“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 already
the light of that sky, whither thou art ascending.
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 features,
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.

[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]

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. Bending
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 daughters,
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 childless
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 insupportable
weight. Towards evening, the clergyman
who, since the administration of the communion to

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

Oriana, had repeatedly visited her, was seen to approach.
Zachary hastened to meet him. The agitation
which had so long marked his countenance,
with anxiety for the sufferer, had passed away, and
he resumed his native calmness and dignity of demeanor.
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 profound
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.

[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]

“It is finished,” said the divine, but no tear started
to his placid eye. He believed, that if there is
joy in heaven among the angels, over one sinner
that repenteth, there should be, at least, resignation
on earth, when a saint is admitted to their glorious
company. He kneeled in prayer with the mourners,
and spoke kind words of comfort to them, as to his
brethren, and made arrangements with them, that
the remains of their beloved one might rest in consecrated
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 recent
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 narrow
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 pilgrimage
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

[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]

she would fain expunge?—no act of tenderness unreturned?—
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 conscience
must rankle, after the wound of God's visitation
had healed?

Others too might have wandered there, from whose
bosoms the corrosion of sorrow had been easily effaced,
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 unspeakably
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,

[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]

and with the open grave. Indeed, every heart seemed
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 abstractedly,
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 blessed
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 reverend
benefactor, for a more minute detail of my history,
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

[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]

confidence in the imperfect narrative which has been intrusted
to you. You have not, as the cold-hearted
multitude might have done, wounded with the cruelty
of distrust, a heart long sinking beneath the visitation
of God. You will not now believe, that a
spirit nurtured in the love of truth, could use subterfuge
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 widowhood,
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 scarcely
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 accomplished,
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 mental
cultivation, my affectionate parent added the
most assiduous religious instruction, and to the blessing
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.

[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]

“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 susceptible
heart awoke, and was reciprocated. The
ruling sentiment of my nature, and one of its earliest
developments, was a desire for knowledge.
To this, our restricted resources interposed a barrier.
It was the only alloy of my felicity. How
could I therefore but highly appreciate the acquaintance
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 introducing
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 intellectual
sphere. So strong and pervading was this enthusiasm,
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 myself
only the worshipper of Minerva. It was also
evident, that he who had opened to my enraptured

[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]

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 leading
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 mention
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.

[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]

Finding, in this case, a departure from the implicit obedience
that he had heretofore received, he resorted
to threats, and to unkindness. His sudden death,
which took place just before that of my mother, confirmed
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 oftrepeated
wish, 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 mother's
obsequies, and the farewell to our cottage, followed
each other in such rapid succession, that, lost
in a bewildering dream, I seemed incapable of fully
realizing either. Yet methought, our peaceful retreat
had never worn so many charms, as at the
moment of quitting it for ever. Its roses and woodbines
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, music
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

[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]

had trod,—every haunt which her taste had decorated,—
every vine that her hand had trained, spoke
to me in the voice of deep, tender, lingering affection.
Once, I should have exclaimed, with a burst
of bitter weeping,—`And must I leave thee, Paradise?
' But I went without a tear. He, who was
all the world to me, was by my side. His arm supported
me, and methought all paths were alike, and
every thorn pointless, to one thus sustained. Methought,
I could be a homeless wanderer over earth's
face, and murmur not.

“I will not detain you, reverend sir, with the details
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 occurred
in fields of blood, my wretchedness was inexpressible.
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 gained
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

[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]

possessed such a native aversion to all the varieties of
strife, such an instinctive horror at the effusion of
blood, been appointed to share the fortunes of war.
During the investment of Yorktown, in the autumn
of 1781, my husband was almost constantly divided
from me, by the duties of his station. Even the
minutest scenes of that eventful period, are graven
on my memory, as with the point of a diamond.

“The affairs of the English army, every day assumed
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,

[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]

from the batteries of both armies, were continually
crossing each other's path. Like meteors, their
luminous trains traversed the skies, with awful sublimity.—
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 whatever
opposed them. Once, I saw severed and mangled 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 bosom
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 doubtful
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 dazzling
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 hatred,
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

[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]

lofty ships of war, with two smaller vessels, at anchor
in the river, which had taken fire from the
French battery.

“Chilled by the dampness of the night air, I descended
from my post of observation, and threw myself
on my sleepless couch. My health had long suffered
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 considerable
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 autumn
scenery, which in the American climate is so
peculiarly brilliant. We indulged in discourse, which
selected from the past the most soothing recollections,
and gilded the future with the illusions of hope.
We followed the course of the fortifications, until
unconsciously we had passed our last redoubt. Suddenly,
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

[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]

bullet pierced his breast, and he fell lifeless by my
side. I fell with him, senseless as himself. I recovered
from my swoon, only to mourn that I survived,
and to feel more than the bitterness of death.

“Sometimes I imagined that he returned the pressure
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 redoubts,—
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.' Suddenly
they discovered, and made me their captive.
I expected to have been borne to the American camp.
But they continued to travel throughout the night.
From their conversation I learned that two redoubts
had been stormed by the French and Americans,
with desperate valor. This was the daring action,
in which La Fayette led on the Americans, and De
Viomenil the French, and which preceded but four

[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]

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 terrible
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 testifying
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 comparative
weakness to the effects of a civilization which
they decried, and occasionally satirized the effeminacy
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

[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]

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 Pennsylvania,
they directed me to pass through the suburbs
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 entered
the town, rejoined us with demonstrations of extravagant
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

[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]

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 violent,
he arose and approached the Delaware chieftain.
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 argument,—

“`Arrowhamet is old.—He hath fought bravely.
His temples are white as the snows of the Alleghany.—
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. I saw also
that my aged guardian slept not. His eyes were

[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]

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?—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?' I inquired, trembling
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?'

“`Am I then known to your companions, also?'
I asked.

“`No thought save mine hath comprehended thee.
To all other eyes, thy disguise is truth. My breast
shall be as the bars of the grave to my secret.'

“`How have you obtained this knowledge? and
what words did you speak about my having given
you food?'

“`I knew that face,' he answered tenderly, `when
the torches first gleamed upon it, amid the shouts
of war. It was deadly pale. But how could I forget
the face of her, that had given me bread? Thou

[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]

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. Rememberest 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 rememberest
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 country,
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

[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]

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 people
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 continually
replied,—`Our mightiest have fallen before
the warriors of his country. Two sons of our Sachem
were cut in pieces by their swords. The blood
of the brave cries for vengeance. If it is not appeased
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 purpose?
'—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.'

[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]

“Pausing, he added, in a tone of great tenderness,—

“`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 womanhood.
'

“There was long silence. Afterwards, I expressed
my gratitude to my deliverer.

“`Daughter, rest in peace. I watch over thee.
I have prayed the Great Spirit, that I may lead thee
in safety to my home, and put thy hand into the
hand of my wife. Knowest thou, why she will love
thee?—why the tears will cover her face, when she
looketh upon thee? Because thou wilt remind her
of the plant whose growth she nursed, whose blasting
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. `Wilt
thou bow thyself, for a time, to be called the daughter
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 people,
when thy heart is sickened at the rude ways of
the sons of the forest.'

[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]

“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.'

“He added a few words in his native language,
with the deep reverence of prayer, and then stretching
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 Arrowhamet,
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

[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]

shoulders 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 valuable
watch and necklace, the gifts of my sainted husband,
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 probably
suffice for my interment.

“My reception from good Martha, was most soothing
to my lone heart. From that moment to this,
her maternal kindness has never slumbered. With
that tender care, so dear to the wounded, solitary
spirit, she has promoted my comfort, and mitigated
the pains of my disease.

“At my first admission to this humble abode, I
cherished the hope of returning to England. But to
what should I have returned? Only to the graves
of my parents. With the disconsolate and eloquent
Logan, I might say,—`There runs not a drop of my
blood, in the veins of any living creature. Who is
there to mourn for Oriana?—Not one.' 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 probably
inherited from both my parents, soon

[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]

revealed itself. Its progress was gradual, but constantly
I have been conscious of its latent ravages. My retreat,
which to most beholders might have seemed
as undesirable as obscure, so accorded with my subdued
feelings, that like the disciple upon the mountain
of mystery, I have often exclaimed,—`Master,
it is good to be here.'

“Here, I have learned to estimate a race, to which
the world has done immense injustice. Once, I had
stigmatized them as the slaves of barbarity. Yet
were they appointed to exhibit to my view, in combination
with strong intellect, capabilities of invincible
attachment and deathless gratitude, which, however
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 estimation
in which we hold the shades of complexion and
gradations of rank—how less than nothing, the tinsel
of wealth, and the pageantry of pomp, when
`God taketh away the soul.'

“The pride, and earthly idolatry of my heart,
have been subdued by affliction; and affliction, having
had her perfect work, has terminated in peace.
Often, during this process, have I been reminded of
that beautiful passage of Dumoulin,—`Jesus, in
going to Jerusalem, was wont to go through Bethany,
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.

[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]

“Still, I quit not this existence like the ascetic, for
whom it has had no charms. Its opening was gilded
with what the world acknowledges to be happiness;
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 request
is, that you would remember with the benevolence
of your vocation, those who were to her, parents
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 inheritance.”

Hartford, December 14, 1833.

p351-178 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.

[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]

Where the lofty forests of Ohio, towering in unshorn
majesty, cast a solemn shadow over the deep
verdure of beautiful and ample vales, a small family
of emigrants were seen pursuing their solitary
way. They travelled on foot, but not with the aspect
of mendicants, though care and suffering were
variably depicted on their countenances. The man
walked first, apparently in an unkind, uncompromising
mood. The woman carried in her arms an
infant, and aided the progress of a feeble boy, who
seemed sinking with exhaustion. An eye accustomed
to scan the never-resting tide of emigration, might
discern that these pilgrims were inhabitants of the
Eastern States, probably retreating from some species
of adversity, to one of those imaginary El Dorados,
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,

[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]

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 unkindness
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 happiness.
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 exertions
to render his home agreeable. But too frequently
her efforts were of no avail, or contemptuously
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

[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]

became miserably poor, and the cause was evident
to every observer. In this distress, a letter was received
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 husband.
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 comparison
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 far land, and the scant and
humble necessaries which were to sustain them on
their way thither; when she took leave of her brother
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.

[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]

The journey was slow and toilsome. The autumnal
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 doubted.
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 remembered
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 salutary
guardianship over our higher and better sympathies.
They were now approaching within a short

[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]

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 expostulations,
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 unable
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 husband
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 children
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

[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]

he turned away his head, and with a scarcely audible
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 Williams,
who went from our part of the country, and
says he is our next-door neighbor.”

Jane received his hearty welcome with a thankful
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

[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]

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 leisure,
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-working,
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

[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]

neighborhood. I 'll 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 entered,
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 resembling
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 dignified
with the name of friendship.

As if by magic, what had seemed almost a prison,
assumed a different aspect, under the ministry of
active benevolence. A cheerful flame rose from the
ample fire-place; several chairs and a bench for
children appeared; a bed with comfortable coverings
concealed the shapelessness of the bedstead, and
viands to which they had long been strangers were
heaped upon the board. An old lady held the sick
boy tenderly in her arms, who seemed to revive as
he saw his mother's face brighten; and the infant,

[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]

after a draught of fresh milk, fell into a sweet and
profound slumber. One by one the neighbors departed,
that the wearied ones might have an opportunity
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, feeding
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 joyful
tears. Kindness to which she had recently been
a stranger, feel 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 difficulty
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 comfortable,
while her husband, as if ambitious to earn in a
new residence the reputation he had forfeited in the

[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]

old, labored diligently to assist his neighbors in gathering
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 permitted
herself to indulge of his permanent reformation,
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 rendered
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 tenderest
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 acquainted
with the life of the compassionate

[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]

Redeemer, 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 determined
at all hazards to gratify his depraved appetite.
He laid his plans deliberately, and with the
pretext of making some arrangements about the
wagon, which had been left broken on the road, departed
from his home. His stay was protracted beyond
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

[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]

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 misconstruction,
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 education
had refined her susceptibilities, both of pleasure
and pain. She could not forget the love he had
once manifested for her, nor prevent the chilling contrast
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 deferred
was sickness and sorrow to the heart. She found
the necessity of deriving consolation, and the power
of endurance, wholly from above. The tender invitation
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 irritate
her husband by reproach or gloom—that to a
casual observer she might have appeared to be confirming
the doctrine of the ancient philosopher, that
happiness is in exact proportion to virtue. Had he

[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]

asserted, that virtue is the source of all that happiness
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 persecutions
which the fullest measure of her piety could
not enable her to bear unmoved. This was unkindness
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

[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]

shelter him in her bosom, nor control the frantic violence
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 destroyed
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 unearthly
brightness in his eye, that she feared his intellect
wandered. She seated herself on his low bed,

[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]

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 answered,—

“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

[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]

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. Nothing
save the soft breathing of the sleeping babe fell
upon that solemn pause. Then the silence was broken
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 longer.”
He drew near, and looked on the dead with surprise
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;

[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]

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 children,
said,—“Except ye become as one of these, ye
cannot enter the kingdom of heaven,” and who calleth
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,

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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 mingled
his tears with hers.

He returned from this funeral in much mental distress.
His sins were brought to remembrance, and
reflection was misery. For many nights, sleep was
disturbed by visions of his neglected boy.—Sometimes
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 iniquities
by turning unto the Lord.”

There was a change in his habits and conversation,
and his friends trusted it would be permanent.
She who, above all others, was interested in the result,
spared no exertion to win him back to the way
of truth, and to soothe his heart into peace with itself,
and obedience to his Maker. Yet was she doomed
to witness the full force of grief and of remorse

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upon intemperance, only to see them utterly overthrown
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 industry,
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 chastened
being, who against hope still hoped for his salvation,
resumed its dominion. The friends who had
alternately reproved and encouraged him, were convinced
that their efforts had been of no avail. Intemperance,
“like the strong man armed,” took possession
of a soul that lifted no cry for aid to the Holy
Spirit, and girded on no weapon to resist the destroyer.

Summer passed away, and the anniversary of their
arrival at the colony returned. It was to Jane Harwood
a period of sad and solemn retrospection. The
joys of early days, and the sorrows of maturity,
passed in review before her, and while she wept, she
questioned her heart, what had been its gain from a
father's discipline, or whether it had sustained that
greatest of all losses—the loss of its afflictions.

She was alone at this season of self-communion.
The absences of her husband had become more frequent
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

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imputed the unusually long stay of her husband.
Through the third night of his absence she lay sleepless,
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. Unrefreshed
she arose and resumed her morning labors.

Suddenly her eye was attracted by a group of
neighbors, coming up slowly from the river. A
dark and terrible foreboding oppressed her. She hastened
out to meet them. Coming towards her house
was a female friend, agitated and tearful, who passing
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 darkness
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,

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without murmuring. She had lain her first-born in the
grave with resignation, for faith had heard her Saviour
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 colony
awakens sympathies of an almost exclusive character.
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

[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]

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 prayer
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, noteless
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 “resurrection
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 enemy.
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 convalescence
a letter was received from her brother, inviting
her and her child to an asylum under his roof

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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 infant
settlement, whose kindness through all her adversities
had never failed. And when they remembered
the example of uniform patience and piety
which she had exhibited, and the saint-like manner
in which she had sustained her burdens, and cherished
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 humble
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.

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p351-202 THE PATRIARCH.

“Gently on him, had gentle Nature laid
The weight of years.—All passions that disturb
Had past away.”—
Southey

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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 children,
had about thirty years before become sojourners
in the heart of one of the deepest Carolinian
solitudes. They purchased a tract of wild, swampencircled
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

[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]

on the sabbath, and reading the scriptures, with the
Liturgy of the Church of England. The pious ancestor
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 opportunity.
I resolved to be the witness of their Sunday
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 directions
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. Towering
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 heavenward
cone. With their dark verdure, mingled the
pale and beautiful efflorescence of the wild poplar,
like the light interlacing of sculpture, in some ancient
awe-inspiring temple, while thousands of birds

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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 surmounted
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 convene
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 passion,—
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 luxuriance
of its raven locks. Unconscious of the presence
of a stranger, he supposed that no eye

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regarded him, save that of his God. Kneeling around him,
were his “brethren according to the flesh,” a numerous
and attentive congregation. At his right hand
was the Patriarch—tall, somewhat emaciated, yet
not bowed with years, his white hair combed smoothly
over his temples, and slightly curling on his neck.
Gathered near him, were his children, and his children's
children. His blood was in the veins of almost
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 wandering
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 affecting
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.

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Secluded as we are, from the privilege of worshipping
God in his temple, we thus assemble every Sabbath,
to read his holy Book, and to pray unto him in
the words of our liturgy. Thus have we been preserved
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 constrained
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 separate,
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 ministered
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

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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 rudiments
of knowledge. Our only books of instruction,
are the bible and prayer-book.”

At a signal they rose and sang, when about departing
to their separate abodes,—“Glory to God in
the highest, and on earth, peace, and good will towards
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 us.”

The following morning, I called on every family,
and was delighted with the domestic order, economy,
and concord, that prevailed. Careful improvement
of time, and moderated desires, seemed uniformly
to produce among them, the fruits of a blameless
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 simplicity,
employed herself at the spinning-wheel, when
not absorbed in the labors of instruction. Most of
her pupils read intelligibly, and replied with readiness
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

[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]

way to this retreat. But among the learners was
visible, what does not always distinguish better endowed
seminaries; docility, subordination, and profound
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 stockings
for winter. To the simple monitions which I
addressed to them, they reverently listened; and ere
they received the parting blessing, rose, and repeated
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 concealment.
The heartless theories of fashion, with their
subterfuges and vices, had not penetrated to this hermetically
sealed abode. The Patriarch, at his entrance
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,

[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]

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 capabilities
of comfort, equal to the sober expectations
of a primitive people. A field for corn, and a garden
abounding with vegetables, were appendages to
each habitation. Cows grazed quietly around, and
sheep dotted like snow-flakes, the distant green pastures.
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 gentry.
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 ingenuity
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

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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 affixed
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 industrious
and vigilant, there will still be a considerable
deposit adhering to the body of the tree. These
portions, called “turpentine facings,” are carefully
separated, and laid in a cone-like form, until they
attain the size of a formidable mound. This is
covered with earth, and when the cool season commences,
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 informed
that they were distinguished for integrity and
uprightness, and that the simple affirmation of these
“Bible and Liturgy men,” as they were styled, possessed
the sacredness of an oath. The lay-reader
remarked to me, that he had never known among

[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]

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 thoroughly
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

[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]

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 persons
of both sexes, and of every age, clad in a primitive
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 started
from their seats in wondering joy, while the
changing color, or quivering lip of the elders, evinced
that the hallowed music awoke the cherished
echoes of memory.

[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]

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 prodigal
of angels' food, might have suffered to perish.
With the hoary Patriarch, a throng of his descendants,
who had been duly prepared for that holy vow
and profession, knelt around the altar, in commemoration
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 father
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; consciousness
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,” overwhelmed
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

[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]

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, followed
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 appearance,
approaching with hasty steps, accosted me.

“Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies
stretched upon his bed. He takes no bread or water,
and he asks for you. Man of God, will you come
to him?”

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 cheerfulness
overspread the landscape. The pines were
busily disseminating their winged seeds. Like insects,
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

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son advanced to meet me. His head declined like
one struggling with a grief which he would fain subdue.
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;

He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of the
Saviour, who “went not up to joy, until he first suffered
pain,” his brow again lighted with the calmness
of one, whose “way to eternal joy was to suffer
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 forsaken 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 remembrance:
the expressive features, and thrilling responses,
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

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loved, are among the unfading imagery of my existence.
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 unfaltering
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 primogeniture,
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

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my servant whom I have chosen.” Every eye fixed
upon him its expression of fealty and love. Gradually
the families retired to their respective habitations.
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 undimmed
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 beloved
sire. In the bitterness of bereavement, he covered
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,—`Write, from henceforth, blessed are the
dead, who die in the Lord.”' Instantly raising himself
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

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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 company,
we bore him, who had been revered as the father
and exemplar of all. With solemn steps, his descendants,
two and two, followed the corpse. I
heard a convulsive and suppressed breathing, among
the more tender of the train; but when the burialservice
commenced, all was hushed. And never
have I more fully realized its surpassing pathos and
power, than when from the centre of that deep solitude,
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 mourning
community immediately after committing the
dust of their pious ancestor to the earth. They

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accompanied 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 worshippers,—
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 languished
or grown cold, I have warmed it by the remembrance
of the ever-living faith, of those “few
sheep in the wilderness.”