University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
WHICH COMES NEAR BEING TRAGIC.

In the beginning of June, the Merryfields received additional
guests. Among their acquaintances in New York
city were Mr. and Mrs. Whitlow, whom they had met during
the Annual Convention of the Anti-Slavery Society. Mr.
Whitlow was a prosperous grocer, who had profited by selling
“free sugar” at two cents a pound more than the product of
slave labor, although the former was an inferior article. He
was very bitter in his condemnation of the Manchester manufacturers,
on account of their consumption of cotton. The
Merryfields had been present at a tea-party given by him to
Mr. Wendell Phillips, and the circumstance was not forgotten
by their hosts. When the latter shut up their house in the
respectable upper part of Mercer street, in order to make a
summer trip to Lake Superior by way of Niagara, they determined
to claim a return for their hospitality. Tea in Mercer
street was equivalent, in their eyes, to a week's entertainment
at Ptolemy. If not, they could invite the Merryfields again,
at the next Convention, which would certainly balance the
account.

Accordingly, one fine evening, the stage from Atauga City
brought to Ptolemy, and a carriage from Fairlamb's livery-stable
forwarded to the Merryfield farm, Mr. and Mrs. Whitlow,
and their two daughters, Mary Wollstonecraft Whitlow,
aged thirteen, and Phillis Wheatley Whitlow, aged nine
—together with four trunks. The good-natured host was
overwhelmed with this large and unexpected visit, and feebly
endeavored to obtain a signal from his wife as to whether they

could be conveniently accommodated, during the bustle of
arrival.

“If I had knowed, as it were, that you were coming,”
said he.

“Oh, we thought we would take you by surprise: it's so
much pleasanter,” exclaimed Mrs. Whitlow, a tall, gaunt
woman, who displayed a pair of large feet as she clambered
down from the carriage. She thereupon saluted Mrs. Merryfield
with a kiss which sounded like the splitting of a
dry chip.

Mary Wollstonecraft and Phillis Wheatley scampered off
around the house and into the garden as soon as they touched
ground. They amused themselves at first by pulling up the
early radishes, to see how long their roots were, but after a
while were attracted by the tulips, and returned to the house
with handfuls of the finest.

“Where did you get those?” said their mother; “I am
afraid they have taken too many,” she added, turning towards
Mrs. Merryfield, “but the dear children are so fond of flowers.
I think it elevates them and helps to form their character.
The Beautiful and the Good, you know, are one and the same.”

“Yes, but it ought to be directed,” replied Mrs. Merryfield,
without exactly knowing what she was saying. She saw, in
imagination, her garden stripped bare, and was meditating
how she could prevent it. Her husband put a padlock on the
gate next morning, and in the course of the forenoon Phillis
Wheatley was discovered hanging by her frock from the
paling.

There was no help for it. The Whitlows had come to stay,
and they stayed. Mr. Dyce was obliged to give up his occupancy
of the best bedroom, and take a small chamber under
the roof. Merryfield hoped, but in vain, that this new discomfort
would drive him away. The new-comers were acquaintances
of his, and although not spiritualists, yet they were
very free to discuss the peculiar doctrines of the Aqueanda
community.

Day by day, Mrs. Merryfield saw her choice hams and her
cherished fowls disappearing before the onslaught of her
guests. Her reserve of jams and marmalades was so drawn
upon that she foresaw its exhaustion before the summer's fruit
could enable her to replenish it. Mary Wollstonecraft and
Phillis Wheatley were especially destructive, in this respect,
and very frankly raised a clamor for “preserves,” when there
happened to be none on the table. Their mother mildly tolerated
this infraction of good behavior on their part.

“They make themselves at home,” she would remark, turning
to the hostess with an amiable smile. “I think we should
allow some liberty to the dietetic instincts of children. Alcott
says, you know, that `like feeds like—the unclean spirit licks
carnage and blood from his trencher.'”

“Gracious me!” exclaimed Mrs. Merryfield, shuddering.

“Yes: and in the scale of Correspondences saccharine substances
are connected with gentleness of heart. I rejoice to
see this development in the dear children. Do you preserve
with free sugar?”

“No,” replied the hostess, with a faint salmon-colored blush,
“we can't get it in Ptolemy. I should like to bear testimony
in this way, if it was possible, but there are so few in this
neighborhood who are interested in the cause of Humanity,
that we cannot do as much as we desire.”

