p045-020 THE LONE INDIAN.

“A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not—I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.”
Bryant.

[figure description] Page 003.[end figure description]

Powontonamo was the son of a mighty
chief. He looked on his tribe with such a
fiery glance, that they called him the Eagle
of the Mohawks. His eye never blinked in
the sunbeam; and he leaped along the chase
like the untiring waves of Niagara. Even
when a little boy, his tiny arrow would hit
the frisking squirrel in the ear, and bring
down the humming bird on her rapid wing.
He was his father's pride and joy. He loved
to toss him high in his sinewy arms, and
shout, “Look, Eagle-eye, look! and see the
big hunting-grounds of the Mohawks! Powontonamo
will be their chief. The winds
will tell his brave deeds. When men speak

[figure description] Page 004.[end figure description]

of him, they will not speak loud; but as if
the Great Spirit had breathed in thunder.”

The prophecy was fulfilled. When Powontonamo
became a man, the fame of his
beauty and courage reached the tribes of
Illinois; and even the distant Osage showed
his white teeth with delight, when he heard
the wild deeds of the Mohawk Eagle. Yet
was his spirit frank, chivalrous, and kind.
When the white men came to buy land, he
met them with an open palm, and spread
his buffalo for the traveller. The old chiefs
loved the bold youth, and offered their daughters
in marriage. The eyes of the young Indian
girls sparkled when he looked on them.
But he treated them all with the stern indifference
of a warrior, until he saw Soonseetah
raise her long dark eye-lash. Then
his heart melted beneath the beaming glance
of beauty. Soonseetah was the fairest of
the Oneidas. The young men of her tribe
called her the Sunny-eye. She was smaller
than her nation usually are; and her slight,
graceful figure was so elastic in its motions,
that the tall grass would rise up and shake off

[figure description] Page 005.[end figure description]

its dew drops, after her pretty moccasins had
pressed it. Many a famous chief had sought
her love; but when they brought the choicest
furs, she would smile disdainfully, and say,
“Soonseetah's foot is warm. Has not her
father an arrow?” When they offered her
food, according to the Indian custom, her
answer was, “Soonseetah has not seen all
the warriors. She will eat with the bravest.”
The hunters told the young Eagle, that
Sunny-eye of Oneida was beautiful as the
bright birds in the hunting-land beyond the
sky; but that her heart was proud, and she
said the great chiefs were not good enough
to dress venison for her. When Powontonamo
listened to these accounts, his lip would
curl slightly, as he threw back his fur-edged
mantle, and placed his firm, springy foot forward,
so that the beads and shells of his rich
moccasin might be seen to vibrate at every
sound of his tremendous war song. If there
was vanity in the act, there was likewise becoming
pride. Soonseetah heard of his
haughty smile, and resolved in her own
heart that no Oneida should sit beside her,

[figure description] Page 006.[end figure description]

till she had seen the chieftain of the Mohawks.
Before many moons had passed
away, he sought her father's wigwam, to
carry delicate furs and shining shells to the
young coquette of the wilderness. She did
not raise her bright melting eye to his, when
he came near her; but when he said, “Will
the Sunny-eye look on the gift of a Mohawk?
his barbed arrow is swift; his foot
never turned from the foe;” the colour on
her brown cheek was glowing as an autumnal
twilight. Her voice was like the troubled
note of the wren, as she answered, “The
furs of Powontonamo are soft and warm to
the foot of Soonseetah. She will weave the
shells in the wampum belt of the Mohawk
Eagle.” The exulting lover sat by her side,
and offered her venison and parched corn.
She raised her timid eye, as she tasted the
food; and then the young Eagle knew that
Sunny-eye would be his wife.

There was feasting and dancing, and the
marriage song rang merrily in Mohawk cabins,
when the Oneida came among them.
Powontonamo loved her as his own heart's

[figure description] Page 007.[end figure description]

blood. He delighted to bring her the fattest
deers of the forest, and load her with the
ribbons and beads of the English. The
prophets of his people liked it not that the
strangers grew so numerous in the land.
They shook their heads mournfully, and
said, “The moose and the beaver will not
live within sound of the white man's gun.
They will go beyond the lakes, and the Indians
must follow their trail.” But the young
chief laughed them to scorn. He said,
“The land is very big. The mountain eagle
could not fly over it in many days. Surely
the wigwams of the English will never
cover it.” Yet when he held his son in his
arms, as his father had done before him, he
sighed to hear the strokes of the axe levelling
the old trees of his forests. Sometimes he
looked sorrowfully on his baby boy, and
thought he had perchance done him much
wrong, when he smoked a pipe in the wigwam
of the stranger.

One day, he left his home before the grey
mist of morning had gone from the hills,
to seek food for his wife and child. The

[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]

polar-star was bright in the heavens ere he
returned; yet his hands were empty. The
white man's gun had scared the beasts of
the forest, and the arrow of the Indian was
sharpened in vain. Powontonamo entered
his wigwam with a cloudy brow. He did
not look at Soonseetah; he did not speak to
her boy; but, silent and sullen, he sat leaning
on the head of his arrow. He wept not,
for an Indian may not weep; but the muscles
of his face betrayed the struggle within
his soul. The Sunny-eye approached fearfully,
and laid her little hand upon his
brawny shoulder, as she asked, “Why is the
Eagle's eye on the earth? What has Soonseetah
done, that her child dare not look in
the face of his father?” Slowly the warrior
turned his gaze upon her. The expression
of sadness deepened, as he answered, “The
Eagle has taken a snake to his nest: how
can his young sleep in it?” The Indian
boy, all unconscious of the forebodings which
stirred his father's spirit, moved to his side,
and peeped up in his face with a mingled
expression of love and fear.

[figure description] Page 009.[end figure description]

The heart of the generous savage was full,
even to bursting. His hand trembled, as he
placed it on the sleek black hair of his only
son. “The Great Spirit bless thee! the
Great Spirit bless thee, and give thee back
the hunting ground of the Mohawk!” he
exclaimed. Then folding him, for an instant,
in an almost crushing embrace, he
gave him to his mother, and darted from
the wigwam.

Two hours he remained in the open air;
but the clear breath of heaven brought no
relief to his noble and suffering soul.
Wherever he looked abroad, the ravages of
the civilized destroyer met his eye. Where
were the trees, under which he had frolicked
in infancy, sported in boyhood, and rested
after the fatigues of battle? They formed
the English boat, or lined the English dwelling.
Where were the holy sacrifice-heaps of
his people? The stones were taken to fence
in the land, which the intruder dared to call
his own. Where was his father's grave?
The stranger's road passed over it, and his
cattle trampled on the ground where the

[figure description] Page 010.[end figure description]

mighty Mohawk slumbered. Where were
his once powerful tribe? Alas, in the white
man's wars they had joined with the British,
in the vain hope of recovering their lost privileges.
Hundreds had gone to their last
home; others had joined distant tribes; and
some pitiful wretches, whom he scorned to
call brethren, consented to live on the white
man's bounty. These were corroding reflections;
and well might fierce thoughts of
vengeance pass through the mind of the deserted
prince; but he was powerless now;
and the English swarmed, like vultures
around the dying. “It is the work of the
Great Spirit,” said he. “The Englishman's
God made the Indian's heart afraid; and
now he is like a wounded buffalo, when hungry
wolves are on his trail.”

When Powontonamo returned to his hut,
his countenance, though severe, was composed.
He spoke to the Sunny-eye with more
kindness than the savage generally addresses
the wife of his youth; but his look told her
that she must not ask the grief which had put
a woman's heart within the breast of the farfamed
Mohawk Eagle.

[figure description] Page 011.[end figure description]

The next day, when the young chieftain
went out on a hunting expedition, he was
accosted by a rough, square-built farmer.
“Powow,” said he, “your squaw has been
stripping a dozen of my trees, and I don't
like it over much.” It was a moment when
the Indian could ill brook a white man's insolence.
“Listen, Buffalo-head!” shouted
he; and as he spoke he seized the shaggy
pate of the unconscious offender, and eyed
him with the concentrated venom of an ambushed
rattlesnake,—“Listen to the chief of
the Mohawks! These broad lands are all
his own. When the white man first left his
cursed foot-print in the forest, the Great Bear
looked down upon the big tribes of Iroquois
and Abnaquis. The wigwams of the noble
Delawares were thick, where the soft winds
dwell. The rising sun glanced on the fierce
Pequods; and the Illinois, the Miamies, and
warlike tribes like the hairs of your head,
marked his going down. Had the red man
struck you then, your tribes would have been
as dry grass to the lightning! Go—shall the
Sunny-eye of Oneida ask the pale face for a

[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]

basket?” He breathed out a quick, convulsive
laugh, and his white teeth showed
through his parted lips, as he shook the farmer
from him, with the strength and fury of a
raging panther.

After that, his path was unmolested, for no
one dared to awaken his wrath; but a smile
never again visited the dark countenance of
the degraded chief. The wild beasts had
fled so far from the settlements, that he would
hunt days and days without success. Soonseetah
sometimes begged him to join the
remnant of the Oneidas, and persuade them
to go far off, toward the setting sun. Powontonamo
replied, “This is the burial place
of my fathers;” and the Sunny-eye dared
say no more.

At last, their boy sickened and died, of a
fever he had taken among the English.
They buried him beneath a spreading oak,
on the banks of the Mohawk, and heaped
stones upon his grave, without a tear. “He
must lie near the water,” said the desolate
chief, “else the white man's horses will tread
on him.”

[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]

The young mother did not weep; but her
heart had received its death-wound. The
fever seized her, and she grew paler and
weaker every day. One morning, Powontonamo
returned with some delicate food he
had been seeking for her. “Will Soonseetah
eat?” said he. He spoke in a tone of subdued
tenderness; but she answered not.
The foot which was wont to bound forward
to meet him, lay motionless and cold. He
raised the blanket which partly concealed
her face, and saw that the Sunny-eye was
closed in death. One hand was pressed hard
against her heart, as if her last moments had
been painful. The other grasped the beads
which the young Eagle had given her in the
happy days of courtship. One heart-rending
shriek was rung from the bosom of the agonized
savage. He tossed his arms wildly
above his head, and threw himself beside the
body of her he had loved as fondly, deeply,
and passionately, as ever a white man loved.
After the first burst of grief had subsided, he
carefully untied the necklace from her full,

[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]

beautiful bosom, crossed her hands over the
sacred relic, and put back the shining black
hair from her smooth forehead. For hours
he watched the corpse in silence. Then he
arose and carried it from the wigwam. He
dug a grave by the side of his lost boy; laid
the head of Soonseetah toward the rising sun;
heaped the earth upon it, and covered it with
stones, according to the custom of his people.

Night was closing in, and still the bereaved
Mohawk stood at the grave of Sunny-eye,
as motionless as its cold inmate. A white
man, as he passed, paused, and looked in
pity on him. “Are you sick?” asked he.
“Yes; me sick. Me very sick here,” answered
Powontonamo, laying his hand upon
his swelling heart. “Will you go home?”
“Home!” exclaimed the heart broken chief,
in tones so thrilling, that the white man
started. Then slowly, and with a half vacant
look, he added, “Yes; me go home.
By and by me go home.” Not another
word would he speak; and the white man
left him, and went his way. A little while

[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]

longer he stood watching the changing
heavens; and then, with reluctant step, retired
to his solitary wigwam.

The next day, a tree, which Soonseetah
had often said was just as old as their boy,
was placed near the mother and child. A
wild vine was straggling among the loose
stones, and Powontonamo carefully twined it
around the tree. “The young oak is the
Eagle of the Mohawks,” he said; “and now
the Sunny-eye has her arms round him.”
He spoke in the wild music of his native
tongue; but there was none to answer.
“Yes; Powontonamo will go home,” sighed
he. “He will go where the sun sets in the
ocean, and the white man's eyes have never
looked upon it.” One long, one lingering
glance at the graves of his kindred, and the
Eagle of the Mohawks bade farewell to the
land of his fathers.

* * * * * *

For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian
was seen standing at the consecrated
spot we have mentioned; but, just thirty

[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]

years after the death of Soonseetah, he was
noticed for the last time. His step was then
firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed
old and way-worn. Age had not dimmed
the fire of his eye, but an expression of deep
melancholy had settled on his wrinkled brow.
It was Powontonamo—he who had once been
the Eagle of the Mohawks! He came to
lie down and die beneath the broad oak,
which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye.
Alas! the white man's axe had been there!
The tree he had planted was dead; and the
vine, which had leaped so vigorously from
branch to branch, now, yellow and withering,
was falling to the ground. A deep groan
burst from the soul of the savage. For thirty
wearisome years, he had watched that oak,
with its twining tendrils. They were the
only things left in the wide world for him to
love, and they were gone! He looked
abroad. The hunting land of his tribe was
changed, like its chieftain. No light canoe
now shot down the river, like a bird upon
the wing. The laden boat of the white man
alone broke its smooth surface. The

[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]

Englishman's road wound like a serpent around
the banks of the Mohawk; and iron hoofs
had so beaten down the war-path, that a
hawk's eye could not discover an Indian
track. The last wigwam was destroyed;
and the sun looked boldly down upon spots
he had visited only by stealth, during thousands
and thousands of moons. The few remaining
trees, clothed in the fantastic mourning
of autumn; the long line of heavy clouds,
melting away before the coming sun; and
the distant mountain, seen through the blue
mist of departing twilight, alone remained as
he had seen them in his boyhood. All
things spoke a sad language to the heart of
the desolate Indian. “Yes,” said he, “the
young oak and the vine are like the Eagle
and the Sunny-eye. The are cut down, torn,
and trampled on. The leaves are falling, and
the clouds are scattering, like my people. I
wish I could once more see the trees standing
thick, as they did when my mother held me
to her bosom, and sung the warlike deeds of
the Mohawks.”

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

A mingled expression of grief and anger
passed over his face, as he watched a loaded
boat in its passage across the stream. “The
white man carries food to his wife and children,
and he finds them in his home,” said he.
“Where is the squaw and the papoose of the
red man? They are here!” As he spoke,
he fixed his eye thoughtfully upon the grave.
After a gloomy silence, he again looked
round upon the fair scene, with a wandering
and troubled gaze. “The pale face may
like it,” murmered he; “but an Indian cannot
die here in peace.” So saying, he broke
his bow string, snapped his arrows, threw
them on the burial place of his fathers, and
departed for ever.

* * *

None ever knew where Powontonamo laid
his dying head. The hunters from the west
said, a red man had been among them, whose
tracks were far off toward the rising sun;
that he seemed like one who had lost his
way, and was sick to go home to the Great

[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]

Spirit. Perchance, he slept his last sleep
where the distant Missisippi receives its hundred
streams. Alone, and unfriended, he
may have laid him down to die, where no
man called him brother; and the wolves of
the desert, long ere this, may have howled
the death-song of the Mohawk Eagle.

p045-037 THE SAGACIOUS PAPA: A HINT FOR THOSE IN SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCES.

“If a woman will, she will—you may depend on 't;
And if she won't, she won't—so there's an end on't.”

[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]

“I think it is very cruel of papa,” said
Olive May,—a pretty little, pouting, petted,
rose-bud beauty,—“I had rather he would refuse
me any thing else, than try to cross me
in my affections. I could never love anybody
else but James Ingraham; yet he will
try to persuade me that Robert King is much
the best match. I wish I might never see
that coxcomb again.”

These peevish words were spoken to a
fashionable aunt, “no longer Is-a-bel, but
Was-a-belle,” who had abundantly proved
the vanity of the world; “yet loved the
dear delusion still.” A smile, half malicious
and half playful, curled her thin lips, as she
answered composedly, “You should never
suffer yourself to speak in such a vixenish
tone, Olive; you will spoil the sweetness of

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

your voice; and that would be a very great
misfortune to a belle.” Then patting her
cheek with her fan, she said, “I will go talk
with this cruel father. He shan't abuse it,
darling—It shall love who it pleases, and
marry who it pleases; so it shall.” And
Olive, hoping great things from her aunt Isabel's
intercession, smiled sweetly, and was
herself again.

Before we acquaint our readers with the
result of this intercession, we will give them
a brief sketch of Olive's lovers. She had
three declared ones; and a hundred, or so,
that looked at her, and sighed for her fortune.
The first in date, was James Ingraham; with
whom she had become acquainted during her
father's absence in Europe. He was a worthy
young man; short and fat; with a sort
of rosy, vulgar beauty about his square face;
and the most important of all his qualifications
was, that he was the very first lover
Olive ever had. He had good abilities, and
was a promising scholar; but he wore dirty
white silk gloves, longer than his hand; and
he would lean back in his chair; and some

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

how or other his elbows were always making
mathematical demonstrations; and his
shoulders alone pourtrayed the curving line
of beauty.

The next was a Polish count, who showed
a dozen stars and garters, and told how much
he had suffered in the cause of liberty, and
swore, forty times a week, that Olive was
fairer than the moon, and his love eternal as
the sun.

