/4 
 
SKETCHES, 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 n 
 
 * 
 
 KEY & BIDDLE-23 MINOR STREET, 
 1834. 
 
Entered according to the act of Congress in the year 1834, by 
 KEY & BIDDLE, in the clerk s office of the district court for the 
 eastern district of Pennsylvania. 
 
ps 
 
 1824- 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 1. THE FATHER Page 9 
 
 2. LEGEND OF OXFORD 23 
 
 3. THE FAMILY PORTRAITS 85 
 
 4. ORIANA 131 
 
 5. THE INTEMPERATE 175 
 
 6. THE PATRIARCH. . , .199 
 
THE FATHER. 
 
 : Yes, 1 am he, who look d and saw decay 
 Steal o er the lov d of earth, the ador d too much. 
 It is a fearful thing, to love what Death may touch." 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 I WAS in the full tide of a laborious and absorb 
 ing profession, of one which imposes on intellect 
 an unsparing discipline, but ultimately opens the 
 avenues to wealth and fame. I pursued it, as one 
 determined on distinction, as one convinced that 
 mind may assume a degree of omnipotence over 
 matter and circumstance, and popular opinion. Am 
 bition s promptings were strong within me, nor was 
 its career unprosperous. I had no reason to com 
 plain that its promises were deceptive, or its harvest 
 tardy. 
 
 Yet as my path was among the competitions and 
 asperities of men, a character combining strong ele 
 ments might have been in danger of becoming in 
 durated, had it not been softened and refined by the 
 domestic charities. Conjugal love, early fixing on 
 an object most amiable and beautiful, was as a foun 
 tain of living water, springing up to allay thirst, 
 and to renovate weariness. I was anxious that my 
 home should be the centre of intellectual and polish 
 ed society, where the buddings of thought should 
 
10 THE FATHER. 
 
 expand unchilled, and those social feelings which 
 are the life-blood of existence, flow forth, unfettered 
 by heartless ceremony. And it was so. 
 
 But my present purpose is to delineate a single, 
 and simple principle of our nature, the most deep- 
 rooted and holy, the love of a father for a daugh 
 ter. My province has led me to analyze mankind ; and 
 in doing this, I have sometimes thrown their affec 
 tions into the crucible. And the one of which I 
 speak, has come forth most pure, most free from 
 drossy admixture. Even the earth that combines 
 with it, is not like other earth. It is what the foot 
 of a seraph might rest upon, and contract no pollu 
 tion. With the love of our sons, ambition mixes its 
 spirit, till it becomes a fiery essence. We anticipate 
 great things for them, we covet honors, we goad 
 them on in the race of glory ; if they are victors, 
 we too proudly exult, if vanquished, we are pros 
 trate and in bitterness. Perhaps we detect in them 
 the same latent perverseness, with which we have 
 waged warfare in our own breasts, or some imbecility 
 of purpose with which we have no affinity ; and then, 
 from the very nature of our love, an impatience is 
 generated, which they have no power to soothe, or 
 we to control. A father loves his son, as he loves 
 himself, and in all selfishness, there is a bias to dis 
 order and pain. But his love for his daughter is 
 different and more disinterested ; possibly he believes 
 that it is called forth by a being of a higher and 
 better order. It is based on the integral and immu- 
 
THE FATHER. 11 
 
 table principles of his nature. It recognizes the sex 
 in hearts, and from the very gentleness and mystery 
 of womanhood, takes that coloring and zest which 
 romance gathers from remote antiquity. It draws 
 nutriment from circumstances which he may not 
 fully comprehend, from the power which she posses 
 ses to awaken his sympathies, to soften his irrita 
 bility, to sublimate his aspirations ; while the sup 
 port and protection which she claims in return, ele 
 vate him with a consciousness of assimilation to the 
 ministry of those benevolent and powerful spirits, 
 who ever " bear us up in their hands, lest we dash 
 our foot against a stone." 
 
 I should delight longer to dwell on this develop 
 ment of affection, for who can have known it more 
 perfectly in its length and breadth, in its depth and 
 height 1 I had a daughter, beautiful in infancy, to 
 whom every year added some new charm to awaken 
 admiration, or to rivet love. To me, it was of no 
 slight import, that she resembled her mother, and 
 that in grace and accomplishment, she early surpass 
 ed her cotemporaries. I was desirous that her mind 
 should be worthy of the splendid temple allotted 
 for its habitation. I decided to render it familiar 
 with the whole circle of the arts and sciences. I 
 was not satisfied with the commendation of her 
 teachers. I determined to take my seat in the sacred 
 pavilion of intellect, and superintend what entered 
 there. But how should one buried beneath the pon 
 derous tomes and Sysiphean toils of jurisprudence, 
 
12 THE FATHER. 
 
 gain freedom, or undivided thought, for such minute 
 supervision? A father s love can conquer, if it 
 cannot create. I deprived myself of sleep : I sat till 
 the day dawned, gathering materials for the lectures 
 that I gave her. I explored the annals of architec 
 ture and sculpture, the recesses of literature and 
 poetry, the labyrinthine and colossal treasure-houses 
 of history, I entered the ancient catacombs of the 
 illustrious dead, traversed the regions of the dim and 
 shadowy past, with no coward step, ransacked 
 earth and heaven, to add one gem to her casket. 
 At stated periods, I required her to condense, to 
 illustrate, to combine, what I had brought her. I 
 listened, with wonder, to her intuitive eloquence : I 
 gazed with intense delight upon the intellect that I 
 thus embellished, upon the Corinthian capital that 
 I had erected and adorned. Not a single acanthus- 
 leaf started forth, but I cherished and fostered it with 
 the dews of a father s blessing. 
 
 Yet while the outpoured riches of a masculine un 
 derstanding were thus incorporating themselves with 
 her softer structure, I should not have been content, 
 unless she had also borne the palm of female grace 
 and loveliness. Was it therefore nothing to me, that 
 she evinced in her bloom of youth, a dignity sur 
 passing her sex, that in symmetry she restored the 
 image of the Medicean Venus, that amid the circles 
 of rank and fashion, she was the model the cyno 
 sure ? Still was she saved from that vanity which 
 would have been the destroyer of all these charms, 
 
THE FATHER. 13 
 
 by the hallowed prevalence of her filial piety. It 
 was for my sake, that she strove to render herself 
 the most graceful among women, -for my sake, that 
 she rejoiced in the effect of her attainments. Her 
 gentle and just nature felt that the " husbandman who 
 had labored, should be first partaker of the fruits." 
 Returning from those scenes of splendor, where she 
 was the object of every eye, the theme of every 
 tongue, when the youthful bosom might be forgiven 
 for inflation from the clouds of incense that had 
 breathed upon it, to the inquiry of her mother, if 
 she had been happy, the tender and sweet reply 
 was, "Yes, because I saw that my dear father 
 was so." 
 
 Sometimes, I was conscious of gathering rough 
 ness from the continual conflict with passion and 
 prejudice, and that the fine edge of the feelings could 
 not ever be utterly proof against the corrosions of 
 such an atmosphere. Then I sought my home, and 
 called my bird of song, and listened to the warbling 
 of her high, heaven-toned voice. The melody of 
 that music fell upon my soul, like oil upon the trou 
 bled billows, and all was tranquil. I wondered 
 where my perturbations had fled, but still more, 
 that I had ever indulged them. Sometimes, the tur 
 moil and fluctuation of the world, threw a shade of 
 dejection over me : then it was her pride to smooth 
 my brow, and to restore its smile. Once, a sor 
 row of no common order had fallen upon me ; it 
 rankled in my breast, like a dagger s point ; I came 
 B 
 
14 THE FATHER. 
 
 to my house, but I shunned all its inmates. I threw 
 myself down, in solitude, that I might wrestle alone 
 with my fate, and subdue it ; a light footstep ap 
 proached, but I heeded it not. A form of beauty 
 was on the sofa, by my side, but I regarded it not. 
 Then my hand was softly clasped, breathed upon, 
 pressed to ruby lips. It was enough. I took my 
 daughter in my arms, and my sorrow vanished. 
 Had she essayed the hackneyed expressions of sym 
 pathy, or even the usual epithets of endearment, I 
 might have desired her to leave my presence. Had 
 she uttered only a single word, it would have been 
 too much, so wounded was my spirit within me. 
 But the deed, the very poetry of tenderness, breath 
 ing, not speaking, melted " the winter of my dis 
 content." Ever was she endued with that most 
 exquisite of woman s perfections, a knowledge both 
 when to be silent, and where to speak, and so to 
 speak, that the frosts might dissolve from around 
 the heart she loved, and its discords be tuned to 
 harmony. 
 
 Thus was she my comforter, and in every hour 
 of our intercourse, was my devotion to her happi 
 ness richly repaid. Was it strange that I should 
 gaze on the work of my own hands with ineffable 
 delight? At twilight I quickened my homeward 
 step, with the thought of that countenance, which 
 was both my evening and morning star ; as the bird 
 nerves her wearied wing, when she hears from the 
 still-distant forest, the chirpings of her own nest. 
 
THE FATHER. 15 
 
 I sat in the house of God, in the silence of sab 
 bath meditation, and tears of thrilling exultation 
 moistened my eyes. I gazed upon my glorious 
 creature, in the stainless blossom of unfolding youth, 
 and my whole soul overflowed with a father s pride. 
 I said, What more can man desire 1 I challenged 
 the whole earth to add another drop to my cup 
 of felicity. Did I forget to give glory to the Al 
 mighty, that his decree even then went forth, to smite 
 down my idol ? 
 
 I came from engrossing toil, and found her rest 
 less, with strange fire upon her cheek. Fever had 
 lain rankling in her veins, and they had concealed 
 it from me. I raved. I filled my house with phy 
 sicians. I charged them wildly to restore her to 
 health and to me. It was in vain. I saw that God 
 claimed her. His will was written upon her brow. 
 The paleness and damps of the tomb settled upon 
 her. 
 
 I knelt by the bed of death, and gave her back to 
 her Creator. Amid the tears and groans of mourn 
 ers, I lifted up a firm voice. A fearful courage en 
 tered into me. I seemed to rush even upon the 
 buckler of the Eternal. I likened myself unto him 
 who, on Mount Moria, " stretched forth his hand, and 
 took the knife to slay his son." The whole energy 
 of my nature armed itself for the awful conflict. I 
 gloried in my strength to suffer. With terrible sub 
 limity, I stood forth, as the High Priest of my smit 
 ten and astonished household. I gave the lamb in 
 
10 THE FATHER. 
 
 sacrifice, with an unshrinking hand, though it was 
 my own heart s blood, that steeped, and streamed 
 over the altar. 
 
 It was over. She had gone. She stayed not 
 for my embraces. She was permitted to give me 
 no parting- token. The mind that I had adored, 
 shrouded itself and fled. I knew that the seal upon 
 those eyes must not be broken, till the trump of the 
 Archangel. 
 
 Three days and nights, I sat by the dead. Beauty 
 lingered there, in deep, and solemn, and sacred re 
 pose. I laid my head upon her pillow. I pressed 
 my lips to hers, and their ice entered into my soul. 
 I spoke to her of the angels, her companions. I 
 talked long to the beautiful spirit, and methought, it 
 answered me. Then I listened breathlessly, but 
 " there was no voice, nor any that regarded." And 
 still, I wept not. 
 
 The fatal day came, in which even that clay was 
 to be no longer mine. The funeral knell, with its 
 heavy, yet suppressed summons, came over me like 
 the dividing of soul and body. There was a flood of 
 weeping, when that form, once so replete with every 
 youthful charm, so instinct with the joyous move 
 ment of the mysterious principle of life, was borne 
 in marble stillness from its paternal halls. The eye 
 of the mother that bore her, of the friend that had 
 but casually beheld her, even of the poor menial 
 that waited upon her, knew the luxury of tears. 
 All were wet with that balm of sorrow, to overflow 
 ing all save mine. 
 
THE FATHER. 17 
 
 The open grave had a revolting aspect. 1 could 
 not bear that the form which I had worshipped, should 
 be left to its cold and hideous guardianship. At the 
 hollow sound of the first falling clod, I would fain 
 have leaped into the pit, and demanded her. But 1 
 ruled myself. I committed her to the frozen earth, 
 without a tear. There was a tremendous majesty 
 in such grief. I was a wonder to myself. 
 
 I returned to my desolated abode. The silence 
 that reigned there was appalling. My spirit sank 
 beneath it, as a stone goes down into the depths of 
 ocean, bearing the everlasting burden of its fathom 
 less tide. I sought the room where I had last seen 
 her, arrayed in the vestments of the tomb. There 
 lay the books which we had read together. Their 
 pages bore the marks of her pencil. I covered my 
 eyes from them, and turned away. I bowed down 
 to inhale the fragrance of her flowers, and felt that 
 they had no right to bloom so fair, when she, their 
 culturer and their queen, was blighted. I pressed 
 my fingers upon the keys of her piano, and started 
 back at the mournful sound they made. I wander 
 ed to her own apartment. I threw myself on the 
 couch where from infancy she had slumbered. I 
 trusted to have wept there. But my grief was too 
 mighty, to be thus unchained. It disdained the relief 
 of tears. I seemed to rush as upon a drawn sword, 
 and still it refused to pierce me. 
 
 Yet all this was when no eye saw me. In the 
 presence of others, I was like Mount Atlas, bearing 
 unmoved the stormy heavens upon his shoulders. 
 y B2 
 
18 THE FATHER. 
 
 I went forth, amid the jarring competitions and 
 perpetual strifes of men. I adjusted their opposing 
 interests, while I despised them and their concerns. 
 I unravelled their perplexities. I penetrated their 
 subterfuges. I exposed their duplicity. I cut the 
 Gordian knots of their self-conceit. I made the 
 " crooked straight, and the rough places plain," 
 with an energy that amazed them and myself. It 
 was like that of a spirit, which has nothing to do 
 with the flesh. I suffered the tumult of my soul to 
 breathe itself out in bursts of stormy declamation. 
 I exerted the strength of a giant, when it was not 
 required. I scorned to balance power with necessi 
 ty. The calculations of prudence, and the devices 
 of cunning, seemed equally pitiful, and despicable. 
 I put forth the same effort to crush an emmet, as to 
 uproot the oak of a thousand centuries. It was suf 
 ficient for me always to triumph. While men mar 
 velled at the zeal with which I served them, I was 
 loathing them in my heart. I was sick of their chi 
 canery, and their Sabbathless rush after empty 
 honors and perishable dross. The whole world 
 seemed to me, " less than nothing, and vanity." 
 Still, I was sensible of neither toil, nor fatigue, nor 
 physical exhaustion. I was like one, who in his 
 troubled dream of midnight, treads on air, and finds 
 it strangely sustaining him. 
 
 But every night, I went to my daughter s grave. 
 I laid me down there, in unutterable bitterness. While 
 the stars looked coldly on me, I spoke to her fondly 
 
THE FATHER. 19 
 
 and earnestly, as one who could not be denied. I 
 said, " Angel ! who art mine no longer, listen to 
 me. Thou, who art raised above all tears, cause 
 one tear to moisten my burning brow. Give it to 
 me, as a token that thou hearest me, that thou hast 
 not forgotten me." And the blasts of Winter, through 
 the leafless boughs, mocking replied, " Give it to 
 me, Give it to me" But I wept not. Ten days 
 and nights passed over me, and still I wept not. 
 
 My brain was heated to agony. The visual 
 nerves were scorched and withered. My heart was 
 parched and arid, as the Libyan desert. Then I 
 knew that the throne of Grief was in the heart : 
 that though her sceptre may reach the remotest nerve, 
 and touch the minutest cell where the brain slum 
 bers, and perplex every ethereal ambassador from 
 spirit to sense, yet the pavilion where her darkest 
 dregs are wrung out, the laboratory where her con 
 suming fires are compounded, is the heart, the 
 heart. 
 
 I have implied that my intellect faltered. Yet 
 every morning I went to the scene of my labors. I 
 put my shoulder to the wheel, caring not though it 
 crushed me. I looked at men fixedly and haughtily 
 with my red eye-balls. But I spoke no word to 
 betray the flame feeding at my vitals. The heart 
 strings shrivelled and broke before it, yet the martyr 
 dom was in silence. 
 
 Again, Night drew her sable curtain, and I sought 
 my daughter s grave. Methought, its turf-covering 
 
20 THE FATHER. 
 
 was discomposed, and some half-rooted shrubs that 
 shuddered and drooped when placed in that drear 
 assemblage of the dead, had been trampled and bro 
 ken. A horrible suspicion took possession of my 
 mind. I rushed to the house of the sexton. " Has 
 any one troubled my daughter s grave ?" Alarmed 
 at my vehemence, he remained speechless and irre 
 solute. 
 
 " Tell me," I exclaimed, in a voice of terror, 
 " who has disturbed my daughter s grave." He 
 evaded my adjuration, and murmured something 
 about an injunction to secrecy. With the grasp of 
 a maniac, I bore him to an inner apartment, and 
 bade him satisfy my question. Trembling at my 
 violence, he confessed that the grave had been watch 
 ed for ten nights. 
 
 " Who has watched my daughter s grave ?" Re 
 luctantly he gave me the names of those friends, 
 names forever graven upon my soul. 
 
 And so, for those ten long, wintry nights, so 
 dreary and interminable, which I had cast away 
 amid the tossings of profitless, delirious, despairing 
 sorrow, they had been watching, that the repose of 
 that unsullied clay might remain unbroken. 
 
 A new tide of emotion was awakened. I threw 
 myself down, as powerless as the weaned infant. 
 Torrents of tears flowed. The tenderness of man 
 wrought what the severity of Heaven had failed to 
 produce. It was not the earthquake, nor the thun 
 der, nor the tempest, that subdued me. It was the 
 
THE FATHER. 21 
 
 still, small voice. I wept until the fountains of tears 
 failed. The relief of that hour of weeping, can never 
 be shadowed forth in language. The prison-house 
 of passionate agony was unlocked. I said to God that 
 he was merciful, and I loved him because my angel 
 lived in his presence. Since then, it would seem, 
 that my heart has been made better. Its aspirations 
 are upward, whither she has ascended, and as I tread 
 the devious path of my pilgrimage, both the sunbeam 
 and the thorn point me as a suppliant to the Re 
 deemer of Man, that I may be at last fitted to dwell 
 with her for ever. 
 
 Hartford, October 28, 1833. 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 Our fathers found bleak heath and desert moor, 
 Wild woodland, and savannahs wide and waste, 
 Rude country of rude dwellers." 
 
 SOUTHEY S Madoc. 
 
 POSSIBLY it may be unknown, except to a few 
 antiquarians, that the beautiful town of Oxford, in 
 Massachusetts, was originally a colony of French 
 Protestants. They first taught its forests the sound 
 of the woodman s axe, and extended to its roving 
 and red-browed sons, the hand of amity. 
 
 Wherever the Huguenot character mingled in tKe 
 political formation of this Western World, its infu 
 sion was bland, and salutary. Industry, patience, 
 cheerful endurance of evil, ardent social affections, 
 and a piety firm but not austere, were its distinctive 
 features. In their gentle community, Age did not 
 lay aside its sympathies with Youth, or feel exiled 
 from its sweet companionship. The white hair of 
 wisdom gave no death-signal to cheerfulness. The 
 grandsire, with his snowy temples, was still the fa 
 vorite and delighted associate of his blooming de 
 scendants. The religion from whose root such fruits 
 sprang, made it no part of its theory to dismiss the 
 smile, or call in moroseness as an adjunct, or robe 
 
24 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 the Sabbath in sable, as if the Creator had marked 
 that consecrated day by a frown on his works, in 
 stead of pronouncing them " very good." Still the 
 elements of their piety, combined without sternness 
 or ostentation, an inflexible adherence to duty, and 
 a spirit, " faithful unto death, for conscience sake." 
 The loss of half a million of such inhabitants to 
 France, was a consequence of the persecutions of 
 Louis XIV. His long-cherished intolerance took the 
 form of madness, in the revocation of the Edict of 
 Nantz. The expulsion of multitudes of his most 
 unoffending and loyal subjects, justified the strong 
 metaphor of Queen Christina, " France is a dis 
 eased man, submitting to the amputation of his limbs, 
 to cure what a gentle regimen might conquer." 
 The sufferings of the Protestants from the mis 
 guided zeal of their monarch, have left deep traces 
 on the annals of History. Their worship of God 
 obstructed, their churches demolished, their Pastors 
 silenced, imprisoned, or led to martyrdom, an inso 
 lent soldiery made the inmates of their peaceful 
 homes, licensed to every outrage by a commission 
 to convert the heretics, and finally their children 
 torn from them, and committed to the tutelage and 
 discipline of monks, prepared them for the fatal cli 
 max, the abolition of that Edict of Henry of Na 
 varre, which, a century before, had guarantied the 
 safety of their ancestors. The repeal of this $>yal 
 act of protection, in December, 1685, removed the 
 last barrier between them and the raging flood which 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 5 
 
 threatened to overwhelm them. Every hour thfey 
 expected a repetition of the horrors of St. Bartholo 
 mew. 
 
 Flight from the beloved land of their birth, seem 
 ed the only alternative. Even to this painful resort, 
 obstacles were opposed by the despot, who forgot that 
 one requisition of a king was to be the father of his 
 people. Soldiers were stationed to intercept their 
 progress, and prevent their embarkation. They 
 were driven literally, to take shelter in " dens, and 
 caves of the earth." Fathers were forced to immure 
 their families in damp and pestilental caverns, whence 
 they issued, the very shadows of themselves. Deli 
 cate females, whom the winds had never roughly 
 visited, wandered, half-clad, amid the chills of win 
 ter, or implored at the peasant s hut a temporary 
 refuge. Mothers, in the recesses of dreary forests, 
 hushed their wailing infants, lest their cries of mise 
 ry should guide the search of some brutal captor. 
 
 The sea-ports were thronged with fugitives, in 
 every guise and garb of wretchedness. Rochelle 
 for weeks overflowed with the exiles of Languedoc 
 and Roussillon, of Gascoigne and Dauphine. There 
 might be seen the aged, with hurrying, tottering 
 steps, the matron, matured in the lap of indulgence, 
 with crowds of wandering and miserable babes. 
 They came under covert of midnight, or drenched 
 by the storm : neither fatigue, nor menace, deterred 
 them. " Let us go," they exclaimed, with frantic 
 gestures. " We leave to you our pleasant homes and 
 C 
 
26 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 our vineyards. Let us go, with our wives and our 
 little ones ; we know not whither, But in God s 
 name, let us go." The cry of Israel, in the house 
 of Egyptian bondage, seemed to re-echo through 
 the beautiful vales of France : though no majestic 
 prophet adjured the ruthless tyrant, in the name of 
 the Lord, " Let my people go, that they may 
 serve me." 
 
 Hundreds of thousands conquered every obstacle, 
 and effected their escape. Favor in foreign lands 
 was extended to them, and that pity was shown by 
 strangers, which their own kindred and king de 
 nied. 
 
 Our New World profited by this prodigality of 
 the Old. Those whom she cast out as " despised, 
 broken vessels, in whom there was no pleasure," 
 added cement, and symmetry and strength to our 
 magnificent temple of freedom. Their descendants, 
 scattered and incorporated widely among the people 
 of these United States, still bear the mantle of an 
 cestral virtue. It would seem that they inherit some 
 share in the blessing of their fathers, who going forth, 
 like the Patriarch, " not knowing whither they went, 
 found their faith accounted as righteousness." 
 
 It was in the depth of the winter of 1686, that a 
 ship tossed by contending storms, and repeatedly 
 repulsed from the bleak New-England coast, was 
 seen slowly entering the harbor of Boston. It was 
 thronged with Huguenot families, who, haggard from 
 the sufferings of their protracted voyage, were eager 
 to obtain refuge and repose. 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 27 
 
 Scarcely more than three-score years had elapsed 
 since the footsteps of the Pilgrim-Fathers first ex 
 plored the dreary rocks and trackless wilds of Ply 
 mouth. Persecution for righteousness* sake, the 
 abandonment of their own loved land, their perils 
 on the ocean, and in the wilderness, those toils, pri 
 vations and hardships, with which they gladly pur 
 chased " freedom to worship God," were still within 
 the memory of the living. The echo of those hymns 
 of " lofty cheer, with which they shook the depths 
 of the desert gloom," was still treasured in the bo 
 soms, and swelled in the domestic sanctuary, of 
 their descendants. A class of sympathies was there 
 fore in active exercise, which insured the welcome 
 of the tempest-tost aliens. The few hoary-headed 
 pilgrims who survived, could not fail to regard with 
 peculiar emotion, those spirits with whom their own 
 had strong affinity. 
 
 This colony of Huguenots was attended by their 
 Pastor, the Reverend Pierre Daille, a descendant of 
 the learned John Daille, distinguished as an author, 
 and especially by the work, entitled " An Apology 
 for the Reformed Churches." Father Daille, as he 
 was styled by his flock, more from the filial love 
 they bore him, than from any seniority of age, was 
 a man of exquisite sensibility, tempered by the meek 
 ness of the Gospel which he preached, and whose 
 pure precepts he consistently exemplified. His de 
 portment evinced that true politeness which springs 
 from regard for the feelings of others, and a bene- 
 
2S LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 nevolent desire to add to their happiness. Hence he 
 invariably conciliated those with whom he associated, 
 and the use he made of the influence thus acquired, 
 was to call forth the better feelings of their nature, 
 to elevate their standard of principle or practice, 
 and to recommend the religion of Jesus his Master. 
 Among those who gave to him, and his people, the 
 warm welcome of the Western World, it was not 
 surprising that he should discover a delightful reci 
 procity in Elliot, the venerable apostle of the Indians. 
 Laying aside the classical superiority which he at 
 tained at the University of Cambridge, in his native 
 land, he had been the patient translator of the Scrip 
 tures, into the barbarous dialect of the sons of the 
 forest. There was in his demeanor, that perfect 
 gentleness, and self-renunciation, which inspires even 
 the savage breast with love. Though at this time 
 82 years of age, he still continued his mission of 
 mercy to those destitute beings, often partaking of 
 their coarse fare, and stretching himself, at night, 
 upon the cold, earthern floors of their miserable 
 habitations. But amid the self-denying calmness 
 of his deportment, those who looked deeply into his 
 eye, might discern some cast of that quiet and deter 
 mined courage, which had so often quelled the fiercest 
 chieftains, and ruled those paroxysms of anger which 
 threatened his death, by the unmoved reply, " I am 
 about God s work : he will take care of me." 
 
 At one of his early interviews with Father Daille, 
 he introduced a red-browed man, on whose arm he 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 29 
 
 leaned : " I present to you," said he, " my brother 
 of the forest, and my son in the faith." This was 
 Hiacomes, his first Indian convert to the Gospel, 
 whom he had himself ordained as Pastor over a na 
 tive church in Martha s Vineyard, and whose exam 
 ple and ministrations justified that high confidence. 
 He was a man of commanding presence, grave, 
 slow of speech, and so erect and vigorous, that it 
 was difficult to believe that almost fourscore winters 
 had passed over him. With them also came the 
 Reverend John Mayhew, whose lofty forehead, and 
 intellectual features, were lighted up with an undy 
 ing benevolence for the poor aborigines ; the accom 
 plished Dudley, recently appointed to the office of 
 Governor, and pleased, perhaps proud, of that " brief 
 authority ;" Michael Wigglesworth, the allegorical 
 poet, with the most unpoetical name ; and Increase 
 Mather, the stately President of Harvard College, 
 conscious of the dignity that he sustained, and full 
 of power to sustain it nobly. His voice, which in 
 the fervid denunciations of pulpit eloquence, was 
 said to have the force of thunder, adapted itself me 
 lodiously to the tones of conversation, arid the ex 
 pressions of friendship. He was sometimes accom 
 panied by his son, the future author of the " Mag- 
 nalia Christi Americana," then a young man of 23, 
 in whose intelligent countenance and restless glance 
 might be traced that love of knowledge which neu 
 tralizes the toil of the severest study, that latent 
 superstition which was to spring up as an earnest 
 C 2 
 
30 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 advocate of the diabolical delusions at Salem, and 
 that deep-rooted benevolence which adopted even in 
 boyhood, the motto, " never to be in company with 
 any person, without endeavoring to do him some 
 good." The acquaintance and friendship of such 
 men, and others, whom our limits will not allow 
 us to mention, breathed with soothing and strength 
 ening influence over the hearts of the exiles from 
 France. 
 
 Boston, at the period of which we speak, exhibit 
 ed none of the rudiments of its present magnificence. 
 Its population of between 3 and 4,000, were princi 
 pally intent on the necessary means of subsistence. 
 No lofty spires pointed in their glory of architecture 
 to Him, whose pavilion is above the cloud, and whose 
 dwelling is in the humblest heart. No liberally en 
 dowed institutions, no mansions of surpassing splen 
 dor, then evinced that like ancient Tyre, her " mer 
 chants were princes, and her traffickers the honorable 
 of the earth." Yet even then, in the intellectual 
 cast of her sons, in her deep and sober reverence for 
 knowledge, in her establishment of an University 
 almost coeval with the first breath of her own po 
 litical existence, might be seen those elements of 
 thought and action, which have since made her to 
 America, what Athens was to Greece. The hospi 
 tality with which she still detains the step of the 
 traveller, and quickens his admiration of her beauti 
 ful localities, was at this early period in vigorous 
 exercise. It had somewhat of that added fervor, 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 31 
 
 which a rude, primeval state of society induces, 
 where community of danger inspires strong fellow- 
 feelings, and simplicity of life banishes the ceremony 
 that chills the heart, and the luxury that renders it 
 imbecile. 
 
 During the winter that the Huguenots thus enjoy- 
 ed shelter and sympathy from their new-found 
 brethren, preparations were in progress for their 
 obtaining a more permanent home. These negotia 
 tions eventually terminated in the purchase of a 
 tract of land, in the county of Worcester, about 
 thirty miles from Boston, recommended both by 
 native fertility, and beauty of situation. The stream, 
 whose line of crystal variegates with its graceful 
 windings those vales of verdure, received from the 
 emigrants the name of French River ; but why 
 they gave their new residence the appellation of 
 Oxford, in preference to one fraught with the mel 
 lifluent tones and romantic recollections of their own 
 delightful land, history does not inform us. Perhaps 
 at the moment of baptizing this lodge in the wilder 
 ness, their torn hearts wished to lave in the waters 
 of Lethe, the hand that had wounded them. Per 
 haps they deemed it wise, to stifle emotions, which 
 were too tender and torturing for their peace. Or 
 perhaps, some claim of unrecorded gratitude prompt 
 ed the name of their adoption. Suffice it to say, 
 that Oxford, or, as some traditions assert, New-Ox 
 ford, was the nomenclature of their infant settlement. 
 
 At the earliest indications of the broken sway of 
 
32 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 winter the more hardy of the colonists, went to take 
 possession of the territory, and to erect temporary 
 habitations for their families. Spring had some 
 what advanced, ere the more delicate part of the 
 community followed. The young turf was spring 
 ing, and the silver leaf of the willow had hung out 
 its banner. 
 
 On the hardships and privations appointed them, 
 they entered with a patience and cheerfulness which 
 nothing could subdue. They rejoiced to find a 
 temple where God might be worshipped, free from 
 the tyranny of man, though that temple was amid 
 forests, which the step of civilization had never 
 explored. Those who had been nurtured amid the 
 genial breathing of a luxuriant clime, who had im 
 bibed the fragrance of the vine-flower in their infant 
 slumbers, went forth to daily labor, amid tangled 
 thickets, where the panther and wolf howled, and 
 nightly returned to their rude cabins, with a smile 
 of gratitude, " an everlasting . hymn within their 
 souls." 
 
 Among the early cares of the colonists, was the 
 erection of a fort, as a place of refuge, in case of 
 an attack from the native dwellers of the forest. 
 They found themselves borderers upon the territory 
 of a powerful tribe, and stories of the cruelty of 
 Indian warfare, which had occupied a prominent 
 place among the winter evening tales of their friends 
 in Boston, had made deep impression upon the minds 
 of an imaginative people. Political motives, there- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 33 
 
 fore, as well as their own peaceful and pitying dis 
 positions, led them, while they stood prepared for 
 evil, to make every effort to soothe and conciliate 
 their savage neighbors. They extended to them, 
 at every opportunity, the simple rites of hospitality, 
 and their bland and gentle manners apparently won 
 the friendship of those proud, yet susceptible abo 
 rigines. 
 
 In the lapse of a year after the arrival of the 
 Huguenots, their settlement began to assume the 
 features of regularity. Its simple abodes equalled 
 the number of families, and an air of neatness and 
 even of comfort, pervaded them. Each dwelling 
 had a small spot, allotted to horticulture, from whose 
 broken surface, newly exposed to the free action of 
 the sun, the seeds of France might be seen timidly- 
 emerging, and striving to become naturalized in a 
 foreign soil. In a large field, held as common 
 property, the maize had already appeared in straight 
 and stately ranks, its intervals enlivened by the va 
 ried hues of the bright bean-blossom. Lycurgus 
 might here have seen illustrated his favorite plan 
 of the Laconian brotherhood, where without conten 
 tion, each should give his labor to the earth, and 
 without jealousy apportion its treasures. The natives, 
 seeking for game in the neighboring thickets, fre 
 quently paused to regard the movements of the new 
 settlers. But it did not escape their observation, 
 that the simple expressions of amity with which 
 their arrival had been welcomed, soon subsided into 
 
34 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 a reserved deportment, varied occasionally by marks 
 of stupid wonder, or decided aversion. At length 
 the son of the forest utterly avoided the habitations 
 of his white neighbors, where he had sometimes 
 accepted a shelter for the night, or a covert from the 
 storm. Still he might be seen with a dejected brow, 
 lingering near their cultivated fields, and regarding 
 their more skilful operations of agriculture, with an 
 ill-defined emotion. This was by some explained 
 as the result of envy, by others of hatred, infused 
 by the powaws, who continually impressed the idea 
 that these pale intruders would eventually root the 
 red man out of his father s land. Yet these symp 
 toms of disaffection, however variously interpreted, 
 were ominous ; and the resolution was unanimous, 
 to preserve the most conciliatory deportment, yet to 
 take every precaution for safety, and not to go un 
 armed even to daily labor. Thus the musket was 
 the companion of the implements of rural toil, as 
 in the days of Nehemiah the restorers of Jerusalem 
 wrought " every man with one hand upon the wall, 
 and with the other held his spear, having his sword 
 girded by his side." 
 
 It was after sunset on a summer s day in 1687, 
 as the colonists were returning from the field, that 
 a party of natives was observed to approach, appa 
 rently with an intention of cutting off their commu 
 nication with their abodes. Continuing to reject 
 every attempt at parley, and bearing on their dark 
 brows the sullen purpose of vengeance, they passed 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 35 
 
 slowly onward in an oblique direction, as if to obtain 
 possession of the rising grounds in the neighbor 
 hood of the fort. A momentary council was held 
 among the emigrants, who were compelled to per 
 ceive that their destruction was meditated. Conscious 
 that they embodied the effective strength of the colony, 
 and that on their present decision its existence de 
 pended, they were anxious to avoid rashness, and 
 yet not to testify such regard for their personal 
 safety, as might give to the watchful foe, an appear 
 ance of timidity. They observed that they were 
 greatly outnumbered, but that only a few of their 
 enemies were provided with fire-arms, the remainder 
 carrying bows and tomahawks. Three muskets 
 were immediately fired in rapid succession, accord 
 ing to a previous agreement, as a signal for the fe 
 males and children to take refuge in the fort, if 
 their husbands and fathers should be attacked at a 
 distance from home. Then forming into a solid body, 
 they marched onward with a firm step, having their 
 pieces loaded, but not deeming it expedient to hazard 
 the first assault. Each silently revolved the deso 
 lation that would ensue, upon their fall, to the infant 
 settlement, the peaceful fire-side, and those dearer 
 than life. 
 
 Yet with unshrinking bravery they approached 
 their terrible opponents, and in silent aspirations in 
 voked that Being, with whom it is " nothing to save, 
 whether by many, or by them who have no help." 
 The shifting lines of the enemy became stationary, 
 
36 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 having gained the brow of an acclivity, where were 
 several large trees, behind which they could be shel 
 tered, according to their mode of warfare. Many 
 of the warriors were already stationed behind these 
 fortifications, while the remainder intercepted the 
 path along which the Huguenots were advancing 
 toward their homes. This post, though chosen by 
 these sons of nature without knowledge of tactics, 
 was highly advantageous. Their fire in front, upon 
 those who ascended the hill, would be greatly an 
 noying ; on the right, their marksmen sheltered by 
 trees might take deadly aim with little danger of 
 retaliation, while on the left, a thick forest, obstruct 
 ed by underwood, promised to baffle the flight of 
 fugitives. In the rear, at the distance of half a mile, 
 lay the fort, where they might, after vanquishing 
 their protectors, wreak on the helpless ones the ven 
 geance of extermination. Already they viewed the 
 objects of their hatred as within their grasp, and a 
 murmur of savage joy ran through their ranks, pre 
 paratory to the yell of battle. They silently singled 
 out their victims for the triumph and for the stake, 
 and deemed the blood of their invaders would be a 
 just and grateful offering to the spirits of their 
 fathers, angry, even amid fields of light, that their 
 sons could tamely resign their heritage. The Chris 
 tians had begun to ascend the hill. They were within 
 thirty paces of those who sought their destruction. 
 Yet they paused, ere the fatal conflict should send 
 into eternity they knew not how many souls. Every 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 37 
 
 head was uncovered, and every knee bent to the 
 earth. In one deep, solemn response, their mingled 
 voices broke forth, " Deliver us, O Jehovah ! from 
 the hand of the unrighteous, and cruel man : for 
 thou art our hope, O God ! thou art our trust from 
 our youth." They rose and advanced, with souls 
 prepared either for victory or death. But the perilous 
 enterprise was arrested by a mysterious form, rushing 
 from the dark forest on the left of their path. He 
 seemed of more than mortal height, and his flowing 
 robes were girt about his loins, with a broad blood- 
 red cincture. On his head was a resemblance of 
 the ancient helmet, surmounted with lofty and sable 
 plumes. In his right hand a sword flashed with in 
 effable brightness, and his left bore a blazing torch, 
 which illumined his pale countenance, yet faded 
 beneath the lightning of his awful eye. He exclaim 
 ed, as he approached the little flock of Christians, 
 " The sword of the Lord and of Gideon !" 
 
 Pointing onward with his dazzling blade, they 
 followed him mechanically, as if the shade of Conde 
 or Coligny had arisen from the grave to lead them 
 to victory. The Indians stood as if transfixed with 
 horror, until this mysterious being confronted them 
 face to face. 
 
 There was a pause of fearful silence, and then he 
 uttered, in a tone which seemed to shake the hills, a 
 few terrible words in an unknown tongue. But they 
 were intelligible to the enemy, who were in an in 
 stant overwhelmed with astonishment and fear. At 
 D 
 
38 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 the charmed words, as if spell-bound, the bow, stretch 
 ed to its utmost tension, dropt the trembling arrow, 
 and the uplifted tomahawk sank from the hand of 
 the nerveless warrior. The whole body of savages 
 turned in flight. Still a voice of thunder arrested 
 their breathless speed. 
 
 " Stay ! Hear what the Great Spirit saith. If 
 ye lift your hand against one of these my servants, 
 if ye hurt a hair of the head of any belonging unto 
 them, your flesh shall be given as meat to the beasts 
 of the earth, and to the fowls of heaven, and your 
 souls shall never enter the abodes of your fathers. 
 Remember, and begone !" 
 
 Scarcely was the permission accorded, ere the 
 surrounding hills were covered with the flying fugi 
 tives. Their native agility, quickened by terror, 
 regarded no obstacle of rock, thicket, or stream. 
 The majestic being reared high his flaming torch, and 
 beheld their departure. Not one turned to look back, 
 so deep was their dread of that fearful countenance, 
 and tremendous tone. Bending his piercing glance 
 upon those whom he had rescued, he read the most 
 intense traces of gratitude, astonishment, and awe, 
 and heard the repeated yet half-suppressed inquiry, 
 "Who is our deliverer?" 
 
 A voice of majesty answered : 
 
 " I am the pillar of cloud, and the pillar of flame, 
 sent before you in this wilderness, by the Eternal. 
 Gaze not thus, attempt not to pursue my path, lest, 
 like. the wretches who prest upon the base of Sinai, 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 39 
 
 when Jehovah honored it, ye perish amid blackness, 
 and darkness, and tempest. Veil your eyes, and 
 bow your faces in the dust, while I pass on my 
 way." 
 
