The History Of Maria Kittle


The New York Magazine, or Literary Repository (1790-1797) was one of the longest running American magazines of the 1700s and is commonly studied because of its status as a particularly influential periodical of the early republic. It was in print for 8 years and had almost 100 issues. It published accounts of theater performances and travel as well as current events and extracts of essays and creative works. The publishers were Thomas and James Swords of New York, who published two other Christian journals around the same time and printed bound books as well. The New York Magazine’s overall contents are eclectic and seem to claim a curatorship of the interests of the intellectual elite, including George Washington and John Adams. However, the subscription list reveals a varied readership, about half of whom were artisans and shopkeepers.

The History of Maria Kittle was first serialized in the New York Magazine from September 1790 to January 1791, with each update appearing monthly for a total of five installments. The magazine also published some of Bleecker’s other work, especially poetry; however, each piece was submitted by Bleecker’s daughter Margaretta V. Faugeres several years after her mother’s death. T. and J. Swords, went on to publish the Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker, in Prose and Verse in bound form in 1793, which included The History of Maria Kittle, another unfinished historical novel called The History of Henry and Ann, a collection of poetry and letters, and some of Margaretta’s own literary work. Because of its immense popularity, The History of Maria Kittle was finally republished separately in its own volume in 1797 by Elisha Babcock of Hartford, Connecticut. There is very little difference between the text published in the magazine and stand-alone novel versions of the tale, beyond minor editorial revisions. Interestingly, a nineteenth-century New York women’s magazine called The Ladies’ Literary Cabinet, Being a Repository of Miscellaneous Literary Productions, both Original and Selected in Prose and Verse (1819-1822) republished the novel in serial form beginning in 1821. It was common practice to republish work this way, and The History of Maria Kittle may have appeared in other periodicals as well.

The History of Maria Kittle is often described as the first captivity novel because it utilizes the captivity narrative form without a solid basis on actual experience. This is ironic given the opening lines of the novel. Thereare claims that the novel is based on the actual experiences of Maria Kittle or Kittlehyun, whose family lived in the same region as the Bleeckers, and whose captivity narrative can be corroborated by an account with similar detail in another memoir. However, the text of the novel emphasizes several other themes independent of historical fidelity, leaving room for a more creative retelling. One of its major themes, conflict between native and colonial Americans, had major impact on the way other writers dealt with the issue. For example, Bleecker may have influenced Cooper’s approach to Native Americans in The Last of the Mohicans.

Bleecker’s novel adopts many of the literary tropes of her time, including the captivity narrative, epistolary structure, reliance on the power of sentiment, religious didacticism, elegiac verse, and the domestic manifestation of national politics. The plot reflects Maria Kittle’s capture by Native Americans at the time of the French and Indian War, the loss of most her family including her two young children to the violence of her abductors, their flight to Montreal where she is revived by a circle of sympathetic English and French women, and her eventual miraculous reunion with her husband. The treatment of the Native American characters is very stereotypical. She depicts them as untrustworthy, brutal savages who murder women and children. However, the combination of Maria Kittle’s account and Bleecker’s own life experience during the Revolutionary War leads to an overall meditation on loss in the novel, especially feminine, maternal loss, and the comfort of female fellowship. The displacement of the conflict Bleecker herself experienced onto Maria Kittle’s situation among her Indian neighbors leads to the foregrounding of women’s issues in the politics of early America and white women’s role in nation building. Her story examines the emotional trauma of collateral damage, especially as a woman effected by the conflicts of early America.

Though few scholars have analyzed Bleecker’s work at length, and those who have focus mainly on her pastoral poetry or the historical significance of her work and its politics, especially her treatment of Native Americans, very few if any critics have discussed the significance of the novel’s original and continued serialization. This leaves several intriguing questions unanswered. For example: What made this tale such a good fit for this magazine and its readership? Also, further research should be done on the way each installment can be read in isolation from the others, in context of the other work published in the magazine, and in relation to the layers of time it represents from its authorship in 1779 to its depiction of pre-revolution events and relevance to the conditions of the time of publication and republication. The novel is depicted here as it appeared in the New York Magazine, its first publication, in order to foster further answers to these questions.

