“He entreated me to procure from his captain, the necessary papers to prove that he was a true man, and to forward them to him. Our captain was a great friend to us; he gave me the writings, and I determined myself to go to Greenbush. I met with some troubles, and much kindness by the way. The people in your States, ma'am, are the freest and the kindest I have ever seen. They seemed to me like God's stewards, always ready to open their storehouses to the naked and hungry. I had money enough to pay for my boy's riding the most of the way; for myself I seldom felt weary, but pressed on beyond my strength; still I did not feel it till I got to Greenbush, and was told my husband had escaped from confinement the week before. Whither he had gone, no one knew, but all told me that if he was not retaken, he had probably reached Canada.

“I would have come straight home again, but my strength was utterly gone. I have not much recollection from this time: I remember having a fear that they would take my boy from me, but all seems as a dream, till I came to myself two months after in the alms-house in Albany. From that time I remained in a low wretched state, for four months, when this poor baby was born into this world of trouble.”

Here the poor woman gave way to a burst of tears, which seemed to be a relief to her full heart; for afterwards, she proceeded with more composure. “Many months passed before I was able to do any thing for myself. It pleased God to hear my prayer for patience; and though I was often without any hope that times would ever mend with me, I was kept from fretting. You are very kind to feel for me, but I will not tire you with all my ups and downs for the last three years. I have sent many letters into Canada, but have never received any return. My heart sometimes misgives me, and I think my husband has gone to Europe—or maybe is dead.”

“But, why,” asked Mrs. Sackville, “have you remained so long in the States?”

“O, ma'am, I was afraid to undertake the journey with my poor baby, who has always been but delicate, and I was determined not to leave Albany, where I had made many kind friends, till I had earned something to help us on our journey. I know how to turn my hands to almost any kind of work; and the last year has prospered so well with me, that when I left Albany I had forty dollars. At Buffalo my poor baby was taken down; and I have been obliged to spend ten dollars; with the rest I hope to get to Quebec; and if worst comes to worst, I may there find friends to send me to Europe.”

The poor woman's story was not one of unparalleled misfortunes, but it was unusually interesting to her hearers—there was so much resolution and mildness blended in her countenance, such perfect cleanliness in her coarse apparel, and such an evident solicitude to avoid any exaggeration, or even display of her troubles, that could be an appeal to the charity of her auditors, that when she concluded, they felt convinced of her merit, and deeply interested in her welfare. They were now arrived at the inn, where they were to await the children, who arrived in the course of an hour, heated and dusty—but declaring they had never a more delightful walk.

“Lord bless you, Miss,” exclaimed Mrs. Barton, “you've heated yourself to that degree, that the blood seems ready to burst from your cheeks. I shall never forgive myself if you get sick by it.”

“Oh never fear,” replied Julia, “I did not feel the heat at all.”

“But there is such a thick sickly feeling in the air to-day.”

“Sickly feeling,” exclaimed Edward, “I am sure I thought the air was never fresher and sweeter.”

“You can now understand,” said Mrs. Sackville, speaking in a low voice to her children, “the charm of the ring in the Fairy tale, bestowed by the benevolent Genius; which whenever worn, produced a clear sky, a smooth path and fragrant air. There is a happiness, my dear children, in the simplest act of genuine kindness, which is much more than a compensation for the loss of any gratification of taste. The relief of this poor woman, and the sweet sleep into which her child has been lulled by the motion of the carriage, have quite reconciled me to the delay of the sight of the Falls; for which I confess I began to feel a little but here comes your uncle, full of concern about something.”

Mr. Morris entered the room in great perturbation. “Here is a pretty spot of work,” said he. “I believe in my soul, Mrs. Barton, that that scamp Tristy has gone off with your bundle.”

“Gone off with it!—God forbid!” exclaimed the poor woman,—“my money was all in it.”

“Oh uncle,” said Edward, “he has not gone off with it;—he laid himself down under a tree in the wood just back, and said he would follow on as soon as he had rested him.”

“Rested him! a mere pretence to get rid of you—you should have had more discretion than to have trusted him, Ned;—but when was ever discretion found in a boy?”

“But what reason, brother, have you to think he has gone off?” asked Mrs. Sackville.

Mr. Morris said there had a man just come over the road, of whom he had inquired if he had seen him:—he had not, but he was certain he should have observed him if he had been by the road side. Mr. Morris had despatched a servant on horseback in pursuit of him, and he begged Mrs. Barton to calm herself till his return.

The poor woman's agitation could not be allayed as easily as it had been excited:—she said nothing; but she became as pale as death, and trembled so excessively, that Mrs. Sackville took her child from her arms and laid it on a bed.

Mr. Morris's compassion once excited, was never stinted. “Bless you, woman,” he whispered to Mrs. Barton, “don't tremble so. If the little imp has really made off, your loss shall be made up to you. Come, cheer up—I have engaged a place for you and your children in a return carriage, and you will all be in Newark to-night, safe and snug.”

“God bless you, sir,” replied Mrs. Barton. “I am ashamed of myself; but my courage and strength seem quite spent.”

At this instant, Edward, who had gone out on the first notice of the boy's delinquency, returned, shouting, “He's coming, he's coming;” and directly the messenger made his appearance with the wallet unharmed, and followed by Tristram, who came doggedly on muttering, “that it was a poor reward for lugging the old woman's bundle to be hunted for a thief.”

“Stop your clamor, Tristy,” said Mr. Morris, “the devil shall have his due; there is a shilling for you, which is full as much as your character is worth.”

“I don't know as to that,” replied the boy, pocketing the shilling: “those that have much character can do as they please, but I have so little, that I set a high price on it.”

The carriage was now ready in which Mrs. Barton was to proceed, and her friends saw her depart cheered and comforted by their kindness, and themselves enriched by the opportunity they had improved of imitating our heavenly Benefactor by ‘raising the sinking heart, and strengthening the knees that were ready to fail.’

After our travellers were again on their way, Mr. Morris said he did not at all like Tristram's look, when he said Goody Barton would remember him the next time she felt the weight of her wallet. “The little rascal said too, that he had changed his mind, and was going back to the States—putting that and that together, I am afraid his evil fingers have been inside the poor woman's bundle.”

