From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,The place is dignified by the doer's deed.Shakspeare.
Kate Moore is the daughter of Captain Moore, keeper of the Light House on Fairweather Island, sixty miles north of the city of New York, and about half way between the harbors of Black Rock and Bridgeport, Connecticut. The island is about half a mile from shore and contains five acres of land. On that little, secluded spot Captain Moore has resided nearly a quarter of a century, and has reared a family of five children, of whom Kate is the heroine.
Disasters frequently occur to vessels which are driven round Montauk Point, and sometimes in the Sound, when they are homeward bound; and at such times she is always on the alert. She has so thoroughly cultivated the sense of hearing, that she can distinguish amid the howling storm, the shrieks of the drowning mariners, and thus direct a boat, which she has learned to manage most dexterously, in the darkest night, to the spot where a fellow mortal is perishingThough well educated and refined, she possesses none of the affected delicacy which characterizes too many town-bred misses; but, adapting herself to the peculiar exigences of her father's humble yet honorable calling, she is ever ready to lend a helping hand, and shrinks from no danger, if duty points that way. In the gloom and terror of the stormy night, amid perils at all hours of the day, and all seasons of the year, she has launched her barque on the threatening waves; and has assisted her aged and feeble father in saving the lives of twenty-one persons during the last fifteen years! Such conduct, like that of Grace Darling, to whom Kate Moore has been justly compared, needs no comment; it stamps its moral at once and indelibly upon the heart of every reader.
Through sorrowing and suffering thou hast pass'd,To show us what a woman true may be.Lowell.
Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, the wife of the Rev. Joseph Rowlandson, was taken prisoner by the Indians at Lancaster, Massachusetts, on the tenth of February, 1676, and remained in captivity till the third of the following May. The details of her sufferings, as related by herself, are too painful for many persons to read; but she bore them with such Christian fortitude, that nothing short of a brief account of her captivity would seem to be excusable in a work like this.
The day after the destruction of Lancaster, the Indians began their march; and Mrs. Rowlandson carried her infant till her strength failed and she fell. She was then furnished with a horse, without a saddle. Attempting to ride, she again fell. Towards night it began to snow; and gathering a few sticks, she made a fire. Sitting beside it on the snow, she held her child in her arms through the long and dismal night. For three or four days shehad no sustenance but water; nor did her child share any better for nine days. During this time it was constantly in her arms or lap. At the end of that period, the frost of death crept into its eyes, and she was forced to relinquish it to be disposed of by the unfeeling sextons of the forest.
After its burial, Mrs. Rowlandson was sold by her Narraganset captor to a Sagamore named Quanopin, by which transfer she found in her new master's wife "a most uncomfortable mistress." Soon afterwards the Indians went on an expedition to Medfield, and on their return one of them gave her a Bible—her best friend and great support during her sufferings and trials. She retained it during her captivity.
The party of Indians with whom she continued, remained for some time near Petersham, in Worcester county. At length, hearing a report that the pale faces were in pursuit of them, they hastily decamped and continued their march till they crossed the Connecticut river, in the neighborhood of Gill or Bernardston. There Mrs. Rowlandson came in contact with the great chief, Philip, who treated her civilly and even politely. Ere long the Indians re-crossed the Connecticut, and returned into Worcester county. During this part of her pilgrimage, writes President Dwight, whose concise narrative we have followed, "Mrs. Rowlandson went through almost every suffering but death. She was beaten, kicked, turned out of doors, refused food, insulted in the grossest manner, and at times almost starved.Nothing but experience can enable us to conceive what must be the hunger of a person, by whom the discovery of six acorns, and two chestnuts, was regarded as a rich prize. At times, in order to make her miserable, they announced to her the death of her husband and her children. One of the savages, of whom she enquired concerning her son, told her that his master had, at a time which he specified, killed and roasted him; that himself had eaten a piece of him, as big as his two fingers, and that it was delicious meat. On various occasions they threatened to kill her. Occasionally, but for short intervals only, she was permitted to see her children; and suffered her own anguish over again in their miseries. She was also obliged, while hardly able to walk, to carry a heavy burden over hills, and through rivers, swamps, and marshes; and that in the most inclement seasons. These evils were repeated daily; and, to crown them all, she was daily saluted with the most barbarous and insolent accounts of the burning and slaughter, the tortures and agonies, inflicted by them upon her countrymen. It is to be remembered that Mrs. Rowlandson was tenderly and delicately educated, and as ill fitted to encounter these distresses as persons who have received such an education, now are in this and other countries.
