University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Not far from where the southern limits of Connecticut
meet the waters of the sea, the town of N— is situated.
As you approach from the west, it exhibits a rural aspect,
of meadows intersected by streams, and houses overshadowed
with trees. Viewed from the eastern acclivity,
it seems like a citadel guarded by parapets of rock, and
embosomed in an ampitheatre of hills, whose summits
mark the horizon with a waving line of dark forest green.
Entering at this avenue, you perceive that its habitations
bear few marks of splendour, but many of them, retiring

behind the shelter of lofty elms, exhibit the appearance
of comfort and respectability. Travelling southward about
two miles, through the principal road, the rural features
of the landscape are lost, in the throng of houses, and
bustle of men. The junction of two considerable streams
here forms a beautiful river, which, receiving the tides of
the sea, rushes with a short course into its bosom.

Masts peer over ware-houses, and streets rise above
streets, with such irregularity that the base of one line
of buildings sometimes overlooks the roofs of another.
Here Man, incessantly combating the obstacles of Nature,
is content to hang his dwelling upon her rocks, if
he may but gather the treasures of her streams. Yet spots
of brightness, and of beauty occur amid these eagle-nests
upon the cliff; gardens of flowers; bold and romantic
shores; pure, broad, sparkling waters; white sails dancing
at the will of the breeze; boats gliding beneath bridges,
or between islands of verdure, with sportive and graceful
motion, like the slight gossamer in the sun-beam.

Between these two sections of the town, which, though
sisters, bear no family resemblance, is a landscape, which
some writer of romance might be pleased to describe. It
is about a mile from the mouth of the smallest of the two
streams just mentioned, which, winding its way through
green meadows with a mild course, is fringed with the
willow, and many aquatic shrubs, bending their drooping
branches to kiss its noiseless tide. Suddenly it assumes
the form of a cataract. Dashing tumultuously from rock

to rock, it sends forth from their excavations, deep, hollow
sounds; as if thunders were born in those unvisited caverns.
Tossing and foaming over the masses that obstruct
its channel, it becomes compressed within narrow limits
by two lofty precipices. One, rises frowning and perpendicular
like the walls of a castle. A few hardy evergreens
cling to its crown, and mark the spot whence the
hunted Pequots were forced, by their conquerors the
Mohegans, to their fatal plunge from time into eternity.
Fancy, awakened by tradition, sometimes paints their
forms mingling with the dark, slow waters that circle the
base of that fearful cliff; or hears their spirits shrieking
amid the clamour of the cataract. The opposite rampart
presents a chain of rocks, of less towering height, interspersed
with lofty trees, displaying the names of many
who have visited and admired this wild and picturesque
scenery. The enthusiast of Nature, who should conquer
its precipitous descent, and stand upon the margin of the
flood which creeps in death-like stillness through this
guarded defile, might see on his right, the foam, the vapour,
the tossing of a tempestuous conflict; on his left,
a broad chrystal mirror, studded with emerald islets,
and bounded by romantic shores, where peaceful mansions,
embosomed in graceful shades, are seen through
vistas of green. Beneath, the black and almost motionless
waters seem, to him who gazes intensely, like the
river of forgetfulness, annihilating the traces of a passing
world. Above, the proud cliff rears its waving helmet,
as if in defiance of the bowing cloud. To hear the voice
of Nature in passionate strife, and at the same moment to
gaze upon her slumbering calmness; to be lost in contemplation
upon the moral contrast, then startled into
awe by her strong features of majesty; leave the mind
uncertain whether, in this secluded temple, beauty ought
most to charm, or awe to enchain it, or devotion to
absorb all other sensations in reverence to the invisible
God.

Retracing our steps to the northern division of N—,
we find a society remarkable for the preservation of primitive
habits. There, was exhibited the singular example
of an aristocracy, less intent upon family aggrandizement,
than upon becoming illustrious in virtue; and of a
community where industry and economy almost banished
want. Do mestic subordination taught the young to honour
the old, while the temperance and regularity which
prevailed gave to age both contentment and health. The
forty years, which have elapsed since the period of this
sketch, have wrought many changes; but some features
of similarity remain. That luxury which enervates character,
and undermines the simple principles of justice,
and charity, has found its ravages circumscribed by the
example of those to whom wealth gave influence. An
unusual number of individuals, whose first steps were in
humble life, have risen to the possession of riches, not by
fortunate accidents, or profuse gains, by lotteries or by
war, but through an industry which impoverished none,