Julia was sure he could not be so wicked—she had herself observed the bundle, and that it was very nicely sewed.

Mrs. Sackville hoped and believed that there was no harm done to the poor woman's property; and the concern of the party for their protegée, gradually gave place to their admiration of the beauties of their ride, and the animated expectation of seeing the Falls.

Edward declared that his ears already began to tingle,—and after they passed Chippewa, Julia resolutely shut her eyes, for fear of having the first impression weakened by the imperfect glimpses that could be caught of the cataract from the road.

---

We hope our young readers do not think us so presumptuous as to attempt to give them a description of the Falls of Niagara; one of the sublimest spectacles with which this fair earth is embellished. Neither can we attempt to define the emotions of our travellers. We find in Edward's and Julia's journals, noted with an accuracy and taste that does them great credit, all the constituent parts of this great whole—a poet or a painter might perhaps weave them into a beautiful picture.

The vehement dashing of the rapids—the sublime falls—the various hues of the mass of waters—the snowy whiteness, and the deep bright green—the billowy spray that veils in deep obscurity the depths below—the verdant island that interposes between the two falls, half veiled in a misty mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye and the spirit may repose on it—the little island on the brink of the American fall, that looks amidst the commotion of the waters like the sylvan vessel of a woodland nymph gaily sailing onward; or as if the wish of the Persian girl were realized, and the ‘little isle had wings;’—a thing of life and motion that the spirit of the waters had inspired.

The profound caverns with their overarching rocks—the quiet habitations along the margin of the river—peaceful amid all the uproar, as if the voice of the Creator had been heard, saying “It is I, be not afraid.”—The green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and overlooks Table-rock—the deep and bright verdure of the foliage—every spear of grass that penetrates the crevices of the rocks, gemmed by the humid atmosphere, and sparkling in the sun-beams—the rainbow that rests on the mighty torrent—a symbol of the smile of God upon his wondrous work.

“What is it, mother?” asked Edward, as he stood with his friends on Table-rock, where they had remained gazing on the magnificent scene for fifteen minutes without uttering a syllable, “what is it, mother, that makes us all so silent?”

“It is the spirit of God moving on the face of the waters—it is this new revelation to our senses of his power and majesty which ushers us, as it were, into his visible presence, and exalts our affections above language.

“What, my dear children, should we be, without the religious sentiment that is to us as a second sight, by which we see in all this beauty the hand of the Creator; by which we are permitted to join in this hymn of nature; by which, I may say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of our Lord? Without it we should be like those sheep, who are at this moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice, alike unconscious of all these wonders, and of their divine Original. This religious sentiment is in truth, Edward, that promethean fire that kindles nature with a living spirit, infuses life and expression into inert matter, and invests the mortal with immortality.” Mrs. Sackville's eye was upraised, and her countenance illumined with a glow of devotion that harmonized with the scene. “It is, my dear children,” she continued, “this religious sentiment, enlightened and directed by reason, that allies you to external nature, that should govern your affections, direct your pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make you feel, by its celestial influence, that the kingdom is within you; but,” she added smiling, after a momentary pause, “this temple does not need a preacher.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Sackville; “but the language of nature sometimes needs an interpreter to such young observers as Ned and Julia.”

“That it does, papa,” exclaimed Edward, whose exalted feeling was gradually subsiding to its natural level; “and there are people, too, older than Julia and I, that I think need an interpreter. That Yorkshireman, for instance, who lives in the stone house just at the turn of the road as we came down from Forsyth's, said to me, ‘Well, young master, this is a mighty fine sight to come and see, but you would be sick enough of it if you lived here. It seems, when I am lying on my bed at night, like an everlasting thunder-storm, such a roaring from the Falls and dropping from the trees: and in winter my poor beasts are covered with icicles. I wish some of the quality that cry the place up, and come half the world over to see it, would change births with my wife and me,’ and so he went on railing till I ran away from him to overtake you.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mr. Sackville; “the sentiment, ‘Il n'y a rien de beau que l'utile,’[3] is quite excusable in a laborer. I think, Ned, I feel more disposed to pity than to blame your Yorkshireman.”

“Well, papa, what do you think of that party of city shop-keepers who dined at the inn with us to-day? I heard one of the ladies say, ‘I have been so disappointed in my journey.’ I dropped my knife and fork, and exclaimed, ‘Disappointed, madam! does not the fall look as high as you expected?’ ‘Oh, child,’ she replied, laughing, ‘I was not speaking of the fall; but I find it is quite too early in the season to travel in the country. I have not seen a roast pig or a broiled chicken since I left the city.’ What do you think of that, papa?”

“Why I think, my dear, she is a vulgar woman, who travels because others do; and is naturally disappointed in not meeting with the only circumstances that could give her pleasure.”

“There's Mrs. Hilton, papa, who, I am sure, is not vulgar—at least she is as rich as Crœsus—and I heard her say to a gentleman, that if she could have remained at the Springs, and then could have gone home and said she had been to the Falls, she should have been glad; for she was sure no one came here but for the name of it.”

“Mrs. Hilton is of the class of the vulgar rich, among whom vulgarity is quite as obvious, and much more disgusting, than with the vulgar poor. But come, dear Ned; the faults and follies of others is a theme scarcely worthy of this place; and just at the moment that you are enjoying this festival of nature, you must take care you do not commit the pharisaic fault, and thank God that you are not as these people, without reflecting that Providence has arranged the circumstances which have made the difference.”

“But, papa,” said Julia, “it would not be wrong, would it, for Edward to feel that there is a difference?”

“Perhaps not, provided the feeling is properly tempered with humility and gratitude; but it is far safer to be in the habit of comparing yourselves with your superiors, than your inferiors.”

“It may be safer, papa,” said Julia, “but”—

“But what, my love?”

“It is not half so natural.”

“Nor so pleasant,” interposed Edward.

“Well, my children, I hope you will make it habitual, and then it will be natural. For the present I am satisfied that you speak frankly your opinions and feelings, without disguise or affectation.”

Thus these vigilant parents extracted some moral good from every object and every scene; and at that early age, when most children are thoughtless of the future, theirs were constantly directed to virtue, which they were taught is immortal in its nature, is man's support and solace through all the vicissitudes of life, and his crown of glory when the ‘terrestrial puts on the celestial.’

Our travellers remained at the Falls for a week, that they might become familiar with them, see them by the rising and the setting sun; by daylight, and moonlight, and starlight, in all the radiance of the clear, full day, and in mists and storm; and then, after offering a Te Deum from the temple of their hearts, they left them with beautiful and imperishable pictures traced on their memories.

In following the windings of the Niagara to Newark, they passed the celebrated heights of Queenstown, ‘where ceas'd the swift their race, where fell the strong;’ but even then, though then so recent, there were no traces of the disastrous battle fought there. The children, whose home was in a hill-country, and who valued a mountain as much as a New-Englander does a ‘water privilege,’ rambled over the heights, and gazed delighted on the green Niagara, which, escaped from its rocky prison, rejoices in its freedom, sweeps freely and gracefully around the bluff promontories that indent its course, flows past the headland, where Fort Niagara guards the American shore, and enters Lake Ontario, which stretches, sparkling in the distance,

Edward had, in common with most spirited boys, a natural taste for military exploits. “I think,” he said to his mother, “that a coward might play the hero on these heights, or at Lundie's-lane. Only think, mother, of fighting within the sound of the roaring of the Falls: would it not give you grand feelings?”

“I think, Edward, if I could hear the Falls at such a moment, they would seem to me to speak in a voice of rebuke, rather than encouragement.”

“O, mother, you never seem to admire courage; but I suppose it is because you are a woman.”

“No, my dear: women have been accused of having rather an undue admiration for what you mean by courage—fighting courage; but I confess that war seems to me a violation of the law of God, and it appears a profanation of such beautiful scenes as these, to convert them into fields of battle.”

When they reached Newark, the party walked up to Fort George; a slight embankment, surrounded by a palisade, is still dignified by that name. “This palisade as they call it, Ned,” said Mr. Morris, “we should scarcely think a sufficient defence against the batteries of pigs and chickens.”

“It has served, though, to keep the yankees at bay,” said a soldier, gruffly, who was cutting up Canada thistles, and who had suspended his labour for a moment, to regard the strangers.

“A fair hit, friend,” said Mr. Morris; “but all our fighting is over now, and forgotten I hope. This work you are doing here, cutting off these thistles, is far better than cutting off heads.”

“It is far aisier, sir,” replied the man, with a slight curling of the lip, which betrayed a professional contempt for Mr. Morris's preference of the plough-share over the sword; then turning towards the gate he called to a little boy who was just entering it—“Come, come Dick, what do you gaze at, boy? bring me the basket.”

The boy, without heeding the command, dropped the basket; and uttering a cry between joy and surprise, scampered off in the direction of a cottage, or rather hovel, which stood just without the palisade.

“That is Richard Barton!—that is certainly Richard Barton!” exclaimed the children in one breath.

“Surely is it Richard Barton,” said the soldier.

“Is his mother, here? Has he found his father?” asked Edward impatiently; while all the party drew nearer the soldier, anxious to learn the fate of their humble friend.

“Ay, his mother is in by there, poor cratur; but his father has been gone since the summer after the war, when the 40th was sent from Canada—where, God knows—there's none but he that made them can keep track of a British regiment: one year they are here with the setting sun, and then off to where he rises—shifting and changing like the waves of the sea, beating from one world to another; and I should know it by rason that I myself was fighting, and baiting gentaly under Wellington on the sunny side of the Pyrennees in one month, and the next comes an order and whips us off for Canada in the twinkling of an eye, among the indians and the yankees, who know nothing about fighting,” he concluded, glancing his eye at Mr. Morris, “according to the civil rules of war.”

“Poor, Mrs. Barton!” said Mrs. Sackville. “I am grieved at her disappointment, though I expected it.”

“Oh, do let us go in and see her,” said Julia.

“We will wait a moment, my dear,” replied her mother; “her little boy must have told her that we were here, and I think she will come out to us.”

“She'll not be right free to come before you,” said the soldier, “if, as I now partly suspect, you are the gentlemen and ladies that were so hospitable like to her.” The man now doffed his cap, and stood with it in his hand, with an expression of respect in his manner far different from the hostile air he had at first assumed.

“But, why not, my friend, come before us?” asked Mrs. Sackville. “I trust she has nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Ashamed! no, thank God—it would be hard indeed if she had to bear the burthen of shame with her other misfortunes; but though a soldier's wife, she has an English spirit, and a proud one; and she says, while she has her health and her hands, she will never be seen asking charity; and that destitute is her condition, that as she said to-day, to make her case known to christian people, is asking charity of them.”

“Do, mother, let us go now and see her,” again interposed Julia.

“Stop, a moment, my love,” replied Mrs. Sackville; and then turning again to the soldier—“You say she is utterly destitute; but when she left us, she said she had a considerable sum of money.”

“And she spake the truth, ma'am—or, what is the same, she thought she did; but a little limb of the old one, saving your presence, my lady, had fingered all the poor cratur had been earning in three years, in as many minutes, and was off to the States with it.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Mr. Morris, who had been intently listening—“the son of Belial—I told you so—I knew the rascal had it.”

“So dame Barton said one of the gentlemen told her; but the bundle was all tight and snug, for the little devil had sewed it up again, and she did not examine it till she come to look for the money to pay the captain of a schooner, who had agreed to take her down the lakes: and just think, my lady, at that moment what an overcast it was.”

“That mischief was done,” said Edward, as soon as he had an opportunity of speaking, “when you and I, Julia, left that little wretch Tristy in the wood. I shall always think we were to blame for leaving him.”

“Does the poor woman,” asked Mrs. Sackville, “still think of returning to Quebec?”

“To Quebec! ah, madam, and to the world's end, but she'll find her husband if he is above ground. She is that resolute, that neither wind nor tide can turn her. If she was left on a naked island in mid ocean, she would contrive to get off from it.”

“Come, children,” said Mrs. Sackville, “we will just leave your father and uncle to finish their survey here, while we look in upon our poor friend.”

“Well, go on mother,” said Edward, “I will overtake you; first I must run up to the flag-staff and get at least a clover stalk for a memorial of the gallant Brock who is buried there.”

“And I will overtake you too, mother,” said Julia, falling back with Edward.

