SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN
Of all the tens of thousands of devoted women who have accompanied the
grand army of pioneers into the wilderness, not one but that has been
either a soldier to fight, or a laborer to toil, or a ministering angel to
soothe the pains and relieve the sore wants of her companions. Not seldom
has she acted worthily in all these several capacities, fighting, toiling,
and ministering by turns. If a diary of the events of their pioneer-lives
had been kept by each of these brave and faithful women, what a record of
toil and warfare and suffering it would present. How many different types
of female character in different spheres of action it would show--the
self-sacrificing mother, the tender and devoted wife, the benevolent
matron, the heroine who blenched not in battle! Unnumbered thousands have
passed beautiful, strenuous and brave lives far from the scenes of
civilization, and gone down to their graves leaving only local, feeble
voices, if any, to celebrate their praises and to-day we know not the place
of their sepulcher. Others have had their memories embalmed by the pens of
faithful biographers, and a few also have left diaries containing a record
of the wonderful vicissitudes of their lives.
Woman's experience of life in the wilderness is never better told than in
her own words. More impressible than man, to passing events; more
susceptible to pain and pleasure; enjoying and sorrowing more keenly than
her sterner and rougher mate, she possesses often a peculiarly graphic
power in expressing her own thoughts and feelings, and also in delineating
the scenes through which she passes.
A woman's diary of frontier-life, therefore, possesses an intrinsic value
because it is a faithful story, and at the same time one of surpassing
interest, in consequence of her personal and active participation in the
toils, sufferings, and dangers incident to such a life.
Such a diary is that of Mrs. Williamson which in the quaint style of the
olden time relates her thrilling experience in the wilds of Pennsylvania.
We see her first as an affectionate, motherless girl accompanying her
father to the frontier, assisting him to prepare a home for his old age in
the depths of the forest and enduring with cheerful resolution the manifold
hardships and trials of pioneer-life, and finally closing her aged parent's
eyes in death. Then we see her as a wife, the partner of her husband's
cares and labors, and as a mother, the faithful guardian of her sons; and
again as a widow, her husband having been torn from her arms and butchered
by a band of ruthless savages. After her sons had grown to be sturdy men
and had left her to make homes for themselves, she shows herself the strong
and self-reliant matron of fifty still keeping her outpost on the border,
and cultivating her clearing by the assistance of two negroes. At last
after a life of toil and danger she is attacked by a band of savages, and
defends her home so bravely that after making her their captive they spare
her life and in admiration of her courage adopt her into their tribe. She
dissembles her reluctance, humors her savage captors and forces herself to
accompany them on their bloody expeditions wherein she saves many lives and
mitigates the sufferings of her fellow-captives.
The narrative of her escape we give in her own quaint words.
"One night the Indians, very greatly fatigued with their day's excursion,
composed themselves to rest as usual. Observing them to be asleep, I tried
various ways to see whether it was a scheme to prove my intentions or not,
but, after making a noise, and walking about, sometimes touching them with
my feet, I found there was no fallacy. My heart then exulted with joy at
seeing a time come that I might, in all probability be delivered from my
captivity; but this joy was soon dampened by the dread of being discovered
by them, or taken by any straggling parties; to prevent which, I resolved,
if possible, to get one of their guns, and, if discovered, to die in my
defense, rather than be taken. For that purpose I made various efforts to
get one from under their heads (where they always secured them), but in
vain.
"Frustrated in this my first essay towards regaining my liberty, I dreaded
the thought of carrying my design into execution: yet, after a little
consideration, and trusting myself to the divine protection, I set forward,
naked and defenceless as I was; a rash and dangerous enterprise! Such was
my terror, however, that in going from them, I halted and paused every four
or five yards, looking fearfully toward the spot where I had left them,
lest they should awake and miss me; but when I was about two hundred yards
from them, I mended my pace, and made as much haste as I could to the foot
of the mountains; when on sudden I was struck with the greatest terror and
amaze, at hearing the wood-cry, as it is called, they make when any
accident happens them. However, fear hastened my steps, and though they
dispersed, not one happened to hit upon the track I had taken. When I had
run near five miles, I met with a hollow tree, in which I concealed myself
till the evening of the next day, when I renewed my flight, and next night
slept in a canebrake. The next morning I crossed a brook, and got more
leisurely along, returning thanks to Providence, in my heart, for my happy
escape, and praying for future protection. The third day, in the morning, I
perceived two Indians armed, at a short distance, which I verily believed
were in pursuit of me, by their alternately climbing into the highest
trees, no doubt to look over the country to discover me. This retarded my
flight for that day; but at night I resumed my travels, frightened and
trembling at every bush I passed, thinking each shrub that I touched, a
savage concealed to take me. It was moonlight nights till near morning,
which favored my escape. But how shall I describe the fear, terror and
shock that I felt on the fourth night, when, by the rustling I made among
the leaves, a party of Indians, that lay round a small fire, nearly out,
which I did not perceive, started from the ground, and seizing their arms,
ran from the fire among the woods. Whether to move forward, or to rest
where I was, I knew not, so distracted was my imagination. In this
melancholy state, revolving in my thoughts the now inevitable fate I
thought waited on me, to my great astonishment and joy, I was relieved by
a parcel of swine that made towards the place where I guessed the savages
to be; who, on seeing the hogs, conjectured that their alarm had been
occasioned by them, and directly returned to the fire, and lay down to
sleep as before. As soon as I perceived my enemies so disposed of, with
more cautious step and silent tread, I pursued my course, sweating (though
the air was very cold) with the fear I had just been relieved from.
Bruised, cut, mangled and terrified as I was, I still, through divine
assistance, was enabled to pursue my journey until break of day, when,
thinking myself far off from any of those miscreants I so much dreaded, I
lay down under a great log, and slept undisturbed until about noon, when,
getting up, I reached the summit of a great hill with some difficulty; and
looking out if I could spy any inhabitants of white people, to my
unutterable joy I saw some, which I guessed to be about ten miles distance.
This pleasure was in some measure abated, by my not being able to get among
them that night; therefore, when evening approached I again re-commended
myself to the Almighty, and composed my weary mangled limbs to rest. In the
morning I continued my journey towards the nearest cleared lands I had seen
the day before; and about four o'clock in the afternoon I arrived at the
house of John Bell."
Mrs. Daviess was another of these women who, like Mrs. Williamson, was a
born heroine, of whom there were many who acted a conspicuous part in the
territorial history of Kentucky. Large and splendidly formed, she possessed
the strength of a man with the gentle loveliness of the true woman. In the
hour of peril, and such hours were frequent with her, she was firm, cool,
and fertile of resource; her whole life, of which we give only a few
episodes, was one continuous succession of brave and noble deeds. Both she
and Mrs. Williamson appear to have been real instances of the poet's ideal:
"A perfect woman nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command."
[Footnote: Collins' Historical Sketches.] Her husband, Samuel Daviess, was
an early settler at Gilmer's Lick, in Lincoln County, Kentucky. In the
month of August, 1782, while a few rods from his house, he was attacked
early one morning by an Indian, and attempting to get within doors he found
that his house was already occupied by the other Indians. He succeeded in
making his escape to his brother's station, five miles off, and giving the
alarm was soon on his way back to his cabin in company with five stout,
well armed men.
Meanwhile, the Indians, four in number, who had entered the house while the
fifth was in pursuit of Mr. Daviess, roused Mrs. Daviess and the children
from their beds and gave them to understand that they must go with them as
prisoners. Mrs. Daviess occupied as long a time as possible in dressing,
hoping that some relief would come. She also delayed the Indians nearly two
hours by showing them one article of clothing and then another, explaining
their uses and expatiating on their value.
While this was going on the Indian who had been in pursuit of her husband
returned with his hands stained with pokeberries, waving his tomahawk with
violent gestures as if to convey the belief that he had killed Mr. Daviess.
The keen-eyed wife soon discovered the deception, and was satisfied that
her husband had escaped uninjured.
After plundering the house, the savages started to depart, taking Mrs.
Daviess and her seven children with them. As some of the children were too
young to travel as rapidly as the Indians wished, and discovering, as she
believed, their intention to kill them, she made the two oldest boys carry
the two youngest on their backs.
In order to leave no trail behind them, the Indians traveled with the
greatest caution, not permitting their captives to break a twig or weed as
they passed along, and to expedite Mrs. Daviess' movements one of them
reached down and cut off with his knife a few inches of her dress.