Biography of Ann Bleeker

Ann Bleeker was born Anna Elizabeth Schuyler around October 1752 as the sixth child of Margareta Van Wyck and BrandtSchuyler, prosperous Dutch merchants and aristocrats of New York City.Her father Brandt Schuyler died shortly before she was born, and her mother married Anthony Ten Eyck in 1760. Their daughter Susanna is the addressee of Ann’s epistolary captivity novel The History of Maria Kittle. Ann married into another prominent Dutch family in 1769, becoming the wife of lawyer John James Bleecker, who encouraged her writing. They moved to Tomhanick, a more agricultural region near Albany, in 1771, which inspired much of Ann’s pastoral poetry. The Bleeckers had two daughters. The eldest, Margaretta, also became a writer and was responsible for publishing most of her mother’s work. The younger daughter Abella died of dysentery in 1777 during the Revolutionary War when the family was forced to flee their home in Tomhanick because the British General Burgoyne’s troops were invading the area from the North. Ann saw her mother die during the flight southward, and then her sister Caty Swits died on the return journey. Ann, her daughter Margaretta, and a mullato girl survived. John Bleecker was absent for the entire episode, fighting for the militia in support of the revolution.

At home again in 1779, Ann produced a periodical called the Albany Gazette filled with her own essays and poetry for her family and friends to read. This highlights the significance of the periodical genre to early Americans and to Bleecker specifically. However, much of her writing after so much personal loss, including the novel transcribed here, dealt with grief. Unfortunately, Ann’s husband, who continued in the militia, was captured in 1781, and Ann suffered a miscarriage and mental breakdown in shock. Her husband was rescued quickly, but she never completely regained her spirits and died November 23, 1783.

In The History of Maria Kittle, Bleecker deals specifically with mothers mourning the loss of their children and other family members in times of violence. However, by using the structure of a captivity narrative and the setting of the French and Indian War, the novel explores this theme while vilifying Native Americans rather than the British. This trend of scapegoating and demonizing Native Americans continued into the nineteenth century. Although, Bleecker herself did not live to see much peace in the newly formed United States, her words survived to comfort, entertain and challenge other citizens of the new nation. Though her novel and other work enjoyed enormous popularity in the early republic, it went out of fashion until more recent scholars went looking for alternative perspectives of American history and early examples of the American novel.

Selected Bibliography

Bleecker, Ann Eliza, and Margaretta V. Faugeres. The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker, in Prose and Verse. To Which Is Added a Collection of Essays, Prose and Poetical by Margaretta V. Faugeres. New York, T. and J. Swords, 1793.

Ellison, Julie. “Race and Sensibility in the Early Republic: Ann Eliza Bleecker and Sarah Wentworth Morton.” American Literature, vol. 65, no. 3, 1993, pp. 445–474.

Giffen, Allison. “Ann Eliza Bleeker.” Dictionary of Literary Biography, vol. 200: American Women Prose Writers to 1820, Gale, 1999.

Harris, Sharon M. “The New-York Magazine: Cultural Repository.” Periodical Literature in Eighteenth-Century America, Mark L. (ed.) Kamrath and Sharon M. (ed.) Harris, U of Tennessee P, 2005, pp. 339-364.

Kutchen, Larry. “The ‘Vulgar Thread of the Canvas’ Revolution and the Picturesque in Ann Eliza Bleecker, Crevecoeur, and Charles Brockden Brown.” Early American Literature, vol. 36, no. 3, Dec. 2001, p. 395. 

Mott, Frank Luther. A History of American Magazines 1741-1850. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, 1939.

Nord, David Paul. A Republican Literature: A Study of Magazine Reading and Readers in Late-Eighteenth-Century New York. 01 Aug. 1986.

Pitcher, E. W. “The ‘Hapless Babes’ of the Frontier: Ovid, ‘The History of Maria Kittle,’ and The Last of the Mohicans.” ANQ, no. 3, 2000, pp. 33-37.