The soldier's eye followed the children: “God bless them—God bless them!” said he, “that is better than a monument.”

“What is better than a monument, friend?” asked Mrs. Sackville, riveted to the spot, as most mothers would be, by an honest commendation of her children.

“The memory of an innocent heart—and a tear from eyes that never cried for sin, my lady—we soldiers die, and are turned into the turf—but we are honored in our officers.”

“Farewell, my friend; I wish you well,” said Mrs. Sackville, dropping a piece of money into the soldier's hand, and then turned from him while he was still uttering his hearty, “God bless you, my lady.”

Julia hailed Edward as he was bounding off towards the flag-staff, and begged him to stop for her, as she had something private to say to him. He laughed at her passion for secrets, said he could not possibly be detained, and at last good naturedly stopped to listen. “Ned,” she said, “I tell you what I was thinking of—as it was our fault, you know, that poor Mrs. Barton lost her money—and she is so anxious to get to Quebec—and that little Dick is such a good good natured little fellow—I was thinking, Ned—”

“For mercy's sake think a little faster, Julia.”

“Well, I was thinking, if we could contrive some way to have her go down in the boat with us.”

“Contrive! it could not take us long to contrive I think: we can only ask papa, you know, and all the contrivance in the world will do her no good, if he does not think it best.”

“But, then, Ned, there is one thing I would like to propose to father and mother, if you are willing to join me.”

“Don't be so round-about, Julia, as if I was the great Mogul. Speak out.”

“Well then, to speak plain—you know Edward, you and I have each of us five dollars that papa gave us to buy Canada curiosities with; now I think if we were to club, we might have enough to get Mrs. Barton to Quebec, if the captains of the boats are good-natured men, and reasonable in their charges, and if papa approves the scheme—and if”——

“If—if—if,” said Edward, “we shall never move the woman with all these ifs to clog the way; one if is sure, that if we spend our money this way, we might have saved ourselves all the trouble of planning so many times over how we should lay it out.”

Edward continued for a few moments silent and moody, while Julia urged her cause zealously. The person, young or old, to whom a charity is suggested, is not often as eager for it as the original projector. Edward, however, after having walked up to the flag-staff, plucked a clover-stalk, and retraced a part of the way to the little wicket by which they entered, said, with the air of a sage, “I did not think it best, Julia, to say yes, without some consideration; but on the whole I like the plan, and if father and mother consent, I shall be very glad.” Once agreed, they were impatient for the execution of their scheme, and they hurried forward to the cottage, at the door of which they were met by both the children. The little girl now quite recovered, clung to Julia, while Richard plucked Edward by the sleeve, and expressed his joy awkwardly, but naturally enough, by laughing in his face.

“Ah, they are indeed right glad to see ye,” said Mrs. Barton, “as I'm sure I am, as I have reason; but they, poor things—their hearts would not jump so at sight of their father's face, as indeed how should they, seeing they can have no recollection of him.”

The children replied to all these kind expressions from mother and children, and then drawing Mrs. Sackville to the door, they suggested their plan. She kissed them both, and bade them await her in the cottage, while she went to consult their father and uncle, whom she saw approaching.

As soon as she had communicated the children's wishes, Mr. Morris laughed at them. “Why,” said he, “the poor foolish woman is on a wild-goose chase, and the sooner she is stopped the better—travelling over the world after a husband, who I have no doubt she is vastly better without than with.”

“But she is the best judge of that, brother.”

“Lord bless you, no—a wife is no judge at all about her husband. She is evidently an ingenious worthy woman, and can get a good living if she is not footing it over the world after this soldier—a good riddance—a good riddance, Mrs. Sackville. I am surprised you do not see it is a good riddance.”

Mrs. Sackville, who did not esteem matrimonial ties so lightly as her bachelor brother, appealed to her husband, but he joined Mr. Morris in thinking Mrs. Barton had much better remain where she was; not because he was sure the father and husband, though a soldier, might not be worth looking up, but because there was not the slightest chance of finding him. “What good will it do the woman to get to Quebec?” he asked; “her husband's regiment has left Canada.”

“She tells me,” replied Mrs. Sackville, “that she has many friends in Quebec from whom she might expect assistance. She has worked for the governor's lady, and she builds much on her benevolence, and thinks she will get her a free passage to her husband in a government ship; and besides,” added Mrs. Sackville, “even if her hopes fail utterly, we shall confer an essential benefit on our children by complying with their wishes; for if they give this poor woman all their little store of wealth, it will cost them the sacrifice of sundry personal gratifications that they have reckoned much on, and thus give them a practical lesson of self-denial and disinterestedness, better than all our precepts, and it will associate with the more selfish and transient pleasures of their journey, the pure and enduring sentiment of benevolence.”

“Well, my dear wife,” said Mr. Sackville, “do as you please—you have arrayed before me irresistible motives.”

Thus sanctioned, Mrs. Sackville returned to the cottage, whispered to the children their father's acquiescence, and then saying aloud, “I leave you to make all the arrangements with Mrs. Barton,” she left them.

We shall not attempt to describe the poor woman's gratitude, which overflowed in words and tears, nor the children's noisy joy when they heard they were to go down the lake with their friends. Suffice it to say, that in the course of two hours, and just as the steam-boat appeared in sight, heavily plying down from Lewistown, Mrs. Barton was on the wharf with her children, as clean and nice as soap and water and fresh and well-patched clothes could make them, and looking so grateful and joyful, that Mr. Morris, who, like the good vicar of Wakefield, ‘loved happy human faces,’ forgot all his objections to the procedure, and shaking the good woman's hand heartily, said, he “was glad they were to be fellow-passengers.”

Our friends, with many others, were now impatiently waiting a conveyance to the steam-boat, which had stopped near the opposite shore. The wharf exhibited the usual signs of a small garrisoned town. Half drunken soldiers were idling about, and sentinels were posting to and fro, stationed there to prevent the desertion of the soldiers to the opposite side, a crime which the vicinity and hospitable habits of the State render very common. Edward accosted one of the sentinels, and asked him if the captain of the steam-boat sent his small boat ashore. “Fraquently he does, and fraquently he don't,” replied the fellow, rather surlily. “Does the boat stop at fort Niagara?”

