University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

I have seen and survived the horrors of the different
Mexican revolutions, changes almost as fruitful in treachery
and unnatural crime, as the revolution in France.
I have acted my own part in these revolutions, the true
character of which has been so little known abroad.
My heart has sickened at the sight of guilt and crime,
and I had my share in the general suffering. A sadly
pleasing remembrance remains of the days and months
that I spent with this amiable family in this shelter of
mountains. The storm of nature sometimes raged below
us, and the more terrible storm of the human passions
was passing in its wrath over this devoted land. In travelling
over this immense country, I have seen the ravages
of war, fields, districts, wide tracts of country desolated,
and swept with the horrid besom of war. I have seen
sacked towns, half-burnt houses, every fire extinct, the
streets filled with ruins, and the bones of men, children, and
domestic animals scattered in the court-yards. But this
mass of tragedy was too vast and indistinct for me to feel
and comprehend. I bitterly and minutely remember the
joys, sufferings, and sorrows of this narrow, secluded, and
amiable circle. But even these sorrows, while they have
left a mournful recollection, soothe me in the remembrance.
Our communion had a kind of holy serenity.
Even our gaiety was marked with an air of pensiveness.

Our solemn conversations sometimes turned upon the
grand and beautiful nature spread below us. But the
natural vivacity of the young ladies, changed by the late
fearful events, had undergone a complete revolution.
Even in the midst of their laughter, something marked
that the heart was sad. Most of these conversations,
which more often turned upon the vanity of earth, the
nothingness of all that which gives scope to the hopes and
fears of men on the earth, have passed away unrecorded,
and are remembered only by Him, who writeth down these
thoughts in a book, from which they cannot be erased.
If you are a lover, as you appear to be, of the simplicity
of nature, you will allow me a little more detail, while I
dwell upon the short and simple annals of a residence,
which includes, for that time, the history of people wholly
disconnected from the world. They record the sorrows
of people, who endured them in silence and without repining.
Three of them have passed away from the ills of
life. On my memory is pictured the sweet spot, where
they lingered and died. I see the parallel graves at the
foot of their favorite sycamore. I can fancy that I hear
the wind mustering in the hills above where they sleep,
and that I can see the shadows of the passing clouds flitting
over their solitary graves.

We had provisions sufficient for our subsistence for a
month, and we had plenty of powder and lead. It pained
me, that we were obliged sometimes to select one from
the droves of buffaloes and deer that we saw almost daily
winding their way up and down the mountains. Bryan
had removed to our cave all the remainder of our baggage
from the foot of the mountains. We had every article of
the first necessity. And we had made more arrangements
in the way of comfort, than you can imagine, with such a

limited stock of materials, could be brought about. Still
there were some luxuries, that use had rendered to them
as to others, indispensable. How the want of these things
affects our comfort, is seldom imagined, until that want is
actually felt. Bryan feared nothing, and was obnoxious
to no party. He proposed himself to undertake an expedition
to Durango, to procure these articles, and that
he might bring us back a history of what was transacting
in that world, from which we had fled. He was not only
fearless, but he was faithful; and he saw with instinctive
quickness the views of others, and would always be on his
guard. Of course we could have entire confidence in
his management of that part of his commission, which
must be left to his discretion, and full persuasion that he
would commit neither himself nor us. He felt himself
honored by this entire confidence, and undertook his commission
with alacrity.

There must be many Robinson Crusoe arrangements,
for we had all been so sick of murder and crime, and had
been so nearly on the verge of destruction, that we determined
to remain concealed here, until the revolution took
a more decided character, or until we could return to the
world with safety, or at least as long as this place would
serve us as a retreat. I had acquired some skill and
experience in buckwoods management. I was chief
hunter. Bryan was envoy extraordinary; and, when not
on a mission, was servant, cook, cabinet-maker, upholsterer,
and blacksmith. The young ladies each took their day
in superintending the kitchen establishment. Indeed, until
our interior arrangements were completed, which was a
work of some weeks, our provinces were in danger of interfering,
and our duties were confounded. An important
part of this arrangement was the adding to our natural

defences squared timbers, so connected and adjusted, as
to render our habitation in front one of those rude block-houses,
so well known by the first settlers of our country,
as a strong defence against the Indians, and in which a
couple of resolute men have often sustained a siege against
hundreds of the savages, and finally driven them off. Our
horses, when not employed, fed quietly in the little plain
in front of our dwelling, and we found them indispensable
in removing these timbers to their destined place. In
raising them to their ultimate situation, the ladies put their
fair hands to the work, and even the Saxon, cheered at
the sight of these rustic labors, hobbled to give us a lift.

We had plenty of carabines, and we taught the young
ladies the use of them. I had the pleasure, as a military
man, of drilling them to their exercise. They shrunk at
first from their lessons, and shut their eyes, and turned
pale at the discharge of their pieces. But when I explained
to them, that the use of these carabines, added to
mine and Bryan's, might be the means of defending us
against any common force that might be sent to apprehend
us, and that it might save us all, as well as their father,
from another captivity, they no longer blenched, and were
soon trained to their proper place and duties, in case of
attack. I complimented them liberally on their progress,
and they answered, that the motive was sufficient to render
them Amazons. These were our rougher duties.
But we had our assigned hours for pursuits, more proper
to their character. We wanted books, but we had drawing
paper, and materials for drawing, from the baggage
wagon of the Royalists. We had the most beautiful specimens
of flowers, and shrubs, and evergreens, the palmetto,
the jessamine, the meadow-pink, the magnolia-cup, and
the nymphea-nelumbo, the most splendid of the tribe, and

the American aloe, and the agave, and these decked our
parlor with more than oriental magnificence and perfumes,
beyond “Araby the blest.” The ladies put themselves
to the task of learning to transfer their rich hues and
graceful forms to the paper. Another part of their time
was devoted to religious exercises, and I soon learned to
unite my voice with theirs in their beautiful Saxon hymns.
Another part of the time was devoted to conversations, in
which the Saxon gave us his adventures and wanderings,
up to the day when, to use his invariable phrase, “he
started to hunt after the tamned liberties.”

Our table was luxurious. We had meat of course in
the greatest abundance and variety. The mountain potatoe
grew plentifully in the terraces of the mountains,
and was an excellent vegetable. There were many wild
fruits and roots, whose properties Bryan knew, that added
variety to our repast. With sugar we could well dispense.
In almost every hollow tree was a swarm of bees, and our
residence flowed with honey, if not with milk. Bread,
tea, and coffee, were the only articles of the first necessity
that we could not supply, and we reserved our small stock
of Parso for the wounded and feeble father, and for
emergencies.

Our several departments and functions were soon settled
with great exactness. Our more servile duties we
so arranged, as to become a part of our pleasures. We
passed much time in the quiet and delightful conversations
suggested by the time and the place, in dwelling upon
the past, in talking over the characters with whom we
had been conversant, and the dangers from which we
had escaped, which seemed the more appalling, when
viewed from this secure and quiet retreat. Even the
Saxon seemed almost to forget that he had seen better

days, to participate something of our increasing cheerfulness,
and to thrive in the bland feeling of this serene
and mountain atmosphere. Now and then the dark outline
of the future, and the remembrance of the past, came
over his mind “like a cloud,” and the prodigious force of
other and long established habits, was felt, and then he
relapsed into silent and gloomy meditation.

I felt, I believe, more than the rest, one great and bitter
privation, the want of books. And the want of this luxury,
to one who has been used to it, until it has become a
necessary, is soon felt to be one of the most tormenting
privations. To converse with friends is delightful, and
will stand in stead longer than almost any thing else. To
converse with nature is delightful, but the eye tires in this
converse, if the mind does not. To converse with God
must be the highest, as it is the holiest enjoyment; but in
this employment our weak physical elements soon inform
us, that we are not yet emancipated minds. Books are
the only calm, quiet, unsating, untiring companions, that
we always meet again with the same pleasure as at first.
The enjoyment of reading is to the mind, just what the
colour of green is to the eye, such a happy blending of all
the elements of enjoyment, as is capable of being tasted
forever without satiety.

To supply the want of these, as well as of the other little
articles, we proposed to start Bryan on the projected expedition
to Durango. He was to procure bread, the staff of
life, and wine, which, as he prepared it, was life itself,
and tea and coffee for the physical nature, and books,
the food of the mind. We formed a variety of schemes
for obtaining these articles in safety, and the result was,
that he should go to Durango, and find a retired residence,
making himself as little known as possible; that he should

purchase the requisite supply, and transport them on his
horse to a convenient distance from the city, and secrete
them in a place, whence he could convey them all at one
load, in our wagon, to our residence. We laid down
abundance of precautions, which, after all, might be of
little use, as it was impossible to foresee and guard against
emergencies, and we were, after all, obliged to repose the
main trust in his own native sagacity. We started him on
the best and fleetest of our horses, and it was, after all, a
solemn day, when we took leave of this faithful and cheerful
creature.

We could again say, that time passed both swiftly and
pleasantly in this rural and isolated place. Banished
from earth, its passions and cares, we only felt so much
excitement, as gave us the pleasurable consciousness of
existence. The summer, which in that climate possesses a
sky so bright and cloudless, had the fervors of its sun so
cooled by the mountain breeze, as never to render the
heat uncomfortable in the shade. Its perfect elasticity
and purity inspired the delicious sensations of high health,
and invigorated exercise of all the powers of life. We
had most delightful morning and evening walks, under the
shade across our little table plain. We climbed the wild
cliffs, and found out the dells of the mountains. The ladies
often amused themselves with trials of agility and daring,
which could easiest scale a precipice, or stand with the
firmest head upon the dizzy eminence, that looked down
upon the dark caverns below. We hunted out those green
slopes on the mountnins, where the yellow trumpet-flower
exposes its broad cup with a lustre, surpassing the richest
gilding. We paused for rest and refreshment in some one
of those sweet spots of shade, verdure, springs, prospect,
sublimity, and loneliness, which nature seems to have

formed in these recesses, for her own peculiar enjoyment.
What conversations, alternately gay, tender, and solemn,
we had! How often for these amiable and unsophisticated
girls, who felt and loved nature to a passion, have I
culled the wild flowers, and brought forth all my little
stock of botanieal knowledge, and quoted all my best remembrances
of poetry in my own language, where according
to my judgement, the most consecrated stores are
in preservation, a language which they now well understood,
and which their enunciation and German accent
rendered delightful. Not unfrequently, our thoughts, taking
their flight from the summits of the mountains before us,
soared to the Eternal throne. For though our religious
conversations might not have been deemed exactly orthodox,
when measured by any of those graduated sliders,
which doctors in theology have invented for dividing the
necessary measure of faith into inches, and hundredths,
we often discussed religion, often dwelt in solemn earnestness
upon the wisdom, benevolence, and immensity of
that Omnipotent Being, who reared the immense piles in
our view, and our talk was often of the life to come.

