temporary reserve of the 
 father, throwing something like gloom over the pa 
 ternal mansion, heightened the frequency and fervor 
 R2
 
 198 THE LADY OK MOUNT V E R \ O X. 
 
 of the visits of the lover. The gentle object of his 
 preference imagined no barrier to an alliance where 
 no obvious inequality was supposed to exist; and he 
 forbore to communicate what would only occasion 
 perplexity, and what, he trusted, would soon vanish 
 like the " baseless fabric of a vision." According 
 to his happy prescience, the dignified counselor 
 gave his consent to the nuptials, and the flower of 
 the court of Williamsburg became a bride in the 
 blush of her seventeenth summer. 
 
 The residence of the new pair was a retired and ro 
 mantic mansion on the banks cf the Pamumkey. It 
 reared its snowy walls amid a profusion of vines and 
 flowering trees. Broad plantations, and the wealth of 
 Virginian forests, variegated the scenery. Rural oc 
 cupations, and the delight of each other s society, 
 spread for them what they deemed a paradise. In 
 visits to their favored dwelling, the counselor learned 
 to appreciate the treasure of his new daughter. Her 
 excellence, in the responsible sphere to which she 
 was introduced, won his regard ; and, with the in 
 genuousness of an honorable mind, when convinced 
 of error, he sought every opportunity of distinguish 
 ing that merit to which he had once done injustice. 
 When he saw the grace and courtesy with which 
 she maintained a generous hospitality ; the judg 
 ment, far beyond her years, displayed in the man 
 agement of her servants ; the energy, the early ris 
 ing, the cheerful alacrity that regulated and beau 
 tified the internal mechanism of her family; the
 
 THE LADY OF MOUNT V E R N O N. 1 09 
 
 disinterestedness with which she forgot herself and 
 sought the good of others ; but, above all, her un 
 tiring devotion to her husband, and to the little ones 
 who sprang up around her, he gloried in the senti 
 ment of his son, that strong personal affection should 
 form the basis of matrimonial happiness. 
 
 But this scene of exquisite felicity was not long to 
 last. The death of the two oldest children prepared 
 the way for the deeper loss of the adored husband 
 and father. Yet in the trying situation of a young, 
 beautiful, and wealthy widow, she continued to evince 
 unvarying discretion, and faithfully to discharge ev 
 ery important duty. 
 
 It was in the spring of 1758 that two gentlemen, 
 on horseback, attended by a servant, wound their 
 way slowly through the luxuriant scenery that di 
 versifies the county of New Kent. The conspicu 
 ous personage of the group was tall, graceful, and 
 commanding, in a rich military undress, and appa 
 rently about twenty-five years of age. He would 
 have been a model for the sculptor when Rome was 
 in her best days. His companion was an elderly 
 man in a plain garb, who, by the familiarity with 
 which he pointed out surrounding objects, would 
 seem to be taking his daily round upon his own 
 estate. As they approached the avenue to an an 
 tique mansion, he placed his hand upon the rein of 
 his companion : 
 
 " Nay, Colonel Washington, let it never be said 
 that you passed the house of your father s friend
 
 200 THE LADY OF MOUNT VERXOX. 
 
 without dismounting. I must insist on the honor of 
 detaining you as my guest." 
 
 " Thanks to you, my dear sir; but I ride in haste, 
 the bearer of dispatches to our governor in Will- 
 iamsburg, which may not brook delay." 
 
 " Is this the noble steed which was given you by 
 the dying Braddock on the fatal field of Mononga- 
 hela 1 and this the servant he bequeathed you at the 
 same time?" 
 
 Washington answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " Then, my dear colonel, thus mounted and at 
 tended, you may well dine with me, arid by borrow 
 ing somewhat of this fine moonlight, reach Williams- 
 burg ere his excellency shall have shaken off* his 
 morning slumbers." 
 
 " Do I understand that I may be excused imme,- 
 diately after dinner ]" 
 
 " Immediately, with all the promptness of military 
 discipline." 
 
 " Then, sir, I accept your hospitality," and grace 
 fully throwing himself from his spirited charger, he 
 resigned him to his English servant, giving, at the 
 same time, strict orders for the hour of departure on 
 their urgent journey. 
 
 " I am rejoiced, Colonel Washington," said the 
 hospitable old gentleman, " thus fortunately to have 
 met you on my morning ride ; and the more so, as I 
 have some guests who may make the repast pass 
 pleasantly, and will not fail to appreciate a young 
 and gallant soldier."
 
 THE LADY OF M O U N T V E R N O N. 201 
 
 Washington bowed his tlianks, and was introduced 
 to the company. Virginia s far-famed hospitality was 
 well set forth in that spacious baronial hall. The 
 social feast was closed precisely at the time the host 
 had predicted. The servant also was punctual. He 
 knew the habits of his master. At the appointed 
 moment he stood with the horses caparisoned at the 
 gate. Yet long did the proud steed champ his bit, 
 and curve his arching neck, and paw the broken turf. 
 And much did the menial marvel, as, listening to 
 every footstep that paced down the avenue, he saw 
 the sun sink in the west, and yet no master appear. 
 When was he ever before known to fail in punctu 
 ality 1 The evening air breathed cool and damp, 
 and soothed the impatience of the chafing courser. 
 At length orders came that the horses should be put 
 up for the night. Wonder upon wonder ! when his 
 business with the governor was so urgent ! The sun 
 rode high in the heavens the next day ere Washing 
 ton mounted for his journey. No explanation was 
 given. But it was rumored that among the guests 
 was a beautiful and youthful widow, to whose charms 
 the hero had responded. This was farther confirm 
 ed by his tarrying but a brief space at Williamsburg, 
 and retracing his route with unusual celerity, and 
 becoming a frequent visitor at the house of the late 
 Colonel Custis in that vicinity, where, the following 
 year, his nuptials were celebrated. "And rare and 
 high," says G. W. P. Custis, Esq., the descendant 
 and biographer of the lady, " rare and high was the
 
 202 THE LADY OF MOUNT V E R X O \. 
 
 revelry at that palmy period of Virginia s festal age ; 
 for many were gathered to that marriage of the good, 
 the great, the gifted, and the gay; while Virginia, 
 with joyful acclamations, hailed in the prosperous 
 and happy bridegroom her favorite chief." 
 
 Henceforth the life of the Lady of Mount Yernon 
 is a part of the history of her country. In that hal 
 lowed retreat she was found entering into the plans 
 of Washington, sharing his confidence, and making 
 his household happy. There her only daughter, 
 Martha Custis, died in the bloom of youth ; and a 
 few years After, when the troubles of the country 
 drew her husband to the post of commandcr-in-chief 
 of her armies, she accompanied him to Boston, and 
 witnessed its siege and evacuation. For eight years 
 he returned no more to enjoy his beloved residence 
 on the banks of the Potomac. During his absence 
 she made the most strenuous efforts to sustain her 
 added responsibilities, and to endure, with change 
 less trust in Heaven, continual anxiety for the safety 
 of her husband and the fate of the country. At the 
 close of each campaign she impaired, in compliance 
 with his wishes, to headquarters, where the ladies of 
 the general officers joined her in forming such a so 
 ciety as diffused a cheering influence over even the 
 gloom of such winters as those at Valley Forge and 
 Morristown. The opening of every campaign was 
 the signal of the return of Lady Washington (as she 
 was called in the army) to her domestic cares at 
 Mount Vernon. " I heard," said she, " the first and
 
 THE LADY OP MOUNT V E R N O N. 203 
 
 the last cannon of the Revolutionary war." The re 
 joicings which attended the surrender of Cornwallis 
 in the autumn of 1781 marked for her a season of 
 the deepest private sorrow. Her only remaining 
 child, Colonel John Custis, the aid-de-camp of 
 Washington, became, during his arduous duties at 
 the siege of Yorktown, the victim of an epidemic 
 fever, and died at the age of twenty-seven. He 
 was but a boy of five years at the time of her second 
 marriage, and had drawn forth strongly the affection 
 and regard of her illustrious husband, who shared her 
 affliction for his loss, and by the tenderest sympathy 
 sought its alleviation. 
 
 After the close of the war a few years were de 
 voted to the enjoyment and embellishment of their 
 beloved Mount Vernon. Returning peace and pros 
 perity to the land of their birth gave pure and bright 
 ingredients to their cup of happiness. Their man 
 sion was thronged with guests of distinction, all of 
 whom remarked with admiration the energy of the 
 Lady of Mount Vernon in the complicated duties of 
 a Virginian housekeeper, and the elegance and grace 
 with which she presided at her noble board. 
 
 The voice of a free nation, conferring on General 
 Washington the highest honor in its power to be 
 stow, was not obeyed without a sacrifice of feeling. 
 It was in the spring of 1789 that, with his lady, he 
 bade adiou to his tranquil abode, to assume the cares 
 of the first presidency. In his domestic establish 
 ment, as in his political course, he mingled the simpli-
 
 201 THE LADY OF MOUNT V E R X O V. 
 
 city of a Republic with that true dignity which he felt 
 necessary to secure the respect of older governments. 
 The furniture of his house, the livery of his servants, 
 the entertainment of his guests, displayed elegance, 
 while they rejected ostentation. In all these arrange 
 ments his beloved consort was a second self. Her 
 Friday evening levees, at which he was always pres 
 ent, exhibited that perfect etiquette which should 
 mark the intercourse of the dignified and high-bred. 
 Commencing at seven, and closing at ten, they lent 
 no more sanction to late hours than to levity. The 
 first lady of the nation still preserved the habits of 
 early life. Indulging in no indolence, she left her 
 pillow at dawn, and after breakfast retired to her 
 chamber an hour for the study of the Scriptures arid 
 devotion. This practice, it is said, during the period 
 of half a century, she never omitted. The duties of 
 the Sabbath were dear to her. The president and 
 herself attended public worship with regularity, and 
 in the evening he read to her in her chamber the 
 Scriptures and a sermon. 
 
 The spring of 1797 opened for them with the most 
 pleasing anticipations. The burdens of high office 
 were resigned, and they were about to retire for the 
 remainder of their days to the delightful shades of 
 Mount Vernon. The new turf, springing into green 
 ness wherever they trod, the vernal blossoms unfold 
 ing to greet them, the warbled welcome of the birds 
 were never more dear, as they returned to their ru 
 ral retreat, hallowed by the recollections of earlier
 
 THE LADY OF MOUNT V E R N O N. 205 
 
 years, and of duties well performed, Alas ! in two 
 years Washington was no more. The shock of his 
 death, after an illness of only twenty-four hours, fell 
 like a thunderbolt upon the beloved and bereaved 
 woman. That piety which had so long been her 
 strength, continued its support, but her heart droop 
 ed. Cheerfulness did not utterly forsake her, yet 
 she discharged the habitual round of duties as one 
 who felt that the " glory had departed." 
 
 How beautiful and characteristic was her reply 
 to the solicitations of the highest authority of the 
 nation, that the remains of her illustrious husband 
 might be removed to the seat of government, and a 
 monument erected to mark the spot of their repose. 
 
 " Taught by the great example which I have had 
 so long before me, never to oppose my private wish 
 es to the will of my country, I consent to the request 
 made by Congress ; and, in doing this, I need not, I 
 can not say what a sacrifice of individual feeling I 
 make to a sense of public duty." 
 
 The intention of the Congress of 1799 has not 
 been executed, nor the proposed monument erected. 
 The enthusiasm of the time passed away, and the 
 many and conflicting cares of a great nation turned 
 its thoughts from thus perpetuating his memory, 
 whose image, it trusted, would be embalmed by an 
 imperishable gratitude. 
 
 Scarcely were two years of her lonely widowhood 
 accomplished ere the Lady of Mount Vernon felt 
 the approach of death. Gathering her family around 
 S
 
 206 THE LADY OF MOUNT V E R X O X. 
 
 her, she impressed on them the value of that religion 
 which from youth she had trusted, and loved onward 
 to hoary hairs ; then calmly resigning her soul into 
 the hands of Him who gave it, full of years and full 
 of honors, she was laid in the tomb of Washington. 
 
 In this outline of the lineaments of the Lady of 
 Mount Vcrnon, we perceive that it was neither the 
 beauty with which she was endowed, nor the high 
 station which she attained, that gave enduring lustre 
 to her character, but her Clmstian fidelity in those 
 duties which devolve upon her sex. These fitted 
 her to irradiate the home, to lighten the cares, to 
 cheer the anxieties, to sublimate the enjoyments of 
 him who, in the expressive language of Chief-justice 
 Marshall, was " so favored of Heaven as to depart 
 without exhibiting the weakness of humanity." 
 
 Though this slight sketch can boast no element of 
 
 O O 
 
 attraction for the lover of romance, yet the symmetry 
 of her character whom it aims to portray, and her 
 identification with him whom all delight to honor, 
 should claim a place in the lasting remembrance and 
 love of the American people.
 
 A TALE OF POLAND.
 
 Oli ! moments to others, but ages to me, 
 I have sate with the brow of the dead on my knee ; 
 In the purple of eve, at the flashing of morn, 
 I have bent o er the cherish d, that left me forlorn, 
 And I gazed on the dimness that froze in the eye, 
 So bright in its burning, its glances so high, 
 And I watch d the Consumer, as ever he crept, 
 And feasted where beauty and glory had slept." 
 
 RANSOM.
 
 A TALE OF POLAND, 
 
 AMONG the pleasant abodes which, during the hap 
 pier days of Poland, diversified the suburbs of War 
 saw, was one which always attracted the attention of 
 the traveler. It was less distinguished by splendor 
 than by that combination of elegance with simplicity 
 not common in a country where the palace and the 
 hut, standing side by side, contrasted the extremes 
 of opulence and poverty. Situated on a gentle em 
 inence, overshadowed by trees, and imbosomed in 
 shrubbery, it seemed modestly seeking to hide its 
 own elevation. A dark forest in the background 
 strongly defined the outline of its white turrets, while 
 the sighing sound of the wind through the branches 
 mingled with the murmurs of the neighboring Vistula 
 like melancholy music. 
 