“Indeed sir, and that is what I cannot tell you.”

“Well,” pursued Edward with simplicity, “do you think they will send ashore to-day?”

“Indeed master, and it's what I am not thinking about.”

Edward turned away, making a mental comparison between this man and his own civil countrymen, greatly to the disadvantage of the former, when his attention was attracted by the approach of a boat which came skimming over the water like a bird, and as it neared the shore, a little tight-built sailor leaped on to the wharf, and announced himself as Jemmy Chapman, the captain's mate. While the baggage was arranging in the boat, Edward seized the favorable moment to make the best bargain he could with the mate for his protegée.

But the mate averred he had no power to transact that business, and referred him to his captain. “You may safely trust to him, my young man,” said he, “for captain Vaughan is not a man to take advantage of a ship in distress.”

And so it proved—for the captain, (as every body knows, who ever crossed the lake in the steam-boat Ontario) was a man of distinguished humanity; and pleased with the good appearance of Mrs. Barton and her children, and the zeal of her youthful protectors, he said, that if she had brought her thread and needles a-board, she might work her passage to Ogdensburg, for he and some of his men were sadly out at elbows. The good woman's eyes glistened with delight, at the thought of paying her way thus far, and she seated herself directly to put new pockets in an old coat of Jemmy's, when a sudden attack of tooth-ache put a stop to her progress.

The children were soon acquainted with her malady, for they were continually hovering about her, and Julia procured some camphor and laudanum from an invalid passenger, and gave them to her. She applied them, but the horrible pangs were not allayed, when Jemmy Chapman was attracted by the report of her distress. “Stand away, all,” said he; “stand away—fall back, my young man; and you, my little lady, and give place to me. I am the seventh son of a seventh son, and I can cure any body's tooth-ache but my own.” Mrs. Barton was not free from the superstition which pervades her class, and she gladly permitted him to stroke her face, which he did with a gravity that evinced perfect faith in his own powers; and in the course of fifteen minutes, she declared herself completely relieved, and cheerfully resumed her labors. Julia ran to announce the cure to her mother.

“Is not it strange, mama,” she said, “that she could believe it was Jemmy that cured her?”

“Strange to us, my dear, who do not believe in any such supernatural powers; but we will not quarrel with a faith that cures the tooth-ache.”

As the boat passed Fort Niagara, where the river debouches into the lake, “There,” said Jemmy Chapman to Edward, who stood beside him; “there, on that point stood a noble stone light-house, that has saved many a poor fellow from finding a grave in this stormy lake: it was like the good scripture light which shines equally upon all.”

“And what has become of it?” asked Edward.

“Oh, it was taken down like Solomon's temple, till there was not one stone left upon another, by one of our generals—thank the Lord he was not an American born—he it was, that first set the example of burning on the frontier, and burnt down this pretty town of Newark here—and cut down all the orchards.”

“The orchards! what in the world did he do that for?” asked Edward.

Jemmy paused for a moment, apparently at a loss what motive to assign for such reckless destruction, and then said, “Out of curiosity I believe.”

---

We fear that we have already protracted our details beyond the patience of our readers.

We shall not therefore describe the prosperous passage of the boat over the beautiful expanse of Lake Ontario: nor the visit of our friends to the town of Rochester, which five years before was a complete wilderness; but now had fine houses, shops, and warehouses, and Edward said, reminded him of Adam, who was born grown up: nor their passage from the lake into the St. Lawrence, where these mighty waters passing St. Vincent on one side, and Grand Island on the other, contract their channel, and assume the form of a river.

Our friends, wrapped in their cloaks and shawls to defend them from the chill night air, clustered around Jemmy Chapman, who stood at the helm guiding the boat through the difficult and shifting channels, amid the ‘thousand isles’—now in silence gazing on them, as they were lit up with the rosy hues of twilight, and then with the mild but insufficient lustre of the half orbed moon. These verdant islands are of every size and form. Some lying in clusters like the ‘solitary set in families:’ and some like beautiful vestals in single loveliness. Some stretching for miles in length, and some so small, and without a tree or shrub, that they look like lawns destined for fairy sporting grounds; while others are encircled by such an impenetrable growth of trees, that one might fancy that within this sylvan barrier wood-nymphs held their courts and revels; in short, might fancy any thing; for there are no traces of human footsteps to break the spell of imagination, save where the fisherman's hut, placed on the brink of the element by which he lives, is disclosed with its dark relief of unbroken woods by the bright glare of the pine torch, which is his beacon light, and which serves to show the gleaming path-way of his little canoe. Jemmy recounted to the children the sad mishaps and disastrous chances that had befallen unskilful or unfortunate navigators in these dangerous passes, and the kind captain repeatedly fired his signal gun, which seemed to wake the spirits of these deep solitudes, to send back the greeting in echo and re-echo, till their voices died away on the most distant shores.

“Don't they hollow well?” said Jemmy, after the last report, turning briskly around to dame Barton who sat near him.

“Well, I did not hear them,” said she, mournfully.

“Not hear them—why, they spoke as plain as preaching—are you deaf, good woman?”

“Deaf! oh, no—but my thoughts were far from here.”

Mrs. Sackville thought there was something in Mrs. Barton's devotedness to her husband, not common in her class of life. She had been deterred from putting any questions to her, by the habitual silence and diffidence of the poor woman. But now they had become so much more acquainted, that she ventured to say to her, “Come, Mrs. Barton, suppose you favor us while we sit here, with a little history of your life. My children are so much interested in you, that they want to know all they can about you.”

“Oh, you are very good ma'am to say so; but what is there in the history of the like of me to tell? not that I have any objection to make known my story—thank God, that's kept me in his fear—but then what happens to poor plain bodies like me, is not made much count of in the world.”

“But, remember, my good friend,” said Mrs. Sackville, “the happiness of all his creatures, rich and poor, is of equal account in the sight of our heavenly Father, and as I wish my children continually to bear in mind that it is this great Being, whom they are commanded by their Saviour to imitate, I trust that the happiness of their fellow-beings, whether high or low, will be of equal importance in their view.”

Thus encouraged by the kindness of the mother, and the eager looks of the children, who stationed themselves close to her, Mrs. Barton began her simple and brief story.

