University of Virginia Library

1. REDWOOD

1. CHAPTER I.

On the last day of June, in the
year —, a small vessel, which traversed
weekly the waters of Lake Champlain,
was seen slowly entering one of the
most beautiful bays of that most beautiful
lake. A travelling carriage with
handsome equipments, a coachman in
livery and an outrider, were drawn up
on the shore, awaiting the approach of

the vessel. On the deck stood a group
of travellers for whom the equipage
was destined: a beautiful young woman,
and her attendant, a female slave, were
surveying it with pleased and equal
eagerness, while the father of the young
lady seemed quite absorbed in the contemplation
of a scene which poetry and
painting have marked for their own.
Not a breeze stirred the waters; their
mirror surface was quite unbroken, save
where the little vessel traced its dimpled
pathway. A cluster of islands lay in
beautiful fraternity opposite the harbour,
covered with a rich growth of wood,
and looking young, and fresh, and
bright, as if they had just sprung from
the element on which they seemed to
repose. The western shore presented
every variety of form; wooded headlands
jutting boldly into the lake, and
richly cultivated grounds sloping gently
to its margin. As the traveller's delighted
eye explored still farther, it
rested on the mountains that rise in four
successive chains, one above the other,
the last in the far distance dimly defining
and bounding the horizon. A cloud
at this moment veiled the face of the
sun, and its rich beams streamed aslant
upon the mountain tops, and poured
showers of gold and purple light into
the deep recesses of the valleys. Mr.
Redwood, a true admirer of nature's
lovely forms, turned his unsated gaze to
the village they were approaching,
which was indicated by a neat church
spire that peered over the hill, on the
height and declivities of which were
planted several new and neat habitations.
“Oh Caroline, my child,” exclaimed
the father, “was there ever
any thing more beautiful!”

“Never, certainly, to my eye,” replied
the daughter; “but I think a carriage far
less handsome than ours would look
beautiful, after those little ville calêches,
and viler ponies, with which we made

our entree into Montreal. Oh, papa,”
continued the young lady, too intent on
present pleasure and past mortification
to notice the shade of disappointment
that had chased away the animation of
her father's face; “Oh, papa, I never
shall forget our odious little Canadian
driver, half Indian, half French, the
rose tucked into his button-hole, the
signal of one nation, and the wampum
belt of the other; and then his mongrel
dialect. Oh that `marse donc,' with
which he excruciated his poney and us
at the same moment, does it not yet
ring in your ears?”

“I cannot say that my recollections
are quite as lively as yours, Caroline,”
rejoined Mr. Redwood.

“You are such an old traveller, papa,
and besides you are always thinking of
something else; but it is quite a different
affair with me. My heavens! you had
no imagination of my misery from the
moment I entered the calêche at la Chine,

until I was safely sheltered in my room
at the hotel: you sat rolling your eyes
around the green fields as if they were
all drawing-rooms, and every dew-drop
a diamond, while I would gladly have
drowned myself in the St. Lawrence!”

“Really, my dear,” replied the father,
his tone bordering on contempt, “I did
not suspect you of any such mad designs
on your own sweet person—you seemed
very quiet.”

“Quiet, yes indeed, quiet enough;
how could I help myself? but you must
own, papa, that it was excessively mortifying
to make our entrance into the city
in such style. Grandmamma says that
people of fortune should never lay aside
the insignia of their rank.”

“Your grandmother's jumble of fortune
and rank have a strong savor of
republican ignorance. I would advise
you, Miss Redwood, not to adopt her
wise axioms as rules for the conduct of
your life. And you really allowed yourself

to suffer mortification on account of
entering the little city of Montreal, in
the best mode the country provides for
travellers—a place too, where not a
creature knew you from any other member
of the human family?”

“Ah, there Sir, you are quite mistaken;
for Captain Fenwick had written
to all the officers of his corps our intention
of going to Montreal, and he told
me that he had described me so particularly
to his friend Captain Fitzgerald,
that he was sure he would know me at a
single glance of his eye.”

