caught of him at balls and concerts, where he was in attendance on his
charmer and a spectral looking spinster, whom I recognised as the aunt.
As I wanted to give him a fair field—keep the bottle lively—I did not
approach them; so I had no opportunity of judging his success, until one
morning he burst into my room vociferating that he had got a note from
his charmer, in answer to one he had sent the day before, in which she
consented to elope with him that very night. He called on me to ask me
to get a post-chaise; for, in order to avoid the publication of banns,
they would have to be united in another state. Tim was in such raptures
that he couldn’t attend to any matter-o’-fact business, so I promised
all he asked, and he left me, singing as he went, ‘Come, haste to the
wedding,’ and cutting all sorts of extravagant antics.
“Midnight was the hour fixed on for the _affaire_, and, punctual to the
minute, Tim’s post-chaise drew up a few rods from his charmer’s door,
while the gallant lieutenant himself, springing out, made all haste to
the rendezvous. The night was black as pitch—you could have cut the
darkness out in slices—and a wild wind blew over the fields, roaring
away down in the woods, like a gale in the rigging of a line-of-battle
ship. Tim could scarcely pick his way along through the garden, but at
length, after sundry tacks, he gained the front of the house,—yet not a
sign of a living being could he see. He began to fear that his charmer’s
heart had failed her, but at that instant he perceived a dark moving
object just ahead of him, and hurrying forward, he soon recognised his
future bride, muffled and cloaked for the journey.
“‘Shure, and ye’re as welcome as the birds in spring,’ said Tim,
catching her in his arms, ‘and it’s mighty proud I am to see ye, my
darlin.’
“The trembling bride clung closer to Tim as he spoke, and murmured
something in reply, but what it was, the whistle of the wind prevented
him from hearing distinctly. Tim knew there was no time to lose,
however, so, without waiting for a repetition of the words, he bore his
prize off, and never stopped till he had placed her in the chaise,
stowed her maid opposite, and was himself seated by her side.
“‘And now,’ said he, as the post-boy put up the steps, ‘don’t spare the
horse-flesh—do ye hear, ye blackguard?’
“The boy nodded, and, the next instant, they were thrashing along as
fast as four posters could carry them.
“If Tim had been in raptures before, he was now fairly mad with his
success. Up to the last moment, he had been tormented with a fear lest
something should occur by which this rich prize should slip through his
fingers; but now his charmer was actually beside him, and they were
being whirled over the ground at a rate which would soon defy pursuit.
‘Was ever fellow in such good luck?’ thought Tim. Thousands of acres, an
only daughter, and she as clean in her run as a Baltimore clipper. How
he cursed the presence of the maid, which prevented him from being as
tender as he thought the occasion demanded. However, he could take his
charmer’s hand, without shocking her modesty, and he went through pretty
quick, all the variations of which squeezing is liable. He would have
stolen his arm around the bride’s waist, but the envious cloak prevented
this. Tim could scarcely endure the probation. On they rattled, all this
while, with the tempest roaring at their heels, and, as the night
without grew stormier, the agitation of the bride increased, she almost
sobbed, and clung closer and closer every minute to Tim. It made his
heart, as he said, ‘leap into his mouth intirely,’ to feel her arms
around his neck in the extremity of her fright.
“‘Whist, darlin,’ he said, ‘don’t be alarmed—it’s only a little bit of
a storm, to keep our bloody pursuers from hearing us. Before mornin
we’ll be in York, and then the praist will make you my own. Speak, and
tell me, ye’re not frightened? Shure, and ain’t I by your side,
mavourneen?’
“The answer of the bride was delivered in such a low and tremulous
voice, and interrupted by so many sobbings, that Tim, though he listened
his best, couldn’t for the life of him make out more than a word here
and there. However, he thought he distinguished enough to fill him with
more rapture than ever, and, forgetting all about the maid, he drew his
bride still closer to his bosom, and, nestling her head on his shoulder,
poured forth his vows in torrents of eloquence. The Lord only knows what
he said—Irishmen are proverbial for hyperbole.
“‘And is it that I wont love ye intirely, my princess?’ said Tim, by way
of a grand wind up. ‘Shure, and I’ll worship ye as the heathens do the
sun, and so will my five brothers, and the tenantry on my estate—though
it’s more than I know,’ muttered Tim to himself, ‘where to find
them—and won’t I be proud to shew ye off to my friends as the
handsomest and sweetest woman in the rigiment? There, now, be aisy, my
jewel—your father won’t catch us. Oh! isn’t it iligantly I’ve outwitted
him, and that owld hag of an aunt, your namesake?’
“‘Old hag of an aunt,’ screamed the bride, starting back from Tim’s
shoulder as if an adder had stung her, ‘why—who—do you take _me_ for?’
“‘For Miss Araminta Wheeler, and divil a one else—shure, and I have not
offended ye, my darlin, by that same thrifle of a remark?’ and he drew
his bride again toward him.
“‘Murder—off—help—oh! you vile, deceiving, wicked monster,’ shrieked
the bride, pushing away Tim with both her hands, ‘you’ve ruined me
forever. And to call me a hag—oh! oh!’ and she went off almost into
hysterics.
“‘Blood and ages—who have we here indeed?’ thundered Tim, all at once
recognizing the now shrill tones of his companion, and kicking open the
coach door, he saw, for the first time, by the faint light of the
chaise-lamps, the face of the speaker, ‘it’s the aunt herself—the owld
serpent take her! A pretty mess I’m in, running off with ye, ye apology
for a skeleton, instead of with the niece. Pray, madam,’ and he bowed
sarcastically, ‘was it ye I honored with my proposal?’
“‘Didn’t you send me a note—a—asking me to elope?’ hysterically sobbed
the aunt. ‘Oh! you vile wretch.’
“‘Ou—u—h! I see it all,’ whistled Tim. ‘The dumb baste of a messenger
gave it to ye instead of to the other.’
“‘You said before, too,’ sobbed the aunt, ‘that you a—a—dored me.’
“‘The Lord forgive my sins,’ muttered Tim betwixt his teeth. ‘But
may-be,’ he said coaxingly, as a new thought struck him, ‘ye’re the
heiress after all.’
“Tim got no answer but a new burst of hysteric tears, mingled with
ejaculations, among which he could distinguish a whole dictionary of
reproaches.
“‘I’m thinking,’ said Tim, after awhile, ‘ye’d better be getting home as
soon as convanient. This is a bit of a mistake,’ and then, in an under
tone he groaned, ‘oh! but it’s ruined I am with the chaise hire
intirely.’
“The horses’ heads were soon turned, and just as morning dawned, the
runaways drove up to the lane leading to Mr. Wheeler’s residence, where
the bride expectant alighted, and Tim, cursing his blunder, kept on to
his quarters. What became of the aunt, I never cared to inquire. As for
Tim, he had sense enough to know that the game was up for him in that
quarter. Though he strove to keep his elopement a secret, the joke soon
leaked out, and he was the banter of the whole regiment. An order to
repair to Florida was hailed as a God-send, as it saved him from the
quizzing of his mess, which to this day has for a standing toast,
O’Donnell’s Prize.”
Many a burst of laughter interrupted the President during the recital of
this story, which loses half of its effect when deprived of his
inimitable mimicry of the conversations.
We adjourned, at a late hour, for the stars were already twinkling in
the sky when we turned our horses’ heads homewards. The cool evening
breeze, and the exhilaration of a rapid pace, kept up the flow of our
spirits until we parted for the night—though we did not separate until
we had drunk a parting cup at the house of that most hospitable of
hosts, Deacon Green.
The next meeting of the club found me again amongst them. But the
incidents of the second dinner must be reserved for another paper.
H. P.
* * * * *
A FOREST SCENE.
BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.
I wandered out in summer time,
One pleasant afternoon,
Amid the green and cooling woods—
The leafy woods of June;
As through its temple’s shadowy aisles
In mournfulness I walked,
I listened to the breezy trees
As friend with friend they talked!
And gazing upwards in my face,
Each meek wood-flower drew back,
Nor did a single blade of grass
Impede my onward track;
And ever on my listening ear
There came a lulling sound,
As of a multitude in prayer—
Methought ’twas holy ground!
I rested on a mossy bank,
And cast my eyes above;
The lithe green branches arch’d o’erhead,
And twined their arms in love;
And nought was seen of the blue sky
Save islets here and there,
Which seemed like some fair summer lakes
That smiled in upper air!
A twilight, rich and tender light,
Came stealing from the skies,
And, oh! ’twas like the light that rests
In a young mother’s eyes!
I saw the gentle flowrets wave
Their urns, still filled with dew,
And by my side the dark-fringed fir—
The “tree of Heaven,” grew!
Oh! all was fair and beautiful,
In these bright forest bowers,
A region of perpetual green—
A paradise of flowers!
Though all was very beautiful,
So free from woe and sin,
I turned from the bright world without,
To darker worlds within:
I closed my eyes, and pressed my hand
Upon my burning brow,
And many were the busy thoughts
That crowded round me now!
For, oh! the memories of years,
With all their clouds o’ercast,
Rose up from that vast charnel-house,
The dim, sepulchral past!
And like a train of spectres wan
They passed in my review,
And each faint shadow as it came,
Still pale and paler grew!
On, onward yet, they came—a throng
Of white and ghastly things,
As if stern Memory had stirred
Oblivion’s darkest springs!
And still the tears fell thick and fast,
For nought could then control
The passion and the agony
That swept across my soul!
Oh! many light and careless words
Were ringing on the air,
And thoughtless things I said or did—
All seemed embodied there!
And mingling with accusing sins,
Faint-shadowed forms swept by,
And glanced upon me as they passed,
With mild, yet grieving eye!
At length a sweet, reproachful face
Looked in upon my dream,
It spake—and, oh! the tones were those
Of some sweet, mournful stream!
And words came flowing from its lips,
That bade me cease to weep,
So that the dead within their graves
In peacefulness might sleep!
I started from this heavy trance,
The breeze came sweeping by,
It had no knowledge of my grief,
Yet gave me sigh for sigh;
And there where I had madly wept,
Unheeding sky and earth,
With all their light and loveliness—
Their gladness and their mirth,
I knelt me down and humbly asked
My sins might be forgiven,
And that the incense of my heart
Might float with peace to heaven!
• • • • • • •
I turned me from that forest scene,
And Hope her radiance shed
About a heart that ceased to mourn
The pale, rejoicing dead!
* * * * *
WAWHILLOWA.
A LEGEND OF THE QUONNECTICUT.
BY D. M. ELWOOD.
Whoever has once stood upon the summit of Mount Holyoke, will never
forget the rich scene spread out before him. For miles—as far as the
eye can reach on every side—may be seen Nature in her most imposing
forms. Vales clad in their rich vesture of green, watered by the limpid
streams, cool, pure, and refreshing; gently sloping hills, crowned with
fields of waving grain, and spotted here and there with the fleecy
herds; and yet farther on, rising peak upon peak, and summit upon
summit, the “huge pillars” which “prop the heavens” rear their craggy
heads on high, bidding defiance to storm and tempest, and scarcely
trembling even at the peals of “living thunder” which “leap” from crag
to crag. Occasionally, peering above the tall trees that surround them,
the spires of numerous churches point out the villages, and form
agreeable pictures on which the delighted eye may rest. Sweeping the
very base of Holyoke the broad Connecticut rolls its calm tide along,
and winding away into the distance far to the south, may be traced on a
clear day, circling its way through the verdant meadows almost to its
very mouth. Directly across the river from Holyoke, Mount Tom rises in
sullen majesty, as if disdaining to hold fellowship with the humble yet
beautiful objects around. Northampton—with its snow-white dwellings,
its spires and turrets, its hill—the sides of which are occupied with
delightful mansions—and its top surmounted with a lovely grove, forms a
panorama, the beauty of which must be seen to be realized. Between it
and the river is a broad valley, chequered with fields of various
colors, spotted with trees, and giving rich promise of the harvest.
Nearly at the foot of the mountain—a little to the northward, rising
not far above the surface of the river—is a small and fertile island,
of a diamond form, like an emerald set in silver. This island we will
call Hockanum, a name given to it years and years ago. Still further
north, on a broad peninsula formed by a bend of the river, stands the
town of Hadley, with the history of which is associated many a thrilling
tradition. One of these it will be our object now to present to the
reader.
The town of Hadley was settled in the year 1659, by emigrants from the
Colony of Connecticut, who removed on account of differences in
religious opinions. The principal man of these emigrants was Mr. John
Webster, accompanied by the Rev. John Russell, formerly minister of
Wethersfield. Although Whites and Indians were mingled in close contact
here, it is believed that there was no disturbance of any kind until
after the breaking out of King Philip’s war in 1675. A perfectly
amicable disposition was manifested on either side, and danger and fear
of the aborigines were scarcely entertained.
At the southern extremity of the beautiful street on which the town is
principally built, close upon the bank of the majestic Connecticut, or
as it was formerly, and perhaps more properly called, the
_Quonnecticut_, stood, at the period of our tale, the residence of the
Rev. John Russell—mentioned above as one of the first settlers of the
town. A few rods lower down, and on the opposite side of the street,
lived Mr. Webster, his friend and companion in emigration. William, the
oldest son of Mr. Russell, was a young man about twenty-three years of
age, of a bold and fearless disposition, with a heart generally open and
confiding. Yet there was enough of cautiousness in his disposition, to
render him capable of keeping secret his designs, and of acting silently
yet effectually. He was finely formed, and remarkably well gifted by
nature. There was, indeed, but one trait that marred the general harmony
of his natural constitution, and that was, at times, a slight want of
amiability, a haughtiness of spirit that could not brook restraint or
opposition. As it was, he was the pride of his father’s family, and the
object of admiration to the blooming maidens round. But there was one
whom he esteemed far above all others—the daughter of his father’s
friend. Eliza Webster was one of those beings whom one would love
without exactly knowing why. Not really beautiful—indeed, rather
ordinary looking than otherwise—it was impossible for any sensible
young man to enjoy her society for any length of time, without finding
himself fast yielding to the impression which he could not prevent her
from making on his heart. Always lively and cheerful, with a rich fund
of humor, and a shrewd and penetrating mind, she determined to enjoy,
and to make the most of life, and to render all about her as happy as
herself. She was the simple and unaffected, the true child of nature,
and yet nature’s adorer. Never was she happier than when rambling along
the course of the river on whose banks she had always lived, or climbing
the craggy heights which towered at a short distance below.
On the little island of Hockanum lived an old man who had formerly been
a chief at Nonotuck, now Northampton. His name was Shaomet. He subsisted
on the fish he drew from the clear waters, and the deer and other game
which he found in the fastnesses of Holyoke. The solace of his declining
years was his daughter, Tahattawa, a sprightly lass of eighteen summers.
Her step was light as that of the young fawn, and her merry laugh rang
out upon the clear air, and danced like music over the broad bosom of
the river.
With this girl, Eliza Webster had formed an intimate attachment. Often
had Tahattawa paddled her across in her light canoe to the little island
on which was her home. For hours had they sat under the shade of its
green trees, and laughed and conversed together, instructing each other
the while in many of the little arts with which each was familiar.
Now, Tahattawa had a lover—a young warrior belonging to the fort which
the whites had allowed the natives to build within a few rods of the
most populous street of Nonotuck. Eliza had often met him at the tent of
Shaomet, and frequently accompanied him and Tahattawa in his fishing
excursions down the river. The thought of danger to herself never
entered her mind; she reposed perfect confidence in the integrity of her
friends—even though their skins were tawny; and the youth appeared to
be almost as fond of the society of his pale-faced friend as he was of
that of Tahattawa herself.
One fine morning in the month of May, 1676, a deer was seen swimming
swiftly down the Quonnecticut. William Russell snatched his rifle, and,
springing into a light canoe, started in pursuit. At length, as they
neared the little island of Hockanum, the huntsman had gained so far on
his game that he was just raising his gun to his shoulder to fire upon
him, when suddenly the deer sprang more than a foot clear of the
water—and the sharp crack of a rifle came ringing on the ear.
A canoe immediately shot out from a small cove on the shore of the
island, and a young Indian, paddling up to the deer, seized him by the
horns and lifted him into the boat. By this time William had come up.
Whether the Indian had seen him in chase of the deer before he fired or
not, he certainly laid claim to it as his own. The other was no less
strenuous in asserting his own right to the game; and, drawing up his
canoe along side of the Indian, was about to place it in his own boat.
The other also seized it, and declared he would not surrender it but
with life.
The fiery spirit of young Russell now began to chafe, and the flash of
his eyes told plainly that he would not tamely brook such a wrong. The
blood rose to his face, and his heart beat quick and violently with
anger. He stood for a moment hesitating what course to pursue. Give up
the deer he would not—yet he shuddered at what might be the
consequences of an open rupture, at a time when Philip was in arms, and
the name of that mighty chieftain was inspiring many of the Indians with
courage, and striking terror to the hearts of the whites.
Wawhillowa—for it was he, the lover of Tahattawa—with an air which
seemed to challenge his antagonist to its removal, placed his foot on
the game, and rising to his full height regarded the other with a look
of calm defiance. Not a muscle moved, but his teeth were firmly
clenched, and the heavy frown that slowly settled on his brow, told of
the storm that was gathering within his breast.
We know not what might have been the result of this controversy—for
there was equal resolution and courage, and perhaps strength on both
sides—had it not been for a third person. At the instant that William
grasped his rifle, and the other his tomahawk, Shaomet, the old man of
the island, sprang between them and called on both to desist from their
useless strife. He had watched the whole proceeding from the door of his
tent, and, fearful of a dispute, had launched his canoe and approached
them without their perceiving him, so absorbed were both the young men
in the feelings of the moment. They seemed at first somewhat angry at
his interference; but when Wawhillowa remembered that Shaomet was the
father of his intended bride; and William, that he had often manifested
his friendship for Eliza, their resentment towards the old man instantly
began to cool.
Their animosity towards each other, however, was not at all diminished.
They stood over the game like two young lions; and each of them,
perhaps, exercising about as much reason. The old man quietly proceeded
to skin the deer, and to cut it into equal parts. This was quickly done.
He then tried to induce them to accept each a part. It would have been,
perhaps, a difficult matter to decide which was the rightful owner of
the game—but each of the two opponents was resolved to have it all or
none—William threw into the river the half which Shaomet had placed in
his canoe, while the young Indian dropped his tomahawk and hastily
paddled towards the island. The old chief having secured the game in his
own boat, slowly followed him, and the Englishman sullenly worked his
way up the current, muttering revenge.
It was the morning of the 12th of June, 1676. Day had hardly dawned. The
bright star of morning had not yet melted away; but the dark clouds that
had obscured the sky broke in pieces, and rolled away in huge masses far
into the distance, disclosing the bright full moon—her radiance not yet
dimmed by the presence of the king of brightness. Under cover of the
night a powerful body of Indians had advanced near to the town of
Hadley, and at the southern extremity of the street on which it was—and
still is—principally built, had proceeded to dispose among the thick
trees and underwood, a strong band of faithful warriors as an ambuscade.
There they lay, still and motionless as the trees that concealed them.
There was many a stout heart beating eagerly for the fray that would
soon cease to beat for ever. Many a strong arm firmly grasped the rifle
or the tomahawk, soon itself to be in the grasp of an all-powerful foe.
Many a fiery eye rolled round in its socket which was soon to be covered
with the film of death.
How calmly and soundly slept the inhabitants of that village, even
whilst the chafed savage was prowling for his prey. All, unsuspecting,
their slumbers were deep and unbroken, while the hungry lions about them
were awaiting, impatiently, the moment of attack. How often while we
sleep are our destinies decided for us! Wealth—fame—happiness—the
rewards of toil—the requiters of virtue—good and evil—little
circumstances and great—are all hovering above and about us, while we
are unconscious of their presence. Life and death may hang upon a single
hair, while we cannot raise a hand or bend a thought to avert or secure
either.
The eastern sky had just begun to be tinged with red, and a few
straggling rays of the sun, still far below the horizon, were dancing in
fairy shapes towards the zenith, when the work of death and of cruelty
began. Stealthily and silently the savages crept on. Yet let us not call
them _savages_: they were but redressing their wrongs—but avenging the
life blood of their race; and though blood was that morning poured out
like water; and though the tomahawk and scalping knife were the
instruments of death, and the sleeping and the helpless were the
victims;—yet their destroyers were but doing with their enemies as they
did with each other: they were not doing violence to their own natures:
they were even exercising far more _humanity_ than those who, with the
Gospel of Peace in their hand, and the light of civilization around
them, had sapped the very foundations of the Red Man’s race. Swiftly the
work went on. A stifled groan—a scream of anguish occasionally broke
the stillness of the hour. Save that, all was wrapped in deep, dread,
ominous silence. At length, by accident, a rifle was discharged. On that
little circumstance hung the life of hundreds. The sound echoes through
the long street—a window is raised—a door is opened—the alarm is
given—and armed men pour forth, and prepare to resist the foe.
All was confusion and dismay. Rifles were fired—loaded, and discharged
again. Tomahawks gleamed—swords flashed—occasionally a small piece of
ordnance rolled its infant thunder over the plain, and the smoke and din
of the contest rose up together to the heavens. Men ran hither and
thither. Some commanded, and none obeyed.