 This sweetly rural retreat was the residence of 
 John Radzivil, a descendant from the ancient nobili 
 ty of Poland. Nurtured in the loftiness of liberty, 
 there was ever upon his brow a painful conscious 
 ness of the subjugation of his country. Burying him 
 self in retirement, he turned his attention to such 
 pursuits as might not rouse the jealousy of despotism, 
 though the temper of his mind was rather to court 
 14 S 2
 
 210 A T A L E O F P O L A N D. 
 
 the storm than to cower beneath it. The dismem 
 berment of his native realm, her loss of a seat among 
 the nations, and the oppressive dynasty of Russia, 
 darkened his meditations and imbittered his solitude. 
 But in his own home was a spirit of peace, sug 
 gesting endurance, or striving to awaken hope. Ulri 
 ca, the gentle and beautiful one, with whom a union 
 of ten years had left his love unimpaired, employed 
 the whole force of her influence to win him from 
 melancholy themes. Deep acquaintance with his 
 toric lore, and warm native sympathies, led her feel 
 ingly to deplore the immolation of her country ; but 
 the spirit of piety which had taken possession of her 
 soul taught her to deprecate every vengeful and hos 
 tile purpose, and to view the voluntary shedding of 
 blood, not only as an evil to be dreaded, but as a 
 sin to be shunned. Capable of appreciating the 
 higher and bolder energies, her happiness was im- 
 bosomed in domestic duties and affections, and she 
 
 i sought to inspire all her household with that love 
 of peace which preserves the fountains of bliss un- 
 
 j troubled. It was her delight to lull her infant with 
 such low, quiet music, that sleep would hang long 
 suspended upon the half-closed lids, itself a listener. 
 Even the little trusting sparrow, that in pursuit of 
 
 i qrumbs had ventured to pass the threshold, would 
 
 I seem to linger at the sound of those exquisite melo 
 dies, standing long upon one foot, and turning its 
 head rapidly from side to side, as if longing to bear 
 to the children of its own nest those soothinsr and
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 211 
 
 tuneful strains. She loved to instruct her daughter 
 in those accomplishments that render home delight 
 ful, and by the influence of a sweet, subduing smile 
 to recall her if her young spirit wandered or was 
 weary. But most of all, she loved to cheer his des 
 pondence whose heart reposed its confidence on hers ; 
 and when it encountered those thorns and brambles 
 with which the curse of Adam hath sown the earth, 
 to restore in its own sanctuary some image of cloud 
 less Eden. Yet their bower of bliss was not free 
 from the intrusion of care. Ulrica felt deep anxiety 
 for her little son, in whom she could not but perceive 
 the incipient tastes of a warrior. The piercing eye 
 and raven locks, which he inherited from his father, 
 gave to the exceeding beauty of his childhood a lofty 
 expression, which no beholder could witness without 
 repeating the gaze of admiration. His mother, dis 
 cerning the structure of his mind in infancy, labored 
 continually to stamp upon its waxen tablet the im 
 press of peace. Even then the ground seemed pre 
 occupied. Every leaf of olive that she cherished 
 was plucked as if by an invisible hand. Often, when 
 she flattered herself that the warbled melody of some 
 sacred lay had reached and won his soul, he would 
 suddenly raise his head from her bosom, and say, 
 
 " Sing me the battle song of Sobieski, when he 
 rushed upon the Turk ; it is far finer music." 
 
 Sometimes, when she narrated from the Blessed 
 Volume the lives of the men of peace, of the apos 
 tles, who went forth bearing the precious Gospel, and
 
 212 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 of heaven s hymn, sung by angels to the watching 
 shepherds when the Redeemer of sinners was born, 
 he would exclaim, 
 
 " Tell me now of him who slew the Egyptian when 
 he saw him mocking his people, and of the stripling 
 who beheaded the giant, and of that glorious warri 
 or who bade the sun and the moon to stand still in 
 their courses, that he might have light, and a long 
 day to destroy his enemies." 
 
 The oppressive government of the Grand -duke 
 Constantino became every day more intolerable. It 
 assumed the worst forms of wanton cruelty. Sur 
 rounded by his Russian minions, he took delight in 
 humbling the nobility of Poland, subjecting them to 
 causeless penalties and offensive vassalage. In ad 
 dition to these brutal abuses of power, a system of 
 espionage was established in Warsaw, so strict that 
 home was no sanctuary. It extended even to the 
 schools. He was not ashamed to employ emissaries 
 and reporters among infants. He desired to crush 
 in the bud every indication of the love of liberty. 
 Even the enthusiasm that lingered around the fallen 
 glory of Poland was visited as a crime ; and trem 
 bling History hid her annal from the eye of Despot 
 ism. 
 
 A boy had inscribed on his seat in school the date 
 of some event distinguished in the recoixl of his coun 
 try. This circumstance was deemed of sufficient im 
 portance to be transmitted to Constantino, who sen 
 tenced him to be torn from his parents and placed
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 213 
 
 for life in the lowest ranks of the army, yet held in 
 capable of advancement. The unhappy mother sought 
 long and vainly for an audience. Once, when leav 
 ing his palace for an excursion of pleasure, she threw 
 herself at his feet, imploring, in the most piercing 
 accents, mitigation of the doom of her miserable child. 
 Provoked at her perseverance, he spurned her with 
 his foot, and deigning no reply, ascended his car 
 riage. It is not surprising that such arbitrary deeds 
 should affect with peculiar sympathy the mother of 
 young Radzivil. She knew the unconquerable bold 
 ness of the boy, and her nights were sleepless with 
 dread lest he, too, should be marked as a victim for 
 the tyrant. She communicated her fears to her hus 
 band. 
 
 "Ulrica," he replied, gravely, "the current of the 
 boy s soul is deep beyond his years. The soaring 
 eaglet may not be restrained by the plaintive mur 
 mur of the dove." 
 
 But Ulrica daily counseled her son. She strove. to 
 press into his soul the precepts of that religion which 
 forbids retaliation. She selected from history the ex 
 amples of those princes and statesmen whose pacific 
 policy promoted the prosperity of their realm, and 
 the happiness of their people. She simplified for 
 him the most exquisite passages of those ancient 
 philosophers, who extol the excellence of patient vir 
 tue and serene contemplation. She exerted all of 
 woman s eloquence, and of a mother s love, to make 
 his young soul a listener and a convert.
 
 214 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 
 " Mother, when I was at Cracow with my father, I 
 visited in the Cathedral the tombs of our ancient he 
 roes. I found where Sobieski lies. I stood long 
 at the tomb of Kosciusko. The light faded, and 
 darkness began to settle upon the lofty and solemn 
 arches while I stood there. Methought a voice came 
 forth from these ashes and talked with me of his glory, 
 of his sufferings, and of the Russian prisons where 
 he so long pined. And then it seemed as if he him 
 self stood before me, that brave old man, covered 
 with scars, and with the tears of Poland ; and ere I 
 was aware, I said, I will love Kosciusko, and hate 
 Russia forever." 
 
 Ulrica gazed silently upon the boy. She had nev 
 er seen any thing so beautiful as that lofty and pure 
 brow, inspired with emotions defying utterance. His 
 full eye cast forth a flood of living lustre, and his 
 graceful form rose higher as he ceased to speak. Not 
 Hannibal, when, in the presence of Hamilcar, he 
 uttered the vow of eternal hatred to Rome, could 
 have evinced more strongly how the soul may lift up 
 the features of childhood into a commanding and ter 
 rible beauty. The mother wondered at the strange 
 awe that stole over her. She almost trembled to en 
 ter the sanctuary of that mind, lest she might dis 
 place imagery that Heaven had consecrated, or lay 
 her hand unwittingly upon the very ark of God. 
 For a moment she thought, what if this being, so 
 mighty even in his simple elements, should be the 
 decreed deliverer of his oppressed country !
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 215 
 
 It was but a moment that this enthusiasm prevail 
 ed. The boy saw the tears glittering in her eye, 
 and hastened to throw himself upon her neck. 
 
 " Mother, I will no longer sing the songs of So- 
 bieski, nor speak to my companions of Pulaski or 
 Kosciusko, since it gives you pain. But when I see 
 the proud Russian soldiers parading in the squares 
 at Warsaw, and Constantino lording it over our peo 
 ple, can I help my heart from rising up, and the 
 blood from feeling hot in my forehead ]" 
 
 The features of the Russian dynasty continued to 
 gather harshness and asperity. The grand-duke be 
 came daily more odious to the people he ruled. Con 
 scious of unpopularity, and partaking of that distrust 
 which ever haunts tyranny, he retired from the royal 
 palace to one in the vicinity of Warsaw, where he 
 might be under the immediate protection of his own 
 troops. It was no satisfaction to the Radzivil family 
 that the new abode of Constantino was in their own 
 immediate neighborhood. Still trusting to find safety 
 in seclusion, they devoted themselves to the nurture 
 of their children, and to the varieties of rural ex 
 istence. 
 
 Autumn was now deepening to its close. The 
 voice of the Vistula, swollen by rains, became more 
 audible, hoarsely chafing against its banks. Nature, 
 at the approach of her dreariest season, disrobes of 
 their gayety even her inanimate offspring, and pours 
 heaviness into the hearts of the animal creation. The 
 elk, roaming with his branching horns through the
 
 216 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 forest, bore upon his aspect an expression of deep 
 melancholy. The titmouse, whose pendulous nest 
 studded the branches, forgetting its irascible temper, 
 and disappointed in its supply of aquatic insects, 
 gathered with drooping wing around the peasant s 
 cottages in quest of other food. The bobac prepared 
 a soft lining for its subterranean cell, and gathered 
 its gregarious community for the long sequestration 
 of winter. But where shall the human race find ref 
 uge from strife and oppression ] Earth hath no re 
 cess where "man s inhumanity to man" may not pen 
 etrate. 
 
 It was near the close of one of the shortening and 
 gloomy days that Ulrica became alarmed at the ab 
 sence of her son. He had prolonged his usual walk 
 with his little sister about his father s grounds, and 
 she had returned without him. As this was of fre 
 quent occurrence, it would scarcely have excited ob 
 servation, but for the heightened state of maternal 
 solicitude. The bold bearing of the boy, and his 
 denunciations of tyranny, had signalized him among 
 his companions, and induced his parents to withdraw 
 him from the public school. They had also deemed 
 it prudent, since the royal residence had been placed 
 in their vicinity, to interdict his leaving their own 
 domain without an attendant. 
 
 Now twilight darkened, and he returned not. The 
 earnest search of the whole household was in vain. 
 Little Ulrica watched and listened for his footsteps 
 till the curtains were drawn and the lamps lighted,
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 217 
 
 and then retired to her bed to \veep. All the ma 
 chinery that agonized affection could command was 
 put in requisition. But the most persevering efforts 
 could obtain no tidings, save that a child had been 
 seen hurried toward the palace by two Russian sol 
 diers, and apparently resisting their purpose. The 
 whole influence of an ancient and noble family was 
 made to bear upon the "recovery of this beloved rep 
 resentative, only to reveal its utter inefficacy. In 
 quiry, reward, and menace were alike powerless. 
 The system of the despot was a sealed book. " I 
 will myself go to the duke," said Ulrica to her hus 
 band. " God has given him a human heart. Who 
 can say but it may in some point be vulnerable to 
 compassion ]" 
 
 John Radzivil felt that such an appeal was hope 
 less. Yet, as a drowning man rejects not the straw 
 floating on the element that destroys him, he for 
 bore to dissuade her from the enterprise. 
 
 The next morning the suffering mother sought the 
 palace of Constantine. She went under the protec 
 tion of Count Turno, a Polish nobleman, who had 
 for years maintained a degree of ascendency over 
 the mind of the duke, and was sometimes able to 
 soften the violence of his measures. By a singular 
 combination of talent, and an accurate knowledge of 
 the hidden springs of action, he had succeeded in 
 gaining the confidence of the tyrant, without the sac 
 rifice of either integrity or honor. But consummate 
 prudence was requisite to maintain a post so hazard- 
 T
 
 218 A TALE OF POL AND. 
 
 ous. On the present occasion he dared venture only 
 to introduce the suppliant, and to repeat the injunc 
 tion that her words should be few. Open interfer 
 ence on his part would, he knew, be fatal to the 
 cause in which both his patriotism and his early 
 friendship for the Radzivil family deeply participated. 
 
 When Ulrica entered the chamber of audience, 
 the grand-duke turned away, as if determined to 
 avoid her. Then his blue eye settled for a moment 
 on her, cold as Russian snows. Arrested by her 
 beauty and dignified deportment, aided in their ef 
 fect by the rich and becoming costume of the Polish 
 nobility, he reluctantly, though not ungracefully, gave 
 attention. 
 
 " Great prince, you see before you the wife of 
 John Radzivil. She seeks your presence a wretch 
 ed suppliant for her lost son. These three days and 
 nights our search for him has been unremitting, but 
 in vain. He was last seen in charge of two of the 
 soldiers of your guard. Let me .supplicate your 
 clemency to give orders for his restoration." 
 
 " Madam, the commission under which I act, takes 
 no cognizance of wandering babes. I supposed that 
 the mothers of Poland better undei stood both mv 
 duties and their own." 
 
 " Sire, our lost one was but a child. He had not 
 numbered ten winters. If he was guilty of folly or 
 rashness, I beseech you to restore him to his parents, 
 that they may carefully instruct him not again to of 
 fend."
 
 ATA I. EOF POLAND. 219 
 
 The haughty lip of Constantine curled as he spoke. 
 
 " You were in truth nourishing a viper. If his 
 venom has chanced to fall upon yourselves, look to 
 it. Fill not my ears with your complaints. He was 
 a rebel, and a ripe one, though so young in years." 
 
 Ulrica fell on her knees, and, raising her clasped 
 hands, exclaimed, 
 
 " Spare the life of the child ! A broken-hearted 
 mother implores your pity for her only son. So 
 shall the Judge and Father of us all, be merciful to 
 you in your time of adversity." 
 
 " Take away this mad woman," said Constantine 
 to his attendants. " Turno, is there never to be an 
 end of these Polish maniacs 1" 
 
 Ulrica rose and returned to her home. She ut 
 tered no complaint. There was a strength in her 
 sorrow that refused the channel of words. Radzivil 
 saw in the fixed glance of her eye that hope had de 
 parted. 
 
