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One day, Naoman came to Stacy's log hut in his absence, lighted his pipe, and sat down. He looked very serious, sometimes sighed deeply, but said not a word. Stacy's wife asked him what was the matter,—if he was sick. Ile shook his head, sighed, but said nothing, and soon went away. The next day, he came again and behaved in the same manner. Stacy's wife began to think strange of this, and related it to her husband, who advised her to urge the old man to an explanation the next time he came. Accordingly, when he repeated his visit the day after, she was more importunate than usual. At last the old Indian said,
I am a red man, and the pale faces are our enemies : why should I speak?”—" But my husband and I are your friends : you have eaten salt with us a thousand times, and my children have sat on your knees as often. If have any thing on your mind, tell it inc."_“ It will cost me my life if it is known, and the whitofaced women are not good at keeping secrets,” replied Naoman.". Try me, and see.”—“ Will you swear by your Great Spirit that you will tell none but your husband ?” — I have none else to tell.”—“But will you swear ?”—“I do swear by our Great Spirit I will tell none but my husband.”—“ Not if my tribe should kill you for not telling ?”– Not if your tribe should kill me for not telling.”
Vaoman then proceeded to tell her that, owing to some encroachments of the white people below the mountains, his tribe had become irritated, and were resolved that night to massacre all the white settiers within their reach; that she must send for her husband, inform him of the danger, and, as secretly and speedily as possible, take their canoe and paddle with all haste over the river to Fishkill for safety. "Be quick, and do nothing that may excite suspicion," said Naoman, as he departed. The good wife sought her husband, who was down on the river fishing; told him the story, and, as no time was to be lost, they proceeded to their boat, which was unluckily filled with water. It took some time to clear it out, and, meanwhile, Stacy recollected his gun, which had been left behind. He proceeded to the house, and returned with it. All this took up considerable time, and precious time it proved to this poor family. The daily visits of old Naoman, and his more than ordinary gravity, had excited suspicion in some of the tribe, who had, accordingly, paid particular attention to the movements of Stacy. One of the young Indians, who had been kept on the watch, seeing the whole family about to take to the boat, ran to the little Indian village, about a mile off, and gave
the alarm. Five Indians collected, ran down to the river, where their canoes were moored, jumped in, and paddled after Stacy, who by this time had got some distance out into the stream. They gained on him so fast that twice he dropped his paddle and took up his gun. But his wife prevented his shooting by telling him that, if he fired and they were afterwards overtaken, they would meet with no mercy from the Indians. Ile accordingly refrained, and plied his paddle till the sweat rolled in big drops down his forehead. All would not do: they were overtaken within a hundred yards from the shore, and carried back with shouts of yelling triumph.
When they got ashore, the Indians set fire to Stacy's house, and dragged himself, his wife and children, to their village. Here the principal old men, and Naoman among them, assembled to deliberate on the affair. The chief men of the council stated that some of the tribe had undoubtedly been guilty of treason, in apprizing Stacy, the white man, of the designs of the tribe, whereby they took the alarm and wellnigh escaped. He proposed to examine the prisoners, to learn who gave the information. The old men assented to this, and Naoman among the rest. Stacy was first interrogated by one of the old men, who spoke English and interpreted to the others. Stacy refused to betray his informant. His wife was then questioned; while, at the same moment, two Indians stood threatening the two children with tomahawks, in case she did not confess. She attempted to evade the truth, by declaring she had a dream the night before, which alarmed her, and that she had persuaded her husband to fly. 66 The Great Spirit never deigns to talk in dreams to a white face,” said the old Indian. “Woman, thou hast two tongues and two faces. Speak the truth, or thy children shall surely die.” The little boy and girl were then brought close to her, and the two savages stood over them, ready to execute their bloody orders.