 They obeyed, and from a greater distance, the 
 same deep tone was heard to command 
 
 " When you reach your homes, and find those 
 eyes tearful with joy, which might have been closed 
 in blood, give glory to the God of Israel." 
 
 When the ransomed band raised their heads from 
 the earth, some thought that they saw the firma 
 ment glowing as with a path of living flame. But 
 others said it was the ray of the full moon, which 
 lifting from the horizon her broad disk of pale gold, 
 tinged the mountain-tops and forests with the same 
 hue, then gradually faded into silver, as a bride 
 covers her heightened complexion with a snowy veil. 
 The extreme excitement of this sudden danger and 
 unaccountable deliverance, did not permit the colo 
 nists to discover, until their arrival at their habita 
 tions, that one of their number was missing. Then, 
 the wife of Laurens, holding her babe in her arms, 
 was seen vainly inquiring for her husband. 
 
 They explored the paths which had been traversed, 
 they returned to the field where they had labored. 
 But no trace was to be found, save his cartridge-box, 
 lying near the spot where he had toiled. It was 
 then evident that he had not been with them in their 
 scene of peril, and dismay marked every counte 
 nance. Conjecture was busy in her darkest forms 
 
40 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 among tender and apprehensive spirits, while the 
 effective strength of the colony gathered in consult 
 ation. The boldest proposed immediate pursuit, and 
 reclaiming the captive by force of arms, during the 
 season of consternation which then prevailed among 
 the Indians. The more cautious suggested the dan 
 ger of invading their territory with such inferiority 
 of numbers, as might involve not only their own 
 destruction, but the extinction of the colony. The 
 result of their council, was to send an embassy to 
 Boston, requesting the Governor to demand of the 
 Indian king their captive brother, or to grant them 
 military aid in effecting his rescue. 
 
 A day of intense anxiety was endured in that lit 
 tle settlement. But on the ensuing morning, ere the 
 sun had dispersed the cloud of vapor that encom 
 passed the valley, a shout of joy burst wildly from 
 many voices. The lost brother had been discovered 
 hasting toward his home. Only a short interval 
 transpired, ere he was surrounded by a throng of 
 kindred and friends, welcoming him with wondering 
 rapture, and demanding his adventures. His heart 
 was full, and his lip trembled as he spoke. 
 
 " When we departed from the field, after our last 
 day s labor, I had not proceeded far in your compa 
 ny, before I discovered that my cartridge-box was 
 left behind. Without mentioning the circumstance, 
 I ran to fetch it, expecting to rejoin you, ere I should 
 be missed. As I leaped the inclosure, I received a 
 blow on the head from an Indian, who was lurking 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 41 
 
 there. When I had partially recovered my senses, 
 1 endeavored to arise, but found myself in the power 
 of four natives, who had deprived me of my weapons. 
 With threatening gestures, they hurried me onward. 
 A great part of the night we travelled, through al 
 most impenetrable woods. Then they halted, and 
 a fire was kindled. They kindly offered me a por 
 tion of the rude viands on which they fed. Then 
 they lay down to sleep, after pinioning me securely, 
 and appointing a sentinel, with a loaded musket. 
 Soon they fell into slumber ; but for me, though sore 
 ly wearied, there was no forgetfulness. The flame, 
 sometimes blazing high, then suddenly declining, 
 cast a wavering light upon the grim faces and dis 
 hevelled locks of those whose captive I was, whose 
 victim I might soon be. Their athletic limbs, stretch 
 ed supinely, gave evidence of great strength, while 
 their dark, red brows, distorted in dreams, seemed 
 as if the Spirit of Evil had visibly set his seal there. 
 When, sickening at the scene, I looked upward, there 
 was the full, cloudless moon, gilding the crest of the 
 wide forest, and gliding down its deep arches, to visit 
 the earth, like the eye of Heaven, beholding a world 
 of sin, itself continuing pure. 
 
 But I could not raise my thoughts in the sublime 
 offices of devotion. They hovered wildly around 
 this beloved spot, and her who, I knew, was sleep 
 less for my sake. I remembered you all, my friends, 
 and fancied that I heard your voices, and saw your 
 search for the lost one. Then it seemed as if an 
 D 2 
 
42 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 unearthly might inspired me, and I believed that I 
 could destroy my foes, and pass through their blood 
 to my home, and to you. Then, attempting to start 
 up, my pinioned limbs painfully admonished me, and 
 I grieve to say, that the prayer with which I strove 
 to solace myself, was more in bitterness, than in 
 humble trust. 
 
 Suddenly, the trampling of many feet destroyed 
 my reverie. A body of Indians approached, hastily 
 and in disorder. They conversed eagerly with my 
 captors, in their own language. I imagined, by their 
 wild gestures, that they were detailing some warlike 
 expedition, and a horrible suspicion took hold of me. 
 I feared that they had fallen like wolves upon our 
 peaceful fold, and shuddered lest I might discover on 
 their raiment, stains of the blood that was most dear 
 to me. At every change of attitude, my straining 
 eyes followed with terror, lest they should display 
 some fair-haired scalp. From their impassioned ac 
 tion, I could gain nothing, save broken delineations 
 of some conflict, in which the madness of astonish 
 ment predominated. 
 
 A prey to the most afflicting suspense, I was hur 
 ried onward to the residence of their king. It was 
 surrounded by a number of dwellings, constructed 
 in their arbor-like manner and thatched with mat 
 ting. 
 
 There I saw, in the midst of a few warriors, the 
 king of the Nipmucks and Narragansetts. He was 
 tall, with a coronet of white feathers on his head, 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 43 
 
 and a grave and noble countenance. He was in 
 conversation with an aged man, whose eye was 
 fixed and severe. This was the ancient prophet, 
 greatly reverenced by the surrounding tribes. After 
 the large party of Indians had related their story 
 with strong gesticulation, my captors led me for 
 ward, and the king regarded me with a penetrating 
 glance. 
 
 " Hast thou shed the blood of Indians ?" he in 
 quired. I answered in the negative, and added that 
 we were a peaceful people, considering all men as 
 our brethren. He stood for some time in silence, 
 gravely scrutinizing me. Then he addressed the 
 prophet, still speaking in English. 
 
 " Seest thou cause, why this prisoner should not 
 be set at liberty ?" 
 
 " Seest thou cause /" exclaimed the old man 
 indignantly, and extending his hand in rhetorical 
 action. " The cause is on the sky. It hath told thee 
 in thunder, that wherever the foot of the pale race 
 comes, the red man must perish. The cause is 
 written on the earth, in the blood of our warriors. 
 It is upon the air, in the red blaze of our wigwams. 
 And thou art a king of the Narragansetts, and 
 dost ask of me if there is any cause why a white 
 man should die ?" 
 
 " Think not that I forget the slaughter of my peo 
 ple," said the king : " But they were the hands of 
 Englishmen, that dropped with their blood. What 
 have this man, or his brethren, done 1 They are of 
 
44 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 another race. They came not hither to waste us. 
 They only mark furrows upon the green earth, and 
 the corn rises. I myself have been in their dwell 
 ings, but not as a king. I went thither as the fox, 
 and they were before me like doves, without guile. 
 I was weary, and they spread for me a bed. They 
 believed that I slumbered. But my eye, like the 
 eagle s, was upon all their ways. They spake no 
 evil of Indians. No in their prayers they asked 
 good things for us, of their Great Spirit. There is 
 no bitterness in their hearts, towards red men. Son 
 of Wisdom, why should we lift our hand against the 
 innocent ?" 
 
 " Thou art deceived, son of Philip !" answered 
 the Prophet. " They are moles, mining around thine 
 habitation. Their path is in silence and in darkness, 
 and thy heart is simple as the babe. Ere thou art 
 aware, thou shalt struggle like the fish in the net, 
 and who can deliver theel The crested snake 
 cometh forth boldly, and the poisonous adder work- 
 eth her way beneath the matted grass. Are they 
 not both the offspring of the deadly serpent ? This 
 man, and his brethren, and they who have long 
 slaughtered us, are all of one race. They are but 
 the white foam of that ocean, which the Great Spirit 
 hath troubled in his wrath. Art thou the son of 
 Philip, standing still, till its billows sweep thee, 
 and thy nation, away ? That lion-hearted monarch 
 was not so. Rivers of blood flowed before him in 
 battle. Even now, his soul is angry at the sight of 
 
LEGEND OP OXFORD. 45 
 
 white men. Last night, in visions, it stood beside 
 me. Its brow was like thine, O king, but frowns 
 of vengeance made it terrible. His eye was dark 
 like thine, but the lightning of the brave made its 
 glance awful. His voice was hoarse and hollow, 
 as if it rose from the sepulchre. Ice entered into 
 my blood, as its tones smote my ear. I cannot 
 rest, it said. * White men multiply, and become 
 as the stars of heaven. My people fade away like 
 the mist, when the sun ariseth. On their own land, 
 they have become strangers. My son hideth, with 
 the remnant of his tribe, in the borders of another 
 nation. They call him King. Why doth he not 
 dare to set his feet, where his father s throne stood ? 
 I see cities there, and temples to a God whom our 
 fathers knew not. Our canoes ride no longer on 
 the tides of the Narragansett. Proud sails are there, 
 whiter than the curl of its waters. Doth the son 
 of Philip sleep 1 Tell him, if he be a king, to write 
 it in blood, on the grave where my bones moulder. 
 Tell him, if he be my son, to sheath his spear in the 
 breast of every white man, till the soul of his father 
 is satisfied. The spirit vanished, and the blackness 
 of midnight glowed like a gush of blood. I have 
 spoken its message unto thee, king of a perishing 
 race. Yonder is a victim, provided by the Great 
 Spirit. Bid it soothe the sorrowing shade of thy 
 father." 
 
 The forest echoed to the furious voice of the in 
 censed prophet. The king covered his face with 
 
46 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 his hands. Then pointing mournfully toward me, 
 he said, " Take him, and do with him what ye will. 
 It is not the king, but the prophet, that demandeth 
 his blood." 
 
 I would have spoken, but he walked hastily away. 
 The old man gazed after him with a reproachful eye, 
 and then spoke rapidly to the people, in their own 
 language, giving, as I supposed, directions for my 
 death. I observed him closely, to discover whether 
 argument or supplication might be hazarded. But 
 in his stern, stony features, there dwelt no touch of 
 human sympathy. The victim might as well have 
 hoped to propitiate the Druid, whose pitiless hand 
 grasped the sacrificial blade. I suffered them to lead 
 me away, in silence. 
 
 They conducted me to a level spot, from whence 
 the trees had been partially cleared, as if by fire. I 
 believed this to be the place of execution. They 
 desired me to sit, and the women and children flock 
 ed around me. Yet I saw not upon their brows 
 aught of hatred or exultation. Some were strongly 
 marked with pity. Even the little ones regarded 
 me with melancholy attention. Towards noon, a 
 plentiful repast was brought me. It would seem 
 that they had put in requisition all their culinary 
 skill, to furnish my last feast on earth. Fish, birds, 
 and the flesh of the deer, with cakes baked in the 
 ashes, and parched corn, varied the banquet. They 
 spread it before me, and retired to some distance, 
 taught by Nature the simple politeness of not dis- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 47 
 
 turbing the stranger. Returning, they brought water 
 for my hands and face, and the children, venturing 
 nearer, decked my hair with wild flowers. I felt 
 that they were adorning the victim for the altar, yet 
 I could not but look on them with kindness, for their 
 guileless manners and simple ceremonies served to 
 soothe apprehension, though they might not nourish 
 hope. The men consulted in groups. Probably, 
 the arrangements for my martyrdom occupied 
 them. Yet they displayed neither the impatience 
 to hasten it, nor the savage triumph, that I had 
 been taught to expect from descriptions of similar 
 scenes. 
 
 At the decline of day, they stripped a small tree 
 of its boughs, and cut off its trunk at the distance 
 of six or seven feet from the earth. As the shades 
 of evening deepened, they kindled a large fire, 
 around which they began to dance, with dissonant 
 music, and violent gesticulation. Becoming excited 
 almost to madness, they approached and bound me 
 to the tree. 
 
 Hitherto, I had but imperfectly realized my doom. 
 Illusions of escape and of deliverance had been flit 
 ting through my imagination. Even when the 
 branches were heaped around that were to consume 
 me, I could not dismiss these illusions. They put 
 fire to the encircling fuel. It was green, and the 
 thick smoke almost suffocated me. Horrible visions 
 swam before my eyes. Unutterable thoughts rush 
 ed through my brain. My soul could not bid adieu 
 
48 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 to the objects of its love. It was tossed upon a sea 
 of wild emotion, like a reeling bark before the tern- 
 pest. I strove to recall the instructions of my revered 
 pastor, but Memory was a wreck, amid the billows 
 of Fate. 
 
 Before me was a steep hill, interspersed with rocks 
 and thickets. There my eyes fixed, until every 
 bush seemed to cluster with fiery faces. At length, 
 on the summit of that precipice, where dark clouds 
 rested, a light shone, above the brightness of the 
 moon. A form, of more than mortal height, came 
 gliding thence, in a path of living flame. In its 
 right hand glittered the semblance of a sword, and 
 on its left came forth fire, which seemed to kindle 
 the firmament. I thought I beheld the King of Ter 
 rors. I wished that I could welcome his approach. 
 
 The fearful form came nearer. It stood before 
 me. Awful tones, in an unknown tongue, proceeded 
 from its lips. At their sound, my foes shrieked 
 and fled. Like the host of Israel, at the terrible 
 voice from the flames of Sinai, they could not endure 
 that " those words should be spoken to them a second 
 time." 
 
 I was writhing before the scorching flame. A 
 hand of power loosened my bonds. " Follow me," 
 said a tremendous voice ; " but gaze not on me, lest 
 thou perish." I obeyed, and shading my eyes with 
 my hand, walked in the path of light, that gleamed 
 before me. I trembled, lest I might accidentally 
 look upon one, whom " no man can see and live." 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 40 
 
 It seemed that the way was long, but my mind 
 was in that state when the unities of time and space 
 are annihilated. I thought that the drapery of a 
 diseased intellect enveloped me, or that I had already 
 passed the gulf of death, and was gliding through 
 the region of disembodied spirits. But still before 
 me moved, in mysterious majesty, that " pillar of 
 cloud, and pillar of flame." At length, we stood 
 upon the banks of a river, which I recollected to 
 have crossed soon after my capture. The difficulty 
 which we had encountered in fording it, was the 
 first circumstance that perfectly restored my senses 
 from their stupor, after the stroke that prostrated me. 
 
 " Pass through the stream," said the same tre 
 mendous voice. I shuddered at its tone. " Pass 
 through the stream. If its waters oppose thee, ask 
 aid of Him who taught the wavering disciple to 
 walk upon the sea. When thou reachest the shore, 
 kneel, and pay thy vows to Jehovah." 
 
 I plunged into the swollen waters. Thrice, their 
 current thwarted me. Once, I found myself beyond 
 my depth, and exhaustion came over me. I spake 
 to my Redeemer. Still the pure ray of that mys 
 terious light gleamed around me, till I gained the 
 opposing shore in safety. There I knelt, in obedi 
 ence to the command of my deliverer. My heart 
 was full of unutterable aspirations. When they 
 ceased, I arose, but there was no longer any bright 
 ness in my path. I saw that the night had fled, and 
 the gray dawn trembled in the east. 
 E 
 
50 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 As I drew near these beloved abodes, the appre 
 hensions which had distressed me, at the return and 
 mysterious recital of the Indian warriors, again re 
 sumed their sway. How shall I describe the rapture, 
 with which the light of morning gave to my view, 
 the smoke curling in peaceful volumes above these 
 trees ! I seemed to surmount the space that divided 
 me from you, as the swift-winged bird cleaves the 
 air. Methought I could pour out existence to 
 Him who had preserved it, in one unending hymn 
 of joy. 
 
 Friends, ask me neither for explanation nor com 
 ment. I have given you the truth, as it dwells in 
 my soul. Bewildered, I scarcely know what to say, 
 save that I stand here among you, look on faces 
 that are dear, and know that God, by some myste 
 rious messenger, hath snatched me from destruction." 
 
 As he ceased, his friends thronged around him, 
 with the most affectionate congratulations. Little 
 children, who had often wept during the narrative, 
 pressed near, that they might lay their hand upon 
 one, who had witnessed such marvellous things. 
 
 The pastor came forward into the centre of the 
 circle, as a father enters among his children. Laying 
 his hand solemnly on the head of Laurens, he said, 
 " This, my son, was dead and is alive again, was 
 lost and is found." They understood his inference 
 unspoken, and kneeling upon the green turf, joined 
 the holy man, in fervent thanksgiving to their 
 Almighty Protector. 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 51 
 
 To this scene of pious gratitude, succeeded a re 
 cital of the danger and preservation of the colony, 
 to which the rescued brother listened with intense 
 interest and deep astonishment. Features of simi 
 larity were recognized in the mysterious being who 
 had effected this double deliverance, though a highly 
 excited imagination had, in the case of Laurens, in 
 vested him with more of supernatural influence. 
 Those events long supplied the colony with a sub 
 ject for the hour of twilight musing and midnight 
 vigil, a theme for the wonder of childhood, the ter 
 ror of superstition, the conjecture and speculation 
 of all. But the lapse of years drew the curtain 
 from this mystery, by revealing the history of the 
 regicide Judges. 
 
 After the restoration of Charles the Second to the 
 throne of England, and his execution of several of 
 the judges by whom his father had been condemned, 
 most of the others fled to foreign climes. Three 
 of them sought refuge on the shores of New-Eng 
 land. Massachusetts and Connecticut alternately 
 afforded them protection. A cave in the neighbor 
 hood of New-Haven was frequently their abode, and 
 their piety and dignity of manner propitiated the 
 favor and respect of the people. 
 
 When it was understood in Great Britain, that the 
 Colonels Whalley, Dixwell, and Goffe, had escaped 
 to New-England, they were demanded by the king. 
 But the colonists continued to shelter them. The 
 Governor of Connecticut, and the settlement of New- 
 
52 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 Haven, particularly incurred the displeasure of the 
 cabinet of James II., by their persevering republican 
 ism, and incipient spirit of independence. 
 
 In 1687, Sir Edmund Andrus, a sycophant of the 
 House of Stuart, in its vacillating and vindictive 
 policy, entered New-England, with the authority 
 and disposition of a petty tyrant. Arriving at Hart 
 ford, he demanded the Charter of Connecticut. Sud 
 denly, in the room where the consultation was held, 
 the lights were extinguished, and the important 
 parchment disappeared. A bold and cautious hand 
 deposited it in the hollow heart of an oak, which 
 henceforward acquired imperishable fame, and still 
 flourishes in vigorous and green old age. 
 
 Sir Edmund Andrus, proceeding to New-Haven 
 fixed his suspicious eye on a stranger whom he ac 
 cidentally encountered, and pronounced to be one 
 of the regicides in disguise. He instituted a strict 
 search for the man, but both vigilance, and bribe, 
 proved ineffectual. This was indeed Col. Dixwell, 
 who, with his associates, had been " hunted as a par 
 tridge on the mountains." Having for a long pre 
 vious period been unmolested, he occasionally ven 
 tured to walk in the streets, and even to attend pub 
 lic worship. Reading in the eagle glance of the 
 haughty minion, that he was singled out for immo 
 lation, he instantly withdrew, and was long invisible 
 to his most faithful adherents. Sometimes caverns 
 afforded him refuge ; at others, he threw himself 
 on the good faith of strangers, and found conceal- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 58 
 
 ment. It was asserted that a cave in the vicinity 
 of Oxford was among his favorite retreats, and 
 the date of the events which we have just record 
 ed, corresponds with this period of his flight and 
 seclusion. 
 
 Being a man of native address, and military en 
 terprise, he had previously mingled, though unknown, 
 in scenes of conflict with the aborigines. Their 
 traits of character had interested him as a study, 
 and having become acquainted with some words of 
 their language, it was said that he made use of them, 
 together with a wild and imposing suit of apparel, 
 a blazing torch, and a sword which had served in 
 the wars of Cromwell, to accomplish such results 
 as those which we have related. It was also said 
 that Father Daille had visited him in his subterra 
 nean retreat, and been intrusted confidentially with 
 his agency in these occurrences, and with other parts 
 of his history. Be that as it may, Col. Dixwell, who 
 was a man of superior talents, and religious sensi 
 bility, and, as the quaint writers of that age assert, 
 " possessed of manifest great education," took plea 
 sure in evincing, as far as his precarious situa 
 tion admitted, his grateful sympathies in the wel 
 fare of a people who had saved him from the scaf 
 fold. 
 
 The settlement at Oxford continued gradually and 
 
 steadily to attain prosperity. An air of neatness 
 
 and comfort pervaded its rustic dwellings. In the 
 
 vicinity of many of them, the vines of France 
 
 E2 
 
54 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 were seen reaching forth their young tendrils, and 
 striving to sustain existence with the smiles of a less 
 genial sun. The pastor, who had led his flock into 
 foreign folds, shared in all their concerns with a sym 
 pathy and zeal that knew no declension. In their 
 secular affairs he aided with his advice, in their sick 
 nesses he sat by their bed, combining the skill of the 
 temporal healer with the higher offices of the spirit 
 ual physician. Piety was not worn by him, only 
 as a sabbath garb. Every day he wrapped its man 
 tle around his spirit. It attended him in his domes 
 tic duties, in all his companionship with men. It was 
 like an undying lamp, of the mildest radiance, ever 
 beaming on his path, and enlightening the steps of 
 others. No one could be long in his presence, with 
 out perceiving that his heart was above. Yet this 
 was not evinced by moroseness, or contempt of 
 earthly cares, or sternness towards weaker spirits, 
 but by a gentle and powerful influence, which ele 
 vated the thoughts and affections of those around. 
 In his visits to his people, the unrestrained flow of 
 discourse prompted every heart to pour itself out to 
 him. Little children gathered near him, and learn 
 ed to associate the name of their Redeemer with the 
 sacred lips that told them of his love, ^.mid the 
 unchecked pleasure of this parochial intercourse, the 
 simple raising of his benign eye to Heaven, was 
 understood by his confiding and affectionate peo 
 ple, as a signal for the spirit to commune with 
 its Father, if it were only through the aspiration of 
 a moment. 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 55 
 
 In his partner, he found a congenial mind, and a 
 helper in every toil. Though her education and 
 manners might have qualified her to move in courts, 
 she found no greater delight than in zealously aid 
 ing her husband in his responsible duties, particular 
 ly in the instruction of the children of the commu 
 nity, and the comfort of disease and affliction. Ac 
 customed to the pursuits and accomplishments of 
 refined society, the only recreation in which she now 
 indulged herself, was the culture of a few flowers ; 
 and one of the highest gratifications which they fur 
 nished her, was sometimes to lay them, in all their 
 beauty and breathing fragrance, upon the pillow of 
 the sick. The same benevolence induced her to turn 
 her knowledge of the physiology of plants to practical 
 use. A part of her garden was devoted to the rear 
 ing of medicinal herbs, and her skill in their applica 
 tion enabled her often to alleviate physical suffering. 
 Yet no diseases of a serious nature had hitherto appear 
 ed among them, notwithstanding the influence of a 
 comparatively severe climate, might have been ex 
 pected to put in requisition the more efficient aids 
 of medical science. But their state of society for 
 cibly illustrated, how industry, moderated desires, 
 and habitual cheerfulness, promote health of body, as 
 well as health of mind. 
 
 Somewhat more than three years had elapsed, 
 since the establishment of the colony. The autumn 
 of 1690 was advancing towards its close. Copse 
 and forest exhibited those varied and opposing hues, 
 
Ob LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 which array in such surprising beauty and brilliance, 
 the foliage of New-England. The harvest was com 
 pleted, and every family was in preparation for the 
 claims of a cold and dreary season. Children might 
 still be seen, bearing toward their habitations, bas 
 kets of those nuts, which were to vary the banquet 
 of their winter evenings. The elastic atmosphere 
 gave vigor to their spirits, and their little voices 
 clamored joyously and incessantly. It was pleasant 
 to see their healthful and innocent faces, like bright 
 flowers amid those wilds, so lately tenanted by the 
 copper-colored Indian, and the sable bear. 
 
 Among these happy groups, were the beautiful 
 children of St. Maur ; Antoine, a boy of eight, and 
 Elise, four years younger. They were peculiarly 
 dear to their father, from the circumstance of his 
 having the sole charge of them. Their mother, 
 whose delicate frame had been exhausted by the 
 hardships of persecution, died during her voyage to 
 America. The passage had been rude and boister 
 ous, and the fearful tempests which marked their 
 approach to a wintry coast, annihilated that feeble 
 hope of her recovery, which affection had cherished. 
 During a violent storm, while the ship tossed as if 
 the deep were about to engulf her, that pale mother 
 sat the whole night, with her infant on her bosom. 
 She was not willing to transfer it to other arms. 
 Her eyes were fixed upon it : their long and tender 
 glance seemed to say, " It is the last time." When 
 the morning dawned, she kissed the baby, and laid 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 57 
 
 it in her husband s bosom. Antoine remembered as 
 long as he lived, that she clasped her cold hands 
 upon his little head, and said faintly, " The cup 
 that my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it 1" 
 and that in a few moments she was stretched out, 
 motionless, and dead. 
 
 It was not wonderful that St. Maur should regard 
 these motherless ones, the companions of his exile, 
 with extreme tenderness, that he should desire to 
 watch over them every moment. With his permis 
 sion to join their companions, in nut-gathering, he 
 mingled an injunction to return home before sunset. 
 Delighted with their enlivening occupation, they saw 
 with regret the sun declining toward the west, but, 
 obedient to their father s command, took leave of 
 their companions, and departed from the forest. On 
 their homeward path, they discovered profuse clus 
 ters of the -purple forest-grape, and entered a rocky 
 recess to gather the additional treasure. Suddenly, 
 they were seized by two Indians. Antoine strug 
 gled violently, and every feature was convulsed with 
 anger. His little sister stretched out her hands to 
 him for protection, but in vain. When the first tu 
 mult of surprise had subsided, the keen eye of the 
 boy took note of every angle in the path, every brook 
 that they forded, every hill that was ascended, deter 
 mining, if possible, to effect an escape. He was 
 grieved that darkness so soon prevented his observa 
 tion of the country. 
 
 The night was considerably advanced, ere the 
 
58 LEGEND OF OXFORD 
 
 Indians halted. They kindled a fire, and offered 
 the children some of the food which they carried 
 with them. The heart of Antoine swelled high, 
 and he refused to partake. But the little girl took 
 some parched corn, and sat on the knee of the rude 
 Indian. He smiled, when he saw her eat the kernels, 
 and look up in his face with a trusting, reproachless 
 eye. Then they lay down to sleep, each with a cap 
 tive in his arms. 
 
 Antoine wisely restrained his impatience, and re 
 mained perfectly still, until the grasp that confined 
 him relaxed, and deeper breathing denoted slumber. 
 Then, scarcely daring to breathe, he crept away 
 from the side of his captor. Softly rising on his 
 feet, he looked on the sleeping group. Nothing was 
 heard, save the crackling of the fire, which blazed 
 up high and bright in the forest, and the distant growl 
 ing and moaning of a bear, as if bereaved of her 
 cubs. The heart of a child at the lone hour of mid 
 night, who had never before been separated from the 
 side of a parent, might well shudder at a scene so 
 awful. But new and strange courage enkindled, when 
 he recollected that he was the sole protector of his little 
 sister, and that their father was now miserable for 
 their loss. 
 
 The innocent child lay sleeping upon the damp 
 ground, her head resting upon the shoulder of the 
 dark, red man. She seemed like a rosebud broken 
 from its stalk, and dropped in some dismal vault, 
 where the slimy snake gliding from its nest, enfolds 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 59 
 
 it in a venomous coil. Her tiny hand, pure as wax, 
 lay among the long, black locks of the Indian, and 
 her ruby lips were slightly parted by her soft and 
 quiet breathing. 
 
 Her brother, brushing away the thick, dark curls 
 that clustered around his forehead, bent over her. 
 He wished to snatch her from durance, and bear her 
 to her home. He espied a tomahawk, and seized it. 
 Terrible designs took possession of his mind. He 
 believed that he could cleave the skull of the sleep 
 ing Indians. At that moment, his guard awoke. 
 What was his astonishment at beholding a child, 
 whom he had deemed incapable of meditating resist 
 ance, armed with a deadly weapon, and his dark 
 eyes flashing with all a warrior s spirit ! He could 
 not but gaze on him for a moment with admiration, 
 for the son of the forest respects valor in a foe, and 
 to the sight of the brave he was beautiful. 
 
 Disarming, and securely pinioning the infant war 
 rior, he again stretched himself upon his bed of turf. 
 Antoine struggled vainly, and at length, overcome 
 with fatigue and sorrow, mourned himself into a 
 broken slumber. Yet in his dreams, he incessantly 
 started and complained, sometimes exclaiming, "Oh 
 my poor father," or, " See ! see ! they have mur 
 dered the child." 
 
 When it was discovered in the colony, that the 
 children of St. Maur had not returned, alarm and 
 sympathy became general. Every spot was explor 
 ed, where it was supposed possible that they might 
 
60 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 have lingered, or wandered. Lights were seen, in 
 every direction, to glimmer and recede like the lamp 
 of the fire-fly ; and for hours, upland and valley re 
 sounded with their names. But when their little 
 baskets were found overturned, and their contents 
 scattered in disorder, one terrible conclusion burst 
 upon every mind, that they must have been captur 
 ed by Indians. 
 
 With the dawn of morning, the men of the colony 
 were assembled at the door of St. Maur. Many of 
 them bore arms, anxious to go immediately and de 
 mand the lost. Their pastor was already there, 
 consulting with the agonized father. The gestures 
 of St. Maor were strong, and his voice fervent in 
 argument, but the countenance of the sacred teacher 
 was fixed, as one who prevails. At length, Father 
 Daille, advancing, said, 
 
 " It is decided that only St. Maur and myself, go, 
 and require our lost babes of the savage king. If 
 it be true, as we have supposed, that some germ of 
 goodness still dwells in the hearts of this fierce peo 
 ple, they will listen to a sorrowing father, and a man 
 of God. Go to your homes, and pray, that we 
 may find favor in his sight. We give you thanks 
 for your sympathy, but resistance unto blood might 
 end in the destruction of our colony. It might fail 
 to restore the lambs who are lost : it might lay our 
 whole fold desolate. Return to your homes, my 
 children. Not by the sword, or the bow can ye 
 aid us, but by the uplifting of humble hearts and 
 faithful hands." 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 61 
 
 The ambassadors to a savage monarch, pressed 
 the hands of their friends and departed. They met 
 an Indian pursuing the chase, who had occasionally 
 shared their hospitality, and consented to become 
 their guide. After travelling till the evening shades 
 approached, they encountered a number of warriors, 
 attended by one who seemed to exercise the func 
 tions of Chief. His eyes were fixed on the earth, 
 like one addicted to melancholy thought, and as he 
 raised his brow, it exhibited deep furrows of age 
 and sorrow. His glance was unspeakably stern, 
 as if it suddenly met objects of disgust, or hatred. 
 
 " Our Prophet," said the guide, bending low in 
 reverence. " He understands your language. He 
 can interpret the will of the Great Spirit. Our people 
 fear him." 
 
 Father Daille respectfully accosted him, "Pro 
 phet of the Great Spirit, we come in peace. We 
 are told that thou revealest hidden things. Canst 
 thou tell us aught of two wandering babes ? When 
 last the sun sank behind the mountain, we gathered 
 our lambs into the fold, but these came not. If, in 
 thy visions, thou hast heard the cry of the lost, we 
 pray thee to guide a mourning father, where he may 
 once more shelter them in his arms." 
 
 The Prophet remained silent for several minutes, 
 haughtily surveying them. Then in a hoarse, hollow 
 tone, he replied 
 
 " What should the red man know of the offspring 
 of his enemies ? What ! but to appoint to the sword, 
 F 
 
62 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 such as are for the sword, and to cast such as arc 
 for the burning, into the flame?" 
 
 " Hath thy Great Spirit," said the Pastor, " any 
 delight in the blood of babes ? The God whom we 
 worship, saith from heaven, that He hath no pleasure 
 in the death of him that dieth. " 
 
 " Go your way," said the hoary Prophet, " go 
 your way, and teach white men not to swear falsely, 
 and not to steal from the sons of the forest, the lands 
 that their fathers gave. Go, and when thou hast 
 taught them these things, tell me the words of thy 
 God, and I will hear thee. Since the eye of the pale 
 race first looked upon us, we have had no rest. We 
 ask only to hunt in our own woods, to guide the 
 canoe over our own waters, as we have done from 
 the beginning. But you breathe upon us with thun 
 der-blasts, you pour poison into our veins, you pur 
 sue us, till we have no place even to spread out our 
 blankets. We die. But we may not hide even in the 
 grave. From thence, ye cast out our bones. Ye 
 disturb the ashes of our fathers. Why do ye tell 
 us that your God hath made us brethren ? Your 
 words and your ways war together. They are as 
 the flame and the waters. One riseth up to heaven, 
 and the other quencheth it." 
 
 The meek Christian answered, " All white men 
 obey not the truth. When they seek to do good, 
 evil overtakes them, and their hearts are weak. Is 
 it not so with some of our red brethren ? Yet we 
 despise not the words of thy Great Spirit, because 
 some of his followers are false." 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 63 
 
 While they were conversing, a man of a noble 
 countenance approached, who by his coronet of 
 feathers seemed to be the king, and St. Maur ad 
 dressed him. 
 
 " King of the Red Men, thou seest a father in 
 pursuit of his babes. He trusts himself fearlessly 
 with you, for he has heard that your people will not 
 harm the stranger in distress. The king of our own 
 native land, who should have protected us, turned to 
 be our foe. We fled from our dear homes, and from 
 the graves of our fathers. The ocean-waves brought 
 us to this New World. We are a peaceful race, 
 pure from the blood of all men. We seek to take 
 the hand of our red brethren. Of my own kindred 
 none inhabit this wilderness, save two little buds 
 from a broken and buried stem. Last night, bitter 
 sadness was on my pillow, because I found them 
 not. If thou knowest, O king, where thy people 
 have concealed them, I pray thee to restore them to 
 my lonely arms. So shall the Great Spirit shed 
 pure dew upon thy tender plants, and lift up thy 
 heart when it weigheth heavily in thy bosom." 
 
 The Indian monarch bent on the speaker a scru 
 tinizing glance, and inquired 
 
 " Knowest thou this brow 1 Look in my eyes, 
 and answer me,. are they those of the stranger ?" 
 
 St. Maur, regarding him attentively, replied, " I 
 have no knowledge of thy countenance, save what 
 this hour bringeth me." 
 
 " Thus is it ever with the white man. He is 
 
64 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 dim-eyed. He cannot see through the disguise of 
 garments. Where your ploughs wound the earth, 
 I have oft stood, watching your toil. There was no 
 coronet upon my brow. But I was a king, though 
 your people knew it not. I saw among them nei 
 ther violence, nor pride. I went thither as an enemy, 
 but returned a friend. I said to my warriors, * Do 
 these men no harm. They are not like the English. 
 They do not hate Indians. The Prophet of our great 
 Spirit rebuked me. He brought me angry words 
 from the shade of my buried fathers. 
 
 " Again I sought the spot where thy brethren dwell. 
 Yes, I entered thy house. And thou knowest not 
 this brow ! I could read thine at midnight, though 
 but a single star trembled through the thick cloud. 
 My ear would remember thy voice, though the loud 
 storm was abroad with its thunders. I came to thy 
 home hungry. Thou gavest me bread. My head 
 was wet with the tempest. Thou badest me to lie 
 down beside thy hearth. Thy son, for whom thou 
 mournest, covered me with a blanket. I was heavy 
 in spirit, and thy little daughter whom thou seekest 
 sat on my knee, and smiled when I told her how 
 the beaver buildeth his house in the forest. My 
 heart was comforted. It said, she does not hate 
 Indians, for she looked on my face, as the lamb 
 turneth to the shepherd. Now, why dost thou fix 
 on me such a terrible eye? Thinkest thou that I 
 could tear one hair from the head of thy babes ? 
 Thinkest thou that the red man forgetteth kindness ? 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 65 
 
 Thy children are sleeping in my tent. No hand 
 should ever have harmed them, and when I had but 
 one blanket, it should have been their bed. Yet I 
 will not hide them from thee. I know a father s 
 heart. Take thy babes, and return unto thy people." 
 
 He waved his hand, and two warriors ran toward 
 the royal tent. In a moment, Antoine and Elise 
 were in the arms of their father. The twilight of 
 the next day bore upward from the rejoicing colony, 
 a prayer for the heathen of the forest, and that hymn 
 of devout thanksgiving which mingles with the music 
 around the throne. 
 
 The bordering aborigines now desisted from inter 
 ference with the settlement at Oxford. The offices 
 of hospitality were renewed, and it appeared that 
 quietness and confidence had been again restored. 
 Doubtless, the native urbanity of the manners of 
 France, pervaded, with a softening and conciliating 
 influence, even the savage breast. 
 
 An industrious and intellectual community, thus 
 suffered to be at rest, and expand itself, began to 
 examine its resources, and to balance them with its 
 wants. The elders, sensible of "the value of educa 
 tion, for Louis 14th, amid all his faults, had taught 
 his realm the reverence of Knowledge, dreaded lest 
 their descendants should forfeit that privilege, or, 
 relapsing into a rude state of society, forget to esti 
 mate it. Therefore, they continually endeavored 
 to inspire the young with a reverence for letters. 
 The few books which they retained, in their sudden 
 F2 
 
6G LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 flight from the kingdom, and the treasures of their 
 own cultivated minds, were held in faithful steward 
 ship for the rising generation. The winter evening 
 fire-side was a perpetual school. Knowledge planted 
 by the hand of affection in the hallowed sanctuary 
 of home, is wont to take deeper root, than " seed 
 sown by the way-side." Parents, who write with 
 their own pencils, lines of heaven upon the fresh 
 tablet of their children s souls, who trust not to the 
 hand of hirelings, their first, holiest, most indelible 
 impressions, will usually find less than others to blot 
 out, when the scroll is finished, and to mourn for 
 when they read it in eternity. 
 
 In the establishment of a system of education, 
 the pastor was a guide, an adjunct, and a counsellor. 
 The instruction of youth, he had ever considered as 
 one of the most sacred departments of his office. 
 Since their removal to this new land, he felt it as 
 involving peculiarly the felicity and even safety of 
 his people. Apart therefore from the religious in 
 struction which he delighted to impart, he statedly 
 convened the youth for examination in the various 
 departments of science, and by brief and lucid lectures 
 imparted explanation, heightened curiosity, and en 
 couraged perseverance. Ambition was thus strongly 
 excited, and the processes of agricultural labor were 
 lightened and elevated by intellectual discussions. 
 He had the satisfaction of seeing his beloved charge 
 initiated into the rudiments of that general know 
 ledge which gives liberality to thought, and also of 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 67 
 
 perceiving the unbounded influence he was thus 
 obtaining over their opinions and affections. 
 
 Madame Daille extended the same benevolent care 
 to the young females. Thrice a week, she assem 
 bled them around her. The studies which had been 
 assigned to them, and their different grades of profi 
 ciency, then passed under her strict observation ; and 
 with a union of tact and tenderness, she often closed 
 these interviews with some historical fact, or concise 
 story, illustrating a moral principle, reproving the 
 errors that she discovered, or enforcing the precepts 
 of piety. To gain her approbation, was deemed a 
 sufficient reward for every effort, and her frown was 
 deprecated like the rebuke of conscience. It was 
 impossible that an intercourse of this nature should 
 subsist, without visible benefit from her superior 
 intelligence and accomplishments ; and it was 
 remarked that these young Huguenot females 
 evinced a courtesy of manner, and correctness of 
 style, which are usually acquired only among the 
 more polished classes. Yet she was far from so 
 refining the minds of her pupils as to induce dislike 
 to those domestic duties which devolve upon their 
 sex. She was aware, that in an infant colony, 
 they were severe in their nature and of imperative 
 necessity. Her instructions required their faithful 
 and cheerful performance. Pointing to the fields of 
 flax, whose blossoms tinged with a fine blue, the fair 
 vale around them, she expatiated on the excellence of 
 those arts which could render that beautiful plant so 
 
68 LEGEND OF OXFORD, 
 
 subservient to the comfort of those whom they loved. 
 Hence the distaff, the loom and the needle were 
 deemed the legitimate companions of the books that 
 gave knowledge, or of those domestic and social 
 enjoyments to which both industry and knowledge 
 were consecrated. 
 