 " Ulrica, seek to bind me no longer at the footstool 
 of peace. As the Lord liveth, it shall no more be 
 peace, but a sword. There is a point beyond which 
 endurance is sin. Poland stands upon that verge. 
 The tyrant shall fall. Faithful and proud hearts 
 have sworn it. I will no longer withhold myself 
 fi om their covenant. My soul has lain still, and 
 smothered its hatred for your sake. Your sighs of 
 peace have stolen over it like the breath of flowers, 
 weakening its purpose. My counsel of submission 
 has been my reproach among patriots. They have
 
 220 A TALI; OF POLAND. 
 
 called it my watchword. Their brows grew dark 
 when I uttered it. It was your spirit breathing 
 through my lips. I deemed it the spirit of Heaven, 
 and bade the wrath of the warrior that boiled in my 
 breast bow down before it. Henceforth I cast away 
 its chains. I wear no longer the yoke of a craven 
 policy. I will resist unto blood unto death. And 
 may God so deal with me as I do valiantly for Po 
 land." 
 
 The discontent, which had been but ill-suppressed 
 in the bosoms of a free people, burst forth. Plans 
 long fostered in their nightly conclaves came sud 
 denly to maturity. On the evening of November 
 29th, 1830, the beacon light sprang up on the banks 
 of the Vistula. The concerted signal had been the 
 burning of a house, on the borders of that river, at 
 the hour of seven. The clocks of Warsaw struck 
 seven. How many hearts struggled with unuttera 
 ble emotion at that sound ! 
 
 The expected flame threw out its red banner. 
 The shout of " To arms!" came with that flash, as 
 thunder follows the lightning. Throngs of patriots 
 were at their appointed posts. Officers rode through 
 the streets inspiring the people. Students, and boys 
 from the schools in warlike array, marched to the 
 headquarters of the enemy. The rush was tremen 
 dous. Two thousand Russian cavalry, panic-struck, 
 dispersed. The grand-duke threw himself fi - om the 
 window of his palace, and, aided by darkness and 
 disguise, escaped. The gates of the city were in 
 
 . ___ . |
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 221 
 
 possession of the patriots. The prisons were stormed. 
 Multitudes of pale, emaciated victims came forth, as 
 tonished, from their dungeons, as the dead once min 
 gled with the living, when strange darkness hung 
 over Calvary. 
 
 At midnight, Poland paused amid the miracle of 
 her Revolution, and, kneeling, gave thanks to Jeho 
 vah. It was a moment of sublimity, when that im 
 mense multitude, rendered visible by the red torch 
 light, humbled themselves to earth, and, amid the 
 most impassioned joy, swelled the response of 
 "Praise to God to God the deliverer!" 
 
 The next morning brought Ulrica a note from her 
 husband. 
 
 " Warsaw is ours ! no Russian foot pollutes it. 
 Poland breathes once more in freedom the air of her 
 own capital. Every spot overflows with rejoicing 
 people. Old hoary-headed men give us their bless 
 ing, and children brandish their weapons with the 
 shrill cry of liberty. As for me, I am searching ev 
 ery dungeon, every fastness, every den, where it is 
 possible for despotism to have incarcerated our brave, 
 our beautiful one. I will return no more to my house 
 until I restore him to your arms, or whisper in your 
 ear those words, less appalling than our suspense, he 
 is no more." 
 
 All day long, while acclamations rent the air, and 
 
 the peasantry by thousands were flocking into the 
 
 city to hail the men who had delivered their country, 
 
 Ulrica sat still in the house. One deep, measureless, 
 
 T 2
 
 222 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 inexpressible emotion absorbed all lesser sympathies. 
 At every footstep, at the echo of every voice, her 
 heart, like the mimosa, shrank, trembled, folded it 
 self. The hours seemed interminable. 
 
 At length twilight approached, evening darkened. 
 Even her chastened spirit revolted at the prospect of 
 passing another night of unmitigated suspense. Her 
 children slumbered. There was no sound save of 
 their quiet breathing. She looked out upon the sol 
 emn stars, and strove to rise above them in commun 
 ion with their Maker. Suddenly there was a tramp 
 ling of horses in the court-yard. The power of mo 
 tion deserted her. The next moment, Radzivil was 
 in her apartment. He laid on the bed something 
 wrapped in a cloak, and for a moment restrained her 
 in his arms as she was rushing toward it. 
 
 " My son ! my son ! speak. Radzivil. Tell me that 
 he lives !" 
 
 " He lives, Ulrica ; but the life of life is fled. It 
 were a lighter thing to have seen him in the sleep of 
 death." 
 
 Perceiving that she would no longer be withheld, 
 he uncovered the face. Ail the fortitude that she had 
 invoked from above was needful for that moment. 
 Emaciated, haggard, his beautiful hair shorn close to 
 his head, his eye devoid of lustre or intelligence, and 
 every feature apparently transmuted to portray the 
 dull, dreaming, hideous contortions of idiocy. 
 
 Yet he still breathed ; and with that consciousness 
 hope, the comforter, came into the heart of the moth-
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 223 
 
 er. The heart of the mother ! that only heart whose 
 love falters not " under the cloud or through the sea," 
 till death smites down its idol. Even then it resigns 
 hope only to call forth a memory which, tender as 
 love itself, gathers, like the winged chemist of the 
 air, honeyed essence from thorn-clad and unsightly 
 plants. 
 
 Ulrica perceived that to her embraces there was 
 no response, to her words no answer. Food the 
 famished boy received voraciously, and with a wolf- 
 like appetite, yet regarded not the hand that gave it. 
 All the accustomed avenues to the soul seemed irrev 
 ocably closed. 
 
 " By what excesses of diabolical cruelty," said the 
 father, " could they thus have completed the wreck 
 of one of the most noble and beautiful beings ever 
 born of woman 1 None could tell me aught of his 
 history. The keepers of his dungeon were what they 
 ought to be corpses. While crowds of liberated 
 and ghastly wretches were thronging forth to the 
 light of heaven, I descended to the vaults they had 
 left. I explored them until I became almost hope 
 less. At last, in a cold, solitary cell, I discovered 
 this ruin of humanity. Nothing but parental instinct 
 could have guided me to that hidden recess, or con 
 vinced me that this was indeed my own son. To 
 my caresses, to the maddened anguish with which I 
 repeated his name, he spoke nothing. He moved 
 not. But when I raised him in my arms he strug 
 gled and contended. Then I perceived that his ex- 
 
 L.
 
 224 A T A L E O F I> O L A N D. 
 
 haustion was not physical. I still trusted that the 
 disease which had changed him might be healed. 
 But when we brought him forth to the sunbeam, 
 gazing into his eyes, I saw that the mind had fled 
 forever." 
 
 A deep vow of implacable vengeance closed the 
 agonized recital. 
 
 " Radzivil, beloved, look not so wildly. I pray 
 you, speak not thus rashly. Our son may yet recov 
 er to bless us." 
 
 On these holy promptings of love and hope the 
 mother acted. Night and day she nursed the miser 
 able boy. With consummate prudence she adminis 
 tered that nourishment which his exhausted state ren 
 dered both necessary and hazardous. She rocked 
 him in her arms, as in his infancy, holding his head 
 for hours on her bosom, sometimes murmuring soft 
 ly and tunefully in his ear, as if she would breathe 
 into him her own soul. Occasionally she fancied that 
 there was a quickening of the mind, and then poured 
 forth that inspiring music which harmonized with its 
 native structure, and was wont to heighten the glad 
 ness of his childhood to ecstasy. The songs of So- 
 bieski rang as exultingly through his chamber, as if 
 they rose not from a breaking heart. It was in vain. 
 The chords of melody might be touched no more. 
 Still thei tender eye that had scanned acutely the el 
 ements of his nature, would not believe that its deep 
 and strong affections had become extinct. Her fair 
 infant had formerly been his last thought at night,
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 225 
 
 his first in the morning. To lull it himself to sleep, 
 and to elicit its gay shout of mirth at waking, were 
 among the objects of his childish ambition. The 
 mother laid it upon his lap, and it smiled on him ; 
 but he extended no arm to receive it : he writhed, 
 as if to free himself from a burden. He evinced 
 neither desire nor dislike, but that fearful inanity, 
 that deadness to all emotion, that groveling and grow 
 ing likeness to material things which are among the 
 most appalling indications of lapsed intellect. 
 
 His little sister, whom from her birth he had loved 
 as himself, was ever by his side. She twined her 
 arms about his neck, but he was uneasy at their press 
 ure. She laid her hand gently upon his head, and 
 wept at the absence of those clustering curls that 
 were once her admiration and pride. She gazed 
 long and earnestly in his eyes with tears standing in 
 her own, like big rain-drops in the violet s heart. 
 She spoke long, in her sweetly modulated tones, of 
 their sports, of their walks together, of the wild flow 
 ers they had found in their own secret places, and of 
 the stories he had told her of the daring of Pulaski 
 and Kosciusko. 
 
 " Shall we not pursue each other again, dear broth 
 er, through the garden walks ] and will you launch 
 your boat on the little stream that runs so swiftly to 
 ward the Vistula 1 And shall the baby clap its little 
 hands when you brandish your mimic sword ? And 
 will we say our nightly prayers again with one voice, 
 kneeling down by our mother V 
 15
 
 226 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 Every effort of the ardent child ended in disap 
 pointment : not a single glance of attention rewarded 
 her. It was evident that the links between thought 
 and speech were broken. Even those faint and casu 
 al glimmerings of emotion which, though causeless, 
 had served feebly to unite him to humanity and to 
 hope, gradually disappeared. There had been some 
 times an inarticulate murmuring, like sullen discon 
 tent, or a distortion of the brow, as if from transient 
 terror. Even these were precious to the parents who 
 hung over his couch, as the dawn, though heavy and 
 ominous with clouds, is hailed by those who " watch 
 for the morning." But these sad signals faded, and 
 nothing remained but the action of the lungs, the 
 sluggish current in the veins, the aimless movement 
 of the muscles, as if without volition, and the animal 
 appetites of idiocy. The beauty, which he had once 
 possessed in so remarkable a degree as to have been 
 pronounced perfect, vanished with the emanations of 
 mind; even the proportions and chiseling of the clay 
 lost their symmetry. 
 
 At length death came, the messenger of mercy. 
 There was a pitiful and unearthly cry from that col 
 lapsed heart when the ice entered into it; but no ac 
 cent, no pressure of the hand, for affection to linger 
 over and embalm. One ray of exceeding brightness 
 kindled in the eye : it was the spirit passing forth in 
 gladness from its deep eclipse. Only for a moment 
 was that lustre seen. Then there were bitter gaspings 
 and stragglings, as of the swimmer when he buffets
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 221 
 
 the fatal wave. So that even love besought in ago 
 ny the release of what it had worshiped. And that 
 release came. 
 
 John Radzivil returned from the obsequies of his 
 first-born, in that state of feeling which shuns alike 
 society and consolation. Solitude and moody silence 
 were his choice. Grief seemed, in his case, to lay 
 aside her features of tenderness, and to nerve and 
 harden the soul for some gloomy, unspoken purpose. 
 Ulrica perceived that his mind was brooding over 
 plans of vengeance, and exerted all her influence to 
 soothe and disinthrall it. She suffered not her own 
 sorrow to sadden her deportment, that her devotion 
 to his comfort might be the more exclusive. She 
 , gradually incorporated the softened tones of her voice, 
 like the sigh of the " sweet south," with his medita 
 tions, hoping to infuse a healing principle into the 
 current of his diseased, tumultuous thought. She 
 pointed out the sources of happiness that still remain 
 ed to them, and endeavored to excite the healthful 
 emotions of gratitude to an Almighty Friend. She 
 spoke fervently of the peace and independence of 
 their country, and pressed him, by the love he bore 
 to her and their surviving children, to withhold him 
 self from any future scene of dissension, and yield 
 his sorrows to the solace of domestic retirement and 
 felicity. She dwelt eloquently on the tendencies of 
 war to extinguish the finer sensibilities, to destroy the 
 capacities of rational happiness, to stimulate evil pas 
 sions, to uproot the precepts and spirit of the Gospel ;
 
 228 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 but she shuddered to hear him repeat, with unwont 
 ed sternness, his determined vow of revenge. 
 
 " You say that Poland is relieved from despotism ; 
 that patriotism no longer requires of me a warrior s 
 service. You say, our son is dead : can we bring 
 him back again ] Your reasoning is from the weak 
 ness of woman s nature; as if there were no stronger 
 impulse in the breast of man than love of country 
 or hope of selfish gain. Is it possible that you can 
 stand upon the tomb of that beautiful, martyred being, 
 and hear no deeper language than the perpetual 
 whisper of peace, peace ! Till his murder is fully 
 avenged in the best blood of Russia, speak no more 
 to me of repose. I have sworn that my sword shall 
 never be sheathed while Constantino cumbers the 
 earth." 
 
 Ulrica could no longer conceal from herself that 
 the desire of revenge was consuming the energies of 
 his existence with the eagerness of its smothered 
 flame ; and there was soon room to spend itself in 
 the way of blood that it chose. The Emperor of Rus 
 sia, indignant at the revolt of Poland and the expul 
 sion of his brother, sent thither an army of two hun 
 dred thousand soldiers to enforce subjection. Scarce 
 ly had two months transpired since the lightning 
 gleam of revolution ere this reverse came. Every 
 resource was opened, every nerve in tension, to resist 
 domination. Peasants left the labors of husbandry, 
 and, if too poor to purchase weapons, armed them 
 selves with the implements of agriculture. Invert-
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 229 
 
 ing the language of inspiration, they turned their 
 ploughshares into swords, and their pruning-hooks 
 into spears. Boys fled from the schools, and, forming 
 themselves into platoons and phalanxes, demanded 
 enrollment among the soldiery. Women, forgetting 
 their household occupations, and the privileges of 
 their sex, pressed to share personally in the perils of 
 war. It was on the 25th of January, 1831, that the 
 Polish troops began to leave Warsaw, to encounter 
 the immense force with which Russia was inundating 
 their land. Delicate and beautiful females attended 
 them on their route to Praga, inspiriting them by their 
 eloquence and enthusiasm. Then there were tender 
 partings, and high, patriotic hopes, and agonizing as 
 pirations of piety, that submit not to the revealment 
 of words. .Ulrica saw that it was her destiny to fol 
 low the fortunes of a warrior ; and, as a soul in al 
 liance with heaven may compass things accounted 
 impossible on earth, she determined to do it in the 
 spirit of peace. She left her delightful abode, and, 
 with her children and a single servant, went forth to 
 adapt her movements to the marches of the army, 
 that she might be a comforter to her husband in his 
 toilsome and terrible career. But with what discord 
 did the din of battle grate upon her ear, who consid 
 ered even the accent of unkindness a dereliction of 
 the Christian s creed. During the time of contest, 
 she retired with her little daughter to the most remote 
 recess, and, clasping her infant in her arms, besought 
 Divine protection for the endangered husband and 
 
 u
 
 230 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 father. When the tumult of conflict subsided, and 
 she was convinced that no injury had befallen him, 
 her care awoke for the wounded and dying. Forget 
 ful of the rank and affluence in which she had been 
 educated, and grateful if she might but mitigate one 
 pang, she moved like a ministering spirit among eve 
 ry form and modification of misery. 
 
