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On returning to their buildings, after the labors of the field
were over, the Family, as usual, soon repaired to the rooms allotted
to their daily repasts. For this purpose their tables were
always spread in separate buildings, one for the ordinary male
members, and for the females, and one for the Leaders; the two
former of which are furnished with plain, substantial food, while
the latter is loaded with the best that the land is capable of affording,
and not unfrequently with foreign luxuries; For these
dignitaries, if they do not always go on the principle of indulgence
involved in the reported saying of the “Elect Lady,”
whose authority we have before quoted, that “Spirituous liquor
is one of God's good creatures,” have at least no hesitation in
acting generally on the assumption, that the Gift of good living
peculiarly their own.

Immediately after supper, the whole Family assembled for worship
in the house especially consecrated to that purpose. But so
well known is their meaningless mode of worship—their long
drawn, nasal chant of Hottentot gibberish, set to the “inspired”
tune of perhaps Nancy Dawson, or the Roving Sailor; (for
their tunes as well as the words they contend are inspired) their
formal, unvarying, Kangaroo-like dance, performed with uplifted
hands and various contortions of features, or the occasional exhibition,
by some freshly inspired Elder or Eldress, of a new gift
for clapping the hands, for shaking, jerking, jumping, stamping
and groaning—so well known are all these, that we will pass
over them for matters more immediately connected with our story;
and for this purpose we will now repair to the trystic tree of
the persecuted lovers, who had generally, as now fixed upon, for
their interview, the hour immediately succeeding worship, which
was allowed the different members of the Family for attending
to their individual concerns, and which, therefore, afforded

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opportunity for an absence less likely to be noticed by the Arguseyed
Leaders.

The broad, bright Harvest-moon rising majestically over the
eastern hills, was beginning to pour down her floods of quivering
light upon the quiet scene—now striking upon the taller,
then the shorter shrubbery of the field, and seemingly converting
its pendant boughs into glittering tissues of silver—now bursting
in brightness upon the waveless waters of the extended pond,
and now glancing abroad upon the whole of the surrounding landscape,
and lighting it up with her dim and solemn splendors.

The young man, the first to reach the spot, stood pensively
leaning against the trunk of a wide-branching elm, standing but
a short distance from the margin of the water. As the moon-light
gleamed across his face, tokens of deep and struggling emotions
were there visibly depicted; and even a tear might occasionally
be seen to start out and glitter upon his manly cheek.

Presently the white fluttering robe of a female was seen glancing
among the obstructing trees of the orchard, and rapidly gliding
toward the spot. In another moment the light figure rushed into
the opened arms of the young man, their heads were dropped
on each other's shoulders, and, for a brief interval, not a word was
spoken.

“O, Martha, Martha!” at length uttered the young man in
tones of deep and troubled feeling, and again was silent.

“Thee seems much agitated to night, Seth,” said the girl, in a
meek, enquiring tone, after waiting awhile for the other to proceed.

“I am Martha,” he replied; “my heart is indeed tried—sorely,
most sorely tried.”

“And why art thee thus disquieted, Seth?” again tenderly
asked the girl, “and why,” she continued in a tone of gentle expostulation,
“why hast thee urged me to this meeting, when thee
knows, that I am not without my doubts and misgivings about
communing with thee in this manner; and when also thee so
well knows the great risk we both run of being discovered and
punished, and I, particularly, of being brought to shame before
the people, or punished in other fearful ways?”

“I know—I know all, Martha; and should be grieved to be

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the means of causing thee trouble. But so many things have
happened since we met, and I had so much which I desired to
say to thee, that I could not find it in my heart to go away without
seeing thee.”

“Go away, Seth? Surely! Hast thee well considered?”

“Yea, long and deeply. I can no longer endure the vile misusage
I have lately received; and I can no longer endure to be
a slave—a slave to those, who would fetter and degrade both the
body and the mind; and therefore I have fully determined, that
this night I will leave them.”

“But whither would thee go, Seth?—into the wide, wicked
world?”

“If I thought, Martha, that I should find the people of the
world more wicked than some of those I shall leave behind, I
would remain. But of that I have no fears; and it is not that
which now troubles and perplexes me.”

“If we have been taught aright, what should trouble thee
more, Seth?”

“Ay, if aright; but thee already knows my opinions of the
absurdity of much of our creed, and the falsity of half that is
told us. No, it is no scruples of that kind, but my doubts and
fears about the reception I may meet with in the world, of whose
ways I know so little, and in which I must appear so foolish and
awkward. I am ignorant, Martha, ignorant as a child, of all
that I should know.”

“But does not that spring from pride of heart, Seth, which, under
any good creed, thee would be taught, and should strive, to
banish? It appears to me thee should have better reasons.”

“Well, I have other reasons, and they are with me, I confess,
much stronger ones; but I know not that thee would consider
them better. It is”—and the youth paused and hesitated, while
the wondering maiden threw an innocent and enquiring look upon
his sorrowful and agitated countenance—“it is,” he resumed,
at length mastering his emotions, “it is the thought of leaving
thee, Martha, which wrings my heart—of leaving thee among this
people, to be subjected to the wiles and persecutions of that designing—”

“Oh! name him not—name him not, Seth!” quickly

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interrupted the girl, with a shudder, which but too plainly told her
fears and abhorrance of the man about to be mentioned.

“I should not, Martha, but I have noticed that which has filled
me with alarming conjectures—with fears for thy safety; and I
would that thee tell me what he proposes to thee?”

“I cannot—I cannot; but Oh! if thee knew my troubles,
Seth”—and the poor girl, at the thought thus called up, dropped
her head on the other's shoulder, and wept as if her heart
would break.

“The wretch! the accursed wretch!” exclaimed the young
man bitterly.

“Nay, nay, do not curse, Seth,” sobbed the girl, making an
effort to check her emotions;” that is a gift belonging, I think,
only to the Great One above, who metes out justice to the sinful,
not as man metes it, under the influence of blinding passions, but
according to the proper measure, and He, we must remember, can
protect the innocent as well as punish the guilty; and though
my trials are indeed sore, yet I trus tthat that Good Being will still,
as he has thus far done, preserve me guiltless and unharmed.”

Each being absorbed in the thoughts and feelings which the
conversation had excited, there was a short pause in the discourse,
during which the maiden gently disengaged herself from
the partial embrace of the other, and, wiping her eyes, resumed
her usual tranquility.

“Martha,” at length said the young man, with an air of embarrassment
and a slight tremulous accent.—

“What would thee say, Seth?” asked the maiden innocently,
seeing the other hesitated to go on.

“Martha,” resumed the youth with an effort, “Martha, does
thee love me?”

“Why—why,” replied she, now embarrassed and hesitating
in turn, “why we are commanded to love one another, are we
not?”

“Ay, Martha; but does thee regard me with that feeling which
the world calls love?”

“I hardly know what to tell thee, Seth—I have often greatly
feared that my heart was an erring one. I have tried to bestow my

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love on all; but I may have sometimes thought, perhaps, that
thee was getting rather more than thy share.”

“Thy words are precious to my heart, Martha. Let us then
cherish that feeling towards each other, and permit it to lead us
to its natural consummation. Thee knows, Martha, that the
love of which I speak, when crowned by marriage, is allowed
and approved by the good and wise of every sect but our
own. Thee knows, also, that it is sanctioned and blessed by
the Good Book, which I lent thee on purpose that thee might
read the whole, instead of only such parts as our Elders would
have us take as our guide, cunningly denying us the free use of
the book, because they fear to have us read and reason the
rest—not because, as they pretend, we should pervert it.”

“Thee bewilderest me, Seth—I will confess, I have, at times,
thought, that there is reason in what thee now says; but I have
nearly as often feared, that it was only the promptings of vain
fancies or sinful inclinations. And it is so different from what
I have always been taught, that it sometimes makes me tremble,
lest I should be left at last, to harbor a belief which may be
wrong in itself and prove ruinous to my soul's interests.”

“It is not wrong,” warmly urged the young man; “it surely
is not wrong, Martha. It is right; thy reason tells thee it is
right, all nature confirms it. The Bible when properly consulted,
answers yea. Come then, Martha, come with me:—Let us go
into the world, where there will be no mean spies to dog and torment
us—no tyrants to prevent our innocent actions, and make
them an excuse for prosecuting their own foul designs—none to
molest or make us afraid—where united as one, never more to
part, we will live and be free to love, and, in that love and freedom,
find our solace, our comfort and lasting felicity. Come—
O, come, come, Martha and fear not—with my own hands I will
support and provide for thee, and in my own heart I will cherish
thee through all the changing scenes of life.”

“Oh! tempt me not—tempt me not, Seth!”

“Do not call it temptation, dearest one.—Sooner would I suffer
all that wicked men could inflict, than lead thee astray, I
mean it—I think it for thy good, as much as for my own happiness.—
No, it is not temptation; it is but the pleadings of

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wisdom and of love. Fly with me, then, this night and this hour,—
fly with me from the persecutions, the miseries and the dangers
that here so thickly beset thee, to safety and happiness.”

“Nay, nay, Seth,” replied the maiden calmly and firmly, after
appearing to struggle a moment with her conflicting feelings—
“thy proposal is a bold and a startling one; it is also, to me, a
new and an unexpected one. I have not considered, and may
not now accept it; and, moreover, I may not now longer remain
with thee. I must return to the buildings.”

“And am I never to see thee more?” asked the other sadly.

“Why, if thee will indeed leave us,” she replied, lingering
and hesitating—“unless, perhaps—unless thee could return, at
some appointed time, and place”—

“Will thee, then,” eagerly enquired the young man, “will
thee meet me here, four weeks from this night?”

“If permitted, I will, Seth.”

“And be prepared to go with me?”

“Again I may not promise; but I will weigh thy proposal
with kindly intent; now fare-thee-well, Seth.”

“Fare-thee-well, beloved Martha—if thee can stay no longer,
fare-thee-well, with many, many blessings; but remember, Oh!
remember!”

Fondly and anxiously gazed the young man after the maiden,
till her retreating form was lost to his view among the intervening
shrubbery, when he appeared to rouse himself from his tender
reverie to the purpose now remaining to be accomplished; and,
with a firm step and resolute air, he bent his course towards the
shore of the pond, where he knew a boat belonging to the Shakers
was moored.

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