Last of all, was Robert King, tall, graceful,
well-proportioned, and just returned from
Paris. In all external graces, he was a model;
and the ladies only wondered at one
thing, viz. that he should have spent two
years in Paris, and yet wear his hair just as
he did when he went away. But Robert
King had studied the subject of his own
physiognomy even more deeply than they
had; elaborate thought, and patient experiment,
had led him to the conclusion that he
had chosen the best style for displaying his
magnificent white forehead to advantage.
Moreover, his residence in Europe had filled
him with high hopes, and lofty aspirations:

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

when he left his native country, he was
merely ambitious to follow every turn of fashion;
but now, convinced he could outdo the
volatile goddess, his great ambition was, that
the fashion should follow him.

The ladies were all in a twitter about him;
he danced so lazily, and he flattered so delicately;
and he drove such beautiful horses;
and he so often made them think how difficult
it was to please a man who had waltzed
and sung with European beauties! To overcome
his provoking indifference was a glorious
achievement, which every one was anxious
to perform. The victory was gained
by Olive May, with her pretty face, and still
prettier fortune, without an effort on her
part; and probably for the very reason that
he saw she made no effort.

Robert King had the father's wishes and
exertions on his side; for he was the son of
a wealthy Broker, and the leading star of
fashion. It was not at all wonderful that
the fop should be preferred to the clown, and
discount triumph over the Count.

But Olive was not quite as wise as her

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

father; for it is a lamentable fact that Providence
seldom places old heads on lily-white
shoulders. She had read in novels, that the
first love never changed; and she was determined
“to love James Ingraham forever,
and forever; and should her cruel father disinherit
her, she would love him the more—
that she would.”

Such was the state of affairs, when aunt
Isabel volunteered her services. It seemed
that she was eminently successful; for the
next day, Mr. May told his daughter that he
was very sorry to see her so unhappy; that
since the subject was disagreeable to her, he
would never again mention the name of Robert
King; that he had a great regard for Mr.
Ingraham, and certainly would not thwart
her wishes by any opposition. One thing,
however, he should expect her to yield to
him; she was quite too young to be married
at present; and it was absolutely necessary
she should travel a little, to finish her education,
and give her the air and manner of
the world.”

Olive was delighted at the thoughts of

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

New-York and Saratoga; and she was sure
she was very much delighted with permission
to retain her old lover; but perhaps she
felt a little disappointed, after all, to find the
course of true love run so smooth—martyrdom
is certainly a very exciting sort of thing,
and mortals in all ages have been eager for it.
Olive kissed aunt Isabel a hundred times
over, and said she would write to James
every day of her life; and asked what colours
she thought most becoming; and had
James' hair put into a golden locket; and
sent all over the city for the last La Belle
Assemblee, with its tasteful print of fashions;
and ordered a dozen new sets of jewels,
and tried twice a dozen styles of dressing
her hair; and always ended all her operations
by wondering whether James would
pine away during her absence. What an
odd jumble of gauze and love, trinkets and
expectation, is the mind of a belle!

The important day came; and the lovers
parted with many vows. At New-York, at
the Springs, at Quebec, every where, the
world stood furbelowed and on tip-toe, to

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

meet the beauty and the heiress! Her little
head began to spin round; and no wonder
that her heart began to spin with it. It is
true they seldom unite their operations in
the world of fashion; but then they are both
unimportant articles—it is all the better to
have extremely little of the one, and none
at all of the other.

At first, Olive adhered to her resolution
of writing every day; but by and by she
felt the necessity of letting the mail go without
any token of her love. She danced so
late; and she was so sleepy in the morning;
and crowds of beaux came the moment she
was dressed; and she found it was impossible
to get along without a dozen new dresses;
and positively the mantua-makers took so
much of her time, that she could not write
to James—she was sure he would'nt blame
her, if he knew how she was situated. Her
father reproved her for this neglect, and urged
her not to let another day pass without sending
a letter; and aunt Isabel reminded her
how often she had said, “James would be
lonesome as death when she was gone.” “I

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

wish they would just let me alone,” thought
the wayward beauty, “I wonder they need
to tease me so. I am sure I love James just
as well as ever I did. I wonder whether he
wears silk gloves, now? I mean to tell him
it is not genteel. I wish he could dance as
well as Robert King—Robert King is certainly
a very elegant young man; and all the
young ladies are bewitched about him.”

Our readers will naturally suppose that
Olive was not gratified in her angry wish of
“never seeing that coxcomb again.” Everywhere
she went, he was her shadow. If she
raised her eyes, she met his, resting upon
her in silent worship; he sighed when she
danced with another; and stood at her side
when she was fatigued. All her companions
envied her; and not one would allow she
was beautiful. “He thinks I am,” thought
Olive, as she glanced at her full length figure
in the mirror; and as she sat with one tiny
shoe in her hand, and the other half untied,
she said audibly. “He is'nt so much of a
coxcomb, after all.” “Who?” inquired
aunt Isabel, with great gravity of manner.

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

“Robert King, aunt; you know I used to
detest him; but I really think he is quite
agreeable. Don't you think he has altered
very much lately?” “I think he has,” answered
aunt Isabel: and unperceived by
Olive, a mischievous light sparkled and mantled
all over her face, as she held out a letter,
saying, “Here is news from James.”

Olive blushed deeply; and as she read the
letter, the blush grew warmer and warmer.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, “he does nothing
but preach—preach. His letters are
full of complaints and advice. I am sure he
knows my constancy well enough—and he
might know it is utterly impossible for me to
write every day.” Now, the fact was, she
had not written for four weeks—and three
weeks more passed, and still she could not
find time to write. Her father blamed her—
and her aunt scolded her. It was very vexatious—
but indeed it was impossible for her
to write.

At last James came, in person, to ascertain
the state of affairs. She met him with
blushes and welcomes—and she glanced her

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

eye on Robert King, and then on him—and
she wondered James would make a bow
sideways—it was so very awkward.

She danced with him, and she thought she
saw the young ladies laugh. She asked him
to go to dancing school, and to buy kid
gloves. She wondered what made her father
give up his opposition so easily—she
wondered when Robert King meant to offer
himself again—and she wondered when
James was going away.

Is there need to tell the catastrophe?
James left the Springs in high displeasure;
and papa and aunt Isabel exchanged very
knowing looks.

I leave good arithmeticians to balance the
loss and gain—James lost the heart of a
belle, and Olive gained the heart of a coxcomb!

p045-047 TO A LADY, CELEBRATED FOR MUSICAL TALENT.

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

p045-049 THE RIVAL BROTHERS. A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION.

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

“It is a fearful tale—yet true.”

It was in the middle of one of the most
delightful days in June, that I commenced
a short journey, which led me through the
cool sequestered forests on the eastern shore
of Massachusetts. Few things are more enchanting,
than to saunter through the woods
during a summer's noon. Nature, enjoying
the deep tranquillity of a most voluptuous repose,
the gay warbling of the birds, changed
for that occasional twitter which speaks the
full enjoyment of their tiny hearts, more
plainly than the rich burst of their morning
song; the very butterflies, like gay coquettes,
weary of conquest, closing and spreading
their gorgeous wings in languid indifference;
the deep shade; the drowsy splendour mantling
the distant hills; all these bring to me a
delicious sense of quiet existence, which no
other scene produces.

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

During my ride, every thing tended to
heighten this feeling to the utmost. I could
not mistake that I was in the land of my fore-fathers.
Even Nature bears the aspect of
those venerable heralds of our freedom; and
Time, while he has led wealth, taste, and fashion,
through all our favoured land, has passed
by these secluded spots with religious awe,
and scarcely brushed the antiquated scene
with noiseless wing. The faces you meet
are as a title-page, on which “by-gone days”
are written; the children have the reverential
demeanour of the olden time; the sea-breeze
murmurs through the wood, with more
of psalmody than song; and the very mossgrown
stones have an air of Puritan sanctity.

My companion was one with whom I was
too familiar to strive to be agreeable; and
they, who cannot be eloquent when effort is
unnecessary, may forever despair of the power.
Conversation is always delightful when
the thoughts spring spontaneously from the
tongue, attended with all the contagious exhilaration
of wit and talent; but it is even
more delightful, when catching its tone from

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

surrounding objects, it flows gently on, deriving
new charms from the scene around,
and new interest from the circumstances under
which we enjoy it. Such a conversation
I was at this moment listening to from my
companion, and every instant with increasing
pleasure. It was suddenly interrupted by
the appearance of one of the most frightful
and loathsome-looking objects my eyes ever
beheld. The lofty and projecting forehead,
and the bold, rigid contour of the head, all indicated
the possession of prodigious power;
and the “spark of hell burning in his eye,”
proved that power had been exerted for the
prince of darkness. He was clothed in the
squalid and tattered drapery of exceeding
poverty; and deeply had age graven upon
his iron visage the lines of guilt and passion.
The painter and the sculptor could not have
found a more fitting personification of pestilence
or crime.