 To the energy which toil bestows and the con 
 templative habits which seclusion induces, the 
 Huguenots added the softening influences of music. 
 Sometimes a provincial ballad, or a national air, 
 warbled by those who had learned them as cradle- 
 melodies in their own vine-clad realm, would touch 
 like the Ranz des Vaches, the fountain of tears. 
 Yet it was seldom that they indulged in these ener 
 vating recollections. Music of a sacred character, 
 was their choice. It might be called one of their 
 occupations. It entered into Education as a science. 
 It walked hand in hand with domestic toil. It min 
 gled with the labors of the field. It sanctified the 
 bridal festivity, and blessed the cradle dream. It 
 aided the sick, to suffer and be still, and breathed 
 out its dirge-like consolation when the dying went 
 " downward to his dust." It was at every family 
 altar, morning and evening, when prayer unfolded 
 its wing, and in their rustic church it heightened the 
 thrill of devotion, and gladdened the holiness of the 
 Sabbath. 
 
 It had been the ambition of Father Daille that his 
 whole congregation, from the infant to him of hoary 
 hairs, should be qualified to lift up in unison, the 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 69 
 
 high praises of their God. And it was sweet to 
 hear those accordant voices swelling forth from their 
 temple in the wilderness, while the echo of the sur 
 rounding woods prolonged the cadence, and fostered 
 the stranger melody. 
 
 Thus peaceful and happy were the colonists of 
 Oxford. Competence and health sprang up as the 
 fruits of industry, and the union of physical with 
 intellectual labor, was found to be neither impracti 
 cable nor ungraceful. There came no vision of 
 wealth to inflate their imagination, no poison of am 
 bition to corrode their hearts. They dwelt together 
 in guileless and trusting brotherhood, and the pastor 
 and Patriarch daily praised the Eternal Sire, that 
 one soul of harmony and love seemed infused into 
 all his children. 
 
 This was the aspect of the settlement, in the spring 
 of 1700. It is with sorrow that we darken this 
 scene of more than Arcadian felicity. It has been 
 mentioned that the greater part of the lands com 
 prehended in the original purchase were held in 
 undivided, undisputed possession ; that the harvest 
 was apportioned without jealousy, and the herds 
 drew nutriment from a common pasture. Ten years 
 of peace and amicable intercourse with the abori 
 gines had lulled their apprehensions, and with their 
 increase of prosperity and of numbers, came an 
 increasing demand for the means of subsistence. 
 It was therefore deemed expedient to reduce to cul 
 tivation a large expanse of land, at some distance 
 
70 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 from the field of -their accustomed labor. Thither, 
 one fine vernal morning, the whole effective strength 
 of the colony was gathered. Their toil on the hither- 
 to unbroken soil, was animated by a common inter 
 est, and enlivened by conversation which partook 
 of fraternal sympathy. Father Daille, who, like 
 pastor Oberlin, took a personal interest in all that 
 regarded his people, reminded them that the ensuing 
 day was the fourteenth anniversary of their colonial 
 existence, and heightened their emotions of gratitude 
 by contrasting the comforts of their present sim 
 plicity of life, with the sorrows, persecutions, and 
 fears from which they had escaped. 
 
 Suddenly, the report of muskets in the direction 
 of their distant homes, filled every heart with con 
 sternation. Hastening toward their abodes, with 
 agonized speed, many a husband and father was 
 met by those dearest to him, communicating intelli 
 gence, that the Indians had been among them. 
 As a fearful proof that their visit had not been in 
 friendship, the body of Jeanson, one of the most 
 esteemed of their number, lay weltering in blood, 
 upon the green turf that skirted his threshold. They 
 entered his house, and saw that the work of savage 
 vengeance was perfect. Not one had been spared. 
 The mother, with the infant that she would gladly 
 have died to shelter, lay a lifeless wreck, with its 
 mangled form clasped firmly in her arms. Two 
 other innocents whose heads had been dashed against 
 the hearth-stone, where they had been nurtured, left 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 71 
 
 the stains of their life-blood, to tell the story of the 
 extinction of a whole family. 
 
 The astonishment and grief of the colonists, it 
 would be in vain to describe. A part rushed in the 
 direction where the spoilers were said to have dis 
 appeared, and the remainder considering this as the 
 prelude of a general attack, removed all the women 
 and children to the fort. At night they were joined 
 by their friends in arms, who had through the day 
 vainly sought to track, or to obtain information of 
 the murderers. But they had learned, in the course 
 of their pursuit, the alarming fact, that the king, the 
 tried and faithful friend of the colony was no more, 
 that he had been assassinated for his attachment 
 to the whites, by his own people, instigated by the in 
 furiated prophet. Sentinels were placed, as the dark 
 ness deepened, and the elders met in consultation. 
 
 It would seem that only three Indians had been 
 seen on this errand of death. They started from an 
 adjoining thicket, just as Jeanson, who had been 
 detained at home later than his associates, was de 
 parting to join them. His destruction, and that of 
 his family, was the work of but a few moments, and 
 they disappeared, ere the distant protectors could be 
 summoned, or even the settlement generally alarmed. 
 
 " We will again pursue them, with the dawn of 
 morning," said Bethu, the nearest neighbor of the 
 dead. " We will press, with arms in our hands, 
 through the line of their fiercest warriors, and demand 
 those blood-stained barbarians of their prophet. 
 
72 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 The shades of Conde and Coligni shall not reproach 
 us with suffering our brother to fall unavenged." 
 
 Boudineau spoke next, an elder whose hair was 
 silvered. " Their mode of warfare is as peculiar 
 as their habits of life. They avoid every encounter 
 of regular and open battle. Who can pursue them 
 into their wilds with effect, or even with rational 
 hope of return ? While we strive to carry retribu 
 tion into their miserable wigwams, will they not 
 suddenly fall upon the precious pledges we leave 
 behind, and extinguish our light for ever 1 Have we 
 any mode of defence, but perpetual vigilance, and 
 never losing sight of our habitations ?" 
 
 " Who," exclaimed Pintard, " can endure this spe 
 cies of oppression, this spiritless submission to an abject 
 foe, this everlasting dying to avoid death ? If we are 
 to live the lives of cowards, it were better to do so 
 among civilized men, than to teach the free-born 
 spirits of France to shudder and watch the skulking 
 steps of savages, those links between animal nature 
 and humanity." 
 
 " Our fallen brother," said Sejournie, " could not 
 have awakened the personal hatred of the natives, 
 he who was even proverbially peaceful and amiable. 
 May we not therefore suppose that the situation of 
 his house being on the outskirts of the settlement, 
 induced the murderers to select it, as affording facili 
 ties for their purpose, with the least danger of re 
 taliation? Is it not also probable that the absence 
 of the men of the colony was known to them, and 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 73 
 
 that this determined their choice of time for the de 
 predation ? If there was no individual enmity, this 
 fearful deed marks latent hostility to the whole, and 
 a hostility distinguished by that cunning which pre 
 dominates in their character. May we not consider 
 this unprovoked act, as the beginning of a series of 
 the same complexion ? The murder of the pacific 
 king, and the predominance of the prophet s influ 
 ence, give us fearful premonition of what we are to 
 expect." 
 
 " Let us," said Rollin, " resign these lands, and 
 incorporate ourselves with some larger colony. Our 
 force is inadequate to cope with the tribes upon our 
 boundary. It is better to bear the charge of pusil 
 lanimity, which this measure might involve, than to 
 have our blood wasted drop by drop, by a foe not 
 tangible, who springs like a lion from the thicket, or 
 breaks with his war-whoop upon the midnight dream, 
 or desolates the fire-side and the cradle, if the father 
 forsakes it but for a moment." 
 
 " We came to these wilds," said Boudoin, " to wor 
 ship God freely, and to live in peace with man : yet 
 we still seem to be in warfare, or in dread of it, or 
 as a city besieged. While we thus stand in armor, 
 the toils by which we gain subsistence must lan 
 guish or be laid aside. So, that the death which we 
 ward off by the sword, comes by famine. Taa people 
 of peaceful creed, this military watchfulness, and 
 sleepless dread, and continual declension, rob fleeting 
 
 life of its value." 
 
 G 
 
74 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 All expressed their opinions, as varying judgment 
 or different tides of emotion dictated, and then, ac 
 cording to their patriarchal form of government, ap 
 pealed to the pastor as umpire. He spoke deliber 
 ately, as one who felt the importance of every 
 word : 
 
 " We know that the tribes upon our borders are 
 formidable in their combination. Their king has, 
 under God, been the bond of peace between us and 
 them. That bond is severed for ever. We owe a 
 tear to his memory, for his friendship to white men 
 has cost him his life. The counsel of Moloch has 
 prevailed ; the fierce and vindictive prophet is stir 
 ring up his people to the utter extermination of our 
 colony. The blood-hounds of savage war are doubt 
 less to be let loose upon our peaceful settlement. The 
 disaster which has now convened us, in mournful 
 consultation, is, we have reason to believe, only the 
 precursor of the storm the first blast of the hurri 
 cane. It would seem, therefore, the dictate of wis 
 dom, if not of necessity, to return to that happy city 
 which first sheltered us, when as exiles we sought 
 this New World. We shall there find that safety, 
 which we must here purchase at the expense of blood 
 too precious ; perhaps, which we are even too few 
 in numbers to secure to the helpless ones, who have 
 trustingly followed us to this wilderness. We may 
 there, by other employments, as well as those of 
 agriculture, gain subsistence for those who depend 
 on us ; and these lands may eventually be disposed 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 75 
 
 of, to a colony of more effective strength, or one 
 that may more readily command the aid of the go 
 vernment, in repelling aggressions of the aborigines. 
 Brethren, and sons, I have spoken my opinion. But 
 I am free to confess, that I have spoken it under the 
 pressure of emotion. I am this night as a father 
 bereaved of his children. My decision is made in 
 sorrow. Ye, whose hearts are less bowed down, 
 decide in this matter. Judge, and we will abide by 
 your decision, and may the spirit of unerring wisdom 
 preside in your council." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, and spoke no 
 more, till they ended their consultation. They pro 
 tracted it, till the morning shone full and fair upon 
 the green hill, and the rough, gray stones of the fort 
 where they were assembled. After canvassing every 
 argument, and discussing every point of feeling, the 
 decision of the majority was in favor of immediate 
 removal. The opinion was unanimous, that in or 
 der to avoid a recurrence of savage depredation, no 
 delay should take place, except for unavoidable pre 
 paration and the obsequies of the departed. 
 
 The succeeding day drew near its close, when, 
 bearing the bodies of the slaughtered family, the 
 whole colony in solemn procession entered the hum 
 ble building which had served for a church. When 
 the dead were stretched out, side by side, in that 
 sacred tenement, the wailing was deep and univer 
 sal. The father smitten in full strength, the mo 
 ther, with her youngest born strained to her bosom 
 
76 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 in death s convulsive grasp, and two little mangled 
 forms, whose exceeding beauty was remembered by 
 all, lay in silent and awful repose. 
 
 The man of God waited until the first waves of 
 agony were broken. Furrows of painful thought 
 were upon his brow, but his bearing was like one 
 whose heart is in heaven. When there was silence, 
 he stretched forth his hand to the people. 
 
 " Ye know, that this is the fourteenth birth-day 
 of our village. We hoped to have celebrated it with 
 songs of festivity. Now, our melody is mingled 
 with the voices of those who weep. The sweet in 
 cense that we would have offered at the altar, is 
 heavy with the odor of bitter herbs. Yet He who 
 hath caused mourning, is also the God of compas 
 sion. He will not break the leaf driven before the 
 tempest. 
 
 " Many thoughts press upon me to be spoken. But 
 ye cannot bear them now. Ye come as the Israel 
 ites to their passover, with loins girded and staves 
 in your hands, as men in haste for a journey. But 
 go not forth despairing, though ye pass beneath the 
 cloud. Take the Ark of the Covenant upon your 
 shoulders. Let the wing of the cherubims oversha 
 dow you. Arise and depart, for this is not your 
 rest. 
 
 " Scene of our Refuge ! when our own land cast 
 us out, thou little Zoar, where we prayed that we 
 might enter from the storm of the Lord, vales, 
 where the sounds of our industry have arisen, for- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 77 
 
 ests, that have yielded to our strokes, homes of our 
 happiness, every year more dear, hallowed by the 
 interchange of joy, the voice of supplication, we 
 bid you all adieu ! Holy Church ! consecrated by 
 our united prayers, our sacred symphonies, our 
 hopes that rested not upon this earth, we bid thee 
 farewell, in the name of the Lord. Wherever we 
 wander, though our tears should drop in the foun 
 tains of strange waters, never will we forget thee, 
 our Zion in the wilderness. Lifeless remains of the 
 brave and the beautiful, the virtuous and the beloved, 
 severed branches crushed blossoms what shall 
 we say ? Ah ! how often will our mourning hearts 
 recall your images, as they once were, as they now 
 are, stretched in ruins before us. 
 
 Souls of our departed friends ! if ye have attain 
 ed that heaven where the storm beateth not, where 
 tears are wiped from all eyes for ever, if from that 
 clime of bliss, ye behold us compassed with infirm 
 ity and woe, teach us how slight all the thorns, the 
 tempests of this pilgrimage, seem to you, now you 
 are at rest. My children, what awaits it where we 
 pitch our tents for the brief remnant of this shadowy 
 life ? what avails it, if the angel who removeth their 
 curtains in a moment, but find the spirit ready to meet 
 its God?" 
 
 He ceased, and the services of devotion rose in 
 low and solemn response among the people. Parents 
 knelt among their children, and with one voice in 
 voked and blessed the King of kings. The memory 
 G2 
 
78 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 of their sorrows and fears, for a season fleeted away 
 on the soul s high aspiration, as the pure flame dis- 
 perseth the smoke with its heavenward spire. Hands 
 hardened with labor, and brows pale with watching, 
 the tender, tearful eyes of the mother and the babe, 
 were alike raised upward, while they gave thanks to 
 the Father of Mercies. 
 
 A pause of silence ensued, and every head was 
 bowed, while the unuttered individual orison as 
 cended. They arose, and still the pause continued. 
 The people lingered for their wonted benediction. 
 
 " Part we hence," said the pastor, " part we hence, 
 without one sacred melody ? While the fountain of 
 breath is unsealed, shall it not give praise to the 
 Preserver?" 
 
 He designated a plaintive anthem, from the se 
 venth of Job. It burst forth harmoniously, but soon 
 the dirge-like tones became tremulous. After the 
 strain " Oh, remember that my life is wind," the 
 cadence was protracted, as if all melody had ceased. 
 Still faintly, the music revivified : " As the cloud 
 is consumed and vanisheth away, so he that goeth 
 down to the grave shall come up no more. He shall 
 return no more to his house, the places that have 
 known him shall know him no more." 
 
 The pastor listened as one who hears for the last 
 time, sounds most dear. But the thrilling strain with 
 which the anthem closes, commenced so feebly, as 
 to be scarce audible. It trembled, like the sighs of 
 a broken harp, it faltered, one or two quivering 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 79 
 
 voices prolonged it for a moment, it ceased, and 
 the wail of sorrow rose up in its stead. Music could 
 no longer contend against the tumultuous tide of 
 grief. 
 
 The man of God stood up, and blessed the people, 
 and led the way to the church-yard. There, upon 
 the fresh, vernal turf, each coffin was laid by its open 
 cell. Kneeling among the graves, he poured forth 
 fervent supplications, like the Prophet of Israel, lift 
 ing his censer between the dead and the living. Tears 
 were upon all faces, as the bodies were deposited in 
 their narrow house. Children sobbed aloud, and 
 groans burst even from manly bosoms, as the earth, 
 falling upon the coffins, sent forth that hollow sound, 
 which he who hath paid the last duties to the be 
 loved dead, hath felt in his inmost soul, but never 
 described. 
 
 The patriarchal teacher spoke, and into every tone 
 his overflowing heart poured the feeling that it was 
 for the last time. 
 
 " Graves of our friends ! those that have been 
 long sealed, and those now enriched with new trea 
 sure, we thought that our bones should here have 
 rested with you. Looking upon your turf-covering, 
 how often have we said, Here shall we also be ga 
 thered unto our people ! Jehovah humbleth the fore 
 sight of man. He may not even point out where his 
 bed shall be, when the wasted clay falleth like a fret 
 ted garment. 
 
 " Graves of our friends ! We part from you to re- 
 
80 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 turn no more. Our steps may no more wander amid 
 your sacred mounds, nor our tears nourish your 
 greenness. Keep what we have intrusted to you, 
 safe in your cold embrace, until summoned to re 
 store it, by the voice of the archangel, and the trump 
 of God. 
 
 " My children ! what were man without the pro 
 mise of the resurrection ? How could he endure, 
 when the grave whelms his joys, but for the sure 
 hope of eternal life 1 How could he dare to lay 
 down in the dreary tomb, in all the misery and sin- 
 fulness of his nature, but for the merits of his Re 
 deemer ? Ah ! what would be now our mourning, 
 if forced to ask in uncertainty and anguish, who will 
 roll us away the stone from the door of these sepul 
 chres ? 
 
 " Stricken and sorrowing flock, turn again unto the 
 Shepherd of your souls. He hath smitten, and he 
 alone can heal. He hath dispersed, but shall again 
 gather you into his fold. He hath troubled the wa 
 ters that were at rest. But the angel of mercy still 
 waiteth there, the wounded spirits shall be made 
 whole." 
 
 They turned from the place of sepulchres, and the 
 next sun saw their simple habitations desolate. Not 
 a sound of rural labor was heard there. No child 
 ren were seen searching for the violets which early 
 spring had awakened. Scarcely the striking of the 
 Arab tents, produces a more profound silence, or a 
 wider solitude. The sons of the forest roamed at 
 
LEGEND OP OXFORD. 81 
 
 will among the tenantless dwellings, and the wild 
 fox found in their ruins a covert for her young. 
 
 Nothing now remains of the history of the Hu 
 guenots, but a few statistical facts. The romance 
 of their legendary lore, terminated with the abdica 
 tion of their colony. From the year 1700, they be 
 came incorporated with the inhabitants of Boston. 
 Their habits conciliated respect and regard, and their 
 character is still maintained by their descendants. 
 In 1713, the lands which they had vacated were 
 occupied by a second colony, who still retained for 
 their settlement and for the river that environs it, the 
 names of their Huguenot baptism. The pastor Daille, 
 beloved almost to adoration by his flock, and revered 
 by all around for his example of amiable and con 
 sistent piety, was taken to his reward, in the year 
 1715. His successor in the sacred office was the 
 Reverend Andrew de Mercier, author of the "Church 
 History of Geneva, with a political and geographical 
 account of that Republic." The church, which it 
 was the care of this religious people to erect soon 
 after their removal to Boston, was situated where the 
 present Universalist Church, in School -Street, now 
 stands, and is designated in the records of that date, 
 as the " French Protestant Church." 
 
 May I be forgiven for adding one more matter of 
 fact, as an additional witness to the integrity of my 
 Legend ? In the Granary Bury ing- Ground in Bos 
 ton, two lowly graves still legibly bear the simple 
 inscription of the " Reverend Pierre Daille, and 
 
82 LEGEND OF OXFORD. 
 
 Scyre, his wife." Yet it is amid the fair scenery 
 of Oxford, that we gather the strongest evidence of 
 the truth of this narration, and most visibly com 
 mune with the images of a race, whose serene pa 
 tience, and unwavering faith, render them models 
 of primitive devotion. There, a gray-haired man 
 has long pointed the traveller to a deep hollow in 
 the turf, and told him, " This is the spot where the 
 house of Jeanson stood, the French Protestant, who 
 with his whole family were here massacred by the 
 Indians." 
 
 The most aged inhabitants of that pleasant region 
 assert, that within their remembrance, the empur 
 pled hearth-stone, on which the heads of those beau 
 tiful babes were dashed, was still seen, resisting with 
 its indelible record the action of the elements, long 
 after every other wreck of the dwelling had perish 
 ed. But among the most striking vestiges of this 
 interesting people, are the ruins of the Fort con 
 structed for their defence, and bearing the antiquity 
 of a century and a half. There, within a quadran 
 gle of ninety feet, whence the stones have been prin 
 cipally removed in the processes of agriculture, may 
 be still traced, the well, from whence they drew 
 water in their rude, foreign home. Asparagus, from 
 the original germs of France, annually lifts its bul 
 bous head and its feathery banner, to attest the iden 
 tity of its perished plants. Fruit-trees, said to be 
 descendants from their ancient nurseries, still flour 
 ish, and are entwined by the coarse vines, and en- 
 
LEGEND OF OXFORD. 83 
 
 livened by the deep blush of the indigenous rose 
 of our country, fondly striving to naturalize the 
 strangers. 
 
 There are probably some, who will doubt the 
 truth of this narrative, and still more, who will turn 
 from the simple vestiges of its veracity with indiffer 
 ence. But there are others of a different class, who 
 could not wander-amid those disjointed stones, once 
 the rude barrier against the ruder savage, nor ex 
 plore through matted grass the paths of those per 
 secuted and peaceful emigrants, nor reclining be 
 neath the shades so often hallowed by their prayers, 
 recall their firmness in danger, their chastened joy 
 in prosperity, their serene and saint-like patience, 
 in affliction, without feeling like the Law-giver of 
 Israel, constrained to " put their shoes from their 
 feet, because the ground on which they stand is 
 holy." 
 
 Hartford, November 30, 1833. 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Blest be that art, which keeps the absent near, 
 The beautiful, unchang d, from Time s rude theft 
 Guards the fresh tint of childhood s polish d brow,- 
 And when Love yields its idol to the tomb, 
 Doth snatch a copy. 
 
 LOVE of Fame, has been called by philosophers, 
 the universal passion. The desire of adhering to 
 the memory of those we love, is an integral part of 
 our nature. We need not turn to the costly mauso 
 leum, or the pyramid on the sands of Africa, to 
 prove this " longing after immortality." It is equal 
 ly illustrated, though on an humbler scale, by the 
 boy, who climbs a tree, to carve his initials on its 
 trunk, the student, who defaces the college pre 
 cincts with multiplications of his nomenclature, the 
 guest, who graves it upon the grotto of his host, 
 the traveller, who inscribes it in the Alpine Al 
 bum. 
 
 Yet there is one modification of this sentiment, at 
 which I have ever marvelled, viz, the bequeathing 
 of our bodily presence to posterity, in a style calcu 
 lated to disgust, or alarm them. When I have gazed 
 at Family Portraits, whose ugliness and quaintness 
 of costume, scarcely the deepest reverence for their 
 H 
 
86 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 antiquity could tolerate, I have wondered at the am 
 bition to be exhibited to one s unborn relatives, in a 
 deformity which nature never gave. It is but a 
 doubtful compliment to the master of an ancient 
 mansion, to be obliged to contemplate the founder 
 of his house, perhaps the architect of its fortunes, 
 expanded with angular joints, and an idiotic physi 
 ognomy, over several square feet of canvas ; and 
 awkward flattery to a blooming belle, to be told that 
 the demure, ill-arrayed, and hideous beings, who 
 stare at her from their frames, as she hurries through 
 some unfrequented apartment, are her progenitors. 
 Yet there are remedies for such mortifications, a 
 refuge in garrets, a deposit among lumber, the 
 teeth of rats, the voracious perforation of worms. 
 So that those worthies, who in their prim and pro 
 tracted sittings to the artist, trusted to have been ho 
 nored as the Lares and Penates of their descendants 
 for ever, to have been produced as the Egyptian 
 brings forth his embalmed ancestor, to preside at the 
 banquet, and be the chief ornament of the festival, 
 may esteem themselves happy, should their effigies 
 escape utter annihilation. 
 
 Why I have been led to this train of moralizing, 
 the sequel of my sketch will unfold. The opening 
 of its simple drama is in Boston, about the year 
 1722. According to the most authentic statistics, 
 it then comprised a population not exceeding 10,000, 
 and sustained three weekly newspapers. The ex 
 citing objects which now occupy the community^ 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 87 
 
 canals, rail-roads, and the transmigrations of the 
 power of steam, had then no existence. Had any 
 speculator in the wildest excursion of his brain, ven 
 tured to present such visions to the grave politicians 
 of that day, his reception would have been much 
 like that of Columbus, when before the University 
 of Salamanca, he broached his theory of an undis 
 covered world, amid frowns and threats of the Inqui 
 sition. 
 
 Still, there was at this period, no paucity of sub 
 jects for conversation : and the most engrossing one, 
 was the contested system of Innoculation for the 
 Small Pox. Divines attacked it from the pulpit, 
 styling it, " an invasion of heaven s prerogative, a 
 most sinful lacking of faith, a high-handed doing of 
 evil, that good might come." Lady Mary Wortley 
 Montagu had first ventured to naturalize this Turk 
 ish practice in the person of her only son ; and Dr. 
 Boylston, of Boston, who hazarded the experiment 
 upon his son and servants, with a happy, result, was 
 pronounced by an historian of the day, " the first 
 physician in the British dominions, that had dared 
 such a deed." Among the few firm advocates of 
 the system of innoculation, at this period, was Dr. 
 John Ranchon, a native of France. He had resided 
 a number of years in Boston, and being in posses 
 sion of a competent estate, had withdrawn from the 
 labors of his profession. Still he could not but sur 
 vey with deep anxiety the ravages of that terrible 
 disease, which during the year 1721, had swept 
 
88 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 nearly 800 persons from their comparatively sparse 
 population. 
 
 But, de facto, our business is with this same Dr. 
 Ranchon, and circumstances which transpired in his 
 family, more than with any dogmas he might adopt 
 respecting the science of Esculapius. The cause of 
 his emigration to this country, was the expected ven 
 geance, consequent upon a clandestine marriage. 
 Louise Beauchamp, whom he loved, and whose rank 
 was higher than his own, had been immured by her 
 relations in a convent, to prevent their anticipated 
 union. But her favorite brother, Edward Beauchamp, 
 favoring the pretensions of the lover, an elopement 
 ensued, and the parties immediately embarked for 
 this New World. The young and beautiful wife, 
 after the residence of a few years in Boston, gave 
 birth to an infant daughter, and died. The bereaved 
 husband, in devotion to this little orphan, and occa 
 sional intercourse with the natives of his own coun 
 try, passed most of his time, and gradually found 
 solace. A colony of Huguenots, who, after the re 
 vocation of the Edict of Nantz, had formed a settle 
 ment at Oxford in Massachusetts, and were driven 
 thence by an incursion of the Indians, had fixed 
 their permanent residence in Boston. Among these 
 he found kindred spirits, and extended to them every 
 office of kindness and hospitality. 
 
 At the period of which we now speak, the year 
 1722, he had arrived at his grand climacteric, with 
 robust health, and an unbroken constitution. He 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 89 
 
 possessed an irascible temper, and a decision of man 
 ner approaching to sternness, yet modified by native 
 benevolence. Though somewhat unpopular, from 
 his strong prejudices and disregard of courtesy, he 
 was still treated with deference by some who respect 
 ed his professional skill, and by more who rendered 
 homage to. his wealth. Especially as it became 
 generally known, that he had an only daughter, fair, 
 and approaching woman s estate ; the discerning 
 beaux were particularly assiduous in their attentions. 
 He was by no means indifferent to the flattery of 
 marked politeness, though his simplicity of heart 
 induced him to consider it as a spontaneous tribute 
 to his merits. Yet he could not avoid sometimes 
 remarking, in his curiously laconic style, to Beau- 
 champ, who continued a member of his household, 
 
 " These young fellows are better bred than their 
 fathers. The coming of so many French people 
 to live here, has been a great advantage, no doubt." 
 
 His brother, more a man of the world, and skil 
 ful in decyphering its motives, would reply 
 
 " Indeed, the young men of the city seem to bow 
 lower , as your daughter Mary rises higher. They 
 carefully proportion their attentions to her increasing 
 stature, and comfortable expectations. Ever since 
 her fourteenth birth-day, a rapid improvement in 
 their manners has been visible. Your cane cannot 
 drop in the market-place, but half-a-dozen white 
 hands with rings and ruffles, are thrust forth to seize 
 and restore the precious treasure to its venerable 
 H2 
 
90 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 owner. Ten years since, you might have fallen your 
 self, without a single shrug of compassion from these 
 exquisites. Doubtless, my good brother, your fame 
 was never fully understood, until Mary became its 
 interpreter. Happy father ! whose beautiful daugh 
 ter has no employment for her tongue, so agreeable 
 as to publish his excellencies." 
 
 But to Dr. Ranchon, who continued to view Mary 
 as scarcely emancipated from the nursery, and who 
 daily addressed her by his favorite appellation of 
 " baby," the hints of Beauchamp were altogether 
 unintelligible. He still persisted in the course which 
 he had originally adopted, of sending her to the 
 most expensive schools, asking her once a week 
 how her music and French came on, and praising 
 every flower or landscape which she produced, how 
 ever carelessly executed. Within a year or two, 
 since her uncle had reminded him that she was as 
 tall as her mother, he had begun to inquire if she 
 knew what went to the composition of a pudding, 
 and whether she could " foot up an account neatly, 
 in pounds, shillings, and pence ? This new class 
 of interrogatories he usually interlarded with 
 
 " Well ! well ! shan t marry, except to a genuine 
 Huguenot ! remember that !" 
 
 Then patting her cheeks, as the blood mantled 
 higher in them, would bid her be a " good baby." 
 This injunction respecting marriage, though it might 
 seem to be given in a trifling manner, was neverthe 
 less decided. It was founded on the old gentleman s 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 91 
 
 national partialities, which were exceedingly strong, 
 and was understood by his family to rank among 
 those few positive commands of the Doctor s which 
 it was never safe to disobey. 
 
 Mary, from the blind indulgence which had almost 
 invariably entered into her education, would have 
 been in imminent danger, had it not been for a large 
 share of native good sense. This, however, was 
 inadequate effectually to control passions naturally 
 ardent, or to eradicate vanity which, had her look 
 ing-glass been broken, would still have gathered nu 
 triment from the flattery of her school-companions. 
 She possessed symmetry, though not delicacy of 
 form, a profusion of raven hair, a clear, brown com 
 plexion, quickened by a bright bloom, and a dark, 
 piercing eye. The expression of her countenance, 
 varying as she spoke, would have rendered her pe 
 culiarly interesting, had not her striking features 
 betrayed some consciousness of their own power, and 
 the curl of her rose-tinted lip betokened haughtiness. 
 Still, few could look upon Mary Ranchon in the 
 early blush of womanhood, without repeating the 
 glance ; though the more judicious were compelled to 
 temper their admiration with pity, for her early loss 
 of maternal culture. Her self-exultation was held 
 considerably in check, by the penetrating eye of her 
 uncle, whom she knew to be a better judge of 
 female elegance than her father, and whose keen 
 sarcasms she exceedingly dreaded. 
 
 Beauchamp, though not under the guidance of that 
 
92 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 refinement which appreciates the unostentatious vir 
 tue of the sex, if unadorned by wealth or beauty, 
 still possessed that acute perception of propriety, 
 courtesy, and accomplishment, which springs from 
 intercourse with the more elevated ranks of society, 
 and is sometimes rendered even more watchful by 
 an acquaintance with the abandoned. Love for his 
 niece prompted him to permit no error in manner, 
 no consciousness of beauty which might weaken its 
 effect, to pass without the lash of his satire. Find 
 ing herself the object of such close criticism, a sal 
 utary restraint was laid upon a deportment which 
 would otherwise have been wholly without control ; 
 and while she shrank from the wit of Beauchamp, 
 she respected his judgment. She could not but per 
 ceive that the partiality of her father often moved 
 him to countenance, or even to applaud in her, ac 
 tions and expressions which conscience told her de 
 served reproof. Sometimes when she quitted the 
 room covered with blushes of chagrin and anger, 
 because some questionable deed or opinion had been 
 placed in a strong light by her uncle s bold raillery, 
 the kind-hearted old gentleman would say 
 
 " Seems to me, Ned, you are rather too sharp with 
 the girl pretty clever body, after all." 
 
 " The misfortune is, my sapient Doctor, that she 
 is altogether too clever for thy straight-forward ho 
 nesty. She compasseth thy path, and thou knowest 
 it not. Thy astronomy is baffled by the " chang 
 ing Cynthia in the female heart." Thou wert never 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 93 
 
 expert in computing its phases. I assure thee, that 
 I only keep a brotherly watch over thy interests. 
 Why, baby Mary, as you call her, with her hot 
 house politics, would bring a plant to perfection, 
 germ, flower, and fruit, while thou wert learnedly 
 puzzling over its botanical genus." 
 
 The truth was, that Mary had already permitted 
 herself to be addressed in the language of love. Its 
 foundation had been in a thoughtless emulation, a 
 proud determination not to be outdone, as many 
 young ladies at the boarding-school where she at 
 tended as a day-scholar, were boasting of the gallant 
 ries of their admirers. Yet as he who tampers with 
 flame is not always certain of being able to extin 
 guish it, she found that what had begun in vanity, 
 threatened to end in pain. The man whose atten 
 tions she encouraged, scarce knowing that she did 
 so, was her senior by more years than she had num 
 bered, and no novice in the science of entrapping 
 the affections. She knew little respecting him, ex 
 cept that he was called Patten, to which the title of 
 Captain was appended, that his exterior and style 
 of conversation were imposing, and that he was 
 extravagantly praised for elegance of dress and man 
 ner, by her giddy associates. But she was also 
 apprized that he was a native of Ireland, and conse 
 quently, without the line of her father s demarcation. 
 She continually promised herself that should the 
 affair take the form of serious declaration, to repulse 
 all proposals and be governed solely by filial duty. 
 
94 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 But her hand was upon the mane of the lion, and 
 she knew it not. Her lover readily perceived that 
 she had too much feeling for a coquette, and decided 
 to protract his operations, until by inducing her to 
 accept, under the mask of friendship, those attentions 
 which belong to love, her generosity or her gratitude 
 should at length render her unable to repel his se 
 rious advances. 
 
 His desigj was to possess himself of her fortune, 
 and he saw no practicable avenue to this point, but 
 through her affections. He therefore made his ap 
 proaches with that combination of perfect respect 
 and tender observance, against which the heart of a 
 female is seldom proof. The prohibition of her fa 
 ther, which had reached him by the voice of rumor, 
 rendered his visits at the house inadmissible. Hence 
 their interviews were limited to the school which 
 Mary attended, where they were imprudently con 
 nived at by her governess. She feared even to accept 
 him as a companion in a walk or ride, lest Beau- 
 champ, who was a man of leisure, and continually 
 traversing the streets, should detect the acquaintance. 
 Yet, though her lover was fully sensible of the ad 
 vantage which he had gained, in persuading her to 
 accept concealed attentions, she could not long per 
 sist in such a course without self-reproach. She en 
 dured the remorse of a generous mind, which, find 
 ing itself involved in the mazes of duplicity, gradu 
 ally loses the power of retracing its path. Some 
 times she resolved to reveal the whole to her father, 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 95 
 
 and throw herself upon his compassion : again she 
 saw her lover, and the resolution vanished before his 
 powers of fascination. With the simplicity of a 
 first-love, she began to regard his protestations as 
 truth, to believe that his felicity was indeed at her 
 disposal, and that her smile or frown was to be the 
 arbiter of his destiny. She became uneasy thus to 
 trifle with the happiness of one so perfectly subser 
 vient to her wishes, and who constantly assured her 
 that he would rejoice to lay down life for her sake. 
 Should any grave female within the safe precincts 
 of single blessedness, condemn this credulity, as 
 peculiar weakness of mind, let her retrace the an 
 nals of her own romantic days, and inquire if there 
 is no vestige of sympathy with Mary ; and though 
 she may not have partaken in her follies, let her ask 
 if she rose wholly superior to her delusions. 
 
 Captain Patten now supposed that he had gained 
 an eminence from whence the attack might be suc 
 cessfully opened. He pressed for permission to soli 
 cit her father to sanction his addresses. This was 
 what she could not grant, but ah ! the dismission 
 which she had always promised herself should meet 
 such a proposal, was withheld by the hesitancy of 
 her traitorous affections. Angry at her want of 
 decision, she yielded to all the miseries of mental 
 conflict, like the man who, half a convert to piety 
 and half the servant of sin, " resolves, and re-re 
 solves, then dies the same." The tumult of her 
 spirits created a temporary indisposition, and she con- 
 
96 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 fined herself to her chamber. Madelaine Dubelde, 
 a waiting-maid, who had attended her mother in her 
 removal from France, and since her death had gra 
 dually elevated herself into the office of house-keep 
 er, and humble companion to her young mistress, 
 endeavored to divert her chagrin by such conversa 
 tion as would best have dissipated her own. 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle ! if you were but in Paris, with 
 that beautiful face, and that air so graceful, so de- 
 gagee, you would have no time for such terrible fits 
 of ennui. Why, you would be followed by more 
 adorers than could stand upon the common. Not 
 such dowdies as you see in this country, who dare 
 not look at or speak to a young lady, when they 
 meet her. Oh Mon Dieu ! I had rather have a lodge 
 in the crookedest part of the Rue St. Denis, than 
 the grandest house in the whole of this mean village 
 of Boston. I certainly have seen nothing fit to eat 
 or drink, since I came to this vile America. I am 
 sure I should never have become such a perfect rack- 
 a-bone, if any thing could have been found here, which 
 a lady ought to eat. Why, dear Mademoiselle, if we 
 were only in France, you would have been present 
 ed at court by your mother s relations, long before 
 this, and think what a stir you would have made 
 among the princes of the blood ! Now here you sit 
 moping, day after day, like a creature shut up in a 
 pound. I am absolutely afraid you will lose your 
 senses, and I cannot see you suffering as you do, 
 without thinking of some beautiful lines of a great 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 97 
 
 French poet, about a rose fading in the wilderness. 
 Once I could say them all by heart, and sing them 
 too, but I have lost my memory, and my voice, and 
 every thing else, since I have been obliged to breathe 
 the dull, heavy air of Boston. Why, your father 
 invites nobody to visit at the house, but a parcel of 
 half-starved Huguenots. I wonder which of them 
 he proposes shall swallow you alive. I hope I shall 
 not live to see the day. Your mother would have 
 looked a deal higher for you. She was the right 
 sort, you may depend. But she grew melancholy 
 after coming to this land of wild beasts, and was not 
 the shadow of her former self. You can judge a 
 little by Beauchamp, how she once looked. He has 
 not the air of these yankee bodies." 
 
 " Did my mother resemble Beauchamp ?" inquired 
 Mary, yawning, and desirous to turn the channel of 
 discourse from herself. 
 
 " Something between Monsieur Beauchamp and 
 yourself," replied the waiting-maid, " would be more 
 as she was in the height of her beauty. She was 
 like Venus, in that picture in your uncle s cham 
 ber, where Paris (I believe it was he who built 
 the city of Paris,) is choosing between three god 
 desses." 
 
 " Why did not my father have her portrait taken ?" 
 
 " He did, several years before your birth. I always 
 told him that nobody but one of the court painters 
 from France was fit to do it. But he must needs 
 patronize the jackasses of this country. So there the 
 
98 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 poor lady sat face to face with one of them, to please 
 her husband, day after day, till she was ready to 
 faint with disgust. But when it was done, O Lord ! 
 the thoughts of it drive me mad. It was so bolt 
 upright, so stiff, staring, and with such an abomina 
 bly silly expression, so entirely out of character, 
 holding in one hand a huge bunch of pinks and 
 marigolds, and in the other, a book, looking vastly 
 like a bible, which was quite as much out of charac 
 ter too, for she had too much good sense to put her 
 eyes out, with poring over dull, godly books. 
 
 " When Beauchamp saw the production, he told 
 the painter to take it with him to the devil ; but your 
 father thought it had better be hung up a while for 
 the colors to mellow. At last it proved rather too 
 bad even for him, though he did not say much about 
 it. One day, I smelt smoke, and an awful odour of 
 oil, and ran into the dining-room, screaming, 
 * Lord, Sir ! the house is on fire. What do you 
 think I saw, but that vile picture, split all to pieces, 
 and laid on the fire, burning with a terrible flame, 
 and the old gentleman thrusting it in further with his 
 cane, never speaking a word, or so much as turning 
 his head towards me." 
 
 " How old was my mother, when she left her 
 native country ?" 
 