“I never knew my parents,” she said. “I was, as I have been told, given by a gipsey woman to a magistrate of the town of Lichfield, in England, when I was three years old. The woman was sick, and died shortly after. She declared herself ignorant of my parentage. She believed I had been stolen in London, by some of her tribe, about a year before; and said that I had been committed to her charge for some months, I had a necklace, with a gold clasp with initials, which I had been permitted to retain; and the worthy magistrate, in the hope that this might lead to a discovery, advertised me, with a description of the necklace; but no one appearing to claim me, he finally placed me in the Lichfield alms-house.

“When I was seven years old, don't laugh at me, Miss Julia, I was called a beauty. My skin was as smooth as yours; and my hair hung in curls about my neck and face. At this time a whimsical gentleman, who had a fancy to bring up a wife to his own liking, came to the alms-house: he was pleased with my appearance, and selected me. He taught me himself, and procured teachers for me, and from morning till night I was poring over hard tasks: this lasted for three years, and perhaps Mr. Leslie, for that was the gentleman's name, might have remained constant to his purpose, but then I took the small-pox; and after lying at the gates of death for weeks, I recovered, but with my face blotched and seamed as you see it. For many months my eye-sight and hearing were gone, and when I could see, my eyes had this cast in them, which looks as if I were born cross-eyed.

“No one could blame Mr. Leslie for giving me up. I am sure I never did. He placed me with a poor widow, and paid my lodging with her till I was one and twenty, and gave me a draft on him for a hundred pounds, which was to be paid when I came of age. With Mrs. Gordon I was happier than I had ever been in my life. My book tasks I never had liked, but I sewed or spun with Mrs. Gordon, from morning till night, without ever being weary or discontented. She taught me her own ways, and she was noted through the whole town, for her industry and neatness. She was a good christian too, and she brought me up to fear God and to love his service. She had one child—an only son, two years younger than myself. He was sometimes wild and wilful, for his mother, though she was resolute with every thing else, could never deny him. He was sometimes as I said, wild and wilful—but when he was himself, he was the pleasantest lad in the village, and the best. Mrs. Gordon was as a mother to me; and you know it was natural I should love her son Richard; and I thought I but loved him as a sister should, till one Sunday I saw him come up the little path-way that led to our cottage, with a blue ribband bow in his hand, which he kissed again and again, and then thrust it into his bosom. I knew it was a love token from Sally Wilton the miller's daughter, for I had seen it that day in her hat, and I felt a pang at my heart, that told me it was not as a brother I loved Richard.

“I have skipped over many years, for I would not weary you. I was now one and twenty, and my draft on Mr. Leslie was due. Mrs. Gordon began to talk to me of marrying Richard. I only answered her with silence and tears; but one woman can read another's heart, and she knew what was in mine; and she, poor woman, thought to make all right by taking it into her own hands.

“It so happened one night, that I was in an adjoining room when she supposed I was absent from the cottage, and she put many questions to Richard about me, but she could get no satisfaction from him. She then told him (oh, at the moment I thought I could never forgive her for it) she was sure I loved him. She said much in my favor, ma'am, that I cannot repeat, and tried with it all to put a veil over my poor ugly face, and then concluded with saying, for she was a thrifty woman, and never lost sight of the main chance, that I should not come empty handed. At this his spirit rose—he said, he would not be bought by all the gold in the king's coffers. My heart rose to my lips, but I held my breath, for his mother grew very angry, and said something from Solomon's proverbs, about my being the virtuous woman whose price was far above rubies. Then Richard burst into tears, and said he knew that, and he would go round the world to serve me, but he could not marry me. He confessed that he had already plighted his truth to Sally Wilton; and he declared that he never would marry any body but Sally Wilton. His mother lost all patience—she said he would make a beggar of himself for life—that the Wiltons were an idle race, and that none of the name had ever come to any good.

“A great deal more she said, but it seemed to me the more she talked, the firmer Richard was in his own mind.

“You may be sure ma'am I did not close my eyes that night; my love had been blasted, and my pride cast down. It was long before I could think of any one but myself, or compose my mind to any good thoughts; but when I began to see things in a right light, it seemed to me a pity we should all be miserable together; and I began to contrive some way to make Richard happy. He had just served his time with a shoemaker, but he had no capital to enable him to set up for himself. I knew Sally Wilton was a gay thoughtless thing; but so were most girls, and I believed that when she was married, she would do her duty; to me it seemed, that duty would be all pleasure with such a husband as Richard. I had some struggles with my own heart, but before the morning light dawned, I had made up my mind what to do. When I met Richard and his mother in the morning, I was far the happiest of the three. She was angry, he was sullen and downcast; but I had that feeling which I need not describe to you ma'am, who have so often the power and the will to make others happy. Immediately after our morning meal, I went and presented my draft to Mr. Leslie's agent, and received my hundred pounds. Half the sum I returned to him to invest for me, the other half I placed in the hands of the shoemaker, with whom Richard had served his time, and with whom he was a great favorite, and I requested him to lay it out in tools and stock for Richard. The purchase was made—a little shop hired, and every thing in readiness; and then I told Richard in the presence of his mother what I had done. At first he said he never could accept so much from me; but I told him, (and I smothered my feelings, and smiled when I said it,) that in spite of his mother's fancies, it was as a sister I loved him, and as a sister and older than himself too, I had a right to provide for him. He was far more grateful and happy than I expected. His mother gave her consent to his marriage, though grudgingly, for she was a set woman, and she had no faith in Sally Wilton. They were married. Richard was industrious, and we hoped would be prosperous, but as it proved Mrs. Barton's distrust of Sally was too well founded. She was idle and extravagant, and such a wife soon ruins a poor man. In five years Richard was reduced to such straits, that in a fit of desperation he enlisted. From the sorrowful day he came to take leave of us, for his regiment was soon after sent to the East-Indies, his mother never had a well day or a happy hour. After he went away, his wife led a vicious life; and four years after she came to our door to beg a crust of bread—a poor, wasted, sick, half-famished creature. We took her in. To be sure she had been a sad sinner, but she was Richard's wife, and besides it is always better to pity than condemn, and it is not for the like of us ma'am you know, who have no hope but because God's compassions fail not, to turn our backs upon a fellow-creature in sin and misery.