"There was, however, among the savages a marked difference of character. Some of them, both men and women, treated her with kindness. None of them exhibited so much insolence to her as hermistress. This woman felt all the haughtiness of rank, as much as if she had been a European or Asiatic princess; and spent almost as much time in powdering her hair, painting her face, and adorning herself with ear-rings, bracelets, and other ornaments, a part of their plunder from the English."
The captivity of Mrs. Rowlandson was terminated through the agency of Mr. Hoar, of Concord, Massachusetts. Under a commission from the Government he redeemed her for about eighty dollars, which sum was contributed by a Mr. Usher and some female friends in Boston.
To weakness strength succeeds, and powerFrom frailty springs.Park Benjamin.There's no impossibility to himWho stands prepared to conquer every hazard.Mrs. Hale.
In the spring of 1779, while two or three neighboring families, had, from fear, collected at the house of Mrs. Bozarth, in Green county, Pennsylvania, the little company was one day attacked by Indians. The children, who were playing without, first discovered the foe, and, giving the alarm, had not time to get within doors before they were overtaken, and began to fall beneath the tomahawk. The first man who stepped to the door when the alarm was heard, was shot, and fell back; and before the door could be closed, an Indian leaped over him into the house. The other man in the house caught the savage and threw him on the bed. He then called for a knife, but Mrs. Bozarth, being unable to find one, seized an axe and instantly dispatched the bold assailant. Another Indian now rushed in, and shot at andwounded the man before he was off the bed. Mrs. Bozarth gave this second intruder several blows, when his cries brought a third to the door. Him she killed as he entered. The wounded savage was then dragged out; the door again closed and fastened; and, through the assistance of the wounded man, Mrs. Bozarth was able to keep out the rest of the murderous assailants until relieved by the arrival of friends.
Here and there some stern, high patriot stood.Byron.
The subject of the following anecdote was the mother of eleven sons. Most of them were soldiers and some were officers in the war of the Revolution. Her residence was in Mechlenburg county, near Steel creek, North Carolina.
When Lord Cornwallis heard of the defeat of Ferguson at King's Mountain,[52]fearing an attack of his rear at Camden, he collected his forces and retreated towards Winnsboro. While on this march, his whole army halted for the night on the plantation of Robert Wilson. Cornwallis and his staff took possession of the house, and made an unstinted levy on the hospitality of the good lady. By asking such questions as a British lord would, under the circumstances, feel at liberty to propound, the General learned, in the course of the evening, that the husband of Mrs. Wilson, and some of her sons, were then his prisoners in Camden jail. Her kindnessand urbanity led him to think that perhaps she was a friend to the Crown; and, after some preliminary remarks, intended to prepare her mind for the leading consideration which he wished to enforce upon it, he at length addressed her as follows:
"Madam, your husband and your son are my prisoners; the fortune of war may soon place others of your sons—perhaps all your kinsmen, in my power. Your sons are young, aspiring and brave. In a good cause, fighting for a generous and powerful king, such as George III, they might hope for rank, honor and wealth. If you could but induce your husband and sons to leave the rebels, and take up arms for their lawful sovereign, I would almost pledge myself that they shall have rank and consideration in the British army. If you, madam, will pledge yourself to induce them to do so, I will immediately order their discharge."
"I have seven sons," Mrs. Wilson replied, "who are now, or have been, bearing arms—indeed my seventh son, Zaccheus, who is only fifteen years old, I yesterday assisted to get ready to go and join his brothers in Sumter's army. Now, sooner than see one of my family turn back from the glorious enterprise, I would take these boys—pointing to three or four small sons—and with them would myself enlist, under Sumter's standard, and show my husband and sons how to fight, and, if necessary, to die for their country!"
Colonel Tarleton was one of the listeners to this colloquy, and when Mrs. Wilson had finished her reply, he said to Cornwallis: "Ah! General! I think you've got into a hornet's nest! Never mind, when we get to Camden, I'll take good care that old Robin Wilson never comes back again!" We may add that Tarleton's threat was never executed. Mr. Wilson and his worthy companion lived to old age, and died at Steel creek just before the war of 1812.
Great minds, like Heaven, are pleased in doing good.Rowe.
The following anecdote is obtained from a reliable source. Did the spirit which pervaded the heart of its subject, thoroughly permeate the churches, the great work of carrying the Gospel to every nation, would soon be accomplished.
"In one of the eastern counties of New York lived a colored female, who was born a slave, but she was made free by the act gradually abolishing slavery in that state. She had no resources except such as she obtained by her own labor. On one occasion she carried to her pastorforty dollars: she told him that she wished him, with two dollars of this sum to procure for her a seat in his church; eighteen dollars she desired to be given to the American Board; and the remaining twenty dollars she requested him to divide among other benevolent societies according to his discretion."
Honor being then above life, dishonor mustBe worse than death; for fate can strike but one.Reproach doth reach whole families.Cartwright's Siege.
At the celebration of our national Independence, in 1797, the orator of the society of the Cincinnati of South Carolina, paid the following tribute to the magnanimity of Mrs. Rebecca Edwards:—"The Spartan mother, on delivering his shield to her son departing for the army, nobly bade him 'return with it or on it.' The sentiment was highly patriotic, but surely not superior to that which animated the bosom of the distinguished female of our own state, who, when the British officer presented the mandate which arrested her sons as objects of retaliation, less sensible of private affection than attached to her honor and the interest of her country, stifled the tender feelings of the mother, and heroically bade them despise the threats of their enemies, and steadfastly persist to support the glorious cause in which they had engaged—that if the threatened sacrifice should follow, they would carry a parent's blessing, and the good opinion of every virtuous citizen along withthem to the grave: but if from the frailty of human nature—of the possibility of which she would not suffer an idea to enter her mind—they were disposed to temporize, and exchange their liberty for safety, they must forget her as a mother, nor subject her to the misery of ever beholding them again."[53]
Trembling and fearAre to her unknown.Sir Walter Scott.
The maiden name of Mrs. Lewis Morris was Ann Elliott. She was born at Maccabee, in 1762, and died in New York, in 1848. She was a firm and fearless patriot, and when the city of Charleston, South Carolina, was in possession of the red coats, she wore thirteen small plumes in her bonnet. She had so fair a face, so graceful a form and so patriotic a spirit, as to be called "the beautiful rebel." An English officer fell in love with her and offered to join the Americans, if she would favor his proposals. She ordered the friend who interceded for him to say to him, "that to her former want of esteem, was added scorn for a man capable of betraying his sovereign for selfish interest."
While she was engaged to Colonel Morris and he was on a visit one time at Maccabee, the house was suddenly surrounded by Black Dragoons. They were in pursuit of the Colonel, and it was impossiblefor him to escape by flight. What to do he knew not, but, quick as thought, she ran to the window, opened it, and, fearlessly putting her head out, in a composed yet firm manner, demanded what was wanted. The reply was, "We want the —— rebel." "Then go," said she, "and look for him in the American army," adding "How dare you disturb a family under the protection of both armies!" She was so cool, self-possessed, firm and resolute as to triumph over the dragoons, who left without entering the house.
Men sacrifice others—women themselves.Mrs. S. C. Hall.
Harriet Bradford Tiffany, afterwards the wife of the Rev. Charles S. Stewart, was born near Stamford, Connecticut, on the fourth of June, 1798. She lost her father when she was a small child, and till 1815, passed most of her time with an uncle, in Albany. At this date, an older sister married and settled in Cooperstown, and consequently Harriet took up her abode in that place. She became the subject of renewing grace in the summer of 1819; was married on the third of June, 1822, and sailed with her husband and nearly thirty other missionaries, all bound to the same field, on the nineteenth of November following. This little, heroic band, that, by the help of God, have since been mainly instrumental in making the Sandwich islands blossom like a rose, arrived at Honolulu, in Oahu, on the twenty-seventh of April, 1823.