 Spring advanced in her path of beauty ; but she 
 could not win man from war, or soften him to love 
 his brother. The pure breath of Spring is not in uni 
 son with the heart that cherishes evil passions. The 
 innocent gladness of renovated nature is a reproof to 
 it, and her hymn of sunbeams a mockery. 
 
 Radzivil found it impracticable to insure the com 
 fortable accommodation of his family during the 
 changes and chances of warfare. Sometimes their 
 lodging was in a frail tent, at others in some dilapi 
 dated building, always liable to be broken up and 
 transferred in a moment. After the commencement 
 of summer, they were for a considerable period ten 
 ants of a ruined fortress, open to the winds of heaven. 
 
 One evening he was seated with them there, after 
 a day of exposure and hardship. Leaning his head 
 on his hand, he contemplated with intense and mel 
 ancholy interest a group so dear to him. Ulrica, in 
 a costume as humble as her station required, tender 
 ly conversed with her daughter, clinging closely to 
 her side, while the infant lay in a slumber so pro 
 found that every golden curl and relaxed muscle 
 seemed spell-bound.
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 231 
 
 The lofty chieftain gazed long upon his wife. He 
 recalled her toils, her privations, her perils, the strong 
 contrast between the present and the past ; he won 
 dered at her gentleness, her moral courage, the full 
 ness of her compassion for others. He saw even the 
 beauty of her countenance scarcely changed, and fan 
 cied that her love-beaming smile, and her clear, blue, 
 transparent eye imaged forth the repose of heaven. 
 He remembered the inward tempests that had fur 
 rowed his own brow, the fires that had seared his 
 soul and dried up its fountains, making him old be 
 fore his time. 
 
 We dwell together, thought he, like the angel of 
 peace, and the demon of war. The comparison is 
 against me. 
 
 Then there passed over his mind such a saddening 
 consciousness of the evils of strife, the unsatisfying 
 nature of military glory, the fearful cost of victory, 
 and the tendency of a vindictive spirit to recoil upon 
 itself, that, for the first time, the wish that he had 
 never been a man of blood rushed to his lips. 
 
 Suddenly, as at an earthquake, the disjointed stones 
 of their habitation trembled and fell in masses. Po 
 land s cry " To arms !" rose above the tumult. 
 
 " The Russian artillery !" exclaimed the warrior, 
 as he rushed to rally his soldiers. These were to be 
 his last words in the sanctuary where his heart had 
 found refuge. 
 
 The conflict was protracted and dreadful. I wish 
 not to describe it. The " thunder of the captains,
 
 232 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 and the shouting," are not my province. Is not death 
 sufficiently terrible when sanctioned by nature, and 
 softened by religion "? but when urged on by misguid 
 ed man, and bade to do his work in violence and 
 wrath, the sickening heart may be permitted to turn 
 away. 
 
 At length the trampling and uproar of battle ceased. 
 But over the field of carnage was the unceasing groan 
 of mangled men that horrible cadence of war. The 
 uprooted grass, and the surface of the earth trodden 
 into dust, were indented with curdling pools of blood. 
 
 The combatants slowly drew off in broken bat 
 talions, and eager and mournful forms were search 
 ing amid heaps of slain, each for his own dead. 
 
 Ulrica was already there, grasping a lifeless hand 
 between her own. Bathing with floods of tears the 
 immovable countenance of that friend whom she had 
 loved more than life, she felt the force of that grief 
 to which the shepherd-king gave voice in the excla 
 mation, " Would to God I had died for thee!" 
 
 Bearing to their desolated mansion the remains of 
 her husband, he was laid in the tomb of his ances 
 tors with such brief honors as his country, in her hour 
 of trial, was able to pay a chief who had periled all 
 for her. Scarcely had Uh ica bowed herself to the 
 first sorrows of widowhood, ere she was summoned 
 to lay her beautiful babe by its father s side. One of 
 those unannounced diseases incidental to infancy, 
 which, like swift-winged and noxious birds, are ever 
 hovering about the unopened buds of being, swept
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 over it, and it was gone. In the morning it flourish 
 ed, and came forth as a flower ; in the evening it was 
 cut down and withered. 
 
 Let none account the mourning for a lost infant 
 light, or soon forgotten. Sorrow for the departed is 
 not always graduated by the value that the commu 
 nity may have affixed to their lives. The heart has 
 other gold than that which men weigh in a balance. 
 He who marks in the cemetery a mound of a span s 
 length, and, carelessly passing on, says, " It was but a 
 babe !" hath never been a parent. 
 
 The fortunes of Poland grew darker every day. 
 Contest after contest was lost. The battle of Praga 
 struck her down from her throne among the nations. 
 Despotism returned with a twofold purpose, to do 
 the deeds which her own nature prompted, and to 
 punish rebellion. She was not slack in either task. 
 Confiscation, imprisonment, banishment, death, were 
 the instruments by which she wrought. 
 
 Among the list of exiles to the wilds of Siberia 
 were the Radzivil family. Sole representatives of 
 one of its branches, Ulrica and her young daughter 
 joined that melancholy train. Yet the bereaved and 
 afflicted woman went not forth despairing. She gird 
 ed herself to bear her appointed lot. Life seemed 
 to her as a short journey to the land of peace. Ever 
 keeping this in view, she had a cheering word for 
 those whose hearts sank as a stone beneath the dark 
 waters. 
 
 There is sometimes found in woman an uncom- 
 U2
 
 234 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 plaining fortitude, which shrinks not when the pride 
 of man, her stronger companion, gives way; a power 
 of endurance bestowed by her Creator, to supply the 
 deficiency of mightier energies. But here there was 
 something more the panoply with which Heaven 
 condescends to invest the heart, which, sacrificing 
 its selfishness and resigning its own will, henceforth 
 becomes a partner in the strength of omnipotence. 
 It obtains no exemption from trial or misfortune, no 
 passport to command away a single thorn that ob 
 structs its pilgrimage. Its power is in the talisman, 
 engraven on its inmost tablet, " Thy will be done." 
 
 The fatigues and sufferings of banishment fell 
 most heavily on the young and tender. Ere they 
 entered the gloomy pine-forests of Russia, the sor 
 rowing exiles found their number fearfully dimin 
 ished : 
 
 " The cold snows wove their winding sheet, 
 And many a turf beneath their feet 
 Was made an infant s sepulchre." 
 
 Little Ulrica faltered, and indicated in every feature 
 that her path led to a returnless bourne. Her moth 
 er saw the destination, and strove to prepare her for 
 it. She spoke to her of that clime where blossoms 
 never fade, where there is no war, no severing of 
 hearts that love, of the compassion of " Jesus the 
 Mediator," and of God the judge of all, who hath 
 mercy on the penitent and the trustful. She told her 
 of the unresting harps of angels, who wait, and stretch 
 forth their wings, and call the parting soul to join
 
 A TALE OF POLAND. 235 
 
 their company. She rested not night or day, and her 
 pious labor was requited. The young summoned 
 spirit, went forth meekly and willingly from its house 
 of clay. 
 
 For the lonely mourner there was henceforth no 
 joy on earth, save the echo of the seraphic hymn, 
 which from the pure realm of peace visited her 
 nightly. 
 
 To the children of her people who had no moth 
 ers, she drew near, and wiped their tears, and gather 
 ed them into her bosom, and taught them of Jesus. 
 To. the hoary-headed she bowed herself down as a 
 daughter, and comforted them till they gazed upon 
 her as an angel of light. To the broken-hearted she 
 spoke sisterly words, urging them to walk stead 
 fastly toward that country where is no bereavement; 
 and, in listening to her sweet tones, they lost for a 
 season the bitter memories of exile. 
 
 Thus she moved in that ministry of benevolence 
 and resignation which he who perfectly attains hath 
 accomplished the discipline of probation, and is ready 
 for a higher grade of being, and for the "recompense 
 of reward." 
 
 The humble and pure spirit which she hid within 
 would have inspired contentment even amid that 
 realm of frost, where vegetation, except in its hardier 
 forms, is extinct, and the solid earth cleaves asunder. 
 It would have devised deeds of kindness for the mis 
 erable boor, whose superiority to the wild beasts that 
 surrounded him was chiefly evinced in the skill with
 
 236 A TALE OF POLAND. 
 
 which he entrapped them, or divested them of their 
 skins, for the better clothing of himself and his little 
 barbarians. 
 
 But the wrath of a Siberian winter swept not over 
 the widowed consort of John Radzivil. Ere it bound 
 the earth inks terrible fetters, she had fled to a clime 
 without tempest or cloud. 
 
 Such was the annihilation of a family, once noble, 
 honored, and happy. Yet is its record of suffering 
 scarcely a drop in the dark tide that saturated the soil 
 of Poland. The dauntless self-devotion of her sons 
 availed nothing against the despotism that overwhelm 
 ed her. Those whom she nurtured in her high pla 
 ces now languish in prisons and in mines : they 
 perish in the stern, frozen heart of Siberia, or are 
 homeless wanderers in far, foreign lands. And as 
 among the family of nations, there has long been ad 
 miration of her high, chivalrous character, so there 
 should be sympathy for her fall, and in the sorrows 
 of her children.
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE.
 
 Oh ! fairest almoners of Heaven s weet grace. 
 Shun not the haunts of hapless poverty."
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE, 
 
 THE Retreat, which public charity had appropriated 
 to the homeless poor in one of the thriving villages 
 of New England, had a rural aspect, and occupied a 
 sheltered situation. The building was of one story, 
 -yet comprised sufficient space for the accommoda 
 tion of its not numerous tenants. It was under the 
 charge of a farmer and his wife, who owned a few 
 acres of land contiguous to it, and were induced to 
 assume the care of these unfortunates as a mode of 
 income, which, though not peculiarly desirable, was, 
 as they sagely observed, " better than no income at 
 all." 
 
 Mrs. Tuttle was a stirring, but kind-hearted mat 
 ron. She went on the principle that industry being 
 a cardinal virtue, it was her duty to give work to all 
 within the premises who were capable of employ 
 ment. She evinced great tact in proportioning tasks 
 to capacities, and in discovering latent ability for ex 
 ertion, however rusted by indolence, or buried un 
 der imaginary disease. Those who were lame, and 
 could not stand at the great wheel, she was sure 
 might contrive to spin a little flax. Hands which 
 were too rheumatic to manage the wool-cards could 
 turn the quill-wheel, and wind spools for the loom, 
 
 i
 
 240 THE ALMS- HO USE. 
 
 where she herself busily wrought out various useful 
 fabrics. Old Mrs. Jones, who was fond of being 
 complimented with having seen better days, was 
 willing to do the lady-like work of the needle ; and 
 Polly Larkin, an eratic genius, who had at times 
 been deranged, liked to be considered as having 
 power in the culinary sphere. Mrs. Lester, whose 
 system was universally enfeebled by chronic diseas 
 es, gathered around her the few children of the little 
 community, who were there maintained until old 
 enough to go to service, and taught them the rudi 
 ments of necessary knowledge, and the simple pre 
 cepts of the religion that she loved. When any were 
 sick, she was at their bedside with her nursing offi 
 ces, or repeating hymns of comfort. " She is our 
 missionary," said they; and her smile of meekness 
 and love confirmed their designation. 
 
 Mingled with these, were some less impressible 
 natures. But the matron, who took care always to 
 deserve their respect, little heeded their ill humor. 
 Sometimes she was rewarded by gratitude, though 
 it is seldom to be expected in such a situation from 
 those whose reverses are aggravated by age, suffer 
 ing, and the imagined contempt of the world. With 
 true benevolence, she endeavored to interweave their 
 ^ayvvard and broken natures with the household 
 charities, and make them feel the comfort and inter 
 est of the family as their own ; and since misfortune, 
 and not crime, had made most of them her inmates, 
 the task was not difficult. But regular industry, and
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 241 
 
 the spirit of piety, were the remedies on which she 
 mainly depended. Under the influence of the first 
 even decaying health sometimes revived, and her 
 consistent example of the latter won confidence from 
 those who did not aspire to imitation. In her inter 
 course with them, she strove to keep ever in mind 
 the sweet precept, " God is love ;" and when seated 
 with them around the simple board, or collected for 
 stated devotion, she remembered that every soul was 
 precious in His sight. 
 
 The same principles regulated the conduct of her 
 husband ; but there was about him more distance 
 and reserve of manner, easily roused to sternness 
 when evil conduct required the exercise of authority. 
 Thus the sway of his partner, which might otherwise 
 have been too mild, or liable to be abused by refract 
 ory natures, was h appily and judiciously fortified. 
 Among the inmates of his dwelling were only two 
 of his own sex ; one disabled by age, and the other 
 by casualty, from earning a subsistence by labor, yet 
 capable of occasionally aiding him in his vegetable 
 garden, or other light employments for the general 
 good. On the whole, this small community was like 
 a bee-hive ; and industry has seldom evinced its pow 
 er more fully than by thus neutralizing the bitter 
 draught of poverty and scorn. w 
 
 But the good farmer became suddenly Ae victim 
 
 of a violent fever. Long he lay on the verge of the 
 
 grave. He was indeed saved, but partial paralysis 
 
 ensued, and it was evident that life must be languish- 
 
 16 X
 
 242 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 
 
 ed out in decrepitude. It was therefore deemed 
 expedient for him and his wife to accept the invita 
 tion of a married daughter, who resided in a neigh 
 boring town, to pass the remainder of their days un 
 der her filial supervision. The poor people regretted 
 this change, and looked forward with apprehension ; 
 for the overseer of the parish, finding that the house 
 they occupied needed many repairs, decided that it 
 would be cheapest to place them at board wherever 
 the best bargain could be obtained. 
 