“For a whole year she laid in a distressing sickness. Mrs. Barton had become so old and feeble, that she could do nothing but pray for us, and I had as you may suppose a toilsome life of it; but I was as I trusted, doing my duty, and that makes a light heart, and according to my experience ma'am, no one can be very wretched that has enough to do, and that tries to do their duty faithfully, be that duty ever so humble. We never suffered. Sally had some help from the charitable; and when we had no other resource, I drew on my fifty pounds.

“It would have been a great comfort to us to have seen Sally take hold of religion, when every thing else failed; but the poor soul was racked with pains and coughing, and could only think of her suffering body, and she was perfectly deaf too, and could hear nothing that the clergyman said to her, though Mrs. Barton thought it right he should talk to her. Oh ma'am, I think there is not a more mournful sight on the earth than to see a young creature thus cut off by her sins.

“Richard returned to us two days before she died, but she did not know him, and could not hear his forgiveness, though he spoke it over and over again.”

Mrs. Barton paused for a few moments, quite overcome by the recollection of that sad period, and then resumed her story.

“And now came brighter days. Richard had endured many hardships, and past through many temptations, but he had not lost his integrity. He had come home in attendance on an officer who had obtained a furlough. Not many months passed over before Richard expressed a wish to marry me, though my little fortune was gone, and ten years had not as you may suppose improved my beauty. Our mother said, our wedding-day was the happiest of her life. She did not long survive it. Before my husband rejoined his regiment she had gone to her rest. From that time till Richard was taken prisoner by the Americans, we have never been separated, and he has proved faithful and kind to me, and being, as he is, all the world to me who have never known other kindred but my little ones, it cannot seem strange to you, ma'am, that the world is a lonely place without him; and that I should be willing to take the help of your blessed children to get on my way to him.”

“Oh no indeed, my good friend,” said Mrs. Sackville, “I am delighted that my children have found one so worthy of their assistance; you may rest assured that we shall not part from you till we arrive at Quebec. Come now Edward and Julia to your berths—and dream of the ‘thousand isles,’ or Mrs. Barton, or what you will.” The children obeyed their mother, and doubtless had such sweet visions as hover about the pillow of youth, and health, and innocence.

Jemmy Chapman had not been an uninterested listener to this simple tale of patient virtue; and though Mrs. Barton had spoken so low that he had lost some parts of her narrative, he heard enough to touch his kind heart. As she rose from the bench near him, “Stop, stop, good woman,” said he, and he jerked some tears from off his cheeks; “it is not much that such as I can pity you, but a drop is something in a gill-glass, and (turning his pockets inside out, and collecting a half handful of small change,) I should not be my mother's son if I did not feel for a woman in distress, and so will you just take this which may help to raise a little breeze for you when you are becalmed. Nay, don't haul off, but take it, and remember the poor sailors in a stormy night. It is good luck to us to have a friend a-shore to speak a good word for us when we have no time to speak for ourselves.”

Jemmy's hearty kindness was irresistible, and Mrs. Barton received his gift, scarcely able to command her voice to utter her thanks.

---

The next morning found the steam-boat at the wharf at Ogdensburg. Edward undertook to settle with the captain for the passage of his protegées; but the captain would receive nothing, and persisted in declaring that he was amply compensated by Mrs. Barton's industry. The travellers parted from him and from our friend Jemmy with expressions of the esteem which their virtues even on this short acquaintance had not failed to produce; and then they proceeded to make arrangements for their passage down the St. Lawrence by chartering and provisioning a Durham boat.

While this was getting in readiness, Mrs. Sackville, whose curiosity, like that of a more celebrated traveller, ‘extended to all the works of art, all the appearances of nature, and all the monuments of past events,’ walked with her children to view a rare curiosity on our continent—an American antiquity. On a point of land at the junction of the Oswegatchie with the St. Lawrence, there is a broken stone wall, the remains of a French fortification. While they stood surveying with pleased attention this monument of the olden time, they were joined by a gentleman who appeared like them to have been attracted to the spot by curiosity. He took off his hat, bowed to Mrs. Sackville, and asked if he might take the liberty to inquire of her whether she resided at Ogdensburg.

When she replied in the negative, he begged her pardon, and said he had been extremely anxious to authenticate a traditionary story he had picked up in his journey through Canada, some of the events of which had been located at this place. He had hoped to find some record of it in Charlevoix's History, but he had searched in vain. Mrs. Sackville became in her turn the inquirer. She said she delighted in those traditionary tales, which, with the aid of a little fancy, reconstructed ruins, and enclosed within their walls living beings with affections and interests like our own; and she should hold herself very much obliged to the gentleman if he would enrich her with some interesting associations with this place. The stranger seemed highly gratified to have found so ready a sympathy in his feelings, and he related the following particulars.

“A commandant of this fort (which was built by the French to protect their traders against the savages,) married a young Iroquois who was before or after the marriage converted to the Catholic faith. She was the daughter of a chieftain of her tribe, and great efforts were made by her people to induce her to return to them. Her brother lurked in this neighbourhood, and procured interviews with her, and attempted to win her back by all the motives of national pride and family affection; but all in vain. The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name, Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord—her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual, had recourse to stratagem. The commandant was in the habit of going down the river often on fishing excursions, and when he returned, he would fire his signal gun, and Marguerite and her boy would hasten to the shore to greet him.

“On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual. Marguerite was filled with apprehensions natural enough at a time when imminent dangers and hairbreadth escapes were of every day occurrence. She had sat in the tower and watched for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had faded from the waters;—the deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination. Once she was startled by the water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous arm—again she heard the leap of the heavy muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her fancy like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. Her boy was beside her; the young Louis, who, though scarcely twelve years old, already had his imagination filled with daring deeds. Born and bred in a fort, he was an adept in the use of the bow and the musket; courage seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles and wounds were ‘household words’ with him. He laughed at his mother's fears; but, in spite of his boyish ridicule, they strengthened, till apprehension seemed reality. Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of the night. Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing hand in hand towards the outer gate, when a sentinel stopped them to remind Marguerite it was her husband's order that no one should venture without the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the soldier that she would answer to the commandant for his breach of orders—she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow before the sentinel, saying gaily, “I am my mother's body-guard you know.” Tradition has preserved these trifling circumstances, as the events that followed rendered them memorable.

“The distance,” continued the stranger, “from the fort to the place where the commandant moored his canoe was trifling, and quickly passed. Marguerite and Louis flew along the narrow foot path, reached the shore, and were in the arms of —— Mecumeh and his fierce companions. Entreaties and resistance were alike vain. Resistance was made, with a manly spirit, by young Louis, who drew a knife from the girdle of one of the indians, and attempted to plunge it into the bosom of Mecumeh, who was roughly binding his wampum belt over Marguerite's mouth, to deaden the sound of her screams. The uncle wrested the knife from him, and smiled proudly on him as if he recognised in the brave boy, a scion from his own stock.

“The indians had two canoes; Marguerite was conveyed to one, Louis to the other—and both canoes were rowed into the Oswegatchie, and up the stream as fast as it was possible to impel them against the current of the river.

“Not a word nor cry escaped the boy: he seemed intent on some purpose, and when the canoe approached near the shore, he took off a military cap he wore, and threw it so skilfully that it lodged, where he meant it should, on the branch of a tree which projected over the water. There was a long white feather in the cap. The indians had observed the boy's movement—they held up their oars for a moment, and seemed to consult whether they should return and remove the cap; but after a moment, they again dashed their oars in the water and proceeded forward. They continued rowing for a few miles, and then landed; hid their canoes behind some trees on the river's bank, and plunged into the woods with their prisoners. It seems to have been their intention to have returned to their canoes in the morning, and they had not proceeded far from the shore, when they kindled a fire and prepared some food, and offered a share of it to Marguerite and Louis. Poor Marguerite, as you may suppose, had no mind to eat; but Louis, saith tradition, ate as heartily as if he had been safe within the walls of the fort. After the supper, the indians stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had taken the precaution to bind Marguerite to a tree, and to compel Louis to lie down in the arms of his uncle Mecumeh. Neither of the prisoners, as you may imagine, closed their eyes. Louis kept his fixed on his mother. She sat upright beside an oak tree; the cord was fastened around her waist, and bound around the tree, which had been blasted by lighting; the moon poured its beams through the naked branches upon her face convulsed with the agony of despair and fear. With one hand she held a crucifix to her lips, the other was on her rosary. The sight of his mother in such a situation, stirred up daring thoughts in the bosom of the heroic boy—but he laid powerless in his uncle's naked brawny arms. He tried to disengage himself, but at the slightest movement, Mecumeh, though still sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him. At last the strong sleep, that in the depth of the night steeps the senses in utter forgetfulness, overpowered him—his arms relaxed their hold, and dropped beside him and left Louis free.

“He rose cautiously, looked for one instant on the indians, and assured himself they all slept profoundly. He then possessed himself of Mecumeh's knife, which lay at his feet, and severed the cord that bound his mother to the tree. Neither of them spoke a word—but with the least possible sound they resumed the way by which they had come from the shore. Louis in the confidence, and Marguerite with the faint hope of reaching it before they were overtaken.

“You may imagine how often the poor mother, timid as a fawn, was startled by the evening breeze stirring the leaves, but the boy bounded forward as if there were neither fear nor danger in the world.

“They had nearly attained the margin of the river, where Louis meant to launch one of the canoes and drop down the current, when the indian yell resounding through the woods, struck on their ears. They were missed, pursued, and escape was impossible. Marguerite panic-struck, sunk to the ground. Nothing could check the career of Louis. “On—on, mother,” he cried, “to the shore—to the shore.” She rose and instinctively followed her boy. The sound of pursuit came nearer and nearer. They reached the shore, and there beheld three canoes coming swiftly up the river. Animated with hope, Louis screamed the watch word of the garrison, and was answered by his father's voice.

“The possibility of escape, and the certain approach of her husband, infused new life into Marguerite. “Your father cannot see us,” she said, “as we stand here in the shade of the trees; hide yourself in that thicket, I will plunge into the water.” Louis crouched under the bushes, and was completely hidden by an overhanging grape-vine, while his mother advanced a few steps into the water and stood erect, where she could be distinctly seen. A shout from the canoes apprised her that she was recognised, and at the same moment, the indians who had now reached the shore, rent the air with their cries of rage and defiance. They stood for a moment, as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh maintained an undaunted and resolved air—but with his followers the aspect of armed men, and a force thrice their number, had its usual effect. They fled. He looked after them, cried, ‘shame!’ and then, with a desperate yell, leaped into the water and stood beside Marguerite. The canoes were now within a few yards—He put his knife to her bosom—“The daughter of Tecumseh,” he said, “should have died by the judgment of our warriors, but now by her brother's hand must she perish:” and he drew back his arm to give vigour to the fatal stroke, when an arrow pierced his own breast, and he fell insensible at his sister's side. A moment after Marguerite was in the arms of her husband, and Louis, with his bow unstrung, bounded from the shore, and was received in his father's canoe; and the wild shores rung with the acclamations of the soldiers, while his father's tears of pride and joy were poured like rain upon his cheek.”

The stranger paused, and Edward breathed one long breath, expressive of the interest with which he had listened to the tale; and then said, “You have not told us, sir, how the commandant was so fortunate as to pursue in the right direction.”

“He returned soon after Marguerite's departure, and of course was at no loss to determine that she had been taken in the toils of her brother. He explored the mouth of the Oswegatchie, thinking it possible that the savages might have left their canoes moored there, and taken to the land. Louis's cap and feather caught his eye, and furnished him a clue. You have now my whole story,” concluded the stranger; “and though I cannot vouch for its accuracy, many similar circumstances must have occurred, while this country was a wilderness, and my tradition is at least supported by probability.”

“You have not told us, sir,” said Julia, “whether Mecumeh was really killed. I do not see how Marguerite could leave him without finding out, for after all, he was her brother.”

“Marguerite,” replied the stranger, “justified your opinion of sisterly duty. Mecumeh was conveyed to the fort—the arrow was withdrawn, and after a tedious illness, he recovered from the wound. There is too a tradition that the pious sister converted him to the catholic faith; but about this part of the story there seems to rest some uncertainty.”