“Why don't you apply to me?” said Mr. Whitlow. “Nothing
easier than to buy two or three barrels at a time, and
have it sent by rail. It will cost you no more than this”—
putting a spoonful of quince jelly into his mouth—“which is
stained with the blood of the slave.” He said nothing, however,
about the quality of the sugar, which was a very coarse,
brown article, purporting to come from Port-au-Prince.

Fortunately, Mr. Merryfield's corn had been planted before
the arrival of his guests. Otherwise, there would have been a
serious interference with his farming operations. Every
pleasant afternoon, the Whitlows laid claim to his carriage and
horses, and, accepting the services of Mr. Dyce as coachman,

drove up and down the valleys, and even to the summits of
the hills, to obtain the best views. The very freedom with
which they appropriated to their use and comfort all the appliances
which the farm furnished, imposed upon their kindhearted
hosts. In the eyes of the latter, claims so openly
made involved the existence of a right of some kind, though
precisely what the right was, they could not clearly understand.

When Mrs. Whitlow, therefore, whose devotion to “Nature”
was one of her expressed characteristics, proposed a
pic-nic for the following Saturday afternoon, it was accepted
without demur, as one of the ordinances of Destiny. The
weather had suddenly grown warm, and the deciduous trees
burst into splendid foliage, the luxuriant leaves of summer still
wearing the fresh green of spring-time. All the lower portion
of the valley, and its cleft branches beyond Ptolemy, from
rim to rim of the enclosing hills, hummed and stirred with
an overplus of life. The woods were loud with birds; a tiny
overture of insect horns and drums, in the meadows, preluded
the drama of their ephemeral life; the canes of maize shot the
brown fields with points of shining green, and the wheat began
to roll in shallow ripples under the winds of the lake.
Mrs. Whitlow's proposal was well-timed, in a land where the
beautiful festival of Pentecost is unknown, and it did the
Merryfields no harm that they were forced, against their habit,
to celebrate the opening season.

Not more than a mile from the farm-house there was a spot
admirably adapted for the purpose. It was a favorite resort,
during the summer, of the young gentlemen and ladies of
Ptolemy, and sometimes, even, had been honored by the visit
of a party from Tiberius. Roaring Brook, which had its rise
some miles distant, among the hollows of the upland, issued
from a long glen which cleft East Atauga Hill at the point
where it bent away from the head of the lake, to make its
wider sweep around to the cape beyond Lakeside. At this
point there was a slightly shelving terrace, a quarter of a mile

in breadth, thrust out like the corner of a pedestal upon which
the hill had formerly rested. The stream, after lending a part
of its strength to drive a saw-mill at the mouth of the glen,
passed swiftly across the terrace, twisting its way through
broken, rocky ground, to the farther edge, whence it tumbled
in a cataract to the valley. The wall of rock was crowned
with a thick growth of pine, cedar, maple, and aspen trees, and
the stream, for the last hundred yards of its course, slid
through deep, cool shadows, to flash all the more dazzlingly
into the sunshine of its fall. From the brink there were lovely
views of the valley and lake; and even within the grove, as
far as a flat rock, which served as a table for the gay parties,
penetrated glimpses of the airy distance.

The other members of the little band of “Reformers” in
Ptolemy were invited to take part in the pic-nic. The Whitlows
desired and expected this, and would have considered
themselves slighted, had the invitations been omitted. Mrs.
Waldo was included, at the request of Hannah Thurston, who
knew her need of recreation and her enjoyment of it. Besides,
she was sure that Mr. Dyce would be there, and suspected
the presence of Seth Wattles, and she felt the advantage
of being accompanied by a brave and sensible friend.
Mr. Waldo was obliged to attend a meeting of the Trustees
of the Cimmerian Church, and so the two women, taking possession
of his phlegmatic horse and superannuated gig, started
early in the afternoon for the appointed spot. Before reaching
the gate to the farm-house, they overtook Seth Wattles and
Mr. Tanner, on foot, the latter carrying his flute in his hand.
He was celebrated throughout the neighborhood for his performance
of “Love Not” and “The Pirate's Serenade,” on
that instrument.

The spot was reached by following the highway, past the
foot of Roaring Brook cataract, and then taking a side-road
which led across the embaying curve of the valley and, ascended
to the saw-mill at the mouth of the glen. Some of the
party had gone directly across the fields from the Merryfield

farm-house, as there was one point in the rocky front of the
terrace where an ascent was practicable without danger. Thus
they nearly all met in the grove at the same time.