 On the very day of the departure of good Mr. and 
 Mrs. Tuttle, a singular scene was exhibited in the 
 largest apartment of their mansion ; an auction, 
 where not the highest, but the lowest bidder had 
 precedence. 
 
 Ranged on one side were the officers of the par 
 ish ; on the other, farmers, imbrowned by exposure, 
 whose features seemed to sharpen with desire of 
 gain. In the background were perceived flitting 
 sections of haggard faces, thrust through a half-open 
 door, or eyes wandering here and there, dilated with 
 a painful curiosity. The business proceeded. The 
 chief speaker addressed one of the applicants. 
 
 " For what price will you engage to take these 
 paupers per week?" 
 
 " Seventy cents a head." 
 
 " Too much ; too much, sir, altogether. We must 
 economize in these hard times. Mr. Jotham Tuttle 
 and his wife were good people. The only trouble 
 was, they were too good. They allowed the poor to
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 243 
 
 cost the town, in and out, rising of fifty-nine cents 
 and a quarter, for every head of them. Now this 
 will never do. It is only offering encouragement 
 for idlers to come and throw themselves on us to 
 be maintained. Mr. Jed Tarbox, what will you take 
 the whole lot on em for ]" 
 
 " Thirty cents for them that s able to help a little 
 around, and seventy cents for them that don t do noth 
 ing but eat." 
 
 " Lump them all together, Mr. Tarbox, lump them 
 all together ; we can t spend time to go into such 
 fractional niceties." 
 
 " I suspect there is a cripple or two among them, 
 and three or four others not much better. Them, 
 too, that they call working folks, don t do but a 
 precious little matter of labor. Supposing I take 
 them on trial a month or two, and allow the town 
 accordingly T 
 
 " No, sir, no ; we can t make no such conditions. 
 The town must understand what it binds itself to pay. 
 Will you take them for fifty cents in and out 1 you ll 
 make a good bargain." 
 
 " Winter is a coming on," said Mi*. Tarbox, " and 
 bids fair to be a pretty tight one. Meat and grain 
 don t grow on every bush. It costs a sight of money 
 to maintain even my own small family." 
 
 " You will get along with the whole of. them cheap 
 er than any other man ; your wife is a smart creature 
 for business." As the negotiation seemed drawing 
 toward a close, the faces of the sorrowing poor were
 
 244 THE A L.MS- HOUSE. 
 
 turned in extreme anxiety to the speakers. Pale, 
 furrowed brows were seen in the dim distance peer 
 ing one above the other, anon flitting, receding, and 
 returning in scowling, breathless alarm. At length, 
 after much close and sharp higgling, the bargain was 
 concluded at fifty-one cents and three quarters per 
 week. 
 
 Murmuring could no longer be suppressed. Miss 
 Polly Larkin, a meager and fearless spinster, com 
 ing forward, accosted the town officers in a shrill 
 tone. 
 
 " Will you please to have it put into the bargain 
 that Mr. Tarbox shall hire a doctor for us by the year, 
 as old Mr. Tuttle always did ?" 
 
 " Oh ! here, that ought to have been thought of. 
 Here, Mr. Tarbox, will you set it down in the con 
 tract that a doctor shall be hired 1" 
 
 The purchaser of the poor, disconcerted, did not 
 readily answer. He twirled round the hat which he 
 held in his hand, and twice dropped his riding- whip 
 ere he spoke. " The doctor that Mr. Jotham Tuttle 
 hired is a dreadful dear man. There is one nigh 
 to my house that I can get, and pay him visit by 
 visit, instead of letting it run on to the eend of the 
 year." 
 
 " He s a steam doctor !" screamed old Mrs. Jones ; 
 " we shall all be killed with emetics and pepper pills." 
 And far out in the distance was heard a hoarse echo 
 of" Steam doctor! we shall all be killed !" 
 
 " I do hope," rejoined Mrs. Jones, " we shall have
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 245 
 
 a minister when we come to die, and not be buried 
 in old chists, to save coffins." 
 
 " Mr. Tarbox will undoubtedly see that all is 
 right," said the men in power, buttoning themselves 
 to the throat for their homeward ride. 
 
 " Jed Tarbox is a skinflint," said Polly Larkin, in 
 a spasmodic whisper, " and his wife is an old dragon." 
 
 The future landlord of the poor, consented to re 
 ceive them immediately, and promised to send his 
 ox-team for such as were not able to walk three miles. 
 
 Our scene now changes to a pleasant dwelling in 
 the heart of the village. 
 
 " Maria," said the sweet-voiced Ellen Mason to 
 her friend, with whom she was spending the evening, 
 " when were you last at the alms-house ]" 
 
 " I am ashamed to say only once since your ab 
 sence on your visit. I missed your sweet company 
 on the long walk so sadly that I had no heart to go 
 again without you ; besides, my school has been so 
 large as to allow me less leisure than formerly." 
 
 " Can you go next Saturday afternoon?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I have been wishing for some time to 
 carry a cap I have made for old Mrs. Lester, and 
 then will have ready sundry other little comforts for 
 our pensioners." 
 
 With their work - baskets containing such arti 
 cles as are ever acceptable to the poor, were it only 
 as a proof that they are remembered by the more for 
 tunate, the young friends commenced their walk. 
 The keen air of closing autumn rendered brisk ex- 
 X2
 
 246 THE ALMS- HO US E. 
 
 ercise pleasant, and they found, as they had often 
 done before, how distance is beguiled by friendship, 
 and friendship heightened by benevolence. The 
 brilliance of the forest had passed away : the maple 
 gleaned not forth in crimson, as if its wounded heart 
 was gushing in life-blood through every leaf. Or 
 ange and umbered brown no longer clothed the lofty 
 chestnut or the drooping elm. The gnarled oaks 
 stretched their scorbutic arms ; the frozen earth re 
 turned a grating echo to the traveler s wheel ; and 
 Nature, expecting the tyranny of Winter, bowed 
 down to receive his fetters. 
 
 But in the heart of the young friends there was no 
 winter, and their cheeks brightened with new bloom 
 as they reached the house where they had so often 
 dispensed happiness. What was their surprise to 
 find it tenantless ! like the struck tent of the Arab, 
 all around was desolation. 
 
 A casual passer-by informed them where those 
 whom they sought might be found ; but the distance 
 was too formidable for a pedestrian excursion, and 
 they were compelled to defer their visit. When it 
 was next in their power to go, every trace of vege 
 tation had faded from the landscape, and hill and 
 valley were heavily robed in snow. The sleigh in 
 which they rode, furnished a convenient mode of 
 transporting a greater variety of articles for their 
 needy friends. 
 
 Their driver stopped opposite a tall, narrow, cold- 
 looking house, with a thin volume of blue smoke
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 247 
 
 straggling out of a single chimney. The cheerful 
 peal of the sleigh-bells attracted attention, and Mrs. 
 Tarbox, a stout woman, was seen to fly about Ui va 
 rious directions ere she met the young ladies at the 
 door. 
 
 " I suppose you want to see old Mrs. Jones," said 
 she. " She is a great deal worse to-day. Indeed, 
 she is e en a just gone, and it will do no good to see 
 her at all." 
 
 Not heeding this unwelcome reception, they en 
 tered, remarking that they desired to see all the poor 
 people, and were not aware of the illness of good 
 Mrs. Jones. Considerable confusion was evident ; 
 and among those who were running hither and thith 
 er appeared a boy, with a basket of small sticks and 
 shavings, hurried by Mrs. Tarbox, to make a fire im 
 mediately in the sick-chamber. Following him, they 
 entered a room where most of the poor people had 
 clustered round a bed. 
 
 " The poor creature has been a-dying the biggest 
 part of three days," said Mrs. Tarbox. " She can t 
 swallow at all." 
 
 " I could swallow well enough," murmured the 
 weak, pettish voice of the sufferer, " if I had any thing 
 fit to swallow." 
 
 This was tried and proved. She evinced joy at the 
 sight of her young friends ; but it was a fluttering 
 and faint sensation, as if a stranger to her benumbed 
 breast. They inquired if she had seen a physician, 
 to which the lady of the house replied, " Her husband
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 
 
 had been after one, time and again, and he was now 
 expected every minute." 
 
 " What is that 1" exclaimed the aged woman, as 
 the unwonted blaze, which the boy had suddenly 
 kindled, went roaring up the chimney. " What is 
 that 1 fire !" fixing her startled eyes, and spreading 
 out her emaciated hands, with an unearthly scream 
 of delight. Still opening and shutting her fingers 
 with a convulsive movement, she uttered, in a hollow 
 tone, " Stand away, Tom Tarbox ; let me see the 
 fire !" 
 
 Alas ! it was a deeper eclipse than any interven 
 tion of flesh and blood; for while one moment she ex 
 ulted in the unwonted warmth, the next she moaned, 
 stretched out her feet, and was no more. 
 
 The following day, in that cheerless habitation, 
 were the humble funeral obsequies. The principal 
 room was hastily put in order, and she who, in her 
 life, was scarcely allowed to tread on its carpeted 
 floor, now stretched herself there in the fearless 
 majesty of death. The cap which Maria s needle 
 had so neatly finished, with the hope that it would 
 gain a smile from her humble friend, was plaited 
 around that stiffened brow, which had taken its last 
 change from the adversities of earth. 
 
 Mi-s. Tarbox had directed the poor people to be 
 dressed in their best clothes, and even spoke kindly 
 to them, for she knew that the two young ladies were 
 to be there, and bring their own minister from the 
 village to perform the last services for the dead.
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 249 
 
 When he spoke with the meekness of his Master to 
 those unfortunate ones, they gathered near him, 
 treasuring up every word; and while from his pray 
 er the balm of the Gospel distilled, and they were 
 reminded of those mansions of rest with the dear 
 Redeemer, when repentance had done its work, and 
 life s discipline was over, and when they saw a tear 
 on the bright cheeks of their benefactresses, they 
 wept audibly and long. 
 
 On returning from the church-yard, the good cler 
 gyman addressed to each of the inmates some kind 
 inquiry or religious counsel. Cheered by his atten 
 tions, they listened earnestly, and were surprised to 
 see the fierce eye of their hostess quail and cower 
 before his gentle regard. 
 
 She was informed by Ellen Mason that two of the 
 poor children were to be taken to the village in her 
 sleigh, as she had obtained eligible places for them to 
 reside, where their young services would be useful. 
 Inquiry was made for the hat of the little boy. " He 
 never had one worth speaking of," said Mrs. Tarbox. 
 
 " Yes, but I had," answered the child, gathering 
 courage at the prospect of escape. " I had one, till 
 your boy, Tom Tarbox, struck me with it and threw 
 it into the fire." The little girl, who was about to 
 depart, put her arms affectionately round old Mrs. 
 Lester, who had tried to instruct her, and said in a 
 whisper, as she took leave, 
 
 " I am sorry I ever called you Goody Minister." 
 
 " And I," said the boy, " should not have called
 
 250 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 
 
 you Old Granny Bible-story, only Tom Tarbox told 
 me to." 
 
 " My dear children," was her reply, " I shall al 
 ways love you. Remember to say your prayers, and 
 read your Bible, and to obey those who have the rule 
 over you. How much I shall miss you ! Half of 
 my little school will now be gone. God be with you, 
 and bless you." 
 
 Her voice grew tremulous at parting; and the lit 
 tle ones, though elated with the prospect of a change 
 of abode, wept at parting with the only being who 
 had ever labored for their improvement. Her kind 
 ness to these not very promising pupils interested 
 the two young ladies, who, being themselves engaged 
 in the work of education, knew how true and sweet 
 is the affection which springs up between a teacher 
 and those committed to her charge. 
 
 The meek image of that pious, uncomplaining 
 woman dwelt with them, and they were grieved to 
 see how pale and thin she had grown since her change 
 of habitation. On investigating her history, they dis 
 covered that her origin and education were respect 
 able, and that her constitution had been broken by 
 devotion to two sickly children, who died young, and 
 to the long helplessness of an intemperate husband, 
 who had left her in deep poverty. All that they heard 
 of her blameless life, of her spirit, resigned, and even 
 thankful under privation, served to heighten their 
 sympathy, and their desire to obtain for her a more 
 fitting refuge. After consulting their older friends,
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 251 
 
 they devised a plan for her removal. Having become 
 jointly interested in a school for young ladies, they 
 felt that the income from their employment would 
 authorize them in assuming this work of benevolence. 
 They therefore decided to place her as a boarder 
 with a widow lady and her daughter, who occupied 
 a small, neat cottage in the neighborhood. 
 
 The gratitude of poor Mrs. Lester at this unex 
 pected change was unbounded ; yet she could by no 
 means consent to be idle. Kind treatment and un 
 wonted comfort had a favorable effect on her health, 
 and she begged to be permitted to take charge of a 
 few pupils, to assist in defraying the expense of her 
 situation. She was found entirely competent to im 
 part the rudiments of knowledge, and also to impress 
 those habits of industry, good order, and kind affec 
 tion which enrich the unfolding elements of charac 
 ter with a better wealth than the proud precocity of 
 intellect. 
 
 One fine afternoon in spring, Ellen and Maria called 
 at the cottage. It was a sweet, though humble abode. 
 A few beds of thyme and other aromatic herbs were 
 near the door, and among them the nestling bees 
 wrought, busy and musical. Near the window grew 
 an aged tree, clasped by a vine, whose peeping flow 
 erets gave out a fresh odor. It seemed an emblem 
 of the ancient teacher, surrounded by her happy pu 
 pils. Their young, bright eyes were reverently fixed 
 on her, as, seated in her arm-chair, with a large Bible 
 before her, she read to them a few sentences, prepar-
 
 252 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 
 
 atory to their parting for the day. Her knitting-bag 
 hung beside her, their work-baskets and books were 
 laid neatly in their respective places, every little be 
 ing was quiet and attentive, for scrupulous order and 
 discipline were features of her system; and whoever 
 acquires these in childhood hath a goodly heritage 
 for riper days. Her simple garb was thoroughly neat 
 and appropriate, and her intonation tender, as she 
 uttered the inspired words, " Little children, love one 
 another." At the sight of her young benefactresses 
 the light of grateful joy beamed from her placid fea 
 tures, as she exclaimed, " What am I, or what was 
 my father s house, that thou hast brought me hith 
 erto 1" 
 
 Every interview heightened their good opinion of 
 this venerable woman, and their satisfaction at hav 
 ing been able to rescue her from neglect, and render 
 her declining days comfortable. Such deeds of be 
 nevolence give a charm to youth beyond the fascina 
 tions of beauty; and a heartfelt delight, that vanity, 
 amid its proudest triumphs, never attains. 
 
 The sufferings of the homeless poor are but little 
 understood by those whose hearth-stones are always 
 bright with domestic comfort. Especially the custom 
 which has prevailed in some of our villages, of placing 
 them where they can be maintained at the least ex 
 pense, or farming them out to the lowest bidder, adds 
 unmingled bitterness to their cup of misery. Self- 
 interest, too often leagued with inhumanity, deprives 
 them of those comforts which infirmity and age re-
 
 THE ALMS-HOUSE. 253 
 
 quire ; while the feeling of being always unwelcome, 
 and the open consciousness that their scanty support 
 is deemed a burden, help to dry up the springs of 
 existence. Too much scope is thus allowed to tyr 
 anny and cold calculation ; and to the sick, the no 
 very delicate " measuring how long they have to live," 
 adds to the force of depression and disease. 
 
 Even in our best-conducted alms-houses, there must 
 be many privations and trials to those whose earlier 
 days were marked by better fortunes, and more cheer 
 ing hopes. Among the keenest, is the absence of 
 human sympathy. The gentler sex, with whom is the 
 wealth of sympathy, and the most frequent opportu 
 nities to exercise it, should not be forgetful of these 
 forgotten ones. A visit, and a few kind words, are 
 cordials of power, spots of greenness amid the " dark 
 mountains, where their feet stumble" onward to the 
 grave. Let the young and fortunate, amid their walks 
 of benevolence, not overlook the inmates of our alms- 
 houses, remembering that the consolation which they 
 there impart, is in conformity to His blessed exam 
 ple who despised not the lowest, when He came to 
 save the lost.
 
 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD.
 
 Though blinded warriors seek renown in arms, 
 Pant after fame, and rush to war s alarms, 
 Mine be the pleasures of a rural life, 
 From noise remote, and ignorant of strife." 
 
 LIVINGSTON.
 
 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD. 
 
 IN one of the quiet villages that beautify the val 
 ley of the Connecticut, sleeping like nests among the 
 green drapery, was a pleasant and somewhat antique 
 farm-house. It stood retired from the public road, 
 overshadowed by a lofty elm, with broad, drooping 
 branches. A silver brooklet came bubbling from the 
 hillock in its background ; then flowing into a nook 
 amid the roots of some old trees, and growing deep 
 er and more subdued, was content to refresh the 
 steed of the passing traveler, or the herds who drank 
 and ruminated in its waters, as though it were to 
 them a Helicon. 
 
 The smaller tenements and appendages of the 
 farm-house evinced neatness and good husbandry. 
 A dense hop-vine clustered over its long piazza, and , 
 a row of bee-hives sent forth their busy people among 
 the thyme and balm-beds. The sound of the mat 
 ron s wheel, mingling with her song, was heard from 
 the open casement in summer, while the rich prod 
 ucts of the churn and cheese-press attested her skill 
 in the dairy. 
 
 In the labors of the farmer, his two young sons 
 were constant and active participants. They assist- 
 17
 
 258 THE PLOUGH AXD THE SWORD. 
 
 ed to draw the furrow in early spring, and to scat 
 ter the seeds from whence their bread was to grow. 
 In summer they followed the scythe with their light 
 er implements, preparing the fragrant food for their 
 domestic animals. In autumn they aided to gather 
 into the garner the varied bounty that God, through 
 their mother-earth, sent, as a reward for faithful toil. 
 In winter they sought with equal diligence, at the 
 district school, those mental stores which were to 
 enrich the whole of life. 
 
 One cold evening, they were seated with their 
 books beside a bright fire fed by the trees of their own 
 forest, while their lamp cast a cheerful ray over the 
 snow-covered landscape. The younger, a boy of 
 thirteen, threw aside his lessons, and said, 
 
 " I intend to be a soldiei . I have read of Alex 
 ander the Great, and of Bonaparte. There is noth 
 ing in this world so glorious as the fame of the war 
 rior." 
 
 His brother raised a thoughtful brow, and regarded 
 him with a steady glance for a few moments, ere he 
 replied, 
 
 " To destroy life, and bring mourning into fami 
 lies, and misery into the world, seems to me cruel, 
 instead of glorious." 
 
 " Oh ! but the rich dress, and the fine music, and 
 the glittering arms, think of them! And then, the 
 honor and the praise ! To have hosts of soldiers 
 under your command, and all the people talking of 
 your courage, and distant nations applauding your
 
 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD. 259 
 
 victories : how can you be blind to such greatness as 
 that?" 
 
 " Did not our minister say last Sunday from the 
 pulpit, that the end of life was the test of its great 
 ness ] Now Alexander of Macedon, whom you call 
 the Great, fell in a fit of drunkenness, and Bonaparte 
 died on a desolate island, like a chained wild beast." 
 
 " I am sorry to see you are so easily prejudiced. 
 Indeed, I must say that you have a very narrow 
 mind. I doubt whether you are capable of admiring 
 heroes. You had better, by all means, be a farmer. 
 Your highest ambition, I suppose, is to break a pair 
 of steers, or ride a dull cart-horse to market." 
 
 The voice of the father was heard from an adjoin 
 ing apartment, 
 
 " Boys, go to bed." 
 
 Thus ended, for that night, their conversation on 
 martial glory, the only subject on which they strong 
 ly disagreed. 
 
 A few lustrums swiftly and silently pass by. How 
 quiet is the lapse of time in an agricultural village. 
 Masses of men are not there to level the hillocks, or 
 rear the red brick where the forest waved, or toss 
 the slumbering waters into the caldron of the steam- 
 spirit, or give the green lanes to the tramp of its iron 
 horse. Seed-time and harvest alternate ; the beauti 
 ful seasons complete their annual round. The child 
 comes forth from the arms of his mother and guides 
 the plough ; a little more silver is sprinkled on the 
 heads that have passed their prime ; the old man
 
 260 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD. 
 
 leans more heavily upon his staff; a few more green 
 mounds are visible in the church-yard. 
 
 The features of the rural scenery which we have 
 already described, were but slightly changed. The 
 elm had thrown its groined branches somewhat high 
 er, and marked out a broader circumference of shade. 
 The brook still told an unfinished tale to listening 
 summer, and in winter incrusted with frost-work 
 and diamonds its root-wreathed basin. On the roof 
 of the farm-house more moss had gathered, and its 
 rough fence of brown bars, was replaced by a white 
 paling. 
 
 Within, was the same cheerful fire that blazed 
 when we last visited it. By its hearth-stone stood 
 the same arm-chairs, but its former occupants had 
 become tenants of that lowly bed which no rising 
 sun awakens. In their place sat the eldest son, and 
 by his side a woman of mature age and pleasing 
 countenance, on whose knee was a fair infant. On 
 a pallet, in a shaded nook of the apartment, two lit 
 tle ones quietly breathed in the sleep of innocence, 
 and at a small table two boys with thoughtful brows 
 pondered their lessons. A wintry storm was raging, 
 and as the blast shook the casements, the farmer 
 said to his wife, 
 
 " In such cold, bad nights, I can not help thinking 
 of my poor brother. But so many years have passed 
 since we heard aught of him, and his way of life was 
 so full of danger, that it is most probable he no longer 
 needs our sympathy."
 
 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD. 261 
 
 " Husband, just as you began to speak I thought 
 I heard some one knock ; or was it the winds strik 
 ing the* old elm-tree 1" 
 
 On opening the door, a motionless form was found 
 extended near the threshold. A staff was still feebly 
 grasped in his hand, and a crutch, that supplied the 
 place of a lost limb, had fallen at his side. With 
 difficulty he was borne in, and pillowed in a large, 
 chair near the fire. After the application of restor 
 atives, he opened his eyes, and seemed to gaze on 
 every surrounding object clock, and oaken table, 
 and large, old Bible as on some recollected friend. 
 Then there was a faint sound of " Brother !" 
 
 That tone touched the tender memories of earli 
 est years. Their welcome to the poor wanderer 
 with the broken frame, and tattered garment was 
 heart-felt. Yet their tears freshly flowed at his pa 
 thetic tones, 
 
 " See, I have come home to die !" 
 
 They hastened to spread the refreshing repast, 
 and to press him to partake. Afterward they in 
 duced him to retire to rest, without taxing his ex 
 hausted strength by conversation. The next morn 
 ing he was unable to rise. They sat by his couch, 
 solacing his worn spirit with kindness, and with nar 
 ratives of the changes that had befallen them and 
 other friends in the peaceful spot of his birth. At 
 intervals he mingled his own sad recital. 
 
 " I have had many troubles. But that which hath 
 most bowed me down inwardly was my disobedience
 
 2G2 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD. 
 
 in leaving home, against the wishes, and without the 
 knowledge of my parents, to be a soldier. I have felt 
 the pain of wounds, but the sting of conscience is 
 keener. Hunger and thirst have I known, and the 
 prisons of a foreign land. When I lay sick and neg 
 lected, it would sometimes seem, in the fever-dream, 
 that my mother bent kindly over me, as she would if 
 I had only the headache ; or that my father came with 
 the great Bible in his hand, to read, as he used to do, 
 before our prayers morning and evening. Then I 
 cried out, in my agony, I am no more worthy to be 
 called thy son. " 
 
 He paused, overcome with emotion, and his broth 
 er hastened to assure him of their perfect forgiveness, 
 and of the fervor with which he was brought ever 
 before their family altar as the son erring, yet be 
 loved. 
 
 " Ah, those prayers ! They followed me like an 
 gel wings. But for them, I might have been a rep 
 robate both to God and man." 
 
 By little and little, as his feebleness admitted, he 
 told the story of his wanderings. He had been in 
 warfare both by sea and land. He had heard the 
 deep ocean resound to battle thunders, and seen 
 earth saturated with the red shower from the bosom 
 of her sons. He had served in the armies of Europe, 
 and pursued the hunted Indian in his own native 
 clime. He had plunged recklessly amid the thickest 
 dangers, seeking every where the glory that dazzled 
 his bovhood, but in vain. He found the soldier s lot
 
 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD. 263 
 
 was hardship, privation, and death, that others might 
 reap the fame. He saw what wounds and mutila 
 tions, what anguish, mourning, and death were im 
 plicated in a single victory. He felt how far the 
 renown of the greatest conqueror falls short of the 
 good that he forfeits ; how it fades away before the 
 misery that he inflicts. 
 
 " For a few moments," he said, " on the verge of 
 battle, I^felt a shuddering, inexpressible horror at 
 the thought of destroying my fellow-creatures ; but 
 in the heat of conflict all human sympathies van 
 ished. Desperate madness took possession of me, 
 and I cared neither for this world nor the next. I 
 have been left helpless on the field beneath tramp 
 ling horses, my open gashes stiffening in the chill 
 night air, while no man cared for my soul. Yet why 
 should I pain you by such descriptions 1 You have 
 ever dwelt within the sweet influences of mercy, and 
 shrank to distress even a soulless animal ! You can 
 not realize the hardness of heart that comes with such 
 a life as I have led. The soldier is enforced to be 
 familiar with suffering and violence. His moral and 
 religious sensibilities are in continual peril. Pro 
 fanity and contempt of sacred things mingle with 
 the elements of his trade. The softening, hallowing 
 privileges of the Sabbath are not for him. The pre 
 cepts of the Gospel that were instilled into his child 
 hood are in danger of being swept away. Still my 
 heart ceased not to reproach me in seasons of. reflec 
 tion, though I would fain have silenced and made it
 
 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD. 
 
 callous. Oh ! that it might be purified by penitence, 
 ere I am called to answer for deeds of blood, and for 
 a lost life." 
 
 His sympathizing brother and sister still cherished 
 the hope, that by medical skill and careful nursing, 
 his health might be restored. They placed much 
 reliance on the bland influences of his native air, and 
 on the salutary trains of feeling which the kindness 
 of early friends -awakened. 
 
 Yet his constant assertion was, " My vital ener 
 gies are wasted. They can be rekindled no more. 
 Death stand eth at my right hand. When I came to 
 the borders of this valley, my poor, swollen limb tot 
 tered, and my whole frame began to fail. Then 1 I 
 besought Him whom I had so often forgotten, Oh ! 
 give me heart and hope, and hold me up but a little 
 while, that I may die in the house where I was born, 
 and be buried at the feet of my father and my moth 
 er. " 
 
 The suffering and humbled man sought earnestly 
 for the hope of salvation. Feeling that a great 
 change was necessary ere he could be fitted for a 
 realm of purity and peace, he studied the Scriptures 
 with prayer, and listened to the counsels of pious 
 men. 
 
 " Brother, dear brother, you have followed the ex 
 ample of our parents. In the peaceful pursuits of 
 agriculture, your life has flowed on like an unruffled 
 stream. I chose to toss among whirlpools, and made 
 shipwreck of all. You have kept the law of love
 
 THE PLOUGH AND THE SWORD. 205 
 
 even with inferior creatures. You have shorn the 
 fleece, but not wantonly destroyed the lamb. You 
 have taken the honey, and spared the laboring bee ; 
 but I have destroyed both the hive and the honey, 
 the fleece and the flock, man and his habitation. I 
 have cruelly defaced the image of God, and crush 
 ed out that breath which I can never restore. Bit 
 ter is the warfare of my soul with the prince of the 
 power of the air, who ruleth the children of disobe 
 dience." 
 
 As the last hour approached, he laid his cold hands 
 on the head of his brother s two little sons, saying, 
 with solemn emphasis, 
 
 tl Choose the plough, and not the sword !" 
 
 Tender gratitude lighted up the glazing eye as he 
 faintly uttered, 
 
 " Sister, brother, you have been angels of mercy 
 to me. Peace be in your hearts, and upon your 
 household." 
 
 The venerable pastor, who had been the teacher 
 of his childhood, and the comforter of his sickness, 
 stood by his side as he went down into the dark val 
 ley of the shadow of death. 
 
 " My son, look unto the Lamb of God." 
 
 " Yes, father. He taketh away the sin of the 
 world." 
 