 " Just your own age, my sweet Mademoiselle, 
 about sixteen. I never saw any mortal being so 
 resplendent as she was, the night of her escape from 
 the convent. Down she came by a ladder of ropes 
 

 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 99 
 
 from a high window, that would make your poor 
 weak head dizzy to look up at. Monsieur Beau- 
 champ held it firm, and carried her in his arms to 
 the carriage which waited in a dark thicket at the 
 end of the avenue. There was I in it, and your 
 father standing near, and the two postilions drove 
 like lightning till we reached the coast, where a priest 
 performed the ceremony, and we all embarked with 
 out a moment s delay. When she was first brought 
 to the coach, she was as white as your robe, but as 
 soon as she found herself out of the clutches of the 
 nuns and their tribe, and safe with me, and her 
 lover, and her brother, she dazzled like a wreath of 
 rubies and diamonds. If she had not shown her 
 Beauchamp blood, and ran away just at that time, 
 she would have been moped to death in a convent, 
 just as you are likely to be in your own father s 
 house." 
 
 This episode touched a chord that vibrated pain 
 fully, for Mary s lover at their last interview had 
 urged her to an elopement, and though she had re 
 jected the proposal with spirit, it still remained as a 
 thorn in her memory, as a thing to which she ought 
 never to have listened. 
 
 " Dubelde," said she, " I wish for rest. You for 
 get that your tongue has been in motion without 
 cessation, these two hours." 
 
 " Two hours ! Oh mon Dieu ! It is just five 
 minutes by my watch, since I came up from order 
 ing Bridget about the ragout. The stupid wretch ! 
 
100 THE FAMTLY PORTRAITS. 
 
 I dare say she ll spoil it. Not a soup have I seen 
 in this country, that would not turn the stomach of 
 a horse. Why, we had scarcely been here a month, 
 when I sent to the market for some frogs, thinking 
 to make a pasty myself, to tempt your mother s 
 palate, for she was even then beginning to pine away 
 with starvation. Would you believe it ! the beast 
 of a servant never returned till night, and then came 
 bringing a huge pot of vile, fat toads, for which he 
 said the market-man must have six livres, having 
 spent most of the day in hunting them. Your poor 
 mother was not the shadow of herself, for years 
 before you were born. And you are in the same 
 way, I perceive. All your charming naivete quite 
 gone. You cannot even bear a few minutes discourse 
 with a friend. Ma foi ! But how can I wonder, 
 when I am so changed myself? My nerves have 
 been shattered by hearing of the horrid Indian sav 
 ages of this country. And my eyes, it does not 
 become me, to be sure, to tell what was said of them 
 in France, but one might be apt to think that time 
 had changed them. No such thing, it s more sor 
 row, and weeping after Paris. More than once, 
 when I have been walking on the Louvre, a great 
 Prince, brother to Louis the king, has bowed to me. 
 I suppose he mistook me for one of the Duchesses. 
 But you must not speak of that, Mademoiselle. Lord ! 
 I dare say you did not so much as hear me, for you 
 are dying with sleep." 
 
 Mary was relieved by the absence of her waiting- 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 101 
 
 woman, who, like many other persons of a low mind, 
 thought to magnify her consequence by a strain of 
 discontentment, and expatiating on the superior ad 
 vantages of a former situation. Dr. Ranchon received 
 immediate information from her, that her young 
 mistress was in a fixed consumption, and that no 
 thing but a voyage to France could possibly restore 
 her. Credulous, and prone to agitation, where his 
 daughter was concerned, he ransacked his library 
 for authors who had written upon this disease, col 
 lected his antiquated manuscripts to search for cases 
 within the range of his own practice, and turned the 
 whole current of his thoughts and conversation upon 
 the phthisis pulmonalis. 
 
 A few evenings after the communication of this 
 intelligence, as Dubelde was assisting her young 
 lady to retire, she began in a whimpering tone to 
 upbraid her want of confidence. 
 
 " Madelaine," she exclaimed, " what have I con 
 cealed, which was proper for you to know ?" 
 
 " Alas ! every thing," replied the querulous dam 
 sel. " Have I not carried you in these arms whole 
 years, and accompanied your mother in her flight 
 across the tossing ocean ? And now to be treated 
 like an underling. Ah, mon coeur ! She never 
 would have done so. Why, here is the story of 
 your love, and your marriage that is to be, all over 
 town, and I never to be told a breath of it." 
 
 "All over town ! Explain yourself," said Mary, 
 letting her long and beautiful hair fall uncurled over 
 12 
 
102 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 her shoulders, and seating herself in deep surprise 
 on the side of the bed, her night-robe flowing in loose 
 and graceful drapery around her. 
 
 " O, that air of astonishment is vastly becoming," 
 replied Dubelde ; " only it brings rather too fine a 
 color over the brow, for a lady already so far gone 
 in a hectic. There was I, and your poor father, 
 fretting ourselves to death about asses milk, and 
 how to make you put on flannel, and he was dis 
 tracted to have a monstrous blister laid upon your 
 breast, though I told him he might as well undertake 
 to persuade you to have your head cut off. But after 
 all, it seems that you are likely to let the doctors 
 alone, and die a natural death at last, since all this 
 alarm is only an affair of the heart, as Monsieur 
 Beauchamp says." 
 
 " My uncle ! What does he know of this strange 
 story of yours ?" inquired Mary with evident alarm. 
 
 " Nothing that I know of," answered Dubelde, 
 " and he never would have heard it from me, had 
 you but seen fit to honor me with your secret. I 
 have had grander love-matters than yours, brought 
 me for advice, I assure you, young lady. I have had 
 experience enough too, in such sort of things myself, 
 (forcing a sigh) to be a counsellor. But courting 
 is nothing in this country to what it is in France." 
 
 " How did you obtain the information of which you 
 speak ?" asked Mary. 
 
 " How did I obtain it ? Oh, to be sure ! What 
 if I should take it into my head to be as close-mouth- 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 103 
 
 ed as other people ? Why, if I must tell, I obtained 
 it in the streets, where it is in every body s mouth 
 for aught I know. I saw the man with my own 
 eyes, Madam. He is a perfect Adonis. I had never 
 expected to see such grace and symmetry in this 
 land of savages. He is the very picture of the prince 
 who bowed to me on the Louvre, only he is rather 
 more em-bon-point, and his shoulders a trifle broader. 
 But such life and spirit, ma foi ! and such a fine 
 dress, a perfect courtier too, in speech and voice." 
 
 " Speech and voice ! Of whom are you under 
 taking to prate ?" 
 
 " Why, of Captain Patten. Who did your lady 
 ship suppose? I should not have mentioned his 
 voice, to be sure ; I only meant to have said, what it 
 would be if he had spoken, for high-bred gentlemen 
 always abound in fine words. I had been walking up 
 Winter-street, for a little airing, as you know I have 
 been moped to death in your chamber for more than 
 this whole week, and I saw him coming down the 
 mall. I could do no less than just stop to admire him, 
 for I thought he must be some foreign prince. Who 
 is that ? says I. Why, don t you know ? says they. It 
 is Captain Patten, Miss Mary Ranchon s admirer. 
 You don t say so ? says I. Oh, the wedding-dresses 
 are all made, says they, and she is going to settle 
 on him the whole of her mother s fortune, because 
 that is at her disposal. See, he wants to speak to 
 you, says they." 
 
 "Says who?" interrupted the young lady, in 
 dignantly. 
 
104 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 " Why, they that was with me, to be sure. Peo 
 ple need not be so mighty inquisitive unless they 
 could contrive to show a little more frankness them 
 selves. Well, as I was saying, I stopped one mo 
 ment, and he came directly up. Such a bow I have 
 not seen, since I turned my back on dear Paris. 
 Mademoiselle Madelaine Dubelde, I presume, said 
 he. Lord ! how should he know my name. I was 
 abashed at such politeness, and felt my cheeks red 
 der than a piony. You are, I understand, he went 
 on, a particular friend of that paragon of beauty 
 and loveliness, who holds my heart as the fowler 
 holds the pierced bird. Commend me most favor 
 ably to her clemency, and say " 
 
 "Dubelde," rejoined Mary, with all her father s 
 sternness, which she well knew how to assume, 
 " either speak the truth, or leave my presence." 
 
 The narrator, regarding her eye for a moment, 
 and perceiving that her tissue had been woven with 
 too little art, and that falsehood could not elude the 
 quick penetration of her mistress, laid aside the flip 
 pancy which had hitherto marked her recital, and 
 thus proceeded, 
 
 " Since a slight embellishment so much offends 
 your delicate nerves, I will give you the plain fact. I 
 was accosted, as I came from the market, by a fine- 
 looking man, who, after mentioning his name, and 
 inquiring earnestly after your health, begged me to 
 deliver you this letter, and suddenly vanished among 
 the crowd." 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 105 
 
 " I shall not take the letter." 
 
 " As you please, Madam. I shall just lay it on 
 your dressing-table. It will do no harm there, I 
 trust. It is a mere complimentary note, I dare say, 
 and sealed just like the court billetdoux." 
 
 Mary desired to be left alone, and throwing her 
 self upon her couch, ruminated painfully. She was 
 confounded at the rashness of Patten, in thus reveal 
 ing himself to Dubelde, and felt there was great 
 hazard in trusting one so naturally indiscreet, and 
 whose confidence she had taken no care to propitiate. 
 Again she recalled the circumstances of her last 
 interview with her lover, and blamed herself as the 
 cause of his precipitation, by the anger which she 
 had testified at his solicitation to elopement, and by 
 her subsequent seclusion from him. Sometimes she 
 condemned herself for evincing too much spirit ; then 
 for not assuming enough to reject him utterly. 
 
 Still she was determined not to read his letter. 
 What could he possibly say in it, more than he had 
 said? A tumult of thought banished sleep until 
 midnight. She rose to extinguish the lamp which 
 beamed too strongly upon her eyes. The letter lay 
 near it upon her toilette. It was sealed with a head 
 of Venus. The writing was elegant. What harm 
 could arise from just looking at its contents ? Would 
 it not be wiser to read it, and then inclose it in a 
 note, commanding him to forget her ? Perchance, 
 thus reasoned our mother, when beneath the fatal 
 tree in Paradise, "she plucked, she ate." The 
 
106 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 maiden trimmed her decaying lamp. Twice she 
 took the letter, and twice restored it to its place, ere 
 she broke the seal. She perused it, and it fell to the 
 floor. Reclining her head upon her hand, while her 
 luxuriant tresses fell around her like a veil, she con 
 templated its pages with an air of vacancy, and with 
 scarcely a connected thought, until advancing dawn 
 admonished her to retire. She rested her throbbing 
 temples upon the pillow, but no slumber visited her. 
 The bitterness of self-reproach, and the collision of 
 love with duty, rendered her an object of commiser 
 ation. The letter contained ardent protestations of 
 attachment, deprecated the misery which the ru 
 mor of her ill-health had caused him, conjured her 
 to suffer him to remove the veil which had so long 
 concealed his faithful love, and ventured to urge that 
 if her father should prove inexorable to his prayers, 
 she would not shrink from a step which many of the 
 most excellent of her sex had taken, nor condemn 
 to eternal despair, a heart devoted to but one object 
 with unalterable fidelity. Nothing was written 
 which had not been previously adduced, but the ar 
 guments seemed to gather strength by condensation. 
 An eye accustomed to the vernacular of love-epistles 
 would have discovered in this, more of studied ar 
 rangement than of artless passion, with somewhat 
 of that style which betrays expectation of success. 
 But to a novice, with an advocate in her own bosom, 
 the appeal, if not irresistible, was at least dangerous. 
 It rendered the writer an object of more undivided 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 107 
 
 contemplation, and the lover who succeeds in mono 
 polizing the thoughts of an innocent heart, is like 
 the conqueror who cuts off the channels of supply 
 from a besieged citadel. Madelaine found her young 
 lady in the morning, changed both in appearance 
 and manner, and with rapture listened to the request 
 not to divulge her secret. 
 
 " Never fear me, my sweet Mademoiselle," she 
 answered : " it is safe as in your double-locked cas 
 ket. Now you will be well again, at least I- must 
 tell my master so, for he is in such a panic, that he 
 will be sure to lay on a blister as big as a Parmesan 
 cheese before night. But, Lord ! how shockingly pale 
 you look ! Just touch a little of my rouge to your 
 beautiful cheeks. Mon Dieu ! how awfully obstinate 
 you are ! It won t hurt your complexion, you may 
 tell that by mine. It only keeps one from looking 
 like a downright fright. The finest complexions on 
 earth would be utterly ruined, by the vile easterly 
 winds that are for ever blowing here. I protest that 
 even mine is hardly fit to be seen now, though it 
 was so much admired in France. But, my lovely 
 creature, I am delighted that you have read that 
 charming letter ;" bending towards it with intense 
 curiosity. 
 
 Mary, blushing at her faithlessness to her own 
 resolutions, snatched it from the carpet, and press 
 ing it together, hid it in her bosom. This was the 
 most wretched day that she had ever passed. Com 
 pelled to counterfeit cheerfulness during the visits of 
 
108 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 her father, in order to countenance the report of her 
 recovery, she reproached herself for duplicity, until 
 she loathed her very being. When she observed 
 his eyes resting upon her with affectionate solicitude, 
 she wished to throw herself at his feet, and acknow 
 ledge that she was unworthy to be called his child. 
 Dreading the scrutiny of Beauchamp s glance, she 
 excused herself from his proffered visit, with the 
 promise of appearing below on the ensuing day. 
 The attentions of the waiting-maid were indefatiga 
 ble, and her exultation as extreme, as if she had 
 again been promenading the Louvre, and receiving 
 a bow from some imagined Prince. Her extravagant 
 praises of Patten would have excited suspicion that 
 she was bribed to his interest, had the mind of her 
 mistress been sufficiently at ease for clear investiga 
 tion. So much had poor Mary sunk in her own 
 opinion, that not only was the impertinence of the 
 menial tolerated, but even her suggestions accom 
 panied with some degree of influence. 
 
 "Why, an elopement is no such terrible thing, my 
 adored lady. Your mother did it before you, and 
 your father, of all men, would have no right to com 
 plain. A few words before the priest, a short jour 
 ney, return home, with a shower of tears, would 
 appease the old gentleman, and then all set off toge 
 ther somewhere, to France, I hope, Ah ! how de 
 lightful. But suppose, Mademoiselle, you dismiss this 
 elegant lover, as your heart does not seem very sus 
 ceptible, and so marry one of these starveling Hu- 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 109 
 
 guenots. Perhaps you would prefer one of that queer 
 sort of bodies. Well, there s no accounting for 
 tastes, and every one has a right to choose their own 
 den, as the bears say, in the fable. You 11 be set to 
 work like an ox, and what good will your guitar or 
 your piano do ye, where no music but the whirling 
 of a spinning-wheel is desired or understood 1 You 
 can do it, I suppose, if you prefer it, and so have 
 nothing fit to eat, or decent to wear, and pine away 
 and die, like your poor dear mother. But if you 
 can t quite bring your stomach to that, what s to be 
 got by waiting ? How long will it be, before Beau- 
 champ will hear this news in the streets ? And how 
 long, think ye, will he keep it from your father 1 O, 
 mon Dieu ! what a terrible storm will be then. Much 
 worse, than if you had eloped and got back again, 
 for then he would have to make the best of what 
 could not be helped, and there would be only a show 
 of anger with a yearning heart underneath, and so 
 delighted would he be to see you, that he would soon 
 drop his frowning mask, and in one month s time, 
 I promise you, would be proud of such -a son-in- 
 law." 
 
 Mary did not admit the force of these arguments, 
 but she evidently listened to them, and on such a 
 point, " the woman who deliberates is lost." That 
 night, as she was about to retire, exhausted for want 
 of repose, but with little expectation of enjoying it, 
 she was startled at the sound of a violincello, direct 
 ly under her window. 
 
 K 
 
110 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Alarmed lest the proximity of her uncle s cham 
 ber should occasion her some embarrassing ques 
 tions respecting the serenade, she bent from the 
 window, and seeing the form of Patten indistinctly 
 by the light of the moon, motioned with her hand 
 peremptorily for him to retire. Still the strain con 
 tinued its impassioned melody. Bending lower from 
 the casement, she said in a tone scarcely audible, 
 
 " Go ! I command you." 
 
 He obeyed, but again from a great distance, she 
 caught the echo of a different lay, which was a fa 
 vorite among her companions. Almost the words of 
 its chorus seemed to be articulated, so perfect was 
 the modulation : 
 
 " I go, proud heart ! Remember me, 
 Remember him, who dies for thee." 
 
 This occurrence effectually prevented her slum 
 bers for another night, and she rose with disordered 
 nerves, and a tremulous anxiety of spirit. Hearing 
 that she was expected in the breakfast parlor, she 
 hastily arranged her dress, and required repeated 
 assurances from Dubelde, that Beauchamp could 
 possibly know nothing of her secret, ere she ven 
 tured into his presence. He met her at the staircase, 
 and taking her hand, led her into the breakfast-room, 
 but forbore any except general inquiries about her 
 health, and regarded her with so little scrutiny, that 
 she felt at ease, and resumed something of her native 
 hilarity. Dr. Ranchon was so delighted at her re 
 appearance, that he could scarcely take his repast, 
 
THE FAMILY PORTFxAITS. Ill 
 
 for the number of greetings that he had to bestow, 
 mingled with occasional commendations of his own 
 medical acumen, and precise knowledge of her con 
 stitution. After breakfast, at taking his cane for his 
 morning walk, he recommended her to retire to her 
 room, and compose herself after this first exertion 
 of strength, and to take a wine-glass of the decoction 
 of valerian, with a little hartshorn to temper the 
 effect of the sedative. At his departure, Beauchamp 
 drew her into the recess of a window, under pretence 
 of showing her a new volume of colored prints. He 
 amused himself for some time in pointing out the 
 elegant execution of the landscapes, and the life and 
 prominence which characterized the figures. While 
 she was admiring the plumage of a bird, which she 
 did not perceive was the Hibernian thrush, he cover 
 ed with her hand, all the letters of the name except 
 Hibernia, and said with marked expression, " As 
 you are doubtless better acquainted with the ornitho 
 logy of that island, than your uncle, can you tell him 
 whether this is one of the songsters which warble in 
 the night?" 
 
 Then casting at her an oblique glance from be 
 neath his long eye-lashes, while his fine eyes seem 
 ed to say, that her soul was open before him, he 
 added, 
 
 "All birds understand not the word of command 
 from a fine lady, nor is the same one equally obe 
 dient at all times, ma belle Marie." 
 
 Compassionating the extreme confusion with which 
 
112 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 she was covered, he drew her to a seat by his side, 
 and attempted to turn her attention to other designs 
 of the artist. But complaining of an head-ache, 
 which she really had, she disengaged herself, and 
 hastened to her chamber. Rushing by Dubelde, she 
 covered her face with her hands, exclaiming 
 
 " He knows it ! he knows all ! Beauchamp has 
 discovered all ! I wish that I were hidden in the 
 earth." 
 
 " Ma foi !" shrieked the chamber-maid, " and if 
 that is indeed the case, you have no time to lose. 
 This night must you be on your way, or Patten is 
 lost for ever." 
 
 " This night !" said the infatuated girl, " seems to 
 be the only time, for I heard Beauchamp say that 
 he was to go to Milton-hill, on a party of plea 
 sure, and not return until to-morrow. So that it 
 would not be in his power to discover any movement 
 here, and probably he will have no opportunity to 
 inform my father before he goes. Oh ! I would suf 
 fer anything rather than encounter such another 
 harrowing, humiliating glance. That miserable 
 serenade has been the cause of all this." 
 
 Madelaine exclaiming with delight, " Now you 
 are yourself again, your mother s child," hasten 
 ed to make necessary arrangements, acknowledging 
 that she had already held three assignations with 
 Patten on this subject. Mary permitted her to depart, 
 continually repeating to herself, 
 
 " It is impossible that I should be more wretched 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 113 
 
 than I now am," not knowing that there is no wretch 
 edness like that which a woman suffers, who has 
 given her affections where they can never be return 
 ed, trusted her earthly all to one frail bark, and 
 found the wreck total. 
 
 Most persons will condemn our heroine, for lis 
 tening to the opinions, and employing the interven 
 tion of so contemptible a woman as Dubelde. Let such 
 critics themselves beware of the first step in a wrong 
 course ; for who can tell where the last may lead ? 
 Most of us, when disposed to candor, can recollect 
 passages in our own history, where the commenda 
 tions of one whose judgment we might habitually 
 despise, if it happens to fall in with the current of 
 our partialities, has had some agency in determining 
 a doubtful and important choice. Dubelde was ab 
 sent at intervals during most of the day. Toward 
 its close, she brought a letter from Patten, expressive 
 of the most extravagant gratitude. 
 
 " Every arrangement is made," said she. " All 
 that you have to do, is precisely when the clock 
 strikes twelve, to come down, looking like a goddess 
 as you do now, all arrayed for a ride in this fine 
 moonlight. Your lover meets you at the door of the 
 little summer-parlor, opening into the garden, leads 
 you through that into the next avenue, where a post- 
 chaise waits, and a servant on horseback. Then you 
 drive to Providence, get the ceremony performed, 
 and take an excursion just where your ladyship 
 pleases, until you are ready to come back and be 
 K2 
 
114 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 pardoned. Oh ! how interesting you 11 look on your 
 knees, with the old gentleman a little stern at first, 
 because he ll feel obliged to be so, though he ll be 
 panting, at the bottom of his heart, to cry welcome. 
 Lord ! how much better is this, than one of the dull 
 weddings of this miserable country ! Why, a fune 
 ral is nothing to them for sadness. There sit the 
 bride and bridegroom, as starched and stiff as buck 
 ram, and a parcel of friends who came only to stare 
 at them, and eat vile cake, and drink muddy wine, 
 till they are all as dull as asses. The parson too 
 pipes up such a doleful exhortation about honoring 
 and obeying, and then the old women snuffle and 
 cry, because they know what it means, and the young 
 ones hide their faces behind their fans, because they 
 wish to know. Then they all creep in mournful pro 
 cession, two and two, to congratulate the bride, with 
 such woe-begone faces, that she dreams of them in 
 her sleep, and screams out with the night-mare. 
 Mon Dieu ! I could not survive, through such a stu 
 pid scene. How much better to have a little life, 
 and motion, and spirit, and joy ! And then to lay 
 your lover under such an obligation, when, in one of 
 these petrified marriages, ten to one but he 11 think 
 that he conferred one on you. But I m distracted 
 to run on so, when I ve all your wardrobe to put up 
 for your journey. Let me see : your crimson satin, 
 and your blue neglige, you 11 take by all means, and 
 you 11 need the pearl lutestring for a morning dress, 
 with shoes, and ear-rings, and ruffles, and so forth, 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 115 
 
 to match. Will you take your best brocade ? Lord ! 
 who knows but you 11 be robbed by the Indians. 
 Here s the beautiful new brown tabby, that suits 
 your shape so exactly. You 11 ride in this, I trust, 
 with the Brussels lace tucker" 
 
 " For heaven s sake," exclaimed Mary, " say no 
 thing about clothes. I 11 go in the plainest dress I 
 have, and take one or two changes." 
 
 " Ma foi !" shrieked Madelaine, " you ve lost your 
 senses. But so does every body, who s in love. 1 
 shall make bold to use my own judgment, and select 
 such things as are decent to wear. No good would 
 come from looking like a beggar, and disgracing your 
 lover at the very outset." 
 
 " Prevent my father from coming to my room, 
 this evening," said Mary. " I cannot endure to look 
 at him. Surely, surely, I am on a wrong course, or 
 it would not be so." 
 
 " Now you re getting into the dumps again," re 
 plied Dubelde. " Here, take your smelling-bottle, I 
 pray. Better do a thing gracefully, or not do it at all. 
 The old gentleman is safe enough. He s got some 
 of the Huguenot bodies to une petite soupir with him, 
 and they re telling old world stories with such eclat, 
 that they won t know what world they re in, till the 
 dining-room clock strikes nine. Then they 11 be off 
 like the firing of a pistol, for they re so superstitious 
 they durst not be out in the night. And your father 
 is always in such a hurry to get to bed, and Beau- 
 champ is out : what better could you possibly desire ? 
 
116 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Come, be gay : you 11 affright Patten with that pale, 
 ghostly visage." 
 
 Thus rattled on the interminable* waiting-maid, 
 and Mary, whose object was to banish thought, felt 
 even her impertinence preferable to silence. Pride, 
 and a sense of decorum, would but a few days since 
 have strongly revolted against submitting to the gui 
 dance of a menial ; now the haughty spirit was pas 
 sive both to arrangements and to opinions which it 
 despised. " Bound on a voyage of awful length," 
 the unhappy victim prolonged every hindrance that 
 detained her on shore. The last hour of probation 
 seemed as a few minutes, yet was almost insupport 
 able. She wished to fly from herself, to plunge in 
 the waters of Lethe, to obliterate all the past, to 
 forget even her own name and existence. There 
 was a settled misery in her countenance, which might 
 have awakened the obdurate to pity. 
 
 Thrice Madelaine repeated, " The clock has struck 
 twelve," ere she heeded it. 
 
 " You mistake," she replied, " it is scarcely past 
 eleven." Fain would she have added, " Ah ! I 
 cannot go," but shame at exposing such indecision 
 to a servant, sealed her lips. At length she in 
 quired, 
 
 " Does my father steep ?" 
 
 " Lord bless me, my sweet Mademoiselle, are you 
 deaf, that you have not heard him snoring these three 
 hours, as steady as the fall of a mill-dam, and loud 
 as the screech of a trumpet ?" 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 117 
 
 " And the servants ?" 
 
 " All in their lofts, like swallows. I gave them 
 a swig of double-distilled, and I dare say, there 11 be 
 no such thing as getting them up in the morning." 
 
 "And Beauchamp?" 
 
 " Ma foi ! Have you forgot he does not return to 
 night ? This is your only time. Do you wish to wait 
 for his arrival, and so have your lover shot through 
 the heart, and be pointed at, and laughed at, all your 
 days ? Oh ! I know you re not one of the sort, to 
 enlist and run away, at the first skirmish. Collect 
 your spirits, my princess. You are beautiful as the 
 moon, when she peeps from some silver cloud. You 
 have the very soul of the Beauchamps. You are 
 equal to what the poor spiritless creatures of this coun 
 try would be frightened to think of, but what is as 
 common in France as a jewel in the head of a Duch 
 ess. Remember your mother did it before you, 
 when she was just about your age. Think of the 
 delight and rapture of your lover. Do you know 
 it is believed that he is some foreign prince in dis 
 guise ? and no more a Captain than I am ? I Ve no 
 doubt of it. I see a throne in his eye. Who knows 
 but you 11 yet hold the sceptre of Great Britain in 
 that lily hand." 
 
 Unconscious of a word that was uttered, Mary 
 suffered herself to be led down the staircase, while 
 Dubelde, amid all her fidgeting, and pride of direc 
 tion, and fears lest they should not tread lightly, 
 could not avoid exclaiming with her native volatility, 
 
118 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 "Lord! I m dead with the nose-itch." As they 
 reached the landing-place, they heard a gentle tap 
 at the glass door which led into the garden. It was 
 the black servant, come to see if all was ready, and 
 to convey the package to the carriage, which waited 
 at the avenue passing the foot of the garden. He 
 was admitted, and Madelaine ran hastily to the cham 
 ber of her mistress, for the clothes which had been 
 prepared. At her return, she saw him setting down 
 a champaign glass, which, having stood near a bot 
 tle upon a table in the recess, he could not resist the 
 temptation of filling, and decanting through his lips. 
 The moment she observed him, forgetting her own 
 reiterated injunctions of breathless silence, she 
 shrieked 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! The black whale has swallowed all 
 my rings ! the ruby, the beautiful emerald, and 
 the turquoise that was given by, Oh, Lord ! and 
 the superb hair-locket too! Did nt that stick in 
 your throat, you insatiable hawk ?" 
 
 The bereaved waiting-woman had thrown her 
 jewelry, en passant, into this casual place of depo 
 sit, that her hands might be more at liberty in pack 
 ing for her mistress ; for, since the access of years 
 had rendered them somewhat more lean and skinny, 
 the ornaments of her buxom youth were in contin 
 ual danger of escaping from her attenuated fingers, 
 when summoned to any active duty. Her distress 
 at the rifling of her most beloved treasures, quite 
 annihilated the unities of time and place, and her 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 119 
 
 first shriek was passionately loud. But she had 
 scarce a moment to compute the probabilities of the 
 extent of its echo, ere the door from the dining-room 
 burst open, and Dr. Ranchon appeared in his night 
 dress, advancing a long, rusty rapier. Suddenly 
 awakened, and anticipating no enemy but thieves, 
 he armed himself with great dispatch, and stood 
 forth, a formidable antagonist, with great personal 
 strength, and equal courage. Great was his aston 
 ishment to find his daughter arrayed as for an ex 
 pedition, and fainting in the arms of Madelaine. The 
 negro, profiting by the moment of consternation, 
 dropped the package and vanished. 
 
 " What ! in God s name, is the meaning of all 
 this?" exclaimed the hoarse, harsh voice of the old 
 gentleman, raised to its upper tones. 
 
 " Oh ! take her in your arms, support her, my 
 dear master, till I run for some hartshorn, or she 11 
 die," screamed the waiting-maid, anxious to turn his 
 attention to an object that would disarm his rage, 
 and still more anxious to convey her own person out 
 of reach of the rapier. She soon saw him engaged 
 in loosing the ligatures of his daughter s dress, and 
 too much occupied with her situation, to inquire the 
 cause. Carefully measuring her distance, so as to 
 be out of the range of the weapon, she commenced 
 a plea of defence, forgetful of the impatience which, 
 a moment before, she had testified, to obtain some 
 remedy for her fainting lady, 
 
 " Oh ! that I had never seen this night," she cried 
 
120 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 sobbing. Thousands of times have I tried to dis 
 suade her from leaving her poor, dear father. Hours 
 without number, have I set before her the deadly 
 sin of an elopement." 
 
 "Who told you twas such a deadly sin, you 
 meddling Jezebel ?" vociferated the father. 
 
 Dubelde perceiving that in her haste she had touch 
 ed a key to which her master s feelings always an 
 grily vibrated, cried in a whining tone, 
 
 " Oh no, my dear Sir ! not to elope with a pro 
 per person, Sir, such as an honorable gentleman 
 from France ; that would have been a glory to her, 
 as it was to her mother. But to run away with an 
 Irishman that nobody knows, that was the trouble. 
 She was set enough in her way, God knows. She 
 takes it from the Beauchamps. She was angry 
 enough to have struck me, for saying so much in 
 your favor, Sir." 
 
 " So, you knew that my daughter was about mar 
 rying an Irish devil, and never told me of it, you 
 infernal deceiver ! Get out of my house !" rising 
 with his unconscious burden, as if to force her from 
 the door. But reminded of Mary s situation, by the 
 lifeless weight with which she hung upon his arm, 
 he changed his purpose, and exclaimed, 
 
 " Run ! fetch the hartshorn." 
 
 " Mademoiselle has some drops in her dressing- 
 case, your honor, which always do better for her 
 than hartshorn. I 11 bring them in one moment." 
 
 She disappeared on the staircase, muttering to 
 herself, 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 121 
 
 " I shan t break my neck with haste to accommo 
 date him. Get out of his house ! Indeed ! A vile 
 wolf! This is what people of my talents get, by 
 demeaning themselves to such vipers !" 
 
 She lingered as long as was convenient to herself, 
 but came down stairs with rapidity, saying 
 
 " I thought I should never have found the phial. 
 Things are hid in such strange places now-a-days." 
 
 But ere she arrived, she heard the old gentleman 
 speaking in a hurried but gentle tone to Mary, who 
 was slowly recovering from the air of the open 
 door. 
 
 "There ! there ! look up again ! breathe better now, 
 baby ? don t swoon again, as soon as you see me. 
 A nt angry No, no shall marry who you please 
 did nt mean you should marry a Frenchman 
 against your will. No, no. May have whoever 
 you wish, only let father know it. That s all. A nt 
 angry the least in the world, do speak one word, 
 baby Mary." 
 
 This colloquy, or rather soliloquy, was terminated 
 by Beauchamp, who rushed in at the garden-door, 
 and as Mary feebly retired with Dubelde, still in a 
 state of doubtful consciousness, he exclaimed 
 
 " Clumsily executed, by the gods ! This same 
 elopement is a true Irishman s bull. A carriage in 
 full view, beneath a full moon, scarcely a stone s 
 throw from the house, a tattling chamber-maid for 
 confidante and mistress of ceremonies, and a devil 
 ish negro dispatched to receive the dulcinea. This 
 L 
 
122 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 bog-trotter is either a fool, or desirous of being dis 
 covered." 
 
 " How did you know anything of this affair, bro 
 ther ?" inquired the old gentleman. 
 
 " How do we know that our visage is furnished 
 with a nose, instead of horns?" he replied. "Simply 
 by the use of the eyes. I am amazed that any one 
 could be in the house with that girl, and not perceive 
 her change of manner, her suppressed sigh, swal 
 lowed in a smile, like the whale gorging the prophet, 
 and compelled to cast him forth again, her efforts to 
 appear unconstrained, and her inability to be so. 
 None but a doating father could be blind to all this 
 parapharnalia ; and none seeing it, and having been 
 once in Cupid s court, could doubt the author. My 
 eyes having opened the cause, my ears soon purvey 
 ed sufficient testimony. What is committed as a 
 secret to school-girls is better published than if the 
 town-crier were employed. I have long had my eye 
 upon this jewel of a man, who imagined that he was 
 walking in darkness, and wasting at noon-day. Not 
 many days since, did I see this same Captain Patten 
 presenting a letter in the streets to the most discreet 
 and excellent Mademoiselle Dubelde." 
 
 " Captain Patten ! is that his name ? why did not 
 you inform me of all this, Beauchamp ?" 
 
 " Frankly, because it would have done no good. 
 You would only have fallen into a passion, and by 
 forbidding Mary to see her lover, have blown up a 
 girlish fancy into an unconquerable flame. Were I 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 123 
 
 desirous of precipitating a marriage, 1 would hire 
 either the parents or some old maiden aunt to op 
 pose it. The passions excited by such a collision, 
 are Hymen s engines. The young lady views her 
 lover as a martyr, mistakes her own obstinacy for 
 love, marries, and is undeceived. No, no, my 
 dear sir. I have too much attachment for the sole 
 offspring of my favorite sister, to hazard such a re 
 sult. I preferred coming in with my countercheck 
 at the crisis, as the best method of discomfiting this 
 rascally Irishman, and of giving Marie, through the 
 mortification that must ensue, such a lesson upon 
 the misery of imprudence and duplicity, as will pro 
 bably save you from their recurrence." 
 
 " But how did you discover the proceedings of to 
 night?" inquired Dr. Ranchon. "I thought you 
 were out of town." 
 
 " A mere bagatelle. I have not lost sight of your 
 mansion to-day. I was nearer to your daughter than 
 you, when the shriek of that abominable Madelaine 
 broke your trance. It was my intention to have re 
 ceived the loving pair, when they should issue from 
 the woodbine porch, in whose purlieus I was very 
 fragrantly accommodated. Finding that an underplot 
 was accidentally got up in the house, I varied the 
 last act of the drama, and drawing my sword, pro 
 ceeded to seek an interview with Honey, ere his ebon 
 emissary should return to report the misadventure. 
 He was quite comfortably watching his horses, muf 
 fled in a cloak, and did not perceive me, until I was 
 
124 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 within five paces, and called, Draw, rascal ! Having 
 some secret impression of his cowardice, I had so 
 placed myself with regard to the gate opening on the 
 avenue, that his retreat should not be that way. 
 Father Jupiter ! I had not anticipated that he was 
 so complete a dastard. I did look for two or three 
 passes at least. Yet nothing saw I, but a pair of 
 heels kicked up in flight. As he was about to leap 
 the wall, I overtook, and closed with him. But un 
 fortunately entangling myself in the cloak which he 
 threw off, I lost my sword, and we should have had 
 nothing but a wrestling match, in which my jewel, 
 being the most powerful man, would probably have 
 had the advantage. This also he avoided, for giving 
 a leap over the high wall, he threw himself sheer 
 out of Eden. Having regained my sword, I fol 
 lowed, taking care to secure a pocket-book, which 
 in the scuffle had fallen from him. But finding it 
 was hopeless to pursue the bog-trotter, though I am 
 somewhat fleet at a race, I turned, and met his negro 
 servant driving off the chaise. I menaced the horses 
 with my sword, and ordered him to drive to the devil. 
 The rest you know, and now I have considerable 
 curiosity to see the contents of this fortune-hunter s 
 port-feuille." 
 
 He produced a rather spacious red leather pocket- 
 book, in which were various receipts, papers, and 
 letters of little consequence. At length Beauchamp 
 discovered one in a female hand, considerably mu 
 tilated, though one page continued legible, and bore 
 a recent date. 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 125 
 
 "Cork March, 17th, 1724. 
 
 " Surprised will ye be, my loving husband, to 
 receive a letter from me in Cork ; but the last long 
 winter was so tediously cold, and our cabin by the 
 pool of Ballyclacklin so shackling and bad, that my 
 brother was fain for me to be removing to Cork, 
 where he kindly gives me the use of one half of his 
 own house. I don t wish to be complaining too 
 much of hard times, but would be right glad to see 
 your sweet face again, or to receive any little mat 
 ter you could send me, to help on with the children. 
 Dick has got to be a stout boy, and looks with his 
 eyes as you do, and little Biddy has learned from 
 him to say, Arrah ! when will that daddy of ours 
 be for coming bock agen ? I had nt heard where 
 you was for a year, or thereabouts, till last week, 
 Mr. Patrick Thady O Mulligan, of this place, re 
 turned from Boston, in America, bringing news that 
 you was there. He says, he was a little bother d 
 at first, and came nigh not knowing you, because 
 you had taken a new name ; something like Paten, 
 or Patin, and wore a marvellous rich dress of a reg 
 iment officer. He says too, that at first you declared 
 it was not you, but he swore that he d know your 
 father s son all the world over, and then you told 
 him that it was you. Right glad was your loving 
 wife to hear that you was not drowned in the salt 
 sea, and" 
 
 Here the epistle was torn across. Beauchamp 
 had scarcely patience to complete its perusal. 
 L2 
 
126 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 " Oh !" he exclaimed, brandishing his sword, " that 
 the Powers above had suffered but three inches of 
 this blade to sound that wretch s heart !" 
 
 Dr. Ranchon traversed the room, raving in an 
 excess of passion. He clenched his hands, and ere 
 the reading was concluded, had vociferated more evil 
 wishes and epithets, than it would be either conve 
 nient or fitting to repeat. Snatching the mutilated 
 letter, he exclaimed 
 
 " Let her see it ! Let her see it ! Show her what 
 an infernal gulf she sported near." 
 
 Then clasping Beauchamp in his arms, with a 
 violence that almost suffocated him, he said, half in 
 tears, " and you, you have saved us !" Beauchamp 
 placing his hand upon his brother s arm, as soon as 
 he could extricate himself from his powerful embrace 
 said, " Stay ! Enough has been done for safety. 
 There is yet sufficient time for suffering. She can- 
 not bear all at once. I should not be surprised, 
 were you to have occasion for all your professional 
 skill in her chamber, this fortnight. This revulsion 
 of feeling, call it what you will, vanity, lunacy, or 
 love, cannot be without physical sympathy. This 
 * last, unkindest cut of all, must be softened to her, 
 as she can endure it. In the meantime send out of 
 your house that walking pestilence, in the shape of 
 a chamber-maid. A ship this week sails for France. 
 Furnish part of its freight with her carcase, and 
 give thanks as the Jews did, when they were clear 
 of the leprosy. If it sinks, so much the better. 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 127 
 
 Give her money enough to become a petty shop 
 keeper in the Rue St. Denis, the height of her am 
 bition, where she will soon complete the climax of 
 her folly." 
 
 Dubelde was accordingly dismissed, the fortune- 
 hunter vanished, and the prophecy of Beauchamp, 
 respecting Mary, was but too literally fulfilled. 
 Long and severe sickness, with partial delirium, 
 were the consequences of her folly ; and though her 
 firmness of constitution eventually prevailed, yet 
 she came forth with wasted bloom, scarcely the 
 shadow of her former self. This protracted period 
 of reflection and remorse was salutary. The fabrics 
 of vanity wherein she had trusted, fell around her, 
 and her principles of action became reversed. With 
 subdued pride and renovated feelings, she strove to 
 atone for her faithlessness to her father, and her for- 
 getfulness of her God. 
 
 In due time, she admitted the addresses of a de 
 scendant of the Huguenots, one in character and ac 
 complishments altogether worthy of her affections. 
 His elevated mind, and susceptible heart, induced 
 her to cherish for him that mixture of gratitude, 
 esteem and confidence, which if it pretend not to the 
 enthusiasm of a first love, is something in itself far 
 better. 
 