Mrs. Daviess was accustomed to handle a gun and was a good shot, like many
other women on the frontier. She contemplated as a last resort that, if not
rescued in the course of the day, when night came and the Indians had
fallen asleep, she would deliver herself and her children by killing as
many of the Indians as she could, believing that in a night attack the rest
would fly panic-stricken.
Mr. Daviess and his companions reaching the house and finding it empty,
succeeded in striking the trail of the Indians and hastened in pursuit.
They had gone but a few miles before they overtook them. Two Indian spies
in the rear first discovered the pursuers, and running on overtook the
others and knocked down and scalped the oldest boy, but did not kill him.
The pursuers fired at the Indians but missed. The latter became alarmed and
confused, and Mrs. Daviess taking advantage of this circumstance jumped
into a sink-hole with her infant in her arms. The Indians fled and every
child was saved.
Kentucky in its early days, like most new countries, was occasionally
troubled with men of abandoned character, who lived by stealing the
property of others, and after committing their depredations, retired to
their hiding-places, thereby eluding the operation of the law. One of these
marauders, a man of desperate character, who had committed extensive thefts
from Mr. Daviess, as well as from his neighbors, was pursued by Daviess and
a party whose property he had taken, in order to bring him to justice.
While the party were in pursuit, the suspected individual, not knowing that
any one was pursuing him, came to the house of Daviess, armed with his gun
and tomahawk,--no person being at home but Mrs. Daviess and her children.
After he had stepped into the house, Mrs. Daviess asked him if he would
drink something; and having set a bottle of whiskey upon the table,
requested him to help himself. The fellow not suspecting any danger, set
his gun by the door, and while he was drinking Mrs. Daviess picked it up,
and placing herself in the doorway had the weapon cocked and leveled upon
him by the time he turned around, and in a peremptory manner ordered him to
take a seat or she would shoot him. Struck with terror and alarm, he asked
what he had done. She told him he had stolen her husband's property, and
that she intended to take care of him herself. In that condition she held
him prisoner until the party of men returned and took him into their
possession.
[Illustration: STRATAGEM OF MRS. DAVIESS IN CAPTURING A KENTUCKY ROBBER.]
These are only a few out of many similar acts which show the character of
Mrs. Daviess. She became noted all through the frontier settlements of that
region during the troublous times in which she lived, not only for her
courage and daring, but for her shrewdness in circumventing the stratagems
of the wily savages by whom her family were surrounded. Her oldest boy
inherited his mother's character, and promised to be one of the most famous
Indian fighters of his day, when he met his death at the hands of his
savage foes in early manhood.
If Mrs. Williamson and Mrs. Daviess were representative women in the more
stormy and rugged scenes of frontier life, Mrs. Elizabeth Estaugh may stand
as a true type of the gentle and benevolent matron, brightening her forest
home by her kindly presence, and making her influence felt in a thousand
ways for good among her neighbors in the lonely hamlet where she chose to
live.
Her maiden name was Haddon; she was the oldest daughter of a wealthy and
well educated but humble-minded Quaker of London. She was endowed by nature
with strength of mind, earnestness, energy, and with a heart overflowing
with kindness and warmth of feeling. The education bestowed upon her, was,
after the manner of her sect, a highly practical one, such as might be
expected to draw forth her native powers by careful training of the mind,
without quenching the kindly emotions by which she was distinguished from
her early childhood.
At the age of seventeen she made a profession of religion, uniting herself
with the Quakers. During her girlhood William Penn visited the house of her
father, and greatly interested her by describing his adventures with the
Indians in the wilds of Pennsylvania. From that hour her thoughts were
directed towards the new world, where so many of her sect had emigrated,
and she longed to cross the ocean and take up her abode among them. She
pictured to herself the toils and privations of the Quaker-pioneers in that
new country, and ardently desired to join them and share their labors and
dangers, and alleviate their sufferings by charitably dispensing a portion
of that wealth which she was destined to possess.
Her father sympathized with her views and aims, and was at length induced
to buy a large tract of land in New Jersey, where he proposed to go and
settle in company with his daughter Elizabeth, and there carry out the
plans which she had formed. His affairs in England took such a turn that he
decided to remain in his native land.
This was a sad disappointment to Elizabeth. She had arrived at the
conviction that among her people in the new world was to be her sphere of
duty; she felt a call thither which she could not disregard; and when her
father, who was unwilling that the property should lie unimproved, offered
the tract of land in New Jersey to any relative who would settle upon it,
she gladly availed herself of the proffer, and begged that she might go
herself as a pioneer into that far-off wilderness.
It was a sore trial for her parents to part with their beloved daughter;
but her character was so stable, and her convictions of duty so unswerving,
that at the end of three months and after much prayer, they consented
tearfully that Elizabeth should join "the Lord's people in the new world."
Arrangements were accordingly made for her departure, and all that wealth
could provide or thoughtful affection devise, was prepared, both for the
long voyage across that stormy sea and against the hardships and trials in
the forest home which was to be hers. In the spring of 1700 she set sail,
accompanied by a poor widow of good sense and discretion, who had been
chosen to act as her friend and housekeeper, and two trustworthy
men-servants, members of the Society of Friends.
Among the many extraordinary manifestations of strong faith and religious
zeal connected with the early settlement of this country, few are more
remarkable than this enterprise of Elizabeth Estaugh. Tenderly reared in a
delightful home in a great city, where she had been surrounded with
pleasing associations from infancy, and where as a lovely young lady she
was the idol of the circle of society in which she moved, she was still
willing and desirous at the call of religious duty, to separate herself
from home, friends, and the pleasures of civilization, and depart to a
distant clime and a wild country. Hardly less remarkable and admirable was
the self-sacrificing spirit of her parents in giving up their child in
obedience to the promptings of her own conscience. We can imagine the
parting on the deck of the vessel which was spreading its sails to bear
this sweet missionary away from her native land and the beloved of her old
home. Angelic love beams and sorrow darkles from the serene countenances of
the father, and mother, and daughter, and yet no tear is shed on either
side. The vessel drops down the harbor, and the family stand on the wharf
straining their eyes to catch the last look from the departing maiden, who
leans on the bulwark and answers the silent and sorrowful faces with a
heavenly smile of love and pity. Even during the long and tedious voyage
Elizabeth never wept. Her sense of duty controlled every other emotion of
her soul, and she maintained her martyr-like cheerfulness and serenity to
the end.
That part of New Jersey where the Haddon tract lay was at that period an
almost unbroken wilderness. Scarcely more than twenty years had then
elapsed since the twenty or thirty cabins had been built which formed the
germ-settlement out of which grew the city of Brotherly Love, and nine
miles of dense forest and a broad river separated the maiden and her
household from the people in the hamlet across the Delaware.
The home prepared for her reception stood in a clearing of the forest,
three miles from any other dwelling. She arrived in June, when the
landscape was smiling in youthful beauty, and it seemed to her as if the
arch of heaven was never before so clear and bright, the carpet of the
earth never so verdant. As she sat at her window and saw evening close in
upon her in that broad forest home, and heard for the first time the
mournful notes of the whippoorwill, and the harsh scream of the jay in the
distant woods, she was oppressed with a sense of vastness, of infinity,
which she never before experienced, not even on the ocean. She remained
long in prayer, and when she lay down to sleep beside her matron-friend, no
words were spoken between them. The elder, overcome with fatigue, soon sank
into a peaceful slumber; but the young enthusiast lay long awake, listening
to the lone voice of the whippoorwill complaining to the night. Yet,
notwithstanding this prolonged wakefulness, she arose early and looked out
upon the lovely landscape. The rising sun pointed to the tallest trees with
his golden finger, and was welcomed with a gush of song from a thousand
warblers. The poetry in Elizabeth's soul, repressed by the severe plainness
of her education, gushed up like a fountain. She dropped on her knees, and
with an outburst of prayer, exclaimed fervently, "Oh, Father, very
beautiful hast thou made this earth! How beautiful are thy gifts, O Lord!"
To a spirit less meek and brave, the darker shades of the picture would
have obscured these cheerful gleams; for the situation was lonely, and the
inconveniences innumerable. But Elizabeth easily triumphed over all
obstacles, by practical good sense and by the quick promptings of her
ingenuity. She was one of those clear, strong natures, who always have a
definite aim in view, and who see at once the means best suited to the end.
Her first inquiry was, what grain was best adapted to the soil of her farm;
and being informed that rye would yield the best, "Then, I shall eat rye
bread," was the answer.
When winter came, and the gleaming snow spread its unbroken silence over
hill and plain, was it not dreary then? It would have been dreary indeed to
one who entered upon this mode of life for mere love of novelty, or a vain
desire to do something extraordinary. But the idea of extended usefulness,
which had first lured this remarkable girl into a path so unusual,
sustained her through all her trials. She was too busy to be sad, and
leaned too trustingly on her Father's hand to be doubtful of her way. The
neighboring Indians soon loved her as a friend, for they always found her
truthful, just, and kind. From their teachings she added much to her
knowledge of simple medicines. So efficient was her skill, and so prompt
her sympathy, that for many miles round, if man, woman, or child were
alarmingly ill, they were sure to send for Elizabeth Haddon; and wherever
she went, her observing mind gathered some hint for the improvement of farm
or dairy. Her house and heart were both large, and as her residence was on
the way to the Quaker meeting-house in Newtown, it became a place of
universal resort to Friends from all parts of the country traveling that
road, as well as an asylum for benighted wanderers.
Late one winter's evening a tinkling of sleigh-bells was heard at the
entrance of the clearing, and soon the hoofs of horses were crunching the
snow as they passed through the great gate towards the barn. The arrival of
strangers was a common occurrence, for the home of Elizabeth Haddon was
celebrated far and near as the abode of hospitality. The toil worn or
benighted traveler there found a sincere welcome, and none who enjoyed that
friendly shelter and abundant cheer ever departed without regret. But now
there was an unwonted stir in that well-ordered family; great logs were
piled in the capacious fireplace, and hasty preparations were made as if to
receive guests who were more than ordinarily welcome. Elizabeth, looking
from the window, had recognized one of the strangers in the sleigh as John
Estaugh, with whose preaching years before in London she had been deeply
impressed, and ever since she had treasured in her memory many of his
words. It was almost like a glimpse of her dear old English home to see him
enter, and stepping forward with more than usual cordiality she greeted
him, saying,
"Thou art welcome, friend Estaugh, the more so for being entirely
unexpected."
"And I am glad to see thee, Elizabeth," he replied, with a friendly shake
of the hand, "it was not until after I had landed in America that I heard
the Lord had called thee hither before me; but I remember thy father told
me how often thou hadst played the settler in the woods, when thou wast
quite a little girl."
"I am but a child still," she replied, smiling.
"I trust thou art," he rejoined; "and as for those strong impressions in
childhood, I have heard of many cases when they seemed to be prophecies
sent from the Lord. When I saw thy father in London, I had even then an
indistinct idea that I might sometime be sent to America on a religious
visit."
"And hast thou forgotten, friend John, the ear of Indian corn which my
father begged of thee for me? I can show it to thee now. Since then I have
seen this grain in perfect growth; and a goodly plant it is, I assure thee.
See," she continued, pointing to many bunches of ripe corn which hung in
their braided husks against the wall of the ample kitchen; "all that, and
more, came from a single ear, no bigger than the one thou didst give my
father. May the seed sown by thy ministry be as fruitful!" "Amen," replied
both the guests.
That evening a severe snow-storm came on, and all night the blast howled
round the dwelling. The next morning it was discovered that the roads were
rendered impassable by the heavy drifts. The home of Elizabeth had already
been made the center of a settlement composed mainly of poor families, who
relied largely upon her to aid them in cases of distress. That winter they
had been severely afflicted by the fever incident to a new settled country,
and Elizabeth was in the habit of making them daily visits, furnishing them
with food and medicines.
The storm roused her to an even more energetic benevolence than ordinary.
Men, oxen, and sledges were sent out, and pathways were opened; the whole
force of Elizabeth's household, under her immediate superintendence,
joining in the good work. John Estaugh and his friend tendered their
services joyfully, and none worked harder than they. His countenance glowed
with the exercise, and a cheerful childlike outbeaming honesty of soul
shone forth, attracting the kind but modest regards of the maiden. It
seemed to her as if she had found in him a partner in the good work which
she had undertaken.
When the paths had been made, Elizabeth set out with a sled-load of
provisions to visit her patients, and John Estaugh asked permission to
accompany her.
While they were standing together by the bedside of the aged and suffering,
she saw her companion in a new and still more attractive guise. His
countenance expressed a sincerity of sympathy warmed by rays of love from
the Sun of mercy and righteousness itself. He spoke to the feeble and the
invalid words of kindness and consolation, and his voice was modulated to a
deep tone of tenderness, when he took the little children in his arms.
The following "first day," which world's people call the Sabbath, meeting
was attended at Newtown by the whole family, and then John Estaugh was
moved by the Spirit to speak words that sank into the hearts of his
hearers. It was a discourse on the trials and temptations of daily life,
drawing a contrast between this course of earthly probation, with its
toils, sufferings, and sorrows, and that higher life, with its rewards to
the faithful beyond the grave.
Elizabeth listened to the preacher with meek attention; he seemed to be
speaking to her, for all the lessons of the discourse were applicable to
herself. As the deep tones of the good man ceased to vibrate in her ears,
and there was stillness for a full half hour in the house, she pondered
over it deeply. The impression made by the young preacher seemed to open a
new window in her soul; he was a God-sent messenger, whose character and
teachings would lift still higher her life, and sanctify her mission with a
holier inspiration.
A few days of united duties and oneness of heart made John and Elizabeth
more thoroughly acquainted with each other than they could have been by
years of ordinary fashionable intercourse.
They were soon obliged to separate, the young preacher being called to
other meetings of his sect in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. When they bade
each other farewell, neither knew that they would ever meet again, for John
Estaugh's duty might call him from the country ere another winter, and his
avocations in the new world were absorbing and continuous. With a full
heart, but with the meekness characteristic of her sect, Elizabeth turned
away to her daily round of good works with a new and holier zeal.
In May following they met again. John Estaugh, in company with numerous
other Friends, stopped at her house to lodge while on their way to the
quarterly meeting at Salem. The next day a cavalcade started from her
hospitable door on horseback, for that was before the days of wagons in
Jersey.
John Estaugh, always kindly in his impulses, busied himself with helping a
lame and very ugly old woman, and left his hostess to mount her horse as
she could. Most young women would have felt slighted; but in Elizabeth's
noble soul the quiet, deep tide of feeling rippled with an inward joy. "He
is always kindest to the poor and neglected," thought she; "verily he is a
good youth."
She was leaning over the side of her horse, to adjust the buckle of the
girth, when he came up on horseback and enquired if anything was out of
order. She thanked him, with slight confusion of manner, and a voice less
calm than her usual utterance. He assisted her to mount, and they trotted
along leisurely behind the procession of guests, speaking of the soil and
climate of this new country, and how wonderfully the Lord had here provided
a home for his chosen people. Presently the girth began to slip, and the
saddle turned so much on one side that Elizabeth was obliged to dismount.
It took some time to readjust the girth, and when they again started, the
company were out of sight. There was brighter color than usual in the
maiden's cheeks, and unwonted radiance in her mild, deep eyes.
After a short silence, she said, in a voice slightly tremulous, "Friend
John, I have a subject of importance on my mind, and one which nearly
interests thee. I am strongly impressed that the Lord has sent thee to me
as a partner for life, I tell thee my impression frankly, but not without
calm and deep reflection, for matrimony is a holy relation, and should be
entered into with all sobriety. If thou hast no light on the subject, wilt
thou gather into the stillness and reverently listen to thy own inward
revealings? Thou art to leave this part of the country to-morrow, and not
knowing when I should see thee again, I felt moved to tell thee what lay
upon my mind."
The young man was taken by surprise. Though accustomed to that suppression
of emotion which characterizes his religious sect, the color came and went
rapidly in his face, for a moment. But he soon, became calmer, and replied,
"This thought is new to me, Elizabeth, and I have no light thereon. Thy
company has been right pleasant to me, and thy countenance ever reminds me
of William Penn's title-page, '_Innocency with her open face_.' I have
seen thy kindness to the poor, and the wise management of thy household. I
have observed, too, that thy warm-heartedness is tempered with a most
excellent discretion, and that thy speech is ever sincere. Assuredly, such
is the maiden I would ask of the Lord as a most precious gift; but I never
thought of this connection with thee. I came to this country solely on a
religious visit, and it might distract my mind to entertain this subject at
present. When I have discharged the duties of my mission, we will speak
further."
"It is best so," rejoined the maiden, "but there is one thing disturbs my
conscience. Thou hast spoken of my true speech; and yet, friend John, I
have deceived thee a little, even now, while we conferred together on a
subject so serious. I know not from what weakness the temptation came, but
I will not hide it from thee. I allowed thee to suppose, just now, that I
was fastening the girth of my horse securely; but, in plain truth, I was
loosening the girth, John, that the saddle might slip, and give me an
excuse to fall behind our friends; for I thought thou wouldst be kind
enough to come and ask if I needed thy services."
They spoke no further upon this topic; but when John Estaugh returned to
England in July, he pressed her hand affectionately, as he said, "Farewell,
Elizabeth: if it be the Lord's will I shall return to thee soon."
The young preacher made but a brief sojourn in England. The Society of
Friends in London appreciated his value as a laborer among them and would
have been pleased to see him remain, but they knew how fruitful of good had
been his labors among the brethren in the wilderness, and deemed it a wise
resolution when he informed them that he should shortly return to America.
Early in September he set sail from London and reached New York the
following month. A few days after landing he journeyed on horseback to the
dwelling where Elizabeth was awaiting him, and they were soon after married
at Newtown Meeting according to the simple form of the Society of Friends.
Neither of them made any change of dress for the occasion; there was no
wedding feast; no priest or magistrate was present; in the presence of
witnesses they simply took each other by the hand and solemnly promised to
be kind and faithful to each other. The wedded pair then quietly returned
to their happy home, prepared to resume together that life of good words
and kind deeds which each had thus far pursued alone.
Thrice during the long period of their union did she cross the Atlantic to
visit her aged parents, and not seldom he left her for a season when called
to preach abroad. These temporary separations were hard for her to bear,
but she cheerfully gave him up to follow in the path of his duty wherever
it might lead him. Amid her cares and pleasures as a wife she neither grew
self-absorbed nor, like many of her sex, bounded her benevolence within the
area of the household. Her heart was too large, her charity too abounding,
to do that, and her sense of duty to her fellow-men always dominated that
narrow feeling which concentrates kindness on self or those nearest to one.
While her husband performed his noble work in the care of souls, she
pursued her career within the sphere where it was so allotted. As a
housewife she was notable; to her might be applied the words of King
Lemuel, in the Proverbs of Solomon, celebrating and describing the good
wife, "and her works praised her in the gates." As a neighbor she was
generous and sympathetic; she stretched out her hand to the poor and needy;
she was at once a guardian and a minister of mercy to the settlement.
When, after forty years of happiness in wedlock, her husband was taken from
her, she gave evidence of her appreciation of his worth in a preface which
she published to one of his religious tracts entitled, "Elizabeth Estaugh's
testimony concerning her beloved husband, John Estaugh." In this preface
she says:
"Since it pleased Divine Providence so highly to favor me with being the
near companion to this dear worthy, I must give some small account of him.
Few, if any, in a married state, ever lived in sweeter harmony than we did.
He was a pattern of moderation in all things; not lifted up with any
enjoyments, nor cast down at disappointments; a man endowed with many good
gifts, which rendered him very agreeable to his friends, and much more to
me, his wife, to whom his memory is most dear and precious."
Elizabeth survived her excellent husband twenty years, useful and honored
to the last. The monthly meeting of Haddonfield, in a published
testimonial, speaks of her thus:
"She was endowed with great natural abilities, which, being sanctified by
the Spirit of Christ, were much improved; whereby she became qualified to
act in the affairs of the church, and was a serviceable member, having been
clerk to the woman's meeting nearly fifty years, greatly to their
satisfaction She was a sincere sympathizer with the afflicted; of a
benevolent disposition, and in distributing to the poor, was desirous to do
it in a way most profitable and durable to them, and, if possible, not to
let the right hand know what the left did. Though in a state of affluence
as to this world's wealth, she was an example of plainness and moderation.
Her heart and house were open to her friends, whom to entertain seemed one
of her greatest pleasures. Prudently cheerful and well knowing the value of
friendship, she was careful not to wound it herself nor to encourage others
in whispering supposed failings or weaknesses. Her last illness brought
great bodily pain, which she bore with much calmness of mind and sweetness
of spirit. She departed this life as one falling asleep, full of days,
'like unto a shock of corn fully ripe.'"
The maiden name of this gentle and useful woman has been preserved in
Haddonfield, thus appropriately commemorating her manifold services in the
early days of the settlement of which she was the pioneer-mother.