Rex, Cathy. “Revising the Nation: The Domesticated Nationalism of Ann Eliza Bleecker’s the History of Maria Kittle.” Women’s Studies, vol. 42, no. 8, Dec. 2013, pp. 956-978. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1080/00497878.2013.830872.

Rosenmeier, Rosamond. “Chapter 6: The Indian Captivity Narrative as Usable Past.” Indian Captivity Narrative, 1550-1900, Gale, 1993.

Weiss, Stanley Buck. “The Dark Cloud of Jeffersonian Philanthropy: Native American Assimilation and the Critique of the Frontier Romance.” Dissertation Abstracts International, vol. 76, no. 2, Aug. 2015. 


New York Magazine, or Literary Repository (1790-1797)

[1. September 1790]

For the New-York Magazine.

An original and interesting letter, by the late Mrs. Ann E. Bleecker, to
her friend Miss S. T. E. describing the sufferings of Mr. Kittle’s fa-
mily, at Schochticook, in the French and English war, prior to the

Several short practical essays from the same elegant and descriptive
pen, we
have had the high satisfaction of presenting to the public eye in our


Dear Susan,

HOWEVER fond of novels and
romances you may be, the un-
fortunate adventures of one of my
neighbours, who died yesterday, will
make you despise that fiction, in
which, knowing the subject to be fa-
bulous, we can never be so truly in-
terested. While this lady was expir-
ing, Mrs. C– V–, her near
kinswoman, related to me her unhap-
py history, in which I shall now take
the liberty of interesting your bene-
volent and feeling heart.–
Maria Kittle was the only issue of
her parents, who cultivated a large
farm on the banks of Hudson, eigh-
teen miles above Albany. They were
persons of good natural abilities, im-
proved by some learning; yet, con-
scious of a deficiency in their educa-
tion, they studied nothing so much
as to render their little daughter truly

Maria was born in the year 1721.
Her promising infancy presaged a ma-
turity of excellencies; every amiable
quality dawned through her lisping
prattle; every personal grace attend-
ed her attitudes and played over her
features. As she advanced through
the playful stage of childhood, she
became more eminent than a Pene-
lope for her industry; yet, soon as the
sun declined, she always retired with
her books until the time of repose,
by which means she soon informed
her opening mind with the princi-
ples of every useful science. She was
beloved by all her female companions,
who, though they easily discovered
her superior elegance of manners,
instead of envying, were excited to
imitate her. As she always made one
in their little parties of pleasure on
festival days, it is no wonder that she
soon became the reigning goddess
among the swains. She was impor-
tuned to admit the addresses of num-
bers, whom she politely discarded,
and withdrew herself a while from
public observation. However, the
fame of her charms attracted several
gentlemen of family from Albany,
who intruded on her retirement, so-
liciting her hand. But this happi-
ness was reserved for a near relation
of her’s, one Mr. Kittle, whose me-
rits had made an impression on her
heart. He, although not handsome,
was possessed of a most engaging ad-
dress, while his learning and moral
virtues more particularly recommend-
ed him to her esteem. Their parents
soon discovered their reciprocal pas-
sion, and highly approving of it, has-
tened their marriage, which was ce-
lebrated under the most happy au-

Maria was fifteen when married.
They removed to his farm, on which
he had built a small neat house, sur-
rounded by tall cedars, which gave it
a contemplative air. It was situated
on an eminence, with a green enclo-
sure in the front; graced by a well-
cultivated garden on one side, and on
the other by a clear stream, which,
rushing over a bed of white pebble,
gave them a high polish, that cast a
soft gleam through the water.
Here they resided in the tranquil
enjoyment of that happiness which so
much merit and innocence deserved;
the indigent, the sorrowful, the un-
fortunate, were always sure of con-
solation when they entered those
peaceful doors. They were almost
adored by their neighbours, and even
the wild savages themselves, who of-
ten resorted thither for refreshments,
when hunting, expressed the greatest
regard for them, and admiration of
their virtues.

