University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

This family had abundant reason to regard the merciful
interposition of Providence, in not imposing upon
them a double burden at the same time, or one greater
than they could bear. The affection of Hercules Pindall
for Eliza still seemed to preponderate over his resentments.
He was soothed, too, by learning, that the
family had promptly rejected similar proposals to his
made by Mr. Garvin, in behalf of his son Jethro. A
coolness existed between those two families, originating
with Mr. Pindall, and founded on the presumption,
manifested by his neighbour, in thinking of a movement
of that sort, in which even he had been unsuccessful.
From the circumstance of the continued passion of
young Hercules, or from some cause, it happened, that
the dreaded writ of ejection had never yet issued
against their humble premises, and a kind of doubtful
truce seemed yet to be exercised towards the family,
which, it was considered probable, would take the form
of alliance, or war, according as Eliza and her mother
should favor, or reject the suit.

An invitation to the whole family to accompany the
Pindall family to a camp-meeting, distant twenty miles
among the hills, was urged with so much earnestness,
mixed with half threats, in case of refusal, that it was
deemed advisable to accept it. There was less plea for
rejecting it, for now all the family was comfortably and
decently clad from their own means. They were informed,
too, that a separate carriage should be provided
for the family, and all the necessary arrangements made
for its subsistence, while out on this religious expedition.

The idea of a ride in the country was pleasant
to Mrs. Mason, and delightful to the children, except
Eliza; so that, on the whole, the day was awaited with
impatience.

The time of the camp-meeting had been appointed
with reference to the mild and delightful weather in
autumn, commonly called Indian Summer, and happened
on a morning of one of those beautiful days, when
the weather is changing to coolness, and when the
leaves are in the stage between verdure and the yellow
tints of approaching winter. Hercules and his father
rode on horse-back, accompanied by half a dozen negro
servants, and a four-horse baggage-wagon, loaded
with provisions, and a couple of tents; and the family
carriage, in which were Mrs. Pindall and daughter, and
Mrs. Mason, and all her family. The conversation
that took place in the carriage turned upon the customary
topics. Mrs. Pindall often descanted with a mother's
eloquence, pride, and affection upon her darling
Hercules, and without coming directly to the point,
took care to draw sufficiently alluring pictures of the happiness,
that would crown the wife, of whom he should
be the husband; and Mrs. Mason expressed herself delighted
with the romantic solitudes on the eastern side
of the Mississippi. When they came among the hills,
every thing was a charm to the delighted children.
Eliza was cheerful, and sometimes made a remark, accompanied
by an arch expression of the eye, which
told, what she would have said, had the company been
pleasant, and her heart light. Miss Letitia found it in
keeping to be romantic, and she talked over all that
she could remember of all the trumpery novels, that
she had read, and found this one to be “the most delightfullest,
and that the most genteelest, and the other
the most sentimentalist novel,” that she had ever read.
They took their dinner under a prodigious yellow poplar,
on the margin of a clean branch, and had claret and
coffee, to carry down the solid parts of the repast. On

their arriving at the ground, Miss Letitia insisted, and
Mrs. Mason gave a silent assent to the remark, that this
had been a most pleasant day.

Long before they arrived at the place of destination,
they were passed by multitudes, on horseback, or in
various kinds of carriages. They passed multitudes
on foot, some mothers carrying a babe in their arms,
and having two or three small children holding to them.
The very woods seemed to be alive, and populous, and
the groves pouring forth their sequestered sons from
every side towards the central point of attraction. The
place of worship was in the midst of a grove of those
noble and beautiful tulip trees, so natural to that region.
The spot was a deep verdant bottom-valley. On the
east and south it was surrounded by high precipitous
hills, faced with an almost perpendicular lime-stone wall,
in its fissures charmingly marked with prodigious tossels
of the most verdant fern. A clear spring branch rolled
gently through it, sufficiently broad and deep, to reflect
the trees, and the pillared clouds of the firmament.
There were the ambitious and wealthy, because in this
region opinion is all powerful, and they were there, either,
to extend their influence, or that their absence might
not be marked, to diminish it. Aspirants for office
were there, to electioneer, and gain popularity. Vast
numbers were there, from simple curiosity, and merely
to enjoy a spectacle. The young and beautiful were
there with mixed motives, which, perhaps, it were best
not severely to scrutinize. Children were there, their
young eyes 'glistening with the intense interest of eager
curiosity. The middle-aged fathers and mothers of
families were there, with the sober views of people,
whose plans in life were fixed, and calmly waiting to
hear. Men and women with hoary hairs were there,
with such thoughts, it may be hoped, as their years invited.
Such was the congregation consisting of thousands.