and a prudence which as resolutely frowned upon waste
of time, as waste of money. It has been thought that the
advantages, arising from a favourable situation for commerce,
and from a surrounding country eminently agricultural,
languished for want of vigorous enterprize. Yet a
source of wealth still less fluctuating has been discovered,
in lessening the number of factitious wants, and pruning
the excrescences of fashion and of folly. A more moral
state of society can scarcely be imagined, than that which
existed within the bosom of these rocks. Almost it might
seem as if their rude summits, pointing in every direction,
had been commissioned to repel the intrusion of
vice. In this department of the town was the mansion of
Madam L—. It raised its broad, dignified front, without
other decorations than the white rose, and the sweet
brier, rearing their columns of beauty and fragrance,
quite to the projection of the roof. In front, was a court
of shorn turf, like the richest velvet, intersected by two
paved avenues to the principal entrances, and enclosed
by a white fence, resting upon a foundation of hewn stone.
On each side of the antiquated gate waved the boughs
of a spruce, intermingling their foliage, and defying, in
their evergreen garb, the changes of climate. The habitation,
which faced the rising sun, had on its left, and in
the rear of its long range of offices, two large gardens for
vegetables and fruit. A third, which had a southern exposure,
and lay beneath the windows of the parlour, was
partially devoted to flowers. There, in quadrangles, triangles,
and parallelograms, beds of mould were thrown
up, and regularly arranged, according to what the florists
of that age denominated “a knot.” There, in the centre,
the flaunting peony reared its head like a queen upon her
throne, surrounded by a guard of tulips, arrayed as
courtiers in every hue, deep crimson, buff streaked with
vermillion, and pure white mantled with a blush of carmine.
In the borders, the purple clusters of the lilac,
mingled with the feathery orb of the snow-ball, and the
pure petals of the graceful lily. Interspersed were various
species of the rose, overshadowing snow-drops, and
daffodils the earliest heralds of Spring—the violet, whose
purple eye seems half to beam with intelligence—the
hyacinth, the blue-bell, and the guinea-hen in its mottled
robe.

There were also the personified flowers—gaudy soldiers
in green—the tawdry ragged lady—the variegated batchelor—the
sad mourning bride—and the monk in his sombre
hood. The larkspur mingled with the sweet pea, and
the humble fumatory grew at the foot of the proud crown
imperial, which lifted its cluster of flowers, and crest of
leaves, with patrician haughtiness. A broad walk divided
this garden into nearly equal compartments. The western
part, covered with rich turf, and interspersed with
fruit trees, displayed at its extremity a summer-house,
encircled by a luxuriant vine, and offering a delightful
retreat from a fervid sun. Seated beneath the canopy of
fragrant clusters, you might see the velvet-coated peach,

the rich plum with its purple, or emerald robe, and the
orange-coloured pear bruising itself in its fall. Raspberries,
supporting themselves by the fence, interwove their
branches with the bushes that lined it, as if ambitious
to form an impervious hedge; while at their feet, the red
and white strawberry offered its treasures. Near the same
region was a small nursery of medicinal plants; for the
mind which had grouped so many pleasures for the eye
and the taste of man, had not put out of sight his infirmities,
or forgotten where it was written, “in the garden
was a sepulchre.” There, arose the rough leafed sage,
with its spiry efflorescence, the hoarhound foe of consumption,
the aperient cumphrey, the aromatic tansy, and the
bitter rue and wormwood. There, also, the healing balm
was permitted to flourish, and the pungent peppermint for
distillation. Large poppies, scattered here and there, perfected
their latent anodyne, and hop-vines, clasping the
accustomed arches, disclosed from their aromatic clusters
some portion of their sedative powers. Through
these scenes of odoriferous wildness Madam L — often
wandered, and like our first mother, amused herself by
removing whatever marred its beauty, and cherishing all
that heightened its excellence.

Her alert step, and animated aspect would scarcely
permit the beholder to believe that the weight of almost
seventy years oppressed her; though the spectacles, that
aided her in distinguishing weeds from plants, proved that
time had not spared to levy some tribute upon his favourite.

Her fair, open forehead, clear expressive blue eye,
and finely shaped countenance displayed that combination
of intellect with sensibility, which marked her character.
A tall and graceful person, whose symmetry age had respected,
gave dignity to a deportment which the sorrows
of life had softened. A vein of playful humour had been
natural to her youth, and might still occasionally be detected
in her quick smile, and kindling eye. Yet this
was divested of every semblance of asperity by the spirit
of a religion, breathing love to all mankind. Her voice
had that peculiar and exquisite tone, which seems an echo
of the soul's harmony. Her brow was circled with thin
folds of the purest cambrick, whose whiteness was contrasted
with the broad, black ribband which compressed
them, and the kerchief of the same colour, pinned in quaint
and quaker-like neatness over her bosom. Her counteuance
in its silence spoke the language of peace within,
good will to all around, and the sublimated joy of one,
whose “kingdom is not of this world.” Her liberality
was proverbial. She loved the poor and the sick, as if
they were unfortunate members of her own family. To
afford them relief, was not a deed of ostentation, but a
source of heartfelt delight. She considered herself as
the obliged party, when an opportunity was presented of
distributing His bounty, who by entrusting her with riches
had constituted her his almoner, and would at length require
an account of her stewardship. Her piety was not
a strife about doctrines, though the articles of her belief
were by no means indifferent to her. She thought the
spirit of controversy should be held in subjection to that,
which moveth to love and to good works.

She disclaimed that bigotry which desires to extinguish
every light which its own hand has not kindled. She
looked upon the varying sects of Christians, as travellers
pursuing different roads to the same eternal city.

This liberality of sentiment was deserving of more
praise, forty years since than in our times, when superior
illumination bears with stronger influence upon the
mists of prejudice. Educated in the metropolis of the
state, the daughter of its first magistrate, born of a family
of high respectability, introduced by marriage into the
aristocracy of N—, conscious that her excellencies were
so appreciated by those around her, that she was considered
almost as a being of an higher order, it would not
have been wonderful if some haughtiness had marked her
exterior, at a period when those distinctions signified more
than they do at present. But that self-complacency,
which is the spontaneons growth of the unrenovated heart,
was early checked by a religion which taught her “not
to glory save in the cross of Christ.” Afflictions also
humbled the hopes which might have unwisely aspired,
or laboured to lay too deep a foundation on the earth. She
had borne the yoke in her youth. The early death of her
parents was strong discipline for a tender spirt. Her husband
was endued by nature with every excellence to awaken
her attachment and confidence. His mind, enlarged

by the best education which this country afforded, had
pursued its scientific researches in Europe, and become
exalted both by extensive knowledge, and rational peity.
It was his pleasure to employ his wealth in the relief of
indigence, and the encouragement of enterprise. He was
early revered as the patron of merit in obscurity, and his
name is still enrolled by the grateful town which gave
him birth, as first in the list of its benefactors. United
in the warmth of his earliest affections to a kindred spirit,
they shared all the blessings of a perfect union of hearts.

Many years of conjugal felicity had been their portion.
But she was at length appointed to watch the progress
of a protracted and fatal disease, and to mark with still
keener anguish the mental decay of him who had been her
instructer and counsellor. “I have seen an end of all
perfection,” she said, as his strong and brilliant powers
yielded to the sway of sickness and when she bent in
agony over his grave, she put her trust in the widow's
God. The earlier part of their union had seen three
sons rising like olive-plants around their table. The eldest
exhibited at the age of seven a precocity of intellect, and
maturity of character, which at once astonished and delighted
the beholder. To store his memory with moral
and sublime passages, to sit a solitary student over his
book, to request explanations of subjects beyond his reason,
were his pleasures. The sports of his cotemporaries
were emptiness to him, and while he forebore to censure,
he withdrew himself from them. Within his reflecting

mind, was a desire to render himself acceptable to his
Maker. Though younge than the Jewish king, who, at
the age of eight years, separated himself for the search
of wisdom, he began like him to “seek the God of his
Fathers.” When he requested from his parents their
nightly blessing to hallow his repose, he often inquired,
with an interesting solemnity, “Do you think that my
Father in Heaven will be pleased with me this day?
To a soul thus embued with the principles of religion, it
was sufficient to point out that the path of duty was illumined
with the smile of the Almighty, and to deter from
the courses of evil, by the assurance of his displeasure.

The second had a form of graceful symmetry, and a
complexion of feminine delicacy. The tones of his voice
promised to attain the melting richness of his mother's, as
a bud resembles the perfect flower. He possessed that
rapid perception, and tremulous sensibility, which betoken
genius. His character, even in infancy, displayed
those delicate involutions, and keen vibrations of feeling,
which mark the most poignant susceptibility of pleasure
or of pain. His was the spirit on which the unfeeling
world delights to wreak her tyranny; as the harsh hand
shivers the harp-strings which it has not skill to controul.

The youngest, just completing his third year, was the
picture of health, vigour and joy. His golden curls clustered
round a bold forehead which spoke the language of
command, like some infant warrior. His erect head, and
prominent chest, evinced uncommon strength, and so full

of glee was this happy and beautiful being, that the
mansion or its precincts rang, from morning till night,
with the clamour of his sports, or the shouts of his laughter.
Active, unwearied, and intelligent, he seemed to bear,
within his breast, and upon his brow, the consciousness
that he was one of the lords of creation.

On these three objects the affection and solicitude of
the parents centered. Often they spake to each other of
their differing lineaments of character, consulted on the
methods of eradicating what was defective, or confirming
what was lovely, and often contemplated the part they
might hereafter act in life, with a thrilling mixture of fear
and of hope. But for this anxiety it had been written, in
the infinite councils, that there was no need. In one week,
all these beloved beings were laid in the grave. In one
week, and the arms of the mourning parents remained
forever vacant. Death, whose “shadow is without order,”
respected in this awful instance the claims of priority.
He first smote the eldest at his studies. His languishing
was short. “I go to my Father in Heaven,” he said, and
without a struggle ceased to breathe. His disease was
so infectious, that it was necessary to commit him immediately
to the earth.

As the bereaved parents returned from his grave, of
whom they had said, “this same shall comfort us concerning
all our toil,” they found the second, bowing, like a
pale flowret upon its broken stem. Pain fed upon his frail
frame, “as a moth fretting a garment.” Anguish visited,

and tried every nerve, yet, if he might but lay his
head upon his mother's bosom, he would endure without
repining. Tears quivered in his soft, blue eyes, like dew
in the bell of the hyacinth, if she were no longer visible.
Yet, when in a moment she returned, a smile of the spirit
would beam through, and rule the convulsions of physical
agony. “My son,” said his father, “let us be willing that you
should go to your Saviour, and to your brother in heaven.”
But the suffering child, who could imagine no heaven
brighter than the indulgence of his own young affections,
sighed incessantly as death approached. Yet his convulsed
brow resumed partial tranquillity, when his mother's
voice poured forth, in trembling, agonizing harmony, the
sacred music of the hymn he loved. It was then that he
breathed away his spirit, fancying that angels hastened
him to rise, and learn their celestial melodies. But, ere
his heart ceased to throb, the destroyer had laid his hand
upon the youngest, “the beautiful, the brave.” Unconsciousness
miserably changed a countenance, which was
ever lighted by the glow of intelligence, or the gladness of
mirth. Unbroken sleep seemed settling without resistance
upon him, who had never been willing even for a
moment to be at rest. Yet nature on the eve of dissolution
aroused to an afflicting contest with her conqueror.
Cries and struggles were long and violent, and now and
then a reproachful glance would be bent upon his parents,
as if the victim wondered they should lend no aid to his
conflict.

Cold, big drops started thick upon his temples, and his
golden hair streamed with the dews of pain. It was a fearful
sight to see a child so struggle with the king of terrors.
At length with one long sob he yielded, and moaning sank
to rest.

The little white monument still marks the couch of the
three brothers. Its silence is eloquent on the uncertainty
of the hopes of man—on the bitterness that tinges the
brightest fountains of his joy.

Such were the adversities to which the heart of Madam
L—had been subjected. Her blossoms had been riven
from her, as a fig-tree shaketh its untimely figs before the
blast. An affecting memorial of her feelings, at this period,
is still preserved, where, in a poetical form, she pours
out her sorrows before Him who had afflicted her, and
urges with the most afflicting earnestness, that her spirit
may not lose the benefits of his discipline. After the calmness
of resignation had soothed the tumult of woe, she
seldom spoke of her griefs. She kept them sacred for the
communication of her soul with its Maker. Yet they diffused
over her cheerful and faithful discharge of duty,
a softness, a sympathy with those who mourned, a serene
detachment of confidence from terrestrial things, which
realized the tender description of a recent, moral poet: