University of Virginia Library

33. THE HARWOODS.

The flood of emigration which beats against the shores
of the United States, seems to have no ebb-tide. From
the ices of the Baltic,—from the dense forests of Germany,—from
the weeping Isle of the shamrock, exhalations
gather, hurrying drops aggregate, streamlets mingle, and
press onward with a rushing sound. The young West,
like some broad sea, receives them, taking no more note
of each than Ocean of its tribute-waters.

Here and there, in the streets of our cities, the tall,
tasseled cap of the Pole, the rainbow plaid of the High-lander,
or the thin smoke curling from the Bavarian
pipe, gleam for a moment, to be dispersed in measureless
distance, or merged in one common mass. The accents
of a strange language may indeed continue to murmur
through a generation or two, but dialects, like the lineaments
of national character, blend, fade, and are forgotten.

Amid this ceaseless influx of foreign material, is also

an under-current of domestic emigration;—a change, a
fluctuation, a fluttering of the integral parts. This elemental
movement and strife, tends ever towards the setting
sun. Yet the West recedes from its followers, like
the horizon from the pursuing child. Time was, and
that within the memory of the living, when to us, the
dwellers in New England, the untrodden wilds of Ohio
were counted as the extreme West. Now, the stately
cities that glitter there, fall short of the central point of
the empire.

Where, then, is the West? On the banks of the father
of waters?—along the pictured rocks of the mighty lake?
—at Illinois?—at Iowa?—at Wisconsin?—Scarcely!
The searchers for the West, like the gold seekers among
the settlers of Virginia, still analyze yellow earth for the
invisible and ideal good;—pausing only amid the arid
sands of Oregon, or on the sounding shores of the
Pacific.

New England, the fountain of these internal supplies,
still vigorously sustains this drain upon her vitality. The
farmer who has many sons,—if the homestead be too
narrow, confidently points out to them a place at the
West. Thither speed the self-denying missionary, with
his Bible, and the persevering teacher with his text-book,
laboring to make the wilderness blossom as the rose.
Perhaps, thither also may turn the briefless lawyer, to
pour his philippics from the stump, and carry the votes
of a whole country by his eloquence. The broken merchant

there plants himself, changing his ledger for an
axe, and making the trees groan, instead of his creditors.
Every over-stocked profession finds there a safety-valve.
Those who are discontented, and in debt, “make to
themselves a captain,” and go forth to a more attractive
abode than the cave of Adullam. Lost wealth takes
heart and looks up, where are none richer than itself;
wasted health fattens and grows strong, with the wild venison,
and the toil that takes it. The strong passion of
wandering becomes satiated and tame, amidst the boundless
prairies; and forfeited reputation, and even flying
guilt, fear no reproach amid Texan vales.

From the trains of baggage wagons peep forth the
faces of young children; and on the canal-boat the careful
matron, while her babe sleeps, plies the knitting-needles,
ever steering in the wake of the westering sunbeam.
Not many years since, where the lofty forests of
Ohio, towering in unshorn majesty, cast a solemn shadow
over the deep verdure of beautiful and ample vales, a
small family of emigrants were seen pursuing their solitary
way. They travelled on foot, but not with the
aspect of mendicants, though care and suffering were
visibly depicted on their countenances. The man walked
first, apparently in no kind or compromising mood. The
woman carried in her arms an infant, and aided the
progress of a feeble boy, who seemed sinking with exhaustion.
An eye accustomed to scan the never-resting
tide of emigration, might discern, that these pilgrims

were inhabitants of the Eastern States, probably retreating
from some species of adversity, to one of those
imaginary El Dorados, among the shades of the far
West, where it is fabled that the evils of mortality have
found no place.

James Harwood, the leader of that humble group, who
claimed from him the charities of husband and of father,
halted at the report of a musket, and while he entered a
thicket to discover whence it proceeded, the weary and
sad-hearted mother sate down upon the grass. Bitter
were her reflections during that interval of rest among
the wilds of Ohio. The pleasant New England village
from which she had just emigrated, and the peaceful
home of her birth, rose up to her view, where, but a few
years before, she had given her hand to one, whose unkindness
now strewed her path with thorns. By constant
and endearing attentions, he had won her youthful love,
and the two first years of their union promised happiness.
Both were industrious and affectionate, and the smiles of
their infant in his evening sports, or his slumbers, more
than repaid the labors of the day.

But a change became visible. The husband grew inattentive
to his business, and indifferent to his fireside.
He permitted debts to accumulate in spite of the economy
of his wife, and became more and more offended at her
remonstrances. She strove to hide, even from her own
heart, the vice that was gaining the ascendency over
him, and redoubled her exertions to render his home

agreeable. But too frequently her efforts were of no
avail, or contemptuously rejected. The death of her
beloved mother, and the birth of a second infant, convinced
her, that neither in sorrow nor in sickness, could
she expect sympathy from him to whom she had given
her heart, in the simple faith of confiding affection. They
became miserably poor, and the cause was evident to
every observer. In this distress a letter was received
from a brother, who had been for several years a resident
in Ohio, mentioning that he was induced to remove
farther westward, and offering them the use of a tenement
which his family would leave vacant, and a small portion
of cleared land, until they might be able to become purchasers.

Poor Jane listened to this proposal with gratitude.
She thought she saw in it the salvation of her husband.
She believed that if he were divided from his intemperate
companions, he would return to his early habits of industry
and virtue. The trial of leaving native and endeared
scenes, from which she would once have recoiled, seemed
as nothing in comparison with the prospect of his reformation,
and returning happiness. Yet, when all their
few effects were transmuted into the waggon and horse,
which were to convey them to a far land, and the scant
and humble necessaries which were to sustain them on
their way thither;—when she took leave of brother and
sisters, with their households;—when she shook hands
with the friends whom she had loved from her cradle,

and remembered that it might be for the last time;—and
when the hills that encircled her native village, faded
into the faint blue outline of the horizon, there came over
her such a desolation of spirit, such a foreboding of evil,
as she had never before experienced. She blamed herself
for these feelings, and repressed their indulgence.

The journey was slow and toilsome. The autumnal
rains, and the state of the roads were against them. The
few utensils and comforts which they carried with them,
were gradually abstracted and sold. The object of this
traffic could not be doubted:—the effect was but too
visible in his conduct. She reasoned,—she endeavored
to persuade him to a different course. But anger was
the only result. Even when he was not too far stupefied
to comprehend her remarks, his deportment was exceedingly
overbearing and arbitrary. He felt that she had
no friends to protect her from insolence, and was entirely
in his own power; while she was compelled to realize
that it was a power without generosity, and that there
is no tyranny so perfect as that of a capricious and
alienated husband.

As they approached the close of their distressing journey,
the roads became worse, and their horse utterly
failed. He had been scantily provided for, as the intemperance
of his owner had taxed and impoverished everything,
for its own vile indulgence. Jane wept as she
looked upon the dying animal, and remembered his
faithful and ill-requited services.

The unfeeling exclamation with which her husband
abandoned him to his fate, fell painfully upon her heart,
adding another proof of the extinction of his sensibilities,
in the loss of that pitying kindness for the animal creation,
which exercises a silent and salutary guardianship
over our higher and better sympathies. They were now
approaching within a short distance of the termination
of their journey, and their directions had been very clear
and precise. But his mind became so bewildered, and
his heart so perverse, that he persisted in choosing bypaths
of underwood and tangled weeds, under the pretence
of seeking a shorter route. This increased and
prolonged their fatigue, but no entreaty of his wearied
wife was regarded. Indeed, so exasperated was he at
her expostulations, that she sought safety in silence. The
little boy of four years old, whose constitution had been
feeble from his infancy, became so feverish and distressed,
as to be unable to proceed. The mother, after in vain
soliciting aid and compassion from her husband, took him
in her arms, while the youngest, whom she had previously
carried, and who was unable to walk, clung to her
shoulders. Thus burdened, her progress was slow and
painful. Still, she was enabled to hold on; for the
strength that nerves a mother, toiling for her sick child,
is from God. She even endeavored to press on more
rapidly than usual, fearing, that if she fell behind, her
husband would tear the sufferer from her arms, in some
paroxysm of his savage intemperance.

Their road during the day, though approaching the
small settlement where they were to reside, lay through
a solitary part of the country. The children were faint
and hungry; and as the exhausted mother rested upon
the grass, trying to nurse her infant, she drew from her
bosom the last piece of bread, and held it to the
parched lips of the feeble child. But he turned away
his head, and with a scarcely audible moan, asked for
water. Feelingly might she sympathize in the distress
of the poor outcast from the tent of Abraham, who laid
her perishing son among the shrubs, and sat down a good
way off, saying, “Let me not see the death of the child.”
But this Christian mother was not in the desert, nor in
despair. She looked upward to Him, who is the Refuge
of the forsaken, and the Comforter of those whose spirits
are cast down.

The sun was drawing towards the west, as the voice of
James Harwood was heard, issuing from the forest, attended
by another man with a gun, and some birds at his
girdle.

“Wife, will you get up now, and come along? we are
not a mile from home. Here is John Williams, who went
from our part of the country, and says he is our next-door
neighbor.”

Jane received his hearty welcome with a thankful
spirit, and rose to accompany them. The kind neighbor
took the sick boy in his arms, saying,—

“Harwood, here, take the baby from your wife. We
do not let our women bear all the burdens, in Ohio.”

James was ashamed to refuse, and reached his hands
towards the child. But accustomed to his neglect, or
unkindness, it hid its face, crying, in the maternal bosom.

“You see how it is; she makes the children so cross
that I never have any comfort of them. She chooses to
carry them herself, and always will have her own way
in everything.”

“You have come to a new-settled country, friends,”
said John Williams, “but it is a good country to get a
living in. The crops of corn and wheat are such as you
never saw in New England. Our cattle live in clover,
and the cows give us cream instead of milk. There is
plenty of game to employ our leisure, and venison and
wild turkey do not come amiss now and then, on a farmer's
table. Here is a short cut I can show you, though
there is a fence or two to climb. James Harwood, I shall
like well to talk with you about old times, and old friends
down East. But why don't you help your wife over the
fence with her baby?”

“So I would, but she is so sulky. She has not spoken
a word to me all day. I always say, let such folks take
care of themselves, till their mad fit is over.”

A cluster of log-cabins now met their view through an
opening in the forest. They were pleasantly situated in
the midst of an area of cultivated lands. A fine river,
surmounted by a rustic bridge, formed of the trunks of

trees, cast a sparkling line through the deep, unchanged
autumnal verdure.

“Here we live,” said their guide, “a hard-working,
contented people. That is your house, which has no
smoke curling up from the chimney. It may not be quite
so genteel as some you have left behind in the old States,
but it is about as good as any in the neighborhood. I'll
go and call my wife to welcome you. Right glad will
she be to see you, for she sets great store by folks from
New England.”

The inside of a log-cabin, to those not habituated to it,
presents but a cheerless aspect. The eye needs time to
accustom itself to the rude walls and floors, the absence
of glass windows, and doors loosely hung upon leather
hinges. The exhausted woman entered, and sank down
with her babe. There was no chair to receive her. In
the corner of the room stood a rough board table, and a
low frame resembling a bedstead. Other furniture there
was none. Glad, kind voices of her own sex, recalled her
from her stupor. Three or four matrons, and several blooming
young faces, welcomed her with smiles. The warmth
of reception in a new colony, and the substantial services
by which it is manifested, put to shame the ceremonious
and heartless professions, which, in a more artificial state
of society, are sometimes dignified with the name of
friendship.

As if by magic, what had seemed almost a prison,
assumed a different aspect, under the ministry of active

benevolence. A cheerful flame rose from the ample
fireplace; several chairs, and a bench for the children appeared;
a bed, with comfortable coverings, concealed the
shapelessness of the bedstead, and viands to which they
had long been strangers, were heaped upon the board.
An old lady held the sick boy tenderly in her arms,
who seemed to revive, as he saw his mother's face brighten;
and the infant, after a draught of fresh milk, fell
into a sweet and profound slumber. One by one, the
neighbors departed, that the wearied ones might have an
opportunity of repose. John Williams, who was the last
to bid good-night, lingered a moment ere he closed the
door, and said,—

“Friend Harwood, here is a fine, gentle cow, feeding
at your door; and for old acquaintance sake, you and
your family are welcome to the use of her for the present,
or until you can make out better.”

When they were left alone, Jane poured out her gratitude
to her Almighty Protector, in a flood of joyful
tears. Kindness, to which she had recently been a
stranger, fell as balm of Gilead upon her wounded
spirit.

“Husband,” she exclaimed in the fulness of her heart,
“we may yet be happy.”

He answered not, and she perceived that he heard not.
He had thrown himself upon the bed, and in a sleep of
stupefaction, was dispelling the fumes of inebriety.

This new family of emigrants, though in the deepest

poverty, were sensible of a degree of satisfaction to which
they had long been strangers. The difficulty of procuring
ardent spirits in the small and isolated community,
promised to be the means of establishing their peace.
The mother busied herself in making their humble tenement
neat and comfortable, while her husband, as if
ambitious to earn in a new residence, the reputation he
had forfeited in the old, labored diligently to assist his
neighbors in gathering their harvest, receiving in payment
such articles as were needed for the subsistence of
his household. Jane continually gave thanks in her
prayers for this great blessing; and the hope she permitted
herself to indulge of his permanent reformation,
imparted unwonted cheerfulness to her brow and demeanor.
The invalid boy seemed to gather healing from
his mother's smiles; for so great was her power over
him since sickness had rendered his dependence complete,
that his comfort, and even his countenance, were a faithful
reflection of her own. Perceiving the degree of her
influence, she endeavored to use it, as every religious
parent should, for his spiritual benefit. She supplicated
that the pencil which was to write upon his soul, might
be guided from above. She spoke to him in the tenderest
manner of his Father in Heaven, and of His will
respecting little children. She pointed out His goodness
in the daily gifts that sustain life, in the glorious sun as
he came forth rejoicing in the east, in the gently-falling
rain, the frail plant, and the dews that nourish it. She
reasoned with him of the changes of nature, till he loved
even the storm, and the mighty thunder, because they
came from God. She repeated to him passages of
Scripture with which her memory was stored; and sang
hymns until she perceived that, if he was in pain, he
complained not, if he might but hear her voice. She
made him acquainted with the life of the blessed Redeemer,
and how he called young children to his arms,
though the disciples forbade them. And it seemed as if
a voice from Heaven urged her never to desist from
cherishing this tender and deep-rooted piety;—because
like the flower of grass he must soon pass away. Yet
though it was evident that the seeds of disease were in
his system, his health at intervals seemed to be improving;
and the little household partook, for a time, the
blessings of tranquillity and contentment.

But let none flatter himself, that the dominion of vice
is suddenly, or easily broken. It may seem to relax its
grasp, and to slumber,—but the victim who has long
worn its chain, if he would utterly escape, and triumph
at last, must do so in the strength of Omnipotence.
This, James Harwood never sought. He had begun to
experience that prostration of spirits which attends the
abstraction of an habitual stimulant. His resolution to
recover his lost character, was not proof against this
physical inconvenience. He determined at all hazards to
gratify his depraved appetite. He laid his plans deliberately,
and with the pretext of making some arrangements

about the wagon, which had been left broken on
the road, departed from his home. His stay was protracted
beyond the appointed limit, and at his return, his
sin was written on his brow, in characters too strong to
be mistaken. That he had also brought with him some
hoard of intoxicating liquor, to which to resort, there
remained no room to doubt. Day after day, did his
shrinking household witness the alternations of causeless
anger, and brutal tyranny. To lay waste the comfort of
his wife, seemed his paramount object. By constant
contradiction and misconstruction, he strove to distress
her, and then visited her sensibilities upon her as
sins. Had she been obtuse by nature, or indifferent
to his welfare, she might with greater ease have borne
the cross. But her youth was nurtured in tenderness,
and education had refined her susceptibilities, both of
pleasure and pain. She could not forget the love he had
once manifested for her, nor prevent the chilling contrast
from filling her soul with anguish. She could not resign
the hope, that the being who had early evinced correct
feelings, and noble principles of action, might yet be
won back to that virtue which had rendered him worthy
of her affections. Still, this hope deferred, was sickness
and sorrow to the heart. She found the necessity of
deriving consolation, and the power of endurance, wholly
from above. The tender invitation by the mouth of
a prophet, was balm to her wounded soul,—“As a
woman forsaken and grieved in spirit, and as a wife of
youth, when thou wast refused, have I called thee, saith
thy God.”

So faithful was she in the discharge of the difficult
duties that devolved upon her,—so careful not to irritate
her husband, by reproach or gloom,—that to a casual
observer, she might have appeared to be confirming the
doctrine of the ancient philosopher, that happiness is in
exact proportion to virtue. Had he asserted, that virtue
is the source of all that happiness which depends upon
ourselves, none could have controverted his position.
But to a woman,—a wife,—a mother, how small is the
portion of independent happiness! She has woven the
tendrils of her soul around many props. Each revolving
year renders their support more necessary. They
cannot waver, or warp, or break, but she must tremble
and bleed.

There was one modification of her husband's persecutions,
which the fullest measure of her piety could not
enable her to bear unmoved. This was unkindness to
her feeble and suffering boy. It was at first commenced
as the surest mode of distressing her. It opened a direct
avenue to her lacerated heart-strings. What began in
perverseness, seemed to end in hatred, as evil habits
often create perverted principles. The wasted and wild-eyed
invalid, shrank from his father's glance and footstep,
as from the approach of a foe. More than once
had he taken him from the little bed, which maternal

care had provided for him, and forced him to go forth in
the cold of the winter storm.

“I mean to harden him,” said he. “All the neighbors
know that you make such a fool of him, that he will
never be able to get a living. For my part, I wish I had
never been called to the trial of supporting a useless
boy, who pretends to be sick, only that he may be coaxed
by a silly mother.”

On such occasions, it was in vain that the mother
attempted to protect the child. She might neither shelter
him in her bosom, nor control the frantic violence of
the father. Harshness and the agitation of fear, deepened
a disease which might else have yielded. The timid boy,
in terror of his natural protector, withered away like a
blighted flower. It was of no avail that friends remonstrated
with the unfeeling parent, or that hoary-headed
men warned him solemnly of his sins. Intemperance
had destroyed his respect for man, and his fear of God.

Spring, at length, emerged from the shades of that
heavy and bitter winter. But its smile brought no gladness
to the declining child. Consumption fed upon his
vitals, and his nights were restless, and full of pain.

“Mother, I wish I could smell the violets that grew
upon the green bank by our dear old home.”

“It is too early for violets, my child. But the grass
is beautifully green around us, and the birds sing sweetly,
as if their hearts were full of praise.”

“In my dreams last night, I saw the clear waters of

the brook, that ran by the bottom of my little garden.
I wish I could taste them once more. And I heard such
music too, as used to come from that white church among
the trees, where every Sunday, the happy people meet
to worship God.”

The mother knew that the hectic fever had been long
increasing, and now detected such an unearthly brightness
in his eye, that she feared his intellect wandered.
She seated herself on his low bed, and bent over him.
He lay silent for some time.

“Do you think my father will come?”

Dreading the agonizing agitation, which in his paroxysms
of coughing and pain, he evinced at the sound of
his father's well-known step, she answered,—

“I think not, love. You had better try to sleep.”

“Mother I wish he would come. I do not feel afraid
now. Perhaps he would let me lay my cheek to his
once more, as he used to do when I was a babe in my
grandmother's arms. I should be glad to say goodby
to him, before I go to my Saviour.”

Gazing intently in his face, she saw the work of the
destroyer in lines too plain to be mistaken.

“My son, my dear son,—say, Lord Jesus, receive my
spirit.”

“Mother,” he replied, with a smile upon his ghastly
features, “He is ready. I desire to go to Him. Hold
the baby to me, that I may kiss her. That is all. Now

sing to me,—and oh! wrap me closer in your arms, for I
shiver with cold.”

He clung, with a death grasp, to that bosom which
had long been his sole earthly refuge.

“Sing louder, dear mother, a little louder. I cannot
hear you.”

A tremulous tone, as of a broken harp, rose above her
grief to comfort the dying child. One sigh of icy breath
was upon her cheek as she joined it to his,—one shudder,
and all was over. She held the body long in her arms,
as if fondly hoping to warm and revivify it with her
breath. Then she stretched it upon its bed, and kneeling
beside it, hid her face in that grief, which none but
mothers feel. It was a deep and sacred solitude, alone
with the dead,—nothing save the soft breathing of the
sleeping babe, fell upon that solemn pause. Then, the
silence was broken by a wail of piercing sorrow. It
ceased, and a voice arose,—a voice of supplication for
strength to endure, as “seeing Him who is invisible.”
Faith closed what was begun in weakness. It became a
prayer of thanksgiving to Him, who had released the
dove-like spirit from its prison-house of pain, that it
might taste the peace, and mingle in the melody, of
heaven.

She arose from the orison, and bent calmly over her
dead. The thin, placid features wore a smile, as when
he had spoken of Jesus. She composed the shining locks
around the pure forehead, and gazed long, on what was

to her beautiful. Tears had vanished from her eyes, and
in their stead was an expression almost sublime, as of
one who had given an angel back to God.

The father entered carelessly. She pointed to the
pale, immovable brow.

“See! he suffers no longer.”

He drew near, and looked on the dead with surprise
and sadness. A few natural tears forced their way, and
fell on the face of the first-born, who was once his pride.
The memories of that moment were bitter. He spoke
tenderly to the emaciated mother, and she, who a short
time before was raised above the sway of grief, wept like
an infant, as those few affectionate tones touched the
sealed fountains of other years.

Neighbors and friends visited them, desirous to console
their sorrow, and attended them when they committed
the body to the earth. There was a shady and
secluded spot, which they had consecrated by the burial
of their few dead. Thither that whole little colony were
gathered, and seated on the fresh-springing grass, listened
to the holy, healing words of the inspired volume. It
was read by the oldest man in the colony, who had himself
often mourned. As he bent reverently over the
sacred page, there was that on his brow which seemed
to say, “This hath been my comfort in my affliction.”
Silver hairs thinly covered his temples, and his low voice
was modulated by feeling, as he read of the frailty of man,
withering like the flower of grass before it groweth up;

and of His majesty, in whose sight “a thousand years
are as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the
night.” He selected from the words of that compassionate
One, who “gathereth the lambs with His arm, and
carrieth them in His bosom;” who, pointing out as an
example the humility of little children, said, “except ye
become as one of these, ye cannot enter the kingdom of
heaven,” and who calleth all the “weary and heavy-laden
to come unto Him, that He may give them rest.”

The scene called forth sympathy, even from manly
bosoms. The mother, worn with watching and weariness,
bowed her head down to the clay that concealed
her child. And it was observed with gratitude by that
friendly group, that the husband supported her with his
arm, and mingled his tears with hers.

He returned from this funeral in much mental distress.
His sins were brought to remembrance, and reflection
was misery. For many nights, sleep was disturbed by
visions of his neglected boy. Sometimes he imagined
that he heard him coughing from his low bed, and felt
constrained to go to him, in a strange disposition of
kindness, but his limbs were unable to obey the dictates
of his will. Then he would see him pointing with a thin,
dead hand, to the dark grave, or beckoning him to follow
to the unseen world. Conscience haunted him with
terror, and many prayers from pious hearts arose, that he
might now be led to repentance. The venerable man
who had read the Bible at the burial of his boy, counselled

and entreated him with the earnestness of a father,
to yield to the warning voice from above, and to “break
off his sins by righteousness, and his iniquities by turning
unto the Lord.”

There was a change in his habits and conversation, and
his friends trusted it would be permanent. She, who
above all others was interested in the result, spared no
exertion to win him back to the way of virtue, and to
soothe his heart into peace with itself, and obedience to
his Maker. Yet was she doomed to witness the full
force of grief, and of remorse, upon intemperance, only to
see them utterly overthrown at last. The reviving goodness
with whose indications she had solaced herself, and even
given thanks that her beloved son had not died in vain,
was transient as the morning dew. Habits of industry
which had begun to spring up, proved rootless. The
dead, and his cruelty to the dead, were alike forgotten.
Disaffection to the chastened being, who, against hope,
still hoped for his salvation, resumed its dominion. The
friends who had alternately reproved and encouraged
him, were convinced that their efforts had been of no
avail. Intemperance, “like the strong man armed,” took
possession of a soul, that lifted no cry for aid to the
Holy Spirit, and girded on no weapon to resist the
destroyer.

Summer passed away, and the anniversary of their
arrival at the colony returned. It was to Jane Harwood
a period of sad and solemn retrospection. The joys of

early days, and the sorrows of maturity passed in review
before her, and while she wept, she questioned her heart,
what had been its gain from a Father's discipline, or
whether it had sustained that greatest of all losses,—the
loss of its afflictions.

She was alone at this season of self-communion. The
absences of her husband had become more frequent and
protracted. A storm, which feelingly reminded her of
those which had often beat upon them, when homeless and
weary travellers, had been raging for nearly two days.
To this cause she imputed the unusually long stay of her
husband. Through the third night of his absence, she
lay sleepless, listening for his steps. Sometimes she
fancied she heard shouts of laughter, for the moods in
which he returned from his revels, was various:—but
it was only the shriek of the tempest. Then she trembled,
as if some ebullition of his frenzied anger rang in
her ears. It was the roar of the hoarse wind through
the forest. All night long she listened to these sounds,
and hushed and sang to her affrighted babe. Unrefreshed,
she arose, and resumed her morning labors.

Suddenly, her eye was attracted by a group of neighbors,
coming up slowly from the river. A dark and
terrible foreboding oppressed her. She hastened out to
meet them. Coming towards her house was a female
friend agitated and tearful, who, passing her arm around
her, would have spoken.

“Oh! you come to bring me evil tidings! I pray you,
let me know the worst.”

The object was indeed to prepare her mind for a fearful
calamity. The body of her husband had been found,
drowned, as was supposed, during the darkness of the
preceding night, in attempting to cross the bridge of
logs, which had been partially broken by the swollen
waters. Utter prostration of spirit came over the desolate
mourner. Her energies were broken, and her heart
withered. She had sustained the privations of poverty
and emigration,—the burdens of unceasing, unrequited
care, without a murmur. She had laid her first-born in
the grave with resignation, for Faith had heard the
Redeemer's blessed invitation, “Suffer the little child to
come unto me.”

She had seen him in whom her heart's young affections
were garnered up, become a “persecutor and injurious,”—a
prey to vice the most disgusting and destructive.
Yet she had borne up under all. One hope remained
with her as an “anchor of the soul,” the hope that he
might yet repent, and be reclaimed. She had persevered
in her complicated and self-denying duties, with that
charity which “beareth all things,—believeth all things,—
endureth all things.”

But now, he had died in his sin. The deadly leprosy
which had stolen over his heart, could no more be
“purged by sacrifice or offering forever.” She knew
not, that a single prayer for mercy, had preceded the

soul on its passage to the bar of the High Judge.
There were bitter dregs in this cup of grief, which
she had never before wrung out.

Again the sad-hearted community assembled in their
humble cemetery. A funeral in an infant colony touches
sympathies of an almost exclusive character. It is as if
a large family suffered. One is smitten down, whom
every eye knew, every voice saluted. To bear along the
corpse of the strong man through the fields which he had
sown, and to cover motionless in the grave, that arm which
it was expected would reap the ripened harvest; awakens
a thrill, deep and startling, in the breasts of those who
wrought by his side, during “the burden and heat of
the day.” To lay the mother on her pillow of clay,
whose last struggle with life, was perchance to resign
the hope of one more brief visit to the land of her
fathers,—whose heart's last pulsation might have been a
prayer, that her children should return, and grow up
within the shadow of the school-house, and the church
of God, is a grief in which none save emigrants may participate.
To consign to their narrow, noteless abode, both
young and old,—the infant, and him of hoary hairs, without
the solemn knell, the sable train, the hallowed voice
of the man of God, giving back in the name of his fellow-Christians,
the most precious roses of their pilgrim path,
and speaking with divine authority of Him, who is the
“resurrection and the life,” adds desolation to that weeping,
with which man goeth down to his dust.

But with heaviness of an unspoken and peculiar nature,
was this victim of vice borne from the home that he
had troubled, and laid by the side of that meek child, to
whose tender years, he had been an unnatural enemy.
There was sorrow among all who stood around his
grave,—and it bore features of that sorrow which is
without hope.

The widowed mourner was not able to raise her head
from the bed, when the bloated remains of her unfortunate
husband were committed to the dust. Long and
severe sickness ensued, and in her convalescence, a letter
was received from her brother, inviting her and her child
to an asylum under his roof, and appointing a period
to come and conduct them on their homeward journey.
With her little daughter, the sole remnant of her wrecked
heart's wealth, she returned to her kindred. It was with
emotions of deep and painful gratitude, that she bade
farewell to the inhabitants of that infant settlement, whose
kindness, through all her adversities, had never failed.
And when they remembered her example of uniform
patience and piety, and the saint-like manner in which
she had sustained her burdens, and cherished their sympathies,
they felt as though a tutelary spirit had departed
from among them.

In the home of her brother, she educated her daughter
to industry, and that contentment, which virtue teaches.
Restored to those friends with whom the morning of life
had passed, she shared with humble cheerfulness the

comforts that earth had yet in store for her; but in the
cherished sadness of her perpetual widowhood, in the
bursting sighs of her nightly orison, might be traced a
sacred, deep-rooted sorrow,—the memory of her erring
husband and the miseries of unreclaimed intemperance.