He settled quietly at New-York, and resumed practice at the bar, which
he continued as long as his health permitted. He owed such practice as
he had to his high legal ability, and not to any improved opinion of his
character. When Mr. Clay arrived in New-York from his English mission,
he went the round of the public institutions, attended by the principal
inhabitants. In one of the courts he met Burr, and, of course, after the
affair of the cipher letter, cut him. Burr made his way to him, declared
himself anxious to clear up every misapprehension, and requested to be
allowed half an hour's private conversation. Mr. Clay readily agreed to
this, and the hour was named. Burr failed to keep his appointment, and
never afterward appeared in Mr. Clay's presence.
One pure light, one healthy affection, illumined and partially redeemed
the life of the adventurer. He had an only child, a daughter, whom he
loved with all the love of which he was capable, and which she fully
deserved. She was early married to a Mr. Alston, and lived at
Charleston. I believe she was about five-and-twenty when she fell into
ill health, and the strong soul of her father was shaken with the terror
of losing her. He spared no pains or expense to obtain the best opinions
on her case from Europe; and the earnestness of his appeals to the
physicians to whom he wrote full statements of her case are very moving.
While awaiting a decision as to what measures should be taken for her
restoration, it was decided that she must leave Charleston before the
summer heats, and he summoned her to his home at New-York. To avoid
fatigue, she went by sea with her child and the nurse. Her father had
notice of her departure, and watched hour after hour for her arrival.
The hours wore away, and days, and weeks, and years. The vessel never
arrived, nor any tidings of her. She must have foundered, or, far worse,
fallen into the hands of pirates. A pang went through the heart of every
one for many years, as often as the thought recurred that Mrs. Alston
and her child might be living in slavery to pirates in some place
inaccessible to the inquiries of even her wretched father. When all had
been done that could be devised, and every one had ceased to hope, Burr
closed his lips upon the subject. No one of the few who were about him
ever heard him mention his daughter.
While I was in America a foreign sailor died in a hospital, my memory
fails me as to where it was. When near death, he made a confession which
was believed to be true by all whom I heard speak on the subject. He
confessed himself to have been a pirate, and to have served on board the
vessel which captured that which was conveying Mrs. Alston. He declared
that she was shut up below while the captain and crew were being
murdered on deck. She was then brought up, and was present at the
decision that it would not be safe to spare her life. She was ordered to
walk the plank, with her child in her arms; and, finding all quiet
remonstrance vain, she did it without hesitation or visible tremour. The
recollection of it was too much for the pirate in his dying moments.
About a year before his death Colonel Burr sanctioned the publication of
a so-called life of himself; a panegyric which leaves in the reader's
mind the strongest conviction of the reality of his Western adventures,
and of the justice of every important charge against him. He died last
year; and it will probably be soon known with exactness whether he took
care that his secrets should be buried with him, or whether he made
arrangements for some light being at length thrown on his eventful and
mysterious history.
VILLAGES.
"These ample fields
Nourished their harvests: here their herds were fed,
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,
And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.
From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers."
BRYANT.
The villages of New-England are all more or less beautiful, and the most
beautiful of them all is, I believe, Northampton. They have all the
graceful weeping elm; wide roads overshadowed with wood; mounds or
levels of a rich verdure; white churches, and comfortable and
picturesque frame dwellings. Northampton has these beauties and more. It
lies in the rich meadows which border the Connecticut, beneath the
protection of high wooded hills. The habitations of its gentry crown the
green knolls and terraces on which the village stands, or half buried in
gay gardens, or hidden under clumps of elm. The celebrated Mount Holyoke
and Mount Tom are just at hand, and the Sugarloaf is in view; while the
brimming Connecticut winds about and about in the meadows, as if
unwilling, like the traveller, to leave such a spot.
The pilgrims were not long in discovering the promise of the rich
alluvial lands amid which Northampton stands; and their descendants
established themselves here, as in the midst of a wilderness, long
before there were any settlements between the spot on which they had sat
down and the coast. The perils of such an abode were extreme, but so
were its temptations; and here, for many years, did a handful of whites
continue to live, surrounded by red neighbours; now trafficking, now
fighting; sometimes agreeing to render mutual service, but always on the
watch against mutual injury. So early as 1658 the township of
Northampton (then called Nonotuc) was purchased at the price set upon it
by the Indians, viz., for ninety square miles of land the sellers
demanded one hundred fathom of wampum by tale, and ten coats; and that
the purchasers should plough for the Indians sixteen acres of land on
the east side of the river the next summer. The making the purchase was
the smallest part of the settlers' business; the defending themselves in
the wilderness, surrounded as they were by numerous tribes of Indians,
was a far more serious matter. The usual arrangement of a village was
planned with a regard to safety from plunder and massacre. The surviving
effect is that of beauty, which the busy settlers cannot be supposed to
have much regarded at the time. The dwellings were erected in one long
street, each house within its own enclosure, and, in many cases,
fortified. The street was bordered with trees, and in the midst stood
the "meeting-house," often fortified also. This street was, when it was
possible, built across the neck of a peninsula formed by the windings of
the river, or from hill to hill in the narrowest part of a valley. The
cattle which grazed during the day in the peninsula or under the eye of
the owners were driven at night into the area between the rows of
houses. Here and there a village was surrounded with palisades. But no
kind of defence availed for any long period. From time to time disasters
happened to the most careful and the most valiant. Fire was an agent of
destruction which could not be always defied. When the village was
burned its inhabitants were helpless. The women and children were
carried off into captivity, and the place lay desolate till a new party
of adventurers arrived to clear away the ruins and commence a fresh
experiment.
Traditions of the horrors of the Indian wars spring up at every step in
this valley, and make the stranger speculate on what men and women were
made of in the days when they could voluntarily fix their abode among
savage foes, while there were safer places of habitation at their
command on the coast. The settlers seem, by the testimony of all
history, to have been possessed of spirit proportioned to their needs.
We hear of women being employed in the cellars casting bullets, and
handing them to their husbands during an onset of the savages; and of a
girl plucking a saddle from under the head of a sleeping Indian,
saddling a horse, and galloping off, swimming rivers, and penetrating
forests till she reached her home. The fate of the family of the Rev.
John Williams, who were living in the valley of the Connecticut at the
end of the seventeenth century, and were broken up by the Indians in an
attack on the village of Deerfield, is a fair specimen of the chances to
which residents in such lodges in the wilderness were exposed.
The enemy came over the snow, which was four feet deep, and hard enough
to bear them up, and thus were enabled to surmount the palisades. Not
being expected at that time of year, they met with no opposition. The
inhabitants had not time to rouse themselves from sleep before they were
tomahawked or captured. Out of a population of two hundred and eighty,
forty-seven were killed, and one hundred and twelve made prisoners. Mr.
Williams was the minister of the settlement. Two of his children were
killed on the threshold of his own door. His son Eleazer escaped, and
was left behind. Mrs. Williams was one of the Mathers of Northampton.
She was marched off, with her husband and several remaining children, in
the direction of Canada; but they were not allowed to be together and
comfort each other. It was a weary march for sufferers who carried such
heavy hearts into so horrible a captivity. Over wastes of snow, through
thawing brooks, among rugged forest-paths, they were goaded on, not
permitted to look back, or to loiter, or to stop, except at the pleasure
of their captors. Mrs. Williams presently fell behind. She was in
delicate health, and unused to hardship like this. When her husband had
passed Green River, he looked back and saw her faltering on the bank,
and then stumbling into the water. He turned to implore the savage who
guarded him to allow him to go back and help his wife. He was refused,
and when he looked again she had disappeared. Having fallen into the
water through weakness, an Indian had buried his tomahawk in her scull,
stepped over her body, and passed on. Her remains were discovered and
carried back to Deerfield for interment.
For a few moments the captives had been tantalized with a hope of
release. The Indians were attacked during their retreat by a small body
of settlers, and pressed hard. At this moment an Indian runner was
despatched to the guard, with orders to put all the prisoners to death.
A ball laid him low while he was on his errand; and the settlers being
compelled to give way, the order about the prisoners was not renewed.
At night they encamped on the snow, digging away spaces to lie down in,
and spreading boughs of the spruce-fir for couches. During the first
night one of the captives escaped; and in the morning Mr. Williams was
ordered to tell his companions, that if any more made their escape, the
rest of the prisoners should be burned.
At the close of a day's march, when they had advanced some way on their
long journey, a maidservant belonging to Mr. Williams's family came to
the pastor, requested his blessing, and offered her farewell. He
inquired what she meant. She replied, with great quietness of manner,
that she perceived that all who lagged in the march were tomahawked;
that she had kept up with great difficulty through this day; and that
she felt she should perish thus on the morrow. Mr. Williams examined
into her state of body, and was convinced that she was nearly exhausted.
He gave his blessing, and this was all he could do for her. He watched
her incessantly the next day. He saw her growing more feeble every hour,
but still calm and gentle. She kept up till late in the afternoon, when
she lagged behind; being urged, she fell, and was despatched with the
tomahawk. Two of the prisoners were starved to death on the road, and
fifteen others were murdered like Mrs. Williams and her servant.
The pastor, with his remaining children, reached Canada, where he
remained, suffering great hardships, for two years and a half. He was
ransomed, with sixty-one others, and returned to Boston, where he was
waited upon by a deputation from his old parish, and requested to resume
his duties among the remnant of his people. He actually returned, and
died in peace there twenty-three years afterward. It appears that all
his captive children but one were redeemed. Two besides Eleazer were
educated at Harvard College. His little daughter Eunice was six years
old when she was carried away. She grew up to womanhood among the
Indians, and married a red man, retaining the name of Williams, and
adopting the Romish faith. Being brought to Deerfield to see her family,
she could not be persuaded to remain; nor would she accommodate herself
to the habits of civilized life, preferring to sleep on the floor on a
blanket to using a bed. Some half-breed descendants of hers are living
on the borders of Lake Michigan.
The sufferers seemed to have consoled themselves with turning their
disasters into verse; sometimes piously, in hymns, and sometimes in a
lighter ballad strain, like the following:--
"'Twas nigh unto Pigwacket, on the eighth day of May,
They spied a rebel Indian, soon after break of day;
He on a bank was walking, upon a neck of land,
Which leads into a pond, as we're made to understand.
* * * * *
Then up spoke Captain Lovewell, when first the fight began,
'Fight on, my valiant heroes! you see they fall like rain.'
For as we are inform'd, the Indians were so thick,
A man could scarcely fire a gun, and some of them not hit."
Many of the half-breeds who have sprung from the wars between the
settlers and the natives have been missionaries among the savages. Much
doubt hangs over the utility of Indian missions: if good has been done,
it seems to be chiefly owing to the offices of half-breeds, who modify
the religion to be imparted so as to suit it to the habits of mind and
life of the new converts. As far as I could learn, the following
anecdote is no unfair specimen of the way in which missionaries and
their religion are primarily regarded by the savages to whom they are
sent.
Mr. K., a missionary among a tribe of northern Indians, was wont to set
some simple refreshment--fruit and cider--before his converts when they
came from a distance to see him. An old man, who had no pretensions to
being a Christian, desired much to be admitted to the refreshments, and
proposed to some of his converted friends to accompany them on their
next visit to the missionary. They told him he must be a Christian
first. What was that? He must know all about the Bible. When the time
came, he declared himself prepared, and undertook the journey with them.
When arrived, he seated himself opposite the missionary, wrapped in his
blanket, and looking exceedingly serious. In answer to an inquiry from
the missionary, he rolled up his eyes, and solemnly uttered the
following words, with a pause between each:
"Adam--Eve--Cain--Noah--Jeremiah--Beelzebub--Solomon--"
"What do you mean?" asked the missionary.
"Solomon--Beelzebub--Noah--"
"Stop, stop. What do you mean?"
"I mean--cider."
This is one way in which an unintelligible religion is received by
savages. Another resembles the mode in which they meet offers of traffic
from suspicious parties: "the more you say bow and arrows, the more we
won't make them." Where Christianity is received among them with any
efficacy, it appears to be exactly in proportion to the skill of the
missionary in associating the new truth he brings with that which was
already sanctified in their hearts; in proportion as the new religion is
made a sequel of the old one, instead of a substitution for it.
The dusky race was in my mind's eye as we followed the windings of the
river through the rich valley from Springfield to Northampton. The very
names of the places, the hamlet of Hoccanum, at the foot of Mount
Holyoke, and that of Pascommuc, lying below Mount Tom, remind the
traveller how the possessors have been displaced from this fair land,
and how their descendants must be mourning their lost Quonnecticut. Such
sympathies soon wither away, however, amid the stir and loveliness of
the sunny village.
We had letters of introduction to some of the inhabitants of
Northampton, and knew that our arrival was expected; but we little
anticipated such eagerness of hospitality as we were met with. The stage
was stopped by a gentleman who asked for me. It was Mr. Bancroft, the
historian, then a resident of Northampton. He cordially welcomed us as
his guests, and ordered the stage up the hill to his house; such a
house! It stood on a lofty terrace, and its balcony overlooked first the
garden, then the orchard stretching down the slope, then the delicious
village, and the river with its meadows, while opposite rose Mount
Holyoke. Far off in the valley to the left lay Hadley, half hidden among
trees; and on the hills, still farther to the left, was Amherst, with
its college buildings conspicuous on the height.
All was in readiness for us, the spacious rooms with their cool
arrangements (it was the 7th of August), and the ladies of the family
with their ready merry welcome. It was past noon when we arrived, and
before the early dinner hour we were as much at home as if we had been
acquainted for months. The American mirth, common everywhere, was
particularly hearty in this house; and as for us, we were intoxicated
with the beauty of the scene. From the balcony we gazed as if it was
presently to melt before our eyes. This day, I remember, we first tasted
green corn, one of the most delicious of vegetables, and by some
preferred to green peas. The greatest drawback is the way in which it is
necessary to eat it. The cob, eight or ten inches long, is held at both
ends, and, having been previously sprinkled with salt, is nibbled and
sucked from end to end till all the grains are got out. It looks awkward
enough: but what is to be done? Surrendering such a vegetable from
considerations of grace is not to be thought of.
After dinner we walked in the blooming garden till summoned within doors
by callers. My host had already discovered my taste for rambling, and
determined to make me happy during my short visit by driving me about
the country. He liked nothing better himself. His historical researches
had stored his memory with all the traditions of the valley, of the
state, and, I rather think, of the whole of New-England. I find the
entries in my journal of this and the next two days the most copious of
any during my travels.
Mr. Bancroft drove me to Amherst this afternoon. He explained to me the
construction of the bridge we passed, which is of a remarkably cheap,
simple, and safe kind for a wooden one. He pointed out to me the seats
and arrangements of the villages we passed through, and amused and
interested me with many a tale of the old Indian wars. He surprised me
by the light he threw on the philosophy of society in the United States;
a light drawn from history, and shed into all the present relations of
races and parties to each other. I had before been pleased with what I
knew of the spirit of Mr. Bancroft's History of the United States,
which, however, had not then extended beyond the first volume. I now
perceived that he was well qualified, in more ways than one, for his
arduous task.
We mounted the steep hill on which Amherst stands, and stopped before
the red brick buildings of the college. When the horse was disposed of,
Mr. Bancroft left me to look at the glorious view, while he went in
search of some one who would be our guide about the college. In a minute
he beckoned me in, with a smile of great delight, and conducted me into
the lecture-room where Professor Hitchcock was lecturing. In front of
the lecturer was a large number of students, and on either hand as many
as forty or fifty girls. These girls were from a neighbouring school,
and from the houses of the farmers and mechanics of the village. The
students appeared quite as attentive as if they had had the room to
themselves. We found that the admission of girls to such lectures as
they could understand (this was on geology) was a practice of some
years' standing, and that no evil had been found to result from it. It
was a gladdening sight, testifying both to the simplicity of manners
and the eagerness for education. I doubt whether such a spectacle is to
be seen out of New-England.
The professor showed us the Turkey Tracks, the great curiosity of the
place; and distinct and gigantic indeed they were, deeply impressed in
the imbedded stone. Professor Hitchcock's name is well known among
geologists from his highly-praised work, A Report on the Geology,
Mineralogy, Botany, and Zoology of Massachusetts. We ascended to the
observatory, whence we saw a splendid variety of the view I had been
admiring all day, and we pronounced this college an enviable residence.
It is a Presbyterian college, and is flourishing, as Presbyterian
colleges of New-England do, under the zeal of professors who are not
content with delivering courses of lectures, but who work with the
students, as much like companions as teachers. The institution had been
at work only ten years, and at this time it contained two hundred and
forty undergraduates, a greater number than any in the state, except,
perhaps, Harvard.
The next day was a busy one. We were called away from gazing from the
balcony after breakfast, the carriage being at the door. Two more
carriages joined us in the village, and we proceeded in the direction of
Mount Holyoke. Our road lay through rich unfenced cornfields and meadows
where the mowers were busy. There was a great contrast between the
agriculture here and in other parts of the state. Here an annual
inundation spares much of the toil of the tiller. It seems as if little
more were necessary than to throw in the seed and reap the produce;
while, in less-favoured regions, the farmer may be seen ploughing round
the rocks which protrude from the soil, and bestowing infinite pains on
his stony fields. The carriages conveyed us a good way up the far-famed
hill. When it became too steep for the horses, we alighted, and found
the ascent easy enough. There are rude but convenient ladders, broad and
strong, at difficult turns of the path, and large stones and roots of
trees afford a firm footing in the intervals. The most wayward
imagination could not conjure up the idea of danger, and children may be
led to the top in perfect safety.
On the summit is a building which affords shelter in case of rain, and
lemonade and toddy in case of thirst. There is a fine platform of rock
on which the traveller may rest himself while he looks around over a
space of sixty miles in almost every direction. The valley is the most
attractive object, the full river coiling through the meadows, and the
spires of village churches being clustered at intervals along its banks;
but smokes rise on the hillsides, from the Green Mountains in the north
to the fading distance beyond Springfield in the south. To the east the
view extends nearly to New-Haven (Connecticut), seventy miles off. Mount
Holyoke is eleven hundred feet above the river.
While I was absorbed in the contemplation of this landscape I was tapped
on the shoulder. When I turned a shipmate stood smiling behind me. She
highly enjoyed the odd meeting on this pinnacle, and so did we. The face
of a pleasant shipmate is welcome everywhere, but particularly in a
scene which contrasts so strongly with those in which we have lived
together, as a mountain-top with the cabin of a ship. Some person who
loves contrast has entered a remarkable set of names in the album on
Mount Holyoke as having just visited the spot, Hannah More, Lord Byron,
Martin Luther, &c.