The legendary consisting of original pieces, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners |
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THE FRONTIER HOUSE. |
 | THE FRONTIER HOUSE. The legendary |  |
THE FRONTIER HOUSE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF `NORTHWOOD.'
`I shall return before dark,' said Edward Abbot
to his young wife, as he kissed their boy, and laid it in
her arms. `There is no danger, Rebecca.'
`But my dream of those frightful savages, Edward,'
said she.
`Oh! that should not frighten you,' he replied. `Remember
you had been hearing Indian stories all the
evening, and the wise man says, “a dream cometh
through the multitude of business,” which our good Mr
Walker explains as meaning whatever most engrosses
our thoughts, particularly just before we fall asleep.
There have not been any traces of the savages discovered
this season, and I should be sorry to raise an alarm
in the town merely on account of a dream.'
`But you know, Edward, they are a secret, as well
as terrible enemy,' said Mrs Abbot, and raised her
mild eyes to her husband's face with that pleading expression,
when tears seem ready to start, and yet are
checked by the fear of giving pain to the one the heart
loves, that a fond husband finds it so difficult to withstand.
`I will not go to the garrison to day,' said he, laying
down his hat.
`But you promised your father, and he expects you
on important business,' said Mrs Abbot. `You must go.
I know my fears are childish, but they shall not make
me wicked. I am too apt to think my security depends
save can defend me, and that trust in Him is a shield to
the Christian. You had better go.'
`Not without you,' said her husband, who now began
to feel the fears she was endeavouring to shake off.
`Come, prepare our little Edward and we will go down
together. If there has been any alarm we will not return
to night.'
Rebecca paused a few moments, as if considering her
husband's proposition. The subtilties of the ancient
schoolmen are not so perplexing, so difficult of explanation,
so contradictory, as are often the feelings and
wishes of the human heart. Scarce five minutes had
elapsed since Rebecca would have thought permission
to accompany her husband would have obviated every
inconvenience, and been attended with no danger. But
other considerations now arose. Edward had been
summoned to attend a public meeting on affairs of the
town. Should she go with him it might excite notice, for
the ladies of those days seldom visited, and should inquiries
be made she could hardly satisfy them without
alluding to her fears, and then her dream must be told
to justify her fears, and there was no telling where or
when the excitement would stop. And moreover her
husband might incur reproof from the elders for listening
to his wife's fears and dreams, and thus raising agitations
among the people. All these things might occur
because the wife of Edward Abbot could not stay alone
one afternoon.
`I will have more fortitude, Edward,' said Rebecca,
smiling. `I will not make a fool of you, though I appear
like one myself. I will not go. It is nearly a
mile, and you have no time to spare to carry the babe,
or wait for me, and I ought not to go—so do not let me
hinder you another moment.'
It was in vain Edward urged her to accompany him.
The more she saw his generous anxiety on her account,
the more she labored to suppress her fears, till finally
she persuaded him, and herself too, that she felt no uneasiness
at all from the prospect of passing three hours
alone, and Edward departed.
How much interest is given to the ruins of a temple,
castle, or fortification, by having a story of suffering, a
legend of love or tale of heroism connected with the
memory of the crumbling fabrics! Even a rugged mountain
or narrow lake, if associated with the history of human
feelings and passions, becomes more attractive to
the cultivated mind than the resorts of fashion. But of
this romantic kind of interest the wild and beautiful places
of our own land are nearly destitute. Improvement does
not pause in its career to preserve a relic of the olden
times, and industry labors to convert everything into a
source of immediate profit. This course of proceeding is
doubtless most convenient, but it may be questioned
whether it be the most patriotic. The love of country is a
species of pride, compounded of lofty and sacred recollections
of the worth and achievements of our ancestors,
and that vanity which is fostered by knowing the importance
which other nations attach to our history and
traditions. Probably Scott's `Lady of the Lake' imparts
more national pride to a Scotsman than he would
feel in contemplating a rail road from Edinburgh to
London. This pride, created by the productions of genius,
is perfectly compatible with our republican habits
and institutions. Indeed, nothing would more contribute
to deepen, to perpetuate the love of liberty and
our country, than well told legends of our ancestors.