A host of preachers of different denominations was

there, some in the earnest vigor of youth, waiting an
opportunity for display;—others, who had proclaimed
the gospel, as missionary-pilgrims, from the remotest
north of our vast country to the shores of the Mexican
gulf, and were ready to utter the words, the feelings, and
the experience, which they had treasured up in a travelling
ministry of fifty years, and whose tones and accents,
trembling with age, still more impressively, than their
language, announced, that their travels, their toils, and
their missionary warfare was soon to terminate. Such
were the preachers.

The two families arrived about sunset, and were received
with the marked distinction, due to the wealth and
importance of Mr. Pindall, a distinction, which, with
all its characteristic marks, has found its way even into
these woods. Mrs. Mason had been accustomed to
think of a camp-meeting with unpleasant associations
of every sort. She was therefore in a frame of mind,
peculiarly fitted to receive the magic impression of the
scene before her. Distant acquaintances and friends,
who had not met for years before, here met again.
Persons, who knew each other only by dim and, perhaps,
disfigured description, here met, and were introduced,
and contemplated one another face to face.
Long previous canvassing of the merits of the respective
preachers was here resumed again. The religious
were awaiting to hear that their expiring sentiments
might be rekindled; the witty, that they might find subjects
for their supposed wit and criticism. In fact,
scarcely an element of excitement for the human heart
can be imagined, that was not here. Of course, the
interchange of apostolic greetings and salutations among
the stricken in years, the embraces of women and young
girls, the hearty recognition of young men; the eager
questionings, how the time had passed, and the color of
the incidents, that had marked it, since they had last
met; the seeming vanishment of the chill indifference of
interest and ordinary life, and in its stead the assumption

of an earnestness, warmth, and life, apparently belonging
to a more disinterested and warm-hearted and sublimed
race of beings than men;—marked these meetings, and
seemed to indicate, that in coming here, they had come
to a holier region, and a new country, where the air was
love, and where every one cared, not only for the things
of himself, but also, for those of his neighbour.

Mean while a hundred negroes, dressed in their holiday
finery, pitched the tents in lines under the rustling
of the tulip trees, and just beside the margin of the
stream. In the suburbs of this religious city, the growth
of a few hours, there were some tents, where the careless,
or the irreligious lingered, where cakes, wine, and
refreshments were sold, and dispensed; and where the
extremes of frivolity, merriment, and pleasure were
brought in direct contrast with those of religious excitement.
Lamps were hung in lines among the surrounding
branches, and fires, kindled with pitchy fragments of
pine, blazed in front of the tents, and diffused a glare
through the forests, and on the sides and summits of the
hoary bluffs. Coffee and tea were prepared; and as
they sat down to a religious supper, thus furnished, and
transported, as they seemed to be, to paradise, even the
subdued heart of Mrs. Mason swelled with tender remembrances
and undefinable emotions, in which, however,
pleasure and joy predominated. The hearts of
her children danced in rapture.

By the time that their supper was finished, the moon,
broadened and purpled with the mists of Indian summer,
began to show her calm orb above the summits of the
bluffs, and to pour her pensive and religious light upon
the hills, the trees, and the immense gathering of the
people. A few stars were seen glimmering through the
branches, and dancing in the moving waters of the gentle
stream. The whole scene was as a temple, fitted up
with a magnificence and grandeur worthy of a God.

“Oh!” said Eliza, as she pressed her mother's hand,
“that my dear, dear father were here! How differently

would he think of a camp-meeting! what a glorious
place must be that heaven where he will dwell for ever.”

Thirty preachers of all ages surrounded the “stand.”
But the first preacher of the evening was on old man,
apparently four score, in a dress of the quaintest simplicity.
As he mounted the stand, the glare of the lights
upon the polished baldness of his crown, and the thin
gray locks that time had spared, and the furrowed
wrinkles of his brow, gave him an aspect of fragility
and unearthly elevation above flesh and blood, that prepared
the hearers to be impressed, with what he was
about to say. In a voice, which was so modulated by
age, earnestness, or natural tone, as if it were from a
being of another sphere, he gave out that sweet hymn,

Instantly the voices of the whole assembled multitude
burst forth in an air, familiar to all the people of this
region, and as it swelled, and died away among the
hills, and forests, and was returned softened in the echoes,
I should deem poorly of the heart, that would not
have been affected, and prepared to receive the full
impressions of religion. The hoary orator prayed as
one who felt, that he was soon to be “caught up;” and
in his exhortations he spake deeply on a deep theme,
such as the peace of those, who love God, and have a
confidence that He has forgiven their sins; the misery
and the ruin of those suicide reprobates, who turn their
backs on God, and despise their own mercies, the hopes,
joys, and terrors of eternity; his own experiences, his
travels, toils, and wanderings, his persecutions and welcomes,
the many, that he had seen in hope, in peace
and triumph, entering the “dark valley;” his determined
purpose to be diligent through his short remainder
of time, his deep regrets, that the increasing burdens
and infirmities of years were taking from him the power
to proclaim the mercies of his Saviour; the hope that
he should meet at least some of those present, as his
trophies, and his crown in the day of the Lord Jesus—
such were the themes of this aged servant of Jesus
Christ. He had no need of the studied trick of oratory,
to produce the deepest movements of the heart. He
was compelled, occasionally, to pause, to dash the gathering
tears from his own eyes. His audience, almost
as one person, melted into tears. Even those, who
poized themselves on intellectual superiority, and the
pride of a nobler insensibility than the crowd, caught the
infectious tenderness, and melted into tears, like the
rest, and many scoffers, “who came to scoff, remained
to pray.”

Unhappily these scenes of high excitement are apt to
foster and energize all kinds of sentiments, as well those
of the animal, as the intellectual nature; and while the
worshippers, generally, had been rekindling the decaying
fires of devotion at the altar, others had been only
increasing the intensity of unhallowed ardors. Beauty
is never so lovely, as when lighted up with the inward
radiance of devotion. Many a person present had remarked
Mrs. Mason as the young and lovely widow;
for in truth, the excitement of the scene, and the glow
of faith and of hope, which it had kindled, had colored
her pale cheek, and had imparted a juvenile brilliance
to her eye. What was the effect, then, on Eliza, by
the influence of a new climate, prematurely developing
into the form, feature, and beauty of maturity? Poor
Hercules, and Jethro Garvin, and many others, had
felt to their cost how much more lovely she had
seemed here, than they had seen her before. But the
sanctity of her manner, and the inspirations of the place,
had awed them to silence, and had saved her mother
and herself much pain, which they had armed themselves
to endure, in hearing these swains talk of their
love and constancy. The meeting of three days broke
up, and the audience dispersed, without an unpleasant
incident, save that Hercules and Jethro, on their way
home, brought it to a battle, to decide whose claims of

the two should be resigned to the other, in case Eliza
admitted either. In this case, Hercules, like his famed
prototype, fairly vanquished the monster, who assumed
to come between him and his love, and remained master
of the field, and his pretensions.

The father and mother of Hercules were sufficiently
weary of this hopeless pursuit of a portionless child,
who had nothing but beauty, and were heartily desirous,
that their son should relinquish the chase. But
the young master inherited from his father a sufficient
portion of that spirit, wich is either a great virtue, or
fault, according, as it is perseverance, or obstinacy.
He ceased not to tease them, until they had partly
wearied, and partly intimidated Mrs. Mason, to give
her consent, to carry her family to see the next horse-race.
As it is a spectacle, which every body in the
southern and south-western country attends, as it is one
of their capital amusements, and a scene of the next
degree of interest to a camp-meeting, I am not unwilling,
that the reader should accompany the widow
and her orphans to a scene, which some will think improper
for her to have witnessed. Others will view it,
as do most of even the religious people of the south,
and will consider, that this tender mother had constantly
before her eyes the study, not to break with her
powerful neighbours; the fear, that their aroused vengeance
might eject her and her orphans from their
humble home, and throw them upon the naked elements.
What do I know? Perhaps in the different
views which mothers take of this thing, from their
daughters', she mused in the recesses of her thoughts,
that the constancy and importunity of the young man
might wear out the aversion of her daughter, and secure
an asylum for her and the family, at least from the
evils of poverty. Whatever were the motive, she consented
to accompany the Pindalls to the horse-race.

On the appointed day, away gallopped Hercules and
his young companions; and behind them rolled the

family carriage, with the family of Mrs. Mason along
with his mother and sister; and still behind them, the
father and his neighbours brought up the rear. It was
a day of huzza and jubilee, and all parties seemed to
feel, that the subdued and silent spirit of the camp-meeting
was out of place. The negroes, that remained
behind, and those, who were allowed to attend the race,
parted by singing in alternate divisions, and in their
loudest and merriest, “Old Virginia never tire!” Those
that remained, huzzaed for Green Mantle, and those
that went for the Cedar Snag. Even the hounds felt
the difference between this occasion and the other, and
lifted up their long and lantern jaws, and howled to a
merry key.

The place of meeting was a beautiful island-prairie,
in the midst of an immeasurable extent of woods, as
level, and as smooth, as a shaven and rolled walk. In
fact, the “heat,” a narrow turnpike of two miles, returning
by an elliptical curve to the goal, had been
shaven, and harrowed down. Under the shade of
oaks and holly trees, covered with grape vines on the
edge of this prairie, were raised galleries, or stands,
about six feet above the surface, of an extent, to accommodate
all the spectators, that did not choose to
remain on the turf. A horse-race assembles all the
beauty and youth and gaiety of the southern country,
and here it is seen arrayed in all its splendor and
charms. Beside a great number of small races, that
would be considered to be episodes, to take down the
excitement of the chief one, there were to be merry
races of asses and “chunks,” by persons, who volunteered,
as the fools, or Merry-Andrews of the meeting.
The capital race was between the famous racers, Green
Mantle and Cedar Snag. The partisans of these
horses, and those, who had staked high bets, wore
badges, the one of green and the other of red, corresponding
to that of the latter horse. The jockeys and
riders were habited in close silk dresses, of these respective

colors, with jockey caps to match. Such was
the strength of feeling and of party in the case, that
probably, with the exception of Mrs. Mason's family,
there were scarcely any persons, male or female,
young or old, black or white, but what had a bet depending
on the race. By-bets, as they were called, and
increased bets, were continually forming, and persons
of honor and grave presence for such occasions were
invoked, to attest the terms, and prescribe the forms.
The judges were enclosed in awful sanctity from the
crowd by a railing. Long before the race was started,
there had been a number of fist-fights, in which the
eyes of the parties about to bet, were bunged up, that
their judgments might be less diverted by visible objects
from a sagacious calculation in regard to the issue
of the race. Here might be seen, a in concentrated form,
the readiness of the American people, to form parties,
and to be stirred up by the fury of party spirit. A
bully comes forward, and cries out, “The Green Mantle
beats the field,” adding an oath, that I choose to
omit. “Here's my fist for five dollars, and a fight for
Green Mantle.” “Done,” says another; “ten to your
five, and here's at you.” Upon the word, they fall to
it, and fight, until one, or the other, is hors du combat.
Meanwhile, at the cake and grog stands, the matter is
debated by the bumpkins and boys and negroes and
yellow women, with as much ardor, as by the planters
themselves. At the same time, there are mock-races
along the sides of the prairies, between chunks and mules,
and blind horses, to the great amusement and delight of
the mob around them. The while, there were negroes,
and awkward boys, and men, who were aware that
they had this sole chance for distinction, riding back
and forward, across the field, spurring, and whipping
their horses to their utmost speed, with their clothes
streaming away behind them, resembling militia aids,
on a muster day, or a mob retreating from an army.
Here, too, is a place of display for generous and considerate
gallantry. The young gentlemen place gloves,
hats, and dresses, as stakes for the lady of their love,
to suspend upon the horse of their choice. Hercules
Pindall, before the assembled crowd, brought a bonnet,
pair of gloves, and a beautiful peach-blow Nankin crape
dress pattern, showing the articles to Eliza Mason, and
informing her that she was elected by him, as the lady
of his choice, to bet either upon the Green Mantle, or
the Cedar Snag, and requesting her to choose between
them. At the same time, he expressed a wish, that
she would fix upon Green Mantle, as, in his judgment,
the winning horse. The poor girl, no doubt, wished
the tall Creole in the Red Sea, and pretty decidedly
told him, that she chose to be excused from betting upon
either. But there was a look of such imploring
humility in the countenance of this haughty and powerful
young heir, accustomed to such uncontrolled authority,
(some say there was even a tear in his eye,) that
it may be fairly presumed, other motives, than an unwillingness
to disgrace him before so many people, and
displease her mother, whose eye bade her make a
choice and gain the beautiful articles, decided her.
She told him that if custom required her to choose,
as every one about her told her it did, she should of
course choose the Green Mantle, for it seemed to her,
that it would, in fact, be the winning horse. What a
powerful tamer of wild animals is love! This young
hero, as unmanageable by all beside, as a mule, and as
farouche, as the French say, as a dromedary, all at
once bowed his tall form, like a lily, cut by a scythe,
and went away as subdued, and as sentimental, as an
unfledged turtle, took his place on the turf, drew off his
hat, and waved it three times over his head, crying out,
“Green Mantle for ever!” in good set tones, that might
have been heard on a still morning three miles.

Beside the purse, and the great bets, there were
many by-bets, many beaver hats, many pairs of boots,
and many fancy articles for the fair, pretty equally suspended

upon the two horses. After an hour's prelude,
in which these matters were settled, and a dozen chunk-races
run, and a goodly number of the spectators rendered
as blind as Justice, by fist-fights, after the judges,
too, sitting in their inviolable conclave, had settled the
grave preliminaries of the weights, and every thing that
appertained to the riders, and what should constitute a
“balk,” what “flying the truck,” and what amount of
advance should be adjudged decisive of victory; the
jockeys brought their horses, in their appropriate trappings,
to the goal. The judges issued the cry, “Clear
the field!” Away scamper chunks, donkeys, mules,
and negroes, and the audience is as still, as death. The
horses are brought with their breasts against a line. It
is astonishing, and to me it is absolutely painful, to see
to what an extent these noble animals catch the enthusiasm
and the excitement of the spectators. You may
see it in their eye. You may see it in their bodies,
painfully stretched, and prepared for the leap. You
may see their trembling impatience in the spasmodic
movement of all their muscles. You may see it in the
swelling of their veins, and the expansion of their nostrils.
The two senior judges, one on each side of the
truck, withdrew the string, dropped a hat, and cried,
“Go!” Away sprang the horses, and no one, who has
not seen a race, can imagine the enthusiasm of the moment.
Mingled cries, shouts, and I wish I was not
obliged to add, oaths, in treble, tenor, and bass, in repeafed
bursts of acclamation, rose to the sky. “God
bless the pretty soul of Green Mantle,” shouted some
ladies. “God bless the noble heart of Cedar Snag,”
shouted others, and in less time than it takes to trace
these lines, the horses had reached the extremity of
the ellipse, and were on the return. The cunning rider
of Green Mantle, immediately measuring the comparative
speed of his horse, gently reined him in, and amidst
deafening cries of “Cedar Snag and Carolina against
all the world!” that horse had gained of the other half
a length. “Double the bet for Cedar Snag!” was
the cry, and poor Eliza, whether for Hercules or the
peach blow crape, or other cause, I say not; but, clearly,
she was sorry, to see Green Mantle dropping astern.
But, exactly at the right time, the jockey rider of this
horse gives him the rein, a cheer, and a gentle switch,
and the noble horse stretches himself almost to the
earth. In an instant he gains on Cedar Snag. The
spectators now comprehend the movement. The dumb-founded
partisans of Green Mantle throw up their hats,
rend the air, and shout, “Huzza for Green Mantle and
Old virginia!” By this time the cheek of Eliza and
her mother is colored with eagerness. With the cries,
“Green Mantle! Cedar Snag! Virginia! Carolina!”
and the names of the betting ladies, and oaths, shouts,
and exclamations, until the parties are hoarse, Green
Mantle advances a full length before the other to
the goal.

After the shouting and enthusiasm of the partisans of
Green Mantle had been allowed time to subside, came
on the important business of settling the bets. The decision
of the judges was clear, and irrevocable, and the
bets were paid, in general, without a murmur, for it is
deemed mean and unworthy, to question the decision,
or to show any backwardness, either in paying, or admitting
the victory to be a fair one. Here, too, we see
the genuine obstinacy of American perseverance in
party feeling. The trials of speed had been as fair, as
could be imagined. Neither horse balked, or flew the
truck, and without some palpable mistake of the horse,
or the rider, this trial might be considered a fair and
unvarying criterion, of what would take place in a hundred
subsequent similar trials. Not so thought or said
the partisans of Cedar Snag. Both parties baffled
learnedly about heels, wind, and bottom, and the losers
found out some mistake, either in the training, or riding
of their favorite horse, which, they were confident,
another trial would rectify, and thus produce a different

result. “Here,” say they, “is my fist for double
the bet on another trial.” Well said Hudibras,

When Hercules came forward with the beautiful
dress, to offer it to Eliza, it was done with so much
visible satisfaction in her success and pleasure in offering
it to her, tempered with so much humility and a
manner so different from his usual proud and saucy
bearing, that I am not sure, had he been a little more
polished, and she a few years older, but some touch of
pity and tenderness would have mingled with her acceptance.
As it was, there was something so near like
relenting, in the eye and manner of Eliza, that the
young man went off as happy, as a prince, treasuring
the kind look in his memory, and growing as proud
upon it, as if he had vanquished her young heart as
completely, as he had the authority of his parents.
Poor young man! Before the carriage set off with
Mrs. Mason for her cabin, be took occasion to renew
his suit, in such earnest and assured terms, that both
the mother and daughter were obliged once more to
cut off his hopes, and leave him as much in despondency
and dudgeon as before.

I have said nothing of the extacy of the children in
the enjoyment of the race. It is of all others the show,
that seizes most strongly upon the affections of their
years. George, in truth, had been too deeply occupied
with the examination of Hercules, and his bearing
towards his sister, on the occasion to enjoy it. But for
the rest, they chattered about the race all the way
home, and more than once sprang up from their mattrasses
by night, shouting, “Green Mantle, for ever!”
in their sleep.

But I find myself entering too minutely into the fortunes
of this family, and I must hasten to follow the
thread of events by a more general outline. For a
considerable time, too, there does not appear any striking
incident in their course. I may only say, that the

web of their life, the while, was of mingled yarn, as
falls to the common lot of mortals. Their scheme of
silk-making had not been pursued to an extent, to yield
much beyond amusement; though it was completely
successful, as far as it went. They labored incessantly
at their occupution of making hats and bonnets. But
it was not always, that George was so successful in his
sales, as he had been at first. Eliza had plied her
spinning-wheel, with cotton of their own raising. But
the evils of poverty continued to press upon them. The
love of Hercules seemed fast verging towards revenge.
When he had first thought of wooing a girl, who had
nothing but beauty, the parents had considered it, and he
had considered it, graciousness and condescension.
When it was perceived, that after the pursuit of a year,
in which she had become turned of fourteen, and as beautiful
as May, after the mother and daughter had received
such magnificent presents, still no real progress was made
towards success, and that the mother and daughter still
shrunk from the alliance, the parents began to talk again
of the law-suit, and the writ of ejectment. Hercules had
ventured once to solicit the interference of George on
the subject. But the tall and powerful young man absolutely
quailed under the flashing of the eye of this poor
orphan lad, and he never cared to resume the subject
again. The people, generally, in the settlement, considered
this as another proof of the foolish and insolent
pride of the family, and passed many a bitter remark
upon this fancied union of poverty and ambition. These
circumstances operated, as a new and complete cause
of severance between them and their neighbours, and
days often passed without their speaking with a single
human being, except those of their own number.

Mrs. Mason and her daughter, though they could be
fine, wanted the plain and common articles of comfortable
clothing. The boys were only dressed to the point
of the plainest decency, while a small payment of the
taxes and the doctor's bill was made, and a trifle reserved

to aid in carrying on the law-suit with Mr. Pindall,
whenever he should commence it. No part of these
privations weighed so heavily on the spirits of George
and his mother, as the necessity of such unremitting
labor, imposed upon them all, as left them neither
time, nor opportunity for the instruction and education
of the younger children. The progress of George and
Eliza had been respectable, during the life of their
father, who had devoted his whole heart to this task,
and who had found in them uncommon docility. But
it went to the heart of Mrs. Mason, to see her younger
children growing up in the woods, as ignorant, and undisciplined.
“as the wild ass's colt.” Some more enlarged
and efficient plan had occurred to the scheming
mind of George a thousand times, to remedy this and
various other evils of their condition. His rising
thoughts and purposes spurned the idea of his vegetating
his whole life in the forest. Nor could he endure
the idea, that the beauty and sweetness of Eliza should
never be contemplated by any other, than such, as the
Pindalls and Garvins. But to go abroad, for his plans
always terminated in the necessity of this, and to leave
his mother and the desolate and dear ones, to whom
his dying father had confided the charge, like lambs
in the wilderness;—this, too, was an idea, from which
he recoiled. Yet he always said to himself, that it
was better to inflict on them and himself a lesser evil
for the sake of a greater good; and that he ought to
give them and himself the pain of leaving them, for a
time, in order to fix them and himself in a position,
where they could remain permanently together. His
friend, the post-master of the village, had often conversed
with him on the subject. He was extensively
acquainted with the captains of the steam-boats, that
traded on the Ohio and the Upper Mississippi. He
recommended to George the place of clerk on one of
these, as one, for which he thought him, as he said,
peculiarly qualified, by his being uncommonly ready at
figures, and his writing a hand of remarkable beauty.
Whenever George named his scruples, he resolutely,
and successfully combatted them, proving to him, that
he was ruining his own prospects, as well as those of
his family, by remaining there in ignorance in the
woods, and in pursuits, which, however industriously
followed, would never procure an adequate maintenance
for the family.

The idea of leaving his mother, sister, and the
young children alone, and unprotected, was a gloomy
one to his affectionate heart. But in turning over the
subject, and taking a view of every side of it, it occurred
to him, that it was a part of the duty of mental
firmness, to take such measures, as were most for his
advantage and theirs, even did they involve the necessity
and the pain of a separation. This deep attachment
to home, identified with a sense of duty, and associated
with the feeling of homesickness, was the most
formidable determent from his project. Once or twice
in their evening conversations, he had ventured to hint
the thought of the post-master in the family. It must
be allowed, that his mother had already revolved in her
own mind the possibility of such an event. She had
even allowed herself to contemplate the subject with so
much steadiness of vision, as to see, that it would be
for his interest, and of course her duty, to consent to it.
But whenever she viewed the prospect near at hand,
she instinctively shrunk from it, and closed her eyes
upon it, as children do upon the terrific notion of a
phautom in the dark. At first, when she discovered,
that he was actually thinking of leaving home, she
burst into tears, and affected to see in this purpose the
extinction of filial affection, and a hardness of heart,
which cared not for her and the other children, and a
selfishness, which regarded only his own ease and comfort,
and his own vagabond projects of wandering
abroad. George prudently waited until the storm of
wounded affection had passed away, and meekly expressing

a hope, that she would review the case, and
think more favorably of it another time, he withdrew.

The next time the conversation turned upon the same
subject, she viewed it more calmly, and rather in sorrow
than in anger. For in truth, she had reviewed the
subject, when alone, and her conscience had reproached
her, for this indulgence of anger and invective, in
regard to her son. She had deeply and religiously
mediated her duties, had considered, that, however her
own selfish affections might wish to detain him, she
must be convinced, that he could do much more for
the family in such pursuits as were proposed to him,
than he could at home, that it would enable him to see
the world, and form his character, and that she ought
to struggle to triumph over the selfish considerations,
that operate with so many mothers to the ruin of their
children. In the second conversation which they held
upon the subject, she consented to his project, and only
requested time to prepare her mind for the separation.

Not many days after, George received a letter from
the post-master, informing him, that a most fovorable
opportunity offered, for his obtaining a clerkship on
board of one of the capital steam-boats. The terms
were thirty dollars a month. This excellent man offered
him, in consideration of the wants of the family, and
the diminution of its means, in his leaving it, to advance
twenty dollars, on the prospect of his wages, to expend
in articles for its comfort. When he read the letter to
his mother, it was, after all her good resolutions, as if
an ice-bolt had gone to her heart. But she remembered
her duty. She begged him and the children to retire.
It was breaking open the unhealed wound, occasioned
by her husband's death, and she wept, as a tribute
to feeble human nature. She then prayed, and
wrestled hard with God for resignation. This is the
way to settle high and good purposes. When George
and the children returned, she was calm, and the matter
was at rest in her mind. She told him, that she not

only consented to his going, but considered it the best
thing he could do.

The heart of George was relieved. It seemed to
him impossible, that he could ever have forsaken the
cabin, unless she had so expressed herself. He hurried
to the river, saw, and thanked his friend, and was
by him conducted on board the steam-boat, which was
about to ascend the Ohio, and would return in a few
days. The captain was pleased with him, and he was
reciprocally pleased with the captain and his prospects;
and the hargain was settled, and he was to be on the
bank, when the boat returned, to take his place on board
of her. We are swayed to our best actions in many
instances by some little obliquity of motive. It must
be allowed, that when George saw the noble steam-boat
sweep away up the stream, she carried a portion
of his heart off with her. It must be admitted, that a
spice of roving disposition, inherited from his father,
had its share in overcoming his reluctance to leave his
mother and his home.

It is not material to relate all the conversations,
which ensued, between this engagement and the time
of his departure, between him and the different members
of the family. He was the only one of their number,
that had yet developed strength of character, and
the mother and the children leaned upon him not only
for support but to resolve their doubts, and settle their
purposes, and decide their plans, and sustain their
mental indecision. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mason had faithfully
investigated, by all the means in her power, the
dangers of the river, and had heard of every accident,
in all its exaggerations, that had ever happened to a
steam-boat on the Mississippi, or Ohio. She learned
all, that she could gather about storms, and snags, and
more than all, the dreadful death of scalding by the
bursting of the boiler.

Neither was George idle on his part. He had expended
the advanced twenty dollars for the comfort of

the family, during his absence. Henry had come sufficiently
of age, to take his place in the charge of the
field, and the stewardship of their little coucern of silk, and
bonnet manufacture, and their other humble affairs.
Many and solemn charges did he give him. The main
points were reduced to writing, that they might not be
forgotten, when he was gone. It was an affecting
charge on both hands, and when Henry received this
solemn responsibility, he gave a promise, as solemn,
that he would strive faithfully to discharge its duties.

It is painful to me to remember the distress of the
family, when the day of separation actually came.
But, like every event borne on the wings of time, it did
come. They recited their prayers for the last time together.
They mingled their voices for the last time in
the song of evening praise. The last evening of tender
and solemn conversations passed away. The last
promises of affection, remembrance, and prayer for
each other were made. They parted over night, and
according to arrangement, long before the sun rose, he
was gone. In the morning his place at table was empty;
and the mother, and the forlorn young ones walked
about, dreaming, and silent, and in stupefaction, not unlike
that, which followed the death of Mr. Mason.

George was turned of eighteen, when he was thus
thrown upon the world. He was dressed in the most
plain and quaker-like style. A small handkerchief-bundle
contained his clothes and a bible. Beneath his
humble dress beat a heart, at once stout, and affectionate;
and these constituted all his baggage. As I have
remarked, he stole away before the family had risen in
the morning, to avoid the agony of those partings, which
make such a distressing part of such a separation. The
deepest emotions, that are excited on such occasions,
are not those, that show themselves in words or tears.
When he had taken the last look of mother, sister, and
brothers, and the humble cabin, which together made
that dear and sacred word home, a word which

means more to a good mind and heart, than almost any
other in our language, he turned round, before he
crossed the stile that led out of the field, and gave the
dear spot the benediction, that rose to the Almighty
from a pious child, an affectionate brother, and an unpolluted
nature. “God keep you,” said he, “and
watch over your innocent slumbers. For me, though
now a wanderer in the wild world, I will think of you,
and the thought shall be as a talisman, to shield me
against tempation. I will think of the pale face of my
mother. I will think of the last look of my father. I
will think of my sweet sister, and the dear young ones.”
I consider such reflections, as the best possible security
against temptation to degradation and vice, that a young
man can possess. Such thoughts must be expunged
from the mind, before he can be led widely astray.