Mrs. Stewart left a beautiful town in a thriving part of the Empire State; tempting luxuries; a brilliant circle, and many endearing friends; but shehad embarked in a glorious enterprise for Christ's sake, and, hence, she settled down in a little log hut, in the town of Lahaiua, three days' sail from Oahu, contented and happy. On the first day of January, 1824, she wrote as follows: "It is now fifteen months since I bade adieu to the dear valley which contains much, very much, that is most dear to me; but since the day I parted from it, my spirits have been uniformly good. Sometimes, it is true, a cloud of tender recollections passes over me, obscuring, for a moment, my mental vision, and threatening a day of darkness; but it is seldom. And as the returning sun, after a summer shower, spreads his beams over the retiring gloom of the heavens, and stretches abroad the shining arch of promise to cheer the face of nature, so, at such times, do the rays of the Sun of Righteousness speedily illumine the hopes of my soul, and fill my bosom with joy and peace."
A few months after the above date, writing to a friend, she says: "We are most contented and most happy, and rejoice that God has seen fit to honor and bless us by permitting us to be the bearers of his light and truth to this dark corner of the earth. Could you feel the same gladness that often fills our bosoms, in witnessing the happy influence of the Gospel on the minds and hearts of many of these interesting creatures, you would be satisfied, yes more than satisfied, that we should bewhat we are, and where we are, poor missionaries in the distant islands of the sea."
In these brief extracts from her letters, shines, in its serenest lustre, the character of the Christian heroine:[54]and it would be an easy task to compile a volume of letters written on the field of moral conflict by American female missionaries, breathing a spirit equally as unselfish, cheerful and brave. All pioneer women in this enterprise are heroines, and if the conflicts and sublime victories of all claiming American citizenship, are not herein recorded, it is because, in a work of unambitious pretensions as it regards size, a few characters must stand as representatives of a class.
So pernicious was the influence of a tropical climate that, in the spring of 1825, the health of Mrs. Stewart began to fail; and at the end of a year, she was forced to leave the country. She sailed, with her husband, for London; and after tarrying three months in England, they embarked for home. They reached the valley of the Otsego in September, 1826. For three or four years, it was the prayer of Mrs. Stewart that she might be restored to health and permitted to return to the mission station; but in January, 1830, she was laid on a bed of declension and suffering, and in the following autumn, fully ripe, was gathered into the heavenly garner.
Ah! woman—in this world of ours,What gift can be compared to thee.George P. Morris.
Mrs. Margaret Morris, of Burlington, New Jersey, kept a journal during the Revolution, for the amusement, it is said, of a sister, the wife of Dr. Charles Moore, of Philadelphia. A few copies were printed several years ago, for private circulation, supplying friends with a mirror which reflects the image of expanded benevolence and exalted piety. Belonging to the Society of Friends, she was not partial to
"The shot, the shout, the groan of war;"
yet her principles were patriotic, and she no doubt rejoiced over all the victories and in the final and complete success of the "rebel" army. She became a widow at an early age, and died at Burlington, in 1816, aged seventy-nine years.
A single extract from her journal will illustrate the most prominent feature of her character:
"June 14th, 1777. By a person from Bordentown, we hear twelve expresses came in there to-day fromcamp. Some of the gondola-men and their wives being sick, and no doctor in town to apply to, they were told Mrs. Morris was a skillful woman, and kept medicines to give to the poor; and notwithstanding their late attempts to shoot my poor boy, they ventured to come to me, and in a very humble manner begged me to come and do something for them. At first I thought they designed to put a trick on me, get me aboard their gondola, and then pillage my house, as they had done some others; but on asking where the sick folks were, I was told they were lodged in the Governor's house. So I went to see them; there were several, both men and women, very ill with fever; some said, the camp or putrid fever. They were broken out in blotches; and on close examination, it appeared to be the itch fever. I treated them according to art, and they all got well. I thought I had received all my pay when they thankfully acknowledged my kindness; but lo! in a short time afterwards a very rough, ill-looking man came to the door and asked for me. When I went to him he drew me aside, and asked if I had any friends in Philadelphia. The question alarmed me, supposing there was some mischief meditated against that poor city; however, I calmly said—'I have an ancient father, some sisters, and other near friends there.'
"'Well,' said the man, 'do you wish to hear from them, or send any thing by way of refreshment to them? If you do, I will take charge of it, and bring you back any thing you may send for.'
"I was very much surprised, and thought, to be sure, he only wanted to get provisions to take to the gondolas; but when he told me his wife was one of those I had given medicine to, and this was the only thing he could do to pay me for my kindness, my heart leaped with joy, and I set about preparing something for my dear, absent friends. A quarter of beef, some veal, fowls and flour, were soon put up; and about midnight the man called and took them aboard his boat. He left them at Robert Hopkins'—at the point—whence my beloved friends took them to town.
"Two nights afterwards, a loud knocking at our front door greatly alarmed us, and opening the chamber window, we heard a man's voice, saying, 'Come down softly and open the door, but bring no light.'
"There was something mysterious in such a call; but we concluded to go down and set the candle in the kitchen.
"When we got to the front door, we asked, 'Who are you?'
"The man replied, 'A friend; open quickly.' So the door was opened; and who should it be but our honest gondola-man, with a letter, a bushel of salt, a jug of molasses, a bag of rice, some tea, coffee, and sugar, and some cloth for a coat for my poor boys; all sent by my kind sisters!
"How did our hearts and eyes overflow with love to them, and thanks to our Heavenly Father for such seasonable supplies! May we never forget it! Being now so rich, we thought it our duty to hand out alittle to the poor around us, who were mourning for want of salt; so we divided the bushel, and gave a pint to every poor person who came for it—having abundance left for our own use. Indeed, it seemed to us as if our little store was increased by distribution, like the bread broken by our Saviour to the multitude."
In every rank, or great or small,'Tis industry supports us all.Gay.Count life by virtues—these will lastWhen life's lame-footed race is o'er.Mrs. Hale.
In the year 1843, the Hon. Samuel Wilkeson, of Buffalo—since deceased—communicated to the American Pioneer, a series of papers entitled "Early Recollections of the West." They present a graphic, yet painful picture of the perils, hardships and sufferings attendant on back-woods life in the midst of the aboriginal foresters. His father's family was one of twenty that removed from Carlisle and the adjacent towns, to the western part of Pennsylvania, in the spring of 1784. He pays the following tribute to the industry, perseverance and pious efforts of the mothers of the band:
The labor of all the settlers was greatly interrupted by the Indian war. Although the older settlers had some sheep, yet their increase was slow, as the country abounded in wolves. It was therefore thework of time to secure a supply of wool. Deerskin was a substitute for cloth for men and boys, but not for women and girls, although they were sometimes compelled to resort to it. The women spun, and generally wove all the cloth for their families, and when the wife was feeble, and had a large family, her utmost efforts could not enable her to provide them with anything like comfortable clothing. The wonder is, and I shall never cease to wonder, that they did not sink under their burthens. Their patient endurance of these accumulated hardships did not arise from a slavish servility, or insensibility to their rights and comforts. They justly appreciated their situation, and nobly encountered the difficulties which could not be avoided.
Possessing all the affections of the wife, the tenderness of the mother, and the sympathies of the woman, their tears flowed freely for others' griefs, while they bore their own with a fortitude which none but a woman could exercise. The entire education of her children devolved on the mother, and notwithstanding the difficulties to be encountered, she did not allow them to grow up wholly without instruction; but amidst all her numerous cares taught them to read, and instructed them in the principles of Christianity. To accomplish this, under the circumstances, was no easy task. The exciting influences which surrounded them, made the boys restless under restraint. Familiarized as they were to hardships from the cradle, and daily listening to stories of Indian massacres and depredations, and to theheroic exploits of some neighboring pioneer, who had taken an Indian scalp, or by some daring effort saved his own, ignorant of the sports and toys with which children in other circumstances are wont to be amused, no wonder they desired to emulate the soldier, or engage in the scarcely less exciting adventures of the hunter. Yet even many of these boys were subdued by the faithfulness of the mother, who labored to bring them up in the fear of God.
Our country yet remains:By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,And swear for her to live—with her to die!Campbell.
One of the spiciest specimens of colloquial sparring,vis-a-vis, in our Revolutionary annals, was between Colonel Tarleton and the wife of Lieutenant Slocumb, of Wayne county, North Carolina.[55]The Attic wit and Spartan boldness of the latter, exhibit original powers of mind, strength of will, and a degree of self-possession truly grand and ennobling. But the character of the heroine of "Pleasant Green," is most luminous in her conduct at the battle of Moore's Creek, which occurred on the twenty-seventh of February, 1776. She tells the story of her adventures on that bloody occasion, as follows:
"The men all left on Sunday morning. More than eighty went from this house with my husband; I looked at them well, and I could see that every man had mischief in him. I know a coward assoon as I set my eyes upon him. The tories more than once tried to frighten me, but they always showed coward at the bare insinuation that our troops were about.
"Well, they got off in high spirits, every man stepping high and light. And I slept soundly and quietly that night, and worked hard all the next day; but I kept thinking where they had got to—how far; where and how many of the regulars and tories they would meet; and I could not keep myself from the study. I went to bed at the usual time, but still continued to study. As I lay—whether waking or sleeping I know not—I had a dream; yet it was not all a dream. (She used the words, unconsciously, of the poet who was not then in being.) I saw distinctly a body wrapped in my husband's guard-cloak—bloody—dead; and others dead and wounded on the ground about him. I saw them plainly and distinctly. I uttered a cry, and sprang to my feet on the floor; and so strong was the impression on my mind, that I rushed in the direction the vision appeared, and came up against the side of the house. The fire in the room gave little light, and I gazed in every direction to catch another glimpse of the scene. I raised the light; every thing was still and quiet. My child was sleeping, but my woman was awakened by my crying out or jumping on the floor. If ever I felt fear it was at that moment. Seated on the bed, I reflected a few moments—and said aloud: 'I mustgo to him.' I told the woman I could not sleep, and would ride down the road. She appeared in great alarm; but I merely told her to lock the door after me, and look after the child. I went to the stable, saddled my mare—as fleet and easy a nag as ever traveled; and in one minute we were tearing down the road at full speed. The cool night seemed after a mile or two's gallop to bring reflection with it; and I asked myself where I was going, and for what purpose. Again and again, I was tempted to turn back; but I was soon ten miles from home, and my mind became stronger every mile I rode. I should find my husband dead or dying—was as firmly my presentiment and conviction as any fact of my life. When day broke I was some thirty miles from home. I knew the general route our little army expected to take, and had followed them without hesitation. About sunrise I came upon a group of women and children, standing and sitting by the road-side, each one of them showing the same anxiety of mind I felt. Stopping a few minutes I inquired if the battle had been fought. They knew nothing, but were assembled on the road-side to catch intelligence. They thought Caswell had taken the right of the Wilmington road, and gone towards the north-west (cape Fear). Again was I skimming over the ground through a country thinly settled, and very poor and swampy; but neither my own spirits nor my beautiful nag's failed in the least. We followed the well-marked trail of the troops.
"The sun must have been well up, say eight or nine o'clock, when I heard a sound like thunder, which I knew must be cannon. It was the first time I ever heard a cannon. I stopped still; when presently the cannon thundered again. The battle was then fighting. What a fool! my husband could not be dead last night, and the battle only fighting now! Still, as I am so near, I will go on and see how they come out. So away we went again, faster than ever; and I soon found, by the noise of the guns, that I was near the fight. Again I stopped. I could hear muskets, I could hear rifles, and I could hear shouting. I spoke to my mare and dashed on in the direction of the firing and the shouts, now louder than ever. The blind path I had been following brought me into the Wilmington road leading to Moore's creek bridge, a few hundred yards below the bridge. A few yards from the road, under a cluster of trees were lying perhaps twenty men. They were the wounded. I knew the spot; the very trees; and the position of the men I knew as if I had seen it a thousand times. I had seen it all night! I saw all at once; but in an instant my whole soul was centered in one spot; for there, wrapped in his bloody guard-cloak, was my husband's body! How I passed the few yards from my saddle to the place I never knew. I remember uncovering his head and seeing a face clothed with gore from a dreadful wound across the temple. I put my hand on the bloody face; 'twas warm; and anunknown voicebegged for water. A smallcamp-kettle was lying near, and a stream of water was close by. I brought it; poured some in his mouth; washed his face; and behold—it was Frank Cogdell. He soon revived and could speak. I was washing the wound in his head. Said he 'It is not that; it is that hole in my leg that is killing me.' A puddle of blood was standing on the ground about his feet. I took his knife, cut away his trowsers and stockings, and found the blood came from a shot hole through and through the fleshy part of the leg. I looked about and could see nothing that looked as if it would do for dressing wounds but some heart-leaves. I gathered a handful and bound them tight to the holes; and the bleeding stopped. I then went to the others; and—Doctor! I dressed the wounds of many a brave fellow who did good fighting long after that day! I had not inquired for my husband; but while I was busy Caswell came up. He appeared very much surprised to see me; and was with his hat in hand about to pay some compliment: but I interrupted him by asking—'Where is my husband?'
"'Where he ought to be, madam; in pursuit of the enemy. But pray,' said he, 'how came you here?'
"'Oh, I thought,' replied I, 'you would need nurses as well as soldiers. See! I have already dressed many of these good fellows; and here is one'—going to Frank and lifting him up with my arm under his head so that he could drink some more water—'would have died before any of you men could have helped him.'
"'I believe you,' said Frank. Just then I looked up, and my husband, as bloody as a butcher, and as muddy as a ditcher, stood before me.[56]
"'Why, Mary!' he exclaimed, 'What are you doing there? Hugging Frank Cogdell, the greatest reprobate in the army?'
"'I don't care,' I cried. 'Frank is a brave fellow, a good soldier, and a true friend to Congress.'
"'True, true! every word of it!' said Caswell. 'You are right, madam,' with the lowest possible bow.
"I would not tell my husband what brought me there. I was so happy; and so were all! It was a glorious victory; I came just at the height of the enjoyment. I knew my husband was surprised, but I could see he was not displeased with me. It was night again before our excitement had at all subsided. Many prisoners were brought in, and among them some very obnoxious; but the worst of the tories were not taken prisoners. They were, for the most part, left in the woods and swamps wherever they were overtaken. I begged for some of the poor prisoners, and Caswell readily told me none should be hurt but such as had been guilty of murder and house-burning. In the middle of the night I again mounted my mare and started for home. Caswell and my husband wanted me to stay till next morning, and they would send a party with me; but no! Iwanted to see my child, and I told them they could send no party who could keep up with me. What a happy ride I had back! and with what joy did I embrace my child as he ran to meet me!"[57]
Love, lend me wings to make this purpose swift,As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift.Shakspeare.
During the struggle for Independence, Captain Richardson, of Sumter district, South Carolina, was obliged to conceal himself for a while in the thickets of the Santee swamp. One day he ventured to visit his family—a perilous movement, for the British had offered rewards for his apprehension, and patrolling parties were almost constantly in search of him.—Before his visit was ended, a small band of soldiers presented themselves in front of the house. Just as they were entering, with a great deal of composure and presence of mind, Mrs. Richardson appeared at the door, and found so much to do there at the moment, as to find it inconvenient to make room for the uninvited guests to enter. She was so calm, and appeared so unconcerned, that they did not mistrust the cause of her wonderful diligence, till her husband had rushed out of the back door and safely reached the neighboring swamp.
Patience and resignation are the pillarsOf human peace on earth.Young.
The panegyric of Decker on patience is beautiful:
Patience, my lord! why 'tis the soul of peace:Of all the virtues 'tis the nearest kin to heaven;It makes men look like gods.
Not every Christian sufferer wears this garment in its celestial whiteness, as did the God-man, whom the same writer calls
"the best of menThat e'er wore earth about him."
One of the most patient beings in modern times was Miss Sarah Parbeck, of Salem, Massachusetts. A lady who visited her in 1845, gives the following account of the interview:
The door was opened by a very old lady, wrinkled and bowed down with age, who invited us to enter. The room was so dark, that, before my eyes were accommodated to the change, I could only see a figure dressed in white, sitting upon the bed and rocking to and fro. This motion was attended by asound like the click of wooden machinery, which arose, as I afterwards discovered, from the bones, as they worked in their loosened sockets. As we approached, she extended her hand to my companion, and said, in a painful but affectionate voice, "Eliza, I am very glad to see thee;" and then asked my name and place of residence. She had just given me her hand, when a spasm seized her, and it was twitched suddenly from my grasp. It flew some four or five times with the greatest violence against her face, and then, with a sound, which I can only compare to that made by a child who has been sobbing a long time, in catching its breath, she threw up both her arms, and with a deep guttural groan was flung back upon her pillow, with a force inconceivable to one who has not witnessed it. The instant she touched the bed, she uttered that piercing shriek again, and sprung back to her former position, rocking to and fro, with those quick, heart-rending groans which I had heard while standing at the door. It was several minutes before she could speak, and then there was none to answer her. Both my companion and myself were choked with tears. Her poor mother went to the other side of the bed, and smoothed the coverlid, and re-arranged the pillows, looking sadly upon her poor child, writhing in torture which she could not alleviate. I became faint, and trembled with sudden weakness: a cold perspiration stood upon my face. The objects in the room began to swim about me, and I was obliged to take hold of the bedside for support. I have been in ourlargest hospitals, and have spent hours in going from room to room with the attending physician. I have witnessed there almost every form of human suffering, but I had never beheld any thing to be compared to that now before me. She afterwards told me, as if in apology for her screams, that when she was hurled back upon her pillow, both shoulders were dislocated, and as they sprung back into their sockets, the pain was far beyond endurance, and extorted from her these shrieks.
Her sentences were broken, uttered with much difficulty, and frequently interrupted by the terrible spasm I have described above. Yet this was her "quiet" state; this the time when she sufferedleast. Day after day, night after night,fourteen weary yearshave dragged themselves along, whilst her poor body has been thus racked. No relief; no hope of relief, except that which death shall give. When I asked her if her affliction did not at times seem greater than she could bear, "O! never," she replied. "I cannot thank God enough for having laid his heavy hand upon me. I was a thoughtless sinner, and had he not, in his mercy, afflicted me, I should probably have lost my immortal soul. I see only his kindness and love. The sweet communion I have with my Saviour more than compensates me for all I suffer. I am permitted to feel, in a measure, in my poor body, what he suffered to save me, and my soul can never grow weary in his praise." This last sentence, I must say, gave me an argument which put doubts of the verity and power of religion to flightmore effectually than all the evidences which the wisdom of man has arrayed against the skeptic; and I could not but exclaim, "If this be delusion let me be deluded!"
She spoke in the most tender terms of her Saviour's love. Her conversation was in heaven, from whence also she looked for her Saviour, knowing that he should change her body of humiliation, and fashion it like unto his glorious body. I shall never forget the tones and language in which she entreated my sobbing companion to give that Saviour her heart. As she recovered from a spasm, I said to her, "do you not often desire to depart, and be with the Saviour you love so fervently?" She had hardly recovered her exhausted breath, but replied with great decision, "By the grace of God,I have never had that wish. Though death will be a welcome gift when my Father sees fit to bestow it upon me, yet, thanks to his supporting grace, I can wait his time without impatience. He sees that there is much dross to refine away, and why should I wish against his will?"
I remained by her side for more than an hour; such, however, were the attractions of her discourse, that I was unconscious of the time. I know not when I have been so drawn towards a fellow Christian, and never had I been led to such delightful contemplations of our Saviour's character—his faithfulness and love. I remarked to her, as I turned to go away, "God has made you a powerful preacher, here upon your bed of pain." "O," she replied,"if he will make me the instrument of saving but a single soul, I am willing to live and suffer here until my hair is gray with age." I noticed some bottles standing upon a small table, and asked her if she found any relief from opiates. "Through God's kindness," she answered, "I probably owe the preservation of my life thus far to an extract made from blackdrop." "Does it enable you to sleep?" "O no," she replied, "I have not known sleep for a very long time." "What!" I cried, "do you never rest?" A severe spasm here seized her, and it was some time before she could answer me; she had been attacked in this way some twelve or fifteen times whilst conversing with us, and frequently in the midst of a reply. When she recovered, she said the physicians thought she obtained rest in her "long spasm," which lasted for more than an hour. "During that time," she continued, "I am dead to every thing but a sense of the most extreme anguish. I see and hear nothing; I only feel as though I was being crushed in pieces by some immense weight." This was her rest! the rack! Yet, through all this suffering, the smiles of God penetrated to her heart. She sees him just, and acknowledges his love.