At the sight of us, he darted into the woods
with that instinctive aversion which ever
leads the fallen spirit to shun a purer nature.
My companion knew him well; and at my

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

request, repeated the terrible incidents of his
life. As nearly as I can recollect, they are
contained in the following story.

Among the numerous families who worshipped
the Lord in the beauty of holiness,
in 1776, few, even in the days of primitive
devotion, were more blameless in life and
conversation, than those of Eliphalet Warner
and Lois Leslie. Their dwellings joined
each other; and their children had grown up
together, healthy and beautiful, as the trim
shrubbery around their doors. Frances, the
only daughter of the widow Leslie, was the
sweetest little wild-flower that ever breathed
fragrance on this sinful world. Seldom
has nature blended in one countenance two
such striking characteristics of loveliness.
Mildness was the prevailing expression; and
it was not until we had looked again and
again upon her large blue eye, that it revealed
its depth of meaning. Thought was
there, not in the grandeur of beaming inspiration,
but tranquil as a waveless lake, pure
as the intelligence of angels, and joyous as
infancy in its happy dreams. There is a

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

nameless light in this spiritual kind of beauty.
It comes from the sun of a world brighter
and holier than our own. The painter, the
poet, the sculptor, have never embodied it;
and nature, with all her radiance, her bloom
and purity, affords no metaphor. The mother,
faded and care-worn, was still such a
one as, once seen, could not easily be forgotten.
Her face manly, but not masculine, in
its outline, and energetic in its expression,
indicated the possession of vehement feeling;
but its serious and somewhat severe aspect,
told that youthful enthusiasm had been
checked by many sorrows, and that the waves
of affection, repressed on every side, had
worn a channel deep into the soul. An only
son, the stay and staff of her old age, recently
returned from the American camp, exhausted
by long and painful illness, completed
the number of their affectionate household.

Mr. Warner, a rigid, but kind-hearted old
man, had long been deprived of the partner
of his youthful days. It was strange for one
apparently so harsh in his nature, but though

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

his hand and his heart were ever open to his
neighbour, and though his eye lighted up
with all a father's joy when Frances stood
before him in her loveliness, yet his thoughts
were ever with her who slept his last sleep;
and the old man lived in the bosom of his family,
estranged from all others save the widow
and her charming daughter. Two sons were
all that remained to him, and they were a most
striking instance of dissimilarity of character,
produced by the same education, and the
same habits of life. That intellect differs in
native vigour in various individuals, and is
strong in any peculiar department only from
the accidental direction of attention, has been
abundantly proved; but supposing the mind
to be thus bent by circumstances and situation,
how hard it is to trace the hidden
causes, which create in the same family such
various modifications of moral purity and
mental force.

Joseph and William Warner looked as unlike
each other as they really were in pursuits
and inclinations. Joseph was dark,
lowering, and designing; with eyes deeply

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

set, and looking out from beneath their shaggy
brows, like the fiery balls of a tiger hidden
in the clefts of a precipice. William's
complexion was likewise dark, but his expression
was extremely noble and ingenuous,
and his face had much of fresh youthful
beauty. Joseph was a furious Tory; William
a firm and decided Whig. Both were the
declared lovers of their fair neighbour; and
both had been told by her judicious mother
to wait for more peaceful times, and until
maturer years should enable her to judge
discreetly and decide wisely. In habits of
unreserved intimacy with both—treated as a
cherished sister by William, and the alternate
object of the most headstrong love, and
the most taunting jealousy of his fiery brother—
it seemed for a long time doubtful how
the balance would turn.

I know not why it is, but impetuosity, ardour,
and lordliness of manner, are usually
exceedingly attractive to woman. It is, I
believe, simply that worship of power, which
exists in every human mind. The same
principle that prostrates the soul before

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

nature in its wildness and majesty, and before
art in its magnificent desolation, bows it down
to the might and energy of man. Some have
said that the fearless and unprincipled have
readiest access to the female heart, merely
because they are so; but they know little of
woman's character who say or think this. If
the unprincipled obtain superior influence, it
is because boldness is mistaken for strength,
and moral insanity for intellectual vigour.
To the timid eye of Frances, a character
torn and convulsed by contending passions
seemed to have a fearful grandeur. Her
reason told her that William was a thousand
times more fitted to make her happy, but
imagination hovered round the image of Joseph,
and veiled its darkness with her own
seraph wings. Her gentle nature shrunk
from his ferocity, and she dreaded an influence
which she always found tumultuous
and exciting; but, like the bird charmed by
a rattlesnake, the greater her fear the more
powerful the attraction. Such was her state
of feeling on the evening we choose to present
her to our readers; and that night was

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

one of deep interest to the whole village.
The sergeant of a recruiting regiment was
among them, and every one was awaiting the
result of the draughts with painful anxiety.
Young Leslie, dying for the cause in which
his young comrades were about to engage,
turned restlessly on his pillow, watching for
the entrance of William Warner, with all the
eagerness that weakness and lassitude would
allow; and Frances and her mother, attending
to his wants, and glancing at the window
every time a cloud flitted across the declining
sun, betrayed the same inquietude. At
length the silence was interrupted by the
entrance of William. Mother and daughter
sprang forward to meet him; and the invalid
fixed a most piercing look upon him. Not a
word was spoken—but he felt what they
would ask, and covering his face with both
his hands, he exclaimed, “I am!” The
sick man groaned deeply; Frances burst into
a flood of tears; and the matron, with a
firm countenance, but a bursting heart, clasped
his hand warmly as she said, “Well, none
but our God will be left to guard us now.

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

But go, my young friend, strong in the Lord
of Hosts. These are solemn times. Men
must act, and women must endure.” “Oh,
if I could but act!” exclaimed the invalid;
“oh, my bleeding country! that ever my
arm should be weak at an hour like this.”
“But, my dear William,” said Frances,
“will it be very long before you return to
us?” “It may be very long,” he replied;
and his heart swelled almost to breaking,
when he looked on the fair creature, and
thought of the chance of battle. Before he
could add more, his elder brother abruptly
pushed before him. “There are others going,
as well as you, sir,” exclaimed he,
glancing at the tearful Frances, and eyeing
William with the most malignant expression
of jealousy and scorn. “Where,” asked the
astonished widow;—“To the British camp,”
was the surly reply. Young Leslie made a
violent exertion to rise upon his elbow, but,
exhausted with the effort, sank upon his pillow,
with an expression in which indignation
and pain were contending for victory.

“Joseph,” said his brother, in a tender,

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

but reproachful tone, “At least spare our
good father this dreadful blow.” “Take
care of your own concerns, Mr. Morality,”
answered the renegade; “the old man ought
to be proud of a red coat in his family.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed William, “are not
burning towns—gushing blood—a father
struck to the earth in his old age, by a British
officer;—are not all these enough to
rouse you to a sense of outraged rights? I
should glory to die in such a cause.” “God
grant you may have your wish, brave brother
of mine,” answered he, with a look of the
most bitter hatred. Frances shrunk from
him, as from a fiend. He had never before
dared to unveil his depravity to her view;
and her mother, though she well knew him
to be fierce and ungovernable, was thrilled
with horror at his demoniac expression.
Finding himself an object of distrust and abhorrence,
and trying in vain to exert his accustomed
power over Frances, he left them
at an early hour, without deigning to say one
word of kindness or exculpation. Imagination
thus rudely driven from the hold which

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

reason had long ago represented as dangerous,
clung to the excellent William, with a
tenderness, which Frances had never before
experienced for him. Mrs. Leslie had not
suspected her predilection for Joseph; for
deep and passionate love is seldom unreserved
in its nature; and the ready smile of frank
affection which she ever bestowed upon William,
might well have been mistaken for feelings
deeper than they really were. Beside
the love they all bore him, their hearts were
naturally softened towards one just about to
engage in a doubtful and bloody cause; and
the young man returned to his home that night,
more than blessed in the conviction that the
dangers which surrounded him had awakened
affection where he most wished to awaken it.

When Frances entered Mr. Warner's
house the ensuing evening, she found the old
man seated at his door, in a high wicker
backed chair. Beside him lay a heavy,
brazen-hilted sword, on which his eye rested
with a sort of uneasy abstraction. At the
sound of her voice, he raised his head, and
gave one of those beaming looks of welcome,

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

which her presence always called forth.
“You've said a kind farewell to my boy,”
exclaimed he, “and blessing on you for it.
He will go forth to his duty with a lighter
heart.” “And Joseph, he is gone too?” said
she, blushing slightly. “Name him not!” replied
the old man, with sternness in his voice
and manner. “He has quarreled with his father,
curst the best of brothers, and last night
left us, without one farewell, to join the
hateful oppressors of his country.” “I have
always thought,” said Frances, in an agitated
tone, “that his words were more wicked than
his intentions.” “I have hoped so, till of
late,” replied he, “and it is even now hard
for a father's heart to believe in the guilt of
a son; but do you know, my child, that when
I told him he did not deserve the sword of
his ancestors, and that I should give it to his
younger brother, he cursed me to my face,
and would have stabbed William to the heart.
Oh! he is black with crime. Wo be to all
who have part or lot with him.”

The sound of distant drums here interrupted
the conversation. It grew nearer and

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

nearer, and presently a ragged, miserably
equipped, and worse disciplined, band came
upon the sight; yet women and children, the
aged and infirm, welcomed them with more
heartfelt gratitude, and deeper respect, than
has often been given to the glittering pageantry
of military despots. Who, that saw
that wretched troop of young patriots eagerly
marching to join the standard of Washington
and the youthful La Fayette, would have
believed that, ere half a century had elapsed,
the aged La Fayette would have been welcomed
in the flourishing capital of New-England,
with all the magnificence of wealth,
“the pomp and circumstance of war!” Who
could have believed that the infant, then
presented at Freedom's altar, there to be
baptized in blood and tears, would so soon
have been a giant among the nations?

The music, loud, rapid, and merry, spoke
the cheerfulness of the departing regiment;
but when the dwelling of Mr. Warner and
the widow Leslie came in view, by one unanimous
impulse the music ceased, the march
stopped—and dividing to right and left, they

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

lowered their guns to the father of William
Warner. There were peculiar reasons why
these houses were dear to them all. There
was young Leslie, who had gone forth at the
loud call of his country's distress as healthy
and buoyant as they—and how had he returned?
To send forth the soul in one agonizing
bound of the field of battle, had few
terrors for youthful enthusiasm; but the
stoutest hearts shuddered at days of wearisome
sickness, and the slow progress of loathsome
decay. Then there was the venerable
father of Warner, whose sage counsels were
the oracles of the village, and whose intrepid
spirit had given nerve and sinew to them all.
There was the widow Leslie, who always
had a smile, as cheerful and encouraging as
if the last stay of her old age was not about
to be reft from her in this hour of need.
Then there was Frances, so lovely, so beloved,
bringing the strongest claim that can
be brought to the heart of man—that of helpless
beauty and unguarded innocence. Therefore
it was that, while mothers, sisters and
infant brothers, were looking from every door

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

and window, they chose to halt here, and pay
their last farewell. Often, during their brief
march, they had stopped to give their little
ones a parting kiss, and to receive the prayers,
tears, and blessings of those who were
near and dear. But now they paused for the
last time; and they paused, too, where every
thing conspired to make their last adieu more
agonizing.

“Come to me, William,” said the old man,
in a clear, firm tone. The youth stepped
forward, and lowering his hand on his rifle,
kneeled at his father's feet. “My son,”
continued he, “here is the sword of your
brave old grandfather. It did deadly execution
in the French war; and his hand
was clenched around it in his dying hour.
It is an heir-loom in the family, and should
have been given to my oldest boy; but”—
his voice choked, and for a moment the veteran
covered his face with his hands, and
rested on the hilt of the weapon. “Farewell,
my son, my only son,” continued he, in
a trembling voice, “I can go down to my
grave alone. The God of Israel bless thee,

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

and anoint thee with strength for these times
of peril.” The young soldier pressed his father's
hand with a convulsive grasp, gave
one long, one lingering, farewell to the spot
where his beloved Frances stood by the side
of her mother, and fearing to trust a single
word, hastily rejoined his companions. There
was not a dry eye among them; and when
they came directly in front of Mrs. Leslie's,
all involuntarily uttered a shuddering groan.
James Leslie had entreated to be bolstered
up in his chair, to take a last look of his
youthful associates. There he sat, pale,
wasted, and agonized with pain; his head
reposing upon his mother's bosom, and his
sister standing beside him like a seraph at
the couch of the dying. An unnatural intensity
of light poured from his eyes, and he
raised his hand in a faint attempt to make a
victorious flourish, as he exclaimed, “God
will give us the victory.” He started up,
with one sudden bound of anguish—his head
sunk on his shoulder—the glazed eyes remained
fixed on the youthful band before
him; but they saw no longer.

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

To the young soldiers there was something
dreadfully attractive in the rayless look of
the corpse before them. It seemed as if the
very dead urged them onward. William
would have given his life to have returned
for a while to his friends, to aid and sooth
them in this dreadful trial; but a longer time
than usual had already been allowed to the
indulgence of personal feeling, and the officers
were impatient of delay. The music
struck up; and amid sobs, and groans, and
tears, with brave but lacerated hearts, they
bade a long farewell to their humble homes.

Sad, sad indeed, was the dwelling of the
widow Leslie on the ensuing day. Alas!
how little do we appreciate the courage of
our fathers, and the fortitude of our mothers,
at the soul-trying period of our revolution.
In all scenes of public distress, woman is
compelled to make exertions, not the less
painful, or the less difficult, because they
are not performed on the public theatre of a
sympathising world. To fasten the knapsack
round a father's neck, to fill the cartridges
of a beloved husband, and see him go

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

forth to battle, when his little ones are crying
for bread, and his desolate home is left at the
mercy of the ravager; to have none left to
dig the grave of an only son, and to consign
him to the cold, damp earth, wept over only
by the aged and the helpless, require no ordinary
effort of human strength. Yet such
were but every-day scenes, during our desperate
struggle for independence. Mrs. Leslie
bore her sorrows with even more firmness
than distinguished most women of that period.
True, she was staid, and sometimes
melancholy, like one who had left behind
her all the verdant spots in the wearisome
desert of life; yet she was ever active in her
duties, ever ready to sympathise in the griefs
and anxieties of others. The voice of Frances
lost nothing of its melodious kindness,
and the matrons of the village looked on her
light step with as much pride as they had
in the happy days of her childhood; but a
shadow had passed over the sunshine of her
face, and when she smiled on her mother, it
was in the deep sadness of anxious love.

Months passed away. The far-off din of

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

battle came to them, only in broken and uncertain
echoes. In the new state of the
country, and at that troubled period, all communication
between the army and their
friends was difficult and dangerous. Nothing
was known of Joseph since his abrupt departure.
Whether he had actually joined the
British forces, or merely secreted himself
from his infuriated countrymen, remained
doubtful. William had not been seen or
heard of, since the thrilling look of tenderness
and pity which he gave to Frances, as she
stood by the side of her lifeless brother; but
morning and evening, fervent prayers for his
safety arose from the lips of those by whom
he was so deservedly beloved. Left to the
quiet communion of her own spirit, Frances
found that her affection for him had taken deep
and vigorous root. Each succeeding day increased
its power; for it is one of the strangest
perversities of love, that absence strengthens
it far more than constant presence. The memory
of his devotedness to her and her widowed
parent was associated with every thing
around her; and each day, some deficiency
in their household comfort reminded them of

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

the industry and kindness which had so
promptly supplied their wants. A thousand
nameless attentions, trifling in themselves,
but invaluable to a woman's heart, crowded
upon her memory. She sent him a letter,
in which this state of feeling was most frankly
expressed; and when one tedious week after
another passed away, she gave herself up to
the conviction that it had never reached him.
A brief note did, however, at last arrive. It
contained merely violent protestations of unalterable
attachment, and besought her to
meet him, between the hours of six and
seven, in an adjoining wood. It stated that
life and death depended on her secresy, and
that even her mother must not know of the
interview.

“Why is this mystery,” thought Frances,
as she read and re-read the singular epistle.
“Probably he has stolen from military duty,
and detection would be death,” said she to
herself, “yet surely my mother might know
of it.” All her conjectures ended in the
supposition that William had some good reason,
and that she ought to comply with his

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

request. Fear never once crossed her guileless
imagination. William had, from his cradle,
been to her as a brother; and to distrust
him was like dreading contagion in the pure
balmy air she had breathed from childhood.

At an early hour she was seen passing
through the village,—her little, well-known
gypsy-hat lightly resting on a profusion of
glossy hair, beautiful as a “shower of sunbeams.”
She had given a parting kiss to her
mother and Mr. Warner, with a joyousness
for which they could not account; and as
her slender little figure passed along like a
vision of light, the neighbours all remarked
that her smile was brighter, and her step far
more buoyant than usual.