Their piety, ardor, sufferings, constancy, and courage,
and ultimate success would form themes lofty, tender,
or romantic, and yet differing materially in character
if well narrated, would now excite more intense
interest than the feats of knights or the fortunes of
princes, because the deeds of American daring were
performed by men either to defend or perpetuate principles,
rights, and possessions, which the enlightened and
liberal of every country feel to be most interesting and
important, and compared with which, the wild deeds of
chivalry and the exploits of the crusaders appear disgusting
or preposterous, criminal or trivial.
This little sketch, however, does not pretend to be
even a sample of what may be wished, and, indeed, expected
from the gifted spirits of our land. It is only the
record of conjugal and maternal love, the same in all
ages and in every nation.
The house of Edward Abbot stood on the western
bank of the Merrimack, nearly a mile from the present
village of Concord, then called Rumford. Edward was
the first who had ventured to reside at such a distance
from the garrisons or fortified houses, and he had thus
obtained the reputation of remarkable courage, of which
he was quite as proud as a dashing blade of these polished
days would be in accepting a challenge to a duel.
His wife, too, participated in his triumph, and the wish
to spare him mortification was a powerful motive to inspire
her with resolution to overcome her own fears and
allow him to depart, when, from the presentiment she
felt that danger was nigh, she would, by the superstition
of the times, have been justified in detaining, or at least,
accompanying him. But she saw him depart without
tears, watched him from the small window till he entered
the forest, and then betook herself to her household
concerns. Yet she could not forbear going frequently
to the door, and sometimes she would go forth and gaze
all around their little domain, and then watch the progress
to an observer, would instantly have revealed the agitation
and anxiety her heart was suffering. Everything
abroad was in perfect quietness. There was scarce a
breath of air perceptible, and the waters of the Merrimack
flowed without a ripple. The calm July sky
looked a deeper and more heavenly blue, seen as it was
by Rebecca from a spot circumscribed by tall trees,
now clothed with such a fulness of foliage as made the
forest look dark and almost impenetrable. Close around
the house were planted corn and vegetables, and a field
of wheat, in front of the dwelling, stretched in unbroken
green to the river's brink. There was not a sound to
be heard save the chirping of a robin, that had built her
nest on a chestnut which stood close to the southeast
corner of the house, the only tree suffered to grow
within the inclosure of Edward. The young birds were
fully fledged, and, under the guidance of the parents,
were about quitting their nest. Rebecca watched their
movements, the old birds now encouraging, now seeming
to chide their timid offspring, till finally they reached
the woods and all disappeared. Slight as the circumstance
was, it touched Rebecca with a sense of her
loneliness. `Even the birds have left me,' said she to
herself, and pressing her boy closer to her bosom, she
burst into tears. Rebecca might well be excused these
tears and feelings, for though a wife and mother, she
was hardly seventeen. And then Rebecca possessed
an advantage that, in the eyes of young gentlemen,
cancels all feminine weaknesses—she was very beautiful.
A lady now displaying similar charms would, for
her face, be entitled to the epithets of divine, angelic,
Grecian, Madonna, while the gracefulness of her figure
would be well understood by all, travelled or untravelled,
if just compared with the Venus de Medicis.
conveyed the idea of beauty without all this waste of
words. They simply and briefly called Rebecca `an exceeding
comely young woman.' Yet Rebecca felt no
pride on this account, nor ever dreamed of gaining the
admiration of any one except her husband. There was
then but little of what we call social intercourse, meaning
balls, parties, &c. among the people, but there was
deep, and fervent, and faithful domestic affection. The
former has greatly improved since the period of which
I am writing, but, if we credit the bard, and believe
that
`The Love, whose deadliest foe is human art!'
our own times.
Rebecca watched the sun till it had sunk behind the
western hills, and then she watched its beams on the
clouds till the last faint tints had departed, and, fixing
her eyes steadfastly on that part of the forest from which
she expected to see her husband emerge, she sat at
the door, with her child in her arms, watching in vain
for his appearance. The room into which she occasionally
glanced, looked so gloomy and desolate she
could not endure to enter it. Indeed, as the evening
waxed later, and her fears increased, she sometimes
imagined she saw strange figures, and faces with gleaming
eyes, such as she had beheld in her dream, moving
around the dusky apartment. Ashamed of these fears,
and knowing her husband, when he came, would chide
her for thus exposing herself and her child to the evening
dews, she breathed a prayer to Him who stilled the
tempest, and entered the house. Her first care, after
placing her infant in his cradle, was to light a candle,
and then, more reassured, she took her Bible. The Bible
from evil, and guided them to good. Its pages were a
direction in every difficulty, and its promises a resource
in every trial. Rebecca read, and prayed alternately,
mingling the idea of Edward, his safety, and return with
every thought and wish, but still he came not. She had
no means of ascertaining the lapse of time, except by the
length of candle consumed or the stars, as there was
no moon; but she conjectured it must be past midnight.
Again and again she went forth and examined with
searching glance around, but nothing could she see except
the dark forest, in the distance, and, close around
her dwelling, the black stumps that stood like sentinels
on guard, while nothing was heard save the soft murmur
of the water, and at times, a low rustling as the breeze
stirred the leaves of the chestnut tree. At length, as
she stood at the corner of her house, beneath the shade
of that tree, looking earnestly towards the woods, she
thought she perceived something emerge from their
shadow. If she did, it vanished instantly. She kept
her eyes fixed on the spot. A bright starlight enabled
her to discern objects quite distinctly, even at a distance,
especially when her faculties were roused and
stimulated both by hope and fear. After some time she
again, and plainly, saw a human figure. It rose from the
ground, looked and pointed towards her house, and then
again disappeared. She recollected her light. It could
be seen from the window, and probably had attracted
the notice of the savages, whom, she could no
longer doubt, were approaching. They had, as she
fancied, waylaid and murdered her husband. They were
coming to capture, perhaps murder, her and her child.
What should she do? She never thought of attempting
to escape without her babe; but in what direction
should she fly, when, perhaps, the Indians surrounded
when the mangled form of her husband seemed before
her, and she heard, in idea, the shrieks of her babe beneath
savage tortures, till her breath failed, and reason
seemed deserting her. But she made a strong effort
to recall her wandering senses, and then, with her
eyes and clasped hands raised to heaven, she took her
resolution. With a noiseless step she entered her
dwelling, extinguished the light, took her infant in her
arms, and again stole softly forth, creeping along in the
shadow of the house till she reached the spot from
whence she had first seen the object that alarmed her.
Here she stood perfectly still. Her infant lay on her
bosom in profound sleep, as quiet and seemingly as
breathless as though his spirit had already departed.
She did not wait long before the same figure again
rose, looked around, and then sank down as before.
The moment it disappeared Rebecca passed swift and
softly as a shadow over the space that separated the
house from the chestnut tree. This tree was an uncommonly
large one, and there was a separation of the
trunk into two branches, about three feet from the
ground, where Rebecca thought it possible she might
be concealed. She gained it, and placed herself in a
position which allowed her to watch the door of her
dwelling. All was silent for a long time—more than an
hour, as she thought, and she began to doubt the reality
of what she had seen, imagining she had been deceived
and taken a stump for a human figure, and she was
about to descend from the tree, where her situation was
extremely uncomfortable, when suddenly a savage crept
by her between the house and tree. As another and another
followed, it was with difficulty she suppressed her
screams. But she did suppress them, and the only
sign she gave of fear was to press her infant closer to
at finding it open, was uttered by the first savage,
and replied to by the second, in the Indian language.
After a short consultation they entered, and Rebecca
soon saw a light gleam, and supposed they had kindled
it to search for her. Her pulse beat wildly; yet still she
hoped to escape. It was not probable that they would
search a tree so near the house; they would rather suppose
she had fled to a distance. Presently a crackling
noise was heard in the house, the light flashed from
the door and window, the Indians raised their wild
yell as they rushed out, and danced around with frantic
gestures, and Rebecca saw that the house was on fire.
Still, the only sign she gave of fear was, as she unloosed
the handkerchief from her neck and threw it
over her child's face to screen his eyes from the glare
of light that might awaken him, to press him closer and
closer to her heart.
The house was unfinished; there was no plastering
to delay, for a moment, the progress of the fire, which
had been kindled in the centre of the apartment, and
fed by all the combustibles the savages could find in the
dwelling. The flame streamed upwards, and soon caught
the rafters and boards, and it seemed scarce five minutes
from the time Rebecca first saw the light till the blaze
burst through the roof. The atmosphere, rarified by
the heat around the burning building, suddenly expanded,
and the colder and more dense air rushing in, it
seemed as if the wind had violently arisen, and it drove
the thick smoke, and showered the burning cinders directly
on the chestnut tree. Rebecca felt the scorching
heat, while the suffocating vapor almost deprived her
of the power of respiration. She grew dizzy, yet, still,
the only movement she made was to turn her child a
little in her arms that he might be more effectually
one of the savages approached, in the wild movements
of his war dance, close to the tree. An eddy of wind
swept away the smoke; the light fell full on the pale
face of Rebecca; her eyes, as if by the power of fascination,
were rivetted on the Indian; his fiery glance
was raised towards her, and their gaze met. The savage
gave a start, and the note of his war song was
shriller as he intently regarded his victim. Suddenly
he turned away. Rebecca murmured a prayer and resigned
herself to death as she heard them all send forth
a prolonged whoop.
`My boy! my husband! we shall meet, we shall
all meet in heaven!' she cried.
But why did not the savages approach? She listened,
looked around; the whole clearing was illuminated
by the bright glare, and she saw the three Indians flying,
with the speed of frighted deer, to the covert of
the wood. She did not pause to consider what had caused
their flight; but obeying that instinct which bids us
shun the present danger, she sprang from the tree and
rushed towards the river. She recollected a spot where
the bank projected, beneath which, during the summer
months, the bed of the river was nearly dry; there she
should, at least, be secure from the fire.
And there she sheltered herself. Her feet were
immersed in water, and she stood in a stooping posture
to screen herself from observation should the savages
return to seek her. But her infant slumbered
peacefully. None of her fears or dangers disturbed his
repose, and when the morning light allowed her to gaze
on his sweet face, tears of joy and thankfulness flowed
fast down her cheeks, that she had been enabled thus
to shield that dear, innocent one from the savages and
the flames.
Soon after sunrise she heard sounds as of people approaching,
and soon recognised the voices of her friends
from the garrison. Rebecca and her child were conveyed
to the village, which her husband, she found, had
left about sunset on the preceding evening. Nothing
was known, or could be discovered of his fate; the inhabitants
had been alarmed by the light from the burning
building, and as soon as the morning was sufficiently
advanced to allow them to penetrate the forest, they
hastened to discover the cause of the fire.
Grief for the loss of her husband, combined with the
terrors she had suffered, threw Rebecca into a violent
fever, and her life was despaired of; but just as the disorder
seemed approaching a fatal termination, Edward
Abbot arrived at Rumford. He was surprised, while
walking homeward, by four Indians, one of whom seized
his rifle, while another struck him such a blow on the
head with his tomahawk, as totally to deprive him, for
several hours, of all recollection.
When he did recover he found himself lying at the
foot of a tree, his hands bound and an Indian guarding
him. All efforts to escape he found would be in
vain, and he silently submitted to his fate. About day
the three savages joined the one who guarded him, and,
conversing hastily a few moments, they began a hurried
march. Edward perceived one of the Indians examining
him often and attentively. At length, on the
fourth day, as the savage was alone with the prisoner,
he, by signs, questioned Edward concerning the house
where he used to reside. Edward made, on the white
birch with a coal taken from their fire, a drawing of
his little plantation and house, including, of course,
the chestnut tree. The Indian surveyed it in silence,
and Edward thought no more of the matter. Early the
next morning Edward was awakened by the same Indian,
rest of the party were not in sight. Edward obeyed,
and followed him two days, travelling rapidly, till suddenly
he found himself on the borders of the Merrimack.
The Indian then pointed in the direction of
Concord, and instantly disappeared in the woods.
It is, perhaps, unnecessary to add that Edward's
presence operated much more favorably on Rebecca
than had all the remedies prescribed by the good Doctor
Carter, and she soon recovered. The conduct of the
Indian excited great curiosity, and made much talk in
the village, but, for a long time, the mystery baffled all
conjecture. After many months an Indian who could
speak English, explained the secret.
It seemed that several years before Rebecca was
married, an Indian, with his wife and child, came into
the house of her father, and asked for food. The old
people were absent, and a hired man, acting as many
do when `clothed in a little brief authority,' ordered
them from the house. Rebecca, then a playful, laughing
girl, interposed and prevented them from being thus
inhospitably treated. She brought forth the best food
the house afforded, and took the Indian babe in her
arms and fed it; and to that act of charity, so gracefully
performed, she was indebted for her own, and her
child's life, and her husband's liberty.
| THE FRONTIER HOUSE. The legendary | |