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Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. Therefore odd spellings—even in geographical names—were mostly retained. Obvious errors were corrected though, as well as some punctuation issues—especially regarding the placement of quotation marks. However, all changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to the original text are marked like this. The original text appears when hovering the cursor over the marked text. Additionally the changes are listed at the [end of this text].

THE
TRAVELLERS.

A TALE.

DESIGNED FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

BY THE
AUTHOR OF REDWOOD.

NEW-YORK:

PUBLISHED BY E. BLISS AND E. WHITE,
And Sold by
COLLINS AND HANNAY, NEW-YORK, AND CUMMINGS,
HILLIARD, AND CO. BOSTON.

1825.

Southern District of New-York, ss.

BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the fourth day of April, A.D. 1825, in the forty-eighth year of the Independence of the United States of America, E. Bliss and E. White, of the said District, have deposited in this Office the title of a Book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors, in the words following, to wit:—

“The Travellers; a Tale Designed for Young People. By the author of Redwood.

‘Then slowly climb the many-winding way,
And frequent turn to linger as you go,
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey.’
Childe Harold.”

In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, “An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned.” And also to an Act entitled, “An Act supplementary to an Act entitled, an Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned, and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints.”
JAMES DILL,
Clerk of the Southern District of New-York.

J. Seymour, printer.

The following pages are inscribed to the youthful brother and sister, who are associated with every picture of unfolding virtue, in the mind of their affectionate friend,
THE AUTHOR.

THE TRAVELLERS.

In the month of June, (the jubilee month of poets and travellers) in the year eighteen hundred and eighteen, Mr. Sackville, his wife, and their two children, Edward and Julia, made the grand tour of Niagara, the lakes, Montreal, Quebec, &c. Both parents and children kept journals, in which they recorded with fidelity whatever they observed which they deemed worthy of note. We have been favored with the perusal of them all, and have been permitted to make a few extracts from them, which we intend to combine into a brief narrative, that we are sure will amuse our young readers, provided their delicate essence does not escape our unskilful hands.

First, it will be necessary that our readers should know into whose society they are thus unceremoniously introduced.

Mr. Sackville, in the prime of life retired from the successful practice of the law, to a beautiful estate in the country. Various motives were assigned by his acquaintances for his removal; but as those diligent inquirers, who so conscientiously investigate their neighbor's affairs, are apt to pass over simple and obvious motives, those which, in this instance, governed Mr. Sackville's conduct, escaped their observation.

The truth was, he had a strong predilection for a country life; he was wearied with briefs and declarations; he loved above all things, the society of his accomplished wife, and he ardently desired to participate with her the happiness of educating their fine children; and besides, he had many little plans of utility and benevolence, such as are naturally suggested to an active and philanthropic mind on entering a new sphere of life.

Mr. Sackville purchased a fine estate in the town of ——, in the state of ——. We have left these blanks, which we are well aware are very provoking to all, and especially to young readers, in order to allow them to locate the amiable Sackvilles (the name we confess to be fictitious) wherever they choose, north or south of the Potomac, east or west of the Alleghanies; for we sincerely believe that such pattern families are to be found in every section of our favored country.

Edward was ten, Julia eight years old, when they removed from town. They felt a very natural reluctance at leaving the city, their companions, and the only pleasures they had ever known. But the state of their feelings will best appear by a conversation which occurred between them and their mother, shortly before their removal, while Edward was assisting her to pack up some vials, which with their contents, composed his chemical laboratory.

“You are very good, dear mother,” he said, kissing her, “to take such pains to pack up these things: you have been in such a panic about spontaneous combustion ever since the night you found the phosphorus[1] on fire, that I expected my little cupboard and all its treasures would be condemned. But,” he added, with a sigh, “I suppose you think I shall want my chemistry more than ever to amuse me in the country.”

[1] Phosphorus is a matter which shines or even burns spontaneously, and without the application of any sensible fire.

“No, my dear boy, not more than ever.”

“Oh, mother! Bob Eaton's father says the country is such a bore—and Bob thinks so too.”

“And what,” asked Mrs. Sackville, “do Bob Eaton's father and Bob Eaton, mean by a bore?”

“Why, they mean, certainly”——Edward began in a confident tone, and then faltered a little: “that is, I suppose they mean, that——that——that——” Edward found it as difficult to explain their meaning, as the original utterers of the profound remark would have done if suddenly called on: and he was glad to be interrupted by a soliloquy of his little sister, who stood in one corner of the room, wrapping something in half a dozen envelopes.

“Farewell!” she exclaimed, as the man says in the play, “‘a long farewell’ to my dear dancing shoes—”

“Pardon me, Miss Julia,” said her mother, “for cutting short such a pretty pathetic parting: but here is another pair of dancing shoes, which you will please to put with those you already have, and I trust you will have the pleasure of dancing them both out before you come to town again.”

“Dancing them out, mother! shall we dance in the country?” exclaimed both the children in one breath. “I thought,” continued Edward, “that we should have nothing to do in the country but get our lessons; and all work and no play, you know, mother, makes Jack a dull boy.”

“Oh yes, Ned, I know that favorite proverb of all children. I am sorry to find that you have such a dread of the country. You know, my dear children, that your father and I are devoted to your welfare, and that we should do nothing that would not contribute to your happiness.”

Edward had quick feelings, and he perceived that there was something reproachful in his mother's manner. “I am sure,” he said, “that Julia and I wish to do every thing that you and papa like.”

“That is not enough, my dear boy, we wish you to like to do what we like.”

“But surely, mother, you cannot blame us for not wishing to go and live in the country.”

“No, Edward, I should as soon think of blaming poor blind Billy, because he cannot see. Unhappily you have been entirely confined to town, and are ignorant of the pleasures of the country. I only blame you for thinking that your father and I would voluntarily do any thing to lessen your innocent pleasures.”

“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Edward, “we did not think any thing about that.”

“Well, my dear, perhaps I am wrong in expecting you to think—reflection is the habit of a riper age than yours. You must trust me for one year, and at the expiration of that period, you and your sister shall decide whether we return to town or remain in the country.”

“Oh, mother! how very good you are. One year—well, one year won't be so very long—only think, Julia, in one year we shall be back again.”

“Not quite so fast, Edward,” said his mother; “you are not to decide till the end of the year.”

“Oh, I know that, mama, but of course we shall decide to come back.”

Mrs. Sackville looked incredulous, and smiled at his childish confidence in his own constancy. “I see, mother, you don't believe me; but of course, Julia and I can't wish to live away from every thing that is amusing.”

“Come, Julia, your brother has taken it upon himself to be spokesman, but let me hear from you, what are the amusements that you so dread to leave.”

“Why, in the first place, mother, there is our dancing-school: every time I go to take my lesson, Mr. Dubois says, ‘Pauvre, Miss Julie, point de cotillon; point de gavots in de country; ah, qu'il est sauvage—de country.’”

“Dubois for ever!” exclaimed Edward, as Julia finished her mimicry of her master's tone and grimace. “Oh, he is the drollest creature—and Julia is such a mimic—the girls will have nobody to make them laugh when she is gone.”

Mrs. Sackville secretly rejoiced that Julia was to be removed, in a great degree, from the temptation to exercise so mischievous a faculty. She, however, did not turn the drift of the conversation to make any remarks on it. “Console Mr. Dubois,” she said, “my dear, Julia, with the assurance, that your mother will take care that you do not lose the benefit of his labors in the service of the graces. Your father tells me, there is in our neighborhood a very decent musician, who does all the fiddling for the parish. I have purchased some cotillon music, and I hope your favorite tunes will soon resound in our new mansion.”

“Oh, that will be delightful, mother, but Edward and I cannot dance a cotillon alone.”

“No, but we are not going to a desert. There are enough clever children in the neighborhood, who will form a set with you; and now, Julia, that I see by your brightened eye, that you think the affliction of leaving the dancing-school will be alleviated, what is the next subject of your regret?”

“The next, mother? what is next, Edward?”

“I do not know what you will call next, Julia, but I think the theatre comes next.”

“O! the theatre—yes, the theatre—how could I forget the theatre?”

“Well, my children, I think you can live without the theatre, as you go but once, or at most twice in a season; a pleasure that occupies so small a portion of your time, cannot be very important to your happiness, or regretted very deeply.”

“A small portion of time, to be sure, mother,” replied Edward; “but then you will own it is delightful: you yourself exclaimed the other night when the curtain drew up, ‘what a beautiful spectacle!’”

“Yes, my love, but nature has far more beautiful spectacles, and I have kept you too long from them.”

“But, mother,” insisted Edward, “nothing can be so pleasant and startling, as when the curtain suddenly draws up and discovers a beautiful scene.”

“It may be more startling, my dear Ned, but it is not half so delightful as to see the curtain of night withdrawn in a clear summer morning, and the lovely objects of nature lighting up with the rays of the rising sun.”

“But, mother, there is the orchestra—”

“And in the country, my dear, we have bands of voluntary musicians on every side of us, who set all their wants, and all their pleasures to music, and pour them forth in the sweetest notes, from morning till night. These musicians will hover about our house and garden the entire summer, and ask no reward, but to share with us our cherries and raspberries; a small pittance from the generous stores of summer. But, come, my children, what next?”

“What next, Julia? Let us think—Oh, there is the museum. I am sure, mother, you cannot say a word against the museum—such a variety of curiosities, and elegant specimens of every thing, and I have heard you and papa both say, that it is a very instructive as well as amusing place to visit.”

“Certainly it is, my dear, a vast collection of natural wonders, and artificial curiosities; and I am glad you value it sufficiently to regret it. But, my dear children, nature has her museums every where: her productions are all curiosities, and the more you study them, the more you will admire the wisdom and goodness of their Creator. Every vegetable that springs from the kind bosom of the earth—the earth itself—the rocks—the pebbles—living creatures, their instincts and habitudes—are all a study for you. The volume is open and outspread before you: God grant me grace to train your minds and hearts, that you may read therein—read with that enlightened understanding and benevolent spirit, which prompted a christian philosopher to say, ‘the air, the earth, the water, teem with delighted existence. On whichever side I turn my eyes, myriads of happy beings crowd upon my view.’”

Any farther record of the conversation would be superfluous, and might prove tedious. It is our purpose to give some anecdotes of Edward and Julia, and not their history.

As might have been expected, our young friends in the country, were like beings rescued from an artificial mode of existence, and restored to their native element; and when their mother, at the expiration of the year, asked them if they were ready to return to town—

“Return to town, now, mother!” exclaimed Edward, “it is impossible.”

“Some time or other, mama, perhaps we should like to go back, but not now,” said Julia. “We cannot go now, when we have so much to do. The frost is just out of the ground, and Ned and I are as busy as bees in our garden.”

“And, besides,” said Edward, “there is my brood of ducks, that the old hen has just brought off; I am so curious to see her fright when they take to the water; and there are my bantam pigeons; bantams are so delicate, that you know, mother, I could not trust them to any body's care but my own.”

“I think old Cæsar might take charge of your bantams, Ned,” said Julia; “but I am sure my pet lamb—”

“Oh, Julia,” interrupted Edward, laughing, “give her the sentimental french name.”

“Very well, I will, and you may laugh as much you please: Orpheline—I am sure Orpheline would not relish her food from any hand but mine, she is so used to me; and my darling little partridges, that I am trying to bring up to be domestic birds, I would not leave them before I have made a ‘satisfactory experiment,’ as papa says; and then, mother, we did not half fill our herbariums last summer. Oh, we have a world of business on our hands,” continued Julia, with the air of one who duly realized the importance of her momentous concerns.

Mrs. Sackville smiled, but made no reply, and Edward said, “I was thinking, mother, as I sat on the door-step last evening, and listened to the hum of the happy little creatures that are waking up for the season, that I had new eyes and new ears given to me, since I came to live in the country. Even the hoarse croaking of the frogs in our meadow, sounded pleasantly to me; quite musical.”

“Equal to the music of the orchestra, my dear Ned.”

“Not quite so fine, mother,” replied Edward, “but it seemed to have more meaning in it.”

“You are right, my dear Edward,” said Mrs. Sackville; “you have new senses, or rather, your senses are unlocked to the reception of the sweet influences of nature. I have more happiness than I can express to you, my dear children, in finding that you have already imbibed a taste for those pure pleasures, that will remain the same, whatever change of condition or circumstances may await you.”[2]

[2] Miss Hannah More, at the age of seventy-five, said to Professor Griscom, ‘the love of the country, and of flowers, is the only natural pleasure that remains to me unimpaired.’

Another year passed to this virtuous family, full of useful and innocent occupations, and in the month of the already noted June, they left their home. The parents with rational expectations of pleasure, from visiting some of the most interesting scenes in our country, and the children with the anticipation of unbounded delight, so characteristic of childhood.

Their travelling party included Mr. Ralph Morris, a bachelor brother of Mrs. Sackville. Mr. Morris was a man of intelligence and extreme kindness of disposition, a little irritable, and when the sky was clouded, and the wind blew from the wrong quarter, somewhat whimsical.

As we hope that our young readers will conceive a friendship for Edward and Julia, before they part with them, they may have a natural curiosity to know whether they were brown or fair, and all the etceteras of personal appearance. Edward was tall for his age, (twelve) and stout built, with the rich ruddy complexion and vigorous muscle of an English boy. His eyes were large and dark, and beaming with the bright and laughing spirit within: his hair was a mass of fair clustering curls, which he, from a boyish dread of effeminacy, had in vain tried to subdue by the discipline of comb and brush. His teeth were fine and white, and with as little prompting from his mother as could be expected, he kept them with remarkable neatness. His mouth was distinguished by nothing but an expression of frankness and good temper. His nose, (a feature seldom moulded by the graces) his nose, we are sorry to confess, was rather thick and quite unclassical. His character and manners preserved all the frankness and purity of childhood, with a little of that chivalrous spirit which is such a grace to dawning manhood. For the rest, we will leave him to speak for himself.

The sister's person was extremely delicate and symmetrical, with too little of the Hebe beauty for childhood, but full of grace and gentillesse.

Her complexion was not as rich as her brother's; but it had an ever-varying hue, which indicated the sensibility that sometimes suddenly swelled the veins of her clear open brow, lit up her hazel eyes with electrifying brilliancy, and played in sweet dimples about her mouth; in short, though she was not beautiful, she had an expression of purity, truth, and gentleness, far more attractive than mere beauty; an expression that was once happily described by a French lady, who said to Mrs. Sackville, “when your daughter smiles, it seems to me, that it is frankness and virtue that smile.”

We are well aware that young people do not like to be harangued about scenery; therefore, though our travellers sailed up the Hudson, we shall resist every temptation to describe its beautiful features, features as well known and loved as the familiar face of a friend; neither will we detain them on the scarcely less beautiful Mohawk, though we are sure they are not rebels against nature, and that their hearts would dilate if we had the power to present to their imaginations this lovely stream, winding through the valley it enriches, as it looked to the eyes of our young travellers, brimfull from recent rains, reflecting in its living mirror the verdant banks, the overhanging trees, the richly-wooded hills, and the clear heaven.

It would be impossible to record the exclamations of the children. “It is a perfect picture, mother, all the way,” said Julia.

“I like every thing but these dronish farmers,” said Edward. “See, papa,” he continued, (not, perhaps, unwilling to display his agricultural observation) “see, that groupe of men, black and white, all leaning on their hoes, and staring at us, and they will stand and look just so, until the next carriage comes along, while their corn is trying in vain to shoot above the weeds that choke it. They seem to have no more soul than the clods they stand upon. I wish some of the farmers on the cold desolate hills of New-England had this fine soil.”

“My dear Ned,” replied Mr. Sackville, “I do not wonder at your indignation. I have myself been marvelling, that, as a poet says, ‘Nature should waste her wonders on such men;’ but there is compensation every where, or, as your mother would say, there ‘are divers gifts.’ The man born to the inheritance of cold and sterile hills, is compelled to be industrious, frugal, vigorous, and resolute to live, and thus the advantages of his moral condition are more than an equivalent for the physical advantages of a fine soil or climate, or both.”

“Ah, well, papa,” replied Edward, “if I had my choice, I should take this fine soil on the Mohawk, and cultivate it with the mountain virtues, industry, resolution, &c. and I might make a paradise here.”

“A paradise, Ned!” exclaimed Mrs. Sackville, “do you remember that Milton says,

Now morn her rosy steps in the eastern clime
Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl,
When Adam wak'd?

If you would be a tiller of the earth, Ned, you must learn to like early rising and hard work, better than you do now, and not go on living so like the lilies of the field, that are clothed, though they toil not.” Edward looked a little crest-fallen.

“Your self-confidence provoked a gentle rebuke,” said his father; “but it is a very common mistake, my dear son, for those much older than you are, to fancy they should avoid the faults others commit, if placed in their situation. But, before you permit such a presumption, be sure that you have resisted all the temptations in your own path, and have performed all the duties which belong to the sphere Providence has assigned to you. Here we are at the close of our day's journey, and my admonition comes in very well, like the moral at the end of a tale; this I think is one of the prettiest places on the river. If I mistake not, the village opposite to us is Palatine.”

The party alighted at Mrs. B's inn. The children entreated their mother to take her port-folio, and stroll with them along the bank of the river, while the tea was getting in readiness.

As they came opposite the ferry, they stopped for a moment to look at a scow approaching the shore. There were several men in it, and among them a black lad, who, at the moment the boat touched the shore, either by accident, or by the contrivance of his mischievous companions, fell overboard. While they gave way to a burst of merriment, the poor blackey regained a footing on terra firma, and shook the water from his woolly locks and dripping garments.

“You an't white yet, Cuffee,” said one of his persecutors. “Look if he has dyed the water,” said another.

“Don't laugh,” said Julia to Edward, who, with a boyish love of fun, had joined in the laugh; “it is too bad to laugh at the poor fellow.”

“You are right, Julia,” said Mrs. Sackville. “It is hard to belong to a degraded caste, to be born to the inheritance of jibes and jokes.”

They continued their walk a little farther down the bank, discovering new beauties at every step, till they came to a spot which Julia insisted could not be surpassed; and arranging a nice cushion on the grass with her shawl, she begged her mother to make a sketch there. “Now, mama,” she said, “you must take both sides of the river.”

“You forget, Julia, that I cannot take a panorama view.”

“Then you must leave out the inn, and the beautiful hill behind it, with its sycamores and locusts, and the road that winds along the bank of the river.”

“Yes, my dear, here is the boundary of your picture:—this magnificent elm-tree, that seems to pay its debt to the nourishing waters, by extending its graceful branches over them.”

“And don't fail, mother,” said Edward, “to mark the deep shadow it casts on that pier of the bridge they are building—and oh, do put in that little skiff so snugly moored in the shade, and hooked to the tree—and that taper church spire that stretches above the thick wood on the left;—oh, if you could but paint it as it looks now, with that bright gleam from the setting sun on it. And see, mother, just at this instant, what a golden mist there is in the topmost branches of that tree.”

“Stop your chattering one moment, Ned, till I get in this little brook on the left, that is creeping so softly into the bosom of the Mohawk. Oh, my children, it is an easy task to draw these lines so as to convey a correct idea of forms and distances, but very difficult to imitate the colouring of nature, the delicate touch of her skilful hand. How shall I represent the freshness and purity that marks the youth of the year?—like childhood, Ned, smiling and promising, and as yet unchanged by time.”

“If not changed, not perfected by time, dear mother,” said Edward, kissing his mother. His manner expressed a mixture of admiration and tenderness that went to her heart.

“You have spoiled my picture, Ned,” she said, “I cannot make another straight line. Come, Julia, take up the port-folio, and we will return to the inn.”

We hope our readers will not complain that we have not kept good faith with them, if we have been tempted to loiter longer than we promised on the banks of the Mohawk. To reward them for their patience (if perchance they have exercised that difficult virtue, without availing themselves of the skipping right—the readers' inalienable right) we shall make but one stage of it from Palatine to Oneida, not once halting at any of the beautiful grounds, waterfalls, or villages, that intervene.

It was mid-day, and a hot day too, when our travellers entered this Indian town, which presents a striking aspect, situated as it is in the heart of a cultivated and civilized country.

Huts are planted irregularly at some distance from the road, in fields overgrown with rank grass. Half-naked Indians, yelling and hallooing, were riding to and fro without saddles or bridles; on horses that looked as wild as themselves. Some were stretched along the road-side, in a state of brutal intoxication; others were lying under the shadows of the noblest patriarchs of their woods, showing their patent right to indolence as lords of the creation, while their women and girls were sitting around them, busily making baskets and brooms. On the green were groupes of men shooting arrows at a mark, playing at jack-straws, football, and the various games of skill and chance by which the savage drives away ennui—that demon that persecutes most fiercely at the extremes of the human condition.

“One might almost fancy here,” said Mr. Sackville, “that the march of time had been stayed, and the land spell-bound, by some mighty magician. The log-huts of these poor Indians are as rude structures as the bark wigwams of their forefathers, and these rich lands are a complete waste, except where we see here and there a little patch of corn or potatoes. The savages certainly evince their faith in the traditionary saying that ‘the Great Spirit gave a plough to the white man, and a bow and arrow to the Indian.’”

“And there,” said Mrs. Sackville, pointing to some women who were hoeing, “there is an illustration of another of their proverbs—‘men were made for war and hunting, and squaws and hedge-hogs to scratch the ground.’”

Edward interrupted the conversation, to beg his father to stop in the village long enough to allow him time to look into the interior of some of the huts. While Mr. Sackville hesitated whether to incur the delay necessary to afford this gratification to his son, the driver announced that his off-leader had lost his shoe, and asked leave to stop at a blacksmith's to have it replaced.

This request was readily granted; and while Mrs. Sackville entered into some conversation with the blacksmith, who was a white man, Edward bounded over a fence and across a field, towards a hut which was scarcely perceptible except by a smoke that rose from it, and curled through the branches of a lofty oak which stood before it.

As he drew near the hut, he heard a low voice, broken by sobs; he paused for a moment, and then cautiously and softly advanced, till he came so near as to hear distinctly what was said, and to see enough, through a small aperture where the clay had fallen away from the logs, to prevent his proceeding farther, and to excite his curiosity to its highest pitch. An old Indian woman was sitting on the hearth-stone, her arms folded, and her blanket wrapped close around her. It appeared that she had seated herself there for the purpose of watching an Indian cake that was baking on a shovel before the fire; but her attention had been so abstracted, that the cake was burnt to a cinder. Her face and person were withered by age; but her eye, as if lit up by an undying spark, retained a wild brightness, and was steadfastly fixed on two young persons who stood before her, apparently too much occupied with their own emotion to notice her observation of them. The one was a young girl, dressed in a riding habit and Leghorn travelling bonnet. Edward was not very well situated for accurate observation; but though he was at the first glance deceived by the brilliancy of the girl's colour, heightened as it was by the excitement of the moment, his unpracticed eye soon detected unequivocal marks of the Indian race, accompanied and softened by traits of fairer blood. A young Indian stood beside her, who, as Edward fancied, had a certain air of dignity and heroism, that characterised a warrior chief;—still there was something in his attitude and motions, that bespoke the habits of civilized life. His dress, too, was a singular mixture of the European and Indian costumes. He wore a jacket with long sleeves made of deer skin, and closely fitted to his arms and breast. He had a mantle of blue broad cloth, lined with crimson, made long and full, hanging over one shoulder, and confined at the waist by a wampum belt. On a table beside him was lying a cap, like the military undress cap of a British officer, with a plume of black feathers tinged with crimson, and attached to the cap by a silver arrow.

The conversation between him and the girl was in French, and made up of ejaculations and vehement protestations, from which Edward could not at first gather any thing intelligible to him. The girl wept excessively; the Indian's passion seemed too powerful for such an expression.

“You promise,” he said, “Felice; but our old men say the winds are not more changing than a woman's mind.”

“Others may change; I cannot, Nahatton; you know I would not leave you if I could help it.”

“Could help it! can your father's right control nature's law? Oh, Felice!” he added, smiting his breast, “that which I feel for you is like the fires from the sun—the hurricane from the south—the tide of the ocean;—I cannot resist it.”

“Nahatton! Nahatton! you know I will return to you.”

“Let me place this around your neck then,” said he, detaching from his own a chain made of porcupine quills, and curiously woven. “My mother made it. She said it was a charm, and would keep me true to my own people. I wore it in France, and I have returned to my tribe.”

“Not about my neck, Nahatton,” said Felice, as he raised his hands to clasp the chain; “it looks too savage—bind it on my arm.——Why do you hesitate?” she asked, as she stood with her arm extended, and her sleeve pushed up.

“It looks too savage! Already ashamed of your mother's blood! Oh, there is poison in your veins!” and as he said this he broke the chain, threw it down, and crushed it under his foot.

“Oh, Nahatton, I did not mean that;—I am not ashamed of my indian blood—I will make you any promise—I will swear, on my knees I will swear to return to you.”

“Swear then upon this,” said he; and he took from his bosom a silver crucifix, and offered it to her lips.

At this moment the old woman, who, as they spoke in French, only understood as much as she could interpret from their gestures, rose, and darting towards them, she laid her hand on the crucifix. “No, no, Felice; swear not!” she said; “the oath will be written there,” and she pointed upward, “when you have broken and forgotten it.”

Edward, in the intensity of his interest in the scene, had forgotten the necessity of secrecy. He carelessly leaned his arm on some rails that had been placed against the hut, one of them fell; the party within started and looked around them, and Edward instinctively retreated. If he went as swiftly as the wind, and once or twice thought he heard an arrow whirring through the air behind him, we hope our readers will impute it to the excited state of his imagination, and not deem him a coward, ‘even upon instinct.’

“Just in time, Edward, my son,” said Mr. Sackville, who was standing by the carriage in which the rest of the party were already seated; “but what in the world ails you? you look as wild as if you had met a bear up in the wood there.”

“Oh, you would look wild too, father, if you had seen and heard what I have. Oh, mother! Oh, Julia! you never will believe what I have to tell you.”

“I have something to tell you, too, Mr. Edward,” said his mother; “and as you are out of breath, and out of your wits, I will tell my story first, which I assure you is quite a romantic little tale to pick up by the way-side.”

“Well, do be quick, mother, if you please, for what I have to say is so wonderful.”

“No doubt; each one always thinks his own wonder the most wonderful. But I will not try your patience any longer. Do you remember our speculating on an empty carriage, which we saw drawn up under a tree with a man standing by it, about half a mile back?”

“Yes, very well—but what of that, mother?”

“It was an idle inquiry about that carriage of the good-natured communicative blacksmith that led to the story, which I am going to tell you. It seems that carriage is to convey a young woman to New-York, whence she sails for France.”

“Oh, I saw her—I saw her,” exclaimed Edward. “It can be none other.”

“Well, Edward,” said Mrs. Sackville, “I will give place to you; for I see you are in such a state of fermentation, that I am afraid your story will evaporate in exclamations, while I am telling mine.”

Edward thus relieved from restriction, proceeded to recount with the animation of an eye-witness, all he had seen and heard. His audience listened to him with the most flattering attention, and at the conclusion, repaid him with exclamations, that proved they were adequately impressed with the extraordinary scene he had witnessed.

Julia wished he had noticed whether the chief (for thus he had chosen throughout his narrative to designate his hero) wore moccasins or shoes, and whether his legs below his mantle, were bare, or covered with leggins. She thought too, he might just have staid to see whether the girl made the vow or not: and his mother congratulated him that the Indians had not executed summary justice on him, and shot him flying for a spy.

“My story,” said Mrs. Sackville, “will serve, Ned, as a sequel to yours, or rather, an explanation of it. It seems that this young girl, who is a Miss Bernard, had left the carriage when we saw it, on the pretence of going to take leave of her mother's sister, who is doubtless the old woman you saw. You were so fortunate as to discover her real errand. She is the daughter of a Frenchman—Rodolph Bernard. His family was noble and rich: they and their fortunes were sacrificed in the convulsions of the French revolution, and Bernard alone escaped and reached America, with nothing but his life. It appears from my blacksmith's story, that young Bernard had a good deal of spirit and enterprise, and more education than most of the young nobles of that time. I wish you to observe, my children, that knowledge is a treasure not impaired by a change of circumstances, but an immutable good in every extreme of fortune. Bernard remained in New-York for a year or two, and subsisted by teaching French to some Americans, and mathematics to his own countrymen. He was then employed by a company of French gentlemen, to explore the western part of this State, then a wilderness, and to furnish them such information as should enable them to make an advantageous purchase of the government. This was not quite thirty years ago: and then the cultivated country and beautiful villages through which we have passed, were for the most part a trackless wilderness.

“At a wigwam in Oneida, where he had been compelled to ask for such hospitality as it afforded, he was seized with the fever of the country that usually attacked strangers. For weeks and months he was nursed by an indian girl, famed among her people for her skill in such remedies as their native wilds supply. You know, that in the history of the early periods of all ages, we find the healing art assigned to women. You will remember, Ned, in your favorite old ballads, many a kill or cure, performed by cruel or tender leeches.

“Whether it was the indian maid's skill in medicine, that prevailed over the disease at last, or her devoted kindness, it might be difficult to determine; probably, Bernard thought the latter; for though she was, as my narrator's tradition says, ‘an uncouth maiden to look upon,’ he declared his love to her, and asked her hand of her father. The father consented, but not till after some delay, nor till he had ascertained that Bernard's rank entitled him to wed the daughter of a distinguished chief. She was an only child too, and she was heir to enough land within this Oneida reservation, to make a principality.

“The Frenchman understood how to manage it. His ties to his own country were broken. All his affections and interests were concentrated here. He has been a good husband and father—so indulgent as to permit his wife on ordinary occasions, to wear her indian dress, to which it seems she has a bigoted attachment. His children are well educated: and, Ned, our blacksmith thinks, that your heroine Felice, would be a perfect beauty, if she had such hair as your sister's, and the olive tinge could be washed out of her skin.

“Bernard, since the late reverses in France, has returned there, and recovered an immense property which had been sequestered by Napoleon.

“Last year his family received dispatches from him, by your ‘chief,’ Ned—who, if not in reality a chief, is the son of a distinguished sachem of the Seneca tribe, which is located some where on the shores of Lake Erie. The old Seneca chief was converted to the Romish religion, by a Catholic missionary, who persuaded him to resign his son into his hands, to be educated a priest.

“It appears that neither European intercourse, nor the strict discipline of a catholic school, have overcome the young man's preference of the wild and lawless life of his tribe. As I said, on his return from France, he brought letters from Bernard to his family, and here he has played successfully the part of Othello the Moor, with this young Desdemona; and the blacksmith thinks that Bernard will play the enraged father to the life, as it has been his declared resolution from his daughter's birth, that she should not wed an indian.

“For the rest of my story, it is explained by what you have witnessed, Edward. The Seneca youth has visited his people, and returned here just as Felice is on the eve of departure for France, in compliance with her father's requisition. As to the future, whether she will remain constant to her lover, as we are not seers, we cannot predict—we can only guess.”

Edward and Julia professed unbounded confidence in Felice's fidelity. Mr. Morris did not see what the girl could do better. Indian she undoubtedly was, and he thought it was a clear case for the application of the Scottish proverb, ‘hawks won't pick out hawks' een;’ at any rate it would be a piece of effrontery for her to turn her back upon her indian lover, and expect to win a white one.

Mr. and Mrs. Sackville thought it possible that Julia might find Frenchmen in whose estimation an ample fortune would atone for the slight dishonour of her maternal ancestry.

Our travellers proceeded without accident or adventure along the accustomed route through fine villages, whose rapid growth to maturity remind one of the construction of a fairy palace by the touch of a magician's wand. A few years ago this country was unexplored save by the indian hunter, or perhaps a devoted missionary, or lawless trader. A wheel had never entered it—a shodden horse was a curiosity; now, the road is thronged with market-waggons, stage coaches, and carriages filled with idle, curious, or classic travellers, who go to ‘the Falls’ to kill time, to increase their stores of knowledge, or to gratify taste.

Mr. Sackville was constantly directing his children's observation to the prompt enterprise and industry so conspicuous in a new country, and stimulating their patriotism by pointing out to them the increasing riches and resources of their native land. “For my own part,” he said, “I prefer the sentiment that is inspired by the peaceful triumphs of man over nature, to the patriotism that is kindled on battle-grounds—if not as romantic, it is certainly more innocent.”

“Then I suppose, papa,” said Edward, “that you prefer Virgil's georgics to his epic.”

“Thank you, Ned,” replied his father, “for an illustration which proves that your travels have not quite put your school out of your head. I certainly do prefer the aspect of our cheerful dwellings, blooming gardens, and fruitful fields, associated as they are in my mind with innocent occupation and moral cultivation; to the ivy-mantled towers and triumphal arches of the old world—they are the records of feudal grandeur and high heroic deeds, but deeds too often of doubtful virtue, and of fatal consequences. The melancholy poet may exult in describing the ‘spectres that sit and sigh’ amid their ruins; but if I had the gifted eye, my children, I should rather look upon the spirit of Contentment that hovers over our land, and her sweet sister Hope, who points with her finger of promise to the smiling prosperity produced by busy hands and active independent minds.”

When the travellers reached Black-rock, where they were to cross the Niagara, they were compelled to await for some time the return of the ferry-boat, which was then plying towards the Canada shore. While they were detained, they amused themselves with a company of Irish people—raw emigrants, who had just entered our territory, and were awaiting the departure of the Erie steam-boat to convey them to the State of Ohio. They had spread tents for their temporary accommodation—Edward and Julia went from one to another, asking questions, and giving cakes and dried fruit from their travelling stores to the children.

They were particularly struck with one buxom young girl with laughing eyes and ruddy cheeks, who seemed to be a favorite with the whole company, and not to belong to any one; for she went from tent to tent kneading an oat-meal cake for one woman—dressing a lame arm for another, and performing sundry miscellaneous offices that always fall to the lot of those most useful people who have nothing in particular to do. Julia offered her a piece of cake, by way of introduction, and then asked her name:—“My name is Biddy Burns, an' please you, miss.”

“And who did you come with, Biddy?”

“I left home with my cousin; but it pleased the Lord to take her to himself before we came to Quebec, and she has left such a pretty complement of children to her husband to take care of, that I must e'en shift for myself.”

“Do you like our country, Biddy?” asked Edward.

“Och, my master, I could not miss liking it, ye are all so free and hospitable.”

“But Biddy,” said Julia, “how could you leave your father and mother, and all your friends?”

“Sure it is, miss, if it thrives well with me they will all come after.”

“Sure enough,” said Mrs. Sackville, “these poor Irish do all come after, sooner or later. Are you a catholic, Biddy?”

“I come from the north of Ireland, my leddy.”

“You are a protestant, then?”

“Yes, my leddy; thank God and my mother, that taught me the rasonable truth.”

“Can you read, my good girl?”

“Indeed can I, my leddy. Thanks to the Sunday school, I could read in the bible if I had one, without a blunder.”

“Well, Biddy,” said Mrs. Sackville, who thought it a good opportunity to give a God-speed to the girl's pilgrimage—“here is a bible in my basket—take it, and may it be the guide of your life.”

Biddy poured forth her thanks in many a God-reward-ye, and then after hesitating for a moment, she said, “I wish my leddy would condescend to walk up here a bit, to a poor woman who needs a kind christian word, poor crater.” Mrs. Sackville and the children followed Biddy to a tree which stood a little above the encampment of the Irish, where a woman was sitting on a log with a sick child in her arms, and a boy of five or six beside her.

She was a middle-aged woman, with a face originally plain, and deeply seamed with the small-pox; but withal, there was an expression of honesty and goodness, and of deep sadness, that interested Mrs. Sackville, though at first it failed to draw the attention of the children from their good-humored blithe companion.

“Does this woman belong to your company, Biddy?”

“Bless you, no, my leddy.”—“I thought not,” said Mrs. Sackville, who was struck with the extreme neatness of the woman's appearance, which presented a striking contrast to all the Irish, even to our friend Biddy.—Her child's head was covered with a linen handkerchief—coarse and patched, but white as the driven snow. There was scarcely a thread of the original cloth in her children's clothes—neither was there a hole in them—their faces and hands were perfectly clean, and their hair neatly combed.

“You seem to find it possible, my friend,” said Mrs. Sackville, patting the little boy's face, “to keep your children clean in the most difficult circumstances.” “I try my best, ma'am,” replied the woman. “And a slave, my leddy,” interposed Biddy, “she makes of herself for it. Do you know that when I offered this morning to stay by the childer while she took a bit of sleep, that instead of resting her soul and body, she went and washed her things in the river, and got leave to iron in the house yonder, and did it all as particular as it might have been done for you, my leddy.”

The poor woman was wetting the sick child's lips from a cup of water that stood by her; and she took no notice of Biddy's remark. Mrs. Sackville inquired into the particulars of the child's sickness, which she thought would yield to some common restoratives which she had at hand; and just as she was dispatching Julia for the dressing case which contained them, a little rugged impish looking boy came towards them, throwing himself heels over head, with a segar in his mouth, which he continued smoking while he was making his somersets.—“Come, come, Goody Barton,” said he, without heeding Mrs. Sackville's presence, “come, we must be up and moving. If we don't get over in this boat, I shall disappoint the company at Chippewa to-night.”

“Don't speak so loud, Tristy,” replied the woman, “but take the pack to the boat, and I will follow you.”

“That surely is not your child?” said Mrs. Sackville, as the boy walked off with the bundle singing, at the top of his voice, a very vulgar song, and affecting to reel like a drunken man.

“No, thank God,” said the woman, “he is a poor heaven-forsaken lad, who is going into Canada. He has helped me along from Buffalo, and has offered to carry my bundle to Chippewa.”

It occurred to Mrs. Sackville to caution the woman to be on her guard, for she thought Tristy looked wicked enough for any mischief; but a signal from the boat obliged them all to hasten to the shore. Biddy good naturedly took the eldest boy by the hand and led him to the boat, and then took leave of all her new friends, pouring forth a shower of prayers that God would bless them all, rich and poor.

The woman, whom we shall henceforth call by her name, Mrs. Barton, was reserved in the expression of her feelings; but the tear of gratitude she dropped on Biddy's hand at parting, was an equivalent for the girl's voluble expressions.

There was, in all the poor woman's manner, an unobtrusiveness and reserve uncommon in a person of her humble degree, and it interested Mrs. Sackville more than any solicitation could have done. She ascertained that Mrs. Barton was on her way to Quebec, where she hoped to find her husband.

“And have you the means of getting there?” asked Mrs. Sackville. “It is a great distance, my friend, and you cannot get across Ontario and down the St. Lawrence for a trifle.”

“I know that, madam; but I have some money; and if I find my own country people as kind to me as the people in the States have been, I shall do very well. Every body feels pitiful to a lone woman with little children. If it please God to mend my little girl, I shall go on with good courage.”

Mrs. Sackville commended the poor woman's resolution, and busied herself putting up some medicines for the child, and giving directions about them, and was so occupied with her benevolent duty, that she gave little heed to Edward's continued exclamations. “Oh, mother! how beautiful the colour of the water of the Niagara is!” “Mother, does not it give you sublime feelings to think you are on the Niagara?” “Mother, does not Lake Erie look grand from here?” &c. &c. &c. Suddenly his attention was diverted, and he was attracted to the extremity of the boat, where Tristy, the little “Flibbertigibbet” we have before mentioned, was exhibiting various feats for the amusement of the passengers. He was a little, pale, wizened-face fellow, with a bleared and blood-shot eye, his hair black, strait, and matted to his head, his mouth defiled with tobacco, and in short his whole appearance indicating the depravity of one experienced in vice. He dislocated the joints of his fingers, stood firmly on his head, and performed some of the difficult exploits of a tumbler; and when he had done all this, “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “shall I sing you a song, or pray you a prayer? I'll suit your fancy with either for a sixpence.”

“No, no; none of your prayers, you little son of the old one,” said one of the men; “we shall have your master with the cloven foot after us before we get to the shore: you may sing us a song, though, only let it be a decent one.”

“Oh, well gentlemen, suit yourselves—I am a Jack at all trades, you know—that is to say, at any of the trades my father, that is dead and gone, followed before me.”

“Trades! your father followed no trade, but the trade of the light-fingered gentry.”

“I beg your pardon, sir; my dad was a noted man in his day:—a carpenter, joiner, tooth-drawer, barber, gardener, studying-master, dancing-master, whipping-master, fiddling-master, school-master, music-master, play-actor, &c. &c.—all of which I am yours gentlemen to command. Now for the song:—there is Erie, and my song is Perry's glorious victory.” He then half sung, half recited, a ballad recounting Perry's gallant exploits on the lake.

It was impossible for a compassionate being to see the little outcast without an emotion of pity; or not to be affected by the weak and almost infantine tones of his voice.

“How old are you, child?” asked Mr. Sackville, as the boy concluded his song, and opened his mouth to catch the sixpence that was tossed to him.

“How old? I do not justly remember; but there is my age set down in our family Bible, as my father called it, by his own honored hand, on the day he got through, as I have heard him say, his fourth term of service at the state-castle.”

Mr. Sackville took from the child's hand a filthy little dream-book, on the title-page of which was scrawled, and scarcely legible,—“Tristram McPhelan, born in the Bridewell, city of New-York, on Friday—bad luck to him—March 1807.”

“You are then but eleven years old.”

“Yes sir; and in that time I have seen more of life than many of my betters twice my age. I have been in every state in the Union, and in every city of every state. I have been in six alms-houses, two workhouses, and ten jails, on my own account, besides the privilege of visiting my father in two different state prisons. While my father lived we travelled in company, and now I am obliged (he concluded, bowing to Mr. Sackville,) to put up with what company chance throws in my way.”

Mr. Sackville took Edward by the hand, and turned away, grieved and disgusted. His eye fell on his daughter, who was sitting beside Mrs. Barton, carefully sheltering the sick child from the sun with her parasol, while she nicely prepared an orange and offered it to her. The little sufferer seized it eagerly and devoured it, and then fixed her eyes on Julia and smiled. The first smile of a sick child is electrifying.

“Oh! miss,” said the mother, “does not she seem to say, ‘God bless you,’ though she cannot speak it?”

Julia was delighted with the revival of the child, and with the mother's gratitude, which was even more manifest in her brightened countenance than in her words.

“My medicine,” said Julia, “has worked wonders; if I could but find one more orange, I should quite cure my little patient;” and she zealously ransacked the carriage, and turned out every basket and bag in the hope of finding another, but all in vain. Disappointed, she turned to her mother,—“Cannot we, mama,” she said, “do something more for this poor woman before we leave her?”

“I do not see that we can, my dear,” replied Mrs. Sackville, “I have offered to pay her stage fare hence to Newark, but she says she has money, and declines receiving any thing.”

“Oh, then she is not obliged to go on foot—I could not endure to think of the child's being exposed to this hot sun.”

“That, I am afraid, cannot be helped; for the mother does go to Newark on foot. I could not persuade her to ride. She insists that she is very strong, and that her child is so wasted she scarcely feels the burthen of it; and besides, she travels but a very short distance in a day.”

Julia paused for a moment. She was very reluctant to give up the point, and finally, as the last resource of her ingenuity, she proposed that her mother should take the woman into the carriage. “We can just squeeze her in for a few miles, mama; she looks so perfectly nice, that even uncle can't object; and I want so to know if the little girl continues to get better.”

Mrs. Sackville could scarcely refrain from smiling at Julia's odd proposition to take in a way-faring woman and two children, but it had its source in such kind feelings, that she would not ridicule it. “I am afraid, my dear Julia,” she said, “that it is quite impossible to gratify you. You know your uncle already complains of wanting elbow-room.”

“Well then, mother, just listen to one more proposal:—take the woman into the carriage, and let Edward and me walk two or three miles. Three miles will be quite a lift to her, and Ned will lead the little boy.”

Mrs. Sackville could not resist Julia's eagerness, and after some consultation with her husband and brother, she consented to the arrangement, though it involved them in some inconvenience and delay. It was as much a matter of principle as feeling with her, never to permit her own personal accommodation to interfere with the claims of humanity. A child is more impressed with a single example of disinterestedness, than with a hundred admonitions on the subject. Mrs. Sackville had some difficulty in overcoming the scruples of Mrs. Barton, who felt a modest awkwardness at seating herself in the carriage with her superiors; but when they reached the Canada shore, the necessary arrangements were made, and she being at last persuaded, on the ground of gratifying the children, took their place in the carriage, and it drove off and left Edward and Julia to follow with little Richard Barton, and Tristram with the wallet.

Mr. Morris was one of those thrifty people, who can never see any necessity of poverty, and though he was in the main kind hearted, he was rather inclined to be severe in his judgment of the wretched. Poverty was always suspicious in his eyes. No sooner were they seated and well under way, than he said, “It is a mystery to me, my good woman, why people who have not any spare cash should always be travelling. Sometimes they are going up country to see a relation—and sometimes down country. All their kindred are sure to live at their antipodes.”

Mrs. Barton kept her eyes downcast on her child, and made no reply. “Now,” continued Mr. Morris, “what use or pleasure there can be in lugging children from Dan to Beersheba, is more than I can imagine.”

“God knows, I do not travel for the pleasure of it,” meekly replied the poor woman.

“Oh, no, no—I dare say not—I dare say not”—said Mr. Morris, who had whiffed away his pet with the first breath. “You are of another sort. But, pray, my friend, what are you travelling for?”

“To join my husband at Quebec.”

“Your husband at Quebec—and you here! how the deuce came that about?”

“My child has fallen asleep,” replied Mrs. Barton, turning to Mrs. Sackville; “and if you, ma'am, will condescend to hear the cause of my being here—there is no reason that I should be loath to tell it; only you know, ma'am, one does not like to be forward about speaking of troubles to strangers—and those so kind as you, it seems like begging, which I am not forward to do.”

Mrs. Sackville assured Mrs. Barton, that she felt great interest in knowing how she came into her present circumstances.

“My husband,” she said, “was a corporal in the fortieth ——. We were in Spain through all Wellington's campaigns, and had just crossed the Pyrennees into France, and were thinking of going home to England again, when the regiment was ordered to America. This was no great disappointment to me—I have no known relation in the world but my husband and child—then I had but the one. My husband is a sober man, who fears God and serves his king with all his heart: and his pay with my earnings, (for I did up all the linen of our officers) furnished us a decent living. When we arrived at Quebec, our regiment was sent into Upper Canada.

“Soon after we came to Newark, a detachment from the De Watteville regiment was ordered to make an attack on Fort Erie. In this detachment was a corporal, a great friend to us, who once saved my boy from drowning. At the moment he was ordered off, he had a child seemingly at the last gasp. The poor man was distracted like, and my husband, who had that tender heart that he could never bide to look on misery, offered to go as his substitute, and he went. You've doubtless heard of the sortie of Erie: that dreadful night my husband was taken prisoner. He got a letter written to me from Buffalo, to tell me all his ill-fortune. He had been mistaken by some American soldiers for a deserter from the American army; and not being with his own regiment when he was taken, or even among his acquaintance, he could not prove who he was. He had been ironed, and was to be taken to Greenbush, near Albany.

“He entreated me to procure from his captain, the necessary papers to prove that he was a true man, and to forward them to him. Our captain was a great friend to us; he gave me the writings, and I determined myself to go to Greenbush. I met with some troubles, and much kindness by the way. The people in your States, ma'am, are the freest and the kindest I have ever seen. They seemed to me like God's stewards, always ready to open their storehouses to the naked and hungry. I had money enough to pay for my boy's riding the most of the way; for myself I seldom felt weary, but pressed on beyond my strength; still I did not feel it till I got to Greenbush, and was told my husband had escaped from confinement the week before. Whither he had gone, no one knew, but all told me that if he was not retaken, he had probably reached Canada.

“I would have come straight home again, but my strength was utterly gone. I have not much recollection from this time: I remember having a fear that they would take my boy from me, but all seems as a dream, till I came to myself two months after in the alms-house in Albany. From that time I remained in a low wretched state, for four months, when this poor baby was born into this world of trouble.”

Here the poor woman gave way to a burst of tears, which seemed to be a relief to her full heart; for afterwards, she proceeded with more composure. “Many months passed before I was able to do any thing for myself. It pleased God to hear my prayer for patience; and though I was often without any hope that times would ever mend with me, I was kept from fretting. You are very kind to feel for me, but I will not tire you with all my ups and downs for the last three years. I have sent many letters into Canada, but have never received any return. My heart sometimes misgives me, and I think my husband has gone to Europe—or maybe is dead.”

“But, why,” asked Mrs. Sackville, “have you remained so long in the States?”

“O, ma'am, I was afraid to undertake the journey with my poor baby, who has always been but delicate, and I was determined not to leave Albany, where I had made many kind friends, till I had earned something to help us on our journey. I know how to turn my hands to almost any kind of work; and the last year has prospered so well with me, that when I left Albany I had forty dollars. At Buffalo my poor baby was taken down; and I have been obliged to spend ten dollars; with the rest I hope to get to Quebec; and if worst comes to worst, I may there find friends to send me to Europe.”

The poor woman's story was not one of unparalleled misfortunes, but it was unusually interesting to her hearers—there was so much resolution and mildness blended in her countenance, such perfect cleanliness in her coarse apparel, and such an evident solicitude to avoid any exaggeration, or even display of her troubles, that could be an appeal to the charity of her auditors, that when she concluded, they felt convinced of her merit, and deeply interested in her welfare. They were now arrived at the inn, where they were to await the children, who arrived in the course of an hour, heated and dusty—but declaring they had never a more delightful walk.

“Lord bless you, Miss,” exclaimed Mrs. Barton, “you've heated yourself to that degree, that the blood seems ready to burst from your cheeks. I shall never forgive myself if you get sick by it.”

“Oh never fear,” replied Julia, “I did not feel the heat at all.”

“But there is such a thick sickly feeling in the air to-day.”

“Sickly feeling,” exclaimed Edward, “I am sure I thought the air was never fresher and sweeter.”

“You can now understand,” said Mrs. Sackville, speaking in a low voice to her children, “the charm of the ring in the Fairy tale, bestowed by the benevolent Genius; which whenever worn, produced a clear sky, a smooth path and fragrant air. There is a happiness, my dear children, in the simplest act of genuine kindness, which is much more than a compensation for the loss of any gratification of taste. The relief of this poor woman, and the sweet sleep into which her child has been lulled by the motion of the carriage, have quite reconciled me to the delay of the sight of the Falls; for which I confess I began to feel a little but here comes your uncle, full of concern about something.”

Mr. Morris entered the room in great perturbation. “Here is a pretty spot of work,” said he. “I believe in my soul, Mrs. Barton, that that scamp Tristy has gone off with your bundle.”

“Gone off with it!—God forbid!” exclaimed the poor woman,—“my money was all in it.”

“Oh uncle,” said Edward, “he has not gone off with it;—he laid himself down under a tree in the wood just back, and said he would follow on as soon as he had rested him.”

“Rested him! a mere pretence to get rid of you—you should have had more discretion than to have trusted him, Ned;—but when was ever discretion found in a boy?”

“But what reason, brother, have you to think he has gone off?” asked Mrs. Sackville.

Mr. Morris said there had a man just come over the road, of whom he had inquired if he had seen him:—he had not, but he was certain he should have observed him if he had been by the road side. Mr. Morris had despatched a servant on horseback in pursuit of him, and he begged Mrs. Barton to calm herself till his return.

The poor woman's agitation could not be allayed as easily as it had been excited:—she said nothing; but she became as pale as death, and trembled so excessively, that Mrs. Sackville took her child from her arms and laid it on a bed.

Mr. Morris's compassion once excited, was never stinted. “Bless you, woman,” he whispered to Mrs. Barton, “don't tremble so. If the little imp has really made off, your loss shall be made up to you. Come, cheer up—I have engaged a place for you and your children in a return carriage, and you will all be in Newark to-night, safe and snug.”

“God bless you, sir,” replied Mrs. Barton. “I am ashamed of myself; but my courage and strength seem quite spent.”

At this instant, Edward, who had gone out on the first notice of the boy's delinquency, returned, shouting, “He's coming, he's coming;” and directly the messenger made his appearance with the wallet unharmed, and followed by Tristram, who came doggedly on muttering, “that it was a poor reward for lugging the old woman's bundle to be hunted for a thief.”

“Stop your clamor, Tristy,” said Mr. Morris, “the devil shall have his due; there is a shilling for you, which is full as much as your character is worth.”

“I don't know as to that,” replied the boy, pocketing the shilling: “those that have much character can do as they please, but I have so little, that I set a high price on it.”

The carriage was now ready in which Mrs. Barton was to proceed, and her friends saw her depart cheered and comforted by their kindness, and themselves enriched by the opportunity they had improved of imitating our heavenly Benefactor by ‘raising the sinking heart, and strengthening the knees that were ready to fail.’

After our travellers were again on their way, Mr. Morris said he did not at all like Tristram's look, when he said Goody Barton would remember him the next time she felt the weight of her wallet. “The little rascal said too, that he had changed his mind, and was going back to the States—putting that and that together, I am afraid his evil fingers have been inside the poor woman's bundle.”

Julia was sure he could not be so wicked—she had herself observed the bundle, and that it was very nicely sewed.

Mrs. Sackville hoped and believed that there was no harm done to the poor woman's property; and the concern of the party for their protegée, gradually gave place to their admiration of the beauties of their ride, and the animated expectation of seeing the Falls.

Edward declared that his ears already began to tingle,—and after they passed Chippewa, Julia resolutely shut her eyes, for fear of having the first impression weakened by the imperfect glimpses that could be caught of the cataract from the road.

We hope our young readers do not think us so presumptuous as to attempt to give them a description of the Falls of Niagara; one of the sublimest spectacles with which this fair earth is embellished. Neither can we attempt to define the emotions of our travellers. We find in Edward's and Julia's journals, noted with an accuracy and taste that does them great credit, all the constituent parts of this great whole—a poet or a painter might perhaps weave them into a beautiful picture.

The vehement dashing of the rapids—the sublime falls—the various hues of the mass of waters—the snowy whiteness, and the deep bright green—the billowy spray that veils in deep obscurity the depths below—the verdant island that interposes between the two falls, half veiled in a misty mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye and the spirit may repose on it—the little island on the brink of the American fall, that looks amidst the commotion of the waters like the sylvan vessel of a woodland nymph gaily sailing onward; or as if the wish of the Persian girl were realized, and the ‘little isle had wings;’—a thing of life and motion that the spirit of the waters had inspired.

The profound caverns with their overarching rocks—the quiet habitations along the margin of the river—peaceful amid all the uproar, as if the voice of the Creator had been heard, saying “It is I, be not afraid.”—The green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and overlooks Table-rock—the deep and bright verdure of the foliage—every spear of grass that penetrates the crevices of the rocks, gemmed by the humid atmosphere, and sparkling in the sun-beams—the rainbow that rests on the mighty torrent—a symbol of the smile of God upon his wondrous work.

“What is it, mother?” asked Edward, as he stood with his friends on Table-rock, where they had remained gazing on the magnificent scene for fifteen minutes without uttering a syllable, “what is it, mother, that makes us all so silent?”

“It is the spirit of God moving on the face of the waters—it is this new revelation to our senses of his power and majesty which ushers us, as it were, into his visible presence, and exalts our affections above language.

“What, my dear children, should we be, without the religious sentiment that is to us as a second sight, by which we see in all this beauty the hand of the Creator; by which we are permitted to join in this hymn of nature; by which, I may say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of our Lord? Without it we should be like those sheep, who are at this moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice, alike unconscious of all these wonders, and of their divine Original. This religious sentiment is in truth, Edward, that promethean fire that kindles nature with a living spirit, infuses life and expression into inert matter, and invests the mortal with immortality.” Mrs. Sackville's eye was upraised, and her countenance illumined with a glow of devotion that harmonized with the scene. “It is, my dear children,” she continued, “this religious sentiment, enlightened and directed by reason, that allies you to external nature, that should govern your affections, direct your pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make you feel, by its celestial influence, that the kingdom is within you; but,” she added smiling, after a momentary pause, “this temple does not need a preacher.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Sackville; “but the language of nature sometimes needs an interpreter to such young observers as Ned and Julia.”

“That it does, papa,” exclaimed Edward, whose exalted feeling was gradually subsiding to its natural level; “and there are people, too, older than Julia and I, that I think need an interpreter. That Yorkshireman, for instance, who lives in the stone house just at the turn of the road as we came down from Forsyth's, said to me, ‘Well, young master, this is a mighty fine sight to come and see, but you would be sick enough of it if you lived here. It seems, when I am lying on my bed at night, like an everlasting thunder-storm, such a roaring from the Falls and dropping from the trees: and in winter my poor beasts are covered with icicles. I wish some of the quality that cry the place up, and come half the world over to see it, would change births with my wife and me,’ and so he went on railing till I ran away from him to overtake you.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mr. Sackville; “the sentiment, ‘Il n'y a rien de beau que l'utile,’[3] is quite excusable in a laborer. I think, Ned, I feel more disposed to pity than to blame your Yorkshireman.”

[3] There is nothing but the useful which is beautiful.

“Well, papa, what do you think of that party of city shop-keepers who dined at the inn with us to-day? I heard one of the ladies say, ‘I have been so disappointed in my journey.’ I dropped my knife and fork, and exclaimed, ‘Disappointed, madam! does not the fall look as high as you expected?’ ‘Oh, child,’ she replied, laughing, ‘I was not speaking of the fall; but I find it is quite too early in the season to travel in the country. I have not seen a roast pig or a broiled chicken since I left the city.’ What do you think of that, papa?”

“Why I think, my dear, she is a vulgar woman, who travels because others do; and is naturally disappointed in not meeting with the only circumstances that could give her pleasure.”

“There's Mrs. Hilton, papa, who, I am sure, is not vulgar—at least she is as rich as Crœsus—and I heard her say to a gentleman, that if she could have remained at the Springs, and then could have gone home and said she had been to the Falls, she should have been glad; for she was sure no one came here but for the name of it.”

“Mrs. Hilton is of the class of the vulgar rich, among whom vulgarity is quite as obvious, and much more disgusting, than with the vulgar poor. But come, dear Ned; the faults and follies of others is a theme scarcely worthy of this place; and just at the moment that you are enjoying this festival of nature, you must take care you do not commit the pharisaic fault, and thank God that you are not as these people, without reflecting that Providence has arranged the circumstances which have made the difference.”

“But, papa,” said Julia, “it would not be wrong, would it, for Edward to feel that there is a difference?”

“Perhaps not, provided the feeling is properly tempered with humility and gratitude; but it is far safer to be in the habit of comparing yourselves with your superiors, than your inferiors.”

“It may be safer, papa,” said Julia, “but”—

“But what, my love?”

“It is not half so natural.”

“Nor so pleasant,” interposed Edward.

“Well, my children, I hope you will make it habitual, and then it will be natural. For the present I am satisfied that you speak frankly your opinions and feelings, without disguise or affectation.”

Thus these vigilant parents extracted some moral good from every object and every scene; and at that early age, when most children are thoughtless of the future, theirs were constantly directed to virtue, which they were taught is immortal in its nature, is man's support and solace through all the vicissitudes of life, and his crown of glory when the ‘terrestrial puts on the celestial.’

Our travellers remained at the Falls for a week, that they might become familiar with them, see them by the rising and the setting sun; by daylight, and moonlight, and starlight, in all the radiance of the clear, full day, and in mists and storm; and then, after offering a Te Deum from the temple of their hearts, they left them with beautiful and imperishable pictures traced on their memories.

In following the windings of the Niagara to Newark, they passed the celebrated heights of Queenstown, ‘where ceas'd the swift their race, where fell the strong;’ but even then, though then so recent, there were no traces of the disastrous battle fought there. The children, whose home was in a hill-country, and who valued a mountain as much as a New-Englander does a ‘water privilege,’ rambled over the heights, and gazed delighted on the green Niagara, which, escaped from its rocky prison, rejoices in its freedom, sweeps freely and gracefully around the bluff promontories that indent its course, flows past the headland, where Fort Niagara guards the American shore, and enters Lake Ontario, which stretches, sparkling in the distance,

“To where the sky
Stoops, and shuts in th' exploring eye.”

Edward had, in common with most spirited boys, a natural taste for military exploits. “I think,” he said to his mother, “that a coward might play the hero on these heights, or at Lundie's-lane. Only think, mother, of fighting within the sound of the roaring of the Falls: would it not give you grand feelings?”

“I think, Edward, if I could hear the Falls at such a moment, they would seem to me to speak in a voice of rebuke, rather than encouragement.”

“O, mother, you never seem to admire courage; but I suppose it is because you are a woman.”

“No, my dear: women have been accused of having rather an undue admiration for what you mean by courage—fighting courage; but I confess that war seems to me a violation of the law of God, and it appears a profanation of such beautiful scenes as these, to convert them into fields of battle.”

When they reached Newark, the party walked up to Fort George; a slight embankment, surrounded by a palisade, is still dignified by that name. “This palisade as they call it, Ned,” said Mr. Morris, “we should scarcely think a sufficient defence against the batteries of pigs and chickens.”

“It has served, though, to keep the yankees at bay,” said a soldier, gruffly, who was cutting up Canada thistles, and who had suspended his labour for a moment, to regard the strangers.

“A fair hit, friend,” said Mr. Morris; “but all our fighting is over now, and forgotten I hope. This work you are doing here, cutting off these thistles, is far better than cutting off heads.”

“It is far aisier, sir,” replied the man, with a slight curling of the lip, which betrayed a professional contempt for Mr. Morris's preference of the plough-share over the sword; then turning towards the gate he called to a little boy who was just entering it—“Come, come Dick, what do you gaze at, boy? bring me the basket.”

The boy, without heeding the command, dropped the basket; and uttering a cry between joy and surprise, scampered off in the direction of a cottage, or rather hovel, which stood just without the palisade.

“That is Richard Barton!—that is certainly Richard Barton!” exclaimed the children in one breath.

“Surely is it Richard Barton,” said the soldier.

“Is his mother, here? Has he found his father?” asked Edward impatiently; while all the party drew nearer the soldier, anxious to learn the fate of their humble friend.

“Ay, his mother is in by there, poor cratur; but his father has been gone since the summer after the war, when the 40th was sent from Canada—where, God knows—there's none but he that made them can keep track of a British regiment: one year they are here with the setting sun, and then off to where he rises—shifting and changing like the waves of the sea, beating from one world to another; and I should know it by rason that I myself was fighting, and baiting gentaly under Wellington on the sunny side of the Pyrennees in one month, and the next comes an order and whips us off for Canada in the twinkling of an eye, among the indians and the yankees, who know nothing about fighting,” he concluded, glancing his eye at Mr. Morris, “according to the civil rules of war.”

“Poor, Mrs. Barton!” said Mrs. Sackville. “I am grieved at her disappointment, though I expected it.”

“Oh, do let us go in and see her,” said Julia.

“We will wait a moment, my dear,” replied her mother; “her little boy must have told her that we were here, and I think she will come out to us.”

“She'll not be right free to come before you,” said the soldier, “if, as I now partly suspect, you are the gentlemen and ladies that were so hospitable like to her.” The man now doffed his cap, and stood with it in his hand, with an expression of respect in his manner far different from the hostile air he had at first assumed.

“But, why not, my friend, come before us?” asked Mrs. Sackville. “I trust she has nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Ashamed! no, thank God—it would be hard indeed if she had to bear the burthen of shame with her other misfortunes; but though a soldier's wife, she has an English spirit, and a proud one; and she says, while she has her health and her hands, she will never be seen asking charity; and that destitute is her condition, that as she said to-day, to make her case known to christian people, is asking charity of them.”

“Do, mother, let us go now and see her,” again interposed Julia.

“Stop, a moment, my love,” replied Mrs. Sackville; and then turning again to the soldier—“You say she is utterly destitute; but when she left us, she said she had a considerable sum of money.”

“And she spake the truth, ma'am—or, what is the same, she thought she did; but a little limb of the old one, saving your presence, my lady, had fingered all the poor cratur had been earning in three years, in as many minutes, and was off to the States with it.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Mr. Morris, who had been intently listening—“the son of Belial—I told you so—I knew the rascal had it.”

“So dame Barton said one of the gentlemen told her; but the bundle was all tight and snug, for the little devil had sewed it up again, and she did not examine it till she come to look for the money to pay the captain of a schooner, who had agreed to take her down the lakes: and just think, my lady, at that moment what an overcast it was.”

“That mischief was done,” said Edward, as soon as he had an opportunity of speaking, “when you and I, Julia, left that little wretch Tristy in the wood. I shall always think we were to blame for leaving him.”

“Does the poor woman,” asked Mrs. Sackville, “still think of returning to Quebec?”

“To Quebec! ah, madam, and to the world's end, but she'll find her husband if he is above ground. She is that resolute, that neither wind nor tide can turn her. If she was left on a naked island in mid ocean, she would contrive to get off from it.”

“Come, children,” said Mrs. Sackville, “we will just leave your father and uncle to finish their survey here, while we look in upon our poor friend.”

“Well, go on mother,” said Edward, “I will overtake you; first I must run up to the flag-staff and get at least a clover stalk for a memorial of the gallant Brock who is buried there.”

“And I will overtake you too, mother,” said Julia, falling back with Edward.

The soldier's eye followed the children: “God bless them—God bless them!” said he, “that is better than a monument.”