“Then we are indebted to Captain
Fenwick for the honour of Fitzgerald's
civilities? I fancied our acquaintance
with him had been accidental.” The
penetrating look with which Mr. Redwood
finished his sentence, gave it an
interrogative meaning, and his daughter
feeling herself bound to reply, said,
rather sullenly, “Our introduction was
purely accidental: you saw it, Sir, and I

thought at the time, seemed quite grateful
that the timely aid of the Captain's
arm saved me from being run over.”

“I was and am grateful, my child, for
the aid which the gallant Captain's arm
afforded you; though it may be, that
stoic as I am, I measured my gratitude
rather by the danger than the alarm.
The frightened animal, as well as I
remember, turned into another street,
instead of passing by the way we were
going; but this is neither here nor there;
I merely expressed an innocent surprise,
that there should have been grounds for
your acquaintance with Captain Fitzgerald
which you never intimated to me.”

“Lord, papa, it is so awkward to talk
to you about such matters; I am sure
I had no other objection to telling you
that Fitzgerald knew all about us before
he saw us.”

“All about you, Miss Redwood; for I
am quite a cypher in the eyes of such
men as the Captain, having no other value

than what results from being your adjunct.
Fitzgerald was then apprised
that you are a belle, and will be an
heiress?”

“Probably. And if I do possess the advantage
of those distinctions, I am sure
I ought to be much indbeted to Captain
Fenwick for making them known, that
I may enjoy them abroad as well as at
home.” Mr. Redwood thought the distinctions
which procured for his daughter
a host of such admirers as Fitzgerald
of very doubtful advantage, and would
perhaps have said so, but the vessel at
this moment touched the wharf, and the
bustle of disembarking put an end to
the conversation. The travellers having
arranged themselves in the carriage,
Mr. Redwood ordered the coachman to
drive to the village tavern, where he
said it was his intention to pass the
night. A short drive carried them to
the door of the village inn. The landlord
was sitting on a bench before the

door, alternately reading a newspaper,
and haranguing half-a-dozen loiterers
on the great political topics that then
agitated the country: his own patriotic
politics were sufficiently indicated by
the bearings of his sign-board; on one
side of which was rudely sketched the
surrender of Burgoyne, and on the other,
an American eagle with his talons triumphantly
planted on a British lion. It
cannot be pretended that the skill of
the artist had been adequate to revealing
his design to the observation of the
passing traveller; or rather the design
of “Major Jonathan Doolittle,” whose
name stood in bold relief on one side,
under the shadow of the spread wing of
the eagle; and on the other under the
delineation of the victory, which, according
to the major's own opinion, he had
been a distinguished instrument in
achieving. But any deficiency in the
skill of the artist was abundantly supplied
by the valuable comment of the
major, whose memory or imagination
filled up the imperfect outline with every
particular of the glorious victory. The
carriage drew up to the door of the valiant
publican, and in answer to Mr.
Redwood's inquiry for the landlord, the
major replied without doffing his hat or
changing his attitude, “I am he, Sir, in
the room of a better.” Mr. Redwood
then inquired, if he could obtain accommodation
for the night. The major replied
exchanging with his compatriots a
knowing wink, “that he rather guessed
not: he did not lay out to entertain people
from the old countries; his women
folks thought they took too much waiting
on.” Caroline whispered an entreaty
to her father, to order the coachman
to drive on; but Mr. Redwood,
without heeding her, said, “you mistake
us, friend, we are your own country
people, just returning from a visit to
the British provinces, and as we have
our own servants, and shall not need
much waiting on, you will not perhaps
object to receiving us.” The major's
reluctance was somewhat abated by
this information, and would probably
have been quite overcome, but for his
desire of keeping up his consequence in
the eyes of the by-standers, by showing
off his inherent dislike of an unquestionable
gentleman. He said, they were
calculating to have a training the next
day, and the women folks had just put
the house to rights, and he rather
guessed, they would not choose to have
it disturbed, but it was according as
they could agree; “and if,” he added,
for the first time rising and advancing
towards Mr. Redwood, “if the gentleman
could make it an object to them to
take so much trouble, he would go in
and inquire.”

This last interested stipulation of the
major filled up the measure of Mr.
Redwood's disgust; and turning abruptly
from him to a good-natured

looking man, who, at that moment
riding past them on horseback, had
checked the career of his horse to gaze
at the travellers, he inquired the distance
to the next village. “That,” replied
the man, “is according to which road
you take.”

“Is there any choice between the
roads?”

“It's rather my belief there is;
anyhow, there is many opinions held
about them. Squire Upton said, it was
shortest by his house, if you cut off the
bend by deacon Garson's; and General
Martin maintained, it was shortest
round the long quarter, so they got out
the surveyor and chained it.” “And
which road,” interrupted Mr. Redwood,
“proved the shortest?”

“Oh there was no proof about it;
the road is a bone of contention yet.
The surveyor was called off to hold a
Justice's court before he had finished
the squire's road, and—”

“Which do you believe the shortest?”
exclaimed Mr. Redwood, impatiently
cutting short the history of the important
controversy.

“Oh, I,” replied the man, laughing,
“and every body else but the squire,
calculate it to be the shortest way round
the long quarter, and the prospects are
altogether preferable that way, and that
is something of an object, as you seem
to be strangers in these parts.”

“Oh Lord,” exclaimed Caroline,
“it will soon be too dark for any prospect
but that of breaking all our necks!”

“Do you think,” pursued Mr. Redwood,
“that we shall be able to arrive
before dark?”

“That's according as your horses are.”

“The horses are good and fleet.”

“Well then, Sir, it will depend something
on the driver; but if you will
take my advice, you will stop by the
way. It is not far from night; there is
a pretty pokerish cloud rising; it is a

stretchy road to Eaton, and it will be
something risky for you to try to get
there by daylight. But, Sir, if you find
yourself crowded for time, and will stop
at my house, we will do our best to
make you comfortable for the night.
If you will put up with things being in
a plain farmer-like way, you shall be
kindly welcome.”

Mr. Redwood thanked the good man
heartily for the proffer of his hospitality,
but declined it, saying, he doubted not
they should be able to reach the next
village before the storm. He then directed
his coachman to drive on rapidly;
and exchanging a farewell nod with his
informant, who rode on briskly before
him, he sunk back into his seat, and relapsed
into silence and abstraction.

Meanwhile, Caroline sat listening in
trepidation to the hoarse, though yet
distant threatenings of the thunder, and
watching with a restless eye the fearful
clouds that rolled darkly, volume over

volume, in their ascent to mid heaven.
“For gracious sake put your head out
of the coach, Lilly,” said she to her
servant, “and look if there is any sign
of the village.” Lilly could just discern
the spire of a church that stood on a
distant hill. “On a hill of course,” replied
Caroline; “one would think these
Yankees had contrived their churches
for telegraphs. I am delighted at any
rate, that there is a landmark in sight.
For heaven's sake, papa,” she added,
impetuously turning to her father, “do
rouse yourself, and look at those clouds.”

“I have been looking, my child, for
the last half hour, watching the fading
away of the bright tints from the edges
of that beautiful mass of clouds, and
thinking them a fit emblem of human
life. Thus we gaze upon the brilliant vapour,
and are dazzled with its changeful
hues, till the storm bursts in fury on our
heads. Hark, Caroline, how the wind
sighs through the branches of the trees:

does it not seem as if nature thus expressed
her dread of the violence that is
about to be done to her beautiful face?”

“Oh, what does master mean,” inquired
Lilly; “does he think our faces
will be struck with the lightning?”

“Heaven only knows what your master
means. Do, papa, tell Ralph to
drive faster, the darkness is horrible.”

Mr. Redwood soon felt that his daughter's
terrors were not groundless. The
clouds had gathered a portentous blackness,
strong gales of wind were rushing
over the lake, the rain already poured
in torrents, and there were only such intervals
between the lightning as served
to contrast the vivid flashes with the
thick darkness; the thunder burst in
loud explosions over their heads, and its
fearful peals were prolonged and reverberated
by the surrounding hills. The
horses became restive, and the coachman
called to his master for permission to
stop at the next habitation. This was

readily granted, and the coachman reined
his horses into a road that led off the
highway, over a little knoll to a farm
house which stood on a small eminence
at the right. Some rocks, a few feet in
height, served as an embankment to the
read on the left. The coachman cracked
his whip, and the horses were pressing
on at their utmost speed, when a thunder-bolt
struck an enormous dead tree a
little in advance of them, fired its driest
branches, descended the trunk of the
tree, and tearing to splinters the parts
it touched, laid the roots bare, and passed
off across the road. The horses
terrified by the excessive vividness of the
lightning, or the flaming tree, or perhaps
both, sprang to the left, and before the
coachman, scarcely less terrified than
they, had made an effort to control their
movements, they had dashed over the
rocks, and forced the carriage after
them. The horses sprang through a
clump of young walnuts that grew at
the base of the rocks. Most happily the
carriage was too wide for the passage,
and the axles of the wheels were caught
by the trees: the sudden check given to
the velocity of the motion of the carriage
broke the traces, and the released
horses bounded away, leaving it and its
inmates in perfect safety.

The moment Mr. Redwood perceived
the horses would inevitably descend the
rocks, he had instinctively opened the
carriage door and sprung out: he fell
against the trunk of a tree, and when he
attempted to rise to move to his daughter's
relief, he felt himself disabled, and
sunk back insensible. Fortunately the
coachman, quite unharmed, flew to the
aid of the mistress and maid, who were
both shrieking in the carriage. “Oh,
stop the horses, stop the horses!” cried
Caroline.

“The horses, Miss Caroline, are gone.”
“Gone; but oh, Raphy, won't they come
back again?”

Upon Ralph's repeated assurances
that there was not the slightest danger
of, or from such a circumstance, Caroline
alighted, and found to her surprise, life
and limb unscathed. When she had
quite satisfactorily ascertained this fact,
she turned to look for her father, but
when she saw him stretched on the grass
the image of death, she shrunk back appalled.
At this moment she heard some
persons approaching to their assistance;
they were from the neighbouring farm-house,
and had been alarmed by her
shrieks which they had heard even amid
the “wild war of earth and heaven.”
“Make the best of your way, miss, to the
house,” said one of the men kindly, “we
will bring the gentleman in our arms.”
Caroline followed the direction, and
was met at the door by several females,
who clustered about her with expressions
of pity, and offers of assistance.
She moved past them all, and throwing
herself into a chair, vented her feelings

in loud hysterical sobbings; while Lilly
set up a most doleful cry of “Oh, what
will become of us, master is killed, and
the horses are gone!” The mistress of
the house with a voice of authority commander
her to be still; and at this moment
the men entered, bearing in Mr.
Redwood, pale as death, but sensible and
calm. “Thank God you are not hurt,
my child,” he said, on seeing Caroline,
“and I am better.” The door of a spare
room being now thrown open, the bed
uncovered, the pillows shaken up, the
mistress of the house pointed to the men
to deposit their burthen there. Caroline
and her servant followed Mr. Redwood;
but so much were they both terrified by
his paleness, and the distortion of his
face from the extreme pain he endured,
that they were incapable of offering him
any assistance. Not so the good matron
and her young hand-maidens. It seemed
to be their vocation to act; and so efficient
were they in their prompt ministration
of camphor and cordials, that he
was soon in a state fully to understand
his condition and wants. He said to his
daughter that it would be necessary for
him to remain where he was for the
present, to summon a physician immediately,
to ascertain the injury he had
sustained, and to set his arm if the bones
were, as he apprehended, displaced;
against this the daughter warmly remonstrated.

His host, having overheard a part of the
debate, which was conducted in an under
tone, said he would call Debby. “Debby,”
he said, “was as skilful as the run
of doctors; she was a nat'ral bone setter;
at any rate, if the gentleman was
not willing to trust himself in her hands,
she could tell if there were any broken
bones.” Debby was summoned, and
soon made her appearance, muttering
something about the boys, boy fashion,
having left out the old mare, and she
guessed she felt as much pain with her

broken leg, as your quality. She, however,
seemed a little softened at the sight
of Mr. Redwood, who was evidently
suffering acute pain, and what probably
interested Debby more, bearing it manfully.
“Not,” she continued, “that I
would put a beast's life against a man's;
but she is a good creature, and a sarviceable,
and it is a shame for the boys to
neglect her because she grows a little
old and unsightly.” The boys, as she
denominated two full grown young
men, who stood at the foot of the bed,
exchanged smiles, as if they were too
much inured to this privileged railer to
heed her reproaches. Mr. Redwood
shrunk from her touch as she approached
him; but without noticing his alarm,
she thrust her hand into an enormous
pocket, which hung on one side of her
gaunt person, and extricating from its
miscellaneous contents a large pair of
scissors, (which one would have thought
stood as little chance of being found as
a needle in a hay-mow,) she cut open
the sleeve of the coat with more care
and adroitness than could have been expected
from such an operator, and then
unceremoniously tearing down the shirt
sleeve, she proceeded to the examination
of the arm, which she pronounced a bad
business. The shoulder she said was out
of joint, and a breakage into the bargain:
“and do you, James,” said she,
turning to one of the young men,
“mount Rover, and go for Doctor Bristol,
and tell him to come as fast as horse-flesh
can bring him, for it an't all nature can
set this arm after to-night. And James,
child,” she added, “be careful when
you take Rover out of the stable, not
to hit the old mare; for beasts have
feelings too.”

There had been such promptness in
Miss Debby's proceedings, and the
family was obviously so much in the
habit of obeying her orders, that Mr.
Redwood had not as yet been able to

interpose a question; but as James
turned to execute Debby's order, he
said, “stop, young man; before you go
I should like to know who this Dr.
Bristol is, and to ascertain his ability to
perform a delicate operation; and I
must know from you, my friend,” he
continued, turning to the master of the
house, (whom he had just recognised to
be the same person who had so kindly
invited him to accept a shelter beneath
his roof,) “whether you can accommodate
my daughter and myself, while we
may be detained by this unlucky accident?”

Mr. and Mrs. Lenox (the farmer and
his wife,) were eagerly beginning to
proffer their hospitality, with the courtesy
of genuine kindness, when Debby
interrupted them, with saying, “go
along, James, is this no time to stand
upon compliments, go like the wind, a
miss is as good as a mile.”

James obeyed; and Mr. Lenox said,

I believe you may trust Dr. Bristol, Sir;
he doctors all the country round, and in
all curable cases, under Providence, he
cures. He studied under Rush, and has
but few equals in these parts.”

“No, no,” said Debby, “nor in any
other parts: he is a real likely man, and
they a'n't much thicker any where than
swallows in January.” “But,” interposed
Mr. Lenox, “as the gentleman is
a stranger among us, it is natural, and
very right that he should be mistrustful.”

“Oh, quite right,” replied Debby,
“and rational; and I like him all the
better for it; none but your parfect fools
believe in any thing and every body.
But it is,” she continued, with the goût
of an amateur in the matter, “it is a real
pleasure to see Dr. Bristol set bones; it
is beautiful. There was Tom Russel,
fool and mad-cap that he was, and bating
his being a human creature, better
dead than alive, that fell off from the

steeple of our meeting-house; there was
scarce a whole bone left in his body;
and when the doctor first overhauled
him, he looked dumb-foundered, for he
is tender-hearted for all being a doctor
I spirited him up, and he went to work,
and a quicker, neater piece of work,
never has been done since the days of
miracles: the bones went snap, crack,
like the guns of our militia boys; not
quite so loud may-be, but full as reg'lar.”

“God Grant,” exclaimed Mr. Redwood,
(who had been writhing under
Debby's story,) “that your doctor may
not have lost his gifts, nor his skill.”
“No,” replied Debby, “a wise man
a'n't apt to lose either.” Mr. Redwood
felt a natural apprehension, lest he
should not be able to obtain the aid of
this physician, whose skill seemed to
have inspired such confidence, and he
inquired of Mr. Lenox, if he thought it
probable the messenger would find him
at home. “Almost certain,” replied

Mr. Lenox, “he was here yesterday to
pay his last visit to a young man who
has been a long time sick, poor fellow:
he died last evening.” “A consolatory
proof of your doctor's skill,” murmured
Mr. Redwood.

Half-a-dozen mouths were opened at
once to explain the doctor's failure.
Deborah's shrill tones prevailed over
every other voice; “our days are all
numbered, man,” she said, “and to all
there comes a sickness that neither doctors
nor doctor's-trade can cure; and
besides, as to in'ard diseases, there's
none but your pretensioners that profess
to understand them at all times.”

“And poor Edward,” interposed
Mr. Lenox, “died, I believe, of that
which you may well call an inward disease,
for which there is no help in this
world, a broken heart.” “As much that
as any thing,” said Debby; “at least
that might be called the 'casion of it all;
and it is far easier,” she continued, looking

at Mr. Redwood, “mending broken
bones than broken hearts.”

“And far easier breaking bones than
hearts,” replied Mr. Redwood.

“That,” said the indefatigable
Deborah, “depends something upon
what the heart is made of. Some
hearts are tough as a bull's hide; you
might as well break a rock with sun-beams
as break them with such troubles
as snapped the chord of poor Eddy, a
weakly narvous feeling creature.” Mr.
Redwood, was suffering too severely to
indulge any curiosity in relation to
Eddy. All parties became silent, and
remained so until the arrival of the
physician, save the occasional interruption
of a groan from the stranger, or an
expression of sympathy from some one
of the group that surrounded his bed.
We may profitably fill this interval
with a description of the various persons
that the occasion had assembled. And
first, as most conspicuous, the stranger,

mutilated as he was, appeared a finely
formed and graceful man, with a certain
air of gentility and high-breeding,
which even an unpractised eye may
detect in the most unfavourable circumstances.
He was rather above the ordinary
height, and extremely thin. His
high forehead, from which the hair had
receded; the hair itself,
and the deep furrow in his cheeks, indicated
that sorrow in some of its Proteus
shapes, had accelerated the work of time;
that the fruit which youth had promised,
had been blasted—not ripened. His
face was a history; but there were few
that possessed the key by which the
settled gloom of his pallid brow, and
the melancholy of his fine hazle eye
might have been interpreted. The
figure of Deborah supporting the elegant
traveller, looked like the rough-hewn
stone beside the exquisitely polished
statue on which the sculptor has expended
all his art.

Miss Debby's person, mind, and history,
were altogether singular. Her
height was rather above the grenadier
standard, as she exceeded by one inch
six feet; her stature and her weatherbeaten
skin would have led one to suspect
that her feminine dress was a vain
attempt at disguise, had not her voice,
which possessed the shrillness which is
the peculiar attribute of a woman's, testified
to Miss Debby's right to make
pretensions which at the first glance
seemed monstrous; her quick grey eye,
shaded by huge, bushy eye-brows, indicated
sagacity and thought; time, or
accident, had made such ravages on her
teeth, that but a very few remained,
and they stood like hardy veterans who
have by dint of superior strength survived
their contemporaries.

As Debby would not voluntarily

encumber herself with any toilette
duties that could in decency be dispensed
with, she had never put any covering on
her hair, which time had now considerably
grisled; but she wore it confined in one
long braid, and so closely bound with a
black ribbon, that it did not require, in
her judgment, more than a weekly
adjustment. The only relict of worldly
or womanly vanity which Debby displayed,
was a string of gold beads,
which according to a tradition that had
been carefully transmitted to the younger
members of the family, had been given
to their Aunt Debby some thirty years
before by a veteran soldier, who, at the
close of our revolutionary war, was captivated
by the martial air of this then
young Amazon.

But Debby was so imbued with the
independent spirit of the times, that she
would not then consent to the surrender
of any of her rights: and there was no
tradition in the family that her maidenly

pride had suffered a second solicitation.
The careful preservation of the beads,
and a certain kindliness and protecting
air towards all mankind, indicated
ever after a grateful recollection of her
lover. On the whole, there was in
Deborah's face, rough and ungainly as
it was, an expression of benevolence
that humanized its hard features, and
affected one like the sun-beams on a
frosty November day. She was an
elder sister of Mr. Lenox; had always
resided with his family; and was treated
with deference by all its amiable members.

Mr. Lenox, as master of the family,
was entitled to precedence in our description;
but in this instance, as in many
others, a prominent character has controlled
the arrangement of accidental
circumstances. He belonged to the mass
of New-England farmers, was industrious
and frugal, sober and temperate,
and enjoyed the reward of those staple

virtues, good health and a competency.
He was rather distinguished for the
passive than the active virtues, patient
and contented; he either enjoyed with
tranquillity, or resigned without repining.
His wife (we believe not a singular case
in matrimonial history,) was his superior:
intelligent, well-informed, enterprising,
and efficient, she was accounted
by all her neighbours an ambitious woman.
The lofty may smile with contempt,
that the equivocal virtue, which
is appropriated to the Cæsars and the
Napoleons, should be so much as mentioned
in the low vales of humble life.
But the reasonable will not dispute that
Mrs. Lenox made ambition virtue,
when they learn that all her aspirations
after distinction were limited to the appropriate
duties of her station. Her
husband and sons wore the finest cloth
that was manufactured in the county
of —. Mrs. Lenox's table was covered
with the handsomest and the
whitest diaper. Her butter and cheese
commanded the highest price in the
market. Besides these home-bread virtues,
she possessed the almost universal
passion of her country for intellectual
pleasures. She read with avidity herself,
and eagerly seized every opportunity
for the improvement of her children.
She had married very young, and was
still in the prime of life. The elder
members of her family were already
educated and established in the world;
and she had the prospect of enjoying
what Franklin reckons among the benefits
of our early marriages, “an afternoon
and evening of cheerful leisure.”
Her eldest son, with very little aid from
his parents, had, by his own virtuous
exertions, obtained a collegiate and
theological education, and was established
a popular clergyman in one of
the southern cities. Her second son
had emigrated to Ohio, and had already
transmitted to his parents a drawing
and description of a prosperous little
town, where, five years before, his axe
had first announced man's right to dominion
over the forest. Two sons remained
at home to labour on the paternal
farm; and four girls, from ten to
eighteen, diligent, good-humoured, and
intelligent, completed the circle of the
domestic felicities of this happy family.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Lenox had the wise
and dutiful habit, which, in almost any
condition, might generate contentment,
of looking at their own possessions, to
awaken their gratitude, rather than by
comparing the superior advantages of
others with their meaner possessions, to
dash their own cup with the venom of
discontent and envy, a few drops of
which will poison the sweetest draught
ever prepared by a paternal Providence,

On the kindness of this family Mr.
Redwood and his daughter were cast
for the present; and proud and powerful
in the possession of rank and fortune,

Miss Redwood was obliged to learn
the humiliating truth, that no human
creature can command independence.
Mr. Redwood had been all his life a
traveller, and was a man of the world.
He comprehended at once the embarrassments
of his situation, and gracefully
accommodated himself to the inconveniences
of it, and in such a way,
as to conciliate the favour of the goodhearted
people about him. How far his
daughter imitated his wise example, the
following pages will show.