They were beautiful and fascinating girls, and as such
they always impressed beholders. But with them constantly,
as I was, and uniformly treated with the confiding
tenderness of sisters, I was conscious of feeling for them,
only the interest and the attachment of a brother. I thought
of them, when absent, with none of the feverish and tumultuous
sensations with which I recalled the memory of
another. All my thoughts of them, were in keeping with
the scene of our residence; as tranquil, as the repose of
the mountains, as bland as the mountain breeze. The
sad recollection incessantly returns to me, that three of this
family are taking their last sleep in that sweet and lonely

spot, and all that we talked, and all that we enjoyed together
there, is now only “the memory of joys that are
past, pleasant and mournful to the soul.”

In due process of time, Bryan returned, and his return
was a day of jubilee. We had a tea party, to which we
were all invited, and our parlor was decked with an extraordinary
profusion of flowers; for Bryan had returned safe
and sound, had attained all the objects of his mission, and
managed them with the wisdom of the serpent, and the
innocence of the dove. We had a good store of books, an
ample supply of wine, and plenty of tea and coffee; and all
that he was unable to bring with him, was deposited in a
place, whence they could be easily and safely transported
here in a wagon. One consideration, had, unaccountably,
escaped all our recollections. We had thought nothing of
the essential article of dress. To me, it was an unimportant
omission. To the Saxon, who was dainty in these
points, it was more important. But to the young ladies,
who had never been called to stint the farthest and
most expensive range of fancy, in the variety and elegance
of this article, to be confined, week after week, to the
casual dress which they wore when they went to prison, I
knew enough of female nature to understand how painfully
this privation must be felt. They affected, indeed,
to consider it as a trifle, and we talked of fig-leaves and
dresses of skins, and of the innocence which felt no
shame in the want of these things. But I was perfectly
aware, that as daughters of our common mother, they
would have felt some of those splendid dresses, which
they used to wear in Durango, no unimportant accession
to their comforts.

We observed that Bryan seemed rather reluctant to undo
all his budget, and that his countenance bore the marks

of painful concealment. Such was his interest for us, that
little by little, it all came out. And such were the terrors
excited by this full disclosure, that, so far from thinking of
their oversight in the article of dress, the young ladies
were hardly willing that Bryan should incur the exposure
of taking the wagon to the place, where our articles were
hidden, to bring them home. The amount of his intelligence
was this. The Conde had not only resigned, but
was under the suspicion of having abetted the attack on
the Royal corps, that escorted us. In order to vindicate
himself from this suspicion, he had joined in all the measures
against us. “What do you think,” said Bryan,
was the first thing which I saw stuck on the posts and pillars,
and at the corners of the streets, when I entered the
city? Why, God bless your Honor, just this thing; a reward
of five thousand pesos for your Honor's head, and
the same for that of your friend, and five hundred for
mine. By Saint Patrick! my hair rose on end. But,
devil burn them, if I let out a word that I was Bryan himself.”
But he ascertained, that the country was in such a
state of internal discord, and there were so many commencing
rebellions, so many partizan skirmishes, and so
many guerilla parties, so many battles and massacres,
so much mutual distrust, and so little preponderanceof
any one party over the other, that he thought us perfectly
safe, while we kept ourselves concealed among the mountains.
Every individual was too anxious about the safety
of his own head, to think of earning five thousand pesos,
by taking ours. We inferred, on the whole, that we were
in little danger, except from needy and guilty assassins;
and unless many of them leagued together, we felt as
though we should be able to give a good account of them
Our apprehensions were somewhat quieted by another
consideration. The general impression in the city was
that in our flight, we had made for the United States, and
as they had not heard of our arrest, it was supposed we
had succeeded in our escape. In this conversation before
the De Benvelts, all that he pretended to know of the
Conde's affairs, was, that he and his family lived in profound
retirement, and were seldom seen in the city.

When we were in private, Bryan admitted, that contrary
to my orders, he had been at the palace. “I could
not keep,” said he, “from going to see the old place
again, and indeed, your Honor, I swore to Martha, by my
mother, the last time I saw her, that I would give her a
little bit of information about your Honor, whenever I
could. So I made myself known to the servants, and the
Conde, and his lady, and Martha, and all came to see me
in a private way, and they made much of me too, that did
they. Devil burn them, how they came at the thing, is
more than I can guess; but Dorothy, that you used to
learn grammar, and all the Conde's people beside, knew
well where your Honor was, and how we have spent our
time, and all about us here. Martha said but a little before
the rest of them; ay, but I saw the jewel alone; and
then she asked me such a heap of questions, and shed so
many tears, and inquired, how we all lived together here?
And so I told her, `As thick as three in a bed.' `Ay,' says
she, `Bryan, I expect so. But it's not the decent thing, for
young ladies to live together in a cave, and run about the
mountains with a young man. You may tell your master,
that I think so, too.' Says I, `God bless your Ladyship!
They are as sweet, sober, demure, so, so kind little
bodies, as you can find on the earth, as modest as nuns,
and as pretty as angels.' `Why really,' says she, `Bryan,
you have the gift of the gab, and one would think you was

smitten too. The prettier they are, the less ought they
to behave in this way.' So I sees which way the wind
sets, and so I says, `God love your Ladyship, they pray
and sing like nuns, and I dare say, never think a bad
thought. And for my master, the girls call him brother,
and I am sure he loves them only as dear good sisters.
But God love your Ladyship, he loves you after another
sort of a fashion, and better, I'll swear, than he loves his
own eyes.' Upon this, she makes up her mouth, this way,
and smiles, and says, `Do you think so, Bryan?' `Indeed
do I,' says I. `For he sometimes stops short, and
he looks towards your quarter, and he looks big and
solemn, this way; and out comes the hard sigh. Ay,
your Ladyship, I know what all that means.' And she
says, `Bryan, you have learned to flatter. Your master
and the young ladies have had too much of that talk about
brother and sisters. You can tell them, that they are in
no danger at all. Persuade them to come away, and live
with me, and I will answer for them. That will be better
and safer, and more decent too, than to live in that cave,
and wander about with a young man, that, after all, is no
brother of theirs.' `But,' says I, `your Ladyship, would
you have them leave their poor old lame father?' `Ay,
that indeed,' says she, `Bryan, is a thing I don't know
how to manage.' Then, God forgive me, I runs on again,
to tell her Ladyship, that I could swear you never thought
of any body, except in a brotherly way, but her Ladyship,
and that I was sure you loved her better than the light of
heaven. And that pleased her, your Honor, to the life,
and she says a thousand and one kind things about you,
and asked all how your Honor looked and talked, and all
that. Still the kindest thing about you was said last, and
the big round pearls stood in her glistening eyes, when I
was about to come away; and then she says, `Bryan,
swear to me, that you won't tell him that I have said a
word to you about him. Say nothing about it to any
body. For,' she says, `in the old proverb, Secreto entre
dos es secreto de Dios. Secreto entre tres es secreto de
todo el mundo.' `Ay,' says I, `I am as close as a dead
man.' And then she almost showed a heart to kiss me,
when I came away.”

The articles that had been overlooked in Bryan's
mission to Durango, were soon supplied, and in a way
which convinced us at once that we had friends in the
the city, and that by them, at least, the place and circumstances
of our retreat were well known. As we went out
of our dwelling, a few mornings after Bryan's return,
we found a large package, labelled in Spanish for the
Misses Benvelt. It happened to be precisely on the day
in which Bryan returned with his wagon load of goods
from the place where he had concealed them, near Durango.
Thus all our wants were supplied at one time,
for, on opening the package, it was found to contain every
requisite article of a lady's wardrobe for the three young
ladies. In the same package were changes of dress for
De Benvelt and me. This ample and expensive package
was the gift of the father of my former pupil, Dorothea, at
her request. It evinced, on her part, a considerate generosity,
a noble use of opulence, and a kindness of heart,
which struck us all with a deep feeling of gratitude. De
Benvelt was delighted with feeling himself once more
clad as formerly, and to see his daughters looking as they
had in Durango. He rubbed his hands, and exclaimed,
“Now, mein Gott, if this is not what I have read in the
Pibles, how the prophet was fed by de rafens!” There
was a letter in Spanish, along with the package. It informed

us, that to a few friends the place and circumstances
of our retreat were well known; but that we need
have no apprehensions from that knowledge, for that those
friends would only avail themselves of it to put all
others on the wrong track; that it was understood that
the things sent must be indispensable to our comfort,
and that it was hoped we should use them, as the giver
would have done, had situations been reversed. It was
remarked, that it was wholly unnecessary to inform us
how the giver came by this knowledge of our retreat, and
that all it concerned us to know, was, that our secret was
perfectly safe with them. It was hoped, that the times
would soon become tranquil and safe; that we should get
effectually cured of our patriotic fever, return under a
general amnesty, and every thing go on as formerly. A
few remarks at the close, excited in me the deepest sorrow
and regret. The young ladies read the letter first,
and I saw, by the change in their countenances, that they
read something which inflicted the keenest anguish. They
handed it to me. In a kind of postscript to the letter,
were these words:—“The friends of the Misses Benvelt
have but one opinion about the intercourse between them
and their former teacher. They can return with perfect
safety to Durango at any time. As well for his reputation
as theirs, they are earnestly requested to return.”

As much as I rejoiced in this addition to the comforts
of these young ladies, so much was I grieved with this
cruel intimation at the close of the letter, otherwise so
considerate and kind. I tasked all my powers to explain
at away, and account for their impressions, on the ground,
that some gossiping spy had invisibly pryed into our
privacies, and misrepresented the character of our sentiments
and our intercourse. The blow, I saw, had taken

effect and they were struck to the heart. It was past all
my skill, in the slightest degree, to heal the wound.
That they could fly from danger to their father and to me,
and in avoiding exposure of one kind, subject themselves
to pain and exposure, so keenly felt by all modest women,
of a different and more appalling kind, seemed to them a
thought not to be endured. The more deeply they felt
the perfect innocence and simplicity of our intercourse,
the more bitterly they felt the cruelty of these suspicions.
“There is no getting away from evil,” they said. “The very
attempt to fly from one danger, only plunges us into a worse.
Whatever there may be for you, there is no refuge for us,
but in the grave. Of all evils that we have yet encountered,
calumny is the worst.” I urged upon them the
necessity of relying upon the inward consciousness of integrity.
I clearly discovered their unabated regard for
me, and their fondness for the unrestrained frankness and
gaiety of our conversations, walks, and amusements. Their
eyes were opened, and seeing the light in which others,
especially ladies of their own age and condition, viewed
this intercourse, they began to contemplate it with shame
and fear themselves. The charm of their walks and conversations,
the confiding naïveté of sisters in their whole
relations with me, were laid aside. There was now restraint,
and distance, and painful blushes, where there
had formerly been nothing but the unsuspicious confidence
of man before the fall.

Bryan had unknowingly inflicted another wound, for
he had carelessly given them to understand, that in his
late excursion to Durango, he had been at the Conde's
palace, and they had finally drawn from him all the secret
of his conversation with Martha. They saw that she was
impressed upon this subject in the same manner with

Dorothea. They had always regarded her as a model,
her opinions upon all subjects as oracular, and her decisions
as merciful and just. “So then,” they said, “if
we survive danger, we can never hope to survive shame.”
“Why not then,” I cheerfully asked, “why not remain
here, as long as we live? We feel that we are innocent.
We can here appeal to God and our consciences, and so
long as we are all satisfied with one another, why need
we regard what the world says?” To all this they replied,
by asking, if it were not better to follow the advice
given, and return to Durango? “Mein Gott!” cried the
father in an agony. “Yes, go, if you wish to part from
your old lame father for ever. But I hope you will have
the goodness to get this young man to strike off my head
with his sabre first. He is a good young man, I grant
you, and harmless of all the tamned lies that these gossiping
girls talk about you. But he will not be hurt with me
for saying, that he can never be to me in place of my
tear girls.” This statement was conclusive and final, and
they never again resumed the subject of leaving their
father.

The bard said, “Sorrows come not single spies.” The
father's wound, with the coming on of autumn, and with
the visible chagrin and increasing silence and dejection of
the daughters, grew worse. Hitherto he had regularly
hobbled his two or three turns, morning and evening,
across the little plain. When fatigued, he sat down on a
bench, with its moss cushion, purposely prepared for his
repose, under the sycamore, and appeared to enjoy our
promenade, as we gaily tripped back and forward. All
at once he complained of the excessive fatigue of this
exertion, and was only lifted to the door to see us walk,
and to contemplate the rising and the setting sun. Bryan

would take him in his brawny arms, and carry him about,
handling him as tenderly as a child. We all redoubled
our exertions. The daughters, at my suggestion, not
only suppressed every appearance of dejection but assumed
a painful and constrained gaiety.

It was but too evident, that these deep evils of the
heart, coming so together, involved, with the decline of
their father, their own sorrow and decline. Wilhelmine
had always seemed to me the most sensitive and delicate
of the three. The lily in her cheek most preponderated
over the rose. It is impossible to measure the effect of
sorrow on different natures by any other scale, than actual
experiment. The buoyant natures of the two younger
sunk first. The roses on their cheeks faded daily away.
Our charming walks among the mountains, where we
talked the flowing heart, contemplated the glorious and
spirit-stirring scenery, and courted the mountain breeze,
the reckless laugh, the exuberant gaiety, that was delighted
with the passing trifles, all these were gone. When the
father took his daily sleep, we sometimes repeated the
walks, and mounted the same heights, and contemplated
the same scenes as before. But they walked slowly and
by themselves, and were restrained and distant, in permitting
the common courtesies, that they used rather to court.
A slight fermentation changes the nature of the purest wine.
A little change in the mind and circumstances, changes
what was delightful, to a source of pain. When I saw
that I was actually a restraint upon them, I told them that
they had enough to encounter, beside the pain of my
presence, and that if they were afraid of me, or doubted
me, or deemed that my presence was doubtful in its influence
upon their reputation, I would leave them, and seek
for myself a more solitary retreat. “Ah no!” they said,

with one voice, “that would kill us all at one blow.
What could we do without you? What need we care
what they say of us? All our world is here.”

The autumns of this region, especially in the mountains,
are inexpressibly delightful. The azure of the sky is
charming. The coolness and dryness of the atmosphere
remove the languors of summer. We had in the summer
often anticipated the coming of autumn, with delight.
At last the sober autumn, so desired, came. The thousand
wild fruits, with which our table was to be decked,
were matured. The mellow and impressive operation of
autumn upon the mountain scenery was produced. We
experienced the invigorating influence of a keen and frosty
air by night, which, we had hoped, would have given such
a delightful aspect to the blaze of the domestic fire, that
would illumine our cave. Bryan produced the fruits, the
smoking coffee, the venison, the Parso, and he took the
feeble Saxon in his arms, like a child, and placed him on
a kind of rude, but comfortable sofa, made soft with moss,
and spread with buffalo-robes. But the expected joy
would not come. We tried the sweet hymn, but the
voices of the daughters sunk away, and instead of hearing
the prayers and the hymn, we had only silent tears.
“Mein Gott,” said the father, sobbing himself, “why will
ye cry, and break my heart? Bryan, give me that bottle,
and that cup. Here is to `fader land,' and let us be
comfortable.” The very effort to take his customary cup
of wine, showed his weakness, and after a few vain efforts
to parry, or to hide the thrusts of nature, and pass them
off for drowsiness, he requested to be carried from the
fire to the bed. The paleness of his daughters seemed to
say, `Our father will never share this fire with us again.'
Two of them, though not so helpless, appeared as deep

in their decline, as himself. He never, after that, arose,
except to be dressed, and managed as an infant, while the
indefatigable Bryan, beat up, and prepared his couch.

As the frame of De Benvelt was thus imperceptibly
wasting away, nothing on our part was spared, to rekindle
his hopes, or soothe his decline, which friendship, or filial
tenderness, could invent or offer. I had been lately more
assiduous in my habit of wandering in the mountains,
partly with a view of seeking something new, in the way
of aliment, to suit the ever varying fancies of a sick man's
appetite, partly to throw off the debilitating gloom,
resulting from breaking off my former active habits, and
spending the greater portion of my time with the invalid,
and partly to indulge in the contemplation of nature, in
her most imposing features. My excursions, since the
sickness of the family, had been short, and confined to the
immediate vicinity of our retreat. One morning, after I
had seen De Benvelt sink into a refreshing sleep, and his
daughters apparently more cheerful than I had seen
them for some time, I determined to extend my ramble
beyond its accustomed range. I took my gun, and having
lighted a trunk of fat pine with fire, whose ruddy flame
and smouldering smoke might serve as a distant beacon,
to guide my returning steps, I sallied out alone, and
climbed from crag to crag, along this rugged spur of the
Cordilleras, until I had extended my walk to a great distance
from the cave, and saw from my elevation far beneath
me, the smoke of my beacon-fire lifting its cylindrical
pillars aloft, amidst the blue and still atmosphere of
the mountains. What a spectacle arrayed itself below
me! How pure and elastic the air, which, perhaps, never
mortal had breathed before! Far away below me, the
boundless plain of the prairies slept, like the ocean in a

calm. Above me, towered, pile above pile, those mighty
masses, which seemed the ancient battlements of heaven.
I stood wrapt in profound meditation. My thoughts expanded,
my imagination soared, even beyond the immense
prospect before me. There is an inspiration in mountain
scenery, at once soothing and elevating, the happiest mixture
of poesy and devotion. Amidst this tranquil entrancement
of meditation and reverie, I was suddenly
startled by the report, apparently of a musquet, at a considerable
distance still above me. The reverberations
from a thousand caverns, became fainter and fainter, until
Echo herself seemed exhausted with her own magic mimicry.
“Can this,” thought I, “have proceeded from the
hand of man? Are these sublime and remote solitudes,
peopled by other exiles, who have, like us, toiled in benevolence
for our fellow men, and been by them driven,
for a refuge, to the caverns of the mountains? Or is it
the precursor of a volcano, laboring to give vent to those
central fires, which these ancient mountains have smothered
for ages?” I was suspended in doubt, wonder, and
astonishment. I determined, however, to make my way
in the direction of the report, and attempt to unravel the
mystery. With great difficulty, and not without danger
of being precipitated into some of those deep ravines,
which had been washed out by mountain torrents, I reached
the summit of a high peak, which commanded an extensive
view. At its base, and not more than fifty paces
from where I stood, I discovered the mouth of a cavern,
and a Spanish musket standing by the side of it. While
I was surveying this new object of wonder, a man slowly
stepped from the cave. He was, apparently, about forty,
brown and swarthy, with untrimmed mustachios, and a
long black beard; and he was clad in a dress of leather.
But there was the dignity of self-estimation, and of manly
firmness in his port, and a searching glance in his keen
black eye, which struck me with awe. Reflection taught
me in a moment, that this was no ordinary anchorite. He
had not yet espied me. He stood for a moment, seemingly
wrapped in profound and melancholy thought. As
he turned his eye toward the spot where I stood, he instantly
grasped his musket, and cried out in a tone of authority,
Qui en vive? “A friend,” I answered in the same
language. He fixed his eye, sternly, and steadily upon
me, holding his piece in a position for instant use, if inspection
should afford the occasion for it. “Hold!”
I cried. “Whoever you are, or whatever may be your
motive for seeking this wild asylum, I come not to spy
you out, or disturb the solitude of your retreat. My approach
to this place, was the result of pure accident. As I
come with no hostile intent, no disposition to break in
upon the sanctity of your refuge, or pry into the mystery,
with which you have seen fit to shroud yourself, there can
be no ground of hostility between us.” “I took you,”
said he, “for one of those miserable, hireling tools of despotism,
who, lured by the reward offered for my head,
had scented out the haunt of a Patriot exile.” “I am,”
I returned, “like you, an exile myself, and like you a
price is set on my head. I am an Anglo-American, and
lately an adherent of Morelos, and in the thickest of the
fight against the satellites of despotism. You may have
heard of the unfortunate fight of Palos Blancos. Defeated
in that fatal field, with a sick friend, I am an outlaw,
and a tenant of nature, in these wild mountains.” The
musket dropt from his hands, as if he had been palsystruck.
“A companion of Morelos,” cried he, “and an
Anglo-American! And now I discover from your accent,
that you are of English origin. I love even the language
in which Washington and his great compatriots spoke.
That dialect is the consecrated idiom of freedom, and of
independent and noble thinking. The day will come,
when over the globe, he, who shall speak that language,
will claim the same exemptions and immunities, in consequence,
which he demanded in the ancient days, who said,
`I am a Roman citizen.' There is an air of candor in
your countenance, which inspires confidence. Approach!”
I descended the peak, and approached the mouth of the
cavern. “Before you enter this sanctuary of an exile,”
said he, holding out his hand, “pledge me a soldier's
honor, and a Patriot's faith, that you will never reveal the
secret of this interview, at least until Mexico is free.
My name among men was once of too much import, to
become even now the theme of a passing tale.” I grasped
his hand, and gave him the most sacred watch-word of
the Patriots. “Ah,” said he, embracing me, “dear is
that word. Come in, and see the retirement of a Patriot
soldier.” The cavern was deep and gloomy, a perfect
contrast to that, where dwelt my declining associates, and
without even the requisite accommodations for the most
hardy soldier. But the tenant had a mind, that had converted
the stone floor to a couch of down. “You see
before you, said he, “a person, who was once one of the
most distinguished natives of this country, so delightful,
and so favored of nature. I might have shared in the
guilty honors and distinctions of its oppressors. But my
heart told me, even from a child, that God and nature
intended, that this great country should one day be free.
I was among the first, who disdainfully shook our chains
in the face of our oppressors. I was among the first to
join in the effort to cast them from us. While there was
a blow to be struck, I was not inactive. After the fall of
Hidalgo, the struggle was kept up by successive chiefs,
who rallied round the standard of independence, a motley
multitude, dependent for subsistence upon their swords.
We carried on a wild, guerilla warfare. But the superior
discipline of the Royal troops, and the corruption and
unprincipled ignorance of men who had been brutalized
in long and effeminate bondage, and who, having broken
their chains, became wild and unfeeling tyrants in their
turn, and practised indiscriminate slaughter upon defenceless
and unoffending families, and spread horror and dismay
in their path, caused our army to dissolve like snow
in the sun-beams. Our hopes revived for a moment,
when Mina came, like a flaming meteor, from the north,
and with a handful of brave and devoted heroes, checked
for a moment the successful march of oppression. But
his brilliant career was cut short, and he was borne down,
the victim at once of treachery and of his own valor.
After the fall of this great man a few daring spirits still
clung to the cause, desperate as it was. We retreated
to a fortress apparently impregnable; but were followed,
and attacked by an overwhelming superiority of numbers.
My tongue falters even now, in making the humiliating
confession. But a very few, beside myself, escaped the
carnage of that day. Proscribed, outlawed in the land of
my fathers, banished from kindred and every charity and
endearment of life, we had no other resource than to forswear
our kind. A price being set upon our heads, we passed
from place to place in various disguises, more than once
escaping, as it seemed, only by a miracle. I retreated
from mountain to mountain, until I buried myself in this
cavern. I have been offered any of the guilty honors or
places in the gift of Ferdinand the VII, if I would abandon
the cause of my country. But in the free air of these
mountains, and in the hearing of the Divine ear, I have
sworn an oath upon my soul, never to make any compromise
with oppression. No, I will give this to flesh to the
vultures, or the wolves, and these bones to bleach unburied
upon these crags, ere I ever return to man, until there is
some prospect that my country may yet be free.” He
paused, as it seemed, from irrepressible agitation. I attempted
to raise his hopes, and to present brighter
views of the cause, than he seemed to entertain. I assured
him, that in every land, virtuous and free minds
not only sympathized with his country, but anticipated,
with the confidence of prophecy, her ultimate emancipation,
and the period, when the sun which now never sets
upon the slaves of Spain in the new world, shall illumine
in his glorious path, none but freemen.

I then gave him a brief detail of the melancholy circumstances,
which detained me in the sick family of De
Benvelt, and recommended to him, in awaiting the time
to strike for independence again, to seek a temporary
asylum in the United States. “No,” said he, “I love,
I venerate that country; but will never fly from my own.
The stranger knoweth not, and cannot know, what charities
I have been obliged to fly, in coming here. My
heart bleeds at the recollection, but no sympathy can
avail me. But if you have mistaken the despondence of
a father, torn from his children, of a husband, torn from
the bosom of the wife of his youth, for despair of the
cause of freedom, you have misinterpreted my feelings.
Seven millions of men that inhale such an air, and see
such mountains, can never be held in final bondage. The

spirit of freeedom may be at this moment, like the fabled
Enceladus, pressed down as under the incumbent weight
of mountains. But the subterranean fires will ultimately
burst forth. Let our oppressors beware of the explosion.
From what quarter we are to expect redress, it is impossible
to foresee. But the day must, and will come. Great
God! Shall a despotism, as icy, and as eternal as the
snows upon these mountains, forever blast this lovliest
portion of creation? No. The generation that is now
rising, is tearing off the veil with which despotism and
priestcraft have hoodwinked them, and are beginning to
feel that they are men. While such men still breathe in
Mexico, as Guerrero, and Bravo, and Santanna, the
cause cannot utterly perish.” For my part, my heart
kindled again at the tone with which he spoke, and in
which he gave me the details of various scenes, where he
had been engaged. Humanity and friendship called back
my thoughts to the place from which I came. I described
the condition and circumstances of the amiable and suffering
family in which I dwelt. The simple narrative of their
sufferings, proved that this man, apparently of steel and
rock, this man who seemed to have no sympathies but
with his country, had a heart of the quickest and tenderest
sensibility. He lamented bitterly that he could do nothing
for them, but pity them. “It may be,” said he, “that
they and you will hear from me again. I am well informed
of what is passing in that world below us. I am waiting
for the moment, to rally the friends of independence
round her standard once more. If we should ever conquer
our freedom, they will then see, if I am not the friend
of the friendless, the deliverer of the oppressed, and the
hope of such people, as those with whom you sojourn.” I
viewed the singular man who stood before me; awe-struck
at his manner, and the tones of his voice. “Such are the
extraordinary men,” thought, I “whom Providence raises
up and qualifies for such emergencies.” I ventured, indirectly,
to ask him his name. “Your curiosity on this
point,” said he, “does not dishonor me. I doubt not, that
you are a man of honor, and that I may safely trust you.
If this great land should bequeath a heritage of bondage to
the generation to come, I should not desire that my name
should reach posterity, and I should choose to live here
alone, with God and my conscience, and that this cavern
should be my tomb. But if, as I trust, a more happy
destiny awaits it, if hereafter the corrupt and blinding
despotism of this period should be succeeded by a young
and virtuous republic, true to its own glory and the sacred
principles of liberty, and flourishing in all the arts of
peace and humanity, I trust, that my name will not be utterly
forgotten. You will then remember this interview.
You will welcome your proscribed friends to all the succour
and protection, that Guadeloupe Victoria can bestow.
Remember, that he predicted the future happiness and
glory of his country.” “Victoria!” cried I, “am I then
in the presence of that man—” He modestly checked
me, reminding me, that we had both forfeited our names
among the stars. He turned the conversation again to
the sick and suffering family, to which, I told him, I felt
it was time for me return. When invited to honor that
family with his presence, he remarked, that he could
bring them nothing but unavailing sympathy, and that it
seemed necessary for him to see no more scenes to soften
the heart. “Patriots,” said he, “in these times, must renounce
humanity, and act as simple intelligences, alike
above fear, interest, or feeling. If the time should ever
arrive, when I can wipe away a single tear from the eyes
of your distressed friends, then will I come to visit them
and you.” I turned and left him with profound regret
and admiration.

As De Benvelt's strength declined, as his body wasted, until
the skin of his once round figure could almost be wrapped
about him, his sensibility and the powers of his mind made
themselves more conspicuous. Before his girls, he always
spoke cheerfully, prophesying the return of good times,
and the chances of their shortly being allowed an unmolested
departure to England, or the United States. But his
innate sincerity always manifested itself, through his unwonted
shifts at disguise. And the third day of his confinement
to his couch, while his girls had retired, as was
their custom, probably to private prayers, I went to his
bed at his request, and I saw the tears streaming down his
emaciated cheeks. “Mein Gott forpit,” said he, “that you
should wrong me, and think that I am afraid to die, or that
I should have de fears of you. But it is such a tamned
pad world! My girls are as harmless as lambs, and that
you well know. But the world will speak against them
now. What will they say about them when their poor old
fader is gone? Mein Gott, it goes to my heart, to see them
droop and look so pale. That would kill me if there were
nothing else. The peoples are not fit for the tamned liberties,
and they will call my poor girls bad names, when my
bones moulder. When I am tead, you tell them, that I
bid them not cry. You send them off to your country, as
fast as you can, and the first scoundrel that speaks against
them, you kill! Mein Saviour forgive me! But my bones
would not rest in their shroud, if people should speak
against my tear girls. Swear that you will do this, and De
Benvelt will die in peace.” It will readily be supposed, I
promised all that he desired.

It was only four days, after the father was confined
to his couch, before Annette, naturally the gayest of the
three, was confined to hers also. We moved her's so near
her father's that even with their faint voices, they could
commune with each other. And often in the intervals of
our nursing, and our efforts to cheer them, we heard, interchanged
between them, the low and faint tones, which
trembled with all the tenderness of the father and daughter,
as they noted to each other the progress of decline, and the
color of their thoughts and feelings in view of it. Sophy
still made efforts to keep from the couch, but the languid
eye, though it shed no tears, was the sure index, that she,
also, was drooping. Wilhelmine, by incredible efforts kept
up her exertions, if not her courage and spirits, and was
continually walking from couch to couch, like a ministering
angel, begging us all to keep up our spirits, and trust in
the power and mercy of God. Amidst this scene of trial,
even Bryan's gay face became overcast. I often saw the
poor fellow struggle, to the utmost, to restrain the expression
of his feelings, and when it was no longer in his power,
go abroad, and give free scope to his tears. My own
heart was inexpressibly heavy. I spent hours and days, in
intense thought upon the nature of their disease, and the
possibility of some remedy. I scrambled the mountains
anew, for mountain herbs, and every sort that Bryan had
heard to be salutary, was given in decoction. As a last
resource, I proposed to go in disguise to Durango. We
had no want of money, and I felt sure, that I could bring in
safety my friend the American surgeon. Neither the father
nor his daughters would listen a moment to the proposition.
The father, and both the sick daughters insisted, that they
were doing quite well, that they felt their disorder to be of
such a character, that medicine and physicians could do

nothing for it, and that time alone could remove their ills.
They assured me, that if I started away, the loneliness
alone would kill them, and that they should never see me
more; that even if I went, the temptation of the price on
my head would be sure to bring death to me, without any
other effect on them, than involving us all, sick and well,
in the same common ruin.

I will not tire you with these details of the decline of the
father and his daughters, if I may avoid it. I am aware,
that passing, as it did, under my eye, with my feelings so
interested by the family, and in our peculiar circumstances,
it may not engross the feelings of others, as it did mine, to
witness their almost imperceptible decay, their silent, and
uncomplaining approach towards the last hour. On the middle
of December, there happened a strong white frost, and
one of those glorious mornings of a tropical climate in the
mountains, ensued. The first gleams of the morning sun
melted away the hoary envelope, where they fell. The
lengthened shadows of the trees were beautifully marked
in white, on the grass and the shrubs, where the sunbeams
were intercepted by shade. The birds feel the changes of
the atmosphere with the delicacy of a thermometer. They
are never so gay, as in the elasticity of the air, during the
rising of the sun in the sultry climates, after a frosty night.
They seem to be multiplied in number among the branches.
Their song is lengthened, and the movement is more
brisk and gay. It was so this morning. To the mingled
notes of a thousand birds, was added the distant baying
of our dogs, ringing, and echoing in the distant forests and
hills. The deer, the cabri, the buffalo, every thing, that
had life in the mountains, uttered its peculiar note of joy.
The brilliance of the morning sun illumined the entrance
of the cave. The carol of the birds, and the mingled hum

of the spirit-stirring morning, was heard, even by the feeble
tenants of the couches. What a beautiful morning, each
one exclaimed! To my surprise, both the father and Annette
requested that they might be dressed, and helped
to the seat under the sycamore. Wilhelmine dressed her
sister, and Bryan the father, and Sophy was just able to
drag her weary frame to the spot, unaided. The father
when dressed, aroused himself. “My tear Frank,” said
he, “Gott knows, how soon I shail feel so strong again.
This is too sweet a morning, to spend entirely on this weary
couch. Help me up to look at the sun once more.
Bryan and I, with great caution and tenderness, lifted him
out and placed him on his seat. Annette was loosely dressed
in a white muslin mantle. The unusual effort of rising,
had marked a small and bright circle of vermilion in the
centre of her cheek. But the rest of her face was blanched
to the whiteness of her robe. We aided her sister, to
place her beside her father. Sophy leaned against the
tree. “Here, set me down,” said Annettee, “and let me
breathe.” As I carefully helped her to her seat, and adjusted
her cushion, she smiled and said, “My dear brother,
you forget how liable such gallantry is to suspicion, if any
one should be here in concealment to see it.” Their position
was only ten paces from the door of the cave, and
a position between sun and shade. The daughter sustained
herself and her father, by passing her arm about his
neck, and their faces had that exaltation of feeling and
tenderness, mingled with the traces of sinking nature, which
clearly indicated, that the mortal was soon to unite itself
with the dust, and that the spirits were preparing for their
flight. Both were silent for some moments, as if lost in
the intenseness of thought or feeling.

Annette spoke first, and with a stronger tone of voice than
usual. “My dear father,” said she, laying her hand on her bosom,
there is that passing here, that no words can describe,
What a glorious morning, and how sweetly those birds sing!
They are chanting the praises of Him to whom we are
going. Oh! we shall be together there forever; and
there is no slander, no wounds, no shedding of blood, no
bitterness of heart. Look at the clouds on yonder plain;
see how they flit over the green grass. And such is life!
How grand and awful are those blue summits yonder, that
soar away towards Heaven. Dear father! whenever I
have lately mentioned, in our hymns and our prayers, the
sweet words, `fader land,' it was not of the country beyond
the seas, where I was born, that I thought, but the
good and happy country above those blue summits. There
is `fader land.' There alone is peace.” The father was
dissolved in tears. The sisters with difficulty restrained
the audible burst of their grief. Bryan turned and walked
away, unable longer to witness the scene. I remarked,
that she was faint, and that her bosom heaved with a short
and laborious respiration. I watched the entranced inspiration
of her eye, which was kindled with an enthusiasm
and filial tenderness, that struck me with awe. At my request,
she took a little wine, and as she manifested a purpose
to speak again, the father looked upon her with entreaty
in his eyes. “Mein Gott! It is too much. Tear
Annette, say no more. You kill me twice to see your eye
sparkle so, and hear your voice sound so strange. Let us
die, and go to Heaven together, and say not another word
about it.” “Dear father,” she continued, “but this once, and
then I will be still. Come here, my good Wilhelmine.
My poor, pale Sophy, come here. They both trembled
excessively, for they understood from her voice and countenance,

that a change was taking place in her. They
came to her, however, and each took a hand. “Be good
girls,” said she, “and neither mourn nor cry. It is not the
terrible thing, I thought it, to die. I am in no pain nor
fear, and I am quite happy, and feel like sinking to a sweet
sleep.” She slowly raised her finger and pointed to the sky.
“Look at that mild, blue firmament. Beyond are God, the
Redeemer, and my final home. Lay me beside the spring
there, a little below the foot of this tree, where our brother
sits to read. Each of you kiss me.” They each approached
nearer, kneeled, and gave her the long, quivering,
and final kiss of agonizing and parting affection. “And
you, too, my dear brother, there can be no harm now.”
They inclined their heads, and I kneeled, and received
the pressure of her cold lips. She then said in a faint,
and almost inaudible voice, “Dear, dear, father! the last,
and the sweetest is for you, for we shall sleep together.”
But it was too late. The affectionate heart of the father,
broken with what he had seen, suffered, and expected, had
ceased to beat. The daughter, with her arm still thrown
round his neck, drew one long and deep sigh, and they
were both for ever free from the burdens of mortality.

Never shone there a brighter morning sun, than that,
which threw its radiance on these pale faces. Bryan and
I reclined them on the grass, without removing the arm of
the daughter from its place, and I aided Sophy to her couch,
and the other sister seated herself by her bed. It was a
scene of such peculiar sorrow, and I was so confused and
troubled in my thoughts, that I have but an indistinct remembrance
of what followed. I remember distinctly, that
Sophy appeared to be no weaker in consequence of the shock
of this blow. According to the dying request of the sister,
no tears were shed, except by Bryan, and he wept only

when abroad. Wilhelmine walked thoughtfully backwards
and forwards, occasionally looking at the tranquil countenance
of her sister, on which the last smile of affection and
hope was sealed up, and then on her father, whom we
robed for his last sleep in his full uniform. Bryan dug one
grave, and I the other, in the spot which Annette had designated
with her dying breath. We sought diligently, and
we found blue slate of the mountains, and we wrought
slabs, which we placed in their narrow beds in the form
of coffins, reserving one for a covering, when their bodies
should have been let down. All this was not accomplished,
until the sun had already sunk below the tops of the
mountains. I then said to Wilhelmine, “All is now ready,
my dear sister, for laying the bodies of these our friends
decently in their last bed. Say you, if there are to be
other solemnities, before we render dust to dust.” She
wished to read the Saxon Lutheran burial service over
the bodies. I brought her the book, that contained it.
Bryan and Sophy kneeled on one side of the bodies, and
the priestess in this sad solemnity, and myself, kneeled on
the other. In a voice to which great intellectual energy
and exertion had seemed to impart calmness and touching
sweetness, and which was rendered by the scene, and by
suppressed emotion, sublimely impressive, and with an eye,
that often turned from the book to the sky, she read that
solemn service, every word of which, though I but imperfectly
comprehended the meaning, carried a chill to my
heart. She then sung the hymn, that had been dear to the
departed, in the same language. As it has been since
translated to me, the purport of it was, that the living congregation
below, that still toil in sin and tears on the earth,
and the emancipated congregation of the just above, are
but different members of the same unbroken body, united
in the Living Head; that it is the plan of his gracious discipline,
that the one portion shall walk awhile below the stars,
while the other portion is taken above; that the death of the
just is only the following him who hath triumphed over death,
through the dark valley, from the union below to the union
above. The mansions above are denominated “fader
land,” and these words formed a kind of ehorus, and whenever
it recurred, the faint voice of Sophy, also made itself
heard. This service finished, they both kneeled a moment
in silence, and only uttering thoughts for the divine ear.
Bryan and I then took the body of the father first, and afterwards
of the daughter, and deposited them both in the lonely
bed, prepared for them. The daughters cast one intense
look at the loved countenances. We each took a slab, and
gently laid them both at the same moment on the slabs
within which the bodies rested, and they were hidden from
view by the veil of eternity. They each, according to the pious
custom of their country, threw a little earth into each grave,
and we heaped up their narrow bed, and smoothed down
their lonely pillow, and left them to their final repose.

The shades of evening had closed round us, when the
solemn duties were finished. Bryan kindled a bright fire,
and prepared our coffee, and Sophy exerted herself to
take her customary seat at the table. You can easily
imagine, that it was but a melancholy repast. When it
was over, and before they retired for the night, Sophy
grasped my hand, and thanked me, with solemn earnestness,
for all that I had done for their departed friends, both while
living and when dead. She added, with a melancholy smile,
“We wish not to bow you to the earth, with witnessing unavailing
sorrow. To you it is owing that they had all the
solace and comfort that their case admitted, to the last,
and that they have been so decently interred. We see

hat you look ill and distressed. Your labors to-day
have been not only pious, but exhausting. We mean not
to tire you with repining and tears. They are now emancipated,
and we owe them no duties, but those of memory,
and those we shall pay but too faithfully. And yet why?
How much happier are they than we, who still toil on behind?”
Wilhelmine had a strong natural taste for drawing.
Sophy reclined on her couch, and the other sat by
it, and by the bright light of the fire, was calmly occupied
in sketching the outlines of the recent funerals, including
the mourners, the tree, the cave, and in the back ground
the grouping of the mountains. “It will never be fresher
in my memory,” she observed, “than now.” The design
was of great boldness, and there was a fidelity in the loneliness
and grandeur of the scenery, that was in strong
keeping with the events, that the funeral piece was intended
to commemorate.

The conversation turned on the only subjects that belonged
to the remembrance of the day, the happiness of
the just, the certainty of brighter and better worlds, and
the little reason there is for mourning and regret for those,
of whom there is hope that they have been washed in
those perennial fountains for cleansing, that are for ever
open in Zion. The conversation was soothing and full of
hope, and befitting the duties and reflections of the past
day. I only felt, as I left them for the night, the fear that
this glow of faith and hope, these strong restraints, imposed
upon natural feeling, would be gone in the morning, and
that they would awaken to the condition and feelings of
ordinary mortals, and to double desolation of heart.

It was not altogether so. The inspiration of the evening
had, in some sense, passed away in the morning.
There was still a strong struggle for self-control. Their

countenances showed how unavailing was that struggle,
and that nature will have her way. Sophy was evidently
soon to find rest beside her sister. She thought, and she
said so herself; and added, that she felt but a single regret
in the thought, and that was, that she should leave
her sister still more alone. They saw too, that I was ill,
and their apprehensions on this score operated as a powerful
motive to restrain the expression of their feelings.
Indeed the sympathy which I had felt with their sorrows,
and the unremitting attention I had paid to the sick, and
the loneliness of heart which I now experienced, had
borne heavily upon my health. But I spoke cheerfully,
and assured them, that they need have no apprehensions
of me. I made it a point to take Bryan with me to the
chase, that I might leave them to the first expression of
their sorrows without a witness.

To a mind of tenderness and sensibility, that enters
keenly into the sorrows of another, nothing is more painful,
or wears faster, than to perceive that all efforts to
comfort, arouse, interest, or amuse, are entirely unavailing.
To witness, day after day, the silent pressure of a grief,
that strikes deeper from being profoundly silent, operating
a steady and invariable progress towards the destruction
of its subject, is indeed terrible. The sisters made it a
point, never to speak of those that were gone. They
never again made the slightest allusion to the unfavorable
impressions and reports about our mode of living together.
On the contrary, Wilhelmine manifested a recklessness, an
utter indifference upon the subject, that impressed me
more strongly than any thing else could have done, that
she had set the world wholly at defiance, and that she
had utterly renounced its hopes, fears, and opinions.
Sophy became paler every day; but she made it a point

to arise occasionally, and be dressed. She became more
earnest and assiduous in her prayers and religious exercises.
When they were finished in the morning, she generally
requested her sister and me to take each an arm,
and thus aided, she was able to take two or three turns
across the plain, in front of our cave. Of course every
turn led us by the grave of her father and sister.

The second time we walked, as we led this pale, but
interesting shadow, with her muslin robes floating so loosely
about her, as to seem but the drapery of the tomb, by
the sycamore where were the two graves, she saw that
we had carved an inscription on the smooth and white
rind of the tree. She begged us to assist her to the seat,
on which her father and sister had died, where she could
read the inscription. The words which I carved, gave
the names and ages of the deceased, at the foot of the
tree with this line, which has ever struck me as the most
beautiful and affecting monumental inscription for the case
to which it is adapted, in the English language: “They
were lovely in their lives, and in their death they were not
divided.” She read the inscription again and again. She
then turned, and pressed my hand, and her eyes filled with
tears. “I think,” said she, “it is from the Bible, and I
know enough of your language, to feel the beauty and
force of it. There is room on this side for another grave.
We were both equally dear to him, though the heart of
Annette broke first. I wish to be laid on this side, and
then he will be between us.” As she said this, we led her
back to the house.

I took an immediate opportunity to speak with Wilhelmine
about the wishes of her father, that as soon as
he was gone, I should assist his surviving children to
escape to the United States. The strength of Sophy was

not sufficient for us to think of making such an experiment
with her. But I suggested the propriety of putting
a couch into the waggon, and sending Bryan with them
both to Durango, where Sophy would have the advantage
of a comfortable house, society, medical aid, and better
nursing than could be had here, and, more than all, where
the chain of gloomy associations, connected with this place,
would be broken off. It was proposed to the invalid by
us both. She answered promptly, “My dear brother, I
am perfectly aware, that to have no society, but a couple
of moping, and melancholy, and uninformed girls, and,
moreover, one of them sick, must be a painful and tiresome
business to a young man like you. I neither wonder
at, nor think hard of you, for wishing to get rid of us. But
for me, and I think you may add, for my sister, the matter
about which you think so much, in this proposition, is
wholly out of the question. If there are spies upon us,
we care so little what the world may choose to say of us,
that I dare say, my sister does not bestow a second thought
upon the subject. I would not regard it, even if I expected
to return to life, which I surely do not. For the rest,
I would not lose the pleasure of walking, as long as I am
able, beside their graves, and looking upon those mountains
and that sky, which were the last objects of their
contemplation, for all the pageants and pleasures, which
the earth could have afforded me in perfect health.
Mysterious and delightful tie! How poor is language to
describe what I feel, when I look upon their narrow bed.
This is to me a consecrated spot, and nothing shall separate
me from the place where their ashes moulder. But
a little while, and mine shall be there also. Above these
graves, there seems a point of milder blue in the sky; and
there, I fancy to myself, the very place where their gentle
spirits made their way to their home. Do not name the
thing again, my brother, of removing me from this place.
Here is my last home.”

I have a satisfaction in reflecting, that there was nothing
that could be procured in these mountains, that we did not
obtain for her. Again I climbed the precipices, to procure
mountain herbs, of which, however, we had already experienced
the inefficacy. Nothing which the chase could furnish,
that was deemed delicate or restorative, was wanting. We
descended to the plains, and Bryan displayed his acquirement
in the arts of the country, by noosing a cow and a
goat, which we confined, and fed for their milk. Wilhelmine
seemed still to have new and untried powers
of exertion, and an unexhausted fund of self-command.
She assumed cheerfulness in the presence of the interesting
invalid, and she was more than repaid, by the faint smile
which showed how much she felt the kindness. There
could happen but few events to diversify the sad monotony
of this existence. We still aided the invalid to drag her
feeble steps along her accustomed promenade. But no
cheerful conversations ever enlivened these walks, and
though she declined slowly, and gave no intimations that
she considered her death at hand, we saw that our cares for
her would soon have an end. The bloom of Wilhemine
too was all gone, but she insisted so firmly that her health
was good, and her capacity for the endurance of fatigue
and watching seemed so great and entire, that we were
obliged to credit her. Sometimes by an effort, apparently
to reward our unwearied exertions for them, a momentary
gleam of cheerfulness would come over their
countenances, but the effort was too painful to be long
sustained. Their conversations together and with us, were
calm and grave, and turned chiefly upon the life to come,

and things with which this world has no concern. In this
state of their minds, the soothing elevation of melancholy,
“the joy of grief,” no longer seemed to me a poetic fiction.
How many holy thoughts, how many pensive meditations
upon the emptiness of this transitory existence, fell from
the lips of these sisters, during her long sickness. The
remembrance of these solemn conversations, and the tone
and manner in which they were uttered, make this period
seem, in review, like a long sabbath. I deem these remembrances
salutary. They check the folly of the excesses
of hope; and when I find myself giving the rein to
my thoughts or my feelings, I recall the sober sadness of
their countenances, and their saint-like manner and deportment,
and I instantly awaken from my dreams, to the consciousness
of things as they are.

During this slow and heavy winter, Bryan went on a
second trip to Durango, to procure not only a supply of
refreshments, but some little opiates and cordials, that
we thought would at least palliate the watchfulness and
weakness of our dear invalid. He returned with the
articles, and in safety. Royalism had, for the present, in
the internal provinces, a quiet ascendancy. But the stillness
was that ominous and terrible one, that precedes a
tornado. A number of obnoxious Patriots, upon whose
heads a price had been fixed, had been brought in and
executed. Bloody and extreme counsels were the only
ones that prevailed. I was in no danger, only because
I was supposed to have reached the United States. Of
the two families that knew our secret, and interested themselves
for us, he only heard that things with them were as
usual.

At home I read as formerly, and the sisters seemed to
give diligent attention; but it was obvious that they were

no longer interested in what they heard. I made efforts
to persuade Wilhelmine, leaving Bryan to sit beside her
sister, to take now and then one of those rambles that she
had formerly loved so much, with me among the mountains,
that we might again scale the precipices, and catch
new views of the glorious scenery above and around us.
We hoped it would, for a little time, break the gloomy
chain of her associations. Sophy added her intreaties to
mine. She besought her sister to listen, and to go with
me, only that she might keep up her strength and spirits,
and be able to sustain the requisite nursing and watching.
She adeed, “I feel as if this weary existence clung to me
against my will, and I have fears that I shall live to
wear you all out, and be the last to die myself.”

This is probably carrying out with tedious minuteness the
details of our manner of passing the winter, the spring, and
the summer. I felt my mind acquiring a kind of indolent
melancholy, a stagnation of existence, constantly contrasted
with the bustle and adventures of the camp life that preceded
it. Months passed, and left upon the memory no
traces but a general and gloomy recollection of the same
sad way of getting along. Nature had not changed. For
the birds sung as gaily as before. The mountains lifted
their blue heads, and were as brightly illumined by the sun.
But the mind of the beholders had changed. And the
brightest light of heaven can in this way become gloom.
Sophy herself seemed sometimes verging to fretfulness
and impatience. She said it was hard to endure the
thought of this slow decay; to be longing for the repose
of her father and sister; to be incapable of any comfort
herself, and to be a heavy clog on the strength and enjoyments
of those who might otherwise be happy; and that
she was impatient to be gone. As the autumn advanced,

she began to discern the term wished for, for she showed
marks of more rapid decline. She had regular and
daily paroxyms of hectic fever, in which, as is customary
in that flattering and terrible disease; the eyes glistened
with the strange fire and brilliance of an excitement of a
very peculiar cast, but which I have often noted, as belonging
only to that disease. One general symptom is an
increase of excitement and sensibility. I will not phrase
it by the technical term, “morbid,” for in her case it was
delightful. It was the enthusiasm, the poesy of disease
and the tomb, sanctified by the most elevating hopes of
religion, and associated with the cheering expectation of
soon rejoining her departed friends. I remember many a
conversation, which produced in me the deepest thrill of
feeling. Now, that it is too late, I regret that I did not
heed them more, and even write them down. They are
all passed away, unrecorded, with her pure spirit. Apparently,
the hope of speedy dissolution would have been
rapture to her, but for the thought of leaving her sister in
loneliness and sorrow behind. When she expressed these
desires to be gone, her sister would sometimes grasp her
hand, and intreat her to live for her sake. “Look you
here,” she would reply, holding up her skeleton arm,
“and see, dearest Wilhelmine, if I could live, even if I
wished it.”

The last walk which we aided her to take, she was impressed
with a presentiment that it would be her last, and
it was the most cheerful promenade which we had taken
for a long time. To us she seemed better. She stooped
to admire the freshness of the flowers that we had planted
over the graves of her father and sister, and which were
now unfolded in full bloom. She remarked upon the delightfulness
of the morning, the freshness of the inspiring

air, and what has so often struck me as a beautiful accompaniment
of morning scenery, the distant and mellow baying
of our dogs, which, now that we had ceased to follow
them to the chase, took their accustomed range by themselves.
She remarked what a glorious and happy world
this would be, if we could always see such scenery, breathe
such an air, have the exercise of perfect health, have our
friends always with us, and have perpetually the exaltation
of feeling that she then felt. She read the inscription on the
tree repeatedly, her lips moved, and she looked upwards.
She then complained of fatigue, and requested us to aid
her to her couch. As soon as she had gained it, she remarked,
that of all these pleasant walks, this had been the
most delightful; and “I perceive,” said she, “that you
have not been aware, that it has been my last.” I then
remarked for the first time, that she was dressed with
more than her usual care and elegance. There was
something of fancy and poesy in the arrangement of the
drapery of her dress, and her head was decked with flowers.
There was, as usual, a slight tinge of the rose, in
the midst of the whiteness of alabaster in her cheek, and
her eye sparkled with the unearthly brilliance of hectic inspiration.

After we had laid her down, and fanned her for a moment,
she begged her sister to leave her, and go to a
distant part of the cave, and execute some little commission,
which they had previously arranged—adding, that
she felt quite comfortable, and that she had something
particular to say to me. Bryan arose and went away,
and her sister left her to execute her commission. “Sit
close to me,” said she, “dear brother, and listen. I have
a great many things to say to you, and you must task your
patience. This is certainly a lonely and melancholy kind

of life, that you have been leading here for a long time.
What would you think, if your sick sister, to whom you
have been so very kind, should spend her last moments, in
choosing a wife for you? Pray do not look with so much
astonishment, for I am not wild, but I shall speak to you
words of the most sober truth. I am sure there can be
nothing forbidding in the idea of my dear Wilhelmine for
a wife. Do you know that this dear girl has all this time
loved you in secret, and in silence? And such a love!
It is not the haughty and coarse sentiment of Dorothea,
nor the romantic fondness of the beautiful Martha; but a
something tenderer, and I am sure as pure, as that of a
sister. She has lived upon this deeply cherished feeling.
She would have died with the rest of us but for this. She
has had something, about which to think, and for which to
hope. You would be to her, father, and brother, and sister,
all in one. We have all known that she entertained
this feeling, and have felt, that instead of loving us the
less, she has loved us the more for it. At the moment
that we knew how deeply this feeling preyed upon her,
she inspired me with jealousy, for I thought she loved
Annette and her father, more then I did. Has she ever
betrayed this deep feeling by a word, or a look to you?”
I answered, that I had not dreamed that she entertained a
feeling towards me, beyond sisterly kindness. “There,”
said she, “you have Wilhelmine's character, just that ardor,
and just that self-control. She well understood all
that would be said, and that was said, about your living
with us, as you have done. Could you have heard what
she said to us on the subject! Oh! such a sister! If you
knew her but half as well as I do, your mind is such, that
you could not but love her in return. I wished this conversation,
that I might make you one request. And you
need have no fear of frequent teasing in this way. It is
my dying request. This dear girl knows nothing of my
purpose, scarcely suspects that I know she loves you.
The request is, that you should marry Wilhelmine. To-morrow
she will be alone with you. You know what has
been said already. How much more will be said, when I
am gone. I love you too and with a sisterly tenderness,
but I think it is so disinterested, that I would not, to save
her reputation, or her life, ask you to do this, if I did not
firmly believe, that you are formed for each other, and
that she will render you happy;—happier, I dare to say, my
dear brother, than even Martha herself. That overwhelming
sentiment would finally triumph over her melancholy,
and the loss of us all. The times will change, and you
will soon be able to leave these mountains with safety and
honor. Unless she leaves them as your wife, she will not
leave them at all. Here she will spend the sad days of
her remaining existence.”

She was here, so much exhausted, that she was obliged
to lie down, drawing her breath, with that short, rapid,
and laborious respiration, which marks, that the organs are
performing their functions so much the more rapidly, as
they are nearer running down. During this interval of
exhaustion, her sister came to the bed, apparently ignorant
of the purport of her communications to me. We
applied all the little restoratives, that we could command.
Wilhelmine stood over her, feeling her pulse,
and struggling to suppress the appearance of alarm, and
laboring to treat this as one of her customary fits of
faintness. It was half an hour before she revived sufficiently,
to resume the conversation. We then raised her
again, and with a faint smile, she remarked to her sister
that she had not yet quite finished what she had to say.

Her sister retired again, and she resumed the conversation.
“I had a great many more things to say to you,
but I perceive my strength is failing, and I must come to
an end. What say you, my dear brother, to my proposition?
I have been settling the great concerns of eternity,
for months. There is but this single concern on my mind.
Satisfy me on this point, and I should sink, as in sleep.
I could not bear the thought of her returning to the world,
to encounter shame and reproach; or of her remaining
alone in these mountains, with no other objects to contemplate,
than the graves of her father and her sisters. When
I am once gone, and you and she are left here alone, or
with no witness, no protection, but your servant, guilty
or innocent, it will be the same thing in the view of the
world. Surely you will not embitter my last moments,
by denying to your sister Sophy, the last request she will
ever make you.”

I am not a casuist. I knew not what answer to give
at once to comfort the dying, and not commit my conscience
and my future conduct. It occurred to me to
say, that she might be deceived in respect to her sister's
feelings, and to admit that I was previously occupied with
other sentiments, which I could not immediately conquer,
and that it would be injustice to Wilhelmine, to offer her
a divided affection. But the progress of her decay, saved
me from dissembling or prevarication, and her from the
agony of a refusal. She passed into that state of feverish
exaltation, in which she always found every thing according
to her wishes. She called her sister with such a
strength of voice, that she heard her although at a considerable
distance. Her sister came trembling, or rather
flew to the bed. “I have finished with him,” said she,
“and now, dear Wilhelmine, I wish to speak to you both

together.” She clasped both our hands in hers. “Do
you remember,” said she, “how sweetly tranquil Annette
was, when she died? Well, I feel equally so. I am at
peace with God. The only earthly concern on my heart
is settled, as I could wish. I shall be happy with my dear
father and Annette, above the stars, and you two will be
happy together for a while on the earth. How sweetly
the mornings will rise upon you, when in your husband
you will find, father and sisters all supplied. Then you
can adore God, and admire this beautiful nature together,
without any fear of evil tongues. Long and happy may
you live together, and when you come to join us above,
may that sweet verse apply to you, as it does to my father
and sister; `They were lovely in their lives, and in their
death they were not divided.' For me, my dear Wilhelmine,
if I am permitted to change my abode, I will share
it in heaven with them, and on earth, by being invisibly
present with you. When you hear the birds sing most
sweetly, and see the mountains, and nature, and the earth,
and the air, and feel existence more delightful than ordinary,
think that the freed spirit of your sister is near;
that I enter into your joys, by the communication of mind
with mind, and that I watch over you, and wait for the
time when we shall all be together.” Saying this, she
closed her eyes from simple exhaustion. We stood by
her with awe, almost unmixed with pain, and scarcely
grieved at the thought, that her disinterested and affectionate
spirit had fled. But she recovered again, so far as to
open her eyes, and, with a sweet smile, to press our hands,
and when she closed her eyes once more, as in a quiet
sleep, we saw that she had ceased to suffer and to breathe.

I pass entirely by the sad details of this funeral, only
remarking, that it was managed as the former had been,

only with this difference, that the number of the mourners
was less. We laid her beside her father who now reposed
between those daughters, that were so dear to him
when alive. The same priestess prayed, and sung as before,
and it was the same sweet voice of suppressed emetion.
All that was necessary, to make the inscription on
the sycamore appropriate to the three, was the name, the
age, and the time of decease of her who was now united
with the other two. Wilhelmine proposed the addition of
a Spanish verse from Quevedo in the following words.

The first month after this death, was a month of still
greater gloom and sadness, than we had yet experienced.
The loneliness, of course, was more complete and entire,
and our eyes were incessantly turned to the couches, from
which the sufferers had passed. Bryan went out silent and sad,
with his dogs to the chase, and he returned with his spoils,
equally silent and sad. Wilhelmine appeared to court solitude,
and I made it a point on the other hand, to leave
her as little alone, as possible. Within, she employed herself
much, in adding to her funeral piece, and abroad, in
planting privet, and cape jessamines, and altheas, and the
most beautiful flowering shrubs, about the graves, and
many times in the day, she was carrying water to these
shrubs. At other times, she seated herself in silent contemplation
for hours together, at the foot of the sycamore.
During this month, Bryan was once more despatched to
Durango, and once more returned in safety. No important
change had occurred in the political world, nor was
there any presage of a time, when I might safely leave the

mountain. But this time Bryan brought me a letter, in the
handwriting which I knew so well. These were the
contents.

After the first burst of grief for her sisters' death was past,
I did show her the letter. Indeed, I felt that the contents
of the letter were as true, as they were important to her.
She shed some tears, after she had read it, and for the
first time for months she blushed deeply. I thought it an
omen for good. It evidenced, that earthly emotions still
had their sway. “I would hope,” said she, “that Martha has
written those cold words out of kindness. But I fear, that
she allowed other feelings to influence her, beside simple
regard for me. She does me injustice in her suspicions
but what she writes is not the less true, that we cannot
longer live together here with propriety. I feel it is a
hard case, for every friend on the earth is now gone but
you. But I must conform, like the rest, to the hard laws

established by common consent, to preserve reputation.
You may have felt, while my poor father was living, that
honor forbade you to escape, and leave him helpless, as he
was, and his helpless daughters, among these rugged mountains.
All these obstacles are now removed. There is
food for a long time for me alone. You have taught me to
be an Amazon. I can procure subsistence, and I have no
fear. I shall never feel lonely, for I shall always feel as
if in the society, and under the protection, of my father and
sisters. You cannot be more sensible, than I am, that you
cannot now remain with me. I never, never can return to
Durango. We all have our peculiarities of temperament,
and this is mine. Take your servant, and escape
to your own country, and be a useful and a happy man,
and think nothing further of me.”

I answered, “You cannot surely be serious in proposing
to remain here alone. Be assured, that I will never leave
you in this place. If you distrust me, or are dissatisfied
with my presence and society, to get rid of it you must
fly from me. But,” I continued, “Whilhelmine, you remember
the conversation I held with your sister, just before
her death. In that conversation, she gave it to me as a
dying charge, to propose, what I am now about to propose.
I am sure, it is impossible to feel more tenderness, respect,
deeper, or more internal consideration for a woman, who
unites every thing that we seek in woman, than I feel for
you. I once derided the notion of any other love. But
I feel to my cost, that above and beyond these tender sentiments,
which have always led me to consider you as the
most amiable and perfect of human beings, there is a sentiment
of another sort, which I have long felt, and expect
forever to feel, without any hope towards another person.
I am but too well aware, that, even if we could leave this

place with safety, your reputation would be in some sense
committed with mine. The world will measure us by the
scale of its own depravity, and not by that of your purity.
I can make you but one reparation for an unintentional injury.
It is beside the question to leave you here alone, let
the world say what it may. You cannot compel me to do that.
Will you remain with me as my wedded wife? I pledge
to you that honor, that was never violated, that the first
hour, when it can be done with safety for us both, I will
have the tie solemnized with all the publicity, and all the
rites of that church, which you shall prefer. And I will
strive by my tenderness and fidelity, to make you feel as
little, as may be, the loss of those dearer friends, that have
left you.” The proposal appeared to fall abruptly, and
wholly unexpected, on her ear. But she seemed rather
overwhelmed, than offended. Blushes and the paleness
of death succeeded each other in her cheeks. She sat down
under an excess of agitation. “Leave me,” she said, “a
few moments, to consider on what you have said. Return
after an hour, and I will give you an answer.”

At the expiration of the time, I returned. She was
perfectly calm, and evinced great firmness of manner.
“I am sensible, my dear brother,” said she, “of all the
heroism and disinterestedness of this most generous sacrifice,
which you offer. I may, perhaps, now without shame
admit, that I love you deeply, sincerely, and with all my
heart. Who could have seen, what I have seen, and do
otherwise? But though I may be romantic, I am neither
selfish nor weak. I refuse your generous offer, not because
I do not feel all the nobleness of your conduct, in making
it; nor because my own treacherous heart does not incline
me to accept it. But I will be generous, as nearly like you
as I can, and for that reason I will refuse your offer.

I know too well what love means, not to know the duties
which it imposes. No words upon the subject, if you
please. My resolution is taken, I cannot return to Durango.
I will confess all. I am not yet firm enough, to see
you happy with Martha. But, as the only return I can
make you for the noble disinterestedness of your proposal,
we will, if you consent, attempt to escape together to
the United States. I will make my way to your parents.
You have heard from my dear father, that he had large
sums in the British funds. Money could be of no further
use to me, but to relieve distress and do good. Perhaps,”
she added, with her sad smile, “I may find in that country
of laws and men, some other brother, who may disenchant
me, and cure this gloom, and restore me to myself and to
humanity. I can listen to no reply to any part of my proposals,
but the last.”

I mediated for a moment, and reflected that the chances
of our reaching the frontier multiplied in proportion,
as death had diminished our numbers. I mentioned the
thing to Bryan. The United States have always been the
paradise of the Irish. His thoughts had always been that
way, and he was in raptures at the proposal. “Now God
Almighty bless your Honor,” said he, “you make my heart
stir within me again. And here it has lain, all the time I
have staid in this weary place, like a lump of lead. Will
I go, do you say? Yes, your Honor, I would cheat or fight
my way there, through an army of devils, to get away from
this country of blood.” I have seldom found much use in
turning over plans and taking new views of them, when
they strike focibly at first sight. I informed Wilhelmine,
that since she refused me as a husband, I would accompany
her flight as a brother, that I felt honored by the
choice she had made of my country, as a place of refuge,

and that, if we were so fortunate as to reach it, I did not
doubt, but my parents would receive her as a child.

It was a thing of course, to be attempted as soon as possible.
We all three prepared ourselves with Spanish
dresses, as little conspicuous as possible. We spoke the
language with considerable accuracy. We assumed the
badge of the Royalists. Our wagon, and many of our
more cumbrous possessions here, we cheerfully left to the
next occupant. Such articles as were necessary, or had
value attached to them from other circumstances, we packed,
and our cavalcade had the usual appearance of a travelling
party in that country. The time for departure was
fixed for the following morning. The firmness and excitement
of Wilhelmine, which had hitherto so wonderfully
sustained her, passed away on this occasion. The remainder
of the day she was sad, silent, and in tears, giving
me wrong answers, and often running to execute business
most foreign from her apparent intentions. Our arrangements
were soon settled. She retired to long private devotions,
and I requested her to go early to rest, to be
ready to leave with the rising sun. I was myself gloomy
and restless through the night. The moment I slept,
the honest Saxon, and his deceased daughters seemed to
be about me, upbraiding me for deserting them. I arose
a little after midnight, and went abroad. The fair and full
orb of the moon arose from the boundless fog of the plain,
as I have seen the sun arise on the sea, pouring her full
and melancholy light upon the hoary cliffs of these ancient
mountains. The owls were hooting responses from their
hollow trees. The funereal howl of the wolf rung from
cliff to cliff, and from cavern to cavern. In the intervals
of their howl, I heard the low moans of a human voice.
At first, I doubted my ear. The moans were repeated,

and in a manner to leave no doubt of their origin. I went
in the direction of the sound. Wilhelmine, for it was she,
arose from her kneeling posture beside the graves. “Forgive
me,” she said, “the indulgence of the last opportunity,
I may ever have, to visit these graves. I wished not to
distress you in the morning with my sorrows, and I desired
to finish these sacred duties, unwitnessed and alone.
What a place, in which to leave these dear and hallowed
remains! Wat a funeral torch is that pale moon! What
a monument these everlasting pillars of rock! What a
dirge the howl of those wolves in the caverns of the cliffs!
Here a poor orphan, with a continent and an ocean between
her and the remotest kindred in the land of her
birth, is compelled to leave these dear remains to slumber
alone. If it be His will, who orderth all things right, I
would gladly return to this spot once more. But if not,
there is as short a passage from these mountains to the celestial
mansions, as from any other place. Your spirits,
my dear departed friends, I doubt not have found the road
to your home. Farewell, then. Rest in peace, until the
plains and the mountains, the earth and the sea, shall give
up their dead.” I would have persuaded her to return to
her couch, to avoid the gloom of the scene, and the
dampness of the night air. But I saw, that she intended
to pass the remainder of the night there, and that my
presence was a restraint upon the expression of her feelings.
I left her to commune with the night, and with
these graves, and to utter thoughts, intended only for the
Divine ear.

It was a cheerful morning to all the world, but the solitary
tenants of this cave. A thousand circumstances united,
to render it an affecting event to us all, to leave this
place. We were once more putting to sea in the midst

of the storm. But the idea of the dangers, upon which
we were throwing ourselves, was not the circumstance the
most impressive. The cheerful hours I had spent with
the dead, the quietness and repose of the place, a thousand
blended associations bound me to this spot. So
dear was it to me, so many attachments to it had grown
up in my heart, that “albeit unused to the melting
mood,” as we were packing, and making arrangements to
mount our horses, my eyes involuntarily filled with tears.
But I felt it must be so much more affecting, and painful
to Wilhelmine, that it became to set her an example
of calmness. The dogs that belonged to the defeated
Royalists, had followed us here, and had been faithful
companions, and of great utility in the chase. They came
about us, wagging their tails, and, apparently knowing
that we were about to decamp. It became a question
whether to take them, or leave them. Bryan's heart
swelled at the thought of leaving them behind. “Please
your Honor,” said he, “dogs are good luck. I would
not leave them for my right hand.” We concluded, that
the pack of dogs would be in keeping with our cavalcade,
and we rejoiced Bryan's heart by consenting.

Bryan led the van. The dogs raised their joyous cry,
and preceded us on the way down the mountain. “Now,”
said I, “dear Wilhelmine, as a brother, since you have forbidden
me the use of a dearer name, I implore you to give
me a good omen, as we depart, and not go away in sorsow.
This place, I well know, must be dear to you by
the tenderest associations. We have had our joys here,
as well as our sorrows. We believe, however, that all
that part of these dear friends that is worthy of mention,
has passed beyond pain and toil, to the repose of the just.
All that we leave here, is unconscious dust. We have

not striven with the nature, which renders that dust dear.
For we deposited it with awe in the earth, and we bedewed
it with out tears. We have planted flowers, that
will continue to spring on the sod when we are away. If
the gentle spirits that once animated these bodies, descend
from their clouds to these mountains, they will still hear
the red-bird, in whose song they so much delighted when
alive, singing their requiem. Perhaps, in safety and honor,
we may one day be allowed to revisit these mountains,
and remove the dust to a more hallowed rest. It is still
at your option, to return under my protection as brother, or
with the still dearer name of husband.” Saying this, I assisted
her to her horse, and we took our solitary way, after
Bryan, down the mountain. I was neither disappointed
nor sorry, when I heard, by her audible sobbing, that her
heart was throwing off its load of oppression, in unrestrained
weeping.