“Wilt thou name,” said the old Indian, “the red man who betrayed his tribe? I will ask thee three times.” The mother answered not. “ Wilt thou name the traitor ? This is the second time.” The
poor mother looked at her husband and then at her children, and stole a glance at Naoman, who sat smoking his pipe with invincible gravity. She wrung her hands, and wept, but remained silent. “ Wilt thou name the traitor ? 'Tis the third and last time.” The agony of the mother waxed more bitter : again she sought the eye of Naoman, but it was cold and motionless. A pause of a moment awaited her reply, and the tomahawks were raised over the heads of the children, who besought their mother not to let them be murdered.
'Stop,” cried Naoman. All eyes were turned upon him. “Stop," repeated he, in a tone of authority. “White woman, thou hast kept thy word with me to the last moment. I am the traitor. I have eaten of the salt, warmed myself at the fire, shared the kindness, of these Christian white people, and it was I that told them of their danger. I am a withered, leafless, branchless trunk. Cut me down, if you will: I am ready.” A yell of indignation sounded on all sides. Naoman descended from the little bank where he sat, shrouded his face with his mantle of skins, and submitted to his fate. He fell dead at the feet of the white woman by a blow of the tomahawk.
But the sacrifice of Naoman and the firmness of the Christian white woman did not suffice to save the lives of the other victims. They perished,-how, it is needless to say; and the memory of their fate has been preserved in the name of the pleasant stream on whose banks they lived and died, which to this day is called Murderer's Creek.
QUARREL OF SQUIRE BULL AND HIS SON.
John Bull was a choleric old fellow, who held a good manor in the middle of a great mill-pond, and which, by reason of its being quite surrounded by water, was generally called Bullock Island. Bull was an ingenious man, an exceedingly good blacksmith, a dexterous cutler, and a notable weaver and pot-baker besides. He also brewed capital porter, ale, and small beer, and was in fact a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, and good at each. In addition to these, he was a hearty fellow, an excellent bottle-companion, and passably honest as times go.
But what tarnished all these qualities was a very quarrelsome, orerbearing disposition, which was always getting him into some scrape or other. The truth is, he never heard of a quarrel going on among his neighbors but his fingers itched to be in the thickest of them; so that he was hardly ever seen without a broken head, a black eye, or a bloody nose. Such was Squire Bull, as he was commonly called by the country-people his neighbors,—one of those odd, testy, grumbling, boasting old codgers, that never get credit for what they are, because they are always pretending to be what they are not.
The squire was as tight a hand to deal with in doors as out; sometimes treating his family as if they were not the same flesh and blood, when they happened to differ with him in certain matters. One day he got into a dispute with his youngest son Jonathan, who was familiarly called BROTHER JONATHAN, about whether churches ought to be called churches or meeting-houses, and whether steeples were not an abomination. The squire, either having the worst of the argument, or being naturally impatient of contradiction, (I can't tell which,) fell into a great passion, and swore he would physic such notions out of the boy's noddle. So he went to ome of his doctors and got them to draw up a prescription, made up of thirty-nine different articles, many of them bitter enough to some palates. This he tried to make Jonathan swallow, and, finding he made villanous wry faces, and would not do it, fell upon him and beat him like fury. After this, he made the house so disagreeable to him, that Jonathan, though as hard as a pine-knot and as tough as leather, could bear it no longer. Taking his gun and his axe, he put himself in a boat and paddled over the mill-pond to some new lands to which the squire pretended some sort of claim, intending to settle them, and build a meeting-house without a steeple as soon as he grew rich enough.
When he got over, Jonathan found that the land was quite in a state of nature, covered with wood, and inhabited by nobody but wild beasts. But, being a lad of mettle, he took his axe on one shoulder and his gun on the other, marched into the thickest of the wood, and, clearing a place, built a log hut. Pursuing his labors, and handling his axe like a notable woodman, he in a few years cleared the land, which he laid out into thirteen good farms; and, building himself a fine frame house, about half finished, began to be quite snug and comfortable.
But Squire Bull, who was getting old and stingy, and, besides, was in great want of money, on account of his having lately been made to pay swinging damages for assaulting his neighbors and breaking their heads,-the squire, I say, finding Jonathan was getting well to do in the world, began to be very much troubled about his welfare; so he demanded that Jonathan should pay
him a good rent for the land which he had cleared and made good for something. He trumped up I know not what claim against him, and, under different pretences, managed to pocket all Jonathan's Honest gains. In fact, the poor lad had not a shilling left for holiday occasions; and, had it not been for the filial respect he felt for the old man, he would certainly have refused to submit to such impositions.
But, for all this, in a little time Jonathan grew up to be very large of his age, and became a tall, stout, double-jointed, broadfooted cub of a fellow, awkward in his gait and simple in his appearance, but showing a lively, shrewd look, and having the promise of great strength when he should get his full growth. He was rather an odd-looking chap, in truth, and had many queer ways; but everybody that had seen John Bull saw a great likeness between them, and swore he was John's own boy, and a true chip of the old block. Like the old squire, he was apt to be blustering and saucy, but in the main was a peaceable sort of careless fellow, that would quarrel with nobody if you only let him alone.
While Jonathan was outgrowing his strength, Bull kept on picking his pockets of every penny he could scrape together; till at last one day when the squire was even more than usually pressing in his demands, which he accompanied with threats, Jonathan started up in a furious passion, and threw the TEA-KETTLE at the old man's head. The choleric Bull was hereupon exceedingly enraged; and, after calling the poor lad an undutiful, ungrateful, rebellious rascal, seized him by the collar, and forthwith a furious scuffle ensued. This lasted a long time; for the squire, though in years, was a capital boxer, and of most excellent bottom. Åt last, however, Jonathan got him under, and, before he would let him up, made him sign a paper giving up all claim to the farms, and acknowledging the fee-simple to be in Jonathan forever.
WILLIAM TUDOR, 1779-1830.
Tue family of Tudor is of Welsh origin. John, the first of the name in America, came to Boston early the last century. His son William, baving graduated at Harvard College in 1769, commenced the practice of law in Boston, and married Delia Jarvis, a lady of refinement and of taste congenial with his own. Their son William, the subject of this biographical sketch, was born in Boston on the 28th of January, 1779, was fitted for college at Phillips Academy, in Andover, and graduated at Harvard in 1796. Being destined for commercial life, he entered the counting-room of John Codman; and when he was twenty-one, ho was sent by his to Paris, as his confid ial agent in a matter of great business interest. After being abroad nearly a year, he returned home, and soon after went to Leghorn on commercial business; visiting also France, Germany, and England, and returned to America, confirmed in his love of letters, which, amid all the turmoil of business, he ever continued to cherish. A few of his friends and associates had for some time contemplated the formation of a literary club: be entered warmly into their views, and soon the Anthology Society was formed, of which he was one of the most efficient as well as earliest members.
The Monthly Anthology was begun by Mr. Phineas Adams, a graduate of Harvard, and then a schoolmaster in Boston. The first number, under the title of " The Monthly Anthology and Boston Review, edited by Sylvanus Per-se," was published in Boston by E. Lincoln, in November, 1803. At the end of six months, he gave it up to the Rev. William Emerson, who induced two or thrco gentlemen to join with bim in the care of the work, and thus laid the foundation of the Anthology Club. The club was regularly organized and governed by rules; the number of resident members varied from eight to sixteen. It was one of its rules that every member should write for the work, and nothing was published without the consent of the society. The club met once a week in the evening, and, after deciding on the merits of the manuscripts offered, partook of a plain supper, and enjoyed the full pleasure of a literary chat. The following were the members of the club, some for a short time only, others during the greater part
Mr. Emerson was pastor of the - First Church" in Boston from 1799 to 1811, It was on his motion, in the Anthology Club, secondded hy Wm. Smith Shaw, that the vote to establish a library of periodical publications was adopted; and this constituted the first step towards the establishment of the Boston Atheneum, whose library is now one of the best in the country. While this noble institution endures, it will perpetuate the memory of the " Anthology Club."