Evening came and she returned not. The
fears of the anxious mother increased to
dreadful intensity. At last a traveller told
of horrible screams which he had heard from
the wood. A large band of old men, women,
and children, suddenly collected, and hastened
to the spot he indicated. Alas! the hand
of violence had cut her down in her youth
and beauty! The lovely face, still and pale

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

as marble, had yet a shadow of the imploring
look which last passed over it; her long, fair
hair was tangled in the shrubbery; and the
sword, which had been a farewell present to
her lover, lay all bloody at her side. Those
who heard her mother's shriek, carried the
remembrance of it to their graves. She had
endured much, but her burden was mightier
than she could bear. She never smiled after
she had looked upon that fearful sight. Her
short life was but protracted agony; and before
three months had elapsed, she slept by
the side of her murdered daughter.

There needed no sybil to point out the
assassin. When the light of their lanthorns
first fell on the lifeless being so dear to them
all, the wretched father of William Warner
clasped his hands in convulsive agony, and
groaned out, “Oh! Joseph, Joseph!” And
he indeed it was, whose guilty hands had
thus madly torn the beauteous one from life,
and its most enchanting hopes. His hatred
of a brother, whose excellence he would not
imitate, had been greatly increased by the
transfer of the sword to him, and by a

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

parting interview, which he had overheard, between
him and Frances. Deservedly surpassed
in his father's affections, and rivalled
in his passionate love, his haughty spirit was
goaded to the utmost. The night he left
them, he swore to his own soul a deep and
sure revenge. He sought the American
camp in the character of a spy; he obtained
access to the barracks of the unsuspicious
William, and seizing the fatal sword, which
had so much embittered his malice, he aimed
a death-blow at his only brother. A struggle
ensued, and William was well nigh proving
victorious, when in the voice of his earlier
years he exclaimed “William!” The sword
dropped at his feet; he seized it; and before
his brother had recovered from his consternation,
Joseph had gone beyond recall.

This adventure a little softened his ferocious
nature; and perhaps the dreadful resolution
he had taken would never have been
kept, had not an American been brought into
the enemy's camp, under the imputation of
carrying important papers to the rebels; but
Frances's letters by these means came into

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

his hand. Stung to the soul with jealousy
and rage, he again swore the horrid vow.

We have already told how she was decoyed
into his presence. It matters not what
were the insults and the heart-cutting words
he heaped upon her. It was a shocking detail,
and I would fain spare the repetition of
it. Suffice it to say, he talked, with fiendlike
malignity, of love crossed and ambition
thwarted; he reproached her with broken
promises and disappointed hopes; and when
she refused to pollute her soul with false
vows, he sealed his oath with blood!

William lived to hear the agonized tidings.
He lived, too, again to spare his wicked brother,
when his sword flourished over him in
the tumult of battle; but ever after that, he
seemed to rush upon his death. After one
of the sanguinary conflicts which immediately
preceded our independence, he was found
dead in the very centre of the British army.

His father lived to extreme old age, as
happy as the sympathy of his countrymen,
and a firm trust in the Rock of Ages, could
make one who had passed through such a

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

fiery ordeal. Joseph never saw him after
the death of Frances Leslie; but the depraved
wretch survived them all; and it is not
many years since he was seen seated on the
road side in Plymouth county, as we described
him at the commencement of our
story.

p045-075 YOU 'VE BEEN CAPTAIN LONG ENOUGH.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

As I was walking up Beacon-street, the
other day, I met a little republican corps,
which greatly amused me. The band consisted
of four boys, from six to ten years of
age, accoutred in childish fashion, with pasteboard
caps and tin swords. The troop was
merely large enough to furnish captain, lieutenant,
ensign, and trumpeter—a fair epitome
of some of our military establishments. Being
all of them in office, I very naturally
concluded they were satisfied and happy;
but my eye had not followed the young soldiers
far, when I perceived the lieutenant (a
sturdy urchin, about six years old,) make a
decided halt. “What is the matter, Jack?”
called out the captain. “I tell you what,
Andrew, you've been captain long enough,”
was the reply;—“I'm going to be captain
now.”

Some altercation followed; and the

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

refractory lieutenant vociferated still more
loudly, “You've been captain long enough—
it is my turn now.” A compromise was
at length effected; and the ambitious little
rebel agreed to budge a few yards further,
satisfied with the promise of rotation in office
at the end of the street.

I could not refrain from laughing, as the
little pageant moved out of sight. “This,”
said I, “is an abridgement of human society—
here is the genuine spirit of man.”

That little troop recurs to my memory as
frequently as Franklin thought of his dearbought
whistle.

When I hear selfish politicians keeping up
an angry clamour about “reform,” I say to
myself, “Ha! your troop would be all officers;
and even then the most contemptible
among ye would soon prove insubordinate,
and exclaim, “I tell you what, Andrew, it is
my turn to be captain now.”

When I see a lover all devotion, or a young
husband all indulgence, I wonder how long
it will be before he will say, “You've been
captain long enough. It is my turn now.”

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

When a blooming young girl asks, “Don't
you think Isabel begins to fade?” I imagine
her ambitious little heart is whispering, “She
has been captain long enough.”

When I hear a belle congratulate a rival
upon her marriage, it sounds to my ear
very much like, “It is my turn to be captain
now.”

When I hear writers declare, in a most
oracular tone, that Miss Sedgwick will never
rival her early productions, I am half
tempted to answer, “Nay, my friend, she
has not been captain long enough. We must
content ourselves with being lieutenants.”

I might mention a hundred things, which
bring the discontented little officer to my
mind; but I forbear, lest my readers should
impatiently exclaim, “I tell you what,—
you've been captain long enough!”

p045-078 LINES, OCCASIONED BY HEARING A LITTLE BOY MOCK THE OLD SOUTH BELL RINGING THE HOUR OF TWELVE.

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

p045-080 THOUGHTS.

...“I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling was the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man.”
Wordsworth.

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

The day was closing in, and as I sat watching
the scarcely moving foliage of a neighbouring
elm, my mind gradually sank into a
state of luxurious repose, amounting to total
unconsciousness of all the busy sights and
sounds of earth.

It seemed to me as if I were seated by a
calm, deep lake, surrounded by graceful and
breezy shrubbery, and listening to most delicious
music. The landscape differed from
anything I had ever seen. Light seemed to
be in every thing, and to emanate from every
thing, like a glory. Yet I felt at home; and

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

could I see a painting of it, I should know it
as readily as the scenes of my childhood.
And so it is with a multitude of thoughts that
come suddenly into the soul, new as visitants
from farthest Saturn, yet familiar as a mother's
voice. Whence do they come? Is
Plato's suggestion something more than poetry?
Have we indeed formerly lived in a
luminous and shadowless world, where all
things wear light as a garment? And are
our bright and beautiful thoughts but casual
glimpses of that former state? Are all our
hopes and aspirations nothing but recollections?
Is it to the fragments of memory's
broken mirror we owe the thousand fantastic
forms of grandeur, or of loveliness, which
fancy calls her own?

And the gifted ones, who now and then
blaze upon the world, and “darken nations
when they die,”—do they differ from other
mortals only in more cloudless reminiscences
of their heavenly home?

Or are we living, separate existences, at one
and the same time. Are not our souls wandering
in the spirit-land while our bodies are

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

on earth? And when in slumber, or deep
quietude of thought, we cast off `this mortal
coil,' do we not gather up images of reality,
that seem to us like poetry? Might not the
restless spirit of Byron have indeed learned
of “archangels ruined” those potent words,
which, like infernal magic, arouse every
sleeping demon in the human heart?

Are dreams merely visits to our spirithome;
and are we in sleep really talking with
the souls of those whose voice we seem to
hear?

As death approaches and earth recedes,
do we not more clearly see that spiritual
world, in which we have all along been living,
though we knew it not? The dying
man tells us of attendant angels hovering
round him. Perchance it is no vision—they
may have often been with him, but his inward
eye was dim, and he saw them not.
What is that mysterious expression, so holy
and so strange, so beautiful yet so fearful, on
the countenance of one whose soul has just
departed? Is it the glorious light of

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

attendant seraphs, the luminous shadow of which
rests awhile on the countenance of the dead?
Does infancy owe to this angel crowd its peculiar
power to purify and bless?

p045-084 LA ROSIERE: OR, THE TRIUMPH OF GOODNESS.

“Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
And innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes.”
Wordsworth.

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

In France there is an old and very graceful
custom, called the fete of la Rosiere. On
this occasion those in authority publicly present
a garland of roses to the best and most
beautiful girl in the village. This custom
had its origin deep in national feeling and
true morality; but, alas! wheresoever human
passion can creep in, they leave their
slime upon the roses of life—the fete of la
Rosiere, like other triumphs, too often becomes
an affair of jealous rivalry and petty
intrigue.