 It is that state of feeling into which requited and 
 virtuous love eventually subsides ; that pure and 
 self-devoted friendship which the author of the Spec 
 tator has pronounced the "perfection of love." 
 
128 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Each revolving year continued to convince Mary of 
 what wayward and romantic youth are often scepti 
 cal in believing, that the illusion of a first love, in 
 all its charm and enthusiasm, is but misery, if un- 
 sanctioned by duty, in comparison with that union 
 of hearts, which judgment approves, which piety 
 confirms, and whose crown is the smile and blessing 
 of a parent. 
 
 Perchance some of my readers, if haply any have 
 attended my lucubrations thus far, may marvel why 
 I have seen fit to entitle them family portraits. The 
 truth is, that two antiquated personages have for 
 several years been looking down upon me from their 
 ample frames, whenever I pass a particular part of 
 our mansion. One is a lady dressed in a brown silk, 
 with raven hair parted plainly upon her forehead, and 
 holding in her hand a snuff-box, with an aspect rather 
 grave than beautiful. The partner is a most portly 
 and respectable gentleman, with wig and ruffles, 
 pointing with a spy-glass to the distant Ocean, as if 
 in expectation of the arrival of some richly-laden 
 vessel. Both portraits are in far better taste than is 
 usual for those that bear the date of more than a 
 century : the hands in particular, which are allowed 
 to be some criterion of an artist s style, are elegant 
 ly finished. 
 
 Having been divers times puzzled with inquiries 
 from visitants, respecting these venerable personages, 
 I set myself seriously to search our family records, 
 and you have seen the result, in the foregoing sheets. 
 
THE FAMILY PORTRAITS. 129 
 
 I found that the grave lady who looks as if she might 
 have read daily lectures against coquetry and elope 
 ment to her children, was no other than the once 
 celebrated Mary Ranchon, and that the gentleman 
 in such undivided proximity was that Huguenot 
 husband, who so greatly enhanced her happiness by 
 his love, and her respectability by his wisdom. Should 
 any person continue sceptical as to the truth of the 
 facts herein related, he may see, should he travel in 
 the land of steady habits, those same family portraits, 
 gratis, and be told the name of the husband of Mary 
 Ranchon. " 
 
 Hartford, October, 1827. 
 
ORIANA. 
 
 Where was she ? Mid the people of the wild, 
 
 By the red hunter s fire. An aged Chief, 
 Whose home look d sad, for therein dwelt no child, 
 
 Had borne her in the stillness of her grief 
 To his lone cabin : and that gentle guide 
 By faith and sorrow rais d and purified, 
 To the blest Cross her Indian fosterers led, 
 
 Until their prayers were one." 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 AMONG the customs which distinguished the na 
 tives of our country, ere the originality of their char 
 acter became prostrated, and its energies broken, 
 few were more unique and interesting, than the cere 
 mony of adoption. This was the selection of an 
 individual to fill the place of some near relative re 
 moved by death. It was more generally the resort 
 of families bereaved of a son, and the choice was 
 often from among prisoners taken in battle. It has 
 been known to snatch the victim from the stake, and 
 to encircle him with all the domestic charities. The 
 transferred affection of parents was often, in such 
 cases, most ardent and enduring. Especially if any 
 resemblance existed between the buried and the 
 adopted object, mothers were prone to cherish an 
 idolatry of tenderness. Instances have been record 
 ed in which the most ancient national animosit r 
 
132 ORIANA. 
 
 or deep-rooted personal hatred, have yielded to this 
 rite of adoption. It has even been extended to the 
 offspring of the whites, during periods of deadly war 
 fare. When we consider the implacable temper of 
 our aborigines, and that it was an article of their 
 creed, never to suffer an injury to pass unavenged, 
 this custom of naturalizing a foe in their homes, and 
 in their hearts, strikes us as prominent, peculiar, and 
 worthy to be held in remembrance. 
 
 The tribe of Mohegans were formerly owners of 
 an ample territory in New-England, and were uni 
 formly friendly to our ancestors. Their kings and 
 chieftains became allies of the colonies in their in 
 fancy, and the bravery of their warriors aided in 
 their struggles with the surrounding tribes. Their 
 descendants have now become few in number, and 
 abject in mind. A circumscribed and inalienable 
 territory, in the south-eastern part of Connecticut, 
 furnishes subsistence to the remnant which has not 
 emigrated, or become incorporated with other na 
 tions. Emphatically, their glory is departed, and of 
 their primeval energy and nobleness, no vestige sur 
 vives. Yet slight kindlings of national pride con 
 tinued at intervals to gleam faintly forth from be 
 neath incumbent ruins, as embers, apparently long 
 quenched, will sometimes smoulder and sparkle amid 
 the ashes that cover them. One of the latest evi 
 dences of this spirit, was the watchful affection with 
 which they regarded their royal burying-place. No 
 
 1 ^ar dust was ever suffered to repose in the sepul- 
 
ORIANA. 133 
 
 chre of their kings. No Cambrian point of genea 
 logy was ever more vigilantly traced, no restriction 
 of the Salick Law more tenaciously guarded, than 
 was the farthest and slightest infusion of the blood 
 of Mohegan monarchy. Long after the royal line 
 became extinct, and they were decreed, like ancient 
 Israel, to dwell " without an ephod and without a ter- 
 aphim," they guarded with fierce and unslumbering 
 jealousy their consecrated cemetery from profana 
 tion. 
 
 Its monuments are still visible within the limits of 
 the city of Norwich, and sometimes strangers visit with 
 pitying interest, the lowly tombs of the monarchs 
 of the soil. The inhabitants of that beautiful city, 
 in whose vicinity the village of Mohegan is situated, 
 have ever extended their sympathies to their " poor 
 brethren within their gates." Still their Christian 
 benevolence strives to gather under its wings, the 
 perishing remnant of a once powerful race. Teach 
 ers are among them, of those sciences which render 
 this life comfortable, and throw the light of hope on 
 the next. Their little children are taken by the hand, 
 and led to Jesus. The white spire of a simple 
 church, recently erected for their benefit, points to 
 that world where no heritage is alienated. 
 
 The period selected for this sketch, is soon after 
 the close of our War of Revolution. There then 
 existed in the little settlement of Mohegan, some in 
 dividuals worthy of being rescued from oblivion. 
 Among them was the Reverend Samson Occum, the 
 M 
 
134 ORIANA. 
 
 first native minister of that tribe, whose unostenta 
 tious fortunes are interwoven with the ecclesiastical 
 history of that day. The benevolence of the Rev 
 erend President Wheelock of Dartmouth College, 
 drew him from the vagrant habits of the Indian 
 hunter, and touched his mind with the love of letters 
 and of piety. Ten years before our Declaration of 
 Independence, he made a voyage to England, and 
 was received with the most kind and gratifying at 
 tention. Among the treasured memorials of this 
 visit, were correspondences with some of the wise 
 and philanthropic of the mother-country, which he 
 faithfully maintained, and the gift of a library of con 
 siderable value, which after his decease was pur 
 chased by a clergyman in the vicinity. His discourses 
 in his native tongue often produced a strong impres 
 sion on his hearers, and those in the English lan 
 guage displayed an acquaintance with its idiom, and 
 a facility of rendering it a vehicle for strong and 
 original thought, highly creditable both to his talents 
 and their application. He possessed a decided taste for 
 poetry, especially that of a devotional cast ; and a 
 volume of this nature, which he selected and pub 
 lished, evinces that he fervently appreciated the pa 
 thetic and the powerful. His deportment was grave 
 and consistent, as became a teacher of divine things, 
 and his overflowing eyes, when he strove to allure 
 his people to the love of a Saviour, testified his own 
 warm religious sensibilities, and revealed the found 
 ation of his happiness and hope. 
 
ORIANA. 135 
 
 The native, untaught eloquence of the tribe, had 
 also a representative. Robert Ashbow was collater 
 ally of the royal line, and held in high reverence by 
 his people. His commanding stature and lofty brow 
 marked him as one of Nature s nobility. He was 
 respected by our ancestors, and when their govern 
 ment became permanent, was permitted to represent 
 his people in their national council. Among their 
 senators, his words were few. But in his well- 
 weighed opinions, in his wary policy, they were ac 
 customed to liken him to the wise and wily Ulysses. 
 They understood him not. His eloquence was like 
 a smothered flame, in their presence. It spoke not 
 even through the eye, which was ever downcast, 
 nor lighted the brow that bore a rooted sorrow. 
 It burst forth only in his native wilds, and among 
 his own people. There, like a torrent, it swept all 
 before it. It swayed their spirits, as the tempest 
 bends the lithe willow. 
 
 Though he keenly felt the broken and buried ma 
 jesty of his nation, he cherished no vindictiveness 
 towards those who had caused it. He had a deep 
 reverence for knowledge and its possessors, which 
 neutralized this bitterness. Like the tamed lion, he 
 yielded to a force which he did not comprehend. 
 Though by nature reserved and dominant, he almost 
 crouchingly sought the society of educated white 
 men, for among them alone could his thirst of know 
 ledge be satiated. He was an affecting instance of 
 savage pride, humbling itself before the might of cul- 
 
136 ORIANA. 
 
 tivated intellect. At times, his melancholy mood 
 predominated, and for days and nights he withdrew 
 to pathless forests, holding communication with none. 
 He might occasionally be discovered, amid the crags 
 of some scarcely accessible rock, with his head bow 
 ed low in frowning and solitary contemplation, like 
 Marius amid the ruins of Carthage. There was 
 about him, the waywardness of genius, preying upon 
 itself, and the pride of a wounded spirit, which would 
 have grasped the hoof that trampled on it, and hurl 
 ed the rider to the dust. Yet there was an innate 
 check in his own native nobleness, in his power of 
 appreciating superior mental excellence. Knowledge 
 had stood before him, in her majesty and mystery, 
 and the haughty orator of the forest was subdued 
 like an awe-struck child. 
 
 Arrowhamet, the warrior, or Zachary, as he was 
 generally called, by the name of his baptism, was 
 an interesting specimen of aboriginal character. 
 Stately, unbending, and of athletic strength, he 
 seemed to defy the ravages of time, though the re 
 cord of his memory proved that he had passed the 
 prescribed limit of threescore years and ten. He had 
 been a soldier in the severe campaign that preceded 
 the defeat of Braddock in 1755, and had borne the 
 hardships and perils of the eight years war of our 
 revolution, with an unshrinking valor. With the 
 taciturnity of his nation, he seldom spoke of the 
 exploits in which he had been engaged. Yet when 
 sometimes induced by urgency, to give a narrative 
 
ORIANA. 137 
 
 of the battles where he had fought, his flashing eye, 
 and form rising still more loftily, attested his warlike 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 His wife, Martha, who had, with him, embraced 
 the Christian religion, possessed that gentleness of 
 deportment, and sweetness of voice, by which the 
 females among our aborigines were often distinguish 
 ed. His attachment to her was evinced by more 
 of courteousness than comported with their national 
 coldness of manner, and was reciprocated by a ten 
 der and unvarying observance, which might have 
 adorned a more refined state of society. Their lit 
 tle abode had an aspect of neatness and comfort, 
 beyond what was often attained by the supine habits 
 of their contemporaries. It was environed by a 
 tolerably well-cultivated garden, and sheltered by a 
 rude tenement ; in its rear, a cow quietly ruminated. 
 Other indications of care and judicious arrangement 
 might have marked it out as the dwelling of a white 
 man, rather than an Indian. A mysterious person 
 age had been added to the family, which, within the 
 memory of the young, had comprised only Zachary 
 and Martha. Since this accession, many improve 
 ments in their humble establishment had been visible. 
 Fragrant shrubs were taught to flourish, and flower 
 ing vines trained against the window. Bee-hives, 
 clustering near, sent forth the cheerful hum of wing 
 ed industry. Beds of aromatic herbs were reared 
 for the accommodation of their busy inmates, and 
 they might be seen settling upon them, with intense 
 M2 
 
138 ORIANA. 
 
 delight, and pursuing their exquisite chemistry, be 
 neath the earliest smile of morning. The baskets, 
 in whose construction Martha had been long accus 
 tomed to employ her leisure, now displayed on their 
 smooth compartments the touches of a more delicate 
 pencil than the natives could boast, or perhaps ap 
 preciate. 
 
 The neighboring Indians had remarked, that this 
 guest of their friends was a female, and some of 
 them had testified surprise, and even disgust, that 
 she was of the race of the whites. It was also ob 
 served that she seemed to be in ill-health, and sel 
 dom quitted the dwelling ; but as she spoke mildly to 
 all its visitants, and treated their children with kind 
 ness, they became conciliated and friendly. Any 
 inquiry respecting her, received only the laconic an 
 swer, " She is our daughter." It was at once 
 perceived that their friends wished to make no dis 
 closures. Their right to preserve secrecy was con 
 ceded, and never more encroached upon. 
 
 The Indian yields such a point, with far more 
 grace than his Yankee neighbors. They, indeed, 
 admit, that a man s house is his castle, but deny his 
 right of excluding, by bolt or bar, their exploring, 
 unslumbering curiosity. The privilege of prying 
 into, questioning, and canvassing the concerns of 
 every household, and trying all men, and their mo 
 tives, without a jury of peers, is their Magna Charta. 
 For this, they are ready to contend as manfully 
 as the barons before whom king John cowered at 
 
ORIANA. 139 
 
 Runimede. To the exercise of such a prerogative, 
 competent knowledge of the doings of every domi 
 cile is requisite, and the power of making every body s 
 business their own. How much espionage, gossip 
 ing, and travelling night and day, is essential to this 
 system of policy, let the inhabitants of almost any 
 of the New-England villages testify. In these re 
 spects, the native Indian is surely a model of polite 
 ness for them. 
 
 It has been remarked, that the guest of the aged 
 warrior and his wife, was in feeble health. Their 
 tender and unceasing cares, their expedients to 
 promote her comfort and alleviate her suffering, were 
 truly paternal. The hoary-headed man would go 
 forth as a hunter, or urge his boat into deep and dis 
 tant waters, to obtain something that might tempt 
 her declining appetite. He would pass with the agile 
 step of youth, the several miles, that intervened be 
 tween their settlement and the city, to procure for 
 her some of those tropical fruits which are so grate 
 ful to the parched and febrile lip. Martha exerted 
 constantly, but almost in vain, her utmost skill in 
 the culinary art ; she brought statedly the draught 
 of new, warm milk, and added to her dessert the 
 purest honey. She explored the fields for the first 
 ripe strawberries, which she presented in little bas 
 kets of fresh, green leaves, garnished with flowers. 
 She sat whole nights by the couch of the invalid, and 
 was near her side at every indication of pain, as the 
 nursing-mother watches the cradled infant. These 
 
140 ORIAWA. 
 
 attentions were received with a grateful smile, or with 
 the softest voice of thanks ; but they availed little. 
 The lily grew paler on its stem, and seemed likely 
 to wither away in its unrevealed loveliness. 
 
 Advancing spring was now every day dispensing 
 some new gift to the earth. Her lavishness seemed 
 proportioned to the brevity of her stay, and each 
 hour exhibited some bright memorial of her parting 
 bounty. The two most delightful seasons of the year 
 lingered for a moment on each other s boundary. 
 They stood forth in their unadjusted claims to supe 
 riority, scanned each other s drapery, dipped their 
 pencils in each other s dyes, and like rival goddesses 
 contended before the sons of men, for the palm of 
 beauty. The rude domain of the children of the 
 forest, put on its beautiful garments. They, whose 
 pretensions to equality were denied by their more 
 fortunate brethren, were not excluded by nature from 
 her smiles, or her exuberance. Through the rich 
 green velvet of their meadows, pure fountains look 
 ed up with their crystalline eyes, wild flowers un 
 folded their petals, and from every copse issued 
 strains of warbling melody, as if a voice of praise 
 perpetually repeated, " Thou makest the outgoings 
 of the morning and of the evening to rejoice." 
 
 The abode of Zachary and Martha felt the en 
 livening influence of the season. Their fragrant 
 shrubbery exhaled a purer essence, a sweet-brier 
 near their door expanded its swelling buds, and the 
 woodbine protruded its young tendrils to reach the 
 
ORIANA. 141 
 
 window of the invalid. But within its walls, was 
 age that knew no spring, and youth fading like a 
 blighted flower ; night, that could know no dawning, 
 and morning that must never ascend to noon. 
 
 Day had closed over the inhabitants of that peace 
 ful dwelling. The warrior and his companion were 
 seated in the room appropriated to their mysterious 
 guest. Languidly reclining, she watched the rising 
 of the full, unclouded moon, like one who loves its 
 beams, and in gazing, contemplates a returnless fare 
 well. The bright profuse tresses of that beautiful 
 being, twining in braids around a head of perfect 
 symmetry, formed a strong contrast to the snowy 
 whiteness of her brow, and seemed to deepen the 
 tint of her soft, blue eye. But the paleness of her 
 cheek was now tinted with that ominous hectic flush 
 which Death kindles, as the signal of his approaching 
 victory. Sometimes, it lent to the eye, a ray of 
 such unearthly brightness, that the Indian mother 
 could not look on it, without a tear. She had recent 
 ly remarked to her husband, that the form of the 
 uncomplaining victim was becoming daily more 
 emaciated, and her respiration more impeded and 
 laborious. 
 
 The invalid gazed long on the moon, with a fore 
 head resting on a hand of the purest whiteness, and 
 so attenuated, that it seemed to display the flexile 
 fingers of childhood. Turning her eyes from that 
 beautiful orb, she observed those of the aged pair 
 fixed upon her with intense earnestness. A long 
 
142 OKI ANA. 
 
 pause ensued. Something that refused utterance 
 seemed to agitate her. Marking the emotion which 
 varied a countenance usually so serene and passion 
 less, they forbore to interrupt her meditations. They 
 even dreaded to hear her speak, lest it might be of 
 separation. At length, a voice, tremulous and mu 
 sical as the stricken harp, was heard to say, 
 
 " Father, I desire to partake of the holy commu 
 nion. I have not enjoyed that privilege, since 
 leaving my native land, and my soul desires it." 
 
 " He who interprets to us Indians, the will of 
 God," said Zachary, " is now among our brethren, 
 the .Oneidas. Three moons may pass, ere he again 
 return." 
 
 " That may be too late, father," replied the same 
 tuneful, subdued tone. " Wilt thou seek for me some 
 other clergyman?" 
 
 The warrior signified his assent, and rising, took 
 from her hand a paper which she held to him. 
 
 " Some explanation of my history is necessary, 
 ere I could expect this favor. I have here written 
 it, for thou knowest that I cannot now speak many 
 words. I am weak, and must soon pass away." 
 
 Martha rose with that indefinable sensation which 
 prompts us to shrink from any subject that agonizes 
 our feelings. Throwing up the casement, through 
 which the balmy humid air of spring breathed, she 
 said, 
 
 " See, Oriana, how thy woodbine grows ! Soon, 
 its young blossoms will lift their heads, and look at 
 thee through the window." 
 
ORIANA. 143 
 
 " Let it remind thee of me, kind mother. May its 
 fragrance be soothing to thee, as thy tenderness has 
 been, to my lone heart." 
 
 Again there was silence. And then the hoary 
 warrior, raising his head from his bosom, where it 
 had declined, spoke, in a voice which as he proceed 
 ed, grew more audible and calm, 
 
 " Daughter, I understand thee. I am glad, that 
 thou hast spoken thy mind to us. Yet is my heart 
 now weak, as that of an infant, the heart that in 
 battle hath never trembled, or swerved. My daugh 
 ter, Zachary could lie down in his own grave, and 
 not shudder. Yet his soul is soft, when he sees one 
 so young and fair, withering like the rose, which the 
 hidden worm eateth. He hath desired to look on 
 thy brow, during the short space that remaineth for 
 him on earth. Every night, he hath prayed to the 
 Eternal, that his ears might continue to hear the 
 music of thy voice. He wished to have something 
 to love, that should not be like himself, an old tree, 
 stripped of its branches, and mouldering at the root. 
 But he must humble his heart. Thou hast read to 
 him from the holy and blessed Book, that God giveth 
 grace unto the humble. He hath asked with tears, 
 in the silence of midnight, for that salvation through 
 Christ, of which thou hast told him. Yet, to whom 
 will he and Martha turn, when thou art no longer 
 here ? Who will kindly lead their steps to the tree 
 of life ? Ask I what we shall do, as if we had yet 
 a hundred years to dwell below ? Soon shall we 
 sleep in the grave, to which thou art hastening." 
 
144 ORIANA. 
 
 " Whither I go, ye know," said the same sweet, 
 solemn voice, " and the way ye know. Trust in 
 Him, whom ye have believed. Like me, ye must 
 slumber in the dust ; His power shall raise us all, 
 at the last day. The Eternal, in whose sight, shades 
 of complexion and distinctions of rank are nothing, 
 He, who looketh only upon the heart, guide us where 
 we shall be sundered no more." 
 
 Laying her hand upon a small bible, which was 
 ever near her, Martha arose to bring the lamp, 
 that she might as usual read to them, before re 
 tiring. 
 
 " It is in vain, mother," she said, with a lamb-like 
 smile. I may not now say with thee, our evening 
 prayer. But let us lift up our hearts to Him who 
 heareth, when the weak lips can only utter sighs." 
 
 Then, as if regretting that they should separate 
 for the night, without mingling in devotion, she re 
 peated with deep pathos, a few passages from the 
 beloved disciple, 
 
 " * Let not your heart be troubled : ye believe in 
 God, believe also in me. In my father s house are 
 many mansions. " 
 
 The warrior, rising to take his leave, laid his hand 
 gently upon her head, and pronounced his customa 
 ry paternal benediction : 
 
 " The Great Spirit, who dwelleth where the Sun 
 hideth himself, and where the tempest is born, gird 
 thee with strength. He who maketh the earth green, 
 and the heart of man glad, smile on thee, and bless 
 thy slumbers." 
 
ORIANA. 145 
 
 Martha remained, to render her usual attentions 
 to the sufferer. She dared not trust her voice be 
 yond a whisper, lest it should wholly yield to her 
 emotions. Still, after her services were completed, 
 she lingered, unwilling to leave the object of her 
 care. 
 
 " Mother," said a faint voice, " kind, tender mo 
 ther, go to thy rest. Oriana hath now no pain. 
 Sleep will descend upon her. She feels that she 
 shall not leave thee this night. But soon she must 
 begin her journey to the land of souls. She hath 
 hope in her death, to pass from darkness to eternal 
 sunshine. Weep not, blessed mother. Lift thy 
 heart to the God of consolation. I believe that 
 whither I go, thou shalt come also. I shall return 
 no- more. Thou, and thy beloved, shall come unto 
 me. There will be scarcely time to mourn ; for, like 
 the gliding of a shadow, shall the parents follow the 
 child of their adoption." 
 
 A smile so celestial was on the brow of her who 
 spoke, that it would have cheered the heart of the 
 aged woman, but for the afflicting consciousness, 
 that she must soon behold it no more. 
 
 The ensuing day, the summoned clergyman 
 sought the settlement of the natives, and entered the 
 house of Zachary and Martha. He received their 
 respectful salutations with benignity, and seemed 
 struck with the exceeding beauty of the stranger- 
 guest. After a conversation, in which he was con 
 vinced of her religious education, correct belief, and 
 N 
 
146 ORIANA. 
 
 happy spiritual state, he prepared to administer the 
 rite which she had desired. Beckoning to her side 
 the old warrior and his wife, she said, 
 
 " These are Christians. They were baptised, 
 many years since, by Mr. Occum, their absent min 
 ister. I can bear witness, that they know and love 
 the truth. May they not join in this holy ordinance, 
 to the edification of their souls 7" 
 
 The clergyman, regarding them steadfastly, in 
 quired, 
 
 " Are ye in perfect charity with all men.?" 
 
 Bowing himself down, the aged man replied, so 
 lemnly, 
 
 "We are. The religion of Jesus Christ hath 
 taught even us, Indians, to forgive our enemies." 
 
 They kneeled around the bed. The stately war 
 rior, whose temples had been whitened by the snows 
 of time, and the storms of war, humbled himself as 
 the weaned child. The red-browed woman, whose 
 tears flowed incessantly, was not able to turn her 
 eyes from that fading flower, which she had shelter 
 ed, and which she loved, as if it had sprung from 
 her own wild soil. But the beautiful being for whose 
 sake these sacred services were thus performed, was 
 calm and untroubled as the lake, on which nothing 
 save the beam of heaven hath ever shone. Raised 
 above earthly fears and hopes, she seemed to have 
 a foretaste of the consummation that awaited her. 
 The heart of the man of God was touched. His 
 voice faltered as he pronounced the closing bene- 
 
ORIANA. 147 
 
 diction, and a tear starting to his mild eye, attested 
 the accordance of his soul with the sympathies of the 
 scene. 
 
 A brief pause ensued. Each was fearful of inter 
 rupting the meditations of the other. Like the guests 
 at some celestial banquet, earth, and the things of 
 earth, seemed emptiness to the sublimated spirit. 
 She dreads too suddenly to efface the brightness 
 which has gathered around her, and which like the 
 witness on the brow of Moses, descending from the 
 mount, proves communion with the Eternal. 
 
 To the inquiry of the departing clergyman, in 
 what way he might impart temporal comfort, or 
 whether the visits of a physician were not desirable, 
 Oriana replied, 
 
 " I have no want, but what these kind and watch 
 ful beings tenderly supply. Their knowledge of 
 medicine is considerable, and they prepare with skill, 
 soothing and assuasive remedies, drawn from that 
 earth, to whose bosom I am hastening. With the 
 nature of my disease, I am acquainted. I saw all 
 its variations in my mother, for whom every exer 
 tion of professional skill was fruitless. I feel upon 
 my heart, a cold hand. Whither it is leading me, I 
 know. To you, Sir, I shall look for those spiritual 
 consolations, which are all that my brief earthly pil 
 grimage covets. When my ear is closed to the sound 
 of other voices, speak to me of my Redeemer, and 
 the eye that is dim in death, shall once more bright 
 en, to bless you." 
 
148 ORIANA. 
 
 Zachary and Martha poured forth, with the elo 
 quence of the heart, their thanks to the servant of 
 peace and consolation. Even the skirts of his gar 
 ments were dear to them, since he had thus impart 
 ed comfort to the object of their affections. 
 
 Exhausted in body, but confirmed in faith, Oriana 
 awaited her dissolution. Such was the wasting of 
 her frame, that she seemed like a light essence, 
 trembling, and ready to be exhaled. Every morn 
 ing, she requested the casement to be raised, that the 
 fresh air might visit her. It came, loaded with the 
 perfume of those flowers, which she was to nurture 
 no more. But what was at first sought as a plea 
 sure, became necessary to aid the struggles of labo 
 rious respiration. The couch became her constant 
 refuge. The debility of that fearful disease, which, 
 delighting to feed on the most exquisite food, selects 
 for its victims the fair and excellent, increased to an 
 almost insupportable degree. A tranquil loveliness 
 sat upon her features, occasionally brightening into 
 joy, like one who felt that " redemption draweth 
 nigh." 
 
 One night, sleep had not visited her eyes. When 
 ever her senses inclined to its transient sway, the 
 spirit revolted against it as oppression, anticipating 
 the approaching delights of that region, where it 
 should slumber no more through fullness of bliss. 
 
 Calling to her bed-side, at the dawn of morning, 
 the aged warrior, for her mother had not quitted her 
 room for several nights, she said, 
 
ORIANA. 149 
 
 " Knowest thou, father, that I am now to leave 
 thee?" 
 
 Fixing his keen glance on her for a moment, and 
 kneeling at her side, he answered, 
 
 " Daughter, I know it. Thy blue eye hath al 
 ready the light of that sky, whither thou art ascend 
 ing. Thy brow is bright with the smile of the angels 
 who wait for thee." 
 
 Martha covered her face with her hands and hid 
 it on the couch, fearful lest she might see the agony 
 of one so beloved. Yet she fixed on those pale fea 
 tures, one more long, tender, sorrowing gaze, as the 
 expiring voice uttered 
 
 " I go, where is no shade of complexion, no tear 
 of mourning. I go to my parents, who died in faith, 
 to my husband, whose hope was in his Redeemer. 
 I shall see thy daughter, and she will be my sister, 
 where all is love. Father ! Mother ! that God 
 whom you have learned to worship, whose spirit 
 dwells in your hearts, will guide you thither, also." 
 
 She paused, and gasped painfully for breath, as 
 if to add more. Then, extending to each a hand 
 cold as marble, she faintly whispered, 
 
 " I was a stranger, and ye took me in : sick, and 
 ye ministered unto me. And now, blessing you, I 
 go unto Him, who hath said, the * merciful shall 
 obtain mercy. He will remember your love to her 
 who had none to pity." 
 
 They felt that the chilling clasp of her fingers 
 relaxed. They saw that her lips moved inaudibly. 
 N2 
 
1,50 ORIAPfA. 
 
 They knew, by the upraised glance of her glazed 
 eye, that she spoke to Him who was receiving her 
 to himself. A smile, not to be described, gleamed 
 like a ray of sunshine over her countenance. Bend 
 ing over her pillow, they heard the words, "joy 
 unspeakable, and full of glory." Something more 
 was breathed inarticulately. But she closed not the 
 sentence : it was finished in Heaven ! 
 
 Deep silence settled over the apartment of the 
 dead, save the sobs of the bereaved Martha, and at 
 long intervals a sigh, as if rending the breast of the 
 aged warrior. At length, he spoke with a tremulous 
 and broken tone, 
 
 " She was as the sun to our path. Hath she faded 
 behind the dark mountains? No, she hath arisen 
 to brighter skies. Beams of her light will sometimes 
 visit and cheer us. Thou hast wept for two daugh 
 ters, Martha. One, thou didst nurse upon thy breast. 
 But was she dearer than this ? Was not the child 
 of our adoption, near to thy heart, as she to whom 
 thou gavest life ? Henceforth, we can be made child 
 less no more. Let us dry up the fountain of our 
 tears, lest they displease the God to whom she hath 
 ascended." 
 
 The day seemed of interminable length to the 
 afflicted pair. Long accustomed to measure time by 
 the varieties of solicitude, the loss of that sole object 
 of their care, gave the tardy hours an almost insup 
 portable weight. Towards evening, the clergyman 
 who, since the administration of the communion to 
 
ORIANA. 151 
 
 Oriana, had repeatedly visited her, was seen to ap 
 proach. Zachary hastened to meet him. The agi 
 tation which had so long marked his countenance, 
 with anxiety for the sufferer, had passed away, arid 
 he resumed his native calmness and dignity of de 
 meanor. His deportment seemed an illustration of 
 the words of the king of Israel, when his child was 
 smitten, 
 
 " He is dead. Wherefore should I mourn ? Can 
 I bring him back again ? I shall go to him, but he 
 shall not return to me." 
 
 Bowing down to the man of God, he said, 
 
 " She, whom thou seekest, is not here. She is 
 risen. She went her way, ere the sun looked upon 
 the morning. Come, see the place where she lay." 
 
 Departing from that distance of respect, bordering 
 upon awe, which he had hitherto testified to the guide 
 of Oriana, he took him by the hand, and led him to 
 her apartment, as if he felt that in the house of 
 death, all distinctions were levelled, all ranks made 
 equal. There lay the lifeless form, in unchanged 
 beauty. Profuse curls shaded with their rich and 
 glossy hue, the pure oval forehead, which bore no 
 furrow of care, nor trace of pain. It seemed as if 
 the exquisite symmetry of those chiselled features, 
 had never been perfectly revealed but by the hand 
 of death. The long, silken eye-lashes lay in pro 
 found repose, and it was thrilling even to awe, to 
 gaze upon that surpassing loveliness, rendered more 
 sacred by having so peacefully past the last dread 
 ordeal. 
 
152 ORIANA. 
 
 " It is finished," said the divine, but no tear start 
 ed to his placid eye. He believed, that if there is 
 joy in heaven among the angels, over one sinner 
 that repenteth, there should be, at least, resignation 
 on earth, when a saint is admitted io their glorious 
 company. He kneeled in prayer with the mourners, 
 and spoke kind words of comfort to them, as to his 
 brethren, and made arrangements with them, that 
 the remains of their beloved one might rest in con 
 secrated earth. 
 
 Three days elapsed, and the scene changed to the 
 burial-ground in Norwich, where a few forms, seen 
 indistinctly through drooping shades, were watching 
 the arrival of some funeral train. 
 
 Perhaps, amid that musing group, were some re 
 cent mourners, who felt their wounds bleed afresh, at 
 the sight of an open grave. Some parent might be 
 there, lingering in agony over the newly-covered bed 
 of his child ; some daughter, kneeling to kiss the 
 green turf on the breast of her mother ; some lover, 
 passionately weeping over the ruins of the fondest 
 hope. How many varieties of grief had that nar 
 row spot witnessed, since it cast its heavy mantle 
 over the head of its first tenant ! How many hearts 
 had there laid the cherished roses of their bower, 
 and passed the remainder of their withering pilgrim 
 age beneath the cloud ! And with those mournful 
 recollections, did no pang of compunction mingle ? 
 Can affection always say, when it lays its idol in the 
 tomb, that there is on Memory s tablet no trace that 
 
ORIANA. 153 
 
 she would fain expunge 1 no act of tenderness un- 
 returned ? no debt of gratitude uncancelled ? no 
 kind word left unspoken? no heaven-prompted 
 intention unfulfilled ? Amid that pensive train, was 
 there no unhappy heart, where the thorn of con 
 science must rankle, after the wound of God s visita 
 tion had healed 1 
 
 Others too might have wandered there, from whose 
 bosoms the corrosion of sorrow had been easily ef 
 faced, whose determination to " go down to the grave, 
 to the lost one, mourning," had yielded to the eager 
 pursuit of other pleasures, whose once desolated 
 shrine resounded with the worship of some new 
 image, proving that there is nothing unchangeable 
 in man, save his tendency to change. 
 
 Yet of whatever nature were the reflections of the 
 train that thus circled the " cold turf-altar of the 
 dead," they were interrupted by the approach of a 
 funeral procession. Next to the bier, walked those 
 whom the rite of adoption had made parents, the 
 settled grief of whose countenances seemed as if 
 deploring the loss of a first-born. Partaking in 
 their sorrow, and desirous of paying the last offices 
 of respect to the departed, almost the whole tribe 
 had gathered, walking two and two, with solemn and 
 dejected countenances. There was something un 
 speakably affecting in the mourning of that heart 
 broken race for the fallen stranger. Strangers 
 themselves, in the land that was once their own, their 
 humbled spirits seemed in unison with the sad scene, 
 
154 ORIANA. 
 
 and with the open grave. Indeed, every heart seem 
 ed touched with peculiar sympathy, at this burial, 
 in foreign earth, of the lone, the young and the 
 beautiful, 
 
 "By strangers honor d, and by strangers mourn d." 
 
 At the close of the obsequies, the clergyman drew 
 near to the aged warrior. His few silver locks waved in 
 the light summer breeze, and his eyes, intently fixed 
 upon the new-covered grave, were red and tearless. 
 Roused by affectionate words, he replied, but ab 
 stractedly, and as speaking to himself, " She told 
 us of the resurrection, and of Him who is the truth 
 and the life." Martha, taking with reverence the 
 hand that was offered her, placed a small packet in 
 it, and said " She left this for you ; and she bless 
 ed you, when the cold dew stood on her forehead, 
 like rain-drops." 
 
 After his return to his habitation, the clergyman 
 perused with deep interest, the parting bequest of 
 Oriana. 
 
 " You have expressed a wish, my dear and reve 
 rend benefactor, for a more minute detail of my his 
 tory, than my weakness has permitted me orally to 
 impart. I will, therefore, recount with my pen some 
 of its particulars, to meet your eye when my own 
 shall be closed in dust. It will then be time to lift 
 the veil of mystery, when I can no longer be pained 
 by the curiosity of strangers, nor affected by their 
 opinion. 
 
 " You, Sir, have without suspicion reposed confi- 
 
ORIANA. 155 
 
 dence in the imperfect narrative which has been in 
 trusted to you. You have not, as the cold-hearted 
 multitude might have done, wounded with the cruel 
 ty of distrust, a heart long sinking beneath the visi 
 tation of God. You will not now believe, that a 
 spirit nurtured in the love of truth, could use subter 
 fuge or guile, when on the threshold of His presence, 
 who * hateth every false way. 
 
 " I am a native of England, and of respectable, 
 though not wealthy parentage. Among my first, 
 and most agonizing remembrances, is the death of 
 my father. Our residence was in a neat and retired 
 cottage, where my mother solaced her early widow 
 hood, by an entire devotion to my welfare. Her 
 education had been superior to what is usually found 
 among those of our rank, and she led me almost in 
 infancy to prize intellectual pleasures. I can scarce 
 ly imagine a lot, more congenial with happiness than 
 our own. Our income was adequate to every want, 
 and that industry which preserved health, gave us 
 also the power of administering to the necessities 
 of others. When my daily tasks were accomplish 
 ed, my recreations were to tend my flowers, to read, 
 converse, or walk with my mother, in the romantic 
 country that surrounded us, or to join my voice to 
 the birds that warbled near our habitation. To men 
 tal cultivation, my affectionate parent added the 
 most assiduous religious instruction, and to the bless 
 ing of the Holy Spirit on her guidance, do I impute 
 it, that the foundation of my faith was so strongly 
 laid, as not to fail me now, in my hour of trial. 
 
156 ORIANA. 
 
 "Forgive me, for lingering a little longer, around 
 this bower of my happiness. It was the Eden of 
 my existence. It was also the birth-place of my 
 love. Here the strongest ardor of a young and sus 
 ceptible heart awoke, and was reciprocated. The 
 ruling sentiment of my nature, and one of its ear 
 liest developments, was a desire for knowledge. 
 To this, our restricted resources interposed a bar 
 rier. It was the only alloy of my felicity. How 
 could I therefore but highly appreciate the acquaint 
 ance of a man of refined education, of splendid 
 talents, well balanced by correspondent attainments 
 and sublimated piety? He brought me books to 
 which I had no other means of access, and by his 
 eloquent explanations made the dim ages of remote 
 history, vivid and alluring. He took pleasure in 
 guiding my mind through the paths of science and 
 literature, with which his own was familiar, in in 
 troducing it to unbounded regions of thought, and in 
 tracing its delighted astonishment, when new truths 
 burst upon it in beauty, and in power. To me, he 
 seemed as a benevolent and glorious spirit, striving 
 to elevate an inferior being to his own high intellec 
 tual sphere. So strong and pervading was this en 
 thusiasm, that I did not imagine that the youth and 
 grace of my instructor had any agency in creating 
 it. Love stole upon my simplicity in the guise of 
 wisdom, and I was his disciple while I believed my 
 self only the worshipper of Minerva. It was also 
 evident, that he who had opened to my enraptured 
 
OKI AN A. 157 
 
 view, the world of letters, loved the mind which he 
 had himself adorned ; like him, of ancient fable, who, 
 imparting fire from heaven to an inert mass, became 
 its adorer. 
 
 " Authorized by maternal sanction, in cherishing 
 this new affection, every day heightened its ardor, 
 and every night I thanked my father in heaven, with 
 exuberant gratitude, for the fullness of my joy. In 
 the enthusiasm of my attachment, I regretted that 
 the rank and fortune of my lover were so superior 
 to my own, and wished for the power of proving by 
 some severe sacrifice the disinterested spirit of my 
 affection. 
 
 "But clouds were impending over the brightened 
 scene. My mother s health declined. It was in vain 
 that she strove to conceal from me the symptoms 
 of that insidious and fatal disease which is now lead 
 ing her daughter to the tomb. I watched in agony 
 the struggles of a pure spirit, disengaging itself 
 from clay. Even now, I think I hear her sweet, 
 broken voice, saying to me, I leave you, not to 
 the bitterness of orphanage, but to the protection of 
 one who loves, and is beloved by, the orphan s God. 
 The stream of life flowed on so placidly, when about 
 to join the ocean of Eternity, that we dreaded by 
 any turbid mixture of earth to disturb its purity, or 
 interrupt its repose. We therefore forbore to men 
 tion to her the opposition to our union, which had 
 arisen on the part of his father, whose pride repelled 
 the thought of such alliance with a cottager. Find- 
 O 
 
158 ORIANA. 
 
 ing, in this case, a departure from the implicit obe 
 dience that he had heretofore received, he resorted 
 to threats, and to unkindness. His sudden death, 
 which took place just before that of my mother, con 
 firmed the truth of his menaces, by disinheritance. 
 To me, this patrimonial exclusion scarcely bore a 
 feature of adversity ; since it permitted the proof 
 that mercenary motives had no agency in my love. 
 Even the intelligence at which I should once have 
 shuddered, that his only resource was to join the 
 army under Lord Cornwallis, then in America, was 
 received with scarcely a pang ; for I felt that my oft- 
 repeated wis-h, to evince the strength of my affection 
 by the sacrifices it was capable of enduring, might 
 now be fulfilled. 
 
