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 whippo-wil 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 whippo-wil
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 bountiful 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 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 best, "Then I shall
eat rye bread," was her answer. But 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 from 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 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 found her always 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.
The winter was drawing to a close, when late one evening, the sound of
sleigh-bells was heard, and the crunching of snow beneath the hoofs of
horses, as they passed into the barn-yard gate. The arrival of travelers
was too common an occurrence to excite or disturb the well-ordered
family.
Great logs were piled in the capacious chimney, and the flames blazed up
with a crackling warmth, when two strangers entered. In the younger,
Elizabeth instantly recognized John Estaugh, whose preaching had so
deeply impressed her at eleven years of age. This was almost like a
glimpse of home--her dear old English home! She stepped forward with
more than usual cordiality, 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 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 these strong impressions in
childhood, I have heard of many cases where they seemed to be prophecies
sent of 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 walls 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.
The next morning, it was discovered that snow had fallen during the
night in heavy drifts, and the roads were impassable. Elizabeth,
according to her usual custom, sent out men, oxen and sledges, to open
pathways for several poor families, and for households whose inmates
were visited by illness. In this duty, John Estaugh and his friend
joined heartily and none of the laborers worked harder than they. When
he returned, glowing from this exercise, she could not but observe that
the excellent youth had a goodly countenance. It was not physical
beauty; for of that he had little. It was that cheerful, child-like,
out-beaming honesty of expression, which we not unfrequently see in
Germans, who, above all nations, look as if they carried a crystal heart
within their manly bosoms.
Two days after, when Elizabeth went to visit her patients, with a
sled-load of medicines and provisions, John asked permission to
accompany her. There, by the bedside of the aged and the suffering, she
saw the clear sincerity of his countenance warmed with rays of love,
while he spoke to them words of kindness and consolation; and there she
heard his pleasant voice modulate itself into deeper tenderness of
expression, when he took little children in his arms.
The next First day, which we call the Sabbath, the whole family attended
Newtown meeting; and there John Estaugh was gifted with an out-pouring
of the spirit in his ministry, which sank deep into the hearts of those
who listened to him. Elizabeth found it so marvellously applicable to
the trials and temptations of her own soul, that she almost deemed it
was spoken on purpose for her. She said nothing of this, but she
pondered upon it deeply. Thus did a few days of united duties make them
more thoroughly acquainted with each other, than they could have been by
years of fashionable intercourse.
The young preacher soon after bade farewell, to visit other meetings in
Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Elizabeth saw him no more until the May
following, when he stopped at her house to lodge, with numerous other
Friends, on their way to the Quarterly Meeting at Salem. In the morning,
quite a cavalcade started from her hospitable door, on horseback; for
wagons were then unknown 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 the 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 inquired 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 re-adjust it, 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
went and came 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 by 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 connexion
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 concerning their union; but when he 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."
In October, he returned to America, and they were soon 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, and there was
no wedding feast. Without the aid of priest or magistrate, they took
each other by the hand, and, in the presence of witnesses, calmly and
solemnly promised to be kind and faithful to each other. The wedded pair
quietly returned to their happy home, with none to intrude upon those
sacred hours of human life, when the heart most needs to be left alone
with its own deep emotions.
During the long period of their union, she three times crossed the
Atlantic, to visit her aged parents, and he occasionally left her for a
season, when called abroad to preach. These temporary separations were
felt as a cross, but the strong-hearted woman always cheerfully gave him
up to follow his own convictions of duty. In 1742, he parted from her,
to go on a religious visit to Tortola, in the West Indies. He died
there, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. She published a religious
tract of his, to which is prefixed a preface 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 of 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, speak 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 women'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 town of Haddonfield, in New Jersey, took its name from her; and the
tradition concerning her courtship is often repeated by some patriarch
among the Quakers.
Her medical skill is so well remembered, that the old nurses of New
Jersey still recommend Elizabeth Estaugh's salve as the "sovereignest
thing on earth."
KATE MOORE.
From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,
The place is dignified by the doer's deed.
SHAKSPEARE.
Kate Moore is the daughter of Captain Moore, keeper of the Light House
on Fairweather Island, sixty miles north of the city of New York, and
about half way between the harbors of Black Rock and Bridgeport,
Connecticut. The island is about half a mile from shore and contains
five acres of land. On that little, secluded spot Captain Moore has
resided nearly a quarter of a century, and has reared a family of five
children, of whom Kate is the heroine.
Disasters frequently occur to vessels which are driven round Montauk
Point, and sometimes in the Sound, when they are homeward bound; and at
such times she is always on the alert. She has so thoroughly cultivated
the sense of hearing, that she can distinguish amid the howling storm,
the shrieks of the drowning mariners, and thus direct a boat, which she
has learned to manage most dexterously, in the darkest night, to the
spot where a fellow mortal is perishing Though well educated and
refined, she possesses none of the affected delicacy which characterizes
too many town-bred misses; but, adapting herself to the peculiar
exigences of her father's humble yet honorable calling, she is ever
ready to lend a helping hand, and shrinks from no danger, if duty points
that way. In the gloom and terror of the stormy night, amid perils at
all hours of the day, and all seasons of the year, she has launched her
barque on the threatening waves; and has assisted her aged and feeble
father in saving the lives of twenty-one persons during the last fifteen
years! Such conduct, like that of Grace Darling, to whom Kate Moore has
been justly compared, needs no comment; it stamps its moral at once and
indelibly upon the heart of every reader.
CAPTIVITY OF MRS. ROWLANDSON.
Through sorrowing and suffering thou hast pass'd,
To show us what a woman true may be.
LOWELL.
Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, the wife of the Rev. Joseph Rowlandson, was taken
prisoner by the Indians at Lancaster, Massachusetts, on the tenth of
February, 1676, and remained in captivity till the third of the
following May. The details of her sufferings, as related by herself, are
too painful for many persons to read; but she bore them with such
Christian fortitude, that nothing short of a brief account of her
captivity would seem to be excusable in a work like this.
The day after the destruction of Lancaster, the Indians began their
march; and Mrs. Rowlandson carried her infant till her strength failed
and she fell. She was then furnished with a horse, without a saddle.
Attempting to ride, she again fell. Towards night it began to snow; and
gathering a few sticks, she made a fire. Sitting beside it on the snow,
she held her child in her arms through the long and dismal night. For
three or four days she had no sustenance but water; nor did her child
share any better for nine days. During this time it was constantly in
her arms or lap. At the end of that period, the frost of death crept
into its eyes, and she was forced to relinquish it to be disposed of by
the unfeeling sextons of the forest.
After its burial, Mrs. Rowlandson was sold by her Narraganset captor to
a Sagamore named Quanopin, by which transfer she found in her new
master's wife "a most uncomfortable mistress." Soon afterwards the
Indians went on an expedition to Medfield, and on their return one of
them gave her a Bible--her best friend and great support during her
sufferings and trials. She retained it during her captivity.
The party of Indians with whom she continued, remained for some time
near Petersham, in Worcester county. At length, hearing a report that
the pale faces were in pursuit of them, they hastily decamped and
continued their march till they crossed the Connecticut river, in the
neighborhood of Gill or Bernardston. There Mrs. Rowlandson came in
contact with the great chief, Philip, who treated her civilly and even
politely. Ere long the Indians re-crossed the Connecticut, and returned
into Worcester county. During this part of her pilgrimage, writes
President Dwight, whose concise narrative we have followed, "Mrs.
Rowlandson went through almost every suffering but death. She was
beaten, kicked, turned out of doors, refused food, insulted in the
grossest manner, and at times almost starved. Nothing but experience
can enable us to conceive what must be the hunger of a person, by whom
the discovery of six acorns, and two chestnuts, was regarded as a rich
prize. At times, in order to make her miserable, they announced to her
the death of her husband and her children. One of the savages, of whom
she enquired concerning her son, told her that his master had, at a time
which he specified, killed and roasted him; that himself had eaten a
piece of him, as big as his two fingers, and that it was delicious meat.
On various occasions they threatened to kill her. Occasionally, but for
short intervals only, she was permitted to see her children; and
suffered her own anguish over again in their miseries. She was also
obliged, while hardly able to walk, to carry a heavy burden over hills,
and through rivers, swamps, and marshes; and that in the most inclement
seasons. These evils were repeated daily; and, to crown them all, she
was daily saluted with the most barbarous and insolent accounts of the
burning and slaughter, the tortures and agonies, inflicted by them upon
her countrymen. It is to be remembered that Mrs. Rowlandson was tenderly
and delicately educated, and as ill fitted to encounter these distresses
as persons who have received such an education, now are in this and
other countries.
"There was, however, among the savages a marked difference of character.
Some of them, both men and women, treated her with kindness. None of
them exhibited so much insolence to her as her mistress. This woman
felt all the haughtiness of rank, as much as if she had been a European
or Asiatic princess; and spent almost as much time in powdering her
hair, painting her face, and adorning herself with ear-rings, bracelets,
and other ornaments, a part of their plunder from the English."
The captivity of Mrs. Rowlandson was terminated through the agency of
Mr. Hoar, of Concord, Massachusetts. Under a commission from the
Government he redeemed her for about eighty dollars, which sum was
contributed by a Mr. Usher and some female friends in Boston.
MRS. BOZARTH.
To weakness strength succeeds, and power
From frailty springs.
PARK BENJAMIN.
There's no impossibility to him
Who stands prepared to conquer every hazard.
MRS. HALE.
In the spring of 1779, while two or three neighboring families, had,
from fear, collected at the house of Mrs. Bozarth, in Green county,
Pennsylvania, the little company was one day attacked by Indians. The
children, who were playing without, first discovered the foe, and,
giving the alarm, had not time to get within doors before they were
overtaken, and began to fall beneath the tomahawk. The first man who
stepped to the door when the alarm was heard, was shot, and fell back;
and before the door could be closed, an Indian leaped over him into the
house. The other man in the house caught the savage and threw him on the
bed. He then called for a knife, but Mrs. Bozarth, being unable to find
one, seized an axe and instantly dispatched the bold assailant. Another
Indian now rushed in, and shot at and wounded the man before he was off
the bed. Mrs. Bozarth gave this second intruder several blows, when his
cries brought a third to the door. Him she killed as he entered. The
wounded savage was then dragged out; the door again closed and fastened;
and, through the assistance of the wounded man, Mrs. Bozarth was able to
keep out the rest of the murderous assailants until relieved by the
arrival of friends.
THE HEROINE OF STEEL CREEK
Here and there some stern, high patriot stood.
BYRON.
The subject of the following anecdote was the mother of eleven sons.
Most of them were soldiers and some were officers in the war of the
Revolution. Her residence was in Mechlenburg county, near Steel creek,
North Carolina.
When Lord Cornwallis heard of the defeat of Ferguson at King's
Mountain,[52] fearing an attack of his rear at Camden, he collected his
forces and retreated towards Winnsboro. While on this march, his whole
army halted for the night on the plantation of Robert Wilson. Cornwallis
and his staff took possession of the house, and made an unstinted levy
on the hospitality of the good lady. By asking such questions as a
British lord would, under the circumstances, feel at liberty to
propound, the General learned, in the course of the evening, that the
husband of Mrs. Wilson, and some of her sons, were then his prisoners in
Camden jail. Her kindness and urbanity led him to think that perhaps
she was a friend to the Crown; and, after some preliminary remarks,
intended to prepare her mind for the leading consideration which he
wished to enforce upon it, he at length addressed her as follows:
[52] October seventh, 1780.
"Madam, your husband and your son are my prisoners; the fortune of war
may soon place others of your sons--perhaps all your kinsmen, in my
power. Your sons are young, aspiring and brave. In a good cause,
fighting for a generous and powerful king, such as George III, they
might hope for rank, honor and wealth. If you could but induce your
husband and sons to leave the rebels, and take up arms for their lawful
sovereign, I would almost pledge myself that they shall have rank and
consideration in the British army. If you, madam, will pledge yourself
to induce them to do so, I will immediately order their discharge."