Angelique Duroy was one of the very
prettiest of her bewitching countrywomen.
Her clear, dark eye was neither flashing nor

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

languid—it had a quiet, deep expression,
brilliant yet thoughtful; her complexion inclined
to olive; but the perpetual colour that
mantled there, gave her cheek the tempting
ripeness of tropical fruit; while the laughing
dimples on either side came and went, like
whirlpools in a sunny stream. Every thing
in her look and motion argued an exuberance
of life and happiness. Her voice had the
clear, gushing melody of the thrush, her
little nimble graceful feet made one think of
a swallow just ready to take wing; and altogether
she was so small, so airy, so pretty,
so gay, and so musical, that I am sure if
ner soul transmigrates, it will pass into a
yellow-bird, or a Java-sparrow.

The young men all admired Angelique,
because she was so lady-like and unaffected;
the old people loved her because she was
such a good child to her parents, and always
so kind and respectful to the aged—while the
children, when asked, were always ready to
say, “We love Angelique best, because she
is always so good-natured and obliging, and
she knows how to make us so many pretty

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

things.” Indeed, Angelique was famous for
her ingenuity and industry. After examining
anything, she always found out how to
do it without being taught; and what she
did, she always did well. The prettiest
dresses and bonnets in the village were made
by her; and her artificial flowers were so
natural, that I think the very honey-bees
would have been deceived by them. Some
told her if she went to Paris she would make
a fortune by her ingenuity; but Angelique
blushed, and said she had rather live with
her good mother, than grow rich among
strangers.

It is strange this artless little French girl
should have enemies; for she never had an
uncommonly pretty cap, or garland, that she
was not perfectly willing to make her young
companions one just like it; but great gifts,
if borne ever so meekly, do excite envy—
Angelique had her enemies. The daughter
of the Maire of the village was eight or nine
years older than Angelique; and she never
from her childhood had been either pretty,
or amiable. She was very rich, very idle,

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

very haughty, and very jealous. It vexed
her that her fairy neighbour, unadorned, save
by her own tasteful industry, should be so
much more admired than she was, with all
her jewelry and Parisian finery. Besides,
she had long been in love with the son of a
wealthy proprietaire; and this young man,
when urged by his father to make suit to so
great an heiress, openly declared that his
affections were engaged to Angelique. This
made the father very angry—he called it a
boyish passion. “Antoinette is the only
child of the Maire, and he has immense
wealth and high character; will you give up
such an union, when father and daughter both
evidently wish for it, merely for the sake of
a pretty plaything, a giddy little butterfly,
like Angelique Duroy?” said he.

The young man insisted that Angelique
was as good as she was pretty; that she was
capable, industrious, modest, and noble-hearted—
“As a proof of it,” contined he,
“every one in the village, except Antoinette,
says the Cure will crown her at the fete of
la Rosiere.”

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

The proprietaire was a kind-hearted, wise,
old man; his neighbours called him odd,—
but his oddity was always of a benevolent
kind. “Well, Jacques,” said he, “if the
girl has so many good qualities, besides her
pretty looks, I won't be obstinate about being
convinced. I know Angelique has resolutely
refused to receive any attention from you
without the knowledge and approbation of
her mother and myself—this speaks well—
but how do you know that the young lady
will smile upon your suit?”

Jacques looked down, blushed very slightly,
hesitated—then looked up with an arch
look, and said, “If she knew you gave your
approbation, I, at least, might try.”

The old man smiled—“Well, well,” said
he, “I see how it is. The girl, though not
rich, is highly respectable. I will attend the
fete of la Rosiere; you shall dance with the
crowned fair one; and if I think she deserves
this distinction, Angelique shall be to me as
a daughter.”

Jacques knelt down and kissed his father's
hand with overflowing gratitude. He had

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

not expected to gain his point so easily;
for he knew his father had very much set his
heart upon joining his estates to those of the
Maire. “You are the best father in the
world!” exclaimed he. “You call me so
Jacques—the world will say I am an old fool;
but after all, what do we live for, if not for
happiness?”

Away went the young man, in the fullness
of his joy, to impart the tidings to Angelique;
and she, above all petty coquetry, heard it
with unaffected delight.

The fete of la Rosiere was anxiously awaited.
Every body so often repeated that
Angelique would certainly be crowned, for
she was la plus belle et la plus bonne, that
modest as she was, she could not help expecting
it. The important day came—and
who do you think was crowned? Antoinette,
the ugly, idle daughter of the Maire!
she was crowned the best and most beautiful!
The Maire gave a great ball that night.
Angelique went; for she was above showing
any resentment. She saw Jacques dancing
with la Rosiere—she saw that his father

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

observed her closely; and though she could
not be gay, she was cheerful and dignified.
Antoinette whispered to her companions,
“See what bold airs she puts on: I should
think she would be mortified, when she and
all her friends have been boasting that she
would be crowned.” The old proprietaire
heard one or two such speeches as this, and
he shook his head expressively. He disappeared
from the room a short time; while he
was gone, his sister, a maiden lady, came up
to Angelique: “My dear child,” said she,
“there is something wrong about this affair—
all the village said you would be crowned.”
“My friends flattered me,” said Angelique,
modestly; “I knew they thought more highly
of me than I deserved.” “But think of
crowning Antoinette!” continued the lady—
“Such an ugly, sluttish thing as she is!”

“Her dress is very becoming,” said Angelique;
“and I think she is the best dancer
in the room:” the tears came to her eyes as
she said this; for Jacques was again dancing
with la Rosiere, and her garland of Provence
roses was very beautiful.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

Angelique retired very early that night,—
not without a kind look from Jacques, and an
expression of benevolent approbation from
the old proprietaire and his maiden sister.
As soon as she reached her own little bedroom,
she knelt down, and bursting into tears,
prayed that all envious and repining thoughts
might be subdued within her heart. The
prayer proved to be a strength and a consolation;
and she soon sunk to sleep as sweetly
as an infant.

Jacques came the next day. He was loud
in his complaints. He said the whole village
was indignant about it. Much good might
the crown of roses do Miss Antoinette!—Nobody
thought she deserved it. He knew
one thing, the Maire had given the Cure a
splendid suit of clothes just before the fete;
and he himself had seen Antoinette's diamond
ring on his finger. No wonder the
Cure gave the crown to a rich man's daughter.
“Nay, I do not think the Cure could
do so wrong as to take bribes from anybody,”
replied Angelique; “and I beg you will not
say so.” “All the village think so,” replied

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

Jacques; “and they always will think so. I
danced with her, because my father said it
would give offence if I did not, on such an
occasion; but I will never dance with her
again.” “I am sure she is one of the best
dancers I ever saw,” answered Angelique.

Nothing soothed by her gentleness, Jacques
went away more indignant than ever, that so
good a girl should be thus wronged.

A week or two after, a great ball was given
by the proprietaire. He himself called
to invite Angelique; and in the intervening
time, hardly a day passed without his spending
an hour or two at her parent's dwelling.
The more he saw of her, the more he was
convinced that she was a good girl, and worthy
of his son. When the evening of the
ball arrived, Angelique and her family were
received at his large mansion with distinguished
kindness. “Before the dancing
begins, I have a whim to be gratified,” said
the kind-hearted, but eccentric old man.
There was a universal hum of assent among
the assembly; for the wealthy old landlord
was very popular; and a proposition of his

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

could at any time be carried by acclamation
in the village. The old gentleman smiled,
and holding up a wreath of roses and orange-buds,
he said, “There were once two Popes
in the church; why should there not be two
crowned la Rosiere?” As he spoke, he
placed the garland on the head of Angelique.
“I crown her, because I have proved that
she cannot be tempted to speak ill of a rival,”
said he; “the roses are my own gift,—the
orange-buds came from a younger hand.”
Angelique blushed crimson; for orange-buds
form the bridal wreath in France. She
looked up timidly; Jacques was at her side,
the music struck up “C'est l' amour, l' amour,”
and the exulting lover led her to the
dance amid the applauses of the guests.

Angelique afterwards found that the good
maiden lady had been instructed to try her
generosity, and that the father of Jacques
had been a concealed listener to her replies.

Antoinette was not invited to the proprietaire's
ball. He said he had learned instances
of her art and selfishness, which had
destroyed all esteem for her; but that he

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

would not openly insult her by the triumph
of one she had always tried to injure.

Soon after, Angelique actually wore the
white veil and the orange-buds, to the village
church; and the Maire and his daughter left
a place where they had never been popular,
and now were odious. By the influence of
the proprietaire, a new Cure was appointed
before the next fete of la Rosiere.

p045-095 ADDRESS TO THE VALENTINE PAINTED BY W. ALLSTON, IN THE POSSESSION OF GEORGE TICKNOR, ESQ.

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

p045-097 THE BLESSED INFLUENCE OF THE STUDIES OF NATURE.

“Thou shalt see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! He shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee.”
Coleridge.