 The white-haired man lifted up a fervent suppli 
 cation for the departing soul. 
 
 .When he ceased, the eyes of the dying were 
 closed. There was no more heaving of the breast 
 Z
 
 266 THE PLOUGH AND T H E S \V O K D. 
 
 or gasping. And they spoke of him as having gone 
 where no sin or sorrow can have place. 
 
 Yet again the eyelids trembled, and one long, 
 struggling sigh burst from the marble lips. Bend 
 ing down, the mournful brother caught the last sounds 
 faint, yet tuneful, " Land of peace !" and " Savior of
 
 THE REVERSE.
 
 " To be resigned when ills betide, 
 Patient when favors are denied, 
 
 And pleased with favors given 
 Most surely this is Wisdom s part: 
 This is that incense of the heart 
 Whose fragrance pleases Heaven." 
 
 COTTON.
 
 THE REVERSE, 
 
 " HAVE you heard the news, that Mr. Thomas 
 Talmage has failed 1" said Miss Cutts, entering a 
 neighbor s house with a shawl hastily thrown over 
 her head. 
 
 " You don t say so !" 
 
 "Yes, yes. Every thing is gone. They are just 
 as poor as any body now." 
 
 " I always said it would be so. Now he will be 
 for taking the benefit of the Bankrupt Act, and liv 
 ing just as grand as ever, and his poor creditors may 
 go whistle for their pay. No matter about them." 
 
 " But they say he has sold his horse, and given up 
 all the goods in his great store, and boasts that he ll 
 pay every cent that he owes, and this afternoon he 
 is going to sell all his wife s furniture at auction." 
 
 " Why, she must be real angry, I declare. Was 
 he necessitated to do it, do you suppose 1" 
 
 " I can t exactly say as to that. Likely he d be 
 glad of a little money to put in his pocket after his 
 debts are paid, and so he sells his wife s things to 
 get it." 
 
 " That s it, I ve no doubt. But come, let s go to 
 this auction. Money, to be sure, is pretty scarce 
 Z 2
 
 270 THE REVERSE. 
 
 these hard times ; but I guess I ll raise a little, for I 
 do so want to see the inside of that smart house." 
 
 " Well, I ll call for you just at two o clock. Be 
 sure to be ready, for there ll be a crowd, I expect. 
 I can t say but I should like to see how these gran- 
 dees look, when they come down to be as poor, as 
 other folks." 
 
 With these benevolent intentions, the two ladies 
 proceeded, at the first ringing of the small auction 
 bell, to the dwelling in question. Quite a throng 
 soon collected there ; some desirous to inspect a 
 mansion to which they had never before been able 
 to gain admittance, others resolved to purchase, pro 
 vided they could get articles far below their real 
 worth. In various recesses and corners of the am 
 ple house there was much gossiping. 
 
 " Now, do tell if that is Miss Tom Tammage ] 
 Why, her gingham gown is not a bit better than 
 mine, and her hair is just as plain as a pike-staff." 
 
 " I railly supposed nothing but the silks and the 
 satins would answer her purpose. Well, she has 
 had her day. I always knew that top-knots must 
 come down." 
 
 "I wonder how she ll relish trudging in the mud 
 like my darters. They are full as good as she, 1 
 reckon, though they have not been brought up to 
 have a gay horse, and gig, and driver too, at their 
 beck." 
 
 In the mean time, the fair young creature, who 
 was the subject of this discussion, with her calm
 
 THE REVERSE. 271 
 
 brow, and more graceful in her plain, neat dress, 
 than in the costliest array, was ready to render her 
 aid, or reply to any interrogation that might facili 
 tate the sale of their effects. Possibly she was not 
 prepared for all the rude remarks of selfish dealers, 
 or to see so minutely illustrated the graphic descrip 
 tion of the King of Israel : It is naught, it is naught, 
 saith the buyer ; but when he goeth his way, then he 
 boasteth." 
 
 " I take it that bed is under the usual weight, Mr. 
 Auctioneer !" 
 
 " Fifty-two pounds." 
 
 "And the bolster and pillows !" 
 
 " Nine and a half." 
 
 " I guess they ai - e nothing but old feathers put 
 into new ticks," said a waddling old lady, who was, 
 however, eager in bidding thirty-five cents a pound, 
 thirty-five and a quarter, thirty-five and a half, and 
 so on, until she conquered, at thirty-nine and three 
 quarters, her competitors, and at a convenient time 
 extolled the excellence of the article she had so stu 
 diously decried. 
 
 " The state of them Brussels carpets is a shame," 
 said a busy personage, whose daughter, contempla 
 ting matrimony, was eyeing them with irrepressible 
 desire. " Miss Tom Talmage never had a chick or 
 child to wear out any thing, and I m sure they re 
 desp ate defaced. Look ! look !" (bending double 
 and peering through her spectacles) " is not that an 
 ile-spot 1 And them ere marble-topped tables ar.e
 
 272 THE REVERSE. 
 
 considerable out o fashion ;" hastening, however, to 
 purchase them, and superintending their removal 
 with an inward chuckle of delight. 
 
 A similar struggle went on among persons of 
 lighter purses, concerning the kitchen utensils. 
 " You can t in conscience ask much for that lot of 
 worn-out tins, Mr. Auctioneer. They are scoured 
 up pretty bright for the occasion, but they are e en- 
 a-just ruined, for all that. The major part of them 
 arn t worth carrying home, I declare." 
 
 The shrewd housekeeper who secured them was 
 heard to say to her husband that evening, that she 
 had made a grand bargain, and got them at about a 
 quarter of their true value ; and, while she extolled 
 her own sharpness, added, " She d be bound the peo 
 ple who sold them, would not get as many more good 
 things to eat, as had already been cooked in them." 
 
 The auction was nearly finished, and most of the 
 purchasers had withdrawn, when a coarse-featured 
 woman, with a patronizing air, said, in a half- whisper, 
 
 " Miss Tammage, you ha n t got a new gound or 
 two, have you, that you d sell cheap ]" 
 
 Mr. Talmage colored, and drawing the hand of 
 his wife within his arm, would have led her away ; 
 but with a sweet, confiding glance, and a few whis 
 pered words, she assured him, and he gazed at her 
 with a tender respect, as on a superior being. Her 
 clear, good sense convinced her, that her wardrobe 
 comprised some articles which, in the changed state 
 of their fortunes, would be both useless and inappro-
 
 THE REVERSE. . 273 
 
 priate, and with perfect good temper she produced 
 them. The lady minutely examined their fabric and 
 fashion, professed both to be in fault, and vastly in 
 ferior to what she expected, yet, after cheapening 
 them to the lowest point, possessed herself of them, 
 and exhibited them afterward to her friends who 
 called as some of the " trappings which the proud 
 Miss Tom Tammage, the broken marchant s wife, 
 was glad enough to sell." 
 
 When night came, the house of Mr. Talmage was 
 stripped both of its ornaments and comforts. It was 
 empty, but not deserted, for in it were hearts sustain 
 ed by the consciousness of rectitude, and firmly re 
 solved in duty ; hearts united in love, submissive to 
 the Divine will, and strong to strengthen each other. 
 The former master and mistress of this once elegant 
 mansion, sat together upon a coarse joint-stool, near 
 a few coals in the kitchen grate. A candle, placed 
 in the neck of a bottle for every lamp and candle 
 stick had been sold and a little ink in the bottom of 
 a broken tea-cup, aided them in the arithmetical cal 
 culations which they were busily making. 
 
 " Husband, am I right ]" said a clear, animated 
 voice; "am I right? My little account-book here 
 gives a result that we are able to pay all our debts." 
 
 " Yes, dearest, all, every one in full j and this auc 
 tion leaves us a little surplus." 
 
 " God be thanked ! What heartfelt happiness !" 
 
 " But, Mary, how different must our mode of life 
 be from what you have been accustomed to, and the 
 18
 
 274 . THE REVERSE. 
 
 prospects that you had a right to encourage at the 
 time of our marriage. I could not bear to see that 
 costly and tasteful furniture, which I can never re 
 place, taken away from yon. Those beautiful sofas, 
 on which you used to love to rest after a long walk, 
 cost me many a pang." 
 
 " See if we will not be just as happy without them. 
 Indeed, if God pleases, we will be a great deal hap 
 pier than ever we have been. A life of fashion is 
 not agreeable to either of us. To tell the truth, I 
 have long suffered anxiety, not that I thought we 
 were inclined to extravagance, but our situation 
 forced us to many useless expenses, and the press 
 ure of the times on mercantile effort made me so 
 fear that some misfortune would come, and leave us 
 unable fully to pay our debts. Now no human be 
 ing will suffer by us." 
 
 " Yet we have but a mere pittance left." 
 
 " Never mind ; it is our own. Poverty is better 
 than unjust gain. I would not like to tread upon 
 nice carpets, and feel that those whom we owed were 
 reproaching us. How sweetly shall we rest to-night, 
 every claim discharged, and the injunction obeyed 
 to owe no man any thing, except to love one an 
 other. " 
 
 " I bless God for your fortitude, for your cheering 
 smiles. They put new life into me." 
 
 These expressions of commendation and love, so 
 dear to the heart of a wife, were interrupted by a faint 
 knock at the door. A poor boy was found standing
 
 THE REVERSE. 275 
 
 on the threshold, who had occasionally been employ 
 ed in the lower services about the store or the house. 
 He was in tears, and with faltering words expressed 
 his desire to live with them. He said he had no pa 
 rents, no friends able to take care of him, and that 
 the voice of the kind lady, who had sometimes spok 
 en to him when he brought a parcel, reminded him 
 of that of his dead mother. 
 
 " We are poor ourselves now, my boy," said Mr. 
 Talmage. " We can do nothing for you. We are to 
 move away in a few days." 
 
 " Please to let me go with you ; please do /" 
 
 The lady looked imploringly at her husband. 
 
 " What, my Mary ?" 
 
 " Let us take him, and trust that He who feedeth 
 the sparrows will not fail to provide for the orphan." 
 
 The husband assented, more because his wife de 
 sired it, than from any conviction of expediency. 
 Poor Richard thankfully received a portion of the 
 baker s loaf which had been left from their evening s 
 repast, and slept soundly on the temporary bed the 
 kind lady spread for him. 
 
 The next week the family became residents of a 
 distant, agricultural village. They rented a few 
 acres of land, and a small tenement, furnished only 
 with what was necessary for comfort. Yet the per 
 fect neatness that reigned there was beautiful ; and 
 when the occupations of the day were past, and by 
 the bright lamp, Mr. Talmage read aloud from some 
 one of the books which they retained as chosen com-
 
 270 THE REVERSE. 
 
 panions, his wife seated by his side with her needle 
 or knitting- work ; the beaming smile, the animated 
 remark, the occasional song, involuntarily bursting 
 forth, showed how serene and sincere was their en 
 joyment. A summer or two spent in the country 
 during his youth had given him a taste for rural 
 employment ; and now freedom from the harassing 
 cares of business, with a life of simplicity and active 
 exercise, imparted a degree of health which he had 
 never before enjoyed. His wife also found her elas 
 ticity of spirits proportionally heightened, while the 
 charge of her household, her earnestness to learn the 
 policy, and promote the welfare of the poultry and 
 bees whom she styled her own immediate subjects 
 and her interest in all that her husband undertook, 
 particularly in the pursuits of horticulture, occupied 
 her both usefully and pleasantly. Richard proved 
 himself an invaluable assistant, having considerable 
 knowledge of practical agriculture, acquired by pass 
 ing his early childhood on a farm, while his gratitude 
 to his benefactors prompted the most untiring efforts. 
 The state of society, as is often the case in our 
 agricultural villages, was marked by intelligence, 
 morality, and a disposition for friendly intercourse. 
 The new-comers were greeted with kindness, and 
 ready to reciprocate it, and to take part in those so 
 cial duties which give due exercise to the tender 
 Christian sympathies. Their moderated desires em 
 braced, at first, only the prospect of a living, free 
 from debt, with the satisfaction of being able to aid
 
 THE REVERSE. 277 
 
 those who might need their charity. More than this 
 came, almost without their seeking. As from prin 
 ciple they wasted nothing, their small gains annually 
 accumulated, until they became owners of the spot 
 where they were originally tenants, and which had 
 constantly been improving under their occupancy. 
 Thus years fled away, until faithful Richard, desir 
 ing, with their entire approbation, to marry a deserv 
 ing young woman, it was decided to intrust to their 
 tenantry the place hitherto occupied, and erect a new 
 habitation on some land recently purchased. 
 
 Soon a tasteful cottage reared its white front on a 
 neighboring knoll, with a lofty walnut-grove for a 
 background. An acacia-hedge, intermingled at reg 
 ular intervals with the graceful sumach, bordered its 
 sloping lawn ; and the fruit-trees, which had been 
 prospectively planted, were in full prosperity. Flow 
 ering shrubs and vines imbowered the lovely man 
 sion, clustering roses adorned the winding gravel- 
 walk, and a noble, drooping elm, in patriarchal maj 
 esty, spread its broad arms over the rustic gate. The 
 traveler often paused to admire the symmetry and 
 simple elegance of the building, and the quiet re 
 pose of the shades that imbosomed it. 
 
 There, still in those habits of rural industry which 
 promote and preserve health, but in the enjoyment 
 of all the leisure they could desire, and which they 
 so well knew how to render improving both to them 
 selves and others, their time passed in felicity and in 
 love. The lady of the cottage, as years flowed on, 
 A A
 
 278 THE REVERSE. 
 
 delighted more and more in the society of the young 
 of her own sex, because she felt that it was in her 
 power to do them good. The inhabitants of the vil 
 lage, knowing that she had enjoyed the advantages 
 of a superior education, were anxious that such of 
 their daughters as had attained sufficient age to ap 
 preciate its value, should profit by intercourse with 
 her. Yielding to their solicitations, she consented 
 to give them regular instruction in the studies and 
 accomplishments that were to her familiar. Four 
 afternoons in the week, she saw her parlor pleasant 
 ly filled with the bright faces of the young whom 
 she loved, and by whom she was beloved in return. 
 While imparting to their docile rninds the healthful 
 aliment of knowledge, she was sometimes led silent 
 ly to contrast the pure, unostentatious pleasure which 
 she thus enjoyed, with that period of wasting excite 
 ment when the splendor of her dress, or the elegance 
 of her entertainments, won the adulation of a heart 
 less throng, she herself wearied and ill content with a 
 profitless existence. Striving to prepare her pupils 
 for the faithful and graceful discharge of every fem 
 inine duty, she earnestly impressed those precepts 
 of morality and piety, whose sustaining influences 
 she had from her youth experienced. Some of her 
 favorite lessons were, that there may be happiness, 
 respectability, and influence, without wealth ; that 
 the pursuit of it, as the main object of life, is mistak 
 en and dangerous ; that all expenditure beyond in 
 come is injustice ; and that to live in luxury upon
 
 THE REVERSE. 279 
 
 the property of others, withheld from them against 
 their will, and to their inconvenience or suffering, 
 is a sin against conscience, of which no consistent 
 Christian could be guilty. " Pay your debts, my 
 dear young friends," she would say, " and when you 
 have husbands, do not lead them into extravagance, 
 but be their helpers." 
 
 The good she accomplished, and the affection she 
 acquired by her judicious labors as a teacher, could 
 not be bounded by this fleeting existence. And as 
 the husband and wife, arm in arm, walked, at the 
 close of day, around the grounds, which every year 
 became more beautiful, they said to each other, 
 " How much higher enjoyment have we here found 
 than great riches, with their cares and dangers, could 
 have afforded ; and how superior is the quiet rest of 
 an approving heart to the pursuit of those shadows 
 which the gay world calls happiness."
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 AA 2
 
 " I ask the moon, so sadly fair, 
 
 The night s cold breath through shadows drawn, 
 Where are they who were mine? and where? 
 A void but answers, All are gone. " 
 
 Miss H. F. GOULD.
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 THERE was sickness in the dwelling of the emi 
 grant. Stretched upon his humble bed, he depended 
 on that nursing care which a wife, scarcely less en 
 feebled than himself, was able to bestow. A child, 
 in its third summer, had been recently laid to its last 
 rest beneath a turf mound under their window. Its 
 image was in the heart of the mother, as she tender 
 ly ministered to her husband. 
 
 " Wife, I am afraid I think too much about poor 
 little Thomas. He was so well and rosy when we 
 left our old home scarcely a year since. Sometimes 
 I feel, if we had but continued there, our darling 
 would not have died." 
 
 The tear which had long trembled, and been re 
 pressed by the varieties of conjugal solicitude, burst 
 forth at these words. It freely overflowed the brim 
 ming eyes, and relieved the suffocating emotions 
 which had striven for the mastery. 
 
 " Do not reproach yourself, dear husband. His 
 time had come. He is happier there than here. 
 Let us be thankful for those that are spared." 
 
 " It seems to me that the little girls are growing 
 pale. I am afraid you confine them too closely to 
 this narrow house, and to the sight of sickness. The
 
 284 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 weather is growing settled. You had better send 
 them out to change the air, and run about at their 
 will. Mary, lay the baby on the bed by me, and ask 
 mother to let little sister and you go out for a ram 
 ble." 
 
 The mother assented, and the children, who were 
 four and six years old, departed full of delight. A 
 clearing had been made in front of their habitation, 
 and, by ascending a knoll in its vicinity, another 
 dwelling might be seen, environed with the dark 
 spruce and hemlock. In the rear of these houses 
 was a wide expanse of ground, interspersed with 
 thickets, rocky acclivities, and patches of forest trees, 
 while far away one or two lakelets peered up, with 
 their blue eyes deeply fringed. The spirits of the 
 children, as they entered this uninclosed region, were 
 like those of the birds that surrounded them. They 
 playfully pursued each other with merry laughter, 
 and such a joyous sense of liberty as makes the blood 
 course lightsomely through the veins. 
 
 " Little Jane, let us go farther than ever we have 
 before. We will see what lies beyond those high 
 hills, for it is but just past noon, and we can get back 
 long before supper-time." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, let us follow that bright bluebird, and 
 see what he is flying after. But don t go in among 
 those briers that tear the clothes so, for mother has 
 no time to mend them." 
 
 " Sister, sweet sister, here are some snow-drops in 
 this green hollow, exactly like those in my old, dear
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 285 
 
 gaixlen so far away. How pure they are, and cool, 
 just like the baby s face, when the wind blows on it ! 
 Father and mother will like us to bring them some." 
 
 Filling their little aprons with the spoil, and still 
 searching for something new or beautiful, they pro 
 longed their ramble, unconscious of the flight of time, 
 or the extent of space they were traversing. At 
 length, admonished by the chilliness, which often 
 marks the declining hours of the early days of 
 Spring, they turned their course homeward. But 
 the returning clew was lost, and they walked rapidly, 
 only to plunge more inextricably in the mazes of the 
 wilderness. 
 
 " Sister Mary, are these pretty snow-drops good to 
 eat 1 I am so hungry, and my feet ache, and will 
 not go." 
 
 " Let me lift you over this brook, little Jane, and 
 hold tighter by my hand, and walk as brave as you 
 can, that we may get home, and help mother set the 
 table." 
 
 " We won t go so far the next time, will we ? 
 What is the reason that I can not see any better 1" 
 
 " Is not that the roof of our house, dear Jane, and 
 the thin smoke curling up among the trees 1 Many 
 times before have I thought so, and found it only a 
 rock or a mist." 
 
 As evening drew its veil, the hapless wanderers, 
 bewildered, hurried to and fro, calling for their pa 
 rents, or shouting for help, until their strength was 
 exhausted. Torn by brambles, and their poor feet
 
 286 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 bleeding from the rocks which strewed their path, 
 then sunk down, moaning bitterly. The fears that 
 overpower the heart of a timid child who for the 
 first time finds night approaching, without shelter or 
 protection, wrought on the youngest to insupportable 
 anguish. The elder, filled with the sacred warmth 
 of sisterly affection, after the first paroxysms of grief, 
 seemed to forget herself, and sitting upon the damp 
 ground, and folding the little one in her arms, rocked 
 her with a gentle movement, soothing and hushing 
 her like a nursling. 
 
 " Don t cry ! oh ! don t cry so, dearest ; say your 
 prayers, and fear will fly away." 
 
 " How can I kneel down here in the dark woods, 
 or say my prayers, when mother is not by to hear 
 me 1 I think I see a large wolf, with sharp ears, and 
 a mouth wide open, and hear noises as of many fierce 
 lions growling." 
 
 " Dear little Jane, do say, Our Father, who art 
 in heaven. Be a good girl, and, when we have 
 rested here a while, perhaps He may be pleased to 
 send some one to find us, and to fetch us home." 
 
 Harrowing was the anxiety in the lowly hut of the 
 emigrant when day drew toward its close, and the 
 children came not. A boy, their sole assistant in the 
 toils of agriculture, at his return from labor, was sent 
 in search of them, but in vain. As evening drew on, 
 the inmates of the neighboring house, and those of 
 a small hamlet at considerable distance, were alarm 
 ed, and associated in the pursuit. The agony of the
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 287 
 
 invalid parents through that night was uncontrolla 
 ble ; starting at every footstep, shaping out of every 
 breeze the accents of the lost ones returning, or their 
 cries of misery. While the morning was yet gray, 
 the father, no longer to be restrained, and armed 
 with supernatural strength, went forth, amid the rav 
 ings of his fever, to take part in the pursuit. With 
 fiery cheeks, his throbbing head bound with a hand 
 kerchief, he was seen in the most dangerous and in 
 accessible spots caverns ravines beetling cliffs 
 leading the way to every point of peril, in the phren- 
 sy of grief and disease. 
 
 The second night drew on, with one of those sud 
 den storms of sleet and snow, which sometimes chill 
 the hopes^of the young Spring. Then was a sadder 
 sight a woman with attenuated form, flying she 
 knew not whither, and continually exclaiming, " My 
 children ! my children !" It was fearful to see a 
 creature so deadly pale, with the darkness of mid 
 night about her. She heeded no advice to take care 
 of herself, nor persuasion to return to her home. 
 
 " They call me ! Let me go ! I will lay them in 
 their bed myself. How cold their feet are ! What ! 
 is Jane singing her nightly hymn without me ? No ! 
 no! She cries! Some evil serpent has stung her;" 
 and, shrieking wildly, the poor mother disappeared, 
 like a hunted deer, in the depths of the forest. 
 
 Oh ! might she but have wrapped them in her arms, 
 as they shivered in their dismal recess, under the 
 roots of a tree uptorn by some wintery tempest ! Yet
 
 288 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 how could she imagine the spot where they lay, or 
 believe that those little wearied limbs had borne 
 them, through bog and bramble, more than six miles 
 from the parental door 1 In the niche which we 
 have mentioned, a faint moaning sound might still 
 be heard. 
 
 " Sister, do not tell me that we shall never see the 
 baby any more. I see it now, and Thomas too ! 
 dear Thomas ! Why do they say he died and was 
 buried 1 He is close by me, just above my head. 
 There are many more babies with him a host. 
 They glide by me as if they had wings. They look 
 warm and happy. I should be glad to be with them, 
 and join their beautiful plays. But O, how cold I 
 am ! Cover me close, Mary. Take my head into 
 your bosom." 
 
 " Pray do not go to sleep quite yet, dear Jane. I 
 want to hear your voice, and talk with you. It is so 
 very sad to be waking here alone. If I could but 
 see your face when you are asleep, it would be a 
 comfort. But it is so dark, so dark /" 
 
 Rousing herself with difficulty, she unties her 
 apron, and spreads it over the head of the child, to 
 protect it from the driving snow ; she pillows the 
 cold cheek on her breast, and grasps more firmly 
 the benumbed hand by which she had so faithfully 
 led her, through all their terrible pilgrimage. There 
 they are ! One moves not. The other keeps vigil, 
 feebly giving utterance, at intervals, to a low, suffo 
 cating spasm from a throat dried with hunger.
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. -289 
 
 Once more she leans upon her elbow, to look on the 
 face of the little one, for whom as a mother she has 
 cared. With love strong as death, she comforts her 
 self that her sister slumbers calmly, because the 
 stroke of the destroyer has silenced her sobbings. 
 
 Ah ! why came ye not hither, torches that gleam 
 through the wilderness, and men who shout to each 
 other ? why came ye not this way 1 See ! they plunge 
 into morasses, they cut their path through tangled 
 thickets, they ford waters, they ascend mountains, 
 they explore forests but the lost are not found ! 
 
 The third and fourth nights come and depart. 
 Still the woods are filled with eager searchers. Sym 
 pathy has gathered them from remote settlements. 
 Every log-cabin sends forth what it can spare for this 
 work of pity and of sorrow. They cross each other s 
 track. Incessantly they interrogate and reply, but 
 in vain. The lost are not found ! 
 
 In her mournful dwelling, the mother sat motion 
 less. Her infant was upon her lap. The strong duty 
 to succor its helplessness, grappled with the might of 
 grief and prevailed. Her eyes were riveted upon 
 its brow. No sound passed her white lips. Pitying 
 women, from distant habitations, gathered around 
 and wept for her. They even essayed some words 
 of consolation. But she answered nothing. She 
 looked not toward them. She had no ear for human 
 voices. In her soul was the perpetual cry of the lost. 
 Nothing overpowered it, but the wail of her living 
 babe. She ministered to its necessities, and that 
 19 B u
 
 290 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 Heaven-inspired impulse saved her. She had no lon 
 ger any hope for those who had wandered away. 
 Horrid images were in her fancy the ravening beast 
 black pits of stagnant water birds of fierce beak 
 venomous, coiling snakes. She bowed herself down 
 to them, and travailed as in the birth-hour, fearfully 
 and in silence. But the helpless babe on her bosom 
 touched an electric chord, and saved her from de 
 spair. Maternal love, with its pillar of cloud and of 
 flame, guided her through the desert, that she per 
 ished not. 
 
 Sunday came, and the search was unabated. It 
 seemed only marked by a deeper tinge of melan 
 choly. The most serious felt it fitting to go forth at 
 that sacred season to seek the lost, though not, like 
 their Master, girded with the power to save. Pa 
 rents remembered that it might have been their own 
 little ones who had thus strayed from the fold, and 
 with their gratitude took a portion of the mourner s 
 spirit into their hearts. Even the sad hope of gath 
 ering the dead for the sepulchre, the sole hope that 
 now sustained their toil, began to fade into doubt. 
 As they climbed over huge trees, which the winds of 
 winter had prostrated, or forced their way among 
 rending brambles, sharp rocks, and close- woven 
 branches, they marveled how s uch fragile forms could 
 have endured hardships by which the vigor of man 
 hood was impeded and perplexed. 
 
 The echo of a gun rang suddenly through the for 
 est. It was repeated. Hill to hill bore the thrilling
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 291 
 
 message. It was the concerted signal that their anx 
 ieties were ended. The hurrying seekers followed 
 its sound. From a commanding cliff a white flag 
 was seen to float. It was the herald that the lost 
 were found. 
 
 There they were near the base of a wooded hill- 
 oc, half cradled among the roots of an uptorn chest 
 nut. There they lay, cheek to cheek, hand clasped 
 in hand. The blasts had mingled in one mesh their 
 disheveled locks, for they had left home with their 
 poor heads uncovered. The youngest had passed 
 away in sleep. There was no contortion on her 
 brow, though her features were sunk and sharpened 
 by famine. 
 
 The elder had borne a deeper and longer anguish. 
 Her eyes were open, as though she had watched till 
 death came ; watched over that little one, for whom, 
 through those days and nights of terror, she had cared 
 and son-owed like a mother. Strong and rugged men 
 shed tears when they saw she had wrapped her in 
 her own scanty apron, and striven with her embra 
 cing arms to preserve the warmth of vitality, even 
 after the cherished spirit had fled away. The glazed 
 eyeballs were strained, as if, to the last, they had 
 been gazing for her father s roof, or the wreath of 
 smoke that should guide her there. 
 
 Sweet sisterly love ! so patient in all adversity, so 
 faithful unto the end, found it not a Father s house, 
 where it might enter with the little one, and be sun 
 dered no more ? Found it not a fold whence nrvlamb
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 can wander and be lost ? a mansion where there is 
 no death, neither sorrow nor crying ] Forgot it not 
 all its sufferings for joy at that dear Redeemer s wel 
 come, which, in its cradle, it had been taught to lisp 
 " Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid 
 them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 THE ENI>.
 
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