The day was warm and still, oppressively sultry in the sunshine,
but there, under the trees and beside the mossy rocks,
the swift brook seemed to bring a fresh atmosphere with it,
out of the heart of the hills. A light wind, imperceptible elsewhere,
softly rustled among the aspen-leaves, and sighed off
from the outer pine-boughs into the silence of the air. The
stream, swollen by late rains, yet cleansed of their stain, ran
deep and strong, curving like bent glass over the worn rocks
in its bed, with a suppressed noise, as if hoarding its shout for
the leap from the cliff. The shade was sprinkled with patches
of intense golden light, where the sun leaked through, and the
spirit of the place seemed to say, in every feature, “I wait
for color and life.” Both were soon given. The Whitlow
children, in pink frocks, scampered here and there; Mrs.
Waldo's knot of crimson ribbon took its place, like a fiery tropical
blossom, among the green; Mrs. Merryfield hung her
orange-colored crape shawl on a bough; and even Seth's ungainly
figure derived some consistency from a cravat of sky-blue
satin, the ends of which hung over his breast. Mr. Tanner
screwed together the pieces of his flute, wet his lips several
times with his tongue, and played, loud and shrill, the “Macgregor's
Gathering.”

sang Hannah Thurston to herself, as she stood on the edge of
the stream, a little distance from the others. The smell of the
moss, and of the woolly tufts of unrolling ferns, powerfully excited
and warmed her imagination. She was never heard to
say, in such a spot, like many young ladies, “How romantic!”
but her eyes seemed to grow larger and darker, her pale cheek
glowed without an increase of color, and her voice was thrilled
with an indescribable mixture of firmness and sweetness. This
was her first true enjoyment of the summer. The anxiety occasioned
by her mother's failing health, the reawakening of
dreams she had once conquered, the painful sense of incompleteness
in her own aspirations, and the growing knowledge
of unworthiness in others, which revealed more clearly her
spiritual isolation, were all forgotten. She bathed her soul in
the splendor of summer, and whatever pain remained was not
distinguishable from that which always dwells in the heart of
joy.

As she reached the line:

a coarse bass voice behind her joined in the song. She turned
and beheld Seth Wattles and Dyce, seated on a rock. They
had been listening, and might have heard her to the end, had
not the former been too anxious to display his accomplishments.
Her repugnance to both the men had unconsciously
increased, and she could no longer resist the impulse which
prompted her to avoid them. Mary Wollstonecraft was fortunately
at hand, in the act of chewing fern-stems, and Hannah
Thurston, unacquainted with the young lady's “dietetic instincts,”
seized her arm in some alarm and conducted her to
her mother.

“Let go!” cried the girl; “mamma lets me eat what I
please.”

“But, my dear,” mildly expostulated the mother, “these
are strange plants, and they might not agree with you.”

“I don't care; they're good,” was the amiable reply.

“Would you not rather have a cake?” said Mrs. Waldo,
coming to the rescue. “I have some in my basket, and will
bring you one, if you will not put those stems in your mouth.”

“I was playing cow, but I'll stop if you'll bring me two.”

Mrs. Waldo took her way towards the old gig, which was
left, with the other vehicles, at the edge of the grove. As she
emerged from the shade, and looked up towards the saw-mill,
where the sawyer, in his shirt-sleeves, was tilting about over
a pile of scantling, she saw a horseman coming down the glen

road. Something in his appearance caused her to stop and
scan him more closely. At the same instant he perceived her,
turned his horse out of the road, and cantered lightly up to
the grove.

“You here!” he exclaimed; “is it a camp-meeting?”

“You there, Mr. Woodbury! Where have you been?
Are you to monopolize all the secular enjoyments? No; it is
a pic-nic, small, but select, though I say it.”

“Ah! who are here?” he asked, leaning forward on his
horse and peering into the shade—“My God!”

Mrs. Waldo, watching his countenance with merry eyes, saw
a flush of horror, quick as lightning, pass over it. With one
bound he was off the horse, which sprang away startled, and
trotted back towards the road. The next instant she saw him
plunge headlong into the stream.

Phillis Wheatley, in whom the climbing propensity was at
its height, had caught sight of a bunch of wild scarlet columbine,
near the top of a rock, around which the stream turned.
Scrambling up the sloping side, she reached down for the
flowers, which were still inaccessible, yet so near as to be tantalizing.
She then lay down on her face, and, stretching her
arm, seized the bunch, at which she jerked with all her force.
The roots, grappling fast in the crevices of the rock, did not
give way as she expected. On the contrary, the resistance of
the plant destroyed her own balance, and she whirled over
into the water.

Woodbury saw her dangerous position on the rock, at the
very moment the catastrophe occurred. With an instant intuition,
he perceived that the nearest point of the stream was a
bend a little below; a few bounds brought him to the bank,
in time to plunge in and catch the pink frock as it was swept
down the swift current. He had no time to think or calculate
chances. The stream, although not more than four or five
feet deep and twenty in breadth, bore him along with such
force that he found it impossible to gain his feet. At the last
turn where the current sheered toward the opposite bank, a

shrub hung over the water. His eye caught it, and, half
springing up as he dashed along, he seized it with one hand.
The momentary support enabled him to resist the current sufficiently
to get his feet on the bottom, but they could gain no
hold on the slippery rock. As he slipped and caught alternately,
in a desperate struggle, Phillis, struggling blindly with
him, managed to get her arms around his neck. Thin as they
were, they seemed to have the mascular power of snakes, and,
in his hampered condition, he found it impossible to loosen
her hold. The branch of the shrub gave way, and the resistless
current once more bore them down.

Mrs. Waldo's fearful shriek rang through the grove, and
startled the light-hearted company from their discussion of the
evils of Society. Every one felt that something dreadful had
happened, and rushed towards the sound in helpless and uncertain
terror. She was already on the bank of the stream,
her hair torn by the branches through which she had plunged,
and her face deadly pale, as she pointed to the water, gasping,
“Help!” One glance told the whole story. Mrs. Whitlow
covered her face and dropped on the ground. Merryfield
and the father ran down the bank, stretching out their
hands with a faint hope of catching the two as the current
brought them along. Hannah Thurston looked around in a
desperate search for some means of help, and caught sight of a
board which had been placed across two low rocks, for a seat
“The board—quick!” she cried, to Seth and Dyce, who stood
as if paralyzed—“at the head of the fall!” Mechanically, but
as rapidly as possible, they obeyed her.

Woodbury, after letting go his hold of the shrub, turned
his face with the stream, to spy, in advance, some new point
of escape. He saw, a hundred feet ahead, the sharp edge of
silver where the sun played on the top of the fall: the sudden
turns of the stream were all behind him, and it now curved
gradually to the right, slightly widening as it approached the
brink. His perceptions, acting with the rapidity of lightning,
told him that he must either gain the left bank before making

half the remaining distance, or keep in the middle of the current,
and trust to the chance of grasping a rock which rose a
little above the water, a few feet in advance of the fall. He
was an experienced swimmer, but a few strokes convinced
him that the first plan would not succeed. Before reaching
the rock the water grew deeper, and the current whirled in
strong eddies, which would give him some little power to direct
his course. In a second they seethed around him, and,
though the bottom fell away from under his feet, he felt a sudden
support from the back water from the rock. One tremendous
effort and he reached it.

To the agonized spectators on the bank, the scene was terrible.
Unable to avert their eyes from the two lives sweeping
like a flash to destruction—feeling, instinctively, that there
was no instantaneous power of action which could save—they
uttered low, incoherent cries, too benumbed to speak or think.
Only Seth and Dyce, who had conveyed the board to the head
of the fall, were hurriedly endeavoring to thrust it out over
the water. In their excitement they had placed it too low to
reach the rock.

“Bring it further up!” shouted Mr. Whitlow.

Seth, nervously attempting to slide it up the bank, allowed
the outer end to drop into the current. It was instantly twisted
out of his hands and whirled over the fall.

Woodbury had gained a firm hold of the rock, but the
water was up to his shoulders, the conflicting currents tugged
him this way and that, and he was unable to clasp his charge
securely. Her arms were still tight about his neck, but if her
strength should give way, their situation would become critical.
He saw the effort made for their rescue, and its failure.

“Another board!” he shouted.

Seth and Dyce darted through the grove in search of one,
while Merryfield, more practical, made off with his utmost
speed for the saw-mill. Hannah Thurston, in spite of her relief
at the escape, recognized the danger which still impended.
A single glance showed her the difficulty under which Woodbury

labored, and a sickening anxiety again overcame her.
To stand still was impossible; but what could she do? On a
stump near her lay a fragment of board about four feet in
length. The distance from the bank to the rock was at least
twelve. Another glance at the rapid current, and an idea,
which, it seemed to her afterwards, some passing angel must
have let fall, flashed through her brain. Snatching her silk
summer-shawl from the bough where it hung, she tied one end
of it tightly around the middle of the board, drawing it to a
firm knot on the edge. Mrs. Waldo was no less quick in comprehending
what she intended. By the time the knot was tied,
her own and Mrs. Merryfield's shawls were brought and quickly
fastened, one to another. By this means a length considerably
greater than the breadth of the stream was obtained.

“One thing more,” said Hannah Thurston, breathlessly, as
she took the scarf from her neck. Knotting one end and
drawing the other through, so as to form a running noose, she
fastened it to her shawl, near the board. Her plan came to
her in a complete form, and hence there was no delay in putting
it into execution. Taking her stand on a point of the
bank, some feet above the rock where Woodbury clung, she
gathered the shawls in loose links and held the board ready to
throw. Woodbury, whose position was such that he could
see her movements without risking his hold, now called to her:

“As far as you can throw!”

Mrs. Waldo had followed to the bank, and stood behind
Hannah Thurston, grasping a handful of her dress, lest she,
too, should lose her balance. But excitement gave Hannah
firmness of nerve, when other women trembled. She flung the
board with a steady hand, throwing the weight of the shawls,
as much as possible, with it. It fell beyond the centre of the
current, whirled around once or twice upon an eddy, and was
sheering back towards the bank again, when Woodbury,
whispering to Phillis, “Hold fast, darling!” put out one hand
and caught it. With some difficulty, and with more risk to
himself than the two anxious women on the bank were aware

of, he drew the wet, sticky slip-noose of the scarf over Phillis's
head and one arm, bringing it under her elbow before he could
loosen her hold upon his neck. Thrusting the board under this
arm, it was an easier task to disengage the other.

“Wind the end of the shawl around that sapling beside
you!” he called to Hannah Thurston. “One of you go below
to meet her.”

Mrs. Waldo was on the spot before his words were finished.

“Now, hold fast, my little girl, and you will be safe in a
minute. Ready!” he cried.

Phillis obeyed, rather through blind trust in him, than from
her consciousness of what was going on. The poor creature
was chilled and exhausted, half strangled by the water she had
swallowed, and wild with terror. Her arms having once been
loosened, she clasped them again around the board in a last
convulsive effort of strength. Woodbury let go the frail raft,
which, impelled by the dragging weight of the shawls, darted
at once half-way across the stream. Then it began to move
more slowly, and the force of the current seemed to ingulf it.
For a moment the water rushed over the child's head, but her
dress was already within reach of Mrs. Waldo's hand, and she
was drawn upon the bank, gasping and nearly insensible. Mrs.
Merryfield picked her up and carried her to the mother, who
still lay upon the ground, with her face in her hands.

Woodbury, relieved of his burden, now held his position
with less difficulty. The coldness of the water, not yet tempered
by the few days of summer, nevertheless, began to be
numb him, and he was obliged to struggle against a growing
exhaustion. Hannah Thurston, as soon as the child was
rescued, drew in the board, examined the knots of the shawls,
and gathered them together for another throw; but at the
same instant Mr. Merryfield, out of breath and unable to speak,
appeared with a plank on his shoulder. With the aid of the
others, the end was secured between two trees, and it was
then run out above the water, a little below the rock, where
the stream was shallower. Woodbury cautiously slid down,

gained a firm foothold, and slowly crossed, walking sidewise,
supported by the plank. As he neared the bank, he stretched
out his left hand, which was grasped by Merryfield, who drew
so tremendously that he almost lost his footing at the last
moment. As he felt the dry earth under him, a singular
numbness fell upon him. He saw, as in a dream, Mrs. Waldo
and Hannah Thurston; the former streaming with grateful
tears, the latter pale and glad, with a moist light in her eyes.
He sat down upon the nearest rock, chilled to the bone; his
lips were blue and his teeth chattered.

“It is cold bathing,” said he: “have you any wine?”

“We do not use intoxicating beverages,” said Mr. Whitlow,
who could not forget, even in his gratitude for his daughter's
rescue, the necessity of bearing testimony against popular vices.

Mrs. Waldo, however, hastily left the company. Mr.
Merryfield took off his coat, and having removed Woodbury's
with some little trouble, substituted it. The dry warmth began
to revive him. “Where is my new acquaintance?” he asked.

Mrs. Whitlow, after an hysterical outburst of alternate
laughter and tears, had wrapped Phillis Wheatley in the
only remaining dry shawl and given her a saucer of marmalade;
but the child was still too much frightened to eat.
Her father brought her in his arms and set her down before
Woodbury. “There, Phillis,” said he, and his voice trembled
a little, “you must thank the gentleman for saving your life.”

