University of Virginia Library

23. CHAP. XXIII.
ON THE OTHER SIDE THE ATLANTIC.

On the left hand of the entrance of Boston harbour
is a beautiful little peninsula, called N—; it
consists of two gradually rising hills, beautifully diversified
with orchards, corn-fields and pasture land. In the
valley is built a little village, consisting of about fifty
houses, the inhabitants of which could just make shift to
decently support a minister, who on a Sunday ascended
the pulpit in a rustic temple, situated by the side of a
large piece of water, nearly in the middle of the village,
and taught, to the utmost of his abilities, the true principles
of christianity. The neck of land which joins this
peninsula to the main is extremely narrow, and indeed is
sometimes almost overflown by the tide. On one side it
forms a charmingly picturesque harbour, in which are a
variety of small but delightfully fertile islands, and on the
other it is washed by the ocean, to which it lays open.
In this enchanting village stood Mr. Abthorpe's house,
in the midst of a neat and well cultivated garden; and
here it was that, as the spring advanced, our contemplative
heroine beheld with rapture the rapid progress of
the infant vegitation; for the earth seemed hardly releafed
from the fleecy garb of winter, before it burst forth
in the full bloom of vernal pride.

In this agreeable situation Rebecca remained nearly
two years, enjoying as much felicity as she could expect
in the friendship of Mr. and Mrs. Abthorpe and the
affection of their amiable daughter. It is true she sometimes
sighed when she thought of Sir George Worthy—
sometimes gazed on his portrait and that of his mother's,
till her eyes overflowing could no longer distinguish
them. But these were luxuries, too dangerous to be often
indulged, they only served to enervate her mind, and
render her incapable of enjoying the blessings placed
within her reach, and led her to repine at the wife difpensations

of Providence; she therefore exerted her natural
good sense to keep these acute sensibilities within
proper restrictions, and by striving to be happy in her
present situation, in a great measure rendered herself
really so. She had many admirers, and might have entered
into matrimonial engagements greatly to her advantage,
but she resolutely resused them all, still maintaining
towards each that invariable politeness and
frankness of demeanor, as at the same moment extinguished
their tenderer hopes and yet conciliated their
esteem.

In the course of this time she had received two letters
from Mrs. Barton, and one from her mother; the former
informed her, that her husband was entirely reclaimed,
that she was the happiest woman in the creation, and
that she hoped she should one day have Rebecca a
witness to her felicity; the contents of the latter was
not so pleasing; her mother complained of ill treatment
from her daughter-in-law, and extravagance in her husband;
at the same time she informed her, she had just
lain in of a boy, who she hoped would be the comfort of
her old age.

“I wish to heaven he may,” said Rebecca, then laying
down the letter and reflecting how many leagues she
was from her only surviving parent; that perhaps she
might be in heavy affliction, ill treated by those on
whom she had placed the firmest reliance, laughed at by
the world, and not unlikely pinched by poverty. The
gentle-hearted girl burst into tears; “Ah!” said she,
“why did I leave my native country; I should have remembered
that my poor mother had no real friend but
me, on whom she could safely rely for comfort in sickness
or affliction; I should have remembered, that though
she had preferred the friendship of others to mine, it
was still my duty not to leave her exposed to misfortunes
which my presence and tender assiduties might
have alleviated.”

About this time the unhappy breach between Great
Britain and her colonies arose to such a height, that it
never could be healed, and war, in her most frightful

shape, began to stalk over this once happy land. Ere
this, the inhabitants of New-England, by their hospitality
and primitive simplicity of manners, revived in the
mind of our heroine the golden age, so celebrated by
poets. Here were no locks or bolts required, for each
one, content with his own cot, coveted not the possessions
of his neighbour; here should a stranger make his
appearance in their little village, though unknown by
all, every one was eager to shew him the most civility,
inviting him to their houses, and treating him with every
delicacy the simplicity of their manner of living afforded.

The only house of entertainment in this village, had
scarcely custom sufficient to supply its venerable mistress
with the necessaries of life; but she had a garden, a
cow, and a few acres of land; the produce of these
were sufficient to her wants and wishes, and she would
sit in her matted arm chair, in a room whose only beauty
was “the white-washed wall, the nicely sanded
floor,” while the smile of content played about her
face, and while she thankfully enjoyed the bounties of
heaven, she remembered not that any could be richer
or happier than herself.

But when fell discord spread her sable pinions and
shook her curling snakes, how soon this blisssul prospect
was reversed; frighted at the horrid din of arms, hospitality
fled her once favourite abode, mutual confidence
was no more, and fraternal love gave place to jealousy,
diffension, and blind party zeal. The son raised his unhallowed
arm against his parent, brothers drenched their
weapons in each other's blood, and all was horror and
confusion. The terrified inhabitants of N— left
the village and took refuge in the more interior parts
of the country, all but Colonel Abthorpe's family, who
still remained, though deserted by all their servants;
for the Colonel had too high a regard for his royal
master to join the cause of his enemies, and it was impossible
to join the British troops without relinquishing
all his property; he therefore hoped the storm would
soon pass over; that some method would be proposed

and accepted to conciliate matters, and in the mean
time he wished to remain neuter.

It was a still morning about the latter end of July,
when Rebecca, being disturbed by some little rustling
at her window, raised her head, and by the saint dawn
that just glimmered from the east, discovered armed
men placed round the house. Alarmed, she started
from her bed and awoke Miss Abthorpe; they threw a
few clothes over them and flew to the Colonel's apartment.
They were met by Mrs. Abthorpe, who caught
her daughter in her arms, and, pointing to the room
where they usually slept, cried, “Look Sophia, your
poor father.”

Miss Abthorpe looked and beheld two soldiers with
firelocks, who placed at the door of the apartment, held
her father a prisoner.

“Ah, my dear mother,” said she, “who are these,
and what are they going to do; surely, surely they will
not murder us.”

“Don't frighten yourself, Miss,” said one of the
officers, “we do not usually murder such pretty girls.”

“But my father,” cried she, eagerly, “what do you
intend to do with him.”

“Set him at liberty again when our expedition is
over.”

Rebecca now learnt that these were a part of the
American army, who had come to N— in whaleboats,
with a design of dragging their boats across the
beach before mentioned, and proceeding to the light house
at the entrance of the harbour, intending to destroy it,
in order to mislead the expected relief that was coming
to Boston which was at that time blockaded: they had
before made an unsuccessful attempt to demolish this
light-house, and were now come resolved not to leave
their work unfinished; accordingly they proceeded as
quiet as possible to the beach, almost carried their boats
over, and arrived totally unexpected at the little island
on which the light-house stood, and which was guarded
by a party of marines. A smart skirmish ensued, but
the Americans were too numerous to be withstood by so

small a party; the whole of which they either killed or
took prisoners; and having completed their design, returned
to N—, victorious, though in the utmost
consternation, for fear of being pursued by boats from
the Lively frigate, and other ships that lay in the harbour.

Rebecca was standing at a window as they relanded,
the tears streaming down her pale face, and so entirely
absorbed in terror that she was inattentive to the surrounding
objects. From this state of torpor she was
aroused by a deep groan, and raising her eyes, saw two
Americans entering the house, bearing between them a
wounded marine, whom they laid on the floor, and
were preparing to depart, when Mrs. Abthorpe rushed
out of the adjoining apartment.

“What are you doing?” said she, “you will not
surely leave him here.”

`D—n him,” cried a wretch, “he is in our way;
if he don't die quickly we will kill him.”

“Oh, do not kill me!” said the almost expiring soldier;
“I am not fit to die.”

At this moment Major Tupper entered: Mrs. Abthorpe
addressed him in a supplicating accent; “We
can procure the poor soul no affistance,” said she; “he
will perish for want of proper applications to stanch the
blood.”

“My dear madam,” said the Major, “what can we
do; we fear pursuit, and must retreat as fast as possible,
and should we take him with us, in our hurry and confusion
he will perhaps be precipitated into eternity. If
we make a safe retreat I will send to morrow.” He
then departed, and Colonel Abthorpe being now at liberty,
turned his thoughts toward the wounded soldier.

He had fainted, a mattress was laid on the ground,
and as they all united in endeavouring to remove him
upon it, the motion increased the anguish of his wounds,
and recalled his languid senses.

“Oh, Spare me! do not kill me!” said he looking
round with a terrified aspect.

“Be comforted,” said the colonel; “you are among
friends, who will do all in their power to save your life.”

“God will reward you,” said he, faintly.

They now examined the wound, and found, from its
depth and situation, that a few hours would terminate
the existence of the poor sufferer: however they made
long bandages of linen, and with pledgets dipped in spirits,
endeavoured to stanch the bleeding, but in vain.

“I am very faint,” said he.

Rebecca knelt and supported him in her arms, assisted
by the weeping Sophia.

“Can I live, think you, Sir?” said he, looking
wishfully in the Colonel's face.

“I fear not,” was the reply.

“God's will be done,” said he; but I have a long
account to settle, and but a short time to do it in.
Dear good Christians, pray with me—pray for me.
Alas, it is an awful thing to die, and with the weight
of murder on my conscience.” Here he grew faint
again and ceased to speak. A cordial was administered
—he revived.

“You see before you, my kind friends,” said he
“a most unhappy man, the victim of his own folly.
My father is a clergyman in the North of England; I am
his only child, and have received from him an education
suitable to the station in which he meant to have placed
me, which was the church; but, alas, I despised his precepts,
and joined myself to a set of the most dissolute
companions, with whom I ran into every species of vice
and debauchery. By repeated extravagance I involved
my poor father, who, no longer able to supply my exhorbitant
demands, remonstrated against my way of life;
but I was too much attached to vice to resolve to quit
it, and in a fit of desperation, having lost more money
than I could pay, I enlisted into a regiment bound for
this place. Ah, Sir, I have reason to think my conduct
shortened the period of my dear mother's existence,
and I have embittered the last hours of a father whom
it was my duty to comfort and support. These are
heavy clogs upon my departing soul, but he who witnesseth
the sincerity of my repentance, I trust will compassonate
and pardon me.”

“No doubt of it,” cried Rebecca, whose heart was
almost bursting as she listened to the expiring penitent.
He looked round, and fixing his eyes on Rebecca and
Sophia, “Poor girls,” said he, “you are but young,
take the advice of a dying sinner, and treasure it in
your memories: obey your parents, never forsake them,
and shun vicious company, for had I done this it would
have been well with me in this evil day.”

Rebecca's susceptible heart smote her, she hid her
face with her handkerchief, and sighed deeply.

“God for ever bless you, my friends,” said he; “I
am going, a few pangs more, and all will be over. Oh,
may he whose fatal aim took my life have it not remembered
against him; may the Father of mercy forgive him
as freely as I do.”

He then began to repeat the Lord's Prayer, but expired
before he could finish it.

“Peace to his repentant spirit,” said the Colonel, as
he raised his weeping daughter from her knees.

“His poor father,” said she, “what would he feel,
did he know this.”

“He felt more,” replied the Colonel, when the misguided
youth forsook the paths of virtue, than he would,
could he even behold him now.

The heat at this season of the year is intense, and the
Colonel knew the body of the unhappy soldier must
that day be consigned to the earth, yet how to make
the grave, or how to convey the corpse to it when made
were difficulties which he could hardly think it possible
to surmount, but sad necessity enforced the attempt;
he fixed on a retired spot, just by the side of his garden,
and began the melancholy task. Rebecca and Sophia
with their delicate hands endeavourd to assist, and by
evening they had completed it.

The faint rays of the setting sun just tinged the summit
of the highest hill; the sky was serene, and scarce
a breeze was heard to move the leaves or ruffle the smooth
surface of the water. Awfully solemn was the silenet
that reigned through this once cheerful village.

As the Colonel sat pensively considering his situation,
and thinking how in the decentest manner possible he
could render the last sad duties to the deceased, he saw
a small fishing boat, with one man in it, drawing near
the shore; he ran hastily down, entreated him to land
and assist him in his mournful office.

The body was carefully wrapped in a sheet—it was
impossible to obtain a coffin.

“We have no clergyman,” said the Colonel, “but
the prayers of innocence shall consecrate his grave.”

He gave the prayer book to Sophia, she opened it,
and with her mother and Rebecca followed the body.
She began the service, but her voice faltered, the tears
burst forth, she sobbed, and could no longer articulate.
The Colonel took it from her; he was a man of undaunted
courage in the day of battle, but here even his
heart sunk and his voice was tremulous; but he recalled
his fortitude and finished the solemn rite in a becoming
manner.

“What a day has this been,” said Sophia, as they
were partaking a little refreshment.

“It has been a heavy day indeed my child,” said
Mrs. Abthorpe, “but how much heavier would it have
been, had the poor departed been related to us by any
ties of blood: had he been a father, a husband, or a
brother. Think not of the evils we endure, my dear
Sophia, but reflect how much more painful our situation
might be than it is, and offer up your thanks to your
Creator, that our afflictions do not exceed our strength,
and that in this solitary place we enjoy health and serenity
of mind.”

“Ah,” said Rebecca, mentally, “I do not enjoy
that serenity, for my mother, in affliction, in want, and
calling in vain upon her daughter for comfort, is ever
present to my imagination.”

For several weeks the solitude of Colonel Abthorpe
was undisturbed, and Autumn began to advance. He
dreaded the approach of Winter, as he knew in that inclement
season they would feel the want of many comforts
they had been accustomed to enjoy; and shut out

from all society, how should they procure sustenance.
These reflections made him extremely unhappy. He
would gladly have gone to the British troops, but had
no possible means of conveying himself and family to
them, and his heart revolted from the thought of going to
reside with the enemies of his sovereign; however they
gave him not the choice, for the latter end of October
they dispatched a party, consisting of a captain, lieutenant,
and fifty men, who surrounded the house of the
defenceless Colonel, making himself, his wife, daughter,
and our heroine prisoners, on pretence of his having
held correspondence with the enemy. They were conveyed
into the country, their house torn to pieces, their
furniture destroyed, burnt, or divided among the soldiers,
and all their property confiscated.