CHAPTER XXXII.

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THE

NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE

AND

BAY STATE MONTHLY.

OLD SERIES MARCH, 1886. NEW SERIES

VOL. IV. NO. 3 VOL. I. NO. 3.

Copyright, 1886, by Bay State Monthly Company. All rights reserved.

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved

to the end of the article.

Along the Kennebec

BY HENRY S. BICKNELL

[Illustration]

The first glimpse of the Kennebec, on approaching it from the sea,

presents to the stranger a barren and uninviting picture. Hemmed in on

either side by low, rocky isles, studded with scraggy pines that have

long defied old Atlantic's blasts, it must have been a dreary and

disappointing sight, indeed, to the little band of voyagers who were

seeking a home in the new world over two centuries ago. Many treacherous

sand-bars reach out to the circuitous channel that extends seaward a

mile or more, and numerous wrecks along shore bear evidence of their

hidden dangers. Before the age of skilful pilots and steam fog-whistles,

the mariner must have had a busy time with his lead in threading this

watery pathway, unaided by a single sign or sound from shore. A few

days' sojourn among the charming bays and inlets dispels all feelings of

lonesomeness, and unfolds a scene of continued interest and keen

enjoyment. On a pleasant morning, from the summit of any hilltop the

view is delightful. Scores of crafts, from the saucy mackerel-catcher

to the huge three-master, are leaving their anchorage under the shadows

of Sequin, and the lofty white shaft of the lighthouse above looms clear

and grand against the sky. At the weirs along the river fishermen are

pulling in their nets, which glimmer with their night's catch. The

bustling little tugs, with half a dozen "icers" in tow, are struggling

nobly against the tide. The merry shouts of bathers on Popham beach

mingle with the roar and rush of the incoming tide. The dark pine-clad

hills trending northward form a fitting background to the scene. A fine

government light on Pond Island guards the entrance to the river. The

cliffs on the ocean side are quite precipitous, and rise to a height of

sixty feet, over which the spray is dashed in severe storms. Why it was

named Pond Island has always been a mystery, for the drinking-water even

is caught from the showers that fall upon the light-keeper's roof. From

the summit the island slopes to the western shore, where a small cove

affords the only landing-place, and in rough weather great skill is

required in embarking safely. We were informed that the island furnished

pasturage sufficient for one cow, but, from a close observation, it was

evident that she must be content with two meals a day, or get an

occasional donation from the meadows on the mainland. Twice a year the

district inspector makes his rounds, and, during the week previous to

his visit, the entire family devote all their energy in scouring and

polishing, until everything about the place, from the doorknob to the

lenses, fairly sparkles with brilliancy. On these occasions, the

light-keeper is seen in his best mood, and is the perfection of

politeness and urbanity, for then a hope of reappointment is betrayed in

every movement. Across the channel, Stage and Salter's Islands, and the

Georgetown shore, forms the eastern boundary of the river, and is the

home of numerous camping and fishing parties during the summer. Here the

artist may find many rare bits of picturesque scenery that are almost

unknown. Further up the river, on the left, Hunnewell's Point with its

magnificent beach stretches away for miles to the west. At its northern

extremity stands Fort Popham, named after the first English explorer who

visited the coast. It was erected some years ago, but has never been

completed, and, as proven, the government saved money by neglecting it.

Imposing and impregnable as it might have been then, it would now offer

but a feeble resistance to the onslaught of modern naval warfare.

Numerous pyramids of cannon balls are scattered about within the

enclosure, and many old-fashioned guns have been rusting away in peace

for the past decade. The interior of the fortress is grass-grown, and

two lonesome sentinels in faded regalia guard this useless property, and

draw their regular wages from generous Uncle Sam. They are very

important in their manner, and allow no intruders on the premises. A few

years ago two Harvard students ventured within the sacred walls, and one

of them was fatally shot by the over-zealous officer. Popham Beach has

become a favorite summer resort within the past few years, and boasts

two hotels, and daily mails, and steamers to the outside world.

[Illustration: Pond Island Light.]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: FORT POPHAM.]

[Illustration: THE STORE, FORT POPHAM.]

Fishing forms the chief industry among the natives, although, in years

past, when the shipping of ice became extensive on the river, and

brought immense numbers of vessels here, piloting at once became a great

source of profit. In those days bright visions of wealth suddenly

dazzled their eyes, but the bonanza soon faded, for the advent of the

tugboats dispelled their dream, and ruined their financial calculations.

The fishing-smacks then tossed idly at their moorings for weeks at a

time, and the straggling garden patches among the rocks passed

unnoticed, while the owners were rowing seaward in search for incoming

vessels. Oftentimes they embarked in their wherries soon after midnight,

and early morn found them five or six miles from shore. Everybody

suddenly developed into an experienced navigator, and curious schemes

were originated in the endeavor to outwit each other. This vocation is

no longer profitable, and the natives have relapsed into their former

monotony. So far away from the sound of a church-bell, it would be no

easy matter to tell when the Sabbath morn arrives, were it not for the

radical change that comes over these hardy longshoremen. The clatter and

jingle of the ponderous family razor, as it flies back and forth on the

time-worn strap suspended from the kitchen mantlepiece, is the first

signal that ushers in the day. The change is an outward one at least,

for then the "biled" shirt with high dickey, the long-tailed black coat,

and ancient "stovepipe" take the place of the familiar reefer and

sou'wester. The low hum of hymns is heard, and refrains from "I want to

be a Daniel" float out on the air. Gradually increasing in volume and

earnestness, the voices swell into a quaint and weird melody. From all

directions small boats are crossing river and bay to the little red

school-house at Popham. Moved, we confess, more by curiosity than by any

thirst for religious consolation, we joined the procession. Gathered

within the cheerless room, unadorned, save here and there by

wretchedly-executed prints of early patriots who would scarcely be

recognized by their own friends, old and young alike presented a

distressed and penitent appearance.

[Illustration]

All thoughts of the beautiful world outside were overshadowed by the

feelings of doubt and fear within. In the absence of a regular preacher,

each one, beginning with the eldest and grayest of the flock, poured out

a pitiful story of sins, and prayed for strength to guide their

uncertain steps. The lamentations grew louder and stronger, and the

tears flowed fast and free, and the little ones shook with fear at the

dismal picture unfolded to their already terrified minds. Finally,

overcome by their highly-wrought excitement, they subsided into a

prolonged and painful silence, broken only by sobs and moans. Passing

out from the dismal service to the green meadows that stretch away to

the sea, our little party gave a sigh of relief, and the air seemed

purer, and the sky brighter than ever. On our return we passed one of

the worst self-accused sinners busily hauling in the cast catch from his

weir along the shore. Tears still stood upon his furrowed cheeks, while

religiously apologizing for his seeming wickedness. His excuses were

lavish with regret, but we could but feel that his sincerity was less

than his love of the mighty dollar.

A few years ago the natives were thrown into a state of the greatest

excitement by the discovery of valuable deposits of feldspar on one of

their rocky farms. The news spread quickly along the river, and the

presence of capitalists in their midst lent additional interest to the

prospective bonanza. The fishing business again came to a standstill,

and the old settlers looked upon each other as bloated bond-holders.

Such a drilling and blasting was never seen before in these parts, and

soon the whole territory was dotted with huge mounds of imaginary ore.

Farms that could scarcely be given away suddenly possessed enormous

values in the minds of their lucky owners. Some of the mines were

developed extensively, and shipments began which have continued at

intervals, but only a few of them furnished the best quality. The spar

is shipped to the mills in New Jersey, where it is used for glazing

crockery. Rare specimens of beryl are often found by curiosity-seekers

among the quartz.

[Illustration: ACROSS THE MARSH, INDIAN POINT.]

[Illustration: HARRINGTON'S LANDING.]

About two miles above Popham the river widens into a considerable bay,

which offers safe and spacious anchorage for vessels of all sizes. It

bears the unpretentious name of Parker's Flats, but when a fleet of

half a hundred unfurl their sails to the morning breeze, the bay becomes

a stirring and imposing scene. Upon the left bank is Harrington's

Landing, one of the noted landmarks in this region and the point of

departure to the outside world. The elder Harrington has been something

of an autocrat among the natives, and is one of the famous characters on

the river. He was once elected a member of the legislature, but after

taking his seat his importance seemed to be unappreciated by his

associates, and he obtained leave of absence and quickly returned to

this more genial spot. He was short but very portly, and his voice

contained many of the elements of a fog-horn. It is related that years

ago, while piloting a schooner out to sea, he fell over the stern into

the river. His boys put off in a skiff to the rescue, but being so

ponderous it was impossible to pull him in without upsetting the boat,

so putting a rope around his body they towed him ashore, not much the

worse off for his sudden bath. This colony has always been a prolific

field for the census collector, and it is doubtful if any authentic

figures as to the number of little Harringtons were ever obtained. They

swarmed about the place like so many bees. One of them whom we had

formerly noticed seemed to be missing, and on inquiring of the old man

he appeared bewildered. After reflecting a few moments he exclaimed,

"Oh! it seems to me he got 'schronched' last spring 'tween the wharf and

schooner!"

[Illustration: Fiddlers Reach.]

A cold nor'easter compelled us to pass the night here, and a long

wretched night it was. We encamped in a fireless, cheerless room, and

fought a small army of insects and mice, till the first streaks of dawn

enabled us to vacate our quarters. The tumult and squabble overhead

continued at intervals through the night and rose above the howling of

the storm without. Descending the creaky stairway, we found the old lady

stripping fish for our breakfast. A number of pigs and fowl were

rummaging about the kitchen at will. Piles of garments were stacked up

in the four corners of the room, where they were sorted over and over

again, as each one of the boys emerged from above. Not wishing to spoil

our appetite we kept out of sight till breakfast was ready, and the

ceremony of eating was performed as rapidly as possible. We were very

hungry, and ate with our eyes nearly closed, and conversation was

anything but hilarious. For years the huge flat-bottomed scow plied back

and forth to the steamers, and the skipper enjoyed a monopoly of the

business, and ruled his motley crew with an iron hand. Gradually old age

began to weaken his power, and the sons overthrew his authority and

pushed him aside. All hands became captain and crew at once, and amid a

medley of commands and crash of baggage, embarking got to be both

exciting and perilous.

The river was discovered by the French, under Du Mont, in 1604, and

possession taken in the name of the king of France. They had already

planted a colony at Quebec, and were led to believe, from meagre

accounts of the Indians, which were strengthened by the magnitude of the

river and the great force of its current, that they had found another

route to their Canadian possessions. They made no extended explorations

at this time, on account of the hostilities of the Indians, and resigned

all attempt to maintain their claims to a region rich in furs and

fisheries. Three years later the English, commanded by Capt. Geo.

Popham, landed on this shore and made some attempts to form a

settlement, but the extreme severity of the following winter discouraged

their ambitions and caused abandonment of the project. The English,

however, renewed their efforts in 1614, and sent the celebrated Capt.

John Smith, with two ships, to establish a permanent colony here. He

made a map of the territory and gave it the name of New England. The

trade with the natives became at once of considerable value, and

friendly relations were established for some time, which enabled the

colonists to obtain a better knowledge of the value of their new

discoveries. The powerful tribe of Canibas Indians occupied the lands on

both sides of the river for a long distance. It is sometimes spelled

Kennebis, from which the stream derives its name. At a point a short

distance below the city of Bath, the river makes a sudden turn, which

discloses the entrance to the Valley of the Kennebec. At once the

scenery changes from the barren and rocky shores to one of broad and

fertile acres.

This sharp bend of the river has always been known as "Fiddler's Reach."

Tradition says that in early days a band of explorers, who were

searching along the river, passed through the "Reach," and came upon the

broad valley so unexpectedly that their joy and surprise were unbounded.

One of the sailors climbed out upon the bowsprit and began to fiddle a

tune in honor of the discovery. Either by the flapping of a sail or by

his own carelessness he was knocked overboard and drowned. The oldest

inhabitants place implicit confidence in the legend, and the title will

always cling to the spot. Now and then a little neglected graveyard

comes into view, and the moss-covered shafts bear quaint inscriptions.

With considerable difficulty we deciphered the following lines:--

Brothers and sisters, as you pass by:

As you are now so once was I.

As I am now so you will be.

Prepare to die and follow me.

The facts were as cold as the stone on which the words were chiselled,

and startling as well; so we turn to pleasanter scenes.

Several little streams flow into the lower Kennebec, on which are

situated sleepy fishing villages, that once were the scenes of activity

and prosperity. Upon the shores of these winding streams many a noble

vessel was reared, and the light of the forge reflected the hopes and

ambitions of a busy people. When the ship-building industry received its

death-blow, a sudden change took place, and silence has reigned supreme

to this day. The event seemed to blast the energies of the population,

and a Rip Van Winkle stillness settled down upon these once stirring

scenes. Scarred and weather-bronzed sailors idly dream away the passing

hours, waiting in vain for a revival of the once happy days.

The light of the forge has died away,

The anvil's ringing voice is still,

And the bell in the church upon the hill

Mournfully tolls for a by-gone day.

Where once numerous fleets discharged their cargoes from the Indies, now

only an occasional "smack" is seen. Warehouses and piers alike have gone

to decay, and the streets are grass-grown with neglect. As suddenly as

this lamentable event occurred, another change was rapidly wrought, when

the ice business received such a wonderful start, some fifteen years

ago.

Although ice had been shipped abroad to a limited extent years

previously, the possibilities of untold wealth had never before dazzled

the vision. Rude storehouses began to rise on every hand, which have

since given place to extensive and even handsome structures. A perfect

furor was created along the river by the brilliant prospect of a

gigantic bonanza. Hundreds of storehouses of immense proportions were

erected during the summer months, and for several successive winters the

river and adjacent streams were the scene of a feverish excitement.

Every dollar that could be obtained was invested in a claim, and some

farmers upon the shores mortgaged their possessions in the desire to

embark in the enterprise. The ice-crop had sustained such a total

failure upon the Hudson, for one or two seasons, that the Kennebec

furnished the only extensive field for this product. In many cases later

on, however, the greed for gain overbalanced prudence in holding the

harvest for fancy prices; and as other sections again furnished their

share of the article, many small fortunes dwindled away as rapidly as

they came. The business has since fallen into the control of large

companies, who own their fleets of vessels and tugboats, but reap only a

moderate profit on their investment. The scenes are yet lively and

picturesque, and add much to the charms of the locality.

Sufficient capital, combined with the highest skill and the widest

experience, and the Kennebec would soon become a worthy rival of the

famous Clyde. Ship-building has not been altogether abandoned, but it is

only a shadow of its former greatness. The river at this point attains

its greatest width. The opposite shore is the western boundary of the

town of Woolwich, which has always remained under the quiet rule of

agriculture, and made no attempts to enter the field of commerce.

Capital has been sparingly invested in manufactures; and although her

people have the prestige of wealth and brains, Bath will undoubtedly

continue for years to come as she is to-day. She is the natural head of

the lower Kennebec, which embraces so many charming nooks and corners

in its winding way to the sea. The remaining beauties and spots of

interest of the river will be treated in a future article, on "The Upper

Kennebec."

From the western extremity of Fiddler's Reach the city of Bath stretches

northward for several miles, fringing the waterfront with its scores of

docks and ship-yards. Years ago nearly the entire city was hidden from

view by the lofty frames and hulls of vessels upon the stocks. The air

was freighted with the merry music of countless hammers, and

Covering many a rood of ground

Lay the timber piled around:

Timber of chestnut and elm and oak,

And scattered here and there with these

The knarred and crooked cedar-trees,

Brought from regions far away.

Not a port or sea is there in any clime but the tall and stately ships

of Bath have entered. Her name and reputation are worldwide. The onward

march of steam has, however, supplanted the slower power of sails, and

this, together with the growing industry of iron ship-building, has

prostrated the life of the city. The representatives of Maine in the

halls of Congress have striven vigorously and persistently in the

endeavor to evoke national aid in securing such legislation as will

enable these idle yards to compete with other more favored places.

[Illustration: ADIEU SEGUIN]

MAPLE-SUGAR MAKING IN VERMONT.

BY J. M. FRENCH, M.D.

The poet Saxe has written of his native State, that Vermont is noted for

four staple products; oxen, maple-sugar, girls, and horses:--

"The first are strong, the last are fleet,

The second and third exceedingly sweet,

And all uncommon hard to beat."

Whatever changes may have taken place in other respects, in maple-sugar,

at least, Vermont retains her preeminence, producing each year from

eight to ten million pounds, or more than any other single State, and

nearly one-third of the entire amount manufactured in the United States.

[Illustration: CATCHING SAP.]

To the farmer's boy among the Green Mountains the springtime is the

sweetest and most welcome of all the seasons. And however far he may

wander in later years from the scenes of his boyhood, yet often, in

quiet hours or when busied with the cares of life, his thoughts return

to the old homestead; and, as he walks again in the old paths, recalls

the old memories, and watches the old-time pictures come and go before

his mental vision, he enjoys again, and with a freshness ever new, the

pleasures of the maple-sugar season.

Midwinter is past. The "January thaw" has come and gone, leaving a

smooth, hard crust, just right for coasting. The heavy storms of

February have piled the drifts mountain high over road and fence and

wall; and the roaring winds of early March have driven the snow in

blinding clouds along the hill-sides, through the forests, and down into

the valleys. But now the coldest days are over, and the sun, in his

returning course, begins to send down-rays of pleasant warmth. The

nights are still sharp, and the March winds have not yet ceased to blow;

but for a week, the snow has been melting at noon-day on the southern

slope of the hills.

[Illustration: THE YOKE.]

One afternoon, when the sun seems a little warmer than usual, the farmer

comes in to the house, on his return from a trip to the wood-lot,

saying, "Boys, this is good weather for sap. We must get the buckets

out, and be ready to tap the trees to-morrow."

The buckets are stored in the loft over the shed, or at the barn or in

the sugar-house, where they were carefully laid away after last year's

season was over. Now they must be washed and scalded, repaired if

necessary, and carried around to the trees.

Twenty-five years ago nearly all the buckets were made of pine or cedar,

had wooden hoops, and were without covers. At present many of them are

made of tin, and are provided with covers.

By night, with all hands at work, the buckets are washed and

distributed. They are left in sets of half-a-dozen at convenient

distances through the orchard, or else are turned bottom-upwards on the

snow, one at the foot of each tree.

Sometimes it happens at this stage of the proceedings that a storm

comes up unexpectedly, a cold spell follows, and operations are delayed

accordingly. But, if the weather continues fine, the next day the trees

are tapped.

[Illustration: GATHERING THE SAP.]

Armed each with a bit-stock and one-half or three-quarter-inch bit, the

farmer and his older boys go from tree to tree, and, selecting a

favorable spot a few feet from the ground, break off any rough pieces of

outer bark, and bore a hole into the tree to the depth of one or two

inches. Formerly a larger bit was used, and the bore was rarely more

than an inch in depth; but experience has shown that the smaller and

deeper bore injures the tree less and secures a larger quantity of sap.

Next the younger boys, acting as assistants, come forward with spouts

and nails and buckets. The old style of spout consists of a wooden tube

some five or six inches in length, tapered slightly at one end to fit

the auger-hole, and with the upper half of the cylinder cut away down to

an Inch from the point where it enters the tree. The new style, now

largely used, is made of galvanized iron, is of smaller size, and has

attached to it a hook on which to hang the bucket. Sometimes, also,

spouts of tin are used, being driven into the bark just beneath the

auger-hole.

After the spouts have been driven in, the buckets must be put in place

and fastened there. If iron spouts are used they are already provided

with hooks. If wooden or tin ones are used, instead, the common practice

is to drive into the tree, a few inches below the spout, a nail made of

wrought-iron, with a tapering point and thin head, and upon this to hang

the bucket by means of its upper hoop; or, if the ground is level and

the snow nearly gone, it is sometimes set upon the ground.

[Illustration: BOILING SAP--THE OLD WAY.]

At length the trees are tapped, the spouts and nails are driven, the

buckets are set, and all is ready for the sap.

I remember once to have seen in an illustrated magazine a picture, one

of a series intended to represent the process of sugar-making, in which

the spouts were several feet in length, and the sap poured out in a

rushing stream, as though each spout were a hose-pipe, and every tree a

water-main. To carry out the idea, it would have required a man to

stand at every tree and empty the rapidly filling buckets into a monster

hogshead.

Not thus lavishly is this nectar of the gods poured out on our New

England hills; but slowly, filtered through the closely wrought fibres

of the _acer saccharinum_, absorbing new sweetness, and gaining a more

delicate flavor at each step of its progress, until at last it falls

drop by drop into the bucket. This is rarely filled in less than

twenty-four hours, while three or four bucketfuls is an average yield

for a season, and six a large one.

[Illustration: BOILING DOWN.]

Next the sugar-house is put in order, the arch is mended, the kettle or

pan washed out, and all necessary preparations are made for boiling. The

earliest method of boiling sap of which I have any recollection was in a

huge caldron kettle suspended from a heavy pole, which was supported at

each end by the limb of a tree or on top of a post. Then a huge log was

rolled up to each side of the kettle, and the fire was built between

them. This was known simply as the "boiling-place," and could be changed

as often as convenient. The kettle which contained the sap was also open

for the reception of the dust, and smoke, and falling leaves, and forms

of dirt innumerable.

The first advance on this primitive method was made by building a rough

arch of stone around the kettle to retain the heat and economize fuel.

Next a rectangular pan of sheet-iron was substituted for the kettle, and

a shed or rude house was built around the arch. The process of

improvement has continued, until to-day in most of the larger orchards

can be found neat and convenient sugar-houses, with closely-built arches

of brick; while in place of the ancient caldron kettle, or the still

much-used sap-pan, it is common to find the modern evaporator.

There are several patterns of evaporators in use. The most common one

consists of a pan of from twelve to sixteen feet in length and four or

five in width, divided into compartments by a series of partitions which

run nearly across the pan, at intervals of six or eight inches, but at

alternate ends stop three or four inches short of the side. Thus all the

compartments are connected with each other in such a manner as to form

one winding passage-way.

Back of the arch, and at one corner, stands a large hogshead containing

sap, with a faucet at the bottom, and a small tube opening into the rear

compartment of the evaporator. This tube has a self-acting valve, which

closes when the sap has reached the proper height in the pan, and opens

again when it has been lowered by boiling.

When the sap is first turned on it at once runs through the entire

passage-way, and covers the bottom of the pan. Thenceforward it enters

slowly, and is heated gradually in the rear compartments, while the

boiling is confined to the front portion of the pan.

The density of this boiling portion of the liquid is constantly

increased by evaporation; and the fresh sap, instead of mixing

intimately with the boiling mass, acts as a pressure in the rear,

forcing it steadily towards the front. Soon the different compartments

of the evaporator present the saccharine fluid in all its phases, from

fresh, cool sap, through warm, hot, and boiling, then partially

concentrated, then thin syrup, then thicker, and, if the process be long

enough continued, even down to sugar. It is customary, however, to draw

it off through another faucet in front when it has reached the

consistency of syrup.

In the smaller orchards, the sap is usually gathered in pails and

brought directly to the central reservoir. For this purpose a sap-yoke

is borne on the shoulders, with a large pail suspended from each end. In

larger orchards, where the ground is not too rough, a barrel or hogshead

is fastened upon a sled and drawn through the sugar-place by a yoke of

oxen; or, if the ground slopes regularly, a system of spouts or pipes is

sometimes arranged to bring the sap from convenient stations to the

boiling-place.

It is roughly estimated that four gallons of sap will make one pound of

sugar. But the sap varies greatly in sweetness, not only in different

seasons, but in different parts of the same season, and in different

trees at the same time. As a general rule, large and widely-branching

trees produce sweeter sap than small and gnarled ones, as well as a much

larger quantity. The first sap of the season is always the sweetest, and

of the most delicate flavor, while late runs are of poorer quality, and

have a "buddy" and bitter taste.

A drink from the buckets is considered a great treat at first, and,

though it soon loses the charm of novelty, is always healthy and

refreshing, and is the common drink of the sugar-camp during the entire

season.

Sometimes, when the buckets are nearly full, there comes a cold snap,

and the sap is turned to ice. But, however hard it may have frozen,

there is always a central portion, small if the ice is thick, larger if

thin, which is liquid still. This is pure, concentrated sweetness, maple

honey unalloyed, though it never finds its way into the market.

So far all has been hard work, but now comes the boiling, and here the

poetry of sugar-making begins.

In those old days,--the halcyon days of youth,--after the sap was

gathered, and the fuel piled high beside the arch, then it was that we

sat down by the blazing fire and watched it burn; heaped on the logs,

filled up the kettle, and again sat down to muse, or talk, or read. If

the wind whistled afar, the boiling-place was in a sheltered nook; if

the rain poured down, or the snow-flakes fell without, we were protected

by the sugar-house or shed; if the day was cold the fire was warm; _and

the heart of a youth is never cold_.

When the weather was fine, and the sap running fast, it was often

necessary to spend a good part of the night in boiling sap. Instead of

feeling this a burden, here we found our pleasures but intensified. How

the bright blaze chased the dim shadows far back into the woods, and the

black smoke rolled up in great clouds to the sky! How sweet and warm and

refreshing was the sap as it grew more and more concentrated! And how

welcome were the neighbors' boys when they came to share with us the

midnight watch! There was many a thrilling story told, many a sprightly

joke was cracked, or lively game of euchre played. And when the

war-cloud gathered in the Southern horizon, it was there we talked of

the latest news, and registered our patriotic vows.

When pans are used for boiling, the last thing before the work of the

day is done is "syruping down." When the sap is all boiled in, and the

product has attained a sufficient degree of concentration,--nearly equal

to that of the "maple syrup" of the markets,--the fire is suffered to go

down, the pan is drawn off, the syrup dipped out and strained through a

flannel cloth, and stored away in pails or tin cans to await the final

process of "sugaring off."

This event takes place after a few days of boiling, when the syrup has

accumulated in sufficient quantities; and, as it presents the first

fruits of the harvest, is usually made the occasion of a sugar-party.

Now, the maple sugar-party is a New England institution, and the great

feast of the season. The young people invite their friends, the

neighbors' boys and girls, and sometimes a select party of school-mates

from the village. The young folks go out through the woods in glee, the

boys drawing the girls on sleds over the crust, the young men and

maidens walking together,--a merry throng full of life and glee. The

older folks are also there, at least sometimes; but their presence is no

damper on the spirits of the young.

First, the pan is half filled with syrup, and a gentle fire is started.

As the temperature rises, a thick scum appears on the surface,

consisting of such impurities as may have passed through the meshes of

the strainer. If proper care has been taken to keep out all forms of

dirt in gathering and boiling, and if, after being strained, the syrup

was allowed to stand and settle for two or three days, until all the

nitre,--or "sand," as it is called,--and other heavy impurities, were

deposited on the bottom of the pail, then the liquid which is poured off

is clear and light-colored. But if these precautions have not been

taken, if dust, and leaves, and cinders have been allowed free access,

then the liquid is dirty and dark-colored, and the scum is thick and

muddy. In such cases it is customary to make use of some device for the

purpose of "purifying" it, such as stirring a cup of milk or a beaten

egg into the slowly heating mass. These things are supposed to have an

affinity for the dirt, and to increase the volume of impurities which

rise to the surface. Their real utility is questionable.

When the liquid begins to simmer slightly, and just before it fairly

boils, all the scum is removed by means of a long-handled skimmer, and

is emptied into the pan with the "settlings," and both these are

afterwards utilized in the manufacture of vinegar.

After boiling for a while, the syrup begins to thicken, and the bubbles

to rise higher and higher in the pan, like boiling soap. Thenceforward

it must be watched with care, to prevent its boiling over, or burning on

the bottom of the pan.

As soon as the sugar begins to show signs of graining, all hands pass up

their saucers to be filled; and they are refilled an unlimited number of

times, until all are thoroughly sweetened. For though sugar is the

product of hard labor, and has a cash value, yet in all the sugar-camps

it is as free almost as water throughout the season,--until it is

grained and in the tubs, when it becomes property, and is held sacred.

Not many, however, can eat more than one, or at most two, saucerfuls of

warm sugar. So, when the appetite is sated with this, and the sugar is

done a little harder, merry voices call for pans of snow, or if a clean

snow-bank is at hand, betake themselves to this instead, and, after

having partially cooled the liquid by stirring it in the saucer, pour it

slowly out upon the smooth snow-crust, where it quickly hardens and

becomes brittle, making a most luscious and toothsome substitute for

molasses candy.

If the sugar is to be made into cakes it requires to be boiled longer

than if intended for graining in tubs, as is the more common form.

Finally, when frequent trials show that the proper degree of

concentration has been reached, the master of the ceremonies pronounces

it "done," pulls off the fagots, and lets the fire go down, or else

draws the pan off the arch and lets it cool. Then the sugar is stirred

vigorously with a huge wooden paddle until it begins to grain, when it

is poured out into the tubs, or dipped into tins, if intended for cakes.

But though the sugar is eaten, the party is not over for the young

folks. There is still time for an hour or two of coasting--an

old-fashioned tournament of "sliding down hill." And so the livelong day

is a time for sweet things said and done as well as eaten, of romping

and frolicking, of mirth and laughter, of youthful courtships begun and

carried on, of joy and gladness everywhere.

EDITORIAL NOTE ON DANIEL WEBSTER.

The extraordinary public services of Daniel Webster, as one of the most

eminent statesmen of this or of any other country, cannot be adequately

estimated. Hence, whatever illustrates his public life, and especially

his private character, will never cease to be invested with a degree of

interest which attaches to few other public men. So much of disparaging

statements in reference to Mr. Webster has been unjustly and, perhaps,

thoughtlessly put in circulation, that we deem it a privilege to publish

elsewhere an article presenting trustworthy evidence tending to correct

whatever false impressions may still exist. At the Webster Centennial

Dinner in Boston, in January, 1882, under the auspices of the Dartmouth

College Alumni Association, among other able addresses, one by Hon.

Edward S. Tobey was especially remarkable for the evidence produced as

to Mr. Webster's religious opinions, which, unsought, had come to his

knowledge during a period of forty years. Mr. Tobey, upon request, used

the material facts of this address in the preparation of an article for

this Magazine. In this connection it is of interest to recall the fact

that Mr. Tobey united with President Smith, during the administration of

the latter, in efforts for the founding of a Webster Professorship at

Dartmouth College, and was the first donor to the fund, contributing

$5,000. In the year just ended (1885) the endowment reached the sum of

$50,000, and the professorship was established.

THE BOSTON UNIVERSITY LAW SCHOOL.

BY BENJAMIN R. CURTIS.

A distinguished member of the Boston Bar was recently asked by a younger

professional brother what he considered the most valuable acquirement a

young man could possess for the successful practice of the law. He at

once replied, "To be able to tell your clients what _to do_." This was

the purpose for which the Boston University Law School was founded; this

has been the constant aim of its teachings; and the selection of

practitioners for instructors, coming fresh from consultations with

their clients, and from sharp contests in the court-rooms, has been made

from the first with the endeavor to set before the students live men,

who could tell them what to do and how to do it.

If students could be more frequently brought face to face with the

living heroes of the law, the zeal for careful work and laborious study

would be fanned almost into enthusiasm. To follow the complex details of

a difficult branch of law, from the lips of an eminent counsellor who

has but lately exhausted the subject in an important case at the bar, is

a rare and precious pleasure. At our medical schools the students sit at

the feet of the leading physicians and surgeons of the day. Why are

young lawyers sent forth to practise, acquainted only with the old

masters of the law, and ignorant, often, of the very names of the

eminent ones of their day and generation? Chief-Justice Shaw said, "A

man may be a laborious student, have an inquiring and discriminating

mind, and have all the advantage which a library of the best books can

afford; and yet, without actual attendance on courts, and the means and

facilities which practice affords, he would be little prepared either to

try questions of fact or argue questions of law." "I was once asked,"

said a high legal authority, "to inspect the examination-books of a

graduating class in a law school. The student whose work I was shown was

the son of a distinguished man, a faithful scholar, and a young man of

excellent ability. The subject he had written upon was Equity

Jurisprudence,--one of the most difficult branches of the law. He had,

indeed, studied his English models carefully, and his book showed the

extreme theoretical form of instruction pursued at the school. Among

other things, in describing the course of equity procedure in England,

he fully and elaborately explained each minute step; to what _building

in London_ certain papers were to be taken on a certain day, and at a

precise time, and in what _room_ filed; _and I certainly expected to be

told in what pigeon-hole_."

The Boston School of Law was opened, in 1872, under the supervision of

the Boston University, of which it is a department. The first

instruction was given at No. 18 Beacon street, where the school remained

for two years. The school opened with sixty-five students. The late Hon.

George S. Hillard was the Dean. The lecturers comprised such well-known

names as Edmund H. Bennett, Henry W. Paine, Judge Benjamin F. Thomas,

Dr. Francis Wharton, Judge Dwight Foster, Charles T. Russell, Judge

Benjamin R. Curtis, William Beach Lawrence, Judge Otis P. Lord, Dr. John

Ordronaux, Nicholas St. John Greene, Melville M. Bigelow, and Edward L.

Pierce. It is safe to say that no other Law School of that date,

anywhere in the country, could have offered to its students a better

list of instructors than this. A remarkably varied judicial and

professional experience among the corps of lecturers, from first to

last, is here set forth. Truly, the law could be learned here from its

fountain-heads.

The fall of 1873 saw ninety students on the roll. The corps of lecturers

remained about the same as before, while the course of instruction was

somewhat enlarged. It was evident that the students had come to work;

the list was largely composed of young men who had selected the law for

their profession after careful consideration, who understood that they

would be obliged to rely upon it for their support in life, and who were

therefore determined to make the most of the rich instruction which the

distinguished body of lecturers was ready to impart. The students wished

to be taught what to do, and they were eager to put their knowledge to

good use as soon as the occasion permitted.

The fall term of 1874 opened with one hundred and thirty-four students.

The good seed planted two years previously was thus already bearing its

fruit. A few changes had been made in the faculty and lecturers. Mr.

Nicholas St. John Greene was performing the duties of acting Dean, to

enable Mr. Hillard to seek that retirement which his health demanded.

Judge John Lowell offered a course of lectures on Bankruptcy, and the

well-known lawyers Charles B. Goodrich and Chauncey Smith, of Boston,

were prepared to meet the senior class with their specialties,

respectively, of Corporation and Patent law. With the opening of this

term a change of quarters was necessitated; the school was removed to

the Wesleyan building, 36 Bromfield street, which was then considered

very commodious. Here it remained till the fall of 1884. Each subsequent

year saw a continued increase in the number of pupils. In the fall of

1877 Judge Edmund H. Bennett was appointed Dean. A more fortunate

selection could not have been made. A long experience as Probate Judge

had given him a wide and practical knowledge of Probate law in all its

departments, and his varied legal writings in other departments of the

law showed how well qualified he was to undertake the general

administration of the school. With all his learning, moreover, Judge

Bennett possesses a remarkable power of imparting knowledge, a very

clear insight into human nature, and a certain gentle magnetism which

attracts and charms young men. The man and the occasion were thus well

suited to each other. If the important place of Dean had been filled at

that time by an ordinary man, the remarkable progress then made might

have gone for nought; but with Judge Bennett at its head, the Boston Law

School has continually justified the hopes and wishes of its founders.

This result could only have been brought about by the patient

supervision, watchful energy, and valuable experience, which are clearly

set forth in the rare character of its Dean.

In the fall of 1879 the corps of lecturers was increased by the name of

Truman H. Kimpton, lecturer on the Constitution of the United States;

and three special instructors were appointed to assist the

lecturers,--Messrs. Wayland E. Benjamin, George R. Swasey, and John E.

Wetherbee; and in 1880 the list of instructors was further increased by

Austin V. Fletcher. In 1881 Benjamin R. Curtis took his father's place

as lecturer on the Jurisdiction and Practice of the United States

Courts. John Lathrop came to lecture on Corporations, and Francis L.

Wellman was added to the corps of instructors. In 1883 Edward J. Phelps

began to lecture on Constitutional law, and continued his connection

with the school till his departure to England, as United States Minister

at the Court of St. James.

The year 1883 also marked the retirement from the school of Hon. Henry

W. Paine, who for eleven years had filled the chair of Lecturer on Real

Property. "So thoroughly was he master of his subject, difficult and

intricate as it confessedly is, that in not a single instance, except

during the lectures of the last year, did he take a note or scrap of

memoranda into the class-room."[A]

In 1884, owing to the receipt of several large legacies, the University

was enabled to provide new quarters for the Law School. A large and

well-built house, No. 10 Ashburton place, was purchased by the

corporation, and was at once remodelled in accordance with a careful

plan which one of the best architects in the city had devised. This

house was formerly the residence of the late Mr. Augustus H. Fiske, the

well-known lawyer, who died many years ago. Mr. Fiske was a remarkable

man. His practice was very extensive throughout Suffolk and Middlesex

counties, and he is said to have been in the habit of entering more

cases at the terms of the courts than any other lawyer of his day. He

made it a point to reach his office before seven o'clock in the morning,

and he generally remained there till late in the evening. The

consequence was that he broke down rather early in life, and died in his

prime. His early death, however, was not expected by the Bar. A short

time before his last sickness he appeared as a witness in a certain case

in Suffolk County, and at the conclusion of a long cross-examination at

the hands of Henry W. Paine, Mr. Fiske inquired if Mr. Paine had any

further questions to ask. "No, Brother Fiske," said Mr. Paine, "I think

not,--but stay; you have just told us when you began practice; now, what

your brethren of the Bar are more concerned in, is, when are you going

to leave off?"--"Not till the last nail is driven in my coffin," was the

answer. Soon after this Mr. Fiske fell sick, and Mr. Paine called on him

at his house. Mr. Fiske was sitting up in bed taking a deposition in his

night-gown, with the parties gathered about him. The next day he died.

The alterations at No. 10 Ashburton place were made under the

supervision of Mr. William G. Preston, the architect. The front of the

basement, about twenty feet square, is a pleasant room, well lighted,

and is used by the students, for study, conversation, and general

social purposes. Directly back of this is a dressing-room, 25 x 19,

containing about one hundred lockers, for the use of the students.

Ascending to the first floor, one is struck with the spaciousness of the

hall-way, which extends from the entrance to the door of the

lecture-hall. It is finished in light wood, and the design of the

staircase is particularly tasteful, while the stairs themselves are very

easy of ascent. To the left of the entrance is the Dean's room, 19 x 19,

finished in cherry; and next on the left is a part of the library, which

is finished in white-wood. In the rear is the lecture-hall, where

everything has been done to combine light and air with comfort. The hall

is something over fifty-two feet long, twenty-six feet wide, and

seventeen feet in height. Almost the entire roof, which is in the shape

of an immense skylight, is made of glass. The walls are light in color,

while the general effect is one of light and airiness. In the

lecture-hall, as elsewhere, special regard has been paid to the

ventilation. The atmosphere is changed continually, without any

perceptible draughts. The seating capacity of the lecture-hall is about

two hundred. The second story is devoted wholly to the library, which,

with the room on the first floor, affords space for the University's

valuable collection of books. Leading from one of the large rooms on

this floor is a small one for the librarians, which is fitted up with

open fireplace, desks, and other suitable furnishings. The whole floor

is finished in white-wood. On the third floor are two recitation rooms,

with a seating capacity of eighty and fifty, respectively. Above are

three club-rooms, devoted to the use of the several law clubs in the

school. With such accommodations the school will receive a new impetus.

The cause of legal education has advanced greatly within the memory of

lawyers who are even now hardly of middle age. Twenty years ago law

schools in this country were few in number and most of them poor in

equipment. No examination, and but little study, was required as a

condition for the degree of Bachelor of Laws; one of the oldest schools

conferred the degree upon all students registered therein for a certain

length of time,--one year. To-day, in most of the schools, students are

required to study at least two years, and to pass examinations in some

ten or twelve branches of the law before a degree is given. Some schools

require three years' study, and of these this school is one. Indeed, it

was the first to establish such a course, the trustees including it in

the statutes of organization in 1871. Transition from the earlier

standards to the present one has been gradual but steady, and to-day the

degree is conferred (save in exceptional cases) only upon those who have

studied law at least three years.

One or two features of the course of instruction deserve especial

mention. The first of these is the prominence given to the system of

recitations, and their separation from the lectures. These latter are

given by the elder members of the profession; the lecturer himself

occupies most of the hour in laying down and explaining propositions of

law and citing authorities in support. The lecturer's work is

supplemented by the instructors, who conduct recitations upon the topics

already reviewed by their elders; in these exercises the students are

expected and required to occupy most of the time in asking or answering

questions, and in the discussion and argument of points raised or

suggested in the previous lecture.

The freedom of debate and liberty of criticism given at the recitations,

larger than it is practicable to obtain at the lectures, is found to be

a most useful method of fixing principles or correcting errors.

The Moot Courts are another prominent feature of the instruction. These

are held regularly every Saturday. Some question of law is argued by

students who have been previously assigned as counsel; a member of the

faculty sits as Chief-Justice, two students being associated with him as

Justices. Upon the decision of the question written opinions are

prepared by each of the Associate Justices and read by them at a

subsequent session of the court. These opinions are afterwards printed

and bound under the title of "Boston University Reports."

In October last (1885) the school opened with one hundred and

seventy-one students, and with the following list of lecturers and their

topics: Brooks Adams, _Chartered Rights_; Edmund H. Bennet, _Agency,

Contracts, Criminal Law, Partnership, Wills_; Melville M. Bigelow,

_Bills and Notes, Insurance, Torts_; Uriel H. Crocker, _Massachusetts

Conveyancing_; Samuel S. Curry, _Elocution and Oratory_; Benjamin R.

Curtis, _Jurisdiction and Practice of the United States Courts_; William

G. Hammond, _History of the Common Law_; John Lathrop, _Corporations_;

James K. Maynadier, _Patent Law_; Elias Merwin (who succeeded the late

Judge Dwight Foster in 1884), _Equity Jurisprudence, Equity Pleading_;

John Ordronaux, _Medical Jurisprudence_; John E. Wetherbee, _Real

Property_; Edward J. Phelps, _Constitutional Law_; Charles T. Russell,

_Admiralty and Shipping, Evidence, Parliamentary Law, Pleading and

Practice_; Charles T. Russell, Jr., _Law of Elections_; James Schouler,

_Bailments, Domestic Relations_; George R. Swasey, _Sales_; Francis

Wharton, _Conflict of Laws_.

In this current school year there are one hundred and seventy-five

undergraduate students, among them men from Maine, California, and

Florida; while during the fourteen years of its existence the school has

had among its members students from nearly every State in the Union, the

Territories, and District of Columbia, as well as several from the

Empire of Japan.

The graduates now number about six hundred and fifty, and the school is

to be congratulated on the success which many of them have attained in

professional and public life. In this Commonwealth, during the year just

closed, the alumni counted among them members of the Governor's Council,

State Senators, Mayors, District Attorneys, Registers of Probate,

Representatives, and Clerks of Courts; while in some of the Western

States graduates, though still young, wear judicial honors.

The many friends of the school suffered a great loss in the recent

sudden death of Mr. John E. Wetherbee. At thirty years of age he had

already earned for himself a substantial practice, and his constant

application to the study of law, together with an easy and impressive

delivery, gave his instruction at the school peculiar power. Some burden

too heavy for him to bear brought his work to a sudden close. Those who

were accustomed to meet him, and look for him, and listen to him, will

find it hard to realize that they will see him no more. His work at the

school is now in the hands of Mr. Albers, Mr. Smith, Mr. Jenney, and Mr.

J. G. Thorp, Dr.

A course of lectures on Railroad Law is now being given, for the first

time, by J. H. Benton, Jr., the counsel for the Old Colony Railroad

Company; and the course on Real Property, which was but partially

completed by Mr. Wetherbee, has been taken up by Christopher G.

Tiedeman, now Professor of Law in the University of Missouri.

It is safe to say that everything that means, intelligence, experience,

and hard work can suggest, to continue the school at its present high

grade of excellence, will be afforded by those who are, and who will be,

intrusted with the charge; and it is proper to add that the school has

benefited greatly by the untiring efforts of Mr. Samuel C. Bennett (son

of Judge Bennett), who is now Assistant Dean, and also one of the

regular instructors, and who faithfully seconds the work of his father

in the general direction of affairs.

The school already has a large and valuable library, and an annual

appropriation is made by the University for its care and increase. The

State Library, Boston Public Library, and Social Law Library, all of

which are in the immediate neighborhood of the school, afford every

possible facility for extra investigation.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Prof. Wm. Mathews, LL.D., in Bay State Monthly, November, 1885.

HON. EDMUND HATCH BENNETT.

From among the hills of Vermont and New Hampshire have sprung many

renowned citizens, whose talents, industry, moral worth, and practical

wisdom have been by no means unimportant factors in the prosperity and

progress of the nation, and in the due discharge of its legislative,

administrative, and judicial functions. The subject of this brief

sketch, Hon. Edmund Hatch Bennett, was born in Manchester, Vt., April 6,

1824. He was educated in his native State,--first in the Manchester and

Burlington academies, and then in the University of Vermont, at

Burlington, where he graduated in the class of 1843. In 1873 his _alma

mater_ bestowed upon him the well-merited degree of Doctor of Laws. The

profession of the law, in which, by his industry, capacity, and

character, he has been so successful, was not adopted without mature

consideration. For some short time after graduation he taught a private

school in Virginia; but, probably finding, subsequently, that his

tastes, quite as much as his talents, might have fuller and fitter scope

for their gratification and development in legal than in academical

pursuits, he ultimately decided to enter upon a course of legal studies

with a view to preparing himself for the discharge of forensic and

judicial duties. His first practical knowledge of the law was acquired

in the office of his father at Burlington, Vt., his father being at the

time, and for many years previous, an Associate Justice of the Supreme

Court of Vermont. He became a member of the Vermont bar in 1847; but

early in 1848 he removed to Taunton, where he resided until 1884; and to

whose social, educational, and religious advancement he has contributed

in no small degree. In June, 1853, he married Sally, the second daughter

of Hon. Samuel Crocker, of Taunton.

When the city was incorporated, in 1865, his fellow-citizens showed

their high appreciation of his personal character and public spirit in a

very pronounced manner by unanimously electing him the first chief

magistrate of the newly incorporated community. To this honorable and

influential post he was twice elected subsequently, viz., in 1866 and

1867.

Judge Bennett has put much hard and honest work into his profession; in

this he is an example to younger men, which it would not be amiss for

them to imitate. His first law connection in Taunton was with the late

Nathaniel Morton, a brother of the present Chief-Justice of

Massachusetts. Subsequently he formed a partnership with Hon. Henry

Williams, and afterwards with Henry J. Fuller, Esq., of Taunton.

At the bar of his own county he took almost from the first a prominent

place, and he has been able to turn the accumulated and well-digested

results of his study and practice to good account in the instruction of

others. During the years of 1870, 1871, and 1872 he occupied the

position of lecturer at the Dane Law School of Harvard University,

Cambridge. With the Law School of Boston University he has stood

connected from its commencement in 1872, receiving at that time the

honor of being selected as its Dean. He was not at the time able to

serve in that capacity, but was a regular lecturer, and in 1876, on

being again elected to the position, he accepted it. This relation to

the school he sustains at present, having, during the decade which has

passed since his assumption of the office, contributed in no small

measure to the present efficient organization and very gratifying

prosperity of the school. In May, 1858, he was appointed Judge of

Probate and Insolvency for Bristol county, holding the office

twenty-five years, and resigning in 1883.

In other directions, and by other methods than that of communicating

oral instruction, Judge Bennett has exerted himself to develop the

science and advance the practice of his profession. His legal

works--written and edited alone, or in company with others--number more

than a hundred volumes, the chief of which are: "English Law and Equity

Reports;" an edition of Mr. Justice Story's works; "Leading Criminal

Cases;" "Fire Insurance Cases;" "Digest of Massachusetts Reports;"

American editions of the recent English works of "Goddard on Easements;"

"Benjamin on Sales;" "Indermann on the Common Law;" and many others. For

some considerable time he has been editorially connected with the

_American Law Register_ of Philadelphia. His lecture on "Farm Law,"

delivered at Hingham in December, 1878, before the State Board of

Agriculture, attracted very general attention at the time, and was

republished in agricultural journals all over New England, as well as in

the West.

In religious sympathy and work Judge Bennett is allied with the

Protestant Episcopal Church. For some years he acted either in the

capacity of warden or vestry-man of St. Thomas parish, Taunton, and

several times as delegate represented the parish in the Diocesan

Convention. In 1874, 1877, 1880, and 1883 he was appointed delegate from

his diocese to the General Triennial Convention of the Protestant

Episcopal Church in this country. He is now senior warden of St. Paul's

Episcopal Church, of Boston.

THE LIFE AND CHARACTER OF DANIEL WEBSTER.

BY HON. EDWARD S. TOBEY.

I might well shrink from writing on a topic which has already engaged

the pen and thought of the most able of Mr. Webster's contemporaries and

biographers, were it not that, by opportunities wholly unsought, so much

of reliable testimony, not previously published, has come to me tending

to correct false opinions and impressions as to his private character,

that a sense of justice which I could not conscientiously resist, led me

on the occasion of the centennial anniversary of Mr. Webster's birthday,

which was observed in this city (Boston) in 1882, under the auspices of

the Alumni of Dartmouth College, to present, substantially, the facts

and views which are now by request repeated. I may add, that I realized

more fully an obligation and an interest to give currency to them from

the fact of my former connection with Mr. Webster's Alma Mater, as one

of its Board of Trustees, and also from having made the first

contribution to the Webster professorship in that institution, which,

through the liberality of others, has since been fully endowed.

While I would not enlarge on the subject of Mr. Webster's public

services and extraordinary statesmanship already so well known

throughout this and other countries, I may briefly refer to one

especially eloquent speech of the many made by him to which it was my

privilege to listen. After the death of President Harrison, and the

accession to office of Vice-President John Tyler, all the members of the

Cabinet, except Mr. Webster, resigned. He remained as Secretary of

State, for the purpose of bringing to a successful conclusion a

perplexing controversy between Great Britain and the United States as to

the trial and release of Alexander McLeod, a British subject, then held

as a prisoner in the State of New York for participating in an attack on

the steamer "Caroline" within the waters of the United States. The

British Government avowed the act as authorized, and imperatively

demanded McLeod's release. It tasked to the utmost the extraordinary

ability of Mr. Webster, as a mutual friend informed me, to find

sufficient ground on which to comply with England's demand, and yet

maintain the dignity of the Government of the United States,

consistently with the relations between the Federal Government and that

of the State of New York. The question seemed at one time to threaten

the peaceful relations between England and America, of which the public

were not aware. Under Mr. Webster's construction of the duty and

obligations of our Government, McLeod was surrendered, and soon after

Mr. Webster resigned. Having been unjustly criticised by certain

political leaders, and his motives impugned for remaining so long in the

Cabinet, he at once sought vindication in a speech delivered in Faneuil

Hall, defining his position, in which he poured out a torrent of

eloquence seldom equalled, and in which he clearly indicated the chagrin

that even a great man may feel when he is made the subject of unjust

suspicion and criticism.

While I have no claim whatever to be regarded as one of the great

statesman's associates, I was favored with a very limited and casual

acquaintance in the latter part of his life, and an opportunity to know

something of his private life and his religious character, through his

particular friends, of whom a few were also my personal friends. I may

perhaps, therefore, properly speak of unquestionable facts which have,

by force of circumstances, come to my knowledge at different times

through a period of about forty years, tending to disprove the base

rumor and slanders which have found an astonishing currency.

To these I never thought it proper to refer publicly, until the pages of

one of our most respectable periodicals[B] reproduced the rumors, which

were subsequently publicly refuted in the Boston _Herald_, by Mr.

Webster's able biographer, George Ticknor Curtis. The friends of Mr.

Webster would have been false to his memory and their own moral

obligation had they failed to put forward the evidence in their

possession to disprove the charges on which such rumors were fabricated,

and which, until a few years ago, had not found a place, so far as I

know, in any respectable publication.

The late Dr. John Jeffries, who was the physician of Mr. Webster, was

also my family physician for twenty years. Not long after the close of

the late civil war, an Episcopal clergyman of Charleston, S.C., became

my guest. He being in need of medical advice, I introduced him to Dr.

Jeffries. After his case had been disposed of he inquired of Dr.

Jeffries: "Pray, sir, were the stories which we hear at the South

concerning Mr. Webster's private character true?" The doctor replied:

"Do you refer to his alleged drinking habits?"--"Yes, sir," said the

clergyman. "No, sir," answered Dr. Jeffries; "they were not true." He

added: "I was his physician for many years, and made the _post-mortem_

examination. He died from no such cause." To illustrate to what extent

Mr. Webster was misunderstood and consequently maligned, the doctor

related the following fact: "On a certain occasion when Mr. Webster was

engaged to speak in Faneuil Hall, he had been for several days much

reduced by medical treatment. Late in the afternoon I suggested that, in

his reduced condition, a glass of wine would be useful. He replied: 'No,

doctor, I prefer a plate of soup; and when His Honor the Mayor calls for

me, perhaps you will accompany me.' I assented, and did accompany him.

That evening, before Mr. Webster had closed his speech, a certain

political rival left the hall and was met by a friend, who inquired, 'Is

the meeting over?' The envious politician answered, 'No; I have come

away disgusted. Webster is intoxicated.'" Who was the most reliable

witness in this case,--his honest physician, an eye-witness, who spoke

from knowledge, or the political rival, who spoke from false inference?

This is but one of several similar instances of misapprehension and

consequent cruel injustice which I might relate, did the time and

occasion permit.

There is now living in this city a gentleman of the highest

respectability, personally well-known to me for thirty-five years, who

was for about twenty-five years intimately connected with Mr. Webster,

at Marshfield, as the manager of his affairs, and consequently with him

under all circumstances during his summer residence there. Mr. Webster

regarded him with the affection of a father for a son. This gentleman

has said to me more than once, with emotion and evident feelings of

indignation: "No one has ever seen Mr. Webster at Marshfield unduly

under the influence of stimulants." He adds: "I was with him on festive

occasions here and in New Hampshire, when others were indulging in the

customary habit of drinking; but I have never seen Mr. Webster, on those

occasions, use stimulants to excess."

The late Judge Peleg Sprague, whom from family relationship it was my

privilege to know intimately until the very last year of his life, a

short time before his death, in conversation with me, refuted the

charges of Mr. Webster's alleged excessive drinking habits in

Washington. Judge Sprague was ten years in Congress, and was associated

with Mr. Webster, under various circumstances, in public and social

life.

I have thus offered the evidence of three witnesses, whose opportunity

of knowledge and whose credibility, it cannot be denied, are to be

accepted against rumors so easily put in circulation by reckless as well

as by mistaken men, but which have beyond question been believed by very

many good men who had not the opportunity, or perhaps the sense of

obligation, to investigate the origin of them.

As to Mr. Webster's religious character and habits of mind, I can hardly

express the great satisfaction afforded me by the testimony of his

intimate friend, the Rev. Dr. Lothrop, who has in eloquent and

unqualified language confirmed, and, indeed, more than confirmed, all

that others have known of it.[C] Dr. Lothrop repeated his criticism on a

prayer once offered by the chaplain of the United States Senate, in

which Mr. Webster concurred, expressing at the same time his view of the

nature and true object of prayer. This reminds me of the fact that the

last sermon which Mr. Webster ever heard was on the subject of prayer,

from the lips of the late Rev. Dr. Kirk, preached in the little

Methodist church at Duxbury, about four miles from Marshfield. This was

about six weeks before Mr. Webster's death. He was accompanied by Sir

John Crampton, the British Minister, who at that time was at Marshfield

negotiating a treaty on the fishery question, Mr. Webster then being

Secretary of State. Through the mutual friendly relations of my esteemed

friend and partner, the Hon. Seth Sprague, I had the privilege, with him

and the Rev. Dr. Kirk, of dining with Mr. Webster the next day. It

afforded an opportunity to listen to his entertaining and instructive

anecdotes, of which I will relate one only. He said: "On a certain

occasion, when President Kirkland, of Harvard University, was called

upon by one of his familiar friends, a clergyman, he inquired as to the

state of affairs in his parish; to which the clergyman replied, 'We are

troubled by a good deal of controversy.'--'Ah! and pray what may the

subject be?' inquired Dr. Kirkland. 'It is the doctrine of the final

perseverance of the saints which agitates the minds of my people,' said

the clergyman. 'Well,' said President Kirkland, 'I, too, have a

controversy among my people; but the topic is of a very different

nature. What troubles me and them most is, the final perseverance of

sinners.'"

I am sure, however, that his own statement of his Confession of Faith,

written in 1807, and published in the Boston _Courier_ about twenty-two

years since, taken together with his extraordinary plea in the famous

Girard case, and his address at Plymouth in 1820, on the subject of its

settlement by the Pilgrim fathers will be specially appreciated. The

confession is as follows:--

I believe in the existence of Almighty God, who created and

governs the whole world. I am taught this by the works of

Nature and the word of Revelation.

I believe that God exists in three persons: this I learn from

Revelation alone. Nor is it any objection to this belief that I

cannot comprehend how _one_ can be _three_, or _three_ _one_. I

hold it my duty to believe, not what I can comprehend or

account for, but what my Maker teaches me.

I believe the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be

the will and word of God.

I believe Jesus Christ to be the Son of God. The miracles which

He wrought establish in my mind His personal authority, and

render it proper for me to believe whatever He asserts; I

believe, therefore, all His declarations, as well when He

declares Himself the Son of God as when He declares any other

proposition. And I believe there is no other way of salvation

than through the merits of His atonement.

I believe that things past, present, and to come are all

equally present in the mind of the Deity; that with Him there

is no succession of time nor of ideas; that, therefore, the

relative terms past, present, and future, as used among men,

cannot, with strict propriety, be applied to Deity. I believe

in the doctrines of foreknowledge and predestination, as thus

expounded. I do not believe in those doctrines as imposing any

fatality or necessity on men's actions, or any way infringing

free agency.

I believe in the utter inability of any human being to work out

his own salvation without the constant aids of the Spirit of

all grace.

I believe in those great peculiarities of the Christian

religion,--a resurrection from the dead and a day of judgment.

I believe in the universal providence of God; and leave to

Epicurus, and his more unreasonable followers in modern times,

the inconsistency of believing that God made a world which He

does not take the trouble of governing.

Although I have great respect for some other forms of worship,

I believe the Congregational mode, on the whole, to be

preferable to any other.

I believe religion to be a matter not of demonstration, but of

faith. God requires us to give credit to the truths which He

reveals, not because we can prove them, but because He declares

them. When the mind is reasonably convinced that the Bible is

the word of God, the only remaining duty is to receive its

doctrines with full confidence of their truth, and practise

them with a pure heart.

I believe that the Bible is to be understood and received in

the plain and obvious meaning of its passages, since I cannot

persuade myself that a book intended for the instruction and

conversion of the whole world should cover its true meaning in

such mystery and doubt that none but critics and philosophers

can discover it.

I believe that the experiments and subtleties of human wisdom

are more likely to obscure than to enlighten the revealed will

of God, and that he is the most accomplished Christian scholar

who has been educated at the feet of Jesus and in the College

of Fishermen.

I believe that all true religion consists in the heart and the

affections, and that therefore all creeds and confessions are

fallible and uncertain evidences of Evangelical piety.

These views he held at twenty-five, and in the main retained them in his

later years, as is shown by his remarks before the Supreme Court of

Massachusetts on the occasion of the death of his intimate associate,

Jeremiah Mason, of which the following is an extract:--

But, sir, political eminence and professional fame fade away

and die with all things earthly. Nothing of character is really

permanent but virtue and personal worth. These remain. Whatever

of excellence is wrought into the soul itself belongs to both

worlds. Real goodness does not attach itself merely to this

life: it points to another world. Political or professional

reputation cannot last forever, but a conscience void of

offence before God and man is an inheritance for eternity.

Religion, therefore, is a necessary and indispensable element

in any great human character; there is no living without it.

Religion is the tie that connects man with his Creator, and

holds him to His throne. If that tie be all sundered, all

broken, he floats away,--a worthless atom in the universe; its

proper attraction all gone, its destiny thwarted, and its whole

future nothing but darkness, desolation, and death. A man with

no sense of religious duty is he whom the Scriptures describe

in such terse but terrific language, "Without God in the

world." Such a man is out of his proper being, out of the

circle of all his duties, out of the circle of all his

happiness, and away, far, far away, from the purposes of his

creation. A mind like Mr. Mason's, active, thoughtful,

penetrating, could not but meditate deeply on the condition of

man below, and feel its responsibilities. He could not look on

this mighty system,--

"This universal frame, thus wondrous fair,"--

without feeling that it was created and upheld by an

Intelligence to which all other intelligences must be

responsible. I am bound to say, that in the course of my life I

never met with an individual, in any profession or condition of

life, who always spoke and always thought with such awful

reverence of the power and presence of God. No irreverence, no

lightness, even no too familiar allusion to God and His

attributes, ever escaped his lips. The very motion of a Supreme

Being was, with him, made up of awe and solemnity, and filled

the whole of his great mind with the strongest emotions. A man

like him, with all his proper sentiments and sensibilities

alive in him, must in this state of existence have something to

believe, and something to hope for; or else, as life is

advancing to its close and parting, all is heart-sinking and

oppression Depend upon it, whatever may be the mind of an old

man, old age is only really happy when, on feeling the

enjoyments of this world pass away, it begins to lay a stronger

hold on those of another.

Mr. Webster then quotes, on the authority of another, the grounds of Mr.

Mason's religious faith, thus:--

Mr. Mason was fully aware that his end was near; and in answer

to the question, "Can you now rest with firm faith upon the

merits of your Divine Redeemer?" he said, "I trust I do. Upon

what else can I rest?" At another time, in reply to a similar

question, he said, "_Of course_; I have no other ground of

hope."

Mr. Webster adds:--

Such, Mr. Chief-Justice, was the life and such the death of

Jeremiah Mason. For one I could pour out my heart like water at

the recollection of his virtues and his friendship, and in the

feeling of his loss. I would embalm his memory in my best

affections.

Again, in the following extract from a letter to his teacher, Mr. James

Tappan, about two years before Mr. Webster's death, he writes:--

You have, indeed, lived a checkered life. I hope you have been

able to bear prosperity with meekness, and adversity with

patience. These things are all ordered for us far better than

we could order them for ourselves. We may pray for our daily

bread; we may pray for forgiveness of sins; we may pray to be

kept from temptation, and that the kingdom of God may come in

us, and in all men, and His will everywhere be done. Beyond

this we hardly know for what good to supplicate the Divine

Mercy. Our Heavenly Father knoweth what we have need of better

than we know ourselves, and we are assured that His eye and His

loving kindness are upon us and around us every moment.

How entirely in harmony are these religious views of Mr. Webster with

similar utterances on several public occasions, to which allusion has

already been made; and especially with that extraordinary dramatic

scene so vividly described by his biographer, Mr. Harvey, who was an

eye-witness and participator in it, when, in the solitary farm-house of

John Colby,[D] in New Hampshire, Mr. Webster, at the request of Mr.

Colby, led in prayer. Whatever else of unfriendly criticism has been

made on the character of Mr. Webster, he has never been charged with

hypocrisy, or of parading his religious opinions; least of all in that

remote hamlet of John Colby, whither he had gone to visit him for the

first time in twenty-five years, because he had heard of Mr. Colby's

remarkable conversion late in life. Can there be the remotest suspicion

that other than the most pure and noble of all motives could have

governed him, as he then sought communion with God in prayer? And, as

Mr. Harvey remarked to the writer, "It was indeed a prayer."

About one year before the death of Mr. Webster I casually met Professor

Stuart, of Andover, on his return from a visit to Mr. Webster, at

Marshfield, when, in the course of conversation relating to his

religious habits, the professor remarked, "Mr. Webster has arrived at

that period in life when he feels more than ever his moral

accountability;" and added, "He has resumed family worship." I inquired,

"What evidence have you of this?" He answered, "Clergymen who have

recently visited in his family have so informed me." This, of course,

implied that family worship had once been his custom, but that it had

been temporarily suspended,--perhaps attributable to unusual pressure on

his time by reason of his always arduous public duties.

I am glad to have the opportunity, in these columns, of repeating such

testimony as I am able to offer, and to which much more might be added,

as to the worth and private character of America's greatest statesman,

whose record of distinguished public service will adorn the pages of his

country's history with unfading lustre long after the unjust aspersions

on his character shall have passed into oblivion forever.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] The _Atlantic Monthly_.

[C] Speech at Dartmouth Webster Centennial Dinner, Boston, 1882.

[D] John Colby was the husband of Mr. Webster's eldest sister, who died

many years before the visit here referred to. He was known as a great

sceptic in religious matters in early life, and hence Mr. Webster's

earnest desire to visit him soon after he heard of Mr. Colby's

conversion.

FORTY YEARS OF FRONTIER LIFE IN THE POCOMTUCK VALLEY.

BY HON. GEORGE SHELDON.

One result of John Eliot's attempt to civilize the Massachusetts Indians

was, that in 1663 the General Court granted to the town of Dedham eight

thousand acres of wilderness, as compensation for the territory taken by

the apostle for his settlement at Natick. After an examination of

various localities, Dedham selected a tract upon the far away lands of

the Pocomtucks, bought out the rights of the Indians who claimed it, and

in 1665 laid out the grant there. This land was divided into five

hundred and twenty-three shares, or rights, called "cow-commons," and

held by each freeholder of Dedham, according to his interest in the

undivided land in the old township; and it was paid for by a general

town tax. Fractions of a cow-common were called sheep-commons, five of

which equalled a cow-common. These shares were offered for sale to such

men as Dedham should approve. The required standard of character does

not appear, but this regulation was no dead letter, as the town records

testify; and picked men only were allowed a foothold on this new

possession. We may therefore suppose that it was a goodly body of men

which gathered, about 1671-5, on the virgin soil in the lower valley of

the Pocomtuck River. Here were the headquarters of the Pocomtuck

Indians, whose chieftains were at the head of the confederate clans in

the Connecticut valley. In 1663, the date of the grant, the Pocomtucks

were engaged in a successful campaign against the powerful Mohawks; but,

before the compass and chain of the surveyor had been called into

requisition to lay out the bounds of the grant, the majority of this

tribe had been swept off by a retaliatory invasion of their western

enemies. This was doubtless considered a special interposition of

Providence in behalf the projected settlement, and a manifestation of

Divine indignation against the heathen, who were popularly considered

subjects of the devil, seeking to establish his kingdom "in these

uttermost parts of the earth." However this may be, the first English

settlers here found the power of native rule broken, and a remnant of

the Pocomtucks gathered for protection near the centre of a triangle

formed by the settlements at Hadley, Hatfield, and Northampton.

The early comers had no fear of the natives, and danger there was none.

They were welcomed by the crushed tribe as another bulwark against the

Mohawks. There is no hint of any hostile feeling on the part of the red

men, or of any anticipation of it on the part of the whites, until the

breaking out of Philip's War. The primal cause of this outbreak is not

far to seek. Whenever and wherever, on our shifting frontier, our

so-called civilization has come in contact with the barbarism of the

aborigines, similar results have followed. And nowhere was this effect

more certain than when our Puritan ancestors, with their inflexible

ideas of duty, confronted the New England savage in his native wilds.

It should have been early apparent to our rulers that these two races,

essentially so different, could not live side by side in fellowship and

harmony, and subject to the same rules and regulations. Eliot realized

this, and planned the isolated community at Natick, which, as we have

seen, resulted in the English settlement at Pocomtuck.

The policy of the whites was, by fair means or foul, to induce the

natives, as soon as possible, to acknowledge allegiance to the English;

this being accomplished, the laws of the Puritans were strictly enforced

upon these free children of the forest, and their violation punished by

fine, imprisonment, and stripes. It does not appear that any particular

effort was made in the Connecticut Valley to teach the savages the

precepts of Christ, but they were held accountable to the laws of Moses,

as interpreted by the rulers, even to being punished for travelling on

Sunday.

Such oppressive acts by narrow-minded good men were supplemented by the

knavery of unscrupulous bad men. The Indian trader, in accordance with

the teachings of the times, not only looked upon the savages as the

offspring of Satan, but also as fair objects of spoil; consequently, the

simplicity, moral honesty, and ignorance if these Canaanites and

Amalekites were made the most of financially. Ignorant of the benefits

of wise restraint, and unused to such wiles as were practised upon them

by the traders, the unsophisticated natives had a hard time indeed

between the two.

Demoralized by the white man's fire-water, they were cheated while under

its influence. Though the sale of rum to the Indians was forbidden by

law, and illicit traders were prosecuted, "conviction in liquor cases"

was no easier then than now. The word of a heathen had small weight

against the oath of a Christian, and fear of the traders often prevented

the victims from pressing their complaints.

Before the advent of the whites the natives seem to have been thrifty

and provident, laying up stores for contingencies. With English

implements and weapons, their facilities for planting and hunting were

greatly increased, and their products should have been correspondingly

larger. The unlimited demand for furs should have stimulated the chase,

and their sale should have added to their comforts in food and shelter.

By their contact with the whites, their lives should have been changed

for the better. Was this the effect? The contrary is notoriously true.

The increased income was squandered in liquors. Like thousands to-day,

they would give their most costly possessions to gratify their appetite

for strong drink. When the corn crop was short, and gave out in the

spring, or had been squandered for rum, they borrowed of the traders,

paying two hundred per cent for it at harvest. They became poor,

shiftless, and dependent. They even pledged their children as security,

to be held as slaves in default of contract. They knew they were

debased, and despised by the superior race, and felt their degradation.

To this condition had come the remnant of the Pocomtucks; a power which

within a generation had humbled the fierce Mohawks, and scattered in

battle the armies of Uncas the Mohegan.

To the natives, the English fur-trader was the representative of his

race; and as they gradually found themselves no match for his methods or

his morals, their simple faith in the white man's honesty, their

debasing fear of his prowess, their reverence for him as a superhuman

being, little by little died out. They saw themselves wronged,

despoiled, and abused, with less and less power to assert their rights

and maintain their independence; and their hearts became more and more

filled with a sullen desire for revenge. In the ethics of the North

American Indian, there was but one mode of gratifying this feeling.

Nothing would suffice but the blood of the offender. This fearful code,

with all its horrors, was felt alike by the innocent and the guilty,

when Philip and the hour came.

Meanwhile the plantation at Pocomtuck was increasing in strength and

prosperity. The rich soil of the meadows yielded an abundance of Indian

corn, wheat, rye, barley, beans, and flax. Game of every kind was plenty

and easily secured. Flocks of turkeys, pigeons, geese, and ducks were

all about them in the woods and waters. The forest also furnished

condiments, in the form of sugar from the sap of the maple tree, and

honey from the heart of the "bee tree." The rivers teemed with choice

fish; herds of deer were so common as to impress the name of "Deerfield"

permanently upon the settlement. Peace and plenty smiled on all, and the

foundations of the little community seemed firmly established. The

planters had come to stay. In 1673, a minister had been secured in the

person of Samuel Mather, a Harvard graduate of 1671. In 1675, they had

already "a little house for a meeting-house, yt they meete in," and were

building a dwelling for the minister. None dreamed that the horrors of

an Indian war were so soon to overwhelm them and change the whole aspect

of nature and of human affairs in this quiet valley. The news of the

outbreak at far-off Plymouth, in June, 1675, raised no fears in them.

The attack on Brookfield, August 2, opened their eyes, and preparations

for defence were pushed with vigor. The swamp fight under the shadow of

Wequamps brought the war to their very doors; and, on the first of

September, the settlers were called upon to defend their homes against

the attack of those who had hitherto been considered trusty friends.

The days of peace and plenty were over for this unhappy people. On the

slaughter of Lothrop and the "Flower of Essex," at Bloody Brook,

September 18, this chosen land was deserted and given back to the

wilderness.

After seven years of wandering, such of the survivors as had courage

enough returned to the desolate scene of their former prosperity; but

the progress of resettlement was slow and painful. Fortifications were

built, old and young trained for soldiers, watch and ward kept night and

day, scouts ranged the surrounding forests, and all were constantly on

the alert. All hunting or fishing, all labor in forest or field, all

journeying, was at the imminent risk of life or liberty. From the

nearest swamp or thicket, from behind some fence, stump, or clump of

brake, at any moment might appear the flash of the musket or gleam of

the scalping-knife. Never ending toil under these conditions, and

unceasing vigilance, were the price of existence, and the stern

realities of life closed in upon them on every side. Labor they must,

or starvation was at the door; for their sustenance must be drawn from

their own acres. They could not look back for aid, as the towns below

were in the same condition. Women and children were not exempt from

laborious toil. Of relaxation there was little, and recreation was

unthought of. Even parental love was constrained and formal. Children

were born into a cold and cheerless atmosphere, and it is not to be

wondered at that they grew up hard and austere men and women, whose

chief or only solace was the hope of an eternity of rest and

psalm-singing, in a heaven earned by the endurance of trials with piety,

patience, and faith that all their sufferings would in some way redound

to the glory of God.

There was little desire or opportunity for cultivating the mind. A dense

ignorance of letters was the rule. Hardly a woman born of the generation

preceding Queen Anne's War could write her name, and many of the most

active and useful men could do no better. The people lived wholly off

the land. Their clothing and bedding were either from flax, raised,

pulled, rotted, broken, and swingled by the men; and hatchelled, carded,

spun, and woven into cloth, and cut, and made up by the women; or else

of wool sheared from the flocks, carded and spun by hand, and knit into

stockings, or woven into blankets or rugs, or into flannel, to be fulled

for men's wear; or into linsey-woolsey, for the women and children. To

the material for men's garments must be added buckskin for breeches and

leggins. Shoes were often made of untanned hide, moccasin fashion, a

method borrowed from the Indians. Thorns took the place of pins in

woman's gear, and thongs did duty for buttons, with men. If the maiden

did have "genuine bear's oil" for her hair, for lack of a mirror her

head must be dressed by the pool or placid spring.

The imports were the metals for the smith, guns, swords, lead, powder,

rum, salt, sickles, razors, jack-knives, scissors, needles. There was

seen occasionally, in the most forehanded families, a show of red shag

cotton, calico, or Manchester. Very rarely some ambitious woman would

appear with a silk wimple, scarf, or ribbon. In such extreme cases, be

she dame or maiden, the stern hand of the law fell heavily upon the

culprit, and certainly with more weight if she wore the unseemly and

offending article "in a flaunting manner."

They had neither tea nor coffee. Their drink beside water was cider or

malt beer. Spirituous liquors were a luxury, used principally in

sickness, at weddings, funerals, or other special occasions. Indian corn

and wheat were staple articles of diet; the former eaten as hulled corn,

or beaten in a mortar into samp or hominy; and probably wheat was

prepared in the same manner. Their dishes were of wood or pewter;

gourd-shells answered for dippers and vessels of various use; and

clam-shells made acceptable spoons. The household utensils were largely

home-made.

Artisans were few. The wood-work of their carts, ploughs, yokes, and

other farm implements, was generally made at home. The cart-irons,

ploughshares, chains, axes, billhooks, scythes, and other cutting

instruments, were hammered out on the anvil of the village blacksmith;

and the work turned out by them is unequalled by any of the craft

to-day.

With all their hardships and poverty, with all their distress and

danger, the people were strict in the observance of all the established

rites of their faith. The meeting-house burned in Philip's War was at

once replaced on the second settlement. Within a score of years this had

been outgrown, and a third edifice erected. It was two stories, square,

with the roof rising from each of the sides to the turret in the centre.

Of the interior finish a little is known. There were no pews; the

worshippers were "seated" in fixed places, according to rules

established in town-meeting, where the "dignity" of each rude bench was

formally discussed and declared by vote. The women sat on the right of

the minister, and the men on the left. The boys and girls were stored

away somewhere in nooks and corners, under the eye of the tythingmen. On

each side of the entrance places were reserved where, on entering, the

men could deposit their loaded guns under the care of an appointed

guard. While the faithful pastor was warning his devout hearers against

the wiles of the tempter within, the sentinel, stationed in the turret

above, watched all approaches, to guard against surprisal by an enemy

without.

The communities of this period are often referred to as pure

democracies, where each man was ranked equal to every other. This is far

from the fact. There were real aristocratic distinctions in every town,

nowhere more apparent than in meetings for religious worship. The truth

appears to be that the settlers were still bound by the fetters of habit

and custom brought from the mother-land. Emancipation from its

aristocratic practices and social distinctions came only with the slow

growth of democratic ideas and the overthrow of kingly rule.

DWELLINGS.

The first houses of the settlers were doubtless of logs, one story high,

"daubed" with clay. A common form was eighteen feet square, with seven

feet stud, stone fireplaces, with catted chimney, and a hip-roof covered

with thatch. These structures generally gave way in a few years to large

frame houses, covered with "clo'boards" and shingles, having fireplace

and chimney of brick, which was laid in clay mortar, except the part

above the roof, where lime was used. Of these houses, two styles

prevailed; one represented by the "Old Indian House," the other, less

elaborate, by the house now standing on the Smead lot. This house is

thirty feet square, two stories, with pitch roof, facing the street

westerly. It is covered with cloveboards, apparently the original, with

no signs of paint. It has four windows in front, and five at each end.

The front door, a little south of the centre, opens directly into the

south front room, which is sixteen by eighteen feet. On the north of

this, is a huge chimney which rises through the ridge, and the north

front room, twelve by thirteen feet. North of the chimney is a large,

dark closet. East of it is the kitchen, eleven by twenty feet, south of

which is the buttery. Stairs to cellar and chambers occupy the southeast

corner. The space over the kitchen is unfinished. The southwest chamber

is fifteen by fifteen, the northwest twelve by thirteen. Each story is

seven and a half feet stud. The frame is of hewn timber, generally nine

by fourteen inches. The plates are nine by sixteen; those at the ends in

the upper story project twelve inches over the walls, supported by the

side plates, and studs on the inner edge. The rafters are sawed, four by

four inches, and supported by purlins which are framed into heavy beam

rafters at the middle and each end of the roof. The whole building is of

pine. There was no lath and plaster; the walls were made of matched

boards. The ceiling was finished by the joists and underside of the

floor above being planed; the floors were double or of matched boards.

The "Old Indian House," built by John Sheldon, about 1698, stood at the

north end of the training-field, facing the south. Its frame was

largely of oak. It was twenty-one by forty-two feet, two stories, with a

steep pitch roof. In front, the second story projected about two feet,

the ends of the cross-beams being supported by ornamental oak brackets,

two of which are preserved in Memorial Hall. A lean-to thirteen and

a-half feet wide ran the whole length of the north side, its roof being

a continuation of that on the main building.

The ground floor was thus thirty-four and a-half by forty-two feet. From

the centre rose the chimney, about ten feet square at the base, with

fireplaces on the sides and rear. South of it was the front entry,

which, including the stairway, was eight by twelve feet. The lower floor

was laid under the sill, which, projecting beyond the wall, formed a

ledge around the bottom of the rooms wide enough for the children to sit

upon. Stepping over the sill into the front entry, doors are seen on

either hand opening into the front rooms; stairs on the right, lead, by

two square landings and two turns to the left, to a passage over the

entry, from which, at the right and left, doors lead to the chambers. In

the rear of the chimney is a small, dark room, with stairs to the

garret. Including the garret, there were five rooms in the main

structure, each of them lighted by two windows with diamond panes set in

lead.

In the centre of the lean-to was the kitchen, with windows in the rear;

east of this was a bedroom, and west, the buttery and back entry. The

fireplace was a deep cavern, the jambs and back at right angles to each

other and the floor.

At the sides, hanging on spikes driven into pieces of wood built into

the structure for the purpose, were the long-handled frying-pan, the

pot-hook, the boring iron, the branding iron, the long iron peel, the

roasting hook, the fire-pan, the scoop-shaped fire-shovel, with a trivet

or two. The stout slice and tongs lean against the jambs in front.

In one end was the oven, its mouth flush with the back of the fireplace.

In this nook, when the oven was not in use, stood a wooden bench on

which the children could sit and study the catechism and spelling-book

by firelight, or watch the stars through the square tower above their

heads, the view interrupted only by the black, shiny lug-pole, and its

great trammels; or in the season, its burden of hams and flitches of

pork or venison, hanging to be cured in the smoke. The mantle-tree was a

huge beam of oak, protected from the blaze only by the current of cold

air constantly ascending. The preparation of fuel was no light task, and

"building a fire" was no misnomer. The foundation was a "back-log," two

or three feet in diameter; in front of this the "fore-stick,"

considerably smaller, both lying on the ashes; on them lay the

"top-stick," half as big as the back-log. All these were usually of

green wood. In front of this pile was a stack of split wood, branches,

chips, and cobs, or, if cob-irons were present, the smaller wood was

laid horizontally across these. The logs would last several days, and be

renewed when necessary, but the fire was not allowed to go out. Should

this happen, the fire-pan was sent to a neighbor for coals, or the tin

lantern with a candle for a light. In default of neighbors, the

tinder-box, or flint-lock musket with a wad of tow were used to evoke a

spark. "Tending fire" meant renewing the lighter parts of the fuel; for

this purpose, there was, in prudent families, a generous pile of dry

cord-wood in the kitchen. With these appliances, considerable warmth was

felt in the room; the larger part of the heat, however, was lost up the

huge chimney. Fresh air rushed in at every crack and cranny to supply

this great draft; and, although the windows were small, and the walls

lined with brick, there was no lack of ventilation. In this condition of

things, the high-backed settle in front of the blazing fire was a cozy

seat. It was the place of honor for the heads of the family and

distinguished guests. Sometimes the settle was placed permanently on one

side of the fireplace, the seat hung on leather hinges, under which was

the "pot-hole," where smaller pots, spiders, skillets, and kettles were

stored.

The fireplaces in the front rooms were of the same pattern, but smaller

than that in the kitchen. Fires were seldom built there except at

weddings, funerals, or on state occasions. The furniture, for the most

part home-made, rude and unpainted, was scanty--a few stools, benches,

and split-bottomed chairs; a table or two, plain chests, rude, low

bedsteads, with home-made ticks filled with straw or pine needles. The

best room may have had a carved oak chest, brought from England, a tent

or field bedstead, with green baize, or white dimity curtains, and

generous feather bed. The stout tick for this, the snow-white sheets,

the warm flannel blankets, and heavy woollen rugs, woven in checks of

black, or red, and white, or the lighter harperlet, were all the

products of domestic wheel and loom. There were no carpets. The floors

were sprinkled with fine, white sand, which, on particular occasions,

was brushed into fanciful patterns with a birch broom, or bundle of

twigs. The style of painting floors called "marbling," hardly yet

extinct, was a survival of this custom.

The finishing of the "Indian House" was more elaborate than that of the

Smead house; but there was no lath and plaster, the ceiling being the

same. The partitions and walls were of wainscot-work, with mouldings

about the doors and windows. These mouldings were all cut by hand from

solid wood. In some cases the oak summer-tree was smoothed and left

bare, with a capital cut on the supporting posts; generally, hereabouts,

it was covered with plain boards,--it may be, in the best room, with

panels. No finer lumber is found than that with which these old houses

were finished.

Their massive frames, each stout tenon fitted to its shapely mortise by

the try rule, whose foundations were laid by our sires so long ago that

the unsubdued savage still roamed in the forest where its timbers were

hewn, stand as firmly as when the master-builder dismissed the tired

neighbors, who had heaved up the huge beams, and pinned the last rafter

to its mate (for there were no ridgepoles) at the raising.

AN EVENING AT HOME.

The ample kitchen was the centre of family life, social and industrial.

Here around the rough table, seated on rude stools or benches, all

partook of the plain and often stinted fare. A glance at the family

gathered here after nightfall of a winter's day may prove of interest.

After a supper of bean-porridge, or hominy and milk, which all partake

in common from a great pewter basin, or wooden bowl, with spoons of

wood, horn, or pewter; after a reverent reading of the Bible, and

fervent supplication to the Most High for care and guidance; after the

watch was set on the tall mount, and the vigilant sentinel began pacing

his lonely beat, the shutters were closed and barred, and with a sense

of security the occupations of the long winter evening began. Here was a

picture of industry, enjoined alike by the law of the land and the stern

necessities of the settlers. All were busy. Idleness was a crime. On the

settle, or a low arm-chair, in the most sheltered nook, sat the revered

grandam--as a term of endearment called granny--in red woollen gown, and

white linen cap; her gray hair and wrinkled face reflecting the bright

firelight; the long stocking growing under her busy needles, while she

watched the youngling of the flock, in the cradle by her side. The

goodwife, in linsey-woolsey short gown and red petticoat, steps lightly

back and forth in calf pumps beside the great wheel, or poises

gracefully to give a final twist to the long-drawn thread of wool or

tow. The continuous buzz of the flax wheels, harmonizing with the

spasmodic hum of the big wheel, shows that the girls are preparing a

stock of linen against their wedding day. Less active, and more fitful,

rattles the quill-wheel, where the younger children are filling quills

for the morrow's weaving. Craftsmen are still scarce, and the yeoman

must depend largely on his own skill and resources. The grandsire, and

the goodman, his son, in blue woollen frocks, buckskin breeches, long

stockings, and clouted brogans with pewter buckles, and the older boys,

in shirts of brown tow, waistcoat and breeches of butternut-colored

woollen homespun, surrounded by piles of white hickory shavings, are

whittling out with keen Barlow jack-knives, implements for home

use,--ox-bows and bow-pins, axe-helves, rakestales, forkstales, handles

for spades and billhooks, wooden shovels, flail-staff and swingle,

swingling knives, pokes and hog-yokes for unruly cattle and swine. The

more ingenious, perhaps, are fashioning buckets, or powdering tubs, or

weaving skepes, baskets, or snow-shoes. Some, it may be, sit astride the

wooden shovel, shelling corn on its iron-shod edge, while others are

pounding it into samp or hominy in the great wooden mortar.

There are no lamps or candles, but the red light from the burning pine

knots on the hearth glows over all, repeating, in fantastic pantomime on

the brown walls and closed shutters, the varied activities around it.

These are occasionally brought into a higher relief by the white

flashes, as the boys throw handfuls of hickory shavings on to the

fore-stick, or punch the back-log with the long iron peel, while wishing

they had "as many shillings as sparks go up chimney." Then, the

smoke-stained joists and boards of the ceiling, with the twisted rings

of pumpkin, strings of crimson peppers, and festoons of apple, drying on

poles hung beneath; the men's hats, the crook-necked squashes, the

skeins of thread and yarn hanging in bunches on the wainscot; the sheen

of the pewter plates and basins, standing in rows on the shelves of the

dresser; the trusty firelock, with powder-horn, bandolier, and

bullet-pouch, hanging on the summer-tree, and the bright brass

warming-pan behind the bedroom door--all stand more clearly revealed for

an instant, showing the provident care for the comfort and safety of the

household. Dimly seen in the corners of the room are baskets in which

are packed hands of flax from the barn, where, under the flax-brake, the

swingling-knife and coarse hackle, the shives and swingling tow have

been removed by the men; to-morrow the more deft manipulations of the

women will prepare these bunches of fibre for the little wheel, and

granny will card the tow into bats, to be spun into tow yarn on the big

wheel. All quaff the sparkling cider or foaming beer, from the

briskly-circulating pewter mug, which the last out of bed in the morning

must replenish from the barrel in the cellar. But over all a grave

earnestness prevails; there is little laughter or mirth, and no song to

cheer the tired workers. If stories are told they are of Indian horrors,

of ghosts, or of the fearful pranks of witchcraft.

This was the age of superstition. Women were hung for witches in Salem,

and witchcraft believed in everywhere. Every untoward event was imputed

to supernatural causes. Did the butter or soap delay its coming, the

churn and the kettle were bewitched. Did the chimney refuse to draw,

witches were blowing down the smoke. Did the loaded cart get stuck in

the mud, invisible hands were holding it. Did the cow's milk grow scant,

the imps had been sucking her. Did the sick child cry, search was made

for the witches' pins. Were its sufferings relieved by death, glances

were cast around to discover the malignant eye that doomed it. Tales of

events like these, so fascinating and so fearful, sent the adults, as

well as children to bed with blood chilled, every sense alert with fear,

ready to see a ghost in every slip of moonshine, and trace to malign

origin every sound breaking the stillness--the rattle of a shutter, the

creak of a door, the moan of the winds or the cries of the birds and

beasts of the night. For more than a century later, the belief in

witchcraft kept a strong hold on the popular mind and had a marked

influence on the character of the people.

For two or three evenings previous to Feb. 29, 1704, a new topic of

supernatural interest has been added to the usual stock. Ominous sounds

have been heard in the night, and, says Rev. Solomon Stoddard, "the

people were strangely amazed by a trampling noise round the fort, as if

it were beset by Indians." The older men recalled similar omens before

the outbreak of Philip's War, when from the clear sky came the sound of

trampling horses, the roar of artillery, the rattle of small arms, and

the beating of drums to the charge. As these tales of fear, coupled with

their own warning, were in everybody's mouth, what wonder if the hearts

of the thoughtful sank within them; that they cowered with undefinable

dread, as under the shadow of impending disaster; and asked each other

with fear and trembling the meaning of this new and dire portent. They

had not long to wait the answer.

Even then, only just beyond the northern horizon an avalanche was

sweeping down to overwhelm the settlement. A horde of Frenchmen turned

half Indian, and savages armed with civilized powers of destruction,

under Hertel de Rouville, a French officer of the line, were hurrying

towards our doomed frontier, over the dreary waste of snow which

stretched away for three hundred miles to the St. Lawrence. In the dark

shade of some secluded glen, or deep ravine, a day's march nearer our

border, each night their camp was pitched and kettles hung. Their fires

lighted up the mossy trunks and overhanging branches of the giant

hemlock and the towering pine, throwing their summits into a deeper

gloom, and building up a wall of pitchy darkness which enclosed the camp

on every side.

A frugal supper, and quiet soon reigned within this circle; around each

camp-fire the tired forms of the invaders were soon stretched on beds of

evergreens--great dark blotches, with luminous centres, on the crystal

snow--a sound sleep undisturbed by the relief of sentinels, or

replenishment of fires--up at dawn, a hasty breakfast, and onward. The

nearer and nearer prospect of blood and plunder added new strength to

their limbs, and sent new gleams of ferocity across their swart faces.

Dogs with sledges aided to transport the equipage of the camp, and the

march was swift.

The errand of this horde was to murder the inhabitants and burn the

dwellings of an unprotected town; its ultimate purpose was to please the

Abenaki Indians of Maine. These Indians had complained to the governor

of Canada about some fancied or real wrong done them by the English, and

begged for redress. The prayer of the savages, and the policy of the

French, were in full accord, and this expedition was sent out to prove

to the Indians that the French were their friends and avengers. Its

object was accomplished.

Leaving the dogs, sledges, and such baggage as suited his purpose, at

the mouth of West River, under the shadow of Wantastiquet, De Rouville,

with scouts well advanced, pushed forward his eager army on its last

day's march with caution and celerity, and reached the bluff overlooking

our valley on the night of Feb. 28, 1703-4. Here, behind a low ridge,

the packs were unstrapped, the war-paint put on, and final preparations

made. Not long before dawn, at the darkest hour of the night, the attack

was made on the sleeping town with fire and sword.

Many attempts have been made to depict the shocking tragedies of this

dreadful morning, but no pen or pencil ever has succeeded in fitly

portraying the terrible reality, the ghastly horrors of this crowning

event in the life of a frontier town.

TRUST.

BY J. B. M. WRIGHT.

There's a lesson ever hiding

Deep within the floweret's cell,

Of an endless trust abiding

Safe with Him who guideth well.

As the flowers are ever gazing

To the land above the stars,

We, our earnest life upraising,

Look beyond life's sunset bars,

With our eager footsteps wending,

Strive to reach the summits grand,

Where, the past and future blending,

His own guardian angels stand.

ELIZABETH.[E]

A ROMANCE OF COLONIAL DAYS.

BY FRANCES C. SPARHAWK, Author of "A Lazy Man's Work."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE CAPITULATION.

It was the fifteenth of June. The expected ships had joined Commodore

Warren, and his fleet of eleven men-of-war bore into the harbor. Signals

had been agreed upon between the two commanders. The brush was piled

upon Green Hill ready to send its columns of flame into the air when the

Dutch flag at the mast-head of Warren's ship should announce that he was

ready.

Under the inspiring promise of this flag, and in the blaze of the

answering signals, the troops, with drums beating and colors flying,

were to rush to the assault. Archdale's opinion, that heavy guns at the

lighthouse would be disastrous to their old enemy the Island Battery,

had been confirmed by two Swiss deserters, and that place was now almost

untenable under a galling fire. The Circular Battery, built to protect

the entrance to the city, was little better than a mass of ruins, while

the fire that morning from Pepperell's fascine batteries was so hot that

the enemy could not stand to their guns. Land and sea trembled with the

shock of the cannonade. In the midst of all this Warren came ashore. The

troops were drawn up as if for parade, and the Commodore addressed them

in a few spirited words which stirred their devotion to the flag under

which they were fighting. Then Pepperell stepped forward and swept his

keen eyes along the ranks of the men. He had a knowledge of them and an

interest in them that Warren could not even understand. To the

Englishman they were so many soldiers eager to uphold the honor of the

British nation, and he was proud of them. But Pepperell saw the forests

to be hewn, the fields to be reclaimed from the wilderness, the cities

yet unbuilded. He saw the life, great, though half its greatness was not

dreamed of, that was to pour in through this gate which to-day's work

was to open. For, not only that fear and hatred of Popery which marked

his age, but, already, that American love of liberty, to which

priestcraft is so inimical, burned within him. A touch of Winkelried's

fervor kindled his eye. If into his breast, and into the breasts of his

comrades, the bayonets of the enemy were to be planted, yet should a way

be made for his countrymen.

"Soldiers," he said, "some of you fellow-citizens, and all of you

fellow-workers in a great cause, I have no fear of you. I have good

reason to know your persistence, and your undaunted courage. Our mother

England needs us to-day. She has not demanded this work of us, for she

has thought of us as children. Shall she find us grown to brawny

manhood?" A deafening cheer rolled from rank to rank to answer him.

"Foes assail her, and the enemy's hand is at her throat. Have we the

glorious privilege of striking it down? Yes! To-day." Again cheer on

cheer burst from the ranks, and rose above the roar of the cannon.

"Then, let us spring to our work with nerves of steel, and arms of iron,

and hearts of oak, like our ships that outride the storm, like our trees

that laugh at the gale. But, look! it is we who command the gale, for it

is our cannon that thunder. The enemy's--they are faint and fainter in

reply. Their gates are broken down; their walls are broken down; their

hearts quake within them, for all their gallant front. My brave

soldiers, remember your comrades who lie here in their graves, and carry

home to their sorrowing families the news that they have not died in

vain; and carry home to your rejoicing families the assurance that you

have not lived in vain. For more than that homes shall be peaceful, more

than that hearts shall be happy, is it that religion shall be free. But

one thing let us remember: strong hearts are not boastful; not in our

own might do we go forth to this battle. '_Christo duec_,'--'with Christ

for our leader,'--this is our courage. Our flag, whose motto ends with

this, may well begin, '_Nil desperandum_--'Never despair.' We never have

despaired; we have known only hope, and now hope is to become a

certainty. On you rests the glory of making it so. On you. The enemy is

ours _to-day_! Louisburg is ours TO-DAY! When you look toward the fleet

and see the red flag at the mast-head of the 'Superbe;' when you look

toward the hill and see the three columns of smoke rise up--then in your

might, in the might of Christ, your Leader, march on! Fight! Conquer!

And draw breath only within the walls of Louisburg!"

In the tumult of applause that followed this appeal the commanders

turned toward one another. Warren was about to go back to his ship and

give the final orders for bringing the fleet into action at once; for

the lengthening shadows gave warning that the day was waning, and that

it was time for plan and speech to ripen into action. With a word of

parting, they clasped hands briefly, and the Commodore had already

turned to enter his boat, when, with his face toward the city, he

suddenly stopped.

"Look!" he said to Pepperell. "Who is that?"

"A white flag, as I live!" cried the General, watching the captain in

command of the advance battery, who was going forward to receive the

French officer. "Yes," he continued, as Duchambou's letter was handed to

him. "See! he asks time to consider terms of capitulation."

After a few hasty orders, by which truce succeeded war, the commanders

were seated in Pepperell's tent, their voices seeming to themselves to

ring out strangely in the silence about them. The soldiers, flushed with

desire for victory, rested upon their arms in an impatient acquiescence,

and Pepperell himself, who, as a commander, rejoiced in the thought that

bloodshed might be prevented, yet turned martial eyes upon his companion

for a moment, and said, stifling a sigh:--

"They'd have gone at it splendidly!"

"Yes," answered the Commodore; "but this is better. Only we must not

give those ships time to come up, or Duchambou may change his mind, and

we may have our fight on worse terms."

"I agree with you perfectly," answered Pepperell. "We will be no

sticklers for trifles."

Another boat beside the Commodore's had lain rocking on the tide in the

shallow water while the General was speaking to his men. At the end of

his address the oars were plied vigorously, and the boat shot out from

the shore. Suddenly, by tacit consent, every oar hung poised on the

boat's edge, and the stalwart rowers, bending forward with upturned

faces, remained motionless, their eyes fastened upon some object on

shore.

"Yes, it's a white flag!" said one of them at last. "Truce? Aint we

going to have a chance at the '_parley-vous_?'"

A murmur of disappointment answered him.

"I do believe they've struck," said another. And the oars began to be

moved again, as if the sooner their work was over the sooner the pliers

would learn what they were anxious to know.

"What are you saying?" cried Mr. Royal. "What's that about truce?" he

added to the man next him.

"Don't know, sir," the man answered.

"Don't you see the officer with the white flag going up to the General?"

volunteered another.

"Stop!" cried Mr. Royal, decidedly. "Wait a moment. If there's a truce,

I'm not going to Canso yet." The boat was almost at the side of the

waiting vessel, and the men exchanged looks of impatience, although they

complied at once.

"There's Col. Vaughan," said Nancy. "See! he's there beside the General,

and he looks as cross as can be."

"Then you may be sure the engagement is put off," returned Elizabeth.

"I shall not leave yet. I will go back to shore," said her father, glad

to return to a place which only consideration for his daughter's safety

had induced him to leave at that time.

They had just stepped upon the beach again when the General came up,

accompanied by Commodore Warren.

"They're going to surrender," said Pepperell to Elizabeth, as the two

commanders bowed, and passed on hastily.

So Elizabeth did not go to Canso, where the hospitals had been removed.

In the light of after events she felt sometimes that it might have been

better if she had gone.

Two days later Pepperell marched into Louisburg, at the head of his

troops. The French, who were to depart with the honors of war and to

sail for France, were drawn up, as if on parade, to receive the

victorious army. The colonial volunteers looked at the battered

defences, which were still strong enough to have resisted them longer if

a combined attack had not been threatened, and they said to one

another:--

"It takes our General to capture a Gibraltar. We should all have been in

our graves if we had obeyed Governor Shirley, and begun by assault."

From the window of a house overlooking the square, Elizabeth and her

faithful attendant watched the whole ceremony of giving and taking

formal possession of the city, the exchange of salutations between the

French troops and their conquerors, and the departure of the former,

with drums beating and colors flying, to embark for France under a

twelve months' parole. When all was over, and she still sat there, her

eyes full of proud tears at the glory of her country, a voice behind her

said:--

"Do you remember the agreement we made?"

She turned, surprised, her lashes still wet.

"I didn't hear you coming," she answered. "You mean when I said I should

like to be invited to walk through Louisburg?"

"Yes."

"I should be glad, by and by, if you have leisure; although I suppose

that everybody will have that now."

He smiled. "If you saw Pepperell's tasks, you wouldn't think so."

"Then, I suppose that you are busy, too, and everybody else?"

"Yes. Shall I come for you at sunset?"

The words seemed to sound over and over again in Elizabeth's

ears,--words, in themselves, almost ungracious, but which his tone had

made to mean, "No business ranks your pleasure." Already they had

returned to the courtesies of peace. She could not answer in a different

spirit; she must abide by the idle words he had remembered, and go. Her

work here was over. Many of her patients had been sent home, and all

were well cared for now.

Sunset in the middle of June, and in that latitude, was only the

burnished gate-way to a beautiful twilight that lingered as if loath to

leave the land it loved. The city lay as tranquil as if no bombshell had

ever burst over it, or no alien force now held possession of it.

Soldiers were everywhere; but order reigned. Voices were heard, and

laughter; but not even rudeness assailed the inhabitants, who, while

waiting for transportation, had received a promise of protection in

their shattered homes. These ventured out now, in the new immunity from

cannon-balls, to examine the ruins of their city.

"We've done a good deal of damage in six weeks to a fortress that it

took thirty years to build," said Archdale to Elizabeth. "There are only

three whole houses left in the city." As he spoke they were passing by

gaping walls and shattered gun-carriages. They walked through entire

streets where the buildings, all more or less demolished, showed at

every point the cruelties of war. At one place they heard voices coming

from a roofless dwelling, which proved that its inmates still called it

home, and clung to the poor shelter that it gave.

"Take care!" cried Stephen, drawing her back suddenly. And as he spoke,

a stone from the high wall lost the balance it had precariously kept,

and fell almost at her feet. "We will walk in the middle of the street,"

he said, and they went on again, she leaning lightly on the arm he

offered her through the ways rough and often obstructed. It all seemed

like nothing else that had ever been with them, or ever would be with

them again. The city, wrecked by the storm that had raged against it,

lay in the stillness of hopelessness, and the moon that rose before the

twilight had begun to fade made the calmness appear deeper in sight of

the destruction that had brought death. It seemed to Elizabeth like

Archdale's own life.

"Do you know where Mr. Royal is?" he asked.

"I am not anxious about him," she answered, with a smile. "He is well

provided for in every way at General Pepperell's banquet." She stopped

suddenly, and turned to Stephen. "That is where you ought to be, too,"

she said; "and you are here on account of my thoughtless speech."

"Not so at all," he answered, with decision. "To be walking here with

you is what I like best."

She understood that her knowledge of his suffering and her sympathy made

this very natural. That evening for the first time they spoke of Katie.

He said that it seemed strange to him that the thought of her had so

little power over him.

"It will all come back with the old life," she answered; "that seems

broken now, but we shall take it up again."

"Where we left it?" he asked.

"I think so," she answered him.

He said nothing, for he did not himself understand what it was that

moved him so, and why he should be so eager to deny what must be true.

Only one thing was clear to him: that nothing must break the peace of

this evening. This was real in the midst of so much that seemed unreal,

and beautiful in the midst of confusion. They went on for a time in a

mood that Archdale dreaded to break in upon. But there was something

that he must tell her, lest she should learn it in a still harder way.

"I have news," he began at last, reluctantly.

"News?" she cried. "From home? About any one there? Not bad?"

"Yes, bad, but not from home at all. News that I wish you need never

hear; but this cannot be helped; and I know all that can be known about

the matter. Shall I tell you?"

"Yes," she answered, faintly.

"It is about Edmonson."

"I thought so."

"And Harwin."

"Yes. They"--

"They fought," he finished,--"yes. I don't know how they managed it, nor

how Harwin could leave the fleet, but in some way he did." The speaker

paused.

"Well?" she said, tremulously, after a silence.

"Harwin was killed." Archdale felt her hand tighten its grasp. "And

Edmonson," he added. Suddenly she drew away from him, and looked at him

searchingly, her breath coming unevenly.

"What!" she gasped. "Both! Both of them! Two deaths! How could it be?

Tell me what you mean."

"That is what I mean. It is true. Edmonson, you remember, willed, at

last, to recover, and he did so rapidly, that is, he was well enough to

go about, though not to report for duty. How he and Harwin arranged

matters, or met in the lonely spot in which they were found, I can't

explain,--nobody can. Evidently, it was a duel, and it appears to have

been without seconds, to make the matter more secret. Each must have

given the other his death, for they were found--But I need not tell you

all this."

"Yes, tell me how you are sure that they both--died in the duel."

"Edmonson must have given the death-wound first, for it seemed as if

Harwin, in an expiring agony, had sprung upon him and stabbed him to the

heart, as he fell himself." Elizabeth stood motionless, her face turned

away and one hand over her eyes. "The news was brought to the General

yesterday morning, and he sent me over to investigate," added Archdale

after a pause, in which he had studied her with the utmost attention.

Suddenly she turned quite away from him with a low moan. "It is

terrible, terrible!" she said under her breath. "And I--I--Oh, take me

back to the house!"

As Archdale obeyed, they went on without speaking, she no longer holding

his arm, but shrinking into herself as if she would have liked to be

invisible altogether.

"I think," she said at last, slowly, "that I ought to have been willing

to go to Canso. Perhaps I could have prevented the meeting by having

them watched, or in some way. Of course I can't tell. But I ought not to

have been selfish, and ask to stay here."

She had almost reached the house as she said this.

"You, selfish!" he cried.

But he fancied that she did not hear him, for she only repeated: "I

ought not to have been so selfish," and after a moment, as she stepped

upon the threshold, added, "Thank you; but I should not have gone if I

had known. Good-night."

He was alone in the moonlight; in a mood greatly at variance with the

tranquil sky that he stood looking into vaguely. Was Elizabeth suffering

only because she was connected, though so innocently, with this dreadful

thing? Was this all? It must be. And yet,--and yet people could love

where they despised,--there was Katie.

Then he saw that not only sympathy for Elizabeth had made him speak, but

the desire to see how Edmonson's death affected her. Well, after all, he

had not seen anything clearly, and he was neither proud of himself, nor

happy, as he walked away.