“Thank you for saving my life!” said Phillis, in a rueful
voice.

“Not me,” said Woodbury, rising slowly and wearily, and
turning towards Hannah, “but Miss Thurston. Your coolness
and presence of mind saved both of us.”

He took her hand. His fingers were as cold as ice, yet a
warmth she never before felt streamed from them through her
whole frame.

Mrs. Waldo suddenly made her appearance, as breathless as
before Mr. Merryfield had been, with the plank on his shoulder.
She carried in her hand a tumbler full of a yellowish liquid.

“There,” she panted, “drink it. Thankful am I that there
are still sinners in the world. The sawyer had a black jug.
It's poisonous stuff, I know—leads to the gates of death, and
all that—but I thanked God when I saw it.”

“Good Samaritan!” exclaimed Woodbury fervently, as he
drank. It was, in truth, the vilest form of whiskey, but it
steadied his teeth and thawed his frozen blood.

“Now for my horse and a gallop home!” he said.

“Where is the horse?” they asked.

“I'll get him,” exclaimed Seth, with alacrity.

“Hadn't you better go up to Jones's, as it were,” said
Merryfield “He's stopped the saw-mill, and run to the house
to get a fire kindled. You can dry yourself first, and Sarah
can make you some tea or coffee.”

Jones made his appearance at almost the same instant.
“I ketched y'r horse, Mr. Maxwood,” said he, running the
names together in his excitement. “He's all right. Come up
t' th' house: Mary Jane's made a rousin' fire, and you kin
dry y'rself.”

“Thank you, my friends,” Woodbury answered. “Your
whiskey has done me great service, Mr. Jones, and what I now
want more than any thing else is a little lively motion. Will
you please lend Mr. Merryfield one of your coats, since he has
kindly given me his? I shall ride over and see you to-morrow;
but now let me get to my horse as soon as possible.”

He put his hand on the sawyer's shoulder, to steady himself,
for his steps were still tottering, and was turning away,
when he perceived his wet coat, spread out on a rock. Picking
it up, he took a note-book and some pulpy letters from the
breast-pocket. After examining the latter, he crushed them
in his hand, and tossed them into the stream. He then felt
the deep side-pockets: in one there was a wet handkerchief,
but on reaching the other he dropped the coat.

“There, Mr. Dyce,” said he, “you will find your pamphlet.
I had it in my pocket, intending to leave it with Mr. Merryfield
this afternoon. It is pretty thoroughly soaked by this

time, but all the waters of Roaring Brook could not wash it
clean.”

Nodding a cheerful good-by to Mrs. Waldo, a respectful
one to Hannah Thurston, and giving Phillis a kiss which left
her staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment, he left the
company. The sawyer, with a rough tenderness, insisted on
keeping his arm around Woodbury's waist, and on reaching
the mill produced the black jug, from which it was impossible
to escape without a mild libation. Woodbury repaid it the
next day with a bottle of smoky “Islay,” the remembrance of
which made Jones's mouth water for years afterwards.

The pic-nic, of course, was at an end. Without unpacking
the refreshments, the party made immediate preparations to
return. The fire Mrs. Jones had kindled was employed to dry
Phillis and the shawls, while the gentlemen harnessed the
horses. Mr. Merryfield went about in the sawyer's Sunday
coat, which had been first made for his wedding, sixteen years
before. It was blue, with brass buttons, a high rolling collar,
very short waist, and tails of extraordinary length. No one
laughed, however, except Mary Wollstonecraft.

In spite of the accident, which left an awed and subdued
impression upon all minds, the ride home was very animated.
Each was anxious to describe his or her feelings, but Mrs.
Whitlow was tacitly allowed to play the chief part.

“You were all running here and there,” said she, “and the
movement was some relief. What I suffered, no tongue can
describe. But I am reconciled to it now. I see in it a
mysterious sign that Phillis Wheatley is to have an important
mission in the world, and my duty is to prepare her
for it.”

Fortunately, no injury resulted to the girl thus mysteriously
commissioned, from the manner in which it was done. She
was obliged, very much against her will, to lie down for the
rest of the day; but the next morning she was discovered in
the stable, pulling the tail-feathers out of an old cock she had
caught.

On Monday, the Wintlows took their departure for Niagara,
greatly to the relief of their hosts. As they do not appear
again in the course of this history, we may hope that the remainder
of their journey was agreeable.