 "The holy service of the altar, my sainted mo 
 ther s obsequies, and the farewell to our cottage, fol 
 lowed each other in such rapid succession, that, lost 
 in a bewildering dream, I seemed incapable of fully 
 realizing either. Yet methought, our peaceful re 
 treat had never worn so many charms, as at the 
 moment of quitting it for ever. Its roses and wood 
 bines displayed all their freshness, breathed all their 
 fragrance. The surrounding lawn was like the 
 richest velvet, and the birds whom I had loved as 
 companions, poured from the verdant branches, mu 
 sic too joyous for a parting strain. The records of 
 childhood s deep happiness were still vivid wherever 
 I turned, for my seventeenth birth-day had scarcely 
 past. Every path, where a departed mother s step 
 
ORIANA. 159 
 
 had trod, every haunt which her taste had decor 
 ated, every vine that her hand had trained, spoke 
 to me in the voice of deep, tender, lingering affec 
 tion. Once, I should have exclaimed, with a burst 
 of bitter weeping, And must I leave thee, Pa 
 radise ? But I went without a tear. He, who was 
 all the world to me, was by my side. His arm sup 
 ported me, and methought all paths were alike, and 
 every thorn pointless, to one thus sustained. Me 
 thought, I could be a homeless wanderer over earth s 
 face, and murmur not. 
 
 " I will not detain you, reverend sir, with the de 
 tails of our voyage, or the privations of a life spent 
 in camps. Like the servitude of the patriarch, whose 
 seven years were measured by love, they seemed to 
 me as nothing. Yet during the conflicts which oc 
 curred in fields of blood, my wretchedness was in 
 expressible. It was then that, imploring protection 
 for my husband, I first understood what is meant 
 by the < agony of prayer. He was ambitious to stand 
 foremost in the ranks of danger, and his valor gain 
 ed him promotion. When called by his duty to posts 
 of peril, and I besought him to be careful of life, 
 for my sake, he would reply with that firm piety 
 which ever characterized him ; Is not my protector 
 the God of battles ? is he not, also, the God of the 
 widow ? 
 
 " But from the scenery of war, I have ever shrunk. 
 And now my trembling hand and fluttering heart 
 admonish me to be brief. Seldom has one who pos- 
 
160 ORIANA: 
 
 sessed such a native aversion to all the varieties of 
 strife, such an instinctive horror at the effusion of 
 blood, been appointed to share the fortunes of war. 
 During the investment of Yorktown, in the autumn 
 of 1781, my husband was almost constantly divided 
 from me, by the duties of his station. Even the 
 minutest scenes of that eventful period, are graven 
 on rny memory, as with the point of a diamond. 
 
 " The affairs of the English army, every day as 
 sumed a more gloomy and ominous aspect. The 
 ships of France, anchored at the mouth of York 
 river, prevented our receiving supplies through that 
 channel, or aid from Sir Henry Clinton, who, in 
 New-York, anxiously awaited our destiny. Despair 
 sat on the countenance of Cornwallis ; and Tarleton, 
 who had hitherto poured his intrepid soul into the 
 enterprise, was suffering dejection from a painful 
 wound. The fortifications of the allied French and 
 Americans were every day brought nearer to us. 
 They spread themselves in the form of a crescent, 
 cutting off our communication with the adjacent 
 country. The last night of my residence in that 
 fatal spot, I was peculiarly distressed with fears for 
 my sole earthly stay. I ascended to the roof of the 
 house, to take an unbroken view of that glorious 
 firmament, which had so often led my soul from the 
 woes of earth, to contemplations of heaven. But the 
 thunder of a terrible cannonade riveted my attention 
 to terrestrial scenes. The whole peninsula seemed 
 to tremble, beneath the enginery of war. Bombs, 
 
ORIANA. 161 
 
 from the batteries of both armies, were continually 
 crossing each other s path. Like meteors, their 
 luminous trains traversed the skies, with awful sub 
 limity. Sometimes, I heard a sound, as of the 
 hissing of a thousand serpents, when in their fall 
 they excavated the earth, and rent in atoms what 
 ever opposed them. Once, I saw severed and man 
 gled limbs from the British armaments thrown high 
 into the air, by their explosion. I fancied a groan 
 of agony in the voice that I loved, and listened till 
 sensation forsook me. 
 
 Suddenly a column of flame arose from the bo 
 som of the river. It was of ineffable brightness. 
 Methought, even the waters fed it, and it spread 
 wider, and ascended higher and higher, as if doubt 
 ful whether first to enfold the earth, or the heavens. 
 Two smaller furnaces burst forth near it, breathing, 
 like their terrible parent, intense fires, beautiful and 
 dreadful. I gazed, till the waters glowed in one daz 
 zling expanse, and I knew not but the Almighty, in 
 wrath at the wickedness of man, was about to kindle 
 around him an ocean of flame, as he once whelmed 
 him with a deluge of waters. 
 
 " But nothing could hush the incessant roar of 
 those engines of death. I wondered if man would 
 continue to pursue his brother, with unrelenting ha 
 tred, even to the conflagration of the day of doom ? 
 When the influence of an excited imagination had 
 subsided, I discovered that this splendid and awful 
 pageant was the burning of the Charon, one of our 
 O2 
 
162 ORIANA. 
 
 lofty ships of war, with two smaller vessels, at an 
 chor in the river, which had taken fire from the 
 French battery. 
 
 " Chilled by the dampness of the night air, I de 
 scended from my post of observation, and threw my 
 self on my sleepless couch. My health had long suf 
 fered for want of exercise in the open air, from which 
 I was precluded by the impossibility of having the 
 company and protection of my husband. At the 
 close of the ensuing day, he was dismissed for a 
 time from military duty, and entered his apartment. 
 It was on Sunday, October 14th, misery has 
 stamped the date indelibly on my soul. He proposed 
 a walk, to which I gladly assented, and mentioned 
 as the safest means of prolonging it to any consider 
 able length, in streets thronged with soldiers, a wish 
 that I should array myself in a suit of his military 
 apparel. Yielding to his reasoning, I assumed this 
 disguise, and we pressed onward, admiring the au 
 tumn scenery, which in the American climate is so 
 peculiarly brilliant. We indulged in discourse, which 
 selected from the past the most soothing recollec 
 tions, and gilded the future with the illusions of hope. 
 We followed the course of the fortifications, until 
 unconsciously we had passed our last redoubt. Sud 
 denly, we heard the trampling of many feet. The 
 uniform of the French and Americans was the next 
 moment visible through the trees that skirted our 
 path. My husband had scarcely time to draw his 
 sword, ere a volley of shot was poured upon us. A 
 
ORIANA. 163 
 
 bullet pierced his breast, and he fell lifeless by my 
 side. I fell with him, senseless as himself. I reco 
 vered from my swoon, only to mourn that I sur 
 vived, and to feel more than the bitterness of death. 
 
 " Sometimes I imagined that he returned the pres 
 sure of my hand ; but it was only the trickling of 
 his blood through my own. Again, I fancied that 
 he sighed ; but it was the breath of the hollow wind 
 through the reeds where his head lay. I heard the 
 horrible uproar of the war, in the neighboring re 
 doubts, the roar of cannon, the clash of arms, 
 the cry of the combatants. I knew that the enemy 
 were near. But I attempted not to fly. What had 
 I to lose ? What more remained to me ? That one 
 dead body, was my all the world. I fell upon it. 
 I supplicated to be made like unto it. 
 
 " A band of men rushed by, speaking in uncouth 
 tones. I knew that they were savages. Then I 
 wished to escape, to hide myself. Yet, but a moment 
 before, like him who despaired for his smitten gourd, 
 I had exclaimed, Take now away my life, I pray 
 thee ; for it is better for me to die than to live. Sud 
 denly they discovered, and made me their captive. 
 1 expected to have been borne to the American camp. 
 But they continued to travel throughout the night. 
 From their conversation I learned that two redoubts 
 had been stormed by the French and Americans, 
 with desperate valor. This was the daring action, 
 in which La Fayette led on the Americans, and De 
 Viomenil the French, and which preceded but four 
 
164 ORIANA. 
 
 days the surrender of Cornwallis. The party by 
 whom my husband had fallen, was the advance-guard, 
 under Colonel Hamilton, and I was the prisoner of 
 a small number of Indians, headed by a Delaware 
 chief. It seemed that they were connected with 
 some embassy sent to discover the state of affairs at 
 Yorktown, and were not personally engaged in this 
 rencounter. Thus was I at the mercy of beings, at 
 whom I had ever shuddered as the most savage of 
 mankind. I followed them as we roam in some ter 
 rible dream, when motion is without volition, and 
 consciousness is misery. Stupified with grief, my 
 mind was for many days inadequate to the full sense 
 of its wretchedness. My captors, so far from testi 
 fying the brutality that I had feared, were attentive 
 to my wants, and, in some degree, studious of my 
 comfort. I exerted myself to endure hardship as 
 unshrinkingly as possible, dreading lest they should 
 suspect my disguise ; but they referred my compar 
 ative weakness to the effects of a civilization which 
 they decried, and occasionally satirized the effemi 
 nacy of British officers. 
 
 " When I began to arouse from the stupor which 
 the whelming torrent of my afflictions had caused, 
 a dreadful apprehension took possession of my mind. 
 I imagined that they were guarding my life with such 
 care, in order to make me the victim of their savage 
 torture. This terror obtained predominance over 
 my grief. When I lay down to sleep in the forests, 
 wrapped closely in my blanket, and surrounded by 
 
ORIANA. 165 
 
 those rugged and red-browed warriors, though 
 wearied to exhaustion with the travel of the day, no 
 slumber visited me. Plans of escape occupied every 
 night ; yet every day revealed their impracticability. 
 During this season of excitement, I was scarcely 
 sensible of fatigue. My strength more than equalled 
 the labor imposed ; so much is the mind able to rule 
 its terrestrial companion. 
 
 " I observed that my captors, in their journey, 
 avoided the more populous settlements, and seemed 
 to regard the whites either as intruders, or doubtful 
 friends. On their arrival at a large town in Penn 
 sylvania, they directed me to pass through the sub 
 urbs with a guard of four men, evidently fearing 
 that some facility of escape might be afforded, if I 
 attracted the notice of strangers. Those who enter 
 ed the town, rejoined us with demonstrations of ex 
 travagant joy, bringing news that the surrender of 
 Cornwallis had taken place on the 18th of October, 
 and that peace was confidently expected. Pressing 
 on with unusual rapidity, they prepared to pass the 
 night within the borders of an extensive forest. Here 
 they kindled a fire, and conversed long in their own 
 language. Their gestures became violent, and their 
 eyes were often bent on me, with an expression of 
 savage fierceness. 
 
 " At length, louder words, as of conflict, arose 
 between the Mohegans and Delawares, of which the 
 company was composed. I believed that the strife 
 was respecting the question of torture, and that my 
 
IG6 ORIANA. 
 
 hour had come. An aged warrior of the former tribe 
 sat solitary, and taking no part in the contest, but 
 observing its progress with extreme attention. He 
 avoided the spirituous liquors, with which the others 
 were becoming inflamed, as if reserving himself for 
 action in some critical juncture. I thought that he 
 had heretofore regarded me with pitying eyes, and I 
 said mentally, Is it possible that heaven will raise me 
 up a friend, among savages ? I remembered that he 
 was called Arrowhamet, and was respected for 
 courage and wisdom. When the conflict grew vio 
 lent, he arose and approached the Delaware chief 
 tain. During their conversation, which was grave 
 and earnest, both parties preserved silence. When 
 they separated, the Delawares murmured hoarsely. 
 But their chief silenced them with the simple argu 
 ment, 
 
 " Arrowhamet is old. He hath fought bravely. 
 His temples are white as the snows of the Allegha- 
 ny. Young men must submit to the warrior who 
 weareth the crown of time. 
 
 " They commenced their war-dance, and in its 
 maddening excitement, and the fumes of intoxication, 
 merged the chagrin of their disappointment. It was 
 past midnight, ere they lay down to sleep. When 
 all around was silent, Arrowhamet spoke in a low 
 tone. He urged me to compose my mind, and be 
 at rest, assuring me that the danger was past. It 
 was impossible for me to find repose. 1 saw also 
 that my aged guardian slept not. His eyes were 
 
ORIANA. 167 
 
 raised upward, as if contemplating the Maker of that 
 majestic arch, where a few stars faintly beamed. 
 Can it be, said I silently, that an Indian thinks of 
 God ? Ah ! I knew not then, of what deep devotion 
 their souls were susceptible. 
 
 " Judge, with what fearful consternation, I was 
 startled from my reverie, by hearing Arrowhamet 
 pronounce the name of Oriana ! Breathless with 
 emotion, I was unable to reply, and he proceeded, 
 
 " Wherefore fearest thou to sleep 1 Thou art 
 redeemed from death. No evil shall touch thee. 
 Believe what the old warrior hath spoken, and rest 
 in peace. 
 
 " Why do you call me Oriana V I inquired, trem 
 bling with astonishment. 
 
 " Didst thou think that the eye of Arrowhamet 
 was too dim to read thy brow? his heart so old, as 
 to forget the hand that had given him bread V 
 
 " Am I then known to your companions, also V 
 I asked. 
 
 " No thought save mine hath comprehended thee. 
 To all other eyes, thy disguise is truth. My breast 
 shall be as the bars of the grave to my secret. 
 
 " How have you obtained this knowledge ? and 
 what words did you speak about my having given 
 you food? 
 
 "I knew that face, he answered tenderly, when 
 the torches first gleamed upon it, amid the shouts 
 of war. It was deadly pale. But how could I for 
 get the face of her, that had given me bread ? Thou 
 
168 ORIANA. 
 
 sayest, when have I fed thee ? So will the righteous 
 ask of their Lord, at the last day. Thou writest the 
 traces of thy bounty in the sand. But the famished 
 prisoner graveth them in the rock for ever. I was 
 with the men of Colonel Buford, on the waters of 
 the Santee river, when out of four hundred, scarcely 
 a fourth part escaped the sword of Tarleton. I saw 
 an hundred hands of brave men raised to implore 
 mercy. The next moment they were stricken off 
 by the sabres of the horsemen who trampled on their 
 bodies. But why tell I thee tales of blood, whose 
 heart is as tender as that of the weaned infant ? I 
 have said, that a few were saved. With them, I 
 went into captivity. Some pined away, and died in 
 their sorrows.- Seventeen moons have since looked 
 upon their graves. Remcmbercst thou an old Indian, 
 who once leaned against a tree, near thy tent ? He 
 leaned there, because he was weak, and his flesh 
 wasted by famine. He asked not for bread. Yet 
 thou gavest it to him. And so, thou remember- 
 est him not ? Well ! Thou canst never forget 
 the youth who stood beside thee, in the door of thy 
 tent. His voice was like the flutes of his own coun 
 try, when he said, Oriana. But how did I see him 
 next? His beautiful forehead was cold, and his 
 noble breast red with his own blood. I saw thee, 
 also. Thou wert as one dead. But I could not be 
 mistaken in the hand that had given me bread. I 
 determined to take thee from my people, that I might 
 feed thee when thou didst hunger, and be thy staff 
 
OKI AN A. 169 
 
 when thou wert weary. For this have I labored. 
 My desire is accomplished, and thou art safe from 
 harm. 
 
 " Was I then right, in supposing myself destined 
 to the torture ? 
 
 " * The chief had promised that this night, his peo 
 ple should avenge on thee, their young men, who 
 had been slain in battle. The Delawares were bent 
 upon thy death. Their eyes were fierce, and their 
 brows wrathful, that I rescued thee. It was with 
 difficulty, that thou wert delivered. The Indian is 
 taught to submit to the hoary head. But they con 
 tinually replied, c Our mightiest have fallen before 
 the warriors of his country. Two sons of our Sa 
 chem were cut in pieces by their swords. The blood 
 of the brave cries for vengeance. If it is not ap 
 peased by the death of this man, ere the rising of 
 the dawn, will not their souls frown on us for 
 ever? " 
 
 " But how were you able to overrule their pur 
 pose ? Hesitating for a moment, he replied, 
 
 " The natives of this country have a custom, of 
 which thou art ignorant. He who is deprived of a 
 near relative, in battle, or by disease, is permitted to 
 fill the void, from among the prisoners of war, or 
 the victims of torture. This is the rite of adoption. 
 It is held sacred among us all. It has given freedom 
 to the captive, when the flame was scorching his 
 vitals. Without the force of this claim, I could not 
 have saved thee. Long was the footstep of Death 
 
 nearer to thee than mine. 
 P 
 
170 ORIANA. 
 
 " Pausing, he added, in a tone of great tender 
 ness, 
 
 " I had once a daughter: An only one, as the 
 apple of mine eye. But she faded. She went down 
 to the grave, while she was blossoming into woman 
 hood. 
 
 " There was long silence. Afterwards, I express 
 ed my gratitude to my deliverer. 
 
 " Daughter, rest in peace. I watch over thee. 
 I Have prayed the Great Spirit, that I may lead thee 
 in safety to my home, and put thy hand into the 
 hand of my wife. Knowest thou, why she will love 
 thee ? -why the tears will cover her face, when she 
 lookcth upon thee ? Because thou wilt remind her 
 of the plant whose growth she nursed, whose blast 
 ing she bemoaned. Be not angry at what I say. 
 She had a dark brow, and her garb was like the 
 children of red men. Yet as she went down into 
 the dust, there was upon her lips a smile, and in her 
 eye, a gentleness even like thine. 
 
 " He ceased, oppressed with emotion. He pressed 
 his hands to his forehead, and laid it upon the earth. 
 When he raised his head, I saw that his strained 
 eyes were bright and tearless. 
 
 " Acceptest thou my adoption ? he asked. c Wilt 
 thou bow thyself, for a time, to be called the daugh 
 ter of old Arrowhamet ? I have said, that it need 
 be but for a time. My home is near the shore of 
 the great waters. They shall bear thee to thy peo 
 ple, when thy heart is sickened at the rude ways of 
 the sons of the forest. 
 
ORIANA. 171 
 
 " I assured him of my acceptance, in such terms 
 as an outcast might be supposed to address to his 
 sole earthly benefactor. Apparently gratified, he 
 raised his lofty form erect, and stretching his right 
 hand toward heaven, ratified with great solemnity 
 the covenant of adoption. 
 
 " Thou, whose way is upon the winds, through 
 the deep waters, within the dark cloud, Spirit 
 of Truth ! before whom the shades of our fathers 
 walk in fields of everlasting light, hear, confirm, 
 bless. 1 
 
 " He added a few words in his native language, 
 with the deep reverence of prayer, and then stretch 
 ing himself on the ground, in the attitude of repose, 
 said, 
 
 " It is enough. Go to thy rest, poor, tender, and 
 broken flower. I will pray thy God to protect thee. 
 Thy God is my God. Warriors call me Arrowha- 
 met, but in my home of peace, my name is Zachary. 
 It was given me, when I bowed to the baptism of 
 Christians. Thou wilt no longer fear me, now that 
 thou knowest our God is the same. 
 
 " Lost in wondering gratitude, I made my orison 
 with many tears, and sank into a more refreshing 
 slumber than had visited me since my captivity. I 
 awoke not, till the sun, like a globe of gold, was 
 burnishing the crowns of the kings of the forest. 
 
 " During the remainder of our journey, nothing 
 worthy of narration occurred. The supernatural 
 strength that had sustained me, gradually vanished, 
 and I was borne many days in a litter on the shoul- 
 
172 OKI AN A. 
 
 ders of the natives. Soon the Delawares separated 
 from the Mohegans, to return to their own territory. 
 In passing through a populous town, I sold a valua 
 ble watch and necklace, the gifts of my sainted hus 
 band, in the early and cloudless days of our love. 
 Their avails, like the cruse of oil, of her whom the 
 prophet saved, have not yet failed. They will pro 
 bably suffice for my interment. 
 
 " My reception from good Martha, was most sooth 
 ing to my lone heart. From that moment to this, 
 her maternal kindness has never slumbered. With 
 that tender care, so dear to the wounded, solitary 
 spirit, she has promoted my comfort, and mitigated 
 the pains of my disease. 
 
 " At my first admission to this humble abode, I 
 cherished the hope of returning to England. But to 
 what should I have returned 1 Only to the graves 
 of my parents. With the disconsolate and eloquent 
 Logan, I might say, There runs not a drop of my 
 blood, in the veins of any living creature. Who is 
 there to mourn for Oriana 1 Not one? Throughout 
 the whole range of my native country, would there 
 have been a cottage to afford me shelter, or friends 
 to minister to me night and day, like these aged beings ? 
 "But with whatever attractions the land where I 
 first drew breath, would sometimes gleam upon my 
 exiled eye, all hope of again beholding it has been 
 long extinguished. The disease, to which my early 
 youth evinced a predisposition, and which was pro 
 bably inherited from both my parents, soon reveal- 
 
ORIAffA. 173 
 
 ed itself. Its progress was gradual, but constantly 
 I have been conscious of its latent ravages. My re 
 treat, which to most beholders might have seemed 
 as undesirable as obscure, so accorded with my sub 
 dued feelings, that like the disciple upon the moun 
 tain of mystery, I have often exclaimed, Master, 
 it is good to be here. 5 
 
 " Here, I have learned to estimate a race, to which 
 the world has done immense injustice. Once, I had 
 stigmatized them as the slaves of barbarity. Yet 
 were they appointed to exhibit to my view, in com 
 bination with strong intellect, capabilities of invinci 
 ble attachment and deathless gratitude, which, how 
 ever the civilized world may scorn in the cabin of 
 the red man, she does not often find in the palaces 
 of kings. Here I have felt how vain is that estima 
 tion in which we hold the shades of complexion and 
 gradations of rank how less than nothing, the tin 
 sel of wealth, and the pageantry of pomp, when 
 4 God taketh away the soul. 
 
 " The pride, and earthly idolatry of my heart, 
 have been subdued by affliction ; and affliction, hav 
 ing had her perfect work, has terminated in peace. 
 Often, during this process, have I been reminded of 
 that beautiful passage of Dumoulin, l Jesus, in 
 going to Jerusalem, was wont to go through Betha 
 ny, which signifies, the house of grief : so must we 
 expect to pass through tribulation, and through a vale 
 of tears, before we can enter upon the peace of the 
 heavenly Jerusalem. 
 
 P2 
 
174 ORIANA. 
 
 " Still, I quit not this existence like the ascetic, for 
 whom it has had no charms. Its opening was gild 
 ed with what the world acknowledges to be happi 
 ness ; and its close with that joy to which she is a 
 stranger. For your instructions, your prayers, my 
 revered friend, receive the blessings of one, who 
 will henceforth have neither name nor memorial 
 among men. Your last kind office will be to lay her 
 wasted frame where saints slumber ; may she meet 
 you at their resurrection in light. Her parting re 
 quest is, that you would remember with the benevo 
 lence of your vocation, those who were to her, pa 
 rents without the bonds of affinity, philanthropists 
 without hope of applause, and, though bearing the 
 lineaments of a proscribed and perishing race, will, 
 I trust, be admitted to a bright, inalienable inherit - 
 
 Hartford, December 14, 1833. 
 
175 
 
 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 : Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend, 
 
 Then wretched, hopeless, in the evil days, 
 With sorrow to the verge of life they tend, 
 Griev d with the present, of the past asham d, 
 They live and are despised ; they die, nor more are nam d. 
 
 LOWTH. 
 
 WHERE the lofty forests of Ohio, towering in un 
 shorn majesty, cast a solemn shadow over the deep 
 verdure of beautiful and ample vales, a small fami 
 ly of emigrants were seen pursuing their solitary 
 way. They travelled on foot, but not with the as 
 pect of mendicants, though care and suffering were 
 variably depicted on their countenances. The man 
 walked first, apparently in an unkind, uncompromi 
 sing mood. The woman carried in her arms an 
 infant, and aided the progress of a feeble boy, who 
 seemed sinking with exhaustion. An eye accustom 
 ed to scan the never-resting tide of emigration, might 
 discern that these pilgrims were inhabitants of the 
 Eastern States, probably retreating from some spe 
 cies of adversity, to one of those imaginary El Do 
 rados, among the shades of the far West, where it 
 is fabled that the evils of mortality have found no 
 place. 
 
 James Harwood, the leader of that humble group, 
 
176 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 who claimed from him the charities of husband and 
 of father, halted at the report of a musket, and while 
 he entered a thicket, to discover whence it proceeded, 
 the weary and sad-hearted mother sat down upon 
 the grass. Bitter were her reflections during that 
 interval of rest among the wilds of Ohio. The 
 pleasant New-England village from which she had 
 just emigrated, and the peaceful home of her birth, 
 rose up to her view where, but a few years before, 
 she had given her hand to one, whose unkind ness 
 now strewed her path with thorns. By constant and 
 endearing attentions, he had won her youthful love, 
 and the two first years of their union promised hap 
 piness. Both were industrious and affectionate, and 
 the smiles of their infant in his evening sports or 
 slumbers, more than repaid the labors of the day. 
 
 But a change became visible. The husband grew 
 inattentive to his business, and indifferent to his fire 
 side. He permitted debts to accumulate, in spite of 
 the economy of his wife, and became morose and 
 offended at her remonstrances. She strove to hide, 
 even from her own heart, the vice that was gaining 
 the ascendency over him, and redoubled her exer 
 tions to render his home agreeable. But too fre 
 quently her efforts were of no avail, or contemptu 
 ously rejected. The death of her beloved mother, 
 and the birth of a second infant, convinced her that 
 neither in sorrow nor in sickness could she expect 
 sympathy from him, to whom she had given her 
 heart, in the simple faith of confiding affection. They 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 177 
 
 became miserably poor, and the cause was evident 
 to every observer. In this distress, a letter was re 
 ceived from a brother, who had been for several 
 years a resident in Ohio, mentioning that he was 
 induced to remove further westward, and offering 
 them the use of a tenement which his family would 
 leave vacant, and a small portion of cleared land, 
 until they might be able to become purchasers. 
 
 Poor Jane listened to this proposal with gratitude. 
 She thought she saw in it the salvation of her hus 
 band. She believed that if he were divided from his 
 intemperate companions, he would return to his 
 early habits of industry and virtue. The trial of 
 leaving native and endeared scenes, from which she 
 would once have shrunk, seemed as nothing in com 
 parison with the prospect of his reformation and 
 returning happiness. Yet, when all their few effects 
 were converted into the wagon and horse which 
 were to convey them to a far land, and the scant and 
 humble necessaries which were to sustain them on 
 their way thither ; when she took leave of her bro 
 ther and sisters, with their households ; when she 
 shook hands with the friends whom she had loved 
 from her cradle, and remembered that it might be for 
 the last time ; and when the hills that encircled her 
 native village faded into the faint, blue outline of the 
 horizon, there came over her such a desolation of 
 spirit, such a foreboding of evil, as she had never 
 before experienced. She blamed herself for these 
 feelings, and repressed their indulgence. 
 
178 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 The journey was slow and toilsome. The autum 
 nal rains and the state of the roads were against 
 them. The few utensils and comforts which they 
 carried with them, were gradually abstracted and 
 sold. The object of this traffic could not be doubt 
 ed. The effects were but too visible in his conduct. 
 She reasoned she endeavored to persuade him to a 
 different course. But anger was the only result. 
 When he was not too far stupified to comprehend her 
 remarks, his deportment was exceedingly overbearing 
 and arbitrary. He felt that she had no friend to 
 protect her from insolence, and was entirely in his 
 own power ; and she was compelled to realize that 
 it was a power without generosity, and that there is 
 no tyranny so perfect as that of a capricious and 
 alienated husband. 
 
 As they approached the close of their distressing 
 journey, the roads became worse, and their horse 
 utterly failed. He had been but scantily provided 
 for, as the intemperance of his owner had taxed and 
 impoverished every thing for his own support. Jane 
 wept as she looked upon the dying animal, and re 
 membered his laborious and ill-repaid services. 
 
 The unfeeling exclamation with which her husband 
 abandoned him to his fate, fell painfully upon her 
 heart, adding another proof of the extinction of his 
 sensibilities, in the loss of that pitying kindness for 
 the animal creation, which exercises a silent and sal 
 utary guardianship over our higher and better sym 
 pathies. They were now approaching within a short 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 179 
 
 distance of the termination of their journey, and their 
 directions had been very clear and precise. But his 
 mind became so bewildered and his heart so perverse, 
 that he persisted in choosing by-paths of underwood 
 and tangled weeds, under the pretence of seeking a 
 shorter route. This increased and prolonged their 
 fatigue ; but no entreaty of his wearied wife was 
 regarded. Indeed, so exasperated was he at her ex 
 postulations, that she sought safety in silence. The 
 little boy of four years old, whose constitution had 
 been feeble from his infancy, became so feverish and 
 distressed, as to be unable to proceed. The mother, 
 after in vain soliciting aid and compassion from her 
 husband, took him in her arms, while the youngest, 
 whom she had previously carried, and who was un 
 able to walk, clung to her shoulders. Thus burdened, 
 her progress was tedious and painful. Still she was 
 enabled to go on ; for the strength that nerves a 
 mother s frame, toiling for her sick child, is from 
 God. She even endeavored to press on more rapidly 
 than usual, fearing that if she fell behind, her hus 
 band would tear the sufferer from her arms, in some 
 paroxysm of his savage intemperance. 
 
 Their road during the day, though approaching 
 the small settlement where they were to reside, lay 
 through a solitary part of the country. The chil 
 dren were faint and hungry ; and as the exhausted 
 mother sat upon the grass, trying to nurse her infant, 
 she drew from her bosom the last piece of bread, and 
 held it to the parched lips of the feeble child. But 
 
180 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 he turned away his head, and with a scarcely audi 
 ble moan, asked for water. Feelingly might she 
 sympathize in the distress of the poor outcast from 
 the tent of Abraham, who laid her famishing son 
 among the shrubs, and sat down a good way off, 
 saying, " Let me not see the death of the child." 
 But this Christian mother was not in the desert, nor 
 in despair. She looked upward to Him who is the 
 refuge of the forsaken, and the comforter of those 
 whose spirits are cast down. 
 
 The sun was drawing towards the west, as the 
 voice of James Harwood was heard, issuing from 
 the forest, attended by another man with a gun, and 
 some birds at his girdle. 
 
 " Wife, will you get up now, and come along ? 
 We are not a mile from home. Here is John Wil 
 liams, who went from our part of the country, and 
 says he is our next-door neighbor." 
 
 Jane received his hearty welcome with a thank 
 ful spirit, and rose to accompany them. The kind 
 neighbor took the sick boy in his arms, saying, 
 
 " Harwood, take the baby from your wife ; we do 
 not let our women bear all the burdens, here in 
 Ohio." 
 
 James was ashamed to refuse, and reached his 
 hands towards the child. But, accustomed to his 
 neglect or unkindness, it hid its face, crying, in the 
 maternal bosom. 
 
 " You see how it is. She makes the children so 
 cross, that I never have any comfort of them. She 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 181 
 
 chooses to carry them herself, and always will have 
 her own way in everything." 
 
 "You have come to a new settled country, friends," 
 said John Williams ; " but it is a good country to get 
 a living in. Crops of corn and wheat are such as 
 you never saw in New-England. Our cattle live 
 in clover, and the cows give us cream instead of 
 milk. There is plenty of game to employ our lei 
 sure, and venison and wild turkey do not come amiss 
 now and then on a farmer s table. Here is a short 
 cut I can show you, though there is a fence or two 
 to climb. James Harwood, I shall like well to talk 
 with you about old times and old friends down east. 
 But why don t you help your wife over the fence with 
 her baby?" 
 
 " So I would, but she is so sulky. She has not 
 spoke a word to me all day. I always say, let such 
 folks take care of themselves till their mad fit is 
 over." 
 
 A cluster of log cabins now met their view through 
 an opening in the forest. They were pleasantly 
 situated in the midst of an area of cultivated land. 
 A fine river, surmounted by a rustic bridge of the 
 trunks of trees, cast a sparkling line through the 
 deep, unchanged autumnal verdure. 
 
 " Here we live," said their guide, " a hard-work 
 ing, contented people. That is your house which has 
 no smoke curling up from the chimney. It may not 
 be quite so genteel as some you have left behind in 
 the old states, but it is about as good as any in the 
 Q 
 
182 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 neighborhood. I 11 go and call my wife to welcome 
 you ; right glad will she be to see you, for she sets 
 great store by folks from New-England." 
 
 The inside of a log cabin, to those not habituated 
 to it, presents but a cheerless aspect. The eye needs 
 time to accustom itself to the rude walls and floors, 
 the absence of glass windows, and doors loosely hung 
 upon leathern hinges. The exhausted woman en 
 tered, and sank down with her babe. There was 
 no chair to receive her. In the corner of the room 
 stood a rough board table, and a low frame resem 
 bling a bedstead. Other furniture there was none. 
 Glad, kind voices of her own sex, recalled her from 
 her stupor. Three or four matrons, and several 
 blooming young faces, welcomed her with smiles. 
 The warmth of reception in a new colony, and the 
 substantial services by which it is manifested, put to 
 shame the ceremonious and heartless professions, 
 which in a more artificial state of society are digni 
 fied with the name of friendship. 
 
 As if by magic, what had seemed almost a prison, 
 assumed a different aspect, under the ministry of 
 active benevolence. A cheerful flame rose from the 
 ample fire-place ; several chairs and a bench for 
 children appeared ; a bed with comfortable coverings 
 concealed the shapelessness of the bedstead, and 
 viands to which they had long been strangers were 
 heaped upon the board. An old lady held the sick 
 boy tenderly in her arms, who seemed to revive as 
 he saw his mother s face brighten j and the infant, 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 183 
 
 after a draught of fresh milk, fell into a sweet and 
 profound slumber. One by one the neighbors de 
 parted, that the wearied ones might have an oppor 
 tunity of repose. John Williams, who was the last 
 to bid good-night, lingered a moment as he closed 
 the door, and said, 
 
 " Friend Harwood, here is a fine, gentle cow, feed 
 ing at your door ; and for old acquaintance sake, you 
 and your family are welcome to the use of her for 
 the present, or until you can make out better." 
 
 When they were left alone, Jane poured out her 
 gratitude to her Almighty Protector in a flood of joy 
 ful tears. Kindness to which she had recently been 
 a stranger, fell as balm of Gilead upon her wounded 
 spirit. 
 
 " Husband," she exclaimed, in the fullness of her 
 heart, " we may yet be happy." 
 
 He answered not, and she perceived that he heard 
 not. He had thrown himself upon the bed, and in 
 a deep and stupid sleep was dispelling the fumes of 
 intoxication. 
 
 This new family of emigrants, though in the midst 
 of poverty, were sensible of a degree of satisfaction 
 to which they had long been strangers. The diffi 
 culty of procuring ardent spirits in this small and 
 isolated community, promised to be the means of 
 establishing their peace. The mother busied herself 
 in making their humble tenement neat and comfort 
 able, while her husband, as if ambitious to earn in a 
 new residence the reputation he had forfeited in the 
 
184 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 old, labored diligently to assist his neighbors in ga 
 thering of their harvest, receiving in payment such 
 articles as were needed for the subsistence of his 
 household. Jane continually gave thanks in her 
 prayers for this great blessing ; and the hope she per 
 mitted herself to indulge of his permanent reforma 
 tion, imparted unwonted cheerfulness to her brow 
 and demeanor. The invalid boy seemed also to 
 gather healing from his mother s smiles ; for so great 
 was her power over him, since sickness had render 
 ed his dependence complete, that his comfort, and 
 even his countenance, were a faithful reflection of 
 her own. Perceiving the degree of her influence, 
 she endeavored to use it, as every religious parent 
 should, for his spiritual benefit. She supplicated that 
 the pencil which was to write upon his soul, might 
 be guided from above. She spoke to him in the ten- 
 derest manner of his Father in Heaven, and of His 
 will respecting little children. She pointed out his 
 goodness in the daily gifts that sustain life ; in the 
 glorious sun, as it came forth rejoicing in the east, 
 in the gently-falling rain, the frail plant, and the dews 
 that nourish it. She reasoned with him of the 
 changes of nature, till he loved even the storm, and 
 the lofty thunder, because they came from God. 
 She repeated to him passages of scripture, with which 
 her memory was stored ; and sang hymns, until she 
 perceived that if he was in pain, he complained not, 
 if he might but hear her voice. She made him ac 
 quainted with the life of the compassionate Redeem- 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 185 
 
 er, and how he called young children to his arms, 
 though the disciples forbade them. And it seemed 
 as if a voice from heaven urged her never to desist 
 from cherishing this tender and deep-rooted piety ; 
 because, like the flower of grass, he must soon fade 
 away. Yet, though it was evident that the seeds 
 of disease were in his system, his health at intervals 
 seemed to be improving, and the little household 
 partook, for a time, the blessings of tranquillity and 
 content. 
 
 But let none flatter himself that the dominion of 
 vice is suddenly or easily broken. It may seem to 
 relax its grasp, and to slumber ; but the victim who 
 has long worn its chain, if he would utterly escape, 
 and triumph at last, must do so in the strength of 
 Omnipotence. This, James Harwood never sought. 
 He had begun to experience that prostration of spirits 
 which attends the abstraction of an habitual stimulant. 
 His resolution to recover his lost character was not 
 proof against this physical inconvenience. He de 
 termined at all hazards to gratify his depraved appe 
 tite. He laid his plans deliberately, and with the 
 pretext of making some arrangements about the 
 wagon, which had been left broken on the road, de 
 parted from his home. His stay was protracted be 
 yond the appointed limit, nd at his return, his sin 
 was written on his brow, in characters too strong to 
 be mistaken. That he had also brought with him 
 some hoard of intoxicating poison, to which to resort, 
 there remained no room to doubt. Day after day 
 Q2 
 
186 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 did his shrinking household witness the alternations 
 of causeless anger and brutal tyranny. To lay waste 
 the comfort of his wife, seemed to be his prominent 
 object. By constant contradiction and misconstruc 
 tion, he strove to distress her, and then visited her 
 sensibilities upon her as sins. Had she been more 
 obtuse by nature, or more indifferent to his welfare, 
 she might with greater ease have borne the cross. 
 But her youth was nurtured in tenderness, and edu 
 cation had refined her susceptibilities, both of plea 
 sure and pain. She could not forget the love he had 
 once manifested for her, nor prevent the chilling con 
 trast from filling her with anguish. She could not 
 resign the hope that the being who had early evinced 
 correct feelings and noble principles of action, might 
 yet be won back to that virtue which had rendered 
 him worthy of her affections. Still, this hope defer 
 red was sickness and sorrow to the heart. She found 
 the necessity of deriving consolation, and the power 
 of endurance, wholly from above. The tender in 
 vitation by the mouth of a prophet, was as balm to 
 her wounded soul, "As a woman forsaken and 
 grieved in spirit, and as a wife of youth, when thou 
 wast refused, have I called thee, saith thy God." 
 
 So faithful was she in the discharge of the difficult 
 duties that devolved upon her so careful not to ir 
 ritate her husband by reproach or gloom that to a 
 casual observer she might have appeared to be con 
 firming the doctrine of the ancient philosopher, that 
 happiness is in exact proportion to virtue. Had he 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 187 
 
 asserted, that virtue is the source of all that happi 
 ness which depends upon ourselves, none could have 
 controverted his position. But, to a woman, a wife, 
 a mother, how small is the portion of independent 
 happiness ! She has woven the tendrils of her soul 
 around many props. Each revolving year renders 
 their support more necessary. They cannot waver, 
 or warp, or break, but she must tremble and bleed. 
 
 There was one modification of her husband s per 
 secutions which the fullest measure of her piety could 
 not enable her to bear unmoved. This was unkind- 
 ness to her feeble and suffering boy. It was at first 
 commenced as the surest mode of distressing her. It 
 opened a direct avenue to her heart-strings. What 
 began in perverseness seemed to end in hatred, as 
 evil habits sometimes create perverted principles. 
 The wasted and wild-eyed invalid shrank from his 
 father s glance and footstep, as from the approach 
 of a foe. More than once had he taken him from 
 the little bed which maternal care had provided for 
 him, and forced him to go forth in the cold of the 
 winter storm. 
 
 " I mean to harden him," said he. " All the 
 neighbors know that you make such a fool of him 
 that he will never be able to get a living. For my 
 part, I wish I had never been called to the trial of 
 supporting a useless boy, who pretends to be sick 
 only that he may be coaxed by a silly mother." 
 
 On such occasions, it was in vain that the mother 
 attempted to protect her child. She might neither 
 
188 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 shelter him in her bosom, nor control the frantic vio 
 lence of the father. Harshness, and the agitation 
 of fear, deepened a disease which might else have 
 yielded. The timid boy, in terror of his natural 
 protector, withered away like a blighted flower. It 
 was of no avail that friends remonstrated with the 
 unfeeling parent, or that hoary-headed men warned 
 him solemnly of his sins. Intemperance had destroy 
 ed his respect for man, and his fear of God. 
 
 Spring at length emerged from the shades of that 
 heavy and bitter winter. But its smile brought no 
 gladness to the declining child. Consumption fed 
 upon his vitals, and his nights were restless and full 
 of pain. 
 
 " Mother, I wish I could smell the violets that grew 
 upon the green bank by our old, dear home." 
 
 " It is too early for violets, my child. But the grass 
 is beautifully green around us, and the birds sing 
 sweetly, as if their hearts were full of praise." 
 
 " In my dreams last night, I saw the clear waters 
 of the brook that ran by the bottom of my little garden. 
 I wish I could taste them once more. And I heard 
 such music, too, as used to come from that white 
 church among the trees, where every Sunday the 
 happy people meet to worship God." 
 
 The mother saw that the hectic fever had been 
 long increasing, and knew there was such an un 
 earthly brightness in his eye, that she feared his in 
 tellect wandered. She seated herself on his low bed, 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 189 
 
 and bent over him to soothe and compose him. He 
 lay silent for some time. 
 
 " Do you think my father will come ?" 
 
 Dreading the agonizing agitation which, in his 
 paroxysms of coughing and pain, he evinced at the 
 sound of his father s well-known footstep, she an 
 swered, 
 
 " I think not, love. You had better try to sleep." 
 
 " Mother, I wish he would come. I do not feel 
 afraid now. Perhaps he would let me lay my cheek 
 to his once more, as he used to do when I was a babe 
 in my grandmother s arms. I should be glad to say 
 good bye to him, before I go to my Saviour." 
 
 Gazing intently in his face, she saw the work of 
 the destroyer, in lines too plain to be mistaken. 
 
 " My son my dear son say, Lord Jesus receive 
 my spirit." 
 
 " Mother," he replied, with a sweet smile upon his 
 ghastly features, " he is ready. I desire to go to him. 
 Hold the baby to me, that I may kiss her. That is 
 all. Now sing to me, and, oh ! wrap me close in 
 your arms, for I shiver with cold." 
 
 He clung with a death grasp, to that bosom which 
 had long been his sole earthly refuge. 
 
 " Sing louder, dear mother, a little louder. I 
 cannot hear you." 
 
 A tremulous tone, as of a broken harp, rose above 
 her grief, to comfort the dying child. One sigh of 
 icy breath was upon her cheek, as she joined it to his 
 one shudder and all was over. She held the 
 
190 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 body long in her arms, as if fondly hoping to warm 
 and revivify it with her breath. Then she stretched 
 it upon its bed, and kneeling beside it, hid her face 
 in that grief which none but mothers feel. It was a 
 deep and sacred solitude, along with the dead. No 
 thing save the soft breathing of the sleeping babe fell 
 upon that solemn pause. Then the silence was bro 
 ken by a wail of piercing sorrow. It ceased, and a 
 voice arose, a voice of supplication for strength to 
 endure, as " seeing Him who is invisible." Faith 
 closed what was begun in weakness. It became a 
 prayer of thanksgiving to Him who had released the 
 dove-like spirit from the prison-house of pain, that 
 it might taste the peace and mingle in the melody of 
 heaven. 
 
 She arose from the orison, and bent calmly over 
 her dead. The thin, placid features wore a smile, 
 as when he had spoken of Jesus. She composed 
 the shining locks around the pure forehead, and gazed 
 long on what was to her so beautiful. Tears had 
 vanished from her eyes, and in their stead was an 
 expression almost sublime, as of one who had given 
 an angel back to God. 
 
 The father entered carelessly. She pointed to the 
 pallid, immovable brow. " See, he suffers no long 
 er." He drew near, and looked on the dead with sur 
 prise and sadness. A few natural tears forced their 
 way, and fell on the face of the first-born, who was 
 once his pride. The memories of that moment were 
 bitter. He spoke tenderly to the emaciated mother ; 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 191 
 
 and she, who a short time before was raised above 
 the sway of grief, wept like an infant as those few 
 affectionate tones touched the sealed fountains of 
 other years. 
 
 Neighbors and friends visited them, desirous to 
 console their sorrow, and attended them when they 
 committed the body to the earth. There was a shady 
 and secluded spot, which they had consecrated by the 
 burial of their few dead. Thither that whole little 
 colony were gathered, and, seated on the fresh 
 springing grass, listened to the holy, healing words 
 of the inspired volume. It was read by the oldest 
 man in the colony, who had himself often mourned. 
 As he bent reverently over the sacred page, there 
 was that on his brow which seemed to say, " This 
 has been my comfort in my affliction." Silver hairs 
 thinly covered his temples, and his low voice was 
 modulated by feeling, as he read of the frailty of man, 
 withering like the flower of grass, before it groweth 
 up ; and of His majesty in whose sight " a thousand 
 years are as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch 
 in the night." He selected from the words of that 
 compassionate One, who " gathereth the lambs with 
 his arm, and carrieth them in his bosom," who, 
 pointing out as an example the humility of little chil 
 dren, said, " Except ye become as one of these, ye 
 cannot enter the kingdom of heaven," and who call- 
 eth all the weary and heavy-laden to come unto him, 
 that he may give them rest. The scene called forth 
 sympathy, even from manly bosoms. The mother, 
 
192 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 worn with watching and weariness, bowed her head 
 down to the clay that concealed her child. And it 
 was observed with gratitude by that friendly group, 
 that the husband supported her in his arms, and min 
 gled his tears with hers. 
 
 He returned from this funeral in much mental dis 
 tress. His sins were brought to remembrance, and 
 reflection was misery. For many nights, sleep was 
 disturbed by visions of his neglected boy. Some 
 times he imagined that he heard him coughing from 
 his low bed, and felt constrained to go to him, in a 
 strange disposition of kindness, but his limbs were 
 unable to obey the dictates of his will. Then he 
 would see him pointing with a thin dead hand, to the 
 dark grave, or beckoning him to follow to the unseen 
 world. Conscience haunted him with terrors, and 
 many prayers from pious hearts arose, that he might 
 now be led to repentance. The venerable man who 
 had read the bible at the burial of his boy, counselled 
 and entreated him, with the earnestness of a father, 
 to yield to the warning voice from above, and to 
 " break off his sins by righteousness, and his iniqui 
 ties by turning unto the Lord." 
 
 There was a change in his habits and conversa 
 tion, and his friends trusted it would be permanent. 
 She who, above all others, was interested in the re 
 sult, spared no exertion to win him back to the way 
 of truth, and to soothe his heart into peace with it 
 self, and obedience to his Maker. Yet was she doom 
 ed to witness the full force of grief and of remorse 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 193 
 
 upon intemperance, only to see them utterly over 
 thrown at last. The reviving virtue, with whose 
 indications she had solaced herself, and even given 
 thanks that her beloved son had not died in vain, 
 was transient as the morning dew. Habits of indus 
 try, which had begun to spring up, proved themselves 
 to be without root. The dead, and his cruelty to the 
 dead, were alike forgotten. Disaffection to the chas 
 tened being, who against hope still hoped for his sal 
 vation, resumed its dominion. The friends who had 
 alternately reproved and encouraged him, were con 
 vinced that their efforts had been of no avail. Intem 
 perance, " like the strong man armed," took posses 
 sion of a soul that lifted no cry for aid to the Holy 
 Spirit, and girded on no weapon to resist the de 
 stroyer. 
 
 Summer passed away, and the anniversary of their 
 arrival at the colony returned. It was to Jane Har- 
 wood a period of sad arid solemn retrospection. The 
 joys of early days, and the sorrows of maturity, 
 passed in review before her, and while she wept, she 
 questioned her heart, what had been its gain from a 
 father s discipline, or whether it had sustained that 
 greatest of all losses the loss of its afflictions. 
 She was alone at this season of self-communion. 
 The absences of her husband had become more fre 
 quent and protracted. A storm, which feelingly 
 reminded her of those which had often beat upon 
 them when homeless and weary travellers, had been 
 raging for nearly two days. To this cause she 
 R 
 
194 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 imputed the unusually long stay of her husband. 
 Through the third night of his absence she lay sleep 
 less, listening for his steps. Sometimes she fancied 
 she heard shouts of laughter, for the mood in which 
 he returned from his revels was various. But it was 
 only the shriek of the tempest. Then she thought 
 some ebullition of his frenzied anger rang in her 
 ears. It was the roar of the hoarse wind through 
 the forest. All night long she listened to these sounds, 
 and hushed and sang to her affrighted babe. Un- 
 refreshed she arose and resumed her morning la 
 bors. 
 
 Suddenly her eye was attracted by a group of 
 neighbors, coming up slowly from the river. A 
 dark and terrible foreboding oppressed her. She has 
 tened out to meet them. Coming towards her house 
 was a female friend, agitated and tearful, who pass 
 ing her arm around her, would have spoken. 
 
 " Oh, you come to bring me evil tidings ! I pray 
 you let me know the worst." 
 
 The object was indeed to prepare her mind for a 
 fearful calamity. The body of her husband had been 
 found drowned, as was supposed, during the dark 
 ness of the preceding night, in attempting to cross 
 the bridge of logs, which had been partially broken 
 by the swollen waters. Utter prostration of spirit 
 came over the desolate mourner. Her energies were 
 broken and her heart withered. She had sustained 
 the privations of poverty and emigration, and the 
 burdens of unceasing labor and unrequited care, with- 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 195 
 
 out murmuring. She had lain her first-born in the 
 grave with resignation, for faith had heard her Sa 
 viour saying, " Suffer the little child to come unto 
 me." She had seen him, in whom her heart s young 
 affections were garnered up, become a " persecutor 
 and injurious," a prey to vice the most disgusting 
 and destructive. Yet she had borne up under all. 
 One hope remained with her as an " anchor of the 
 soul," the hope that he might yet repent and be 
 reclaimed. She had persevered in her complicated 
 and self-denying duties with that charity which 
 " beareth all things, believeth all things, endureth 
 all things." 
 
 But now, he had died in his sin. The deadly 
 leprosy which had stolen over his heart, could no 
 more be " purged by sacrifice or offering for ever." 
 She knew not that a single prayer for mercy had 
 preceded the soul on its passage to the High Judge s 
 bar. There were bitter dregs in this grief, which she 
 had never before wrung out. 
 
 Again the sad-hearted community assembled in 
 their humble cemetery. A funeral in an infant col 
 ony awakens sympathies of an almost exclusive char 
 acter. It is as if a large family suffered. One is 
 smitten down whom every eye knew, every voice 
 saluted. To bear along the corpse of the strong 
 man, through the fields which he had sown, and to 
 cover motionless in the grave that arm which trusted 
 to have reaped the ripening harvest, awakens a thrill 
 deep and startling in the breast of those who wrought 
 
196 THE INTEMPERATE. 
 
 by his side during the burden and heat of the day. 
 To lay the mother on her pillow of clay, whose last 
 struggle with life was, perchance, to resign the hope 
 of one more brief visit to the land of her fathers, 
 whose heart s last pulsation might have been a pray 
 er that her children should return and grow up 
 within the shadow of the school-house and the church 
 of God, is a grief in which none save emigrants 
 may participate. To consign to their narrow, note 
 less abode, both young and old, the infant and him 
 of hoary hairs, without the solemn knell, the sable 
 train, the hallowed voice of the man of God, giving 
 back, in the name of his fellow-Christians, the most 
 precious roses of their pilgrim path, and speaking 
 with divine authority of Him who is the " resurrec 
 tion and the life," adds desolation to that weeping 
 with which man goeth downward to his dust. 
 
 But with heaviness of an unspoken and peculiar 
 nature was this victim of vice borne from the home 
 that he troubled, and laid by the side of his son to 
 whose tender years he had been an unnatural ene 
 my. There was sorrow among all who stood around 
 his grave, and it bore features of that sorrow which 
 is without hope. 
 
 The widowed mourner was not able to raise her 
 head from the bed, when the bloated remains of her 
 unfortunate husband were committed to the earth. 
 Long and severe sickness ensued, and in her conva 
 lescence a letter was received from her brother, in 
 viting her and her child to an asylum under his roof 
 
THE INTEMPERATE. 197 
 
 and appointing a period to come and conduct them 
 on their homeward journey. 
 
 With her little daughter, the sole remnant of her 
 wrecked heart s wealth, she returned to her kindred. 
 It was with emotions of deep and painful gratitude 
 that she bade farewell to the inhabitants of that in 
 fant settlement, whose kindness through all her ad 
 versities had never failed. And when they remem 
 bered the example of uniform patience and piety 
 which she had exhibited, and the saint-like manner 
 in which she had sustained her burdens, and cherish 
 ed their sympathies, they felt as if a tutelary spirit 
 had departed from among them. 
 
 In the home of her brother, she educated her 
 daughter in industry, and that contentment which 
 virtue teaches. Restored to those friends with whom 
 the morning of life had passed, she shared with hum 
 ble cheerfulness the comforts that earth had yet in 
 store for her ; but in the cherished sadness of her 
 perpetual widowhood, in the bursting sighs of her 
 nightly orison, might be traced a sacred and deep- 
 rooted sorrow the memory of her erring husband, 
 and the miseries of unreclaimed intemperance. 
 
 Hartford, 1833. 
 
 R2 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 Gently on him, had gentle Nature laid 
 The weight of years. All passions that disturb 
 Had past away." 
 
 SOUTHEY 
 
 SOON after my entrance upon clerical duties, in 
 the state of North-Carolina, I was informed of an 
 isolated settlement, at a considerable distance from 
 the place of my residence. Its original elements 
 were emigrants from New-England ; a father, and 
 his five sons, who, with their wives and little chil 
 dren, had about thirty years before become sojourn- 
 ers in the heart of one of the deepest Carolinian 
 solitudes. They purchased a tract of wild, swamp- 
 encircled land. This they subjected to cultivation, 
 and by unremitting industry, rendered adequate to 
 their subsistence and comfort. The sons, and the 
 sons sons, had in their turn become the fathers of 
 families ; so, that the population of this singular spot 
 comprised five generations. They were described 
 as constituting a peaceful and virtuous community, 
 with a government purely patriarchal. Secluded 
 from the privileges of public worship, it was said 
 that a sense of religion, influencing the heart and 
 conduct, had been preserved by statedly assembling 
 
200 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 on the sabbath, and reading the scriptures, with the 
 Liturgy of the Church of England. The pious an 
 cestor of the colony, whose years now surpassed 
 four-score, had, at their removal to this hermitage, 
 established his eldest son in the office of lay-reader. 
 This simple ministration, aided by holy example, 
 had so shared the blessing of heaven, that all the 
 members of this miniature commonwealth held fast 
 the faith and hope of the gospel. 
 
 I was desirous of visiting this peculiar people, and 
 of ascertaining whether such precious fruits might 
 derive nutriment from so simple a root. A journey 
 into that section of the country afforded me an op 
 portunity. I resolved to be the witness of their Sun 
 day devotions, and with the earliest dawn of that 
 consecrated day, I left the house of a friend, where 
 I had lodged, and who furnished the requisite direc 
 tions for my solitary and circuitous route. 
 
 The brightness and heat of summer began to glow 
 oppressively, ere I turned from the haunts of men, 
 and plunged into the recesses of the forest. Tow 
 ering amidst shades which almost excluded the light 
 of heaven, rose the majestic pines, the glory and the 
 wealth of North-Carolina. Some, like the palms, 
 those princes of the East, reared a proud column of 
 fifty feet, ere the branches shot forth their heaven 
 ward cone. With their dark verdure, mingled the 
 pale and beautiful efflorescence of the wild poplar, 
 like the light interlacing of sculpture, in some an 
 cient awe-inspiring temple, while thousands of birds 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 201 
 
 from those dark cool arches, poured their anthems 
 of praise to the Divine Architect. 
 
 The sun was high in the heavens when I arrived 
 at the morass, the bulwark thrown by Nature around 
 this little city of the desert. Alighting, I led my 
 horse over the rude bridges of logs, which surmount 
 ed the pools and ravines, until our footing rested 
 upon firm earth. Soon, an expanse of arable land 
 became visible, and wreaths of smoke came lightly 
 curling through the trees, as if to welcome the 
 stranger. Then, a cluster of cottages cheered the 
 eye. They were so contiguous, that the blast of a 
 horn, or even the call of a shrill voice, might con 
 vene all their inhabitants. To the central and the 
 largest building, I directed my steps. Approaching 
 the open window, I heard a distinct manly voice, 
 pronouncing the solemn invocation, " By thine 
 agony, and bloody sweat, by thy cross and pas 
 sion, by thy precious death and burial, by thy 
 glorious resurrection and ascension, and by the 
 coming of the Holy Ghost." The response arose, 
 fully and devoutly, in the deep accents of manhood, 
 and the softer tones of the mother and her children. 
 
 Standing motionless, that I might not disturb the 
 worshippers, I had a fair view of the lay-reader. He 
 was a man of six feet in height, muscular and well 
 proportioned, with a head beautifully symmetrical, 
 from whose crown time had begun to shred the lux 
 uriance of its raven locks. Unconscious of the pre 
 sence of a stranger, he supposed that no eye regard- 
 
202 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 ed him, save that of his God. Kneeling around him, 
 were his "brethren according to the flesh," a numer 
 ous and attentive congregation. At his right hand 
 was the Patriarch tall, somewhat emaciated, yet 
 not bowed with years, his white hair combed smooth 
 ly over his temples, and slightly curling on his neck. 
 Gathered near him, were his children, and his chil 
 dren s children. His blood was in the veins of al 
 most every worshipper. Mingling with forms that 
 evinced the ravages of time and toil, were the bright 
 locks of youth, and the rosy brow of childhood, 
 bowed low in supplication. Even the infant, with 
 hushed lip, regarded a scene where was no wander 
 ing glance. Involuntarily, my heart said, " Shall 
 not this be a family in Heaven ?" In the closing 
 aspirations, " O Lamb of God ! that takest away the 
 sins of the world, have mercy upon us !" the voice 
 of the Patriarch was heard, with strong and affect 
 ing emphasis. After a pause of silent devotion, all 
 arose from their knees, and I entered the circle. 
 
 " I am a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ. 
 I come to bless you in the name of the Lord." 
 
 The ancient Patriarch, grasping my hand, gazed 
 on me with intense earnestness. A welcome, such 
 as words have never uttered, was written on his 
 brow. 
 
 " Thirty-and-two years, has my dwelling been in 
 this forest. Hitherto, no man of God hath visited 
 us. Praised be his name, who hath put it into thy 
 heart, to seek out these few sheep in the wilderness. 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 203 
 
 Secluded as we are, from the privilege of worship 
 ping God in his temple, we thus assemble every Sab 
 bath, to read his holy Book, and to pray unto him in 
 the words of our liturgy. Thus have we been pre 
 served from forgetting the Lord who bought us, 
 and lightly esteeming the Rock of our Salvation. " 
 
 The exercises of that day are indelibly engraven 
 on my memory. Are they not written in the record 
 of the Most High ? Surely a blessing entered into 
 my own soul, as I beheld the faith, and strengthened 
 the hope of those true-hearted and devout disciples. 
 Like him, whose slumbers at Bethel were visited by 
 the white- winged company of heaven, I was con 
 strained to say, " Surely the Lord is in this place, 
 and I knew it not." 
 
 At the request of the Patriarch, I administered the 
 ordinance of baptism. It was received with affecting 
 demonstrations of solemnity and gratitude. The 
 sacred services were protracted until the setting of the 
 sun. Still they seemed reluctant to depart. It was to 
 them a high and rare festival. When about to sepa 
 rate, the venerable Patriarch introduced me to all his 
 posterity. Each seemed anxious to press my hand ; 
 and even the children expressed, by affectionate 
 glances, their reverence and love for him who min 
 istered at the altar of God. 
 
 " The Almighty," said the ancient man, " hath 
 smiled on these babes, born in the desert. I came 
 hither with my sons and their companions, and their 
 blessed mother, who hath gone to rest. God hath 
 
204 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 given us families as a flock. We earn our bread 
 with toil and in patience. For the intervals of labor 
 we have a school, where our little ones gain the ru 
 diments of knowledge. Our only books of instruc 
 tion, are the bible and prayer-book." 
 
 At a signal they rose and sang, when about de 
 parting to their separate abodes, " Glory to God in 
 the highest, and on earth, peace, and good will to 
 wards men." Never, by the pomp of measured 
 melody, was my spirit so stirred within me, as when 
 that rustic, yet tuneful choir, surrounding the white- 
 haired father of them all, breathed out in their forest 
 sanctuary, " thou, that takest away the sins of the 
 world, have mercy upon MS." 
 
 The following morning, I called on every family, 
 and was delighted with the domestic order, econo 
 my, and concord, that prevailed. Careful improve 
 ment of time, and moderated desires, seemed uni 
 formly to produce among them, the fruits of a blame 
 less life and conversation. They conducted me to 
 their school. Its teacher was a grand-daughter of 
 the lay-reader. She possessed a sweet countenance, 
 and gentle manners, and with characteristic simpli 
 city, employed herself at the spinning-wheel, when 
 not absorbed in the labors of instruction. Most of 
 her pupils read intelligibly, and replied with readi 
 ness to questions from Scripture History. Writing 
 and arithmetic were well exemplified by the elder 
 ones ; but those works of science, with which our 
 libraries are so lavishly supplied, had not found their 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 205 
 
 way to this retreat. But among the learners was 
 visible, what does not always distinguish better en 
 dowed seminaries ; docility, subordination, and pro 
 found attention to every precept and illustration. 
 Habits of application and a desire for knowledge 
 were infused into all. So trained up were they in 
 industry, that even the boys, in the intervals of their 
 lessons, were busily engaged in the knitting of stock 
 ings for winter. To the simple monitions which I 
 addressed to them, they reverently listened ; and ere 
 they received the parting blessing, rose, and repeat 
 ed a few passages from the inspired volume, and 
 lifted up their accordant voices, chanting, " blessed 
 be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath visited and 
 redeemed his people." 
 
 Whatever I beheld in this singular spot, served to 
 awaken curiosity, or to interest feeling. All my 
 inquiries were satisfied with the utmost frankness. 
 Evidently, there was nothing which required conceal 
 ment. The heartless theories of fashion, with their 
 subterfuges and vices, had not penetrated to this her 
 metically sealed abode. The Patriarch, at his en 
 trance upon his territory, had divided it into six equal 
 portions, reserving one for himself, and bestowing 
 another on each of his five sons. As the children 
 of the colony advanced to maturity, they, with 
 scarcely an exception, contracted marriages among 
 each other, striking root, like the branches of the 
 banian, around their parent tree. The domicile of 
 every family was originally a rude cabin of logs, 
 S 
 
206 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 serving simply the purpose of shelter. In front of 
 this, a house of larger dimensions was commenced, 
 and so constructed, that the ancient abode might 
 become the kitchen, when the whole was completed. 
 To the occupation of building they attended as they 
 were able to command time and materials. " We 
 keep it," said one of the colonists, for " handy-work, 
 when there is no farming, or turpentine-gathering, 
 or tar-making." Several abodes were at that time, 
 in different stages of progress, marking the links of 
 gradation between the rude cottage, and what they 
 styled the " framed house." When finished, though 
 devoid of architectural elegance, they exhibited ca 
 pabilities of comfort, equal to the sober expectations 
 of a primitive people. A field for corn, and a gar 
 den abounding with vegetables, were appendages to 
 each habitation. Cows grazed quietly around, and 
 sheep dotted like snow-flakes, the distant green pas 
 tures. The softer sex participated in the business 
 of horticulture, and when necessary, in the labors 
 of harvest, thus obtaining that vigor and muscular 
 energy which distinguish the peasantry of Europe, 
 from their effeminate sisters of the nobility and gen 
 try. Each household produced or manufactured 
 within its own domain, most of the materials which 
 were essential to its comfort ; and for such articles 
 as their plantations could not supply, or their inge 
 nuity construct, the pitch-pine was their medium of 
 purchase. When the season arrived for collecting 
 its hidden treasures, an aperture was made in its 
 bark, and a box inserted, into which the turpentine 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 207 
 
 continually oozed. Care was required to preserve 
 this orifice free from the induration of glutinous 
 matter. Thus, it must be frequently reopened, or 
 carried gradually upward on the trunk of the tree ; 
 sometimes, to such a height, that a small knife affix 
 ed to the extremity of a long pole, is used for that 
 purpose. Large trees sustain several boxes at the 
 same time, though it is required that the continuity 
 of bark be preserved, or the tree, thus shedding its 
 life-blood at the will of man, must perish. Though 
 the laborers in this department are exceedingly in 
 dustrious and vigilant, there will still be a consider 
 able deposit adhering to the body of the tree. These 
 portions, called " turpentine facings," are carefully 
 separated, and laid in a cone-like form, until they 
 attain the size of a formidable rnound. This is 
 covered with earth, and when the cool season com 
 mences, is ignited ; and the liquid tar, flowing into 
 a reservoir prepared for it, readily obtains a market 
 among the dealers in naval stores. 
 
 Shall I be forgiven for such minuteness of detail ? 
 So strongly did this simple and interesting people 
 excite my affectionate solicitude, that not even their 
 slightest concerns seemed unworthy of attention. 
 By merchants of the distant town, who were in 
 habits of traffic with them, I was afterwards inform 
 ed that they were distinguished for integrity and 
 uprightness, and that the simple affirmation of these 
 " Bible and Liturgy men," as they were styled, pos 
 sessed the sacredness of an oath. The lay-reader 
 remarked to me, that he had never known among 
 
208 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 his people, a single instance of either intemperance 
 or profanity. 
 
 " Our young men have no temptations, and the 
 old set an uniformly sober example. Still, I cannot 
 but think our freedom from vice is chiefly owing to 
 a sense of religious obligation, cherished by God s 
 blessing upon our humble worship." 
 
 " Are there no quarrels or strifes among you ?" 
 
 "For what should we contend? We have no 
 prospect of wealth, nor motive of ambition. We 
 are too busy to dispute about words. Are not these 
 the sources of most of the < wars and fightings 
 among mankind? Beside, we are all of one blood. 
 Seldom does any variance arise, which the force of 
 brotherhood may not quell. Strict obedience is 
 early taught in families. Children who learn tho 
 roughly the Bible-lesson to obey and honor their 
 parents, are not apt to be contentious in society, or 
 irreverent to their Father in Heaven. Laws so 
 simple would be inefficient in a mixed and turbulent 
 community. Neither could they be effectual here, 
 without the aid of that gospel which speaketh peace 
 and prayer for His assistance, who " turneth the 
 hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just." 
 
 Is it surprising that I should take my leave, with 
 an overflowing heart, of the pious Patriarch and his 
 posterity? that I should earnestly desire another 
 opportunity of visiting their isolated domain ? 
 
 Soon after this period, a circumstance took place, 
 which they numbered among the most interesting 
 eras of their history. A small chapel was erected 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 209 
 
 in the village nearest to their settlement. Though 
 at the distance of many miles, they anticipated its 
 completion with delight. At its consecration by the 
 late Bishop Ravenscroft, as many of the colonists as 
 found it possible to leave home, determined to be 
 present. Few of the younger ones had ever entered 
 a building set apart solely for the worship of God ; 
 and the days were anxiously counted, until they 
 should receive permission to tread his courts. 
 
 The appointed period arrived. Just before the 
 commencement of the sacred services of dedication, 
 a procession of singular aspect was seen to wind 
 along amid interposing shades. It consisted of per 
 sons of both sexes, and of every age, clad in a pri 
 mitive style, and advancing with solemn order. I 
 recognized my hermit friends, and hastened onward 
 to meet them. Scarcely could the ancient Jews, when 
 from distant regions they made pilgrimage to their 
 glorious hill of Zion, have testified more touching 
 emotion, than these guileless worshippers, in passing 
 the threshold of this humble temple to Jehovah. 
 When the sweet tones of a small organ, mingling 
 with the voices of a select choir, gave " glory to the 
 Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was 
 in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world 
 without end," the young children of the forest start 
 ed from their seats in wondering joy, while the 
 changing color, or quivering lip of the elders, evin 
 ced that the hallowed music awoke the cherished 
 echoes of memory. 
 
 S2 
 
210 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 But with what breathless attention did they hang 
 on every word of Bishop Ravenscroft, as with his 
 own peculiar combination of zeal and tenderness, he 
 illustrated the inspired passage which he had chosen, 
 or with a sudden rush of strong and stormy eloquence 
 broke up the fountains of the soul ! Listening and 
 weeping, they gathered up the manna, which an 
 audience satiated with the bread of heaven, and pro 
 digal of angels food, might have suffered to perish. 
 With the hoary Patriarch, a throng of his descend 
 ants, who had been duly prepared for that holy vow 
 and profession, knelt around the altar, in commem 
 oration of their crucified Redeemer. 
 
 At the close of the communion service, when about 
 to depart to his home, the white-haired man drew 
 near to the Bishop. Gratitude for the high privileges 
 in which he had participated ; reverence for the fa 
 ther in God, whom he had that day for the first time 
 beheld ; conviction that his aged eyes could but a 
 little longer look on the things of time ; conscious 
 ness that he might scarcely expect again to stand 
 amid these his children, to " behold the fair beauty 
 of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple," over 
 whelmed his spirit. Pressing the hand of the Bishop, 
 and raising his eyes heavenward, he said, " Lord ! 
 now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for 
 mine eyes have seen thy salvation." 
 
 Bishop Ravenscroft fixed on him one of those 
 piercing glances which seemed to read the soul ; and 
 then tears, like large rain-drops stood upon his cheeks. 
 Recovering from his emotion, he pronounced, with 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 211 
 
 affectionate dignity, the benediction, " the Lord bless 
 thee and keep thee ; the Lord make his face to shine 
 upon thee, and be gracious unto thee ; the Lord lift 
 up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace." 
 
 The Patriarch, bowing down a head, heavy with 
 the snows of more than fourscore winters, breathed 
 a thanksgiving to God, and turned homeward, follow 
 ed by all his kindred. Summer had glided away ere 
 it was in my power again to visit the " lodge in the 
 wilderness." As I was taking in the autumn twilight 
 my lonely walk for meditation, a boy of rustic ap 
 pearance, approaching with hasty steps, accosted rne. 
 
 " Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies 
 stretched upon his bed. He takes no bread or water, 
 and he asks for you. Man of God, will you come 
 lohim?" 
 
 Scarcely had I signified assent, ere he vanished. 
 With the light of the early morning, I commenced 
 my journey. Autumn had infused chillness into the 
 atmosphere, and somewhat of tender melancholy 
 into the heart. Nature seems to regard with sadness 
 the passing away of the glories of summer, and to 
 robe herself as if for humiliation. 
 
 As the sun increased in power, more of cheerful 
 ness overspread the landscape. The pines were 
 busily disseminating their winged seeds. Like in 
 sects, with a floating motion, they spread around for 
 miles. Large droves of swine made their repast 
 upon this half ethereal food. How mindful is Nature 
 of even her humblest pensioners ! 
 
 As I approached the cluster of cottages, which 
 now assumed the appearance of a village, the eldest 
 
212 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 son advanced to meet me. His head declined like 
 one struggling with a grief which he would fain sub 
 due. Taking my hand in both of his, he raised it 
 to his lips. Neither of us spoke a word. It was 
 written clearly on his countenance, " Come quickly, 
 ere he die." 
 
 Together we entered the apartment of the good 
 Patriarch. One glance convinced me that he was 
 not long to be of our company. His posterity were 
 gathered around him in sorrow ; 
 
 " For drooping, sickening, dying, they began, 
 Whom they ador d as God, to mourn as man." 
 
 He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of the 
 Saviour, who " went not up to joy, until he first suf 
 fered pain," his brow again lighted with the calm 
 ness of one, whose " way to eternal joy was to suf 
 fer with Christ, whose door to eternal life gladly to 
 die with him." 
 
 Greatly comforted by prayer, he desired that the 
 holy communion might be once more administered 
 to him, and his children. There was a separation 
 around his bed. Those who had been accustomed 
 to partake with him, drew near, and knelt around 
 the dying. Fixing his eye on the others, he said,, 
 with an energy of tone which we thought had for 
 saken him, "Will ye thus be divided, at the last 
 day ?" A burst of wailing grief was the reply. 
 
 Never will that scene be effaced from my remem 
 brance : the expressive features, and thrilling re 
 sponses, of the Patriarch, into whose expiring body 
 the soul returned with power, that it might leave this 
 last testimony of faith and hope to those whom he 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 213 
 
 loved, are among the unfading imagery of my exist 
 ence. The spirit seemed to rekindle more and more, 
 in its last lingerings around the threshold of time. In 
 a tone, whose clearness and emphasis surprised us, 
 the departing saint breathed forth a blessing on those 
 who surrounded him, in the " name of that God, 
 whose peace passeth all understanding." 
 
 There was an interval, during which he seemed 
 to slumber. Whispers of hope were heard around 
 his couch, that he might wake and be refreshed. At 
 length, his eyes slowly unclosed. They were glazed 
 and deeply sunken in their sockets. Their glance was 
 long and kind upon those who hung over his pillow. 
 His lips moved, but not audibly. Bowing my ear more 
 closely, I found that he was speaking of Him who is 
 the " resurrection and the life." A slight shuddering 
 passed over his frame, and he was at rest, for ever. 
 
 A voice of weeping arose from among the children, 
 who had been summoned to the bed of death. Ere I had 
 attempted consolation, the lay- reader with an unfalter 
 ing tone pronounced, " the Lord gave, and the Lord 
 hath taken away : blessed be the name of the Lord." 
 
 Deep silence ensued. It seemed as if every heart 
 was installing him who spake, in the place of the 
 father and the governor who had departed. It was 
 a spontaneous acknowledgment of the right of pri 
 mogeniture, which no politician could condemn. He 
 stood among them, in the simple majesty of his birth 
 right, a ruler and priest to guide his people in the 
 way everlasting. It was as if the mantle of an arisen 
 prophet had descended upon him, as if those ashen 
 lips had broken the seal of death to utter " behold 
 
214 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 my servant whom I have chosen." Every eye fixed 
 upon him its expression of fealty and love. Gra 
 dually the families retired to their respective habita 
 tions. Each individual paused at the pillow of the 
 Patriarch, to take a silent farewell ; and some of the 
 little ones climbed up to kiss the marble face. 
 
 I was left alone with the lay-reader, and with the 
 dead. The enthusiasm of the scene had fled, and 
 the feelings of a son triumphed. Past years rushed 
 like a tide over his memory. The distant, but un- 
 dimmed impressions of infancy and childhood, the 
 planting of that once wild waste, the changes of 
 those years which had sprinkled his temples with gray 
 hairs, all, with their sorrows and their joys, came 
 back, associated with the lifeless image of his belov 
 ed sire. In the bitterness of bereavement, he cover 
 ed his face, and wept. That iron frame which had 
 borne the hardening of more than half a century, 
 shook, like the breast of an infant, when it sobs 
 out its sorrows. I waited until the first shock of 
 grief had subsided. Then, passing my arm gently 
 within his, I repeated, " I heard a voice from heaven 
 saying, 4 Write, from henceforth, blessed are the 
 dead, who die in the Lord. " Instantly raising him 
 self upright, he responded in a voice whose deep 
 inflictions sank into my soul, " Even so, saith the 
 spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works 
 do follow them." 
 
 I remained to attend the funeral obsequies of the 
 Patriarch. In the heart of their territory was a 
 shady dell, sacred to the dead. It was surrounded 
 by a neat inclosure, and planted with trees. The 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 215 
 
 drooping branches of a willow, swept the grave of 
 the mother of the colony. Near her, slumbered her 
 youngest son. Several other mounds swelled around 
 them, most of which, by their small size, told of the 
 smitten flowers of infancy. To this goodly compa 
 ny, we bore him, who had been revered as the father 
 and exemplar of all. With solemn steps, his de 
 scendants, two and two, followed the corpse. I 
 heard a convulsive and suppressed breathing, among 
 the more tender of the train ; but when the burial- 
 service commenced, all was hushed. And never 
 have I more fully realized its surpassing pathos and 
 power, than when from the centre of that deep soli 
 tude, on the brink of that waiting grave, it poured 
 forth its consolation. 
 
 " Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short 
 time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up 
 and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as it were a 
 shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the 
 midst of life, we are in death. Of whom may we 
 seek succor but of thee, Oh Lord ! who for our sins 
 art justly displeased ? Yet, O Lord God most holy 
 O God most mighty, O holy and most merciful 
 Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal 
 death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts, 
 shut not thy most merciful ears to our prayers, but 
 spare us, O Lord most holy, O God most mighty, 
 O holy and merciful Saviour, suffer us not, at our 
 last hour, for any pains of death to fall from thee." 
 
 Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourn 
 ing community immediately after committing the 
 dust of their pious ancestor to the earth. They ac- 
 
216 THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 companied me to some distance on my journey, and 
 our parting was with mutual tears. Turning to 
 view them, as their forms mingled with the dark 
 green of the forest, I heard the faint echo of a clear 
 voice. It was the lay-reader, speaking of the hope 
 of the resurrection : " If we believe that Christ died 
 and rose again, even so them also, that sleep in 
 Jesus, will God bring with him." 
 
 Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way. I 
 inquired, is Devotion never encumbered, or impeded 
 by the splendor that surrounds her? Amid the 
 lofty cathedral, the throng of rich-stoled worship 
 pers, the melody of the solemn organ, does that 
 incense never spend itself upon the earth, that should 
 rise to heaven ? On the very beauty and glory of 
 its ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and 
 go more forth to the work of benevolence, nor spread 
 its wing at the call of faith ? 
 
 Yet surely, there is a reality in religion, though 
 man may foolishly cheat himself with the shadow. 
 Here I have beheld it in simplicity, disrobed of " all 
 pomp and circumstance," yet with power to soothe 
 the passions into harmony, to maintain the virtues 
 in daily and vigorous exercise, and to give victory 
 to the soul, when death vanquishes the body. So, 
 I took the lesson to my heart, and when it has lan 
 guished or grown cold, I have warmed it by the re 
 membrance of the ever-living faith, of those " few 
 sheep in the wilderness." 
 
 THE END. 
 
WORKS 
 
 RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY KEY & BIDDLE, 
 No. 23, MINOR STREET. 
 
 MIRIAM, OR THE POWER OF TRUTH. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "INFLUENCE." 
 
 This tale is professedly founded on an " anecdote, said to be a well-attested 
 fact, of an American Jew converted to Christianity by the death of his only 
 child, a beautiful girl, whom he had reared with no common care and affection. 
 She embraced the Christian faith unknown to her father, until with her dying 
 lips she confessed to him her apostacy from Judaism, giving him at the same 
 time a Testament, with a solemn injunction to believe in Jesus of Nazareth." 
 
 This outline is ingeniously and skilfully filled up, and a tale of deep interest 
 is produced. There are many passages of deep pathos, and the argument for 
 Christianity adapted to the Jews, is happily sustained. We think the pleasure 
 and instruction which the book is calculated to afford, will well repay a perusal. 
 The Presbyterian. 
 
 The style of writing in this volume is simple and beautiful, as the story is 
 affecting. Boston Traveller. 
 
 The book has enough of fiction to enliven the fancy and gratify the curiosity 
 of youth, who might not otherwise read it; while it conveys lessons of piety, 
 and arguments for the man of understanding. We wish that many a lovely 
 Jewess could be persuaded to read " Miriam." The Philadelphian. 
 
 The work altogether deserves to stand high in the class of productions to 
 which it belongs. Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 When we see a book which bears the imprint of Key &. Biddle, we are always 
 sure to see a handsome one. In this case, we can give as high praise to the 
 matter as we can to the mechanical execution. 
 
 " Influence" was one of the very best of that class of religious novels lately 
 so prevalent in England ; and its gifted young author has even improved upon 
 herself, in this affecting and powerful story. She has taken that touching inci 
 dent, well known through the medium of our tracts, of a Jewish maiden who, 
 on her dying bed, won over her reluctant father to the religion of the Jesus he 
 despised. 
 
 It was a subject too good to be left unimproved, and in "Miriam" has been 
 embalmed, one of the most beautiful and delicate religious narratives we have 
 ever read. No 4ne whose feelings- and sympathies are uncorrupted, can peruse 
 this touching tale, without feeling a strong interest, and that sympathy which 
 will sometimes melt them into tears. Upon the publication of Miriam in Lon 
 don, it quickly ran through three editions, and we doubt not it will attain a 
 co-extensive popularity here, where there is more freshness of the feelings, and 
 a more deeply imbued spirit of rational piety, to appreciate the fine tone of reli 
 gious spirit which pervades it. JV*. Y. Com. Adv. 
 
 AIDS TO MENTAL DEVELOPMENT, or Hints to Parents. 
 Being a System of Mental and Moral Instruction, exemplified in 
 Conversations between a Mother and her Children, with an Address 
 to Mothers. By a Lady of Philadelphia. 
 
 A MANUAL ON THE SABBATH ; embracing a consideration 
 of its Perpetual Obligation, Change of Day, Utility and Duties. 
 By John Holmes Agnew, Professor of Languages, Washington Col 
 lege, Washington, Pa. With an Introductory Essay, by Dr. Miller, 
 of Princeton, N. J. 
 
 COUNSELS FROM THE AGED TO THE YOUNG. By 
 
 Dr. Alexander. 
 
 , _ 
 
WORKS RECENTLY PUBLISHED 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF A FUTURE STATE. By Thomas 
 Dick, author of the Christian Philosopher, &c. 
 
 TODD S JOHNSON S DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH 
 LANGUAGE. To which is added, a copious Vocabulary of Greek, 
 Latin, and Scriptural Proper Names, divided into syllables, and ac 
 cented for pronunciation. By Thomas Rees, LL.D., F.R.S.A. The 
 above Dictionary will make a beautiful pocket volume, same size 
 as Young Man s Own Book. 
 
 MEMORANDA OF A RESIDENCE AT THE COURT OF 
 LONDON. By Richard Rush, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister 
 Plenipotentiary from the United States of America ; from 1817 to 
 1825. Second edition, revised and enlarged. 
 
 PAROCHIAL LECTURES ON THE LAW AND THE GOS 
 PEL. By Stephen H. Tyng, D.D., Rector of St. Paul s Church, 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHER, or the Connection of 
 Science and Philosophy with Religion. By Thomas Dick. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION, or an Illustration of the 
 Moral Laws of the Universe. By Thomas Dick. 
 
 ^ THE IMPROVEMENT OF SOCIETY, by the Diffusion of 
 Knowledge; or an Illustration of the advantages which would re 
 sult from a general dissemination of rational and scientific informa 
 tion among all ranks. Illustrated with engravings. By Thomas 
 Dick, LL.D., author of Philosophy of a Future State, &c. 
 
 THE PIECE BOOK, comprising Choice Specimens of Poetry 
 and Eloquence, intended to be transcribed or committed to memory. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF HORTENSE BEAUHARNAIS, DUCHESS 
 OF ST. LEU AND EX-QUEEN OF HOLLAND. 
 
 This is an interesting account of a conspicuous character. She was the 
 daughter of Josephine Beauharnais, alias., or afterwards, Josephine Bonaparte, 
 former wife of Napoleon of France ; and she became the wife of Louis Bonaparte, 
 the ex-king of Holland. Of those who have figured at large on the great theatre 
 of life, at one of the most memorable eras in history, many interesting anec 
 dotes are given. We can safely recommend this work to the reading public. 
 American Sentinel. 
 
 No one of all those distinguished personages who occupied so large a space in 
 the world s eye, from their connexion with Napoleon, presents a story of deeper 
 interest than the amiable and accomplished subject of these memoirs. Possess 
 ing all the grace and fascination of manner, which so eminently characterized 
 her mother, the Empress Josephine, she has a strength and cultivation of intel 
 lect; an extent and variety of knowledge; and a philosophic fortitude which 
 the Empress never could boast. Unhappy in her marriage, she was yet a de 
 voted wife and fond mother; and though gifted with every quality to adorn 
 royalty, she willingly withdrew to the shades of private life, resigning the crown 
 she had embellished without a murmur. 
 
 Many of the details of this work will be found deeply interesting, and the notes 
 are copious and instructing. The translator has faithfully preserved the spirit 
 of his original. Saturday Courier, 
 
 _ . 
 
BY KEY & BIDDLE. 
 
 HARPE S HEAD, 
 A LEGEND OF KENTUCKY. 
 
 By JAMES HALL, Esq. author of Legends of the West, &c. &c. 
 
 It is an able production, characteristic of the writer s eminent talents, and 
 abounding with narratives and sketches of absorbing interest. The history of 
 Harpe forms the ground-work of the tale, the incidents of which are developed 
 with much skill ajid effect. Philad. Gazette. 
 
 Harpe s Head is one of the most interesting stories with which we are ac 
 quainted. Daily Chronicle. 
 
 Judge Hall is among the most popular of American writers, and in the present 
 production, has jjiven another proof of the felicity of his genius. It abounds 
 with narratives and sketches of deep interest, relating to the early periods of 
 the settlement of Kentucky. JV. Y. Com. Adv. 
 
 Mr. JAMES HALL, a native of Philadelphia, and favorably known as the author 
 of Legends of the West, has just published a new work, entitled "HARPE S 
 HEAD, A Legend of Kentucky. It is well calculated to add to his fame, and 
 though it bears evidences of being a hasty composition, reflects great credit 
 upon the author. It is the story of Micajah Harpe, a Kentuckian Freebooter, 
 and the scene changes from Virginia, in the olden time, to Ohio and Kentucky. 
 The account of a Virginia Barbecue is so well and naturally executed, that it 
 must become a favorite. It is here inserted as a favorable specimen of the work. 
 Miss Pendlcton is altogether lovely. Paulson s Daily Adv. 
 
 With the ordinary characters which must be found in such a composition, we 
 have one quite original being, in the person of " Hark Short, the snake-killer ;" 
 and the production, as a whole, forms one of the most engaging volumes that 
 we have met with. To its other merits we should not omit to add that, like 
 other writings from the same pen, it is distinguished by an unobtrusive tone of 
 the purest moral sentiment. Penn. Inquirer. 
 
 We cheerfully commend this work to the attention of our readers, assuring 
 them that they will be amused, entertained, and instructed by its perusal they 
 will find Indian warfare, savage modes of life the difficulties and dangers 
 experienced by the early pioneers in the " far, far west" delineated with a 
 master hand, in language glowing, vivid, and natural. National Banner. 
 
 WACOUSTA, OR THE PROPHECY; 
 
 A TALE OF THE CANADAS. 2 vols. 
 
 This work is of a deeply interesting character, and justly lays claim to be of 
 the highest cast. We think it decidedly superior to any production of the kind 
 which has recently emanated from the press. It abounds with thrilling scenes, 
 and the author has displayed a power of delineation rarely surpassed. Daily In- 
 tclliffcnccr. 
 
 We have read it, and unhesitatingly pronounce it one of the most deeply in 
 teresting works of fiction which has met our eye for many a month. It is a his 
 torical novel the scenes of which are laid principally at Detroit and Mackina 
 and some of the tragic events which those places witnessed in the early settle 
 ment of the country, are given with historic accuracy particularly the mas 
 sacre of Mackina. The author is evidently conversant with Indian stratagem 
 and with Indian eloquence ; and has presented us with specimens of both, truly 
 characteristic of the untutored savage. We would gladly present our readers 
 with an extract from this interesting work, did our limits permit. In lieu of an 
 extract, however, we commend the work itself to them. Commercial Herald. 
 
 The principal personage of this novel is a savage chief, and the story of his 
 retreat, bearing off captive the daughter of the Governor, is told with thrilling 
 effect. It is well written throughout, and abounds with interesting scenes. 
 Com. Adv. 
 
 THE YOUNG LADY S SUNDAY BOOK; 
 
 A Practical Manual of the Christian Duties of Piety, Benevo 
 lence, and Self-government. Prepared with particular reference 
 
WORKS RECENTLY PUBLISHED 
 
 to the Formation of the Female Character. By the author of "The 
 Young Man s Own Book." Philadelphia. Key & Biddle, 1833. 
 32mo. pp. 312. 
 
 We have read many of the selections in this little volume, and have met with 
 nothing objectionable Generally, the style is pure, easy, and pleasing, and the 
 matter good, well calculated for the purpose for which the work is intended, 
 and we cheerfully recommend it to the persons for whom it is principally design 
 ed, as profitable for instruction. Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 A most attractive little volume in its appearance and in this age of sweeping 
 frivolity in literature, of far superior excellence in its contents. Certainly some 
 such manual was required for the closet when novels and light reading of every 
 description have so ruled paramount in the drawing-room. We can give it no 
 higher praise than to say that the extracts are of a character to accomplish all 
 that the title-page holds out. N. Y. Com. Mv. 
 
 A collection of excellent sentiments from approved authors, and adapted par 
 ticularly to the formation of the female character. The chapters are short, and 
 embrace a great variety of subjects of religious tendency, and altogether the 
 book is replete with instruction. It is illustrated by two pretty engravings. Pres 
 byterian. 
 
 As the public feeling now runs, the publishers of this little work have done 
 well by their effort to keep it in a proper channel. The Young Lady s Sunday 
 Book is altogether practical in its character, and consisting, as it does, of short 
 pieces, takes a wide range in its subjects. 
 
 It is calculated to do good, and we should be happy to see the principles incul 
 cated in the portions we have read become the ruling principles of all. Journal 
 and Telegraph. 
 
 Messrs. Key & Biddle have just issued a volume of the most beautiful kind, 
 entitled The Voting- Lady s Sunday Book. It is full of pure, didactic matter, the 
 fruits of a pious and gifted mind ; and while the clearness and light of its pages 
 commend them to the eye, the truth of the precepts finds its way to the heart. 
 The work can be unhesitatingly praised, as worthy in all respects. The embel 
 lishments are finished and tasteful. " Meditation," the frontispiece, from the 
 burin of Ellis, would add a grace to any annual. We trust Messrs. Key & Biddle 
 receive a liberal patronage from the religious community, for we know of no 
 booksellers in this country who issue more good volumes calculated to subserve 
 the immortal interests of man.P/ulad. Gaz. 
 
 TRANSATLANTIC SKETCHES, 
 
 Comprising visits to the most interesting scenes in North America, 
 and the West Indies, with Notes on Negro Slavery and Canadian 
 Emigration. By Capt. J. E. Alexander, 42d Royal Highlanders, 
 F. R. G. S. M. R. A. S. &c. author of Travels in,Ava, Persia, &c. 
 
 We are happy to have the opportunity afforded us of noticing such a book of 
 travels as that called Transatlantic Sketches. American Sentinel. 
 
 One of the most interesting and instructive works that has appeared for some 
 time, has just been issued from the press of Key & Biddle, entitled Transat 
 lantic Sketches. Penn. Inquirer. 
 
 We wish we had room to speak of this volume according to our high opinion 
 of its merit, and to make the reader acquainted with the style and spirit of the 
 writer, by presenting some extracts. Captain Alexander, as a narrator of what 
 he sees and hears, has hit our taste exactly. We do not feel like a reader, but 
 a fellow-traveller not in company with a dull, prosing fellow, but with a gen 
 tleman of life and spirit, of wit and learning. Upon the whole, we commend the 
 book to the public, as one of the very best of the numerous recent publications 
 of travels that have been sent forth. Cow. Herald. 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR; 
 
 A Christmas, New-Year s, and Birth-Day Present for 1834. 
 Edited by G. T. Bedell, D.D., illustrated with eight splendid steel 
 engravings. 
 
BIT KEY & BIDDLE. 
 
 A volume, too, which does not degrade or disgrace the subject a volume des 
 tined, not to pass away with the winter-greens that adorn our Christmas par 
 lors, but to maintain a lasting hold on the attention of the Christian community, 
 at least so long as good taste and good sense shall have any vote in the selec 
 tion of books. We have read the volume carefully, and do not hesitate to pro 
 nounce it one of unusual interest as well as solid merit. U. S. Gazette. 
 
 Messrs. Key & Biddle have made a valuable present to religious parents, 
 guardians, and friends, in this elegant little volume. Why should all our gifts 
 on these occasions be worldly, or worse ? And why should religious truth always 
 shun the aids of beautiful ornament ? The embellishments are attractive, well 
 selected, and well executed. The various papers which compose the volume are 
 sCrious, tasteful, alluring, imbued with the spirit of the gospel, in a word, such 
 as we should have expected from one so zealous for the cause of Christ, and so 
 inventive of happy thoughts as the Rev. Editor. This annual may be safely 
 recommended to the Christian public. The Presbyterian. 
 
 To all, therefore, who desire intellectual improvement, and, at the same time, 
 the gratification of a true taste and to all who would make a really valuable 
 present to their friends, we would say, in conclusion, go and procure the Reli 
 gious Souvenir. It is not merely a brilliant little ornament for the parlor centre- 
 tajble, but a book worthy of a" place in every sensible man s library. Cincin 
 nati Inquirer. 
 
 The typography, embellishments, and general appearance of the work, render 
 it fully equal in these respects to any of the kind published in our country, while 
 its subjects are far more suitable for the contemplation of Christians, than the 
 light reading with which most of them are filled. Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 The articles are not only interesting, but calculated to produce a beneficial 
 effect upon the minds of those who read it, therefore, a very proper work for the 
 purpose for which it is designed, and hope it may meet with an extensive sale. 
 
 Baltimore Republican. 
 
 In the general character of those fashionable, and as to appearance, attractive 
 volumes, the annuals, there is so much that is trashy and unprofitable, that it 
 was with no little misgiving we looked into the pages of one which is now be 
 fore us, entitled " The Religious Souvenir." The matter is altogether of a reli 
 gious and moral tendency, not chargeable with sectarian bias, and such as the 
 most scrupulous need not hesitate to admit into family reading. The Friend. 
 
 This little work is intended to furnish what was heretofore wanted a Christ 
 mas and New-Year s offering, which may be bestowed and accepted by the most 
 scrupulous. Pittsburg Gazette. 
 
 We are happy to announce the tasteful appearance and valuable matter of the 
 Religious Souvenir for 1834. Dr. Bedell is as much distinguished for his belles- 
 lettres attainment, as for the profoundness of his scholarship and the purity of 
 his motives. He has found himself at home in this tasteful enterprise, and in 
 good company with the associated talent of the contributors to his beautiful 
 pages. JV. Y. Weekly Messenger. 
 
 Messrs. Key & Biddle have published a handsome little volume, entitled Reli 
 gious Souvenir, and edited by the Rev. Dr. Bedell. It is embellished with beau 
 tiful engravings, and printed with elegance. The literary contents are very 
 good, soundly pious, and free of all invidious remark or allusion. True Chris 
 tianity is that which purifies the heart, liberalizes the feelings, and amends the 
 conduct. National Oazelte. 
 
 We are free to confess our admiration of this lovely volume. It is decidedly 
 the gem of the year. Not only unquestionably superior in elegance and execu 
 tion to all others of its class published in this country, but worthy in the fine 
 and careful finish of the admirable engravings, to rank along with the best of 
 those annually produced by the finished artists and abounding capital of Eng 
 land. We hope an unprecedented patronage will remunerate the spirited pub 
 lishers for producing, at such a liberal expense, a work not less creditable to 
 themselves than to the state of art in the country. JV. F. Com. Adv. 
 
 We hail with pleasure the second appearance of this judicious instructive an 
 nual, with its exterior much improved, and its interior rich in lessons of piety. 
 Its aim is hallowed its usefulness unquestionable and it is a gift which affec 
 tion may offer without scruple, because approved by religion. Charleston Cour. 
 
WORKS RECENTLY PUBLISHED 
 
 LETTERS TO AN ANXIOUS INQUIRER, 
 Designed to relieve the difficulties of a Friend, under Serious Impressions. 
 
 BY T. CARLTON HENRY, D. D. 
 
 Late Pastor of the Second Presbyterian Church, Charleston, S. C. 
 With an Introductory Essay, (in which is presented Dr. Henry s 
 Preface to his Letters, and his Life, by a friend.) By G. T. Bedell, 
 D.D., Rector of St. Andrew s Church, Philadelphia. 
 
 It is an important volume, and is an indispensable auxiliary to a proper con 
 templation of the most important of all subjects. The work contains a very 
 judicious Introductory Essay, from the pen of the Rev. G. T. Bedell, Rector of 
 St. Andrew s Church, in this city. Sat. Eve. Post. 
 
 In a revival of religion among his own people, Dr. Bedell found this work use 
 ful, and was led to seek its republicalion in a cheap and neat form, for the advan 
 tage of those who cannot afford to purchase costly volumes. We hope the work 
 may prove a blessing to all who shall read it. The Philadelphian. 
 
 These letters have been for many years highly valued for the practical and 
 appropriate instruction for which they are principally designed. Presbyterian. 
 
 THE SOLDIER S BRIDE, AND OTHER TALES. 
 
 By JAMES HALL, Esq. author of " Legends of the West, &c. 
 
 CONTENTS. 1. The Soldier s Bride ; 2. Cousin Lucy and the 
 Village Teacher ; 3. Empty Pockets ; 4. The Captain s Lady ; 
 5. The Philadelphia Dun; 6. The Bearer of Dispatches ; 7. The 
 Village Musician; 8. Fashionable Watering-Places; 9. The 
 Useful Man; 10. The Dentist; 11. The Bachelor s Elysium ; 
 12. PeteFeatherton; 13. The Billiard Table. 
 
 We have just risen from the perusal of the Soldier s Bride. The impression it 
 leaves upon the mind is like that which we receive from the sight of a landscape 
 of rural beauty and repose or from the sound of rich and sweet melody. Every 
 part of this delightful tale is redolent of moral and natural loveliness. The 
 writer belongs to the same class with Irving and Paulding; and as in his de 
 scriptions, characters, and incidents, he never loses sight of the true and legiti 
 mate purpose of fiction, the elevation of the taste and moral character of his 
 readers, he will contribute his full share to the creation of sound and healthful 
 literature. U. S. Oazette. 
 
 Key & Biddle have recently published another series of Tales the Soldier s 
 Bride, &c. by James Hall. The approbation everywhere elicited by Judge Hall s 
 Legends of the West, has secured a favorable reception for the present volume ; 
 and its varied and highly spirited contents, consisting of thirteen tales, will be 
 found no less meritorious than his previous labors. National Oazette. 
 
 We have found much to admire in the perusal of this interesting work. It 
 abounds in correct delineation of character, and although in some of his tales, 
 the author s style is familiar, yet he has not sacrificed to levity the dignity of 
 his pen, nor tarnished his character as a chaste and classical writer. At the 
 present day, when the literary world is flooded with fustian and insipidity, and 
 the public taste attempted to be vitiated by the weak and effeminate productions 
 of those whose minds are as incapable of imagining the lofty and generous feel 
 ings they would pourtray, as their hearts are of exercising them, it is peculiarly 
 gratifying to receive a work, from the pages of which the eye may cater with 
 satisfaction, and the mind feast with avidity and benefit. Pittsburg Mercury. 
 
 TALES OF ROMANCE, FIRST SERIES. 
 
 This is not only an uncommonly neat edition, but a very entertaining book ; 
 how could it be otherwise, when such an array of authors as the following is 
 presented 
 
 The work contains Ali s Bride, a tale from the Persian, by Thomas Moore, in- 
 
 6 ~~ 
 
BY KEY & BIDDLE. 
 
 terspersed with poetry. The Last of the Line, by Mrs. S. C. Hall, an author who 
 sustains a reputation which every succeeding production greatly enhances. The 
 Wire Merchant s Story, by the author of the King s Own. The Procrastinator, 
 by T. Crofton Croker. The Spanish Beadsman. The Legend of Rose Rocke, by 
 
 the author of Stories of Waterloo. Barbara S , by Charles Lamb. A 
 
 Story of the Heart. The Vacant Chair, by J. M. Wilson ; and the Queen of the 
 Meadows, by Miss Mitford. 
 
 This volume has no pretensions to the inculcation of mawkish sensibility. 
 We have read every word of it, and can confidently recommend it to our friends. 
 Journal of Belles Lettres. 
 
 ZOE, OR THE SICILIAN SAYDA. 
 
 As an historical romance, embellished with the creations of a lively imagina 
 tion, and adorned with the beauties of a classic mind, this production will take 
 a high rank, and although not so much lauded as a Cooper or an Irving, he may 
 be assured that by a continuance of his efforts, he will secure the approbation 
 of his countrymen, and the reward of a wide-spread fame. Daily Intelligencer. 
 
 We do not call attention to this on account of any previous reputation of its 
 author; it possesses intrinsic merit, and will obtain favor because it merits it. 
 It is historical, and the name and circumstances are to be found in the records 
 of. those times. The. plot is ably conceived, the characters are vividly, and some 
 are fearfully drawn. Boston American Traveller. 
 
 THE TESTIMONY OF NATURE AND REVELATION TO 
 THE BEING, PERFECTIONS, AND GOVERNMENT OF 
 GOD. By the Rev. Henry Fergus, Dunfermline, author of the 
 History of the United States of America, till the termination of 
 the War of Independence, in Lardner s Cyclopedia. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Fergus s Testimony of Nature and Revelation to the Being, 
 Perfection, and Government of God, is an attempt to do in one volume what the 
 Bridgewater Treatises are to do in eight. We wish one-eighth of the reward 
 only may make its way to Dunfermline. Mr. Fergus s Treatise goes over the 
 whole ground with fervor and ability ; it is an excellent volume, and may be 
 had for somewhere about about half the price of one Bridgewater octavo. Lon 
 don Spectator. 
 
 A work of great research and great talent. Evangelical Magazine. 
 
 A very seasonable and valuable work. Its philosophy is unimpeachable, and 
 its theology pure and elevated. JVew Monthly Mag. 
 
 This is an elegant and enlighted work, of a pious and highly gifted man. 
 Metropolitan Magazine. 
 
 This excellent work contains, in a brief space, all that is likely to be useful in 
 the Bridgewater Treatises, and displays infinitely more of original thought and 
 patient research, than the two volumes which have been recently published by 
 the managers of his lordship s legacy. We have never seen any work in which 
 the necessity of a revelation was more clearly demonstrated, while at the same 
 time its due importance was assigned to natural religion. 
 
 We hope that the work will be extensively used in the education of youth ; it 
 is admirably calculated to stimulate students to scientific research, and the ob 
 servation of Nature ; it suggests subjects of contemplation, by which the mind 
 must be both delighted and instructed ; and, finally, it teaches the most sublime 
 of all lessons, admiration of the power, delight in the wisdom, and gratitude for 
 the love of our Creator. Athen&um. 
 
 LETTERS FROM THE~NORTH OF EUROPE, 
 
 Or Journal of Travels in Holland, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, 
 Finland, Russia, Prussia, and Saxony. By Charles B. Elliott, Esq. 
 
 This is one of those remarkably pleasant tours which an intelligent gentle- 
 man, who has seen much of the world, is alone calculated to write one of those 
 productions which engage the attention and do not fatigue it, and which we 
 read from first to last with the agreeable sensation, that we are gathering the 
 information of very extensive travel easily, by our own fireside. London Lite 
 rary Gazette. 
 
"WORKS RECENTLY PUBLISHED 
 
 YOUNG MAN S OWN BOOK. 
 
 A Manual of Politeness, Intellectual Improvement, and Moral 
 Deportment, calculated to form the character on a solid basis, and 
 to insure respectability and success in life. 
 
 Its contents are made up of brief and well written essays upon subjects very 
 judiciously selected, and will prove a useful and valuable work to those who 
 give it a careful reading, and make proper use of those hints which the author 
 throws out. Boston Trav. 
 
 We cheerfully recommend a perusal of the Young Man s Own Book to all our 
 young friends, for we are convinced that if they read it faithfully, they will find 
 themselves both wiser and better. The Young Man s Advocate. 
 
 In the Young Man s Own Book, much sound advice upon a variety of im 
 portant subjects is administered, and a large number of rules are laid down for 
 the regulation of conduct, the practice of which cannot fail to insure respecta 
 bility. Saturday Courier. 
 
 JOURNAL OF A NOBLEMAN; 
 Being a Narrative of his residence at Vienna, during Congress. 
 
 The author is quite spirited in his remarks on occurrences, and his sketches of 
 character are picturesque and amusing. We commend this volume to our read 
 ers as a very entertaining production. Daily Intel. 
 
 We presume no one could take up this little volume and dip into it, without 
 feeling regret at being obliged by any cause to put it down before it was read. 
 The style is fine, as are the descriptions, the persons introduced, together with 
 the anecdotes, and in general, the entire sketching is by the hand of a master. 
 Everything appears natural there is no affectation of learning no overstrain 
 ing no departure from what one would expect to see and hear all is easy all 
 graceful. Com. Herald. 
 
 YOUNG LADY S OWN BOOK, 
 
 A Manual of Intellectual Improvement and Moral Deportment. 
 By the author of the Young Man s Own Book. 
 
 Messrs. Key & Biddle, of this city, have published a very neat little volume, 
 entitled The Young Lady s Own Book. Its contents are well adapted to its use 
 ful purpose. National Gazette. 
 
 The Young Lady s Own Book seems to us to have been carefully prepared, to 
 comprehend much and various instruction of a practical character, and to corre 
 spond in its contents with its title. Young Man s Advocate. 
 
 The Young Lady s Own Book, embellished with beautiful engravings, should 
 be in the hands of every young female. Inquirer. 
 
 All the articles in the Young Lady s Own Book are of a useful and interesting 
 character. JV. Y. Com. Adv. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE YOUNG, ON THE IMPORT 
 ANCE OF RELIGION. By John Foster, author of Essays on 
 Decision of Character, &c. 
 
 We are not going to hold a rush light up to a book of John Foster s, but only 
 mean to tell what is its intent. It is an awakening appeal to youth of the re 
 fined and educated sort, upon the subject of their personal religion. There can 
 be no doubt as to its currency. The Presbyterian. 
 
 A MOTHER S FIRST THOUGHTS. By the author of " Faith s 
 Telescope." 
 
 This is a brief miniature, from an Edinburgh edition. Its aim is to furnish 
 Religious Meditations, Prayers, and Devotional Poetry for pious mothers. It is 
 most highly commended in the Edinburgh Presbyterian Review, and in the 
 Christian Advocate. The author, who is a lady of Scotland, unites a deep know 
 ledge of sound theology, with no ordinary talent for sacred poetry. Presbyterian. 
 
BY KEY & BIDDLE. 
 
 EXAMPLE; OR, FAMILY SCENES. 
 
 This is one of those useful and truly moral publications which can not fail to 
 be read with delight by the youth of both sexes, who, as their hearts expand, 
 and they advance in years, have need of some instructor to point out the path 
 they should follow for their future happiness. The author has been triumphantly 
 successful in attaining these laudable objects in this interesting publication. 
 Weekly Times. 
 
 Some of the Scenes are sweetly touching, and, in our view, the author has 
 succeeded remarkably well in presenting the sublime and yet simple truths of 
 Evangelical Religion to the mind in a way of deep and abiding impressions. 
 JV. Y. Com. Adv. 
 
 True religion is diffusive in its character, and when it is fairly exemplified in 
 the life of an individual, it will excite attention, command respect, and perhaps 
 lead to still happier results. Let your light so shine before men that they may 
 see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven, is a command 
 of high authority, and one which presupposes the force of example. These 
 Family Scenes, which belong to the same class witli Mrs. Sherwood s writings, 
 are intended to illustrate the influence of example. The book is pleasingly writ 
 ten, and is characterized by a vein of pious and evangelical sentiment. Presby 
 terian. 
 
 A HARMONY OF THE FOUR GOSPELS, 
 
 Founded on the Arrangement of the Harmonia Evangelica, by 
 the Rev. Edward Greswell. With the Practical Reflections of Dr. 
 Doddridge. Designed for the use of Families and Schools, and for 
 Private Edification. By the Rev. E. Bickersteth, Rector of Wolton, 
 Herts. 
 
 A beautiful duodecimo of about four hundred pages; and one of the best 
 books which has appeared for many years, with respect to personal and domestic 
 edification. It is next to impossible to read the ordinary Harmonies. The cur 
 rent of the narrative is broken by constant interruptions. In this, we have in 
 convenient sections, the four Gospel histories, made up into one, in proper order, 
 in the words of the common English translation. The devotional notes of 
 Doddridge are better than any we have seen for reading in the closet, or at family 
 worship. The name of Bickersteth, prefixed to a book, is enough to show that 
 it is written simply to serve the cause of Christ. The Presbyterian. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF LIFE. 
 
 A Poem, pronounced before the Franklin Society of Brown Uni 
 versity, Sept. 3, 1833. With other Poems. By Willis Gaylord 
 Clark, Esq. 
 
 We hope Mr. Clark may find sufficient inducements to place before the public, 
 in a more accessible form than that in which they are now scattered through 
 the periodicals of the day, more of the creations of his fancy, breathing as they 
 do the fervor of moral purity, as well as chastened arid beautiful poetry we do 
 not hesitate to say they will be most highly acceptable. The anonymous pro 
 ductions of his pen have long attracted the highest praise, and it is high time 
 that he should, in his own person, reap the laurels he has so well earned, and 
 boldly challenge a rank among the best of the American poets. N. Y. Mirror. 
 
 The " Spirit of Life" is a clustering of many of those beauties, which all, who 
 admire poetry, have already seen and applauded in the different productions of 
 Clark s gifted mind. U. S. Oaz. 
 
 This poetry is of no common order. The author beautifully describes the Spirit 
 of Life as pervading all Nature, and triumphing over the power of death. 
 Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 The " Spirit of Life" is an essay of sound morality, in the guise of smooth 
 and easy versification. It aims by graceful numbers to better the heart ; to teach 
 it contentment here below. Paulson s Daily Adv. 
 
 9 
 
WORKS RECENTLY PUBLISHED 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF THE BLESSED, 
 Considered as to the particulars of their state ; their recognition 
 of each other in that state ; and its difference of degrees. To which 
 are added, Musings on the Church and her Services. By Richard 
 Mant, D. D. M. R. I. A. Lord Bishop of Down and Connor. 
 
 The design of the Rev. author in this production, is to adduce from scriptural 
 authority, the most satisfactory evidence of the happiness and joy of those who 
 by faith follow Christ, and who, in the exercise of those virtues required by the 
 gospel, are emphatically denominated the children of God. The author has 
 touched upon several topics connected with the subject, which must afford much 
 consolation to the Christian, who, from the very nature of his organization, is 
 liable to doubts and fearful forebodings as to the state of his heart and the 
 grounds of his faith. 
 
 Christian hope, confidence, and charity, are stamped upon every page, and the 
 writer deserves well of the Christian inquirer, for the industry which he has dis 
 played in collecting and arranging so many important and valuable arguments 
 in favor of the glorious and resplendent state of the faithful and humble disciple 
 of Jesus. 
 
 In this world, mankind have need of consolation of the cup of sorrow all 
 must drink happiness is a phantom, a meteor, beautiful and bright, always al 
 luring us by its glow forever within our reach, but eternally eluding our grasp 
 but this state of things was designed by our Creator for our benefit it was 
 intended to withdraw our affections from the shadowy and unsubstantial pleas 
 ures of the world, to the Father of all in Heaven, and to prepare, by discipline 
 and zeal, for a state, beyond the grave, of felicity, which eye hath not seen, ear 
 hath not heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive of. To 
 our readers we cheerfully commend this delightful volume, confident that by its 
 perusal the faith of the doubtful will be confirmed, and the anticipative hope of 
 the confident increased. Christian s Magazine. 
 
 We take the earliest opportunity of introducing to our readers this excellent 
 little book, to which the deeply interesting nature of the subject, and the well- 
 earned reputation of the Right Rev. author vviil secure no inconsiderable portion 
 of attention. The vast importance of the topics herein treated, and the valuable 
 practical effects they may assist in producing, induce us to call thus early the 
 public attention to a work, small indeed in size, but which is calculated not a 
 little to inform all candid and serious inquirers into a subject hitherto involved 
 in much obscurity, but not a little elucidated by the present author. Gent. Mag. 
 
 MEMOIR OF MISS MARY JANE GRAHAM. 
 By the Rev. Charles Bridges, M. A. author of Christian Min 
 istry, &c. &c. 
 
 We have seldom read a biographical sketch which we could more cordially or 
 confidently recommend to the Christian reader. The highly gifted, accomplished, 
 and spiritually-minded subject of the work has found a kindred spirit in the ex 
 cellent author. He has used his valuable materials in such a manner as to ren 
 der the memoir of Miss Graham not less rich in interest than full of instruction, 
 to all who are capable of being interested in the highest mental endowments, 
 sanctified and set apart to the service of God. There are few, either believers 
 or unbelievers, who may not be instructed by the counsel, or benefited by the 
 example of Miss Graham. Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 In many respects it is one of the richest pieces of biography with which we 
 are acquainted. Presbyterian. 
 
 TALES OF ROMANCE, SECOND SERIES. 
 
 The Tales of Romance, which Messrs. Key & Biddle have just published, are 
 altogether above the ordinary collections of the day. Every author included 
 among the contributors to the volume, has acquired previously a distinct reputa 
 tion in other works. Such names as Malcolm, Roscoe, and others, will be suffi 
 cient to give an idea of the merits of these Tales. The story of Fazio, from 
 whence is derived the tragedy of that name, is well and concisely told. We shall 
 present the best part of it soon, to the readers of the Intelligencer. Daily Intel. 
 
 nr~ 
 
BIT KEIT & BIDDLE. 
 
 GENERAL VIEW OF THE GEOLOGY OF SCRIPTURE, 
 
 In which the unerring 1 truth of the Inspired Narrative of the 
 early events in the world is exhibited, and distinctly proved, by the 
 corroborative testimony of physical facts, on every part of the 
 earth s surface. By George Fairholme, Esq. 
 
 The work before us is admirably calculatsd to enlighten the mind upon the 
 subject of Creation, and we have rarely perused a work which has added so much 
 to our stock of ideas, or which has given so much gratification. If the limits of 
 our paper permitted, we should take pleasure in laying before our readers an 
 analysis of the contents of this excellent production, but as that is out of the 
 question, we must refer them to the work itself, where we can assure them they 
 will find an abundance of information on the important subject of Creation. 
 Phil. Gaz. 
 
 The Geology of Scripture, by George Fairholme, Esq. is an admirable work. 
 The circulation of it should be extensive ; and, judging from its intrinsic merit, 
 such is its destiny. Christian Gazette. 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 Compiled from his correspondence and other authentic sources 
 of information, containing remarks on his writings, and on the 
 peculiarities of his interesting character, never before published. 
 By Thomas Taylor. 
 
 Taylor s Life of Cowper has several private letters of the poet not found in 
 other works, which serve to correct many false impressions relative to his men 
 tal aberration. It is due the cause of humanity, and of justice generally, that 
 the truth should be received ; especially when, by affecting the character of so 
 great a man as Cowper, it in a great measure touches the whole of the human 
 kind. U. S. Oaz. 
 
 A comprehensive and perspicuous memoir of Cowper has been much wanted, 
 and will be read with gratification by the admirers of this amiable and pious 
 man, whose accomplishments, excellencies, and peculiarity of character, have 
 rendered him an object of interest to the world. We are indebted to Mr. Taylor 
 for his excellent work, and for the happy manner in which it has been accom 
 plished. Boston Trav. 
 
 Thirty years nearly have passed since we first read with great delight Hayley s 
 Life of Cowper, and we have never cast our eyes on the volumes since, without 
 wishing to unravel a few things in the poet s history which were then left in 
 mystery. Taylor professes to deal openly, and remove all concealment. In one 
 beautiful volume, he has given us the substance of all which is known concern 
 ing the most sensible and pious of all the English poets ; whose writings will 
 be regarded as the best of their kind wherever the English language shall be 
 read. In all his numerous works, he has no line of measured jingle without 
 sense. Can this be said of scarcely any other child of the muses? Those who 
 have Hayley s two volumes, will be thankful for the labors of Taylor ; and those 
 who have neither, should purchase this new compilation without delay. It is a 
 work which will be found interesting to all classes, especially to the lovers of 
 literature and genuine piety, and to place within the reach of general readers, 
 many of whom have neither the means nor the leisure to consult larger works, all 
 that is really interesting respecting that singularly afflicted individual, whose pro 
 ductions, both poetic and prose, can never be read but with delight. Philadclphian. 
 
 Messrs Key & Biddle deserve credit for placing within the reach of all, in so 
 cheap and convenient a form, what must be salutary in every instance iff its 
 general effect. The character, pursuits, performances, and sufferings of Cowper, 
 combine more interest than belongs to the life of any of the great English au 
 thors who spent any considerable part of their days in retirement. Nat. Gaz. 
 
 A beautiful American edition, from the press of Key & Biddle, has just been 
 published, and cannot fail to meet with a welcome reception from all who ad 
 mire that best of men and most agreeable of poets. It is the most complete and 
 valuable edition of the Life of Cowper extant, and contains a well-executed por 
 trait. Paulson s Daily Mr. 
 
 _ 
 
"WORKS PUBLISHED BY KEY &. BIDDLE. 
 
 LEGENDS OF THE WEST. 
 
 By James Hall, second edition, containing the following 1 beauti 
 ful told tales : The Backwoodsman ; The Divining Rod ; The 
 Seventh Son ; The Missionaries ; The Legend of Carondolet ; 
 The Intestate ; Michael De Lancey ; The Emigrants ; The In 
 dian Hater ; The Isle of the Yellow Sands ; The Barrackmas- 
 ter s Daughter ; The Indian Wife s Lament. 
 
 We are glad to see a new edition of these well-told tales of Judge Hall has 
 recently been published. Host. Eve. Oaz. 
 
 The deserved popularity of these tales of Judge Hall, have secured to them the 
 publication of a second edition. His sketches are admirably drawn, and his 
 personal familiarity with scenery and life in the West, have furnished him with 
 incidents of peculiar interest, greatly increased by felicitous description. JV. Y. 
 Com. Adv. 
 
 The rapid sale of the first, has created a demand for a second edition of the 
 work, whose title heads this article. 
 
 The " Legends" comprise twelve articles, one of which is poetic. The scenes 
 of these tales are all located in the " far, far West," and the characters are taken 
 from the aborigines and early emigrants. The difficulties and dangers which the 
 first settlers had to undergo ere they were established in security, are depicted 
 in glowing colors, and with a master hand. 
 
 The rude and savage warfare of the Indians, the secret ambuscade, the mid 
 night slaughter, the conflagration of the log hut in the prairie and forest, the 
 shrieks of consuming women and children, are presented to our minds by the 
 author in vivid and impressive language. These tales possess much interest, as 
 they are founded in fact, and are illustrative of the habits of the Indian, and 
 the life of the hunter. As a writer, Judge Hall is more American than any other 
 we possess; his scenes are American ; his characters are American, and his lan 
 guage is American. His personages are invested with an individuality which 
 cannot be mistaken, and his conceptions and illustrations are drawn from the 
 great storehouse of Nature. Daily Intel. 
 
 THE CHURCH OF GOD, 
 
 In a Series of Dissertations, by the Rev. Robert Wilson Evans, 
 of Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 
 The object of the writer is to show that the fundamental doctrines of the 
 Christian Religion have been taught in the various dispensations, from the in 
 stitution of the Church in the family of Adam, to the more clear and perfect 
 exposition of its principles by the Savior and his apostles. He is thus led to 
 deal wholly with general principles those in which the great body of Christians 
 agree. This frees his work from all savor of sectarianism, and the ingenuity 
 and talent exhibited in its execution, commend it to the religious of every name. 
 It would perhaps be well to say, that the above work is by the author of " Rec 
 tory of Valehead." Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 THE PROGRESSIVE EXPERIENCE OF THE HEART, 
 UNDER THE DISCIPLINE OF THE HOLY GHOST, FROM 
 REGENERATION TO MATURITY. By Mrs. Stevens. 
 
 This is a work which may be recommended to religious readers and to serious 
 inquirers, with great safety. It is written in an impressive style, and is evi 
 dently the production of a mind and heart thoroughly imbued with Christian 
 knowledge and experience. The operations of the Holy Ghost upon the soul of 
 man, are traced with a discrimination which nothing but a personal experience 
 of his influences could have furnished. Doddridge s Rise and Progress of Reli 
 gion in the Soul, is an admirable book on this subject, but Mrs. Stevens s treatise 
 deserves an honorable place at its side, Ministers of the Gospel should consult 
 the spiritual welfare of their people, by recommending and promoting the cir 
 culation of such works. Presbyterian. 
 
t^SaKas^. 
 
U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY