University of Virginia Library

4. OLD TIMES
IN THE NEW WORLD.

ADVERTISEMENT OF THE EDITOR.

It appears from a note, in the hand writing of our
author, that the following Tale was principally compiled
from an old Manuscript Drama, the spelling and style of
which were of the age of King James the first. The
note also states that it was never printed nor played,
having been rejected by the manager of the “Red Bull
Theatre,” in London, to whom the author transmitted a
copy. In revenge he turned Puritan, and published a satire
upon the theatres, entitled, “The School of Abuse; or
a Pleasant Invective against Poets, Pipers, Players,
Jesters, and such like Caterpillars of the Commonwealth.”
Our author says the manuscript was given
him by an officer of Lee's Legion, a descendant of
one of the first settlers of James Town, with whom
he became intimate about the close of the Revolutionary
War. I thought it best to advise the reader
of these facts, which account for some peculiarities of
style, as well as the highly dramatic cast of the story.

Thomas Macarnesse,
To his worthy friend and countryman,
Captaine John Smith.

1. CHAPTER I.

I commend me right worshipfully to my worthy
countrymen, and most especially to my lovely
country-women, hoping that not one of them hath
forgotten the famous old times of gallantry and adventure,
when the sprightly springalls of the old
world, stimulated by the example, and aided by the
purse of the great Sir Walter Raleigh, (whose
memory God long preserve,) turned their eyes to
the glowing west, and placed their hopes in a new

hemisphere. The history of an honourable ancestry,
is at all times a precious, and delightful contemplation;
and what ancestry can be more honourable
than ours? Brave and gallant spirits,
resolved to mend their fortunes, at the risk of their
lives; and pious, unconquerable pilgrims, clothed
in the armour of faith, which no weapon can
pierce, seeking in the wilderness, among savage
pagans that free exercise of opinion which was not
only denied them, but punished with stripes and
imprisonment in civilized countries, among Christians.
Assuredly those who have read of the
perils encountered and overcome by these daring
soldiers of fortune, and these invincible followers
of the faith, can never become in all the vicissitudes
of life, from youth to age, from the cradle to
the grave, indifferent to their memory and their
actions. If any one whose heart is too hard, and
his understanding too obtuse to feel the force of
such impressions, should perchance take up this
my story, let him lay it down again forthwith. It
is not for him, for, as one of our writers has truly
observed,—“Nothing now remains of James Town,
the cradle of the new world, but a few simple
ruins; a few tomb stones, marking the spot where
was interred, somebody—we know not whom, for
the name has become illegible. But the spot is well
known; and every century, while like a river, it
carries millions of light wonders to the ocean of
oblivion, will only render it the more interesting
and illustrious. It is closely connected with the
first links of a great chain of causes and effects,
that have already changed the destiny of the new,
and will probably change that of the old world.
He therefore, who cannot feel the inspiration of
such spots as James Town, and Plymouth Rock,
need not take the pains to go to Rome or Athens,
for he may rest assured that the fine and subtile
spirit which lives, and moves, and hath its being in
the past and the future alone, is not an inmate of
his mind.”

It chanced one bright spring morning, in the
year 1611, that a young gentleman of the name of
Percie[1] was seen reclining against an old live oak
tree that spread its broad arms over the borders
of the famous Powhatan, now called James River.
The hour was about sunrise, and the scene exceedingly
fair. The river spread into a wide basin,
several miles across, over which, glided from
time to time, flocks of those aquatic birds, that love
to skim the surface of the salt water. On the left
was a grove of stately trees of primeval growth, encumbered
with vines and wild flowers; and on the
right a little village, of rather rude huts, enclosed
with a stockade, and defended by some poorly constructed
fortifications. The whole had an appearance

of rural beauty that contrasted strongly
with the absence of that life and noise, which is
characteristic of the crowded habitations of men, of
a blithe summer morning. Not a single female, or
child was to be seen; nor any domestic animals,
save a few half-starved melancholy curs, rawboned
and moody, prowling about with hungry
avidity, or lying gaping in the morning sun, or
whining in their sleep, as if their dreams were
troubled.

Percie, Robert Percie—that was his name—
stood leaning against the tree, contemplating the
birds as they flitted down the river to the ocean,
not far distant. His thoughts accompanied them
in their flight towards England, and he communed
with his heart in something like the following
soliloquy.

“How swift they fly! They seem in haste to
visit the far distant, sea-girt Isle, from whence love
and hate have banished me. My imagination outsoars
them in their swift flights, and bears me
to where the happy hopes of my youth, sunned
into life a thousand blooming flowers, since
overcast and withered by the clouds of manhood.
Would I were there! No; would a thousand
worlds, unknown erewhile, like this which I inhabit
—a thousand untracked seas, whose virgin bosoms,
never daring keel wounded with its swift passage,
rolled between me and my native country. Distance,
like time, is kinsman to oblivion.”

He then turned his face towards an old grey-headed
man, sitting at a little distance, and dressed
like the better sort of followers of cavaliers in
those days, and exclaimed, “Gilbert!”

“Master, here am I,” quoth Gilbert, “and yet
in strictness of sound logic, such as is learned at
Oxford, here am I not; unless your philosophy
can convict me that a man can be where that
which constitutes his being is not.”

“What, still dealing in quips, Gilbert,” replied
the other, with a languid, indulgent smile, which
indicated that the old man had earned by past
fidelity, a privilege of being familiar.

“In good truth, sir,” said the greybeard, “I
have, within the last half hour, emigrated to a
certain, snug little paradise in the North Country,
of which I would draw your honour such a picture!”

“'Tis better not, Gilbert. I know it well. We
must forget these things, if possible,” said the
other, with a deep sigh. “The past must be as
nothing, the future every thing to you, and most
of all to me. The old world must give place to
the new. From this time forward, we must look
right forward, nor think of the past but as a lesson
for the time to come.”

“But must I never talk of home, dear master?”

“No, not even think of it.”

“And may I not sit on a bench of a summer
day like this, under the clambering vines—that is

to say, if I am not shortly starved to death—and
talk to myself of old times, old friends, christmas
frolics, and foaming nut-brown ale?”

“'Twill only make you the sadder,” replied the
other.

“And if it does, 'fore heaven. I'd rather cry
over such matters, than laugh at the best jest, or
merry tale, that ever was, or will be broached in
this new world, which, the fiend take Columbus
for finding out, say I.”

“And so say not I, good Gilbert. Already the
poor and wretched, those who have no home, or
to whom their home is misery, begin to look this
way with longing eyes, as to a place of refuge, or
oblivion. The world is in want of a sanctuary,
where kingly pride and priestly rule, may no
longer create beggars and bigots. I see it coming,
Gilbert.”

“Three score and ten can't live on distant hopes,
my master. They are the next year's harvest, or
rather the next year's ships, to us poor, perishing
adventurers. Before either arrives, we shall be
gone hence, unless the savages make friends, and
come in with a supply.”

“Well, well; so you don't talk to me of these
old times, I am content.”

“I accept your terms, my dear young master.
I'll to the bank yonder, where there is a fine echo,
and there we'll discourse of days of yore. Talk
of the Percies; your old, honoured father; your

good brother Harry—a plague take him though
for a— and she, the most beauteous of all beauties,
the Rose of Beverly. Hey! master of mine!”

“Silence! old croaking raven!” cried Percie,
making a motion as if to collar the old man.
“Thou hast named three names, each dearer than
the other; each more cruel, than famine, plague,
and pestilence, all combined. Had I three hearts,
they would have broke them all. In the name of
God, leave me, or leave off prating.”

“My honoured master, forgive me!”

“Go to the woods, old Gilbert, and howl there;
or let me go. There is not a beast that roams
these irksome solitudes, but has some tie of nature,
some dear affection, some attachment to
blood, or place. I may learn of them, perhaps
some new affections. Those I had are broken,
and cannot knit again.”

“I knew nothing of this, my dear master. You
may remember I was absent, a prisoner to the
Borderers, when you left home. When I returned,
I heard you had gone the Virginia voyage, and
followed as fast as I could, without knowing why
you left home.”

“I remember, so you did,” replied the other,
affectionately. “Forgive me, good Gilbert. So
true a friend deserves to know all. Hear, but
never speak. While you were absent, the curse
of younger brotherhood, which is to be beggared
in fortune, and despised in love, fell upon me.
The father I revered, spoiled me of my inheritance

to enrich my elder brother, who tempted her to
whom I was betrothed, whom I loved as my own
immortal soul, whom I had twined to my heart of
hearts, and who had grown to be part of my
being—tempted her by his riches and my poverty,
to forsake her beggar for a wealthy heir.”

“The unnatural brother!” exclaimed old Gilbert,
furiously.

“That brother! you know, Gilbert, he had
played with me through boyhood; studied, travelled,
warred with me in youth; was my companion,
my friend, my confidant. He knew all, and
he betrayed me, Judas like, with kissing. I saved
his life when he was drowning, and he plunged me
in the waters of bitterness.”

“No more, no more, dear master,” rejoined the
other, “now that I know your griefs, I will never
talk of home again.”

“Nay,” replied Percie, “now the ice is broke
you shall know all, that hereafter eternal silence
may be between us. Outraged in every feeling
of nature and humanity; all the early ties of my
youth broken to atoms; my affection for my father
changed to a sense of his injustice; my early
love for my brother, turned into a feeling of violated
friendship and betrayed confidence; my devotion
for Rose curdled into despair, horror, madness
and jealousy—I sought this new world, and
you followed me, old Gilbert. I shall never see
my native country more. But see! our president,

Captain Smith is coming this way, apparently in
contention with Master Vere and Master Harrington.
Leave me, and let your lips be like the
sepulchre.”

Ed.

2. CHAPTER II.

The group which now entered on the scene,
was composed of Smith, then acting, as he always
did in times of peril or suffering, as president of
the little colony of James Town; Master Arthur
Vere, Master George Harrington, Master Hardin,
and Master Hyacinth Lavender; each of whom I
shall specially introduce to the reader.

Smith, of whose name and actions, it is a disgrace
for any American to be ignorant, was a person
of fine, manly figure and proportions, erect in
his port, and of a commanding look. His eyes
were of a greyish hue, and of a most piercing lustre;
his hair cut short, and curling thickly about
the ears; his beard and mustaches very full, and
suffered to grow long, as was still the fashion of
the times. Though at this period he had scarcely
reached the age of thirty, he had already encountered
a series of romantic adventures, in almost
every quarter of the globe, and his face, eminently
manly and prepossessing as it was, wore the impression

of suffering and care. His forehead bore
the wrinkles of thought and anxiety; and between
his eyes were two deep, upright lines, indicative
of a mind troubled with frequent perplexities.
His complexion was darkened by exposure to vicissitudes
and hardships; but upon the whole, he
still bore about him a charm of person and manner,
that quelled the minds of one sex, and wakened
the affections of the other. Of his daring
courage, unconquerable perseverance, and adventurous
spirit; of his extraordinary qualities and
acquirements, no one can judge, who has not followed
him through the various events of a life of
danger, trial and vicissitude. Suffice it to say,
that in an age, than which there never was one
more fruitful in extraordinary men, he stands eminently
conspicuous.

Of the other members of the group, Vere and
Harrington were younger brothers of younger
branches of noble houses. Gentlemen of the inns
of court, which at that time contained more young
fellows of wit and pleasure, than all London beside.
They were accustomed to give masques; to
enact plays before the sovereign; and some of the
best writers, as well as best actors of the day,
were originally of the inns of court. They were
indeed a set of lusty gallants, who treated the
city husbands with great contempt, and their
wives with great courtesy.

Master Hardin was a preacher of the gospel;

one of those zealous, hardy and invincible spirits,
to whom impossibilities are as nothing; whose
faith is as a rock; whose ardour for the interests
and growth of religion never tires under hardships
or difficulties, and who are ready at any time, to
carry the gospel into the very jaws of death. He
had accompanied one of the earliest companies of
adventurers to Virginia, and proved himself on all
occasions, ready to suffer in the cause of heaven,
or to make any sacrifices for the welfare of his
fellow creatures.

Master Lavender was a complete specimen of
the fashionable dandy of that age, save that he
was now somewhat rusticated—a spruce, neat,
apish, nimble, fantastic, conceited gallant, with
hollow eyes, sharp visage, dark complexion and
meagre face. He was devoted to toys; worshipped
satin doublets, and adored a white hand in a
perfumed glove. He could never resist fine
clothes and jewelry; and all his estate, which indeed
was only that of a younger brother, was
spent in velvet, satin, trinkets, and new fashions.
He ruined his tailor, mercer, and jeweller; but
then he comforted the first by swearing he had the
patience of a burnt heretic; the second, that his
faith was sufficient to save all Fleet-street, and
the Strand; and the third, that his repentance
would pay all his scores at church, if no where
else. He was withal not destitute of wit, having
kept company with the templars, and had more

valour than discretion; for at that time no man
without courage could associate with gentlemen.
Master Lavender had come to the new world,
some two years before the present period, with a
competent array of finery and trinkets. The trinkets
he had from time to time pawned to a little tailor,
for repairing his costume; and the finery was
now in the last stage of a rapid dissolution. With
the exception of a pair of perfumed gloves, he exhibited
the perfect wreck of a beau, insomuch
that his old enemy, Mr. Justice Knapp, with whom
he had many a sharp contest of wit, was wont to
say, that his velvet jacket had made three voyages
round the world; that his cloak had belonged to
Marco Polo, when he visited the emperor of China
and the Great Khan; and that had his dimity
breeches been mortal, they would have perished
long before the flood.

Such was the company that now intruded somewhat
tumultuously on the sorrows of Percie. As
they advanced they seemed in a state of hot contention,
and from time to time placed their hands
on the swords, which in those dangerous times, it
was customary for the adventurers to wear on all
occasions. To explain this apparent hostility it
is necessary that we go a little way backwards.

The colony which is the scene of our story,
was settled in the first instance, by a company of
daring spirits, many of them connected with families
of distinction at home. High tempered, and

somewhat disinclined to discipline, they constituted
the best possible materials for defence and
warfare; but when it came to labouring, which
the exigencies of the colony at almost all times,
made indispensable to its very existence, they were
apt to be exceedingly refractory and indignant.
Placing a precarious dependence in the friendship
of the savages, and the supplies from England,
they were too prone to idleness, and unthrift, and
it required all the ascendency of such a spirit as
that of Smith, to maintain any tolerable degree
of subordination. Among the devices invented
by him for cooling the courage of these high
blooded gallants, was one which in general, was
found exceedingly effectual. This was to tie
the delinquent's right arm to the branch of a tree,
and pour cold water down the sleeve until the culprit
signified his submission.

At the period in which our story commences,
the colony was in a state almost bordering on absolute
famine. Every thing being in common,
and the products of the labour and enterprise of
all being deposited in a large store, constituted a
common stock, under the special guardianship of
the president and his council, who sometimes abused
their trust, and wasted the precious deposit.
Such an event had not long since taken place, and
the colony indignant at this mal-administration,
deposed their president, and chose Smith in his
place. As usual, he exposed himself to all sorts

of dangers, exerted all his energy and activity to
remedy the desperate state of affairs, and set the
example of labour, economy, and endurance.
But all did not avail. The savages, offended by
the unjust exactions of the late president, retired
to a distance, refusing to hold communion with
the strangers, or hid their corn under ground, and
preserved a sullen silence. To complete their
misfortunes, the rats got into their store house,
and consumed a small quantity of grain, which
was all that was left of what Smith had collected
in a voyage up the Potomac.

From this time they had no bread, but a miserable
substitute made of the flesh of dried sturgeons,
which fish, together with the little game they could
procure in the woods, constituted almost the whole
of their food. Still it would seem that they preserved
their good spirits, and the same daring hardihood
that precipitated them on the new world, sustained
them through all their dangers and sufferings.
They sometimes grumbled, sometimes rebelled
against the authority of Smith, and sometimes
resolved to go home. But in general, it
would seem, that the very hardships they endured,
the privations they laboured under, had produced
what may be called the philosophy of necessity,
which is neither more nor less than a sort of desperate
carelessness, which makes a jest of the present,
and defies the morrow. They passed like the
swift lightning from one extreme to the other, and

the pressure of hunger, as in the case of children,
was lightened by merry jests, or playful pastimes.
Desperation sometimes produces a strange hilarity;
and necessity is not only the mother of invention,
but the source of great actions, which are
almost always performed by poor adventurers, the
fruits of whose genius and hardihood, are generally
reaped by the rich drones of this vast hive.

Such was the crisis of affairs in the little cradle
of the new world, which in truth was never a sleeping
place for the children or their parents, when
the refusal of the refractory cavaliers to work, produced
the scene which followed, and which we
shall endeavour to exhibit to the reader.

“For shame, for shame!” cried Smith, as they
approached to where Percie was standing, “these
unmanly complaints, these eternal bickerings,
will ruin the noblest project of the age. Within
is famine and disaffection; without, the bloody,
bold, and cunning savages, watching for the miserable
leavings of famine. Shame, shame I say,
gentlemen; the word is work or starve.”

“Not I, by Jupiter,” cried Master Vere.

“Nor I, by Mars,” quoth Master Harrington.

“Nor I, by these lily hands,” whispered Master
Hyacinth Lavender.

“We shall see, gentlemen,” cried Smith, “the
time is come when that authority which necessity
creates and justifies, shall be exerted, let what will
follow. Your extravagance has consumed our

food; your idle example has corrupted my people;
and now when famine and danger stare us in the
face, you refuse to lend a helping hand, because,
forsooth! the distant kinsmen of nobility! You
know me sirs, and on the faith of man, this day shall
see you labouring with the meanest. By heaven I
will force you to work, and punish you if you
rail.”

“Few words to that bargain, most valiant Captain,”
quoth Master Vere, “you say the rats have
eaten up the corn. These rats are yourself and
your minions. You say the savages are watching
to destroy us: your prudence has provided against
this, by securing a refuge for yourself at least,
with your copper-coloured Siren of the woods:
your gentle Indian maid, your—”

“Ungenerous, and illiberal slander,” cried
Smith, warmly, “when have I ever shrunk from
any hardships or sufferings, that you—or you—or
you—the best and bravest of you all have borne?
when did I refuse to eat what you have eaten, or
fast when others fasted? I have shared labours,
dangers, watchings, heat, cold and famine, with the
meanest of my people. Is it,—is it not so?”

“'Tis true, and I'll avouch it,” exclaimed Percie.

“Doubtless,” quoth Master Harrington, “you
led us wantonly into dangers, and took all the
credit of escape to yourself; and you consumed
our corn, to save us from starving by inches.”

“'Tis true, as this back and stomach of mine
can witness,” lisped Master Lavender.

“Unworthy imputation!” rejoined Captain
Smith, “but enough of this. Now mark me, gentlemen,
for men, it seems ye are not. Since
hunger itself has no power to force you to exertion,
I protest by Him that made me, you shall not
only labour for your own support, but for that of
those poor souls who are sick, and perishing with
want. They shall not starve while we have hands
to help them.”

“What! become the slaves of base mechanics?”
exclaimed Vere and Harrington.

“Aye sirs: and he that gathers not a supply, or
performs a task equal to myself, shall as sure as he
lives, be sent over the river, to taste the sweets of
idleness, among the savages. Bring hither the implements,”
added Smith, calling to some labourers
at a short distance, who came with axes, shovels,
and other instruments of labour.

“Lookee ye, Captain Smith,” said Vere, “only
point me out a mode in which my sword may be
employed in any useful labour, and I am your
man; but an axe, I disdain; a spade I abhor. If
you have any fighting to do, send for me; till then,
adieu most noble Captain.”

He was proceeding to quit the spot, when Smith
placed himself before him, and offered the choice
of an axe or a shovel.

“By the bright Jupiter, my natal star,” exclaimed

Vere, “before I turn my blade into a
ploughshare, I'll try conclusions with your toasting
iron. What! shall the seed of nobles become
the bondsmen of the scum of England? Sweat for
them!”

“Sweat! O vulgar sprig of nobility!” lisped
Master Lavender.

“Softly, softly, high-born sir,” rejoined Smith, in
a sarcastic tone: “what, I pray you, is your noble
blood to me, or those poor souls whose substance
you have devoured? Will your long pedigrees
confound these Indian warriors, or quell the anger
of savage murderers? Prithee high-born
sirs, call up your noble lineage, and bid them
speak to these wild warriors to come and bring us
corn, for christian charity to their dry bones. Beseech
them to bring their mantles of state, to
shield us from coming winters' cold; their coronets
of pearl, to barter here for food; their proud
escutcheons, to ward off the Indian arrows. They'll
come I warrant you. Work, work, I say. The
basket-maker is the king in this new world. The
implements—take them gentlemen, the axe or the
spade, the gallows or the wilds; come, here are
our weapons.”

“And here is mine.”

“And mine,” cried Harrington and Vere, drawing,
“the only one a gentleman ever uses.”

“And mine,” quoth Master Lavender, “if it
will only come forth; for by St. George and his

dragon, it hath not shown its point as a snail doth
its horns in broad day, since last I drew it on a
sheriff's officer in merry London. Come forth my
trusty and rusty toaster,” continued he, tugging
at his sword. “No! well to him that is without
arms, neutrality is policy. Now will I stand on
one side and count the slain, as a boy notches the
game on a stick. Sa—sa—that's it gallants!”

“Well, since it is coming to blows, I must beat
up for recruits,” exclaimed Smith, his bright grey
eyes beginning to strike fire. “Who stands for
the new world?”

“I for one,” quoth Robert Percie, while the
labourers all ranged themselves by the side of
Smith.

“By St. Ragamuffin, the patron of rent doublets,”
surmised Master Lavender, “but our president
hath a noble competency of backers; two
bundles of rags, a skeleton, and a greasy leathern
jacket! I should like to have a tournament with
that same greasy knight. But,” tugging at his
sword, “it will not be, the rusty fates forbid it.”

“Stand aside, good varlets,” said Captain Smith,
“I'll not take odds in a good cause. Percie and
I can match these braggarts. Now sirs, are ye
desperate, wil't work or fight.”

“Not a stroke but of the sword,” replied Vere,
“Come on, rascal Rabble and all.”

The two parties were now about to engage in

mortal fight, when the good old Hardin passed
between them, and they paused for a moment.

“Stay,” cried he, “in the name of the living
God!” addressing himself to Vere and his party,
“Unthinking swaggerers, what brought you here?
Did you think to play the drones in this new hive
—to revel as in the filth of London stews at home
—to swagger up and down the streets, putting
ladies to the blush by peering under their bonnets
—to bouse it at taverns, brothels, and such like
hells, and pay no other reckoning but daily lengthening
scores, chalked up as chronicles of time
murdered, health wasted, wealth consumed, and
honour ruined?”

“In good faith,” quoth Lavender, “this cropear
must have been a sad reveller in his time—a
most swaggering swipester to know of all this
naughtiness. If I thought he meant any reflection
on me, I'd fillip him.”

“Merciful heaven!” resumed old Hardin,
“what good will fighting do? will you make
these fields fruitful with corn, by sprinkling them
with blood, and blast this new world as Cain did
the old, with a brother's murder? And suppose
you get the better, what then, sir.”

“A homeward voyage, and freedom from famine,”
answered Vere.

“Have you ships for the voyage?” rejoined
Hardin, “provisions, mariners? or will you put to
sea on a plank, live upon air, sail by the witches

chart, or dabble for damnation in the black books
of wizzard spells which the friar of Linne consulted,
and by that means found the new world,
but lost his soul?”

“Now who'd have thought there had been a
peascod of discretion in this crop-ear'd puritan?”
quoth Lavender to Master Vere. “I begin to wax
remorseful, and would most assuredly back the
president, were it not for this vulgar chopping
and digging. Perish all worlds, old and new, ere
such prodigious degradation.”

“Pish!” replied Vere; listen to the oracle of
the nose.

“You are silent,” resumed Hardin. “Is it conviction
or obstinacy? I do beseech you comrades,
by the faith you profess; by the hopes you
cherish; by the charity we owe to all mankind,
not to blight this noble project in the bud.
Think—”

“'Slife, Master Hardin,” interrupted Harrington,
“keep your breath old man; you've little
to spare, if one may judge by your peevish little
voice.”

“I am glad of it,” rejoined the other. “I rejoice
that I am old and must soon go to my Father.
I would not wish to live to see these filthy broils
renewed day by day. But once more, before it is
too late, let me beseech you to reflect on what a
glorious harvest of future hopes will be blighted
by these dissensions. Think, my noble comrades,

that the time will come when this howling
wilderness will be peopled by your free and happy
offspring—”

“That's altogether likely,” quoth Master Lavender,—“there
are but two women in the colony,
and they poor souls are in the jaws of famine.
Madam Arabella Fenton is the worst half of a
shadow; and little Anne Burras looks like a ghost
in a consumption.”

“Think,” resumed Hardin, “if you only persevere
until the ship arrive, what a glorious world
this will become hereafter. I am no prophet, but
I see beyond the mists that bound my few remaining
days, a noble prospect. A little while, and this
wild region of the west, will become the refuge
and abode of millions of happy beings, the asylum
of virtuous poverty, the sanctuary of men's
consciences, the hope of the oppressed, the fear of
the oppressor. Then the howlings of rude savages
shall give place to songs of joy, and hymns of
sweet thanksgivings. Then this man (pointing
to Smith) will be revered in his immortal memory,
as one of the founders of a new and noble empire;
you as his faithful friends, the sharers of his toils
and future honours. What say you friends,” added
he, earnestly; seeing Vere and Harrington
consulting with each other.

“Stand aside, good prophet,” cried Vere, at
length, “or take the chances.”

“Then may the good cause prosper, and might

be on the side of right;” cried the good old
man, as slowly he passed on one side to wait the
issue.

The parties then advanced towards each other,
and a most keen and skillful encounter began.
All four were excellent at the sword, and for a
time both skill and fortune seemed equal. Vere,
who stood opposed to Smith, was one of the most
lusty gallants of the day, and had in his youth
taken lessons of a prize-fighter of note in London.
He held his ground manfully before the president;
but there was not a man of that day, who could
encounter him without rueing it. Active and vigorous,
with a quick eye, a steady hand, sure foot,
and dauntless heart, neither Christian, Turk, nor
savage ever got the better of him in fair fight. He
dealt nobly with Vere, whom he admired for his
gallant spirit; parried his blows, and restrained
his own; worried and wearied him out, and at
length with a triumphant flourish of his weapon,
caused that of Vere to fly into the air, and caught
it with his left hand. This was an age of punning
and rhyming, as well as gallantry; and Vere, who
was scratched in two or three places, gaily exclaimed,
when he found himself disarmed—

“I am at your mercy, sir. Give me the axe,
I'll call it a battle-axe, and then it will be gentlemanly
recreation. Give me the axe.”

“Aye,” cried Smith, “and the sword too. I
am not afraid to trust you again, Arthur Vere.”

“On my honour, you shall never again have
occasion to distrust me. I am yours to command.
You have won me in fair fight, and so I may prosper
here and elsewhere, if I do not approve myself
your true servant.”

Nearly at the moment in which Smith jerked
the sword out of Vere's hand, Percie had closed
with his antagonist, and tript up his heels. He
fell, having previously received a wound in the
shoulder, and the prayer of the preacher Hardin
prevailed, for the good cause triumphed.

“Now will I play the Goddess of Victory, and
go over to the strongest side,” quoth Master Lavender,
as he joined Smith's party with great
seeming alacrity.

3. CHAPTER III.

The party then one and all, went to work with
axe and spade, and soon the adjacent wood resounded
with the strokes of lusty labourers and
soft handed cavaliers. Master Lavender attached
himself to Smith, being resolved to recommend
himself by a huge day's work. He drew on

his white, perfumed gloves, and addressed himself
to the president, as follows:—

“Look ye, Captain Smith, though I despise
every thing useful, as unbecoming a man of fashion
and figure, yet being partly convinced by
the sound logic of the worthy Master Hardin, that
it is no irretrievable dishonour to work when one
can't help it, I hereby avow my compliance.”

“Well said, and well resolved, Master Lavender,”
replied the other.

“But by this hand,” rejoined Lavender, “I will
have it clearly understood that it is not thy valour
but his discretion, that hath laid prostrate my opposition,
even as I mean, by the might of this good
arm, to lay prostrate yon high tree.”

He then began to chop with great vigour; but
presently laid down his axe, pulled off his glove,
and looking at his hand, exclaimed—

“'Fore heaven, a blister! Hear, or rather see
this, ye bucks and bloods of merry London! ye
loungers at the play; ye smokers of the best
Virginia; ye tavern lovers of the first quality, Lavender's
hands are blistered! and blistered be his
tongue, if he doth not from this time henceforth
and forever, consign wood cutting to Pluto, Proserpine,
Ops, Mops, Chops, and all the rest of
them.”

“Come, come,” said Smith, “more work and
less swearing. You know the law, Master Lavender.”

Lavender then proceeded to chop a few more
strokes, and threw down the axe, exclaiming—

“'Sblood! Captain Smith, I'll not strike another
blow, if thou hangest me incontinently on
this high tree, which I disdain to cut down,
split me!”

“Why then the law must have its course,”
replied the other. “Layton! come hither with
Burras.”

“I care not,” exclaimed Lavender, “let law do
its worst, and gospel too; I swear by mine ancestors,
I won't work, and I will swear, 'slid!”

The two men now came up. “Take this refractory
gentleman to Justice Knapp, and desire his
worship to inflict the penalty of hard swearing
and idleness.”

As they led him off, towards the seat of justice,
Master Lavender communed with himself in this
wise: “Now do I begin to smell cold water, a
thing I have abhorred, like unto a mad dog, ever
since I came to years of discretion. It is the very
antipodes to warming, generous wine, that liquid
whetstone of the dull spirits. Peasant,” turning
to Layton, “beware of me; I shall foam at the
mouth, and bite desperately, at the first pollution
of this execrable beverage. Lead on, plebeian
base.”

We will now carry the reader to the seat of justice,
where sat, in all the dignity of magistracy,
Mr. Justice Knapp, who having been appointed

to administer the laws, by the express authority of
the Company of Gentlemen Adventurers in London,
considered himself almost independent of the
president and council of James Town. His worship
was a man of moderate height, and great breadth
of beam, with a waggish mouth, little mischievous,
twinkling eyes; and, if the truth must be told,
had little of the gravity, and less of the honesty
becoming a judge. If a jest or a pun came across
him in the middle of a most weighty cause, he was
sure to give it utterance, and it was the general
opinion, that he felt a hundred times more pleasure
in making the jury laugh, than in convincing
their understandings. Since the scarcity which
had afflicted the company, he was the only fat
man in James Town; and while every body else
was waxing pale and lean, his worship continued
to wear his usual florid complexion, while he increased
in bulk every day. Whether he lived,
like some provident animals, on his superfluity of
fat, we cannot say; but the general opinion was,
that Master Justice had some secret hoard, which
supplied his wants, and kept up his rotundity.
When reproached with this unseemly jollity of
person, he was accustomed to pass it off by warning
the people against a lean justice. “When
you see me growing thin,” quoth he, “beware of
me; for, by'r lady, if I once get fairly an hungered,
I'll hang you all; without the least remorse.
Only feed me well, and I am as harmless as a
scarecrow in a corn field.”

In hot weather, the Justice was accustomed to
administer the laws in the open air, as he said, in
imitation of the patriarchs, whom he held in great
honour. His favourite seat, which he called the
Woolsack, was the stump of a vast sycamore,
which had been cut down to make room for the
city, and which in the morning and middle of the
day, was protected from the sun by the neighbouring
forest trees. He had taken his place, the morning
in which Master Lavender was apprehended
in the manner aforesaid, and was communing with
himself, something to the following effect:—

“Now shall the commonalty behold the melancholy
of the magistrate, and taste the fury of a
citizen in office. I'll reform the new world, and
make it an example to the old. The lord chancellor
shall call me brother, and the king uncle.
There shall be no drinking, but to my profit; and
no laws broken, but with my consent. If a
suitor thrusts a bribe into my hand, I will thrust it
into my pocket, and quiet my conscience by doing
justice thereafter, upon some poor rogue, with a
good cause and no money. The world shall now
see your true personification of justice. In one
hand, I'll hold the scales to weigh bribes; and in
the other, will I brandish the fiery sword, to drive
away all beggarly suitors who have the impudence
to appear before me with empty pockets.

And that I may properly imitate the impartiality
of justice, I will incontinently shut both eyes and
ears, to all tedious arguments—by falling asleep.
—Simon!”

“Please your honour, I'm proximate,” replied
Simon, coming out of the adjoining building.
Simon—but it is unnecessary to be minute in describing
him. He was one of those odd, rusty,
indefatigable creatures, that we so often see about
the skirts of the law, who do a vast deal of
drudgery, for little or nothing, in the hope of one
day, by dint of the patience of Job, the meekness
of Moses, and about as much wisdom as Solomon
threw away on a single proverb, being entitled to
exact fees, and tack Esquire to their names.

“Simon,” quoth the Justice, “are there any culprits,
forthcoming? I must make an example of
some one soon, or by'r lady, the commonalty will
lose all respect for mine office. Answer me, Simon;
thou hast permission to speak when justice
is silent.”

“None that I wot of, your worship,” quoth
Simon.

“None? why 'sfoot! I may as well throw away
the true scales of justice, and take to the false
weights of the grocers for a livelihood. My fees
wont maintain a camel in the desert. By my
faith, Simon, if these villains wont break the old
laws, we must make new ones to entrap them. It
would be villainous, were justice to starve here in

this new world, when there is so much employment
for her in the old. When criminals are
scarce, we must multiply the statutes, as the
fowler limes more twigs in case of necessity.”

“Just so, your worship. But now I think of it,
your worship will have business soon. There is
a man charged with shooting an Indian, and they
threaten war, unless he is given up.”

“Hath the villain advanced thee any weighty
arguments, whereby justice may become blind to
his enormities?”

“None, your worship; he is a poor blacksmith,
and dealeth not in the precious metals.”

“Then his doom is fixed. Poverty is proof
presumptive. If he is honest, he might be trusted
for the amount of a bribe; or if industrious, he
might earn one. He shall be given up an he were
lame Vulcan himself. But who have we here?
Marry! this is not Dole, the blacksmith.”

One of the town constables now entered, hauling
in a worthy, called Tankard, who cannot be
said to have belonged to any profession, or to
have had any special business on hand, save that
of tippling. When asked what he did for a living,
his reply was, that he lived upon his means; and
if interrogated as to his residence, he would answer,
that he slept at the sign of the Moon and
Seven Stars. The constable presented him as
having been caught drinking, against the statute,

and upon being demanded by the justice, where,
replied, at the Bottle Spouting Beer.

“What! tippling, and not at my bar,” quoth
the justice, aside. “Bring the culprit to the bar
of justice. Caitiff! how durst thou drink at the
Bottle Spouting Beer?”

“Please your royal majesty,” replied Tankard,
“I drank of the Bottle Spouting Beer, because
they had no glasses; and I drank the beer, because—because
there was nothing stronger to be
had for love or money. Please your royal justiceship,
I was overtaken with liquor.”

“As how, insolent varlet?”

“The liquor ran down my throat and overtook
me.”

“It did, did it? Then hear the fiat of justice,
which never fails to overtake those who are overtaken
after thy fashion. Thou shalt be taken
from the place where thou art, to the place from
whence thou camest, and from thence to the river
side, there to be ducked, ducked, ducked, till you
are sober, sober, sober, and may the Lord have
mercy upon the fishes, for thy nose will go near to
parboil them. Away with him Master Constable.
Ah! here comes Master Dole, and Master Newcut,
the tailor, against whom I have an old grudge,
for spoiling my doublet. 'Fore heaven, but this
Dole is an old offender. I can tell by his phiznomy.
The pillory, the stocks, and the whipping
post, to say nothing of the gallows, are imprinted

in it, even to the third and fourth edition improved.
Who is this monster of iniquity? if justice
were not blind, I'd swear it was Dole, the blacksmith.”

“Please your worship,” quoth Simon, “this is
he accused of shooting a savage! They demand
him to be given up to condign punishment.”

“Hast any thing to say, culprit, to blind the
law, and stop the ears of justice?”

“Please your worship,” quoth Dole.

“Be quiet, Dole,” interrupted his worship.
“Thou art condemned upon the confession of thy
countenance. I have been twice under sheriff,
and know villainy by instinct. I have taken a
confession of guilt before now, from such a face,
verbatim, and never missed a syllable.”

“But please your honour,” cried Dole, “I acted
in self offence. I am as innocent as your worship.”

“Silence, culprit, none of your odious comparisons,”
rejoined the Justice, “if thou art innocent,
then thy face bearest false witness against
thee, and that's flat perjury. If thou art honest,
then thy countenance is an arrant cheat, and that's
just the same thing. It's all over with thee, Dole.
But having made up my mind as to thy guilt, I am
willing to hear what thou hast to say for thyself,
Master Dolefull.”

“Please your worship,” said Dole, “I've a proposal
to make, for the good of the colony.”

“I am placable, what is't marry?”

“Here now is Master Newcut, the tailor,” rejoined
Dole, “as innocent a man as myself, except
in the way of his profession. The colony can't do
without a blacksmith, and has no use for a tailor.
Now I would humbly propose in all christian charity,
as these savages are not very particular, that
you would worshipfully consider the propriety of
selecting Master Newcut for this honour.”

“Well argued, Dole,” cried the Justice, “and
with astonishing discretion. We can do without
a tailor, and we can't do without a blacksmith.
Besides, your tailor being but the fractional part
of a man, it will be defrauding the copper-coloured
villains of a good portion of their revenge.”

“But your worship, I never killed so much as the
ninth part of a man in all my born days,” cried
Newcut.

“Be quiet tailor!” rejoined Master Knapp,
“thou diest for the good of thy country; or if
thou livest, will be all thy life a perfect gentleman,
for these copper-coloured caitiffs, wear no
doublets. Shalt have a statue, with a needle for a
sword, a thimble for a helmet, and a goose for thy
plume.”

“But please your worship,” cried the alarmed
tailor,—

“Stitch up his mouth if he utters the ninth
part of a murmur,” interrupted the worthy magistrate,
“away culprit!”

Poor Newcut was accordingly taken away, but

for the honour of the colony, it is necessary to premise
here, that Captain Smith, on hearing a statement
of the affair, arrested the course of justice,
and ordered that neither the tailor nor the blacksmith
should be given up.

Scarcely was this most exemplary decision pronounced,
when Layton and Burras arrived with
Master Lavender in custody. “Ah! Master Lavender,
as I live,” quoth the Justice, mentally,
“If I don't tickle him for his scurvy jests upon my
doublet, which that rascal tailor, murdered by
stitches an inch apart, I'm no true justice. Why
how now, delicate Master Lavender?”

“And how now, fat justice Knapp,” replied Lavender,
“does the law keep thee still in that jolly
rotundity even in the midst of plague, pestilence,
and starvation. If it doth, may the catchpole
catch my undutiful guardians, for not bringing me
up to the trade of a Justice.”

“All's one for that,” quoth Knapp, “bringing a
man up to justice, is only a substitute for bringing
him up for one.”

“O villanous dull jest, worthy a dull, round,
plump Justice, the very inspiration of small beer,”
rejoined the other. “Dost live by sucking thy
paws, Justice, thou art so plump and round?”

“Plump and round! 'Fore heaven, if I am fat,
'tis past all ancient miracles, and must be the
blessed fruits of a good conscience. May I never
eat nor smell roast beef again, if I have tasted any

thing better than bread made of dried sturgeon,
since the rats committed trespass on our store
house.”

“Right, old Minos,” rejoined Master Lavender,
“for Minus thou art in discretion, to say nothing
of honesty. And yet, on reflection, thou art not
right. Thy bread should have been made of
dried sharks' flesh, and then according to the immutable
principles of justice, one shark might have
preyed upon another.”

“Respect the majesty of justice,” cried Knapp,
who felt a little sore at this thrust, “respect the
majesty of justice, or the majesty of justice will
have no respect for thee. What is his crime,
Master Layton?”

To which Layton replied, “Hard swearing, for
which the president recommends the application
of cold water.”

“Say no more,” exclaimed Master Justice, with
great alacrity, “he hath bayed me in mine own
proper territory; I'll cool his courage i'faith. Simon,
administer.”

Thus instructed, Master Simon, assisted by the
constable, brought a large pitcher of cold water,
and proceeded to tie the right arm of Lavender, to
the bough of a tree, in an angle sufficient to give
the water an easy descent towards the shoulder,
which done, they were proceeding to the ceremony
of libation, when Master Lavender suddenly
exclaimed—

“Stay a moment. Simon, art thou a tanner?”

“A tanner,” quoth Simon, indignantly, “no
verily, a dealer in parchment, not leather. His
worship's vade mecum, that prompts his judgment,
refines his discretion, and writes his commitments.
To sum up all, a limb of the law.”

“Well then, Cousin Simon,” quoth the other,
“if thou art a limb of the law, I beseech thee in
Christian bowels, to suffer thyself to be tied to this
limb of a tree in my place. 'Twill be limb to
limb, and by virtue of this ablution, thou wilt
doubtless become in good time, a thrifty sapling
of jurisprudence. What sayest, cousin, is there
not a congruity in this?”

“Servant, Master Lavender,” rejoined Simon,
I decline hearing any farther argument on the
matter.”

“Dost thou!” cried the irritated beau, “thou
pander to the dull wits of a knavish justice; thou
hanger on at the quarter sessions; thou inciter of
old termagants, to fathom the bottomless pit of
the law; father of strife, son of a dried sheepskin,
and cousin german to the pillory, away! thou
piece of musty parchment.”

“What!” asked Mr. Justice, who had been a
little lethargic for a few moments, “what says the
culprit, is he refractory, Simon?”

“He reproves the majesty of justice in the person
of her representative, one degree removed,”
answered Simon.

“Tie him up then incontinently; the beau to
the bough, and sprinkle this unchristian railer. I
dare say it will be the first time he ever underwent
the ceremony.”

“Moderate, moderate, most precipitate Justice,”
exclaimed Lavender, pulling off his coat, “spare
my coat, 'tis of the first London cut, at least it
was so, I wont say how long ago; and made by a
most orthodox tailor, whose measures were all cut
from a parchment folio of St. George of Cappadocia.
It standeth in no special need of sprinkling.
There it lies, and eke my glove, which
latter I do throw down in utter defiance of the
president, the justice, the clerk, the constable,
and all those wicked followers of the law, who entrap
those whom the law followeth.”

Without more ado, they tied up his arm and
proceeded to pour the cold water into his sleeve,
during the which while, he exclaimed from time
to time—

“Pour away thou ugly water-god, thou unseemly
Triton of the pitcher; and now since I
have been thus polluted by the saucy fingers of the
law, and dishonoured by wicked libations of cold
water—O—h—h! who would have thought the
rascally liquid was so cold—let my wrath be
without bounds. Pour I say, while I take a few
pitchers of swearing. May bribes and presents
fail thee, thou half starved justice. May'st thou
be speedily detected in taking a double fee for

cheating both suitors, thou double faced Justice.
May the serpents crawl out of thy hollow seat of
justice, and bite thy solid seat of honour.” Here
the justice looked into the stump a little alarmed.
“Thou unjust Justice. And to sum up all,
may'st thou live a thousand years on dried sturgeon,
and dream every night of the flesh pots of
Egypt; thou bowelless magistrate.”

“What a remorseless villain!” exclaimed Justice
Knapp. “Give him another pitcher for the
sake of the flesh pots of Egypt. The unfeeling
monster has awakened the sleeping tiger within
me.”

“Abstain, illustrious Minos,” quoth Master
Lavender. “Having sufficiently vented my indignation,
I am now quite cool, and hereby declare
myself compunctious, sorely repenting, not in sackcloth
and ashes, but villanous cold water.”

Justice Knapp hereupon declared the law was
satisfied, and dismissed the culprit with a monition
to be sure he did not catch cold.

4. CHAPTER IV.

For some time previous to the occurrence of the
matters just related, the savages had evinced towards
our little colony, various symptoms of dissatisfaction.
They refused to bring in their grain
to exchange for merchandise, and now seldom if
ever came into the town. The necessities of the colony,
had obliged Smith to scour the neighbouring
country, and seize their corn wherever it could be
found; and his old friend Powhatan, had sent him
a bundle of arrows tied with the skin of a rattlesnake.
To this significant message, Smith made
as significant a reply, by sending back the skin
filled with powder and ball.

All of a sudden, however, the savages renewed
their friendly relations with our adventurers. They
thronged about James Town as usual, and, indeed
in greater numbers, proffered their good offices
with great apparent sincerity, and would have
brought their usual supplies of corn, but that their
harvest had failed, and they were almost in as
great distress as their white neighbours. There
was among the savages who ranged the woods between
James and York rivers, a tall, handsome
chief, about twenty-five years of age, called Namatanow;

remarkable for his courage and success
in war, but excessively fond of finery, as
indeed all the savages were. He could not resist
glass beads, and would have sold an empire for a
red cloak, or a couple of yards of gold lace. He
generally came to James Town, dressed in a suit
of buckskin, fitting tight to his limbs, and showing
his fine proportions to the greatest advantage; a
pair of silver bracelets, received as a present from
Governor Newport; and a high coronet of feathers
upon his head. For this reason the English nicknamed
him Jack o' the Feather. But with all his
passion for finery, Jack o' the Feather was deep,
designing, artful, and vindictive. He had long
been exceedingly anxious to procure some of the
weapons of the white men, but it had always been
the policy of Smith to keep them out of the hands
of the savages, knowing that the possession of
these, and the art of using them, would give to
the Indians the means of certain destruction to
the colony. The first recorded instance of treason,
in this new world, is the case of certain
Dutchmen, who had come over to the colony with
the early adventurers, and who about this time
deserted to the Indians, carrying their guns,
swords, and ammunition with them. From one of
these, Jack o' the Feather procured a broad sword,
and learned the art of using it. It was the acquisition
of these traitors and their weapons, that
probably emboldened Jack and his confidants to
execute a plan for surprising the town, and massacreing
the people, which they had long had in
contemplation.

With this object in view, they all at once, as
we before premised, returned to their old habits of
intercourse, and appeared more friendly than before.
Pretending to feel great anxiety about the
situation of the colony, they inquired particularly
into the quantity of provisions, the arms, ammunition,
and means of defence; and they took every
mode of ascertaining the strength of the men, by
challenging them to wrestling matches and other
trials of manhood. But the master stroke of policy,
was played off by Jack o' the Feather, who pretended
to have serious thoughts of becoming a Christian.
He declared himself greatly dissatisfied with his
own faith; requested to be instructed in that of
the white men, and came every day into the town
to receive the ghostly instructions of Master Hardin,
who took the most unwearied pains to enlighten
him. There was a strange mixture of spiritual
and temporal views among the incentives which
prompted the early adventurers to this new world.
Their zeal for converting the savages, was almost
equal to their avidity for the acquisition of gold;
and beyond all question, much of the ill treatment
the aborigines received, proceeded from a holy
and religious horror of Paganism. In those days
the humane and charitable doctrine of toleration,
was considered an abomination, and those who

came hither to escape intolerancy, became in their
turn intolerant. The idea of converting so brave
a chief as Jack o' the Feather, was so peculiarly
gratifying, that even Smith himself relaxed in that
sleepless caution with which a knowledge of the
profound dissimulation which marks the savage
character had inspired him. Master Hardin laboured
with all the zeal of a sincere believer, and
Jack o' the Feather, daily became more convinced
of the truth of his doctrine. In the meantime,
he gained opportunities of acquiring a complete
knowledge of the wants, weakness, and disaffection
of the colony, by the aid of which he
was enabled to concert with the other neighbouring
chiefs, a plan for the total destruction of the
infant settlement. This was now fast ripening to
a consummation. The wants of the colony, and
the difficulty of supplying them became every day
greater; and the people, instead of labouring to
ward them off in future by planting for the ensuing
year, spent a good portion of their time in
finding fault with their rulers, talking about their
privations, or in sitting on a little eminence nigh
by, which commanded a view of the Chesapeake
and its capes, anxiously watching for the ships,
which Smith, to quiet their murmurings, had assured
them were on their way from England with
supplies of men and provisions.

A party of these worthies, who in sober truth,
had special reason for grumbling, on the morning

of the day on which the savages had arranged to
consummate the massacre, precisely at noon, when
the people were at dinner, were seated on the little
knoll, looking anxiously towards the bay for a sail.
It was not then as now, when the whole expanse of
this noble water, is sprinkled day and night with
white sails, flitting to and fro, from the gallant
war-ship, with her cloud of snowy canvass, to the
little fishing smack appearing like a white speck
on the waters. All was solitary; nothing moved
but the world of waters heaving as with the breath
of life; and nothing seemed active, but the seabirds,
which could at times be dimly distinguished
winging their course far down the river. The
group consisted of one Jeffrey Shortridge, a
schoolmaster; Sicklemore, a farmer; Curll, a
barber; O`Reilly, an Irish gentleman; and our old
acquaintance, Newcut, who had escaped paying
the penalty of Justice Knapp's most politic decision.
O`Reilly was smoking a long Indian pipe;
the rest were idly lounging on the ground, leaning
on their elbows. O`Reilly first broke the silence.

“His majesty, King James of England—a murrain
take him for the wisest fool in all Christendom—maintains
that this same tobacco is a most
filthy abomination. Now to my mind, Master
Sicklemore, were it not for this same blessed invention
of smoking, which takes away one's appetite,
when there's nothing else to eat, and so
makes eating unnecessary, by the powers of Moll

Kelly, I should think this new world did little
credit to any improvement in world making.
Hey, Master Sicklemore,” at the same time puffing
a whiff in his face.

“A plague take your tobacco,” quoth Sicklemore,
“if we had planted corn instead, we should
have something else to eat now, besides dried
sturgeon.”

“There it is now, there it is,” rejoined O`Reilly,
“The true difference between my countrymen and
yours, is that your Englishman is always thinking
of eating, and your Irishman of drinking. Botheration,
farmer take a puff now to stay your
stomach, till these same slow sailing ships heave
in sight. 'Twill put you in good humour, and
that were a miracle in a hungry Englishman.”

“Nay, nay, I want none of thy smoke,” said
Sicklemore, “I've a notion it wont fill the belly,
so e'en keep it to thyself.”

“You wont? well just as you like; there's not
as much good fellowship in you, as there is between
a priest and a parson.”

“I'm thinking you'd better be doing something,
Master O`Reilly, to help along the colony. You'll
have cold water upon your resolution ere it be
long,” said the farmer.

“Faith, so it don't go down my throat, I care
not,” replied O`Reilly; “but look ye, Master
Sicklemore, I did not come here to work; I'd
enough of that in my own country, so there was

no occasion to come three thousand miles to look
for it. Without vanity now, farmer, I look upon
myself to be the only real gentleman in the colony,
not excepting these same sprigs of nobility the president
hatchelled yesterday. The only man, honey,
that came here with liberal views.”

“Pray Master O`Reilly,” asked Newcut, “what
d'ye mean by liberal views?”

“A matrimonial speculation, my dear,” replied he.

The rest of the company hereupon set up a
long laugh, which neither put the good natured
Hibernian out of temper, nor out of countenance.

“Aye,” cried he, “a matrimonial speculation,
burn ye. I came in search of some copper
coloured heiress, with an estate to her back as big
as all Ireland.”

“Did you speed, Master O`Reilly,” asked Newcut.

“No, by St. Patrick!” cried he, laughing, “I
made up to some half a score of them as they
came here to show off their finery, but all my
English was thrown away on them, the little rogues.
I might as well have made love to a dumb fish, or
deaf adder, or a copper-head, as these copper
coloured creatures, God bless 'em!”

“How so?” quoth the tailor, the most inquisitive
man in the whole colony.

“Why they did'nt comprehend either words,
looks, or winkings, the only three languages I
know of. I made a glorious declaration to the

heiress of Pamunkey; but she mistook the language
of love for that of hunger, and instead of
her sweet self, offered me a piece of raw bear's
meat.”

“Only an Indian bull,” cried Newcut, “but I
hope you were not discouraged?”

“Dis—dis—discouraged! what's that? There's
no such word in Irish, Master Newcut. It must
be Indian. Discouraged, no no; I've been treated
with bear's meat, by three princesses royal, since
then. I believe I might have carried off one, if
little Nathan, the puritan, he that scolds the bonny
birds for chirping on Sundays, had not got the
better of her with his psalmody.”

“Ah! let these slyboots alone for the women,”
cried Newcut, “but why did'nt you call him out,
and fight for her like gentlemen?”

“Faith, I did. I invited him to settle the preliminaries;
but he sent me word, though he did'nt
much mind giving a civil offence, it ran against
his conscience to make satisfaction.”

“Mighty satisfactory,” observed the other, “I
hope you proceeded no farther in the affair.”

“No, no, faith!” answered Master O`Reilly, “I
never meddle with people's consciences. I've seen
enough of that in my own country, which I only
love the better for having been treated like a dog
there. Conscience, Master Newcut, is naturally
a peaceable thing enough, till you point your finger
at it, and then 'twill fly in your face like a

great mastiff. But now I've given you my autobiography,
as master Jeffrey Shortridge calls the
like, I should wish to know what brought you here,
my masters, one and all. Come, you Master Newcut?”

“I came to make coats for the aboriginals.”

“The devil you did? That now was rather an
aboriginal idea though, Master Newcut. If an
Irishman had made such a Judyism! I hope you
had plenty of business.”

“Business! saving a satin doublet for Master
Lavender, which he turned on my hands, as antediluvian;
and a cloak for Justice Knapp, which
he refused to pay for, I've not done a stitch, but
in the way of regenerating these rags.”

“Lamentable! lamentable!” exclaimed O`Reilly.

“But that's not the worst of it,” continued the
other, “I came within a single stitch of being
sent to make a bonfire for the savages, in the place
of Master Dole, had not the president reprieved
me. They say we shall be attacked one of these
days, on that account.”

“Let 'em come!” cried O`Reilly, snapping his
fingers. “By the powers, but I'll carry off an heiress
in the scuffle, or do for a king, and take possession
of his dominions by right of discovery. But
Master Sicklemore, may I crave to know what
brought you here. Could not the roast beef of
Old England keep you at home?”

“Marry, I came to teach the salvages our English
improvements in farming.”

“You did'nt now? I hope they took your intentions
kindly!”

“Kindly, I don't know what you call kindly,
not I. We caught one and set him to work with
a spade, with the which after a few trials, he did
knock me soundly on the pate, and then ran away
into the woods whooping like a devil incarnate.”

“A promising beginning,” rejoined O`Reilly.
“May I now take the liberty of inquiring, Master
Jeffrey Shortridge, what might have moved your
scholarship to these parts?”

Master Jeffrey, who had all this while been poring
over his book, without joining in the conversation,
now pulled off his specks, and shutting the
volume, very deliberately replied—“I came to
teach the wild indians tame learning, to wit: reading,
writing, the mysteries of science, philosophy,
and metaphysics.”

“By St. Patrick, the teacher of the whole universe,
but this is the most feasible project of all!
Did they show a reasonable aptitude for these
same mysteries?”

“Verily nay,” quoth Master Jeffrey.

“You don't say so?” replied the other.

“They did demur to A, B, C—they became exceedingly
restive at a, b—ab; impatient at monosyllables;
and when they came to join them together,

performed a disjunctive conjunction, and
scampered away incontinently, like Master Sicklemore's
agricultural pupil.”

“Bad news for learning and philosophy,” cried
O'Reilly; “thus to be left alone howling in
the wilderness. Take a fool's advice now,
Master Jeffrey; go home to England and teach
the grown up gentry a little learning and politeness.
Faith, there's nobody wants them more for
all their bragging. You Master Curll, what makes
you here?”

“I came to shave the aboriginals,” quoth Curll;
but the villains are born without beards, on purpose
to destroy my vocation, I believe.”

“The rogues! it was rather ill natured though,”
rejoined O'Reilly.

“I was always served just so,” quoth Curll; “an
I had been a hatter, people would have been born
without heads on purpose to spite me.”

“What an ill natured world this is,” said the
other. “But there's no use in being melancholy,
that ever I heard of. Suppose I sing you a song
now, though faith 'twill be with a heavy heart, for
all mine are about home; and whenever the
thought of my country comes over me, my eyes
turn into wet quakers, and weep under their broad
lids; but I'll try: I lighted my pipe this morning
with a piece of an old ballad, and have had a
singing in my head ever since.

“But what a villain I am,” cried he, suddenly
checking himself, “to be wasting my time here,
when I promised that pale, half perished angel,
Mistress Arabella Fenton, and that ghost of a
beauty, Anne Burras, to try and catch them some
fish, or shoot a bird for them this morning. So
good bye, if there's a fish in the river, by St. Anthony,
I'll have him.” Master O'Reilly then went
on his way towards the river side, and the rest dispersed
to their several avocations.

5. CHAPTER V.

Mistress Arabella Fenton, to whom the gallant
O'Reilly alluded at the close of our last chapter,
was the wife of Master George Fenton, one of the
Governor's council, for the colony of James Town.
He was a gentleman of good family, and moderate
fortune, who from conscientious motives, had left

England with his wife and son, to settle in the new
world. Courageous, pious, and well principled,
he was held in great estimation by Smith, Percie,
and others of the principal persons of the settlement;
and besides was much beloved by the common
people. Mistress Fenton was the younger
daughter of an English noble, who having become a
member of the puritan congregation, sacrificed his
aristocratic feelings to his religion, and permitted
the lady to marry Master Fenton. When the persecutions
came on in England, this excellent woman
made no scruple of sacrificing the privileges and
luxuries of wealth and high birth; and with her
little son, a boy, then about five years old, embarked
without a murmur or a tear, in the vessel destined
to bear them to the untrod wilderness of
the west. Arabella was a woman of rare endowments
of person, mind, and education. Gifted
with all the accomplishments of that age, she
possessed withal, a pious frame of mind, which,
instead of interfering with her worldly duties, and
domestic ties, only made her the more inflexible
in performing the one, and abiding by the other.
She was steadfast in faith; and next to her maker,
her heart cherished her husband and her boy.
Piety and love were so happily mingled in her
disposition, that the one might be said to borrow
of the other, and to partake in its essence. They
were the two moving principles of her existence,
and it would be difficult to say which most contributed
to the sacrifice she had made, her faith or
her love. The little homely cottage of Fenton, was
a favourite resort of the better sort of colonists;
it was there, and only there, at that period, that in
all this wide continent they could enjoy the society
that gives a charm to the desert, and more than
any other means contributes to humanize mankind.
It was here that Smith came to relax from
his labours and anxieties; that Percie resorted to
charm down for a while the fiend that haunted him
every where else; and that the gay and sprightly
Vere, and the quaint Master Lavender, were full often
to be found, the one playing antics with the little
boy, the other complimenting Anne Burras, the
humble, yet well bred friend and companion of Mistress
Fenton. Hardship, anxiety, and for some time
past, unwholesome food, had robbed Arabella of
the roses she brought with her to the new world.
Yet the expression, the eye, the voice, the manner,
all that constitutes the never-dying charm of
woman, still remained entire and perfect. In the
midst of famine, danger, and necessity, she never
complained, but ever had a smile for her husband,
when he came home from his daily toils, or his
excursions into the forest in search of game, tired,
unsuccessful, and almost despairing.

On this eventful morning, Fenton had been out
with his gun in search of game, but returned
without success, it having been for some time past
the policy of the savages, to destroy or frighten it

away, in order that the hapless colonists might
be the more reduced, and the more easily murdered.
Arabella was sitting at her work, with Anne
Burras, while the little boy was languidly endeavouring
to amuse himself about the room.

“Mother,” at length he said, “I'm very hungry;
give me some breakfast, wont you?”

“Anne,” said the mother, in a voice trembling
under the effort to be gay, “Anne, give him a nice
piece of your bread.” Anne accordingly brought
him a piece of dried sturgeon's meat, the only
substitute for bread the poor colonists had used
for some days past. The lad tasted it, then threw
it away, exclaiming—

“I dont like it mother, it's fishy. Give me some
better, and I'll be a good boy.”

“We have no better, child,” answered the mother,
her eyes dimming with tears.

“Then give me some milk, mother.”

“Nor milk, dear son. The cows have all been
carried away by the Indians.”

“Then I'll borrow father's gun, and shoot them,”
cried the little fellow; and pleased with the idea,
began strutting about the room with a broomstick
on his shoulder. “But I'm so hungry.”

“O gracious power, where art thou!” sighed the
poor mother. “Your father has no better bread
than this, nor your mother, nor poor Anne. Eat it
to please your mother.”

“Well, I'll try, but it's very bad,” replied the

boy, and retiring to a corner, he sat down and ate
his miserable pittance with determined appetite.
At this moment Fenton came in, almost exhausted
with fatigue, and placing his gun upon the customary
resting place of deer's horn, kissed his
wife's forehead, and asked for little Hal.

“There he is,” replied Arabella, pointing to the
boy. Fenton looked at him and his heart melted.
He sat down sadly by her side, while she, parting
his matted hair and putting her hand to his forehead,
said, with a voice thrilling with anxiety and
love—

“You seem quite wearied out. What sport
have you had?”

“None,” he replied. “The very woods and
waters conspire against us I believe. The birds
are alarmed at our scare-crow figures, and the fishes
would not come if St. Anthony preached to them.”

“Then we must fast to-day?”

“Yes, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, and tomorrow,
till the ships arrive, or we go hence forever.”

“Are you hungry,” father? exclaimed the little
boy, overhearing this. “Here, take my bread—I
don't want any more,” added he, sadly.

“My generous boy,” cried Fenton, taking him
in his arms and kissing him. “Even just like his
mother, ever unmindful of herself for others.”

“Am I good boy, father?” exclaimed the little
fellow.

“Take him out to play a little while, Anne; but
don't go far into the wood—the Indians may frighten
him.”

“Have you brought nothing with you?” asked
Arabella, after Anne had departed with the child.

“Nothing. Is there nothing left of yesterday?”

“But this poor crust. I'm sorry I have nothing
better to welcome you with, than this,” said the
wife, giving him a modest matron's kiss.

“O Arabella!” groaned Fenton, as he leant his
head upon her shoulder.

“Cheer up, dear husband; He that feeds the
sparrow, will I trust remember those who have
trusted in him. While I have you and our boy, I
want for nothing. Cheer up!”

“I do not think of myself, but you,” cried he,
“you who left a father's stately halls, a paradise
of plenty, a dear home filled with friends, to come
hither to this howling wilderness of wants, to meet
danger, famine and death. It makes my very
soul sweat drops of agony.”

“Did not I come with you?” replied she, tenderly.

“You,” continued Fenton, “whom delicacies
nurtured, rank allured, and beauty decked in all
the bright regalia of sparkling eyes, and lips that
lived and breathed in odours. You! O Arabella,
what could have tempted you to these terrible
deserts?”

“My faith in heaven—my love for you.”

“My noble Arabella!” cried Fenton, “but alas!
even thy virtues make me sad now. It breaks my
heart to think how worthy you are of a better fate,
and almost makes me curse the hour that made
me happy.”

“And makes me bless it,” rejoined Arabella,
fervently kissing him. “Ah! Fenton, you have
yet to learn, that the twin stars of a woman are her
faith and her love. If she is a true dame, such as
I hope will be the mothers of the generations of
this new world, for either of these will she willingly
sacrifice her home, and her customary
social comforts, so she can enjoy her own true
faith, her own true love. Here, in the midst of
want, surrounded by dangers, menaced with death;
here in this lonely wild, the love I cherish, I can
gratify; the faith I cling to, I can exercise. The
Being I serve, the husband I am proud of, are both
with me here. What do I want more?”

Fenton gazed on her with looks of love and
gratitude. And when he saw her pale face, her
cold, delicate hand, through which the blue veins
meandered, like streaks of sky, amid a waste of
light fleecy clouds, and marked the languor of
her eyes, once the colour of gladness, his heart
was almost ready to break. She understood his
look, and her cheeks lighted up for a moment with
a passing blush.

“See!” cried he, “the rose is coming back
again.”

“'Tis the colour of gladness,” answered she,
modestly.

At this moment, Anne Burras came running in,
almost breathless, with the child in her arms,
crying, “the Indians! the Indians!”

“What of them?” asked Fenton, hastily.

“The Indians are upon us! I was at the woodside,
and saw them skulking behind the trees.
One of them pointed his arrow at us, but—”

Fenton hastily took down his gun, and turning
with solemnity to his wife, said, “Then I am
called from you, Arabella. There's not a moment
to lose. Part like a heroine that trusts in God!”

“I do, I do,” cried she clinging to him, “but I
remember I am a wife and a mother.” The alarm
bell now rung violently.

“Hark! the signal!”

“Well, well, go and do your duty,” said Arabella,
almost choking.

“Farewell! said Fenton, embracing her. “In
love, and marriage; in prosperity and adversity; in
weal and woe; in sickness and in sorrow; first
and last, the best of daughters, wives and mothers,
bless thee, God bless thee!”

He was proceeding quickly towards the door,
when the little boy cried out—

“Father! father! take me with you; I can
fight the Indians bravely.”

Fenton looked at him with dim eyes, and shook
his head—

“Then give me a kiss, for good bye.” He took
him in his arms, kissed him, and delivering him to
the mother, ran out of the house. The almost
broken hearted mother pressed the child to her
bosom in agony, and retired to supplicate the
Being she worshipped, for the safe return of the
husband she loved.

6. CHAPTER VI.

Now all was confusion and uproar in the village
of James Town; for now the Indians finding themselves
discovered by the accident of Anne Burras
having walked farther into the wood than was
usual at this time of the day, when the colonists
were commonly all at dinner, surrounded the
place with the signal of the terrible war whoop.
It was a scene of sad dismay to many; but each
man of the bold spirits that inhabited the place,
nerved his waning strength and wasted spirits, to
meet the tugging of the perilous moment. They
came forth like shadows of men to fight what they
believed was their last fight; yet still the daring
spirit revelled in their sunken eyes, and the
same reckless uncalculating gallantry, which precipitated
them on the new world, supported them

now while they jested with the perils around
them. There is something gloriously inspiring in
the approach of battle.

In the midst of this turmoil and uproar, were
seen Master Justice Knapp, and Master Hyacinth
Lavender, advancing to the barriers, one armed
with a vast broad sword, the other with an enormous
club, in lieu of the rusty weapon which as
before premised, had grown fast to the iron scabbard,
so that the steel and the iron were become
one and indivisible.

Though the justice affirmed to the last day of
his life, that he was valiantly seeking the enemy,
yet it appears upon the record, that he was going
exactly the wrong way for consummating his purpose.
He was making all convenient haste towards
the centre of the town, instead of the outward
defences, when he was encountered by Master
Lavender, who addressed him as follows:—

“Now Justice, if thou hast the valour of a bumble
bee, give these copper coloured villains one
sting ere thou goest the way of all flesh; if it be
only for an example to the rising generation. Toe
the mark like a man.”

“Look ye, Master Lavender,” quoth the Justice;
“if my vocation were to keep the peace
here, instead of encouraging fighting by my example,
thou shouldst see me enact prodigies of
unheard of valour, marry.”

“Aye, and unseen too,” quoth Lavender.

“Thy, valour in the field, is like thy discretion on
the bench, invisible. Couldst thou reverse the
argument, and display the same valour in the field,
thou dost on the bench, and the same discretion
on the bench thou dost in the field, marry, thou
wouldst be a most heroical Justice, and a most
justice like hero. Eh! Justice,” continued he as
the dismal war whoop twanged on the ear from a
distance, “how dost like that quaver? On my
conscience, I do believe thou tremblest.”

“I was born in time of a great ague, and have
been much given to shaking ever since;” quoth
the Justice.

“Ah! that was a saucy trick of fate,” rejoined
Lavender. “Hadst thou been born in a great
fever, thou mightest peradventure have been valiant.
The world hath lost a most invincible champion
thereby.”

“Harkee, Master Lavender,” replied Knapp, “if
thou wilt do me the good office to cover me from
harm with thy body in the coming battle, I will
requite thee hereafter, by a dispensation for all future
offences against law or gospel. I will on my
honour.”

“Cover thee with my body,” quoth the other;
“an I were sawed into deal boards, that would
be impossible. “But I'll promise if thy valour
should chance to effervesce too rampantly, to allay
it with thy invaluable specific of cold water.”

“Good, if I don't sprinkle thee for this, say

I've lost my memory, and am an ungrateful villain.”

“Why,”—here Master Lavender indulged in a
great laugh, “why justice hast been robbing
Guy of Warwick of his toaster? 'Twas a shrewd
omission not to take his porridge pot for an helmet.
But come, let us exchange armour; thou
shalt be the valiant Hercules with his club, and
I the invincible Guy. I see thou dost not mean to
fight; thy sneakers are up already.”

“I not fight!” replied the Justice. “'Sfoot! I
have maintained a bridge, and driven a score before
me at a time, when I was young.”

“Aye,” quoth the other; “non-combatants,
quaker bullocks without horns. If they had been
swine, thou hadst never stood the encounter of
their bristles, I'll be sworn.”

“Why thou smooth chinn'd Catamite,” exclaimed
Knapp; “thou profane seeker of milliners' shops,
whose entire knowledge consists in the newest
fashions, wouldst have me turn coward, and wantonly
run into danger, that I may escape death?”

“Pish! lend me thy weapon. Mine is safe in
the scabbard, you know; or I had long since made
an example of thee—'tis buried in the rust of
ages.”

“I'll not lend thee an inch of it, even though it
were in thy half starved weasand. What though
I did not mean to seek danger, danger may seek

me, and then this valiant weapon may defend me,
by frightening the enemy away.”

“Well,” rejoined Master Lavender, “since thy
valour is likely to prove altogether defensive, and
thou wilt not lend me thy sword, I will make thee
my shield, and advance under cover of thy rotundity
to battle.”

“What! convert me into a moving breastwork!”
quoth Knapp.

“Marry, yea;” answered the other. “Move on
thou huge folio of obsolete statutes in wormeaten
vellum, that art sheer bullet proof. Trip, trip
thou volume of unrighteous decisions! By this
light thou goest. Why I do believe thou hast tied
up thy valour as the man did his legs, for fear
they might run him into danger. Come, `roll on
thou fair orb;' revolve thee, thou huge father
Earth. O! for the lever of the learned heathen
Greek.”

“Away! thou sun burnt, smoke dried caterpillar,
knave thou;” cried the Justice, as Master Lavender
pushed him out, at the moment the whooping
of the savages announced that they were
advancing in the direction pursued by Lavender.

While this scene was passing, Smith, Percie,
Vere, Harrington, and other stout spirits of the
colony, were marshalled in another quarter, consulting
on the best mode of repelling the assailants,
But little time was left for this, and but few words
were wasted on the occasion. It was the opinion

of Smith, that instead of waiting for the
savages, in their poor entrenchments, it was better
to sally out boldly, and thus take them by surprise.

“Hand to hand, foot to foot, and breast to breast,
say I,” cried the gallant Vere; “if we fall, amen;
'twill only be cheating famine. We have no
wives or children to fall into the hands of these
bloodhounds, when we are gone. They shall be
welcome to all I leave behind.”

“True, Arthur Vere,” replied Smith; “but we
have motives equally strong to preserve ourselves.
A siege will starve us; a battle may give us victory
and food; a dinner or a grave. Are we all
agreed?”

“All, all;” cried the others.

“Come on, then, fellow soldiers, follow me;”
cried Smith, as he dashed out upon the savages
now thronging onward, and attempting the little
stockade that surrounded the town.

A scene of bloody contention now ensued; a
contest such as old Homer describes, hand to
hand, and man to man. As the struggle continued
to wax hotter and hotter, the whoops of the
Indians gradually ceased, and nothing was heard
but blows, and pantings, and groans of the dying.
The savages were five to one; but the skill, the
coolness, the superior weapons of the white men,
balanced the superiority of numbers; and the fight
continued for some time apparently equal. But
we decline administering to the blood thirsty propensities

of this polite and refined age, which can
scarcely relish a work either of fact or fancy, unless
it is plentifully sprinkled with human gore. We
delight not in carnage, even on paper, and cannot
find in our hearts to put scores of christian
people to death in cold blood, even with the point
of our pen. It is doubtless from having become
so familiar with such murderous legends, that the
most tender hearted young ladies who would not
kill a fly, or even a cockroach, do not scruple to
commit half a dozen murders of an evening, upon
the bodies of young gentlemen, as innocent as
a pair of white kid gloves. Suffice it therefore to
say, that the valour of Smith and his party at
length triumphed. Jack o' the Feather fell by
the hand of that dauntless adventurer, and the
savages discouraged by his loss, retreated into
their impenetrable woods again.

But much as we dislike to administer to the carnivorous
propensities of our fair readers, we cannot
in conscience pass over an exploit of Master
Lavender, which deserves to be transmitted to the
latest posterity. We left that valorous dandy,
propelling Justice Knapp to the scene of battle,
as he verily believed, and as the reader will doubtless
remember, unless he hath peradventure fallen
asleep, for want of that zest which gives such
irresistible attraction to the modern romance, to
wit: blood and murder.

The progress of Master Lavender, as might be

expected, was somewhat slow, as the Justice proved
refractory, and backslided from time to time.
At length they gained the outward defences of the
town, as it happened, precisely on the side opposite
that where the battle raged most fiercely. This
was a trick of fate; for as we before observed,
Master Lavender lacked not that courage which
was common to the age.

“Push on Justice,” exclaimed Lavender, as they
emerged into the open space between the town
and adjoining wood. “'Fore heaven, if thou wert
a Lord Chancellor, or a suit in chancery, thou
couldst not get on more deliberately. I might as
well have turned snail, and gone to battle with my
house on my back. Push on, I say; the glory will
be all reaped before we come.”

“Let them reap and welcome. I decline such
harvesting.”

“'Sdeath! the battle will be over before we
come.”

“So much the better; the latter end of a feast
is preferable to the beginning of a fray. 'Tis a
maxim in law.”

“Dost see the enemy, Justice?”

“As thick as hops, marry.”

“Which way?”

“Yonder, to the left.”

“Then wheel thy rotundity that way. Zounds!
why thou art as long in making thy evolutions as
mother Earth.”

As these worthies approached the confines of
the wood, a savage darted out upon them, which
the Justice perceiving, very adroitly turned round
behind Lavender, and climbed a tree hard by,
with a degree of activity little to be expected in
one of his make. The Indian in the mean time
cautiously approached, scrutinizing the enemy
closely, and on seeing he was only armed with a
club, advanced boldly to battle, while Master Lavender
communed with himself as follows:—

“Now my trusty sapling be true as steel, and
thou shalt have ballads made on thee like the
swords of the rascally errant Knights. If I fall,
on my life I'll lay all the blame on thee. I wash
my hands of it. Come on thou painted he Jezebel.”

A furious combat now ensued, which ended at
length to the immortal renown of Master Lavender,
who had practised at quarter staff, at the
White Conduit House, in merry London. After a
good deal of manœuvring, and vast feats of activity
in making and avoiding blows, the Christian
Knight at length succeeded in planting his cudgel
with such sound emphasis and good discretion
upon the bald pate of the Pagan, that had not his
scull been of extraordinary thickness, it had certainly
split like a ripe pumpkin. As it was, he fell
and lay as if dead.

“Hah! boy,” quoth the victor, “there's North
Country for you. Now will I carry my captive to

the President, who shall ask pardon for the infliction
of cold water. But first will I plant this
trusty scion in some rich bottom, where it shall
grow lustily, and furnish cudgels for the commonwealth.
Woe to the first man I meet who hath
ever looked askance at me, for he has not long to
live. I do pronounce him a most unhappy shadow.
And as for that trusty poltron, Justice Knapp, him
will I speak into a carcass incontinently. Now
for my trophy.”

Turning round as he finished his soliloquy, Master
Lavender discovered, to his great confusion,
that the Indian had taken the opportunity to get
up and run away.

“Eh,” quoth the disappointed champion, “as I
am a true man and invincible, the counterfeit copper-washed
man hath made himself invisible—absconded—evaporated,
broke his parole and defrauded
me of my immortal fame. O! fate, fate!
If that caitiff, Justice Knapp, had only staid to
bear witness to my exploits, it had been something.
But now no soul will believe me though I
swear to it. Yet I will swear, and that lustily
too.”

He was proceeding in the direction where the
confusion of the fight seemed by the noise to be
the greatest, when he heard a cough as if from
one of the trees at a little distance.

“Another prize!” quoth he. “If I don't cudgel

this one into an utter incapacity to run away,
I am the last edition of a fool.”

Peering about cautiously, he at length discovered
the veritable apparition of Master Justice
Knapp, gazing ruefully from his lofty perch.

“What!” cried he, laughing, “is it you, my trusty
companion in arms? Now will I bring down this
strange bird and have it stuffed entire for a new
species. Justice! why Justice Knapp, I say, art
so proud of getting up in the world thou'lt not
speak to an old acquaintance. Why, marry, Justice,
deliver thy responses—hoot a little, or I'll
murder you for a dumb owl.”

“Master Lavender,” quoth the Justice, “an
thou hast the bowels of a silkworm, help me to
get down. I did climb this tree, being sorely
smitten with the sight of a most beautiful cudgel,
with the which I did resolve to back thee valiantly.
The tree, if it could speak, would swear to it.”

“Why thou false rogue,” cried the other, “hast
forgot thy immeasurable toaster?”

“What,” rejoined Knapp, “wouldst have me
take odds against an enemy, by matching my
sword against his club? Thou knowest nothing
of the laws of errantry, Master Lavender. But
come now, my dear friend, help me down, will
you?”

“I help thee down? I'll see thee set up to be
shot at for sixpence, first. Let thyself go. I'll
warrant thy natural alacrity in sinking will bring

thee to the ground in good time without my assistance.”

“You wont? Then 'fore Heaven I'll tickle
thee, thou accidental champion. I will not only
withhold my testimony to thy valour, but swear
I saw thee running away from a poppoose, armed
with a turkey feather. I will.”

“Lookee, Justice—wilt swear, if I help thee
down, thou sawest me smite a savage sorely to the
earth?”

“Two dozen. I'll not stick at trifles, an thou'lt
help me speedily.”

“Descend then, thou old bald pated magpie,
while I catch thee as a boy does an over-ripe apple,
lest it should burst in falling. Dart from thy
sphere, most majestic orb; but beware of coming
head foremost, good ursa-major, or thou'lt arrive
wrong side outwards.”

“Have done with thy scurvy jests—a joke out of
place is as bad as a limb out of joint. I will essay
me; stand ready, and catch me if I fall.”

“Come on then—there now, take care of thy
footing, Justice! By this hand, if I had'nt chanced
to read that fear lent a man wings, I'd have sworn
the fiend helped this fellow up the tree. Softly,
softly, Justice; remember thou art the depository
of my immortal fame. So, so, there now, here's
my back; if it sustain thy enormities of flesh and
wickedness, I will beard that fellow, Atlas, to his
teeth. Now Justice.”

Master Lavender hereupon bent down upon all
fours, to receive his burthen, while the Justice,
whether by accident or design, letting himself go,
lighted on his back, and almost crushed him five
fathoms deep into the sand. Master Lavender,
jumping up with some difficulty, exclaimed—

“If I did'nt think some overgrown, stall-fed
world had tumbled on my back, instead of my being
on the back of the world, may I never wear a
satin doublet more. The monster hath crushed
me.”

“O! O! ah! ah! oh!” exclaimed the Justice.

“Why how now,” quoth the other, “art hurt,
Justice?”

“Mortally—the king's touch cant save me.
Thy weight hath made excellent paste of my
bones.”

“O! father Abraham! what an ungrateful villain
to accuse me, whose every bone can bear witness
against thee. But come, arise. I swear by
all the fat saints of the calendar, if I did not require
an eye witness to my exploit, I would turn
thee on thy back like a turtle, and leave thy fat to
melt like butter before the sun. But thou'lt swear
lustily, Justice?”

“Like a true man—shalt be in the chronicles,”
quoth the Justice, and thereupon the two departed
for the quarter where the battle had raged most
violently, but where the quiet which had succeeded,
indicated the defeat of the assailants.

7. CHAPTER VII.

During the progress of those events we have
been sketching, Mistress Arabella Fenton remained
in the situation we left her, in a state of intense
anxiety, only mitigated by her reliance on heaven,
and her habit of submission to its will. She heard
the distant yells of the savages, mixed with the
uproar of the battle, and if ever pious prayers ascended
to heaven, it was now, when she petitioned
for the safety of her husband, her child, and place
of refuge in the lonely regions of the west. While
thus employed in offering up her orisons, a party
of two Indians, which had penetrated into the
town, in a direction opposite to that where the
great struggle was passing, suddenly burst into the
room, where Arabella was, with Anne Burras and
the child, and seizing the latter, bore him away,
shrieking and struggling, in their arms.

The hapless mother, wasteed with hardship, suffering
and want, made one effort to follow, and
sunk on the floor without sense or motion. The
faithful Anne Burras, animated by gratitude to the
mother, and affection for the boy, followed the savages,
calling loudly for help. But no help came;
every man in the colony, capable of resistance or

assault, was now fighting on the opposite side, and
the quarter inhabited by Master Fenton was as a
desert. The savages carried off the boy, spite
of his struggles, and Anne followed, regardless
of their threatening gestures. They were too
fearful of pursuit to stop and murder her; and she
continued to pursue them, crying for help, and for
mercy, until they had proceeded a considerable
distance into the forest, when, considering themselves
safe from immediate pursuit, they stopped,
and gave her time to come up. Determined not
to forsake the boy, the faithful handmaid made
them comprehend by signs, that she would go with
them without resistance, if they would permit her.
After a moment's consultation, they gave her to
understand they consented, and bidding her follow,
they proceeded deeper into the forest. As
they went on, Anne, whenever she could do it unperceived,
broke off the little tender branches of
the bushes, and strewed them by the way, so that
if an opportunity of escape occurred, they might
serve as a guide through the forest home again.
In this manner they proceeded through tangled
woods, and twilight solitudes, sometimes carrying
the boy, and sometimes making him walk, until,
becoming themselves tired, and believing they
might do it with safety, they sat themselves down,
and in a short time one fell asleep, while the other
remained watching.

In the meanwhile, Fenton, who with the rest

had pursued the retreating savages, till they were
lost in the pathless forests, returned in haste to his
home. As he approached, his heart palpitated
with eager hopes; but when he saw neither wife,
nor boy, nor handmaid, watching from the windows
for his return, while the open door remained unoccupied,
a presentiment of evil crossed his mind, and
smote his hopes to the earth. On entering the little
parlour, where sat his wife, “Joy! joy, my Arabella,”
he exclaimed, “our fold is safe again.”

She paused, and looked wofully at him for a
moment, then replied—

“Yes, but the little cosset lamb is stolen.”

“What mean you, dearest wife?” said he; “you
seem wild and sad withal. Yet 'tis no wonder;
gaunt hunger fastens on the brain at last. Poor
Arabella!”

“It is not that,” said she; “we've had a feast
to-day. They killed our little pet lamb.”

“What can she mean?” thought Fenton; “her
mind is wandering. Spare me sweet Heaven this
last calamity.”

“You think my senses are wandering, I know
you do;” cried she, wringing her hands—“no,
no! my heart is breaking, but my brain is free.
But wilful, selfish mother that I am! Listen, dear
husband—but I cannot tell it—look round, do you
not miss something?” She covered her face with
her hands, while Fenton looked wildly round the

room, and at length catching the horrid idea, exclaimed—

“Merciful God!—our boy—where is he?”

“Bleeding beneath the butcher's knife. But,”
rallying herself, and speaking with great effort—
“while you were gone, two savages broke into
our house, and carried off our boy. Poor Anne
followed them—but I could not; I was dreaming
on the floor.”

Fenton covered his face for a moment, and
wept.

“How long ago was this?”

“Not long—at least I think it could not have
been long before you came.”

“Then perhaps they may be overtaken;” cried
he, again seizing his gun.

“Nay, nay,” cried Arabella, earnestly; “my
heart is rent in twain already. The half is gone
—leave me the other half.” Then after a pause
and a struggle—“Do not follow them, 'twill only
be another victim.”

“I were no father, then. No moment must be
lost. Weep not my Arabella; we shall see our
boy again.”

“I shall go to him; but he will never come to
me.”

Fenton now loaded his gun, and was sallying
forth in full speed, when he was met at the threshold
by Percie, Vere, and Layton, the former of
whom had come to congratulate Mistress Fenton

on the victory; and the latter to see Anne Burras,
to whom he was affianced.

“Why how now Fenton,” cried Vere, gaily;
“you run as if in pursuit of an enemy. But where's
little Hal, my old playmate; I came to kiss the
rogue, and wish his mother joy.”

“I can't stop to talk,” cried Fenton; “life and
death are in this moment.”

“What is the meaning of all this?” asked
Vere.

“Will you let him go alone, good Percie, and
gallant Vere; and you Layton?” asked Arabella;
“will you let a father seek his lost child—
alas! his only one, in the wilderness, alone? Our
little Hal is lost—stolen away by the savages.”

“What! our favourite,” cried Percie; “the
first little male christian that ever opened his eyes
upon this new world. He shan't go alone, by
Heaven; I for one will follow him to the world's
end.”

“And I lead!” cried Vere. “Poor fellow!
Away gentlemen! Madam, I will bring you back
that boy, if the earth bears him alive.”

“May Heaven reward you! Good Layton, you

will go—poor Anne is with him.”

Layton bowed his head, but could not speak.
“Go now,” added she, “while I can bear it—go,
and God be with you.”

“Come, come away,” cried Fenton; each moment
is a jewel.”

Mistress Fenton sunk to the floor on her knees,
and sought her never failing refuge, while the rest
hurried away into the woods.

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The reader will now peradventure condescend
to follow us down to the riverside, where sat under
the shade, not of their laurels, but a wide spreading
elm, Master O'Reilly, Jeffrey Shortridge, and
Newcut, the tailor, discussing various indifferent
matters.

“Tim Newcut,” quoth O'Reilly, “resolve me
one question, will ye? Tell me what we have
been fighting for, a little bit ago?”

“My name's not Tim, Master O'Reilly,” quoth
the other.

“Is that the way to answer a civil question? I
say it is, Tim being the short for Timble; answer
me, then, Tim Newcut, what have we Judys been
fighting for?”

“Why, our lives and fortunes to be sure.”

“And we gained what we fought for?”

“To be sure we did.”

“By St. Patrick, the pink of the calendar, I deny
it, unless you, Master Jeffrey, will prove by your
logic that a man can live without eating, till he's

used to it. It's now good four and twenty hours
since I devoured my last paraty of the batch I
intended to bestow as a benefaction on dear old
Ireland.”

“And I have devoured my parchment measure.
They say I'm but the ninth part of a man. I wish
they'd prove it; for then belike my appetite might
dwindle in proportion.”

“Faith Tim, dried sheepskin is but a bad substitute
for fresh mutton. But here now is Master Jeffrey,
the philosopher, who I dare say, makes out to
live as most of your great scholars do now-a-days,
upon other people's learning. What say you, you
old church mouse?”

“Verily, Master O'Reilly,” quoth Jeffrey, “I am
fain to chew the cud of understanding, for lack of
something more savoury. Last night I took a piscatory
eclogue for supper; but it was so dry it
almost choked me.”

“Gads me! I don't wonder at it. Commend
me to dried sturgeon in preference. I never myself
liked that sort of feasting, ever since I took a
surfeit of learning at school. O for a sea gull, or
a Mother Carey's chicken, with just so much as
skin to its bones. Tim, keep a sharp look out for
these light fingered gentry.”

“There's nothing to be seen but the white caps.”

“Master Jeffrey,” quoth O'Reilly, “have you
never a fat book-worm in training now? Or a
work on the delightful mysteries of pies and

puddings? I should like to borrow a leaf out of it
for supper, just to stay my stomach.”

“No:” replied Master Jeffrey; “but now I
think of it, I've a book of fasts.”

“Burn ye, dont we fast without book? But
come, if we stand here prating all the afternoon, ten
to one we go without supper. Let's to the woods.
If I meet an owl as old as my great grandmother,
I'll not spare a hair of his head.”

“The contemplative practice of fishing, suits
better with the abstraction of philosophy. I will
essay the waters;” quoth Master Jeffrey.

“Do so, Master Jeffrey; we'll try both the earth,
the air, and the waters; aye faith, and the fire too,
for a salamander. If you should chance to hook
a whale, call out lustily, and we'll come and help
fish him up.”

“Mind your phraseology, Master O'Reilly; a
whale is no more a fish, than the mother that bore
you.”

“And she was no mermaid, I'll swear for it. But
no fish! 'Slid, what manner of man may it be,
then. Is it flesh or fowl?”

“Marry, neither.”

“Then it must be a great vegetable;” cried
Newcut.

“Only an overgrown insect, Tim; a fish louse of
magnitude. But expound Master Jeffrey, what is
it?”

“The first step in science, is to tell what a thing

is not, the next to tell what it is. That a whale is
no fish is palpable; but what it really is, hath not
yet been decided.”

“By St. Patrick, but that is rather hard upon the
poor fish—I mean the poor creature. It is making
a sort of a sea mulatto of him, who is thrust out
of the company of white people, and is too proud
to keep company with black. It's lucky he
has got plenty of fish—I mean whales, to keep him
in countenance. But come away, Tim; for unless
Master Jeffrey can teach me to doubt whether I
am half starved or not, there's no use in philosophy
at present. Before we go, Master Jeffrey,
I do beseech thee to tell me what this same whale
actually is?”

“Hem—it is—it is—very like a fish,” quoth
Jeffrey.

“Thank you, Master Jeffrey. O Tim! Tim, if
you could only look down my throat and see what
a parcel of hungry devils are at work there!”

I'll not trust myself too near, Master O'Reilly,”
quoth Newcut.

“Faith, you'd better not. There's a great—
what d'ye call it—a great vacuum, Master Jeffrey,
that would swallow up a dozen systems of philosophy,
and be never the wiser. O Kit Columbus, what
possessed you to go out of your way looking for
new worlds, when the old one was bad enough in
all conscience.”

O'Reilly and Newcut then departed for the

woods; and Master Jeffrey essayed the waters,
where he soon fell into a doubt, whence he relapsed
into a reverie, and from thence into a nap,
from which he was at length aroused, by a fish
jirking his pole out of his hand, whereat Master
Jeffrey, was not a little troubled.

9. CHAPTER IX.

The repulse of the savages had relieved the little
colony from immediate danger, but left it in
the same starving condition as before. The Indians
carried with them no provisions, and could
leave none behind. Smith, whose noble spirit
was always at work for the benefit of his fellow-sufferers,
had ever since the battle been revolving in
his mind a plan for making a distant excursion towards
the head of Chesapeake Bay, with a view of
bartering with the savages for their corn. Harrington,
Vere, and others of his friends, endeavoured
to dissuade him from his purpose; but he
was not a man to yield when he had resolved;
and was now concerting with Harrington, a
plan for departing the night but one ensuing, that
the savages might not know, and take advantage,
of his absence, and that of so many persons as he
must necessarily take with him. They had just

finished making their dispositions, when they were
interrupted by the intrusion of Justice Knapp, and
Master Lavender; the latter of whom, as they
approached, whispered the other—

“Now, Justice, let thy gratitude shine forth
like a light from afar. Exalt my valour exceedingly.”

“Mum. Say no more, Master Lavender. I'll
blazon. Thy deeds shall be pictured, sculptured,
and engraven in brass and marble—they shall.”

“Why, Justice,” cried Harrington, as they came
forward, “hast risen from the dead? We thought
you lost.”

“Not lost—only mislaid a little—up a high
tree—hey, Justice?” quoth Lavender, aside to
him.

“In truth, Master Harrington,” replied the Justice,
“I was in great danger of being tomahawked
by the villains. But I gave them their bitters, I
warrant you. I was down—

“Up you mean,” quoth Lavender.

“'Slid! if thou art not silent about the tree, I'll
pledge mine office to the President, I saw thee
fleeing from thine own shadow, when it was invisible
to every body else—I will.”

“And so, Justice,” said Smith, “you were at
odds with them?”

“There was a whole tribe upon me; but I
ought to mention that they were dead—somebody

did me the kindness to kill them for me, before
I could convert them into mince meat.”

“'Fore heaven,” quoth Lavender, aside, “there's
some grace in this fellow, yet! An he had not
let somebody else kill these savages for him, his
account of my valour had been deemed incredible.
Now, Justice, edge in a word or two
about my exploits.”

“Away!” cried Knapp, “thou braggadocio—
thou suborner of true men, to tell false lies—thou
air bubble, in azure satin doublet—thou that hast
not the valour of a lady's little finger, that shrinks
from the prick of a needle, though ensconced in
silver thimble. Get thee behind me, Satan!”

“Why how now Justice, in wrath?” said Smith.

“Aye, marry, sir—and with reason. Is not the
sin of ingratitude deadly? This craven coster
monger, did desert me in the thickest of the fight;
in the very teeth of danger.”

“Is it possible? Why, Master Lavender!”

“That ever I should have trusted this false
knave!” said Lavender to himself. “Justice,
thou liest like an almanac maker.”

“Lie in thy teeth! thou apocryphal beau. As
I am a despiser of cowards, this ungrateful offspring
of a tailor and a silkworm, after I had saved
his life three times: once from the fury of an enraged
poppoose, armed with a huge piece of a cornstalk;
secondly, from the nails of a warlike squaw

heroine; and thirdly, from a holly bush, that
seized him by the cloak—this ungrateful poltron,
I say, after all this, deserted me in my sore extremity,
and climbed up a high tree for safety.”

“Shame, shame, Master Lavender,” cried the
others.

“Villain!” quoth Lavender, apart to the Justice,
“see if I don't baste thee in thine own gravy,
for this.”

“I defy thee, coward. I've not fat enough left
me to administer to thy diabolical malice.”

“What says he, Justice?” asked Harrington.

“He privately offers to bribe me to silence,
with his best satin doublet.”

“O! for shame,” cried Harrington, “offer to
bribe a justice! But is all this actually true?”

“True! were it not sheer idolatry, I'd kneel
down and swear to it.”

“But how did you discover the bird in his roost,”
asked Smith, willing to forget or beguile his
heavy cares for a moment, with the squabbles of
our two heroes.

“Why,” quoth the Justice, “being hungry, he
did essay himself to rob the nest of a valiant turtle
dove, that chanced there; when the she turtle, the
he one being absent, seeing him about to suck her
eggs, flew at him, and he did cry out for help
most lustily. Beholding this, my heart smote me,
notwithstanding his demerits, and I drove the
assailant away.”

“Justice! thou diest. This night shalt thou
sup with Pluto,” cried Lavender.

“A fig for Pluto! So I get any supper tonight,
I care not for my company.”

“Gentlemen,” cried Lavender, “as there is
truth in man, or honour among thieves, he hath
belied me. I did encounter a lusty savage, and
quell him with the aid of a stout cudgel only. It
was he that climbed the tree.”

“Thou liest, traitor,” roared the Justice; but
seeing Master Lavender making at him, added,
“and I've a great mind to tell thee so, marry.
But I will return thee good for evil, and excuse
thy want of courage on the score of thy valour
having been cooled by that same cold water,
which is a sore queller of manhood. I forgive
him sirs, and having now vindicated mine honour,
here offer him my hand in token thereof.”

But the enraged Master Lavender rejected this
offer of amity indignantly, and departed with looks
of deadly hostility to the valourous Justice.

10. CHAPTER X.

Turn we now to Master O`Reilly, who with a
felicity characteristic of his country, had lost sight
of Newcut, who as we have seen, accompanied

him into the wood in search of game. He wandered
about hallooing, and as usual, involving
his steps still deeper in the perplexities of the forest.
At length, having satisfied himself by a
course of logic, that either he had lost Newcut,
or Newcut had lost him and that when a man
did not know which way to go, he had better stand
still and consider, he took his pipe, which he always
carried at his button hole, and struck a light.
Then placing his gun against a tree, he sat down at
its foot, and began quietly to smoke, communing
with himself at the same time, as follows:—

“This is your true teacher of philosophy. But
Master Phelim O`Reilly, bad luck to you;—I fear
you made a great Irish blunder, in coming out to
this same unfinished world. You got a lame leg
in walking down cellar in the ship, only for miscounting
the steps, and have been shut up in the
thing there they call a town, till this blessed day,
when the first use your legs make of you, is to
lose you, like the dear little Babes in the Wood.
Faith, I begin to be solitary; and talking to nobody,
is unsatisfactory. I'll try what virtue there
is in singing.”

He then began humming one of the airs of his
country, when he was startled into silence, by a
rustling among a neighbouring tuft of thick bushes
and vines. Turning his eyes in that direction,
he perceived something which he conceived to

be a savage crawling on all fours, with a view to
surprise him.

“Eh!” cried he, “who have we here? On my
conscience, my music beats that of the heathen
Greek—it makes a two legged animal walk on
four legs. He seems a quadruped savage, dressed
in furs, and must be a person of distinction. They
say these Indians are born without beards, but
this genius has enough for all his tribe.”

During this soliloquy, the creature, no other than
a bear—an animal, which Master O`Reilly, having
been confined ever since his arrival by his lameness,
had never happened to see before—gradually
approached. The bear was equally a stranger
to the white man, having lately arrived in those
parts, and being neither hungry nor amorous, approached
rather in curiosity than hostility.

“Arrah, honey, now, no nearer if you please,
till we come to a parley,” cried O`Reilly, presenting
his piece. “Have at you, if you say the
word,” taking aim at the unconscious animal.
“No, hang it, never shall I have it to say of myself,
that I took advantage of an unarmed man.
I'll do the honours of the place—I'll show him
what breeding is.”

Saying this, he approached the animal, and offered
to shake hands.

“Your servant, Master What d'ye Call'um; I
hope you and the family are well.” Here the bear
growled, not liking the demonstration of the

hand. “Faith, the gentleman don't seem inclined
to be sociable. May be he would like to smoke
the pipe first, in token of peace, as is the fashion
here.”

So saying, he offered Sir Bruin the pipe, who,
as if to signify his gratitude, raised himself up,
and gave Master O`Reilly a hug.

“O by the powers, he's loving enough, now!”
cried O`Reilly. “He's almost hugged the breath
out of me. But he seems to take a fancy to my
pipe, and 'twould be ill manners not to offer him
another puff.”

So saying, he put his lighted pipe to Sir Bruin's
muzzle, who, taking it somewhat in dudgeon, gave
him a great box on the ear with his fore paw.

“Is that your manners, you spalpeen! If you're
for that kind of fun, just let me bury the calmut
as you gentry say, and we'll soon see which is
the best man of the two. I'll take measure of you
for a black eye, you whiskered divil.”

He then put up his pipe carefully in his button
hole, and to show that he bore no malice, offered
the bear his tobacco box, for which courtesy he
received a cuff that nearly knocked him down.

“Now by the glory of the stars!” exclaimed
Master O`Reilly, “that's more than sweet milk
could bear, without turning sour. Have at ye,
my beauty.”

O`Reilly then run into his antagonist with all
the characteristic gallantry of his country, and

was received with a hug that made him pant like
a fish out of water. Finding the odds were
against him, he cleared himself with no small difficulty
from the embraces of Sir Bruin, and seizing
his gun, belaboured him with the butt end so lustily,
that in a little time he fell to the ground,
yielding the victory and his life at the same time.

Just at this moment Newcut made his appearance,
and inquired if he had found any game.

“Game enough,” replied he. “I've done for a
game Indian, Tim, that did'nt properly distinguish
between a hug and a box on the ear.”

“An Indian?”

“Aye, a person of distinction, dressed in furs.
I never saw a fellow that knew so little of his own
inclinations, or understood bad manners in such
perfection. But I've given him a lesson will last
him all the days of his life. See! here he is.”

On seeing what it was, Newcut burst into a
loud laugh. “Why, Master O`Reilly, are you so
ignorant of mankind, as not to know that this is
one Sir Bruin, well known in these parts?”

“What! one of King James' batch of new
knights?”

“Why, is it possible you never saw a bear before?”

“Never, except in a book: you know this is the
first excursion I have made into this world of big
trees. Is he good to eat?”

“Excellent, especially for hungry people, that
can get nothing else.”

“Then by the powers, Tim, we'll feast the whole
colony. Saving your great knight, Sir Loin,
there's not one in all Christendom I'd rather have
fallen in with, than this same Sir Bruin. Lend a
hand, Tim.”

O`Reilly proceeded, with the assistance of Newcut,
to lift the bear upon his shoulder, and was
turning on his way home, when he heard a distant
halloo, followed by the report of a gun.

“There's somebody making signals of distress,
Tim.”

“Only the Indians whooping,” answered the
other. “Let us be off as fast as we can.”

O`Reilly rejected this proposal, declaring that
to him it sounded like a cry for help from some
countryman. He desired Newcut to stay and
take care of his knight errant, while he went to
see what was the matter. To this Newcut refused
his consent, proposing that he should make for the
town, and give the alarm. O`Reilly swore that
not one of his own countrymen ever made such a
blunder as running away from people in distress;
and bidding him do as he pleased, dashed into the
forest, fired his gun on hearing a second cry and
another gun fired, declaring he could stand it no
longer. Newcut, after weighing the pros and
cons for a moment, determined on accompanying
him, rather than stay where he was, or find his way
home alone.

11. CHAPTER XI.

While these events were passing, the disconsolate
Arabella remained in a state of dreadful suspense,
that shook her reason. The good old Hardin
came to see and comfort her.

“No tidings of them yet?” asked she anxiously,
as he entered.

“It is not time; days may pass before we hear
from them.”

“They'll never come again; child, husband,
and poor Anne; all that loved me will be murdered.”

“Hope for the best, dear lady,” said Hardin;
“you have trusted heaven often, and never in
vain; trust it now.”

“I do! I do! but O Hardin, while I am thus
distracted with hopes and fears, I cannot think of
heaven as I ought to do. If it were only certain
—what I dare not think of—I would be resigned
and die. But now I cannot think of the
future. The present has me all.”

“The grave is an inn, where all the race of
mankind, sooner or later take up their last night's
lodging,” quoth Hardin. “Mothers have lost
their children, wives their husbands, and lived afterwards

to thank the power that gave and took
away.”

“So I have heard,” said she; “but I can never
reach such perfection. I tell you Hardin, they
loved them not, or they had other ties to cling
to, and knit their heart strings whole again.
But I have none but these, and when they are
gone, I stand a wilderness more lonely and desolate
than that which surrounds us here.”

“But remember I beseech thee, dearest lady,”
said the old man; “thy husband and thy child
were as the babes, and husbands of thousands of
wives and mothers that lost them and yet survived
for many years of content and usefulness. They
are no better than others that have died.”

“Not better,” cried the mother, rising into a
passion of grief, “I say they were a hundred
thousand times—millions of times. Did other
husbands love me as he did? Did other children
first receive a soul in this poor house of clay?
Good, but unfeeling Hardin! did other husbands
twine me in their arms, and court my smiles, and
what was a thousand times dearer, kiss the scalding
tears that misery wrung from me in times of
sore distress? Did other children ever call me mother,
and nestle on my beating heart, and feed and
laugh in wanton fullness till they fell asleep. Did
they—O did they ever look like him, and talk, and
laugh, and weep, and kiss like him, and love me
as he did?”

“Think of the just made perfect,” replied Hardin,
whose heart belied the very consolations he
was offering; “they bear their sufferings as does
the silent air, which suffers the ball that is winged
with death to cleave its bosom; yet heals again in
a moment, and bears no scar to show that it was
ever wounded.”

“Ah!—talk—talk—talk,” replied she, scarcely
knowing what she said; “I hear you talk as if my
happiness were to grow out of my misery, like the
flowers that sometimes spring from new made
graves.—Hark! I thought I heard a child's voice
calling!”

Hardin walked hastily to the door, and returned—

“'Tis nothing, all is silent.”

“Silent!” said the poor wandering mother.
“Yes, silence and darkness are the two sister
fiends that shoot their arrows most surely when
no one sees them. Hardin, do you think the birds
will cover my poor babe with leaves?”

“My heart bleeds for you,” answered Hardin,
with tears in his eyes. “O that I could tell you to
hope; but I can only preach of resignation.”

“Well, well, said she; “my time is short, that
is a comfort yet. The little that famine has spared,
grief will make quick work with. But what
are we doing here, wasting our time, when murder
is going on. Let's to the woods—O no—no—I
shall see their mangled bodies there! But let us

go somewhere; I can't stay here to lose the sight
of what I used to see. Good Hardin, take me to
the river side that I may look my last look towards
my native England.”

“I will; but madam, there is another land
where none are native, yet where all must go.
Think of that land, dear lady.”

“D'ye hold it a sin to think of our distant home
and absent friends, when we are dying? to take
one parting look at the green earth we are about
to leave, and the blue heavens where we are going?
I hope it cannot be a sin to think of distant
or lost friends, and die blessing them. Come,
come, or else I will go alone.”

“My office is to sooth, not irritate. Come
then, even where you will poor soul!” quoth Hardin,
as he led her out of the hut towards the river
side.

12. CHAPTER XII.

On leaving the village of James Town, Fenton
and his party buried themselves in the forest, and
proceeded to search for the lost child. Without
guides, or pathway, or mark of any kind to direct
them, they wandered at random, they knew not
whither, till it became evident that without the aid
of chance or providence, their search would be

vain. At length they arrived, at a little open spot,
where long time ago, the lightning had shattered
a vast pine, which falling to the ground, had left
a space for the sun to waken into luxuriance a little
green sward, that invited them to rest. Here
accordingly they sat down for the purpose.

“Hush!” cried Fenton, after a few minutes had
passed over—“hush! I hear something.”

“'Tis only the squirrel barking,” answered
Percie.

“Hush! again! cried Vere, laying his ear close
to the grass; “there's something alive not far off.
'Tis in a direction towards the right. Follow, and
don't breathe above once in an age. These
red men can hear the grass grow. But what's
here?” cried he, as stooping down he picked up
a little broken branch, and looking farther discovered
others.

“I have it, I have it,” said Layton. “How ingeniously
the poor girl has contrived to give a clue,
in case she should be followed.”

“Well done, Anne Burras!” said Vere; “she's
a brave girl, and he that wont risk his life for her,
let him die the death of a bachelor, hey, Layton!”

“Now sirs,” quoth Percie, “be ready, aye, and
steady too. They can't be far off; the branches
are as fresh as ever. Listen! there were but two
you say?”

“But two,” answered Fenton; “so Arabella
told me.”

“Then two of us will reserve our fire on the
chance of the others missing, should we fall in
with them. Vere and I will try our hands first,
and if we fail, you and Layton will try and do better.”

“Excuse me, Percie,” replied Fenton. “A father's
arm can best guard the life of his child. I
do not doubt your skill; but there are others you
may chance to hit.”

“Thy hand will tremble, Fenton,” said the
other.

“No, you shall see me aim as steady and as true
as the old Swiss Father.”

“And I,” said Layton, “claim the privilege of
drawing the first trigger for Anne Burras.”

“You'll not aim at her heart, Master Layton,”
said Vere, smiling.

“It is but just. The father's and the lover's
privilege shall never be disputed by me,” said
Percie.

“Nor me,” rejoined Vere. “Now let us follow
the broken branches, and my life we find them.”

After this conversation, which passed in low
whispers, the party, guided by the broken branches,
which they found strewed at intervals, proceeded
slowly through a labyrinth, which led them into
the thickest and wildest recesses of the forest, that
covered the whole peninsula, between James and
York rivers. Fortune, or rather the good foresight
of Anne Burras, at length brought them to a little

basin, sunk a few feet into the ground, at the bottom
of which bubbled a clear spring, almost the
only one in that sandy region. Here Fenton,
who led the van, approaching with the silent caution
of a cat, discovered his little lost sheep. The
Indians had kindled a fire to cook a piece of venison,
and sat quietly smoking their long pipes.
Anne Burras was sitting disconsolate, leaning her
cheek on her hand, while the child was amusing
himself with picking berries. When he wandered
too far, the Indians would bring him back, threatening
him with their tomahawks. Ever and anon,
Fenton could hear his boy complain of being tired
and hungry, while Anne soothed him with the
hope she felt not herself, that he would see his father
and mother soon. “Do you think so?” he
at length exclaimed, “well, then I will go to sleep
like a good boy. But, indeed, I'm so hungry,
Anne, that I could bite a piece out of your cheek
and eat it.” He then quietly laid his head in her
lap, but soon declaring himself too hungry to
sleep, continued to skip about and gather berries.

The moment Fenton made the discovery, he motioned
to the rest of the party, who silently as the
grave, disposed themselves at short distances
around the little glen, unobserved by the savages,
although once or twice the rustling of the bushes,
which it was impossible to prevent, alarmed them,
and caused them to look keenly towards the spot.
Fenton and Layton now gained a position whence

they could fire upon the savages; but just as they
were taking aim, the boy passed suddenly between
them and the Indians. Fenton shuddered and
dropped the muzzle of his piece. Again he raised
his deadly rifle, and again just at the actual moment,
the boy glided between the savages and
death. The agitation of Fenton became uncontrollable,
and his aim grew unsteady.

“Why the d—l don't you fire,” said the impatient
Vere, in a whisper so loud that the Indians
started upon their feet and grasped their tomahawks.
At that moment, Fenton and the other
pulled their triggers. The Indians gave a yell of
death; one of them fell stone dead; the other
bounded into the forest, and was not pursued. Anne
Burras fell back in a swoon, and the boy, throwing
himself upon her, wept and screamed with all his
might.

“All's safe, thank God,” cried Fenton, seeing
that Anne had only fainted. “Why Harry, my
boy, my dear boy, don't you know me?”

“Yes, dear father, but I'm so frightened; and
see poor Anne; you've killed her, you bad man,”
turning to Layton. “Wake up Anne, here's your
sweetheart come to marry you.”

By this time the poor girl opened her eyes, and
seeing Layton, held out her hand to him. He
raised her up tenderly, and pressed her to his
heart unperceived, while she, unheard by all but

him, whispered—“Dear Layton, you have won
me, and you shall wear me.”

“Ah! I thought I could bring you to life,” exclaimed
the boy, archly.

“What! my honest little playmate safe and
sound,” cried Vere. “Kiss me you rogue, for old
acquaintance sake.”

“I will; but had'nt you better kiss Anne?”

“I am an older acquaintance than he,” said
Percie; “come hither.”

“Aye, but you can't play blind man's buff half
as well. But my mother says you are not happy,
and so I'll love you.”

“Dear boy,” answered Percie, “had any harm
come to thee, I should have been still more unhappy.”

“Come, let us lose no time,” cried Fenton.
“Our guns may have alarmed some straggling
party of the Indians, for I dare say the woods are
not yet clear of them. And there is one anxiously
waiting for us at home, who shall thank you all.
I cannot. Come, we have only to pursue the path
we came.”

So saying, they bent their course as speedily as
might be to the village. But whether from want
of proper attention, or some other cause, they
missed their way, and remained wandering they
knew not whither, till the sun waned low in the
west, and the twilight of the woods began to deepen
apace. In this perplexity they fired the guns,
which were heard and answered by O`Reilly.

Proceeding in the direction as nearly as they could
judge, they made their way through the intricacies
of the forest, until again having entirely lost
all clue with which to thread the labyrinth, they
sat down, tired, and almost despairing. After
resting a little while, the boy, with the natural
restlessness and vivacity of youth, began running
about, among the trees, and on one occasion having
made a more distant circuit than usual, was seen
through a little vista of the wood by Master
O`Reilly, who with Newcut, was standing leaning
against a tree in almost equal perplexity with the
other party.

“Tim, Tim, whisht!” quoth O`Reilly, in a suppressed
voice; “by the powers, I saw a fairy capering
in the wood yonder! Whisht, did'nt you
see it—there—there!”

“Where?”

“Yonder, don't you see the pretty little robin-run-away?”

“Pooh, pooh,” said the other; “there are no
fairies in this new world. They've not come over
yet.”

“Be quiet, Tim; hav'nt I seen thousands of
them dancing by moonlight in my own country?
By the powers I could swear I had seen this same
little fellow capering in the old church yard of
Ballyshallygruddery.”

“An odd place to cut capers in,” quoth the
other.

During this whispering dialogue, the child in
playing about, at length came to the tree behind
which O`Reilly and the other had ensconsed
themselves, and was seized by the former.

“Ah hah! my little merry spirit of flesh and
blood, have I caught you? What, you must run
away, and lose yourself in the wood, must you?
By my mother's soul it makes my heart water, to
think how glad Mistress Fenton will be to see you
again.”

During this speech, the child not recognizing
the voice of O`Reilly, screamed and called for
help, which of course brought his father and the
others to his rescue, and a mutual recognition
took place.

“What! honest Phelim, is it you, hunting
shadows of game in the forest; for there's nothing
of substance left,” exclaimed the gay Vere.

“I was brought here by a special providence,
I think,” answered the other. “I've killed a
knight errant, and found this little darling. But
now I think on it, I've lost my way—have any of
you found it?”

Vere in looking about here, at length found
one or two of the branches plucked off by Anne
Burras, and exclaimed—

“Huzza, huzza! I've found it, I've found it!
I know where we are now. By my soul, Mistress
Anne, I've a great mind to write a sonnet to your
discretion.”

“Why not to my beauty sir? I'll promise to
forgive you, if you don't say a word about discretion.”

“Nay, I'm resolved, it shall be discretion.
'Twill be something new, since never damsel was
sung before for discretion, either because you are
the first that ever displayed any, or—”

“Or that you are the first poet that ever had the
sense to find it out; that is what you were going
to say.”

“Harkee, Mistress Anne,” quoth Vere, “could'nt
a man persuade you now to desert an old sweetheart
for a new?”

“No, no,” cried the damsel, shaking her head;
“there's my allegiance. I'll never fight under
any other colours, but those of ensign Layton.”

“Ah, well a day!” replied Vere; “I must incontinently
solace myself with villanous rhymes.”

During this merry talk, the party had advanced
onwards, guided by the broken branches, and at
length safely emerged into the open space which
surrounded the village.

13. CHAPTER XIII.

The sun was now hovering with his broad jolly
red face, a little way above the clear horizon to

the westward, when Mistress Arabella Fenton
sat on the bank of the broad river, lamenting in
the silence of a broken heart, the absence, and
probable fate of her husband and child. The
good Hardin essayed to console her with bright
thoughts of the future, but she would not be comforted.
Time and occupation are the only remedies
for grief like hers; for though religion may
teach us resignation, it cannot teach us to forget.

“Does the fresh breeze revive you?” said the
good Hardin.

She took no notice, but continued looking earnestly
towards the distant ocean.

“I am a lonely woman now, without a husband
or a child,” at length she said. “I could wish
before I die, to visit England, and my father's
house once more; and pray for the peace of the
departed souls of my good forefathers. My husband
and my boy! they have no graves; their
bones will lie and bleach in the wild woods; yet
they are happier than I.”

“Then why lament them?” asked Hardin.

“O do not bait me with such reasonings,” cried
she, impatiently. “Do you think that when we
shed our bitter tears over the dead that were dear
to us, it is for them? No, no! it is for ourselves
and our bereavements that we mourn, not for the
dead. I had rather have my husband and my
child with me here, in the midst of all the woes
that compass me round, than know that they were

rejoicing among the stars, in speechless happiness,
and I not with them. Such is my woman's
heart. But come hither Hardin,” cried she, after
a pause, and looking earnestly. “If my eyes do
not deceive me, there is a little speck of white
yonder far down the river.”

“Where madam?” asked Hardin, eagerly.

“Yonder, in that direction.”

“A sea-gull, or a white wave perhaps,” said he.

“See! another speck, and now they grow larger!
It is, it must be the ships! Watch, watch good
Hardin.”

“Sure, there is something,” cried he. “Gracious
power, may it be so!”

They now attentively watched the specks,
which gradually expanded larger and larger as
they approached, and at length could plainly
distinguish two vessels, ploughing their way with
a light southerly breeze.

My prayers are heard,” cried Hardin. “It is,
it is the ships; now we shall be happy again.”

“Happy!” replied she, reproachfully; “my
child and husband cannot share these rejoicings;
the physician comes when the patient is buried.”

Shouts were now heard in the village, mingled
with exclamations of “They've come—they've
come!”

“Are not they ashamed to rejoice,” cried Arabella,
“when I am broken hearted? I cannot
bear it; let me go to the woods where I shall hear

nothing but whoops and howlings—I'll not stay
here to be trampled on!”

Again the shouts and exclamations rent the
silence of the twilight air, coming nearer and
nearer.

“Impious men!” exclaimed she, distractedly.
“I will not stay here to be laughed at;” and was
rushing wildly towards the adjoining wood, when
she was met by Fenton, who caught her in his arms,
where she remained for a while insensible. Fenton
took off her hat, parted her brown hair from
her pale white forehead, and kissed it. At length
her colour came again, and when the boy cried
“wake up mother; you don't seem glad to see
us,” she revived, and passing from the embraces
of the one, to those of the other, wept upon
their bosoms. “And you too, poor Anne,” said
she; “I knew that you would bring him home
again, or never come home yourself. I thought
the shouts I heard were for the ships we saw just
now.”

“What ships?” cried Vere.

“Two,” answered Hardin, “bearing hitherward.
We saw them a minute ago.” And see!
there they are again, coming round the point.”

“But that the sight is too good to believe,”
cried Vere, “I should think I saw two ships.
It must be the flying Dutchman and his consort.
Will any of you good people convince me I'm
not dreaming? 'Tis plain as the sun,” added he,

after looking again. “They're ships, true heart
of oak ships. Huzza! huzza! do'st weep for joy,
Percie; for I suppose it would go against your
conscience to commit the sin of laughing?”

“I rejoice,” replied the other, “for the sake of
these suffering people; but for myself, these ships
can bring nothing that I care for. The land
whence they come, the ocean they have ploughed,
bears nothing that I ever wish to see.”

“Every one to his notion,” cried Vere, gaily.
“Thank fortune, I was born in the day time; the
sun is my tutelary, and I scorn the snivelling,
weeping stars. If there should chance to be such
a person as one Sir Loin, an old acquaintance I've
not seen for some time, and the only knight our
scurvy King James ever made, that was worth the
spurs—if I don't receive him with open arms, call
me a crop-ear. Hey, Master Justice,” addressing
Justice Knapp, who had just made his appearance,
with Master Lavender, in hot discussion, as usual.

“Master Lavender, be dumb,” quoth the Justice.
“For all thy threats, I see thou art enamoured
of my company.”

“Lookee, Justice,” replied the other, “though
I despise thy cowardice, and have no respect for
thy discretion, yet, inasmuch as valour shines by
contrast, I do give mine a gloss by rubbing it
against the dirt of thy demerits.”

“A fig for thy scurvy conclusions! 'Sfoot!
art just like a button of cheese paring on a satin

doublet, deriving all thy consequence with the
commonalty from the company thou keepest. But
is it gospel, Master Vere, two ships.”

“As true as if it were gospel, Justice.”

“Then will I signalize my gratitude by a donation
to the poor,” cried he, rummaging his pocket
and bringing forth a periwinkle. “Mr. Periwinkle,
I bestow thee in charity on Master Lavender
here, that when he hath eaten thee out of house
and home, he may ensconce himself in thine armour,
and shelter his inordinate ferocity in time
of danger.”

“Keep it thyself, thou empty twiggin-bottle,
with a huge rotundity, and not a drop of spirit. I
see clearly I shall be obliged to offer thee up to
the infernal gods.”

“Here, now,” quoth the Justice, continuing to
empty his pockets. “Here is a black leathern
strap, which I did reserve for the last extremity—”

“To hang thyself,” cried the other, “I hope.
He did steal this of a poor cobbler. He has the
itch of a baboon for thieving, and would rob any
man of his good name, though he hath not the
grace to convert it to his own use afterwards.”

“To hang myself?” said Knapp—“No, marry
—to beat thee into some remote probability of
valour, so that in good time, with the aid of cold
water, thou mayest be brought to look thy tailor
in the face, even though armed with a long bill.”

“Thou clucking old hen hussey—but I'll beat
thee into dust for this.”

“Gad-a-mercy! then shall I flee before the
wind as fast as thou art wont to flee before the
enemy.”

“Why, Justice,” cried Vere, “you are victualled
for a six months' cruise—a voyage round the world
with Sir Francis.”

“Foresight, Master Vere. I learnt it of the
squirrel, who fills his maw with nuts for a time of
scarcity.”

“Learnt it of a squirrel, forsooth!” cried Lavender.
“Why he inherited the love of other
men's goods from his ancestors. Sixteen generations
of them died of the quinsy. The disease
ran in the family.”

“But see!” exclaimed Vere, as the ships once
more emerged from behind the projections of the
river—“now they round to—now they furl their
sails—now they hoist out the boat—and now—
huzza! I see a rara avis, a woman let down the
sides! Take notice, my masters, I bespeak her
in lawful wedlock, be she old, ugly, witch, maid,
widow, or widow bewitched. Avaunt, Master
Lavender—I do fear thy embroidered satin doublet.”

“Above all,” quoth Knapp, “beware of his inordinate
and sinful valour. Why he hath the
courage of ten hen patridges. But, marry, here
they come sure enough, and a woman with them;

a wonder in this world, whether she can keep a secret
or not.”

A boat was now seen to put off from the ships,
and make for the shore. Its passengers were received
with shaking of hands, and shouts of welcome
greetings. There were no strangers here.
They had met in a new world, and all felt like
brothers. Among those who came ashore in the
boat, was a veiled lady, who was assisted to land
by an old white haired man, who seemed somewhat
between a servant and a friend. On landing, she
looked around with great apparent earnestness, as
if seeking some one she knew in the crowd, but
who was not there, as it would seem, for she
pressed her hand to her bosom, and turning away
her head, leaned as if for support, on the old man.
By degrees, the crowd dispersed towards the town,
leaving the lady and her attendant alone, each one
being apparently too much taken up with others,
to observe them. I cannot excuse this want of
gallantry, especially where ladies were so scarce,
but so it was.

During the foregoing scene, Percie, who sickened
at every thing that reminded him of England,
remained aloof, quietly, yet sorrowfully, contemplating
the warm welcomes given and received.
His heart swelled with a sense of loneliness, and
desolation—the more sad and heavy, from his inability
to share in the warm feelings that animated
all around him. At length his attentio was attracted

by the stranger lady, who seemed to be
weeping sorely, for ever and anon, she put her
handkerchief under her veil, as if to wipe away
her tears. The sight of a woman and a stranger
weeping, and seeming to know no one, excited his
sympathy; he approached her and offered his services.
The lady seemed greatly agitated, but
made no answer, while the old man, uttering an
exclamation of joyful surprise, retired to a little
distance, and remained silent also.

“Is there any one you wish to see?” continued
Percie—“any one that you hoped to meet,
and are disappointed? Name him, and I will
guide you to him, if he is here.”

The lady remained silent, while her agitation
shook her whole frame. What can this mean,
thought Percie. Perhaps she has come here to
meet some one, who is dead. “Tell me, madam,
who is it you seek? Mine is not an idle curiosity,
believe me.”

“One Robert Percie, of the North, erewhile,”
answered she, at length, in a hurried and trembling
voice, that, to say the truth, was not quite so soft
as became a fair lady.

“Robert Percie!” echoed he. “But you are, I
fear, sporting with my busy prying. Indeed, madam,
though rude, I meant it kindly. I am Robert
Percie.”

“Indeed, sir,” replied the lady, “I am not in a
jesting mood. I am in search of him I said—

I come from one, who bade me tell you that once
you swore you loved her—one whom you left alone
to struggle with a guardian's power, a lover's
stratagems—one whom you suspected most wrongfully—deserted
without cause—and left almost
broken hearted. She sends this ring in token of
my message.”

Percie took the ring—it was one he had exchanged
with Rose Beverley, on the day they were
affianced. It wakened a thousand bitter pangs.

“Beware—beware, madam, whoever you are—
unless you wish to make me mad again, and drive
me to some other world, more distant and wild
than this. Suspect her wrongfully! O convince me
of that! But, pshaw! Is'nt she now, at this very
moment, revelling in the spoils of a poor younger
brother's happiness, and laughing over the story
of his wrongs, in the incestuous claspings of an
elder one? Is she not married? That's enough
for me.”

“She is not married!” answered the lady, firmly.

“What!” cried Percie—“What!—has the
spoiler revelled in her charms, and then left her,
sated with them, ere the wedding day? Not married?
But now I remember. Our father's funeral,
as I have just now learned, has scarce gone by,
and the forms of decency must be observed, even
where corruption harbours all her scorpions.
She's waiting, I suppose, till the mourning is put

off, and in the interval, whiles away the tedious
year of sorrow, with proud anticipations.”

“Alas! not she,” answered the veiled lady.
“She is a wanderer from her home, seeking one,
whose heart is turned to stone, who stands as her
accuser and her judge, condemns her unheard,
and tortures before he murders her. One who was
at first blind to her real worth, and is now deaf to
her vindication.”

“On thy soul, is this true?” cried Percie, trembling
with uncontrollable hopes and fears. “O
trifle not, lady, with me. I have been mad
once, and may be so again. Yet this ring! I
gave it her one night, when the soul's harmony,
sweet silence reigned; and then she swore, by all
those everlasting sentinels of heaven, she would
be as true as they. I cannot think she could have
broke such vows, and wilfully.”

“She did not break them,” replied the lady. “Answer
me, Robert Percie—as there is truth in man,
or justice in heaven for liars—did you leave her
because you doubted her affection, or had outlived
your own?”

“Look at me, lady,” rejoined Percie “Do
I seem like a man whose heart is whole, or happy?
What think you was it that banished me from
England? What chased me from my home, to
seek the desert of the world, for such it is to those
whose hearts are widowed like mine. Look at

this blighted trunk, and then tell me if I forsook,
or was forsaken. Have you no letter?” asked he,
eagerly.

“None,” replied the lady; “but she sent her
picture, with a command that if I found you true,
to beg you would wear it for her sake.”

“O give it me at once! you cannot doubt.”

“You will hardly know it now,” said she; “the
colours of the master have so faded.”

Saying this, she unveiled her face, and disclosed
to the astonished and enraptured Percie, the
pale, faded, yet lovely face of his early love.

Deeming it highly indecorous in a writer, to
disclose in words, those actions which delicacy
shrinks from exhibiting before the world; and
holding it to be taking a great liberty with even
one's own heroine to show her off in the embraces
of any body, but her husband; I shall draw a
veil over the transports which followed this discovery.
Suffice it to say, that all that love, tempered
with modest maidenhood, could offer without
blame, was received and returned without
presumption or indelicacy.

“A thousand and a thousand times welcome!
my beloved Rose,” at length Percie exclaimed.
“But tell me all the past, and how you found your
way hither alone.”

“I did not come alone, I had a beau; but I hope
you'll not be jealous,” said Rose, with one of her
wonted smiles.

“Jealous! O no, never again. But I am a little
curious; who was it Rose.”

“Old Kenrick.”

“Old Kenrick! why Gilbert will grow young
again when he hears this. He shall be welcome
to my palace.”

“True, where is your palace? The evening is
setting in, and—but now I think of it—till—till—”
Here she stopped, and the long absent colours returned
to her cheek, spreading it with vermillion.

“Till what,” inquired Percie.

“Till I can build a palace for myself. In the
meantime I must seek some female protector, if
there be any one that will receive a run away
damsel.”

“Well,” answered Percie, “since my humble
dwelling is beneath you, I am sure the kind Mistress
Arabella Fenton will receive you as a sister,
till we can build you a palace.”

“Come, then, I'll trust myself with you once
more,” answered Rose, gaily. “You'll not run
away from me again, will you?” Then looking
in his face tenderly, she continued—“You look
pale and thin; and if the truth must be told, a
little rusty and old fashioned; and yet I should
have known you any where. The instinct of a
woman's love puts all your boasted reason to
shame. Did not you suspect me a little?”

“Once or twice,” said Percie, “an idea came
across me, that I had heard that voice before. Yet

in truth you croaked so naturally, that I was effectually
deceived. But come, the dews are falling;
lean on my arm; this new born happiness has
taken away all my manhood.”

Mistress Fenton received her fair visiter with a
kindness, a richness of welcome, which set an example
that has ever since been followed by the
descendants of the early adventurers in Virginia,
insomuch that travellers there, often commit an
anti-quixotic blunder, in mistaking castles for
inns, instead of inns for castles.

The arrival of the ships brought such an accession
of strength and food to the poor colonists,
that from this time they flourished free from all
apprehension of famine or the Indians. A few
weeks saw the union of Percie and Rose, of Layton
and Anne Burras, whose repective, and respectable
descendants still flourish in the possession
of a liberal competency. Both Percie and
Fenton became, in process of time, members of
the council; and Mistress Arabella lived to see
her sons and daughters grow up, healthful, virtuous,
and happy. The gallant Vere, only remained
a bachelor, until he could save a hogshead of
tobacco, with which he endowed a little damsel
from Eastcheape, who came out to seek her fortune
in one of the subsequent arrivals. Justice Knapp,
tired at length of being an idle magistrate, became
an industrious publican, whereby he fulfilled
his destiny beyond doubt. Master Hyacinth Lavender,

not long after the period in which our story
comes to an end, departed for England, to take
possession of a competent estate, which came to
him by the death an elder brother.

“Would I were the keeper of an ordinary, near
the theatres,” said Knapp, as he bade him farewell;
“I should infallibly receive a conveyance
of thy estate in tavern bills.”

“I would thou wert,” quoth the other; “for
then could I cudgel thee daily in part payment of
my dinner. Adieu, publican.”

“Farewell, sinner!” and thus they parted forever.