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

“Stand out of my sunshine!” said Diogenes
to Alexander, when the emperor asked
what service he could render him. Haughty
as the philosopher's reply may sound, it
merely expresses the honest independence,
which every highly cultivated and well balanced
mind may feel towards those, who
possess nothing better than the accidental
distinctions of rank or fortune. He indeed
deserves our pity, who needs the condescending
smile of the proud, or the heartless

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

flattery of the vain, either to rouse him to
exertion, or warm him into happiness.

The power of self-excitement is the most
desirable of all attainments, and it is the
most rare. To love knowledge merely for
its usefulness—to form and strengthen virtuous
dispositions, with the hope of no other
reward than the deep tranquillity they bring—
is a task achieved by few; yet it is the only
simple and direct road to lasting happiness.
He who can find intellectual excitement in
the fall of an apple, or the hues of a wild
flower, may well say to the officious world,
“Stand out of my sunshine!” To him Nature
is an open volume, where truths of the
loftiest import are plainly written; and the
temptations and anxieties of this life have no
power to cast a shadow on its broad and
beautiful pages.

I do not mean that solitude is bliss, even
where enjoyment is of the purest kind. An
eminence, that places us above the hopes and
fears, the joys and sorrows of social life,
must indeed be an unenviable one; but that
which puts us beyond the reach of the

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

evervarying tide of circumstance and opinion, is
surely desirable; and nothing on which the
mind can be employed tends so much to produce
this state of internal sunshine, as the
study of Nature in her various forms.

Politics, love of gain, ambition of renown,—
every thing, in short, which can be acted
upon by the passions of mankind,—have a
corroding influence on the human soul. But
Nature, ever majestic and serene, moves on
with the same stately step and beaming
smile, whether a merchantman is wrecked,
or an empire overthrown. The evils of
man's heart pollute all with which they can
be incorporated; but they cannot defile her
holy temple. The doors are indeed closed
against the restless and the bad; but the radiant
goddess is ever at the altar, willing to
smile upon all who are pure enough to love
her quiet beauty.

Ambition may play a mighty game—it
may task the sinews of nations, and make
the servile multitude automaton dancers to
its own stormy music; but sun, and moon,
and stars, go forth on their sublime mission,

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

independent of its power; and its utmost
efforts cannot change the laws which produce
the transient glory of the rainbow.

Avarice may freeze the genial current of
affection, and dry up all the springs of sympathy
within the human soul; but it cannot
diminish the pomp of summer, or restrain
the prodigality of autumn.

Fame may lead us on in pursuit of glittering
phantoms, until the diseased mind
loses all relish for substantial good; but it
cannot share the eternity of light, or the immortality
of the minutest atom.

He who has steered his bark, ever so skilfully,
through the sea of politics, rarely, if
ever, finds a quiet haven. His vexations
and his triumphs have all been of an exciting
character; they have depended on outward
circumstances, over which he had very limited
power; and when the turbulent scene
has passed away, he finds, too late, that he
has lived on the breath of others, and that
happiness has no home within his heart.

And what is the experience of him who
has existed only for wealth? who has safely

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

moored his richly-freighted vessel in the spacious
harbour of successful commerce?—
Does he find that happiness can, like modern
love, be bought with gold? You may
see him hurrying about to purchase it in
small quantities, wherever the exhibitions of
taste and talent offer it for sale; but the article
is too ethereal to be baled for future
use, and it soon evaporates amid the emptiness
of his intellectual warehouse.

He that lives only for fame, will find that
happiness and renown are scarcely speaking
acquaintance. Even if he could catch the
rainbow he has so eagerly pursued, he would
find its light fluctuating with each changing
sunbeam, and fading at the touch of every
passing cloud.

Nor is he who has wasted the energies
of his youth in disentangling the knotty skein
of controversy, more likely to find the evening
of his days serene and tranquil. The
demon of dogmatism, or of doubt, may have
grappled him closely, and converted his early
glow of feeling, and elasticity of thought,
into rancorous prejudice, or shattered faith.

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

But the deep streams of quiet thought and
pure philosophy gush forth abundantly from
all the hiding-places of Nature; there is no
drop of bitterness at the fountain; the clear
waters reflect none of the Proteus forms of
human pride; and ever, as they flow, their
peaceful murmurs speak of heaven.

The enjoyment that depends on powerful
excitement saps the strength of manhood,
and leaves nothing for old age but discontent
and desolation. Yet we need amusements
in the decline of life, even more than in its
infancy; and where shall we find any so
safe, satisfactory, and dignified, as battery
and barometer, telescope and prism?

Electric power may be increased with less
danger than man's ambition; it is far safer
to weigh the air than a neighbour's motives;
it is more disquieting to watch tempests
lowering in the political horizon, than it is to
gaze at volcanoes in the moon; and it is
much easier to separate and unite the colours
in a ray of light, than it is to blend the
many-coloured hues of truth, turned out of
their course by the sharp corners of angry
controversy.

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

Finally, he who drinks deeply at the fountain
of natural science, will reflect the cheerfulness
of his own spirit on all things around.
If the sympathy of heart and mind be within
his reach, he will enjoy it more keenly than
other men; and if solitude be his portion, he
can, in the sincerity of a full and pious mind,
say to all the temptations of fame and pleasure,
“Stand ye out of my sunshine!”

p045-104 THE RECLUSE OF THE LAKE.

“Man and boy,
He'd been an idler in the land,
Contented if he might enjoy
The things that others understand.”
Wordsworth.

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

In the immediate vicinity of Lake George
there was, a few years since, an humble
dwelling, which always attracted the traveller's
attention, though there was nothing peculiar
about it, save a rich sloping greensward
in front, and a luxuriant honeysuckle, which
almost concealed the door, and loaded the
air with its fragance.

A stranger would have supposed that woman's
tasteful hand had been there, adorning
poverty itself with “wreathed smiles;” but
seldom had her foot pressed the verdant velvet
of that turf, and no female hand trained
the graceful tendrils of that exuberant vine.
The romantic little spot was the solitary
home of Arthur Vanderlyn, an artist and a
poet! No chilling disappointment, no

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

embittered misanthropy, occasioned his retirement
from the world. He never indulged
that false idea, so shameful to intellect, that
the powerful tide of genius must necessarily
be turbid and restless. In him, it was a
clear, deep, sunny stream, reflecting all of
bright and beautiful in earth, or heaven; but
his nature was timid, and he shrank from the
ostentation of learning, the pageantry of
wealth, and the officiousness of vulgarity, as
things which could neither obtain his sympathy,
nor endurance. The Recluse was the
only son of a wealthy Batavian merchant,
who had sent him to New-England to be
educated.

His mother had died when he was a mere
babe; and his father carefully concealed
from him the amount of his large fortune,
lest the knowledge should early lead him to
extravagance and dissipation. This well-founded
anxiety induced him to make a very
singular arrangement in the disposal of his
wealth.

Arthur Vanderlyn was nineteen years old
when he quitted the University; and on that

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

day, he received tidings of his father's death,
and became acquainted with the contents of
his will.

Fifteen thousand dollars were to be paid
him immediately; twenty thousand more,
when he was thirty years of age; and his
whole fortune, without reserve, on his forty-fifth
birthday; but, in case one hundred
dollars were ever borrowed in advance, his
title was to be transferred to a distant relative.

Limited as this income was, compared to
what it would have been, if left to the ordinary
course of law, the young student thought
it amply sufficient to accomplish all his favourite
projects.

After travelling in New-York a few weeks,
he purchased the cottage we have mentioned,
then almost in a ruinous condition. He
made no very important change in the exterior
of the dwelling; but within, carpets,
ottomans, vases, and mirrors, proclaimed a
wealthy and tasteful resident. His own
portrait, distinguished by its strong, bold,
peculiar light; views of the surrounding

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

scenery—some wild and fearful enough for
the pencil of Salvator Rosa, and others,
calm, sequestered, and luxuriant, as the spots
over which Claude loved to throw his bland,
warm colouring;—a guitar, piano, four or five
fine flutes, and a time-piece, of Genevan
workmanship, in which the hours with winged
feet flew round, offering rose-wreaths to each
other; all served to give the interior of the
mansion something of the magic beauty of
fairy land.

The neighbours made various ingenious
attempts to explore a place, of which many
a wonderful tale was told; but Arthur Vanderlyn
avoided all society with a coldness
and hauteur, which at once excited curiosity
and forbade intrusion. A stud of noble
horses, a leash of beautiful greyhounds, a
fine collection of birds, and one favourite
man servant, were his only companions.

Yet his disposition was kind, and his feelings
social. The buzzing of insects, the twittering
of birds, and the ringing laughter of
childhood, filled him with delightful sensations.

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]