In little more than a year they
were blessed with a daughter, the
lovelier resemblance of her lovely
mother; as she grew up her graces in­
creasing, promised a bloom and un-
derstanding equal to her’s; the Indi-
ans, in particular, were extremely
fond of the smiling Anna; whenever
they found a young fawn, or caught
a brood of wood-ducks, or surprised
the young beaver in their daily ex-
cursions through the forests, they pre-
sented them with pleasure to her;
they brought her the earliest straw-
berries, the scarlet plumb, and other
delicate wild fruits, in painted bas-

How did the fond parents’ hearts
delight to see their beloved one so
universally caressed? When they
sauntered over the vernal fields with
the little prattler wantoning before
them collecting flowers, and pursu-
ing the velvet elusive butterfly, Ma-
ria’s cheek suffusing with rapture,
“oh, my dear!” she would say, “we
are happier than human beings can
expect to be; how trivial are the evils
annexed to our situation? may God
avert that our Heaven be limited to
this life!”

Eleven years now elapsed before
Mrs. Kittle discovered any signs of
pregnancy; her spouse silently wish-
ed for a son, and his desires were at
length gratified; she was delivered of
a charming boy, who was named,
after him, William.

A French and Indian war had
commenced sometime before, but
about eight months after her delivery,
the savages began to commit the most
horrid depredations on the English
frontiers. Mr. Kittle, alarmed at
the danger of his brother, who dwelt
near Fort-Edward, (the eldest being
just married to a very agreeable young
woman) invited them to reside with
him during the war.

They were scarce arrived when the
enemy made farther incursions in the
country, burning the villages, and
scalping the inhabitants, neither re-
specting age or sex. This terribly
alarmed Mrs. Kittle; she began to
prepare for flight, and the next even-
ing after receiving this intelligence,
as she and Mr. Kittle were busily em-
ployed in packing up china and other
things, they were accosted by several
Indians, whose wigwams were con-
tiguous to the village of Schochti-
cook, and who always seemed well
affected to the English. An elderly
savage undertook to be prolocutor, and
desired the family to compose them-
selves, assuring them they should be
cautioned against any approaching
danger. To inforce his argument,
he presented Maria with a belt inter-
woven with silk and beads, saying,
“there, receive my token of friend-
ship.–we go to dig up the hatchet,
to sink it in the heads of your ene-
mies: we shall guard this wood with
a wall of fire–you shall be safe.” A
warm glow of hope deepened in Ma-
ria’s cheek at this. Then ordering
wine to be brought to the friendly
savages, with a smile of diffidence,
“I am afraid,” said she, “necessity
may oblige you to abandon us, or
neglect of your promise may deprive
us of your protection.”–“Neglect
of my promise,” retorted he with
some acrimony, “no, Maria, I am
a true man; I shoot the arrow up to
the Great Captain every new moon:
depend upon it I will trample down
the briers round your dwelling, that
you do not hurt your feet.” Maria
now retired, bowing a grateful ac-
knowledgment, and leaving the sa-
vages to indulge their festivity, who
passed the night in the most vocife-
rous mirth.

Mrs. Kittle with a sort of exulta-
tion, related the subject of their con-
ference to her husband, who had ab-
sented himself on their first appear-
ance, having formed some suspicion
of the sincerity of their friendship,
and not being willing to be duped by
their dissimulation. “And now,”
added Maria, smiling, “our fears
may again subside: oh! my dear,
my happiness is trebled into rapture,
by seeing you and my sweet babes
out of danger.” He only sighed,
and reaching his arm round her po-
lished neck, pressed her to his bosom.
After a short pause, “my love,” said
he, “be not too confident of their
fidelity, you surely know what a small
dependence is to be placed in their
promises; however, to appear suspi-
cious, might be suddenly fatal to us,
we will therefore suspend our jour-
ney to Albany for a few days.”–
Though Maria’s soul saddened at the
conviction of this truth; though her
fears again urged her to propose im-
mediate flight, yet she acquiesced;
and having supped with the family,
this tender pair sunk asleep on the
bosom of rest.

Early the next morning Mr. Kittle
arose; first impressing a kiss on Maria’s
soft cheek, as she slumbered with her
infant in her arms. He then awak-
ed his brother, reminding him that
he had proposed a hunting match the
preceding evening. “It is true,”
replied Peter, “but since hostilities
have commenced so near us as the
Indians inform, I think it rather im-
prudent to quit the family.”–
“Come, come,” replied the other,
“do not let us intimidate the neigh­
bours by cloistering ourselves up with
women and children.”–“I reject
the thought,” rejoined Peter, “of
being afraid.” Then having dressed
himself, while his brother charged
their pieces, they left the house, and
traversed the pathless grass for many
hours without perceiving any thing
but small birds, who filled the fra-
grant air with melody. “Peter,”
said Mr. Kittle, casting his eyes a-
round the lovely landscape, “what
a profusion of sweets does nature ex-
hale to please her intelligent creatures.
I feel my heart expand with love and
gratitude to Heaven every moment,
nor can I ever be grateful enough. I
have health and competence, a lovely
fond wife, whose smile would calm
the rudest storm of passion, and two
infants blossoming into perfection;
all my social ties are yet unbroken–
Peter, I anticipate my Heaven–!
But why, my brother, do you turn
pale? what dreadful idea stiffens
your features with amazement? what
in God’s name ails you, Peter, are
you unwell? sit down under this tree
awhile.”–To these interrogatories
Peter replied, “excuse my weakness,
I am not unwell, but an unusual
horror chilled my blood; I felt as if
the damps of death prest already
round my soul; but the vapour is
gone off again, I feel quite better.”
Mr. Kittle cheered his brother, attri-
buting his emotion to fear, who, by
this time, having reassumed his com-
posure, entered into discourse with
cheerfulness, refusing to return home
without having killed any thing.
Then rising, they proceeded thro’
lofty groves of pine, and open fields,
that seemed to bend under the heavy
hand of Ceres. At last, disappoint-
ment and fatigue prevailed on them
to return home; they had gone far-
ther than they apprehended; but
passing along the bank of the river,
within a few miles of Mr. Kittle’s,
they espied a fat doe walking secure-
ly on the beach, which Peter softly
approaching, levelled his piece with
so good an aim, that the animal drop-
ped. Instantly at the explosion, this
seeming success was, however, the
origin of their calamities; for imme-
diately after two savages appeared,
directed in their course by the firing.
Setting up a loud yell, they ran up
to the brothers and discharged their
fire arms. Mr. Kittle started back,
but Peter received a brace of balls in
his bosom. He recoiled a few steps
back, and then sunk down income-
passed by those deadly horrors of
which in the morning he had a pre-
sentiment. Mr. Kittle stood awhile
aghast, like a person just waked from
a frightful dream; but on seeing the
Indian advancing to tear the scalp
from his dying brother, he suddenly
recollected himself, and shot a bullet
through his head. Then grappling
with the other, who was loading
again, he wrestled his firelock from
him, and felled him to the ground
with the butt end of it. This was
no time for reflection, or unavailing
laments; the danger was eminent!
So leaving the savages for dead, with
a mournful silence Mr. Kittle hasten-
ed to throw the deer from off his
horse, and laid his bleeding brother
across him.

When our souls are gloomy, they
seem to cast a shade over the objects
that surround us, and make nature
correspondent to our feelings: so Mr.
Kittle thought the night fell with a
deeper gloom than usual. The soft
notes of evening birds seemed to be
the responses of savage yells. The
echo of his tread, which he never
before regarded, now rung dismally
hollow in his ears. Even the rust-
ling of the winds through the leaves
seemed attended with a solemnity
that chilled him with cold tremors.
As he proceeded with his mournful
charge, his feelings were alarmed for
his dear Maria; he dreaded the agi-
tation and distress this adventure
would throw her in–but it was un-

The sound of his horse’s feet no
sooner invaded the ears of Maria,
than seizing a light, she sprung with
a joyful impatience to the door, and
was met by her partner pale and
bloody, who endeavoured to prevent
too sudden a discovery of this cala-
mity. But at the first glance she
comprehended the whole affair, and
retiring a few steps, with the most
exquisite agony in her countenance,
“oh! Mr. Kittle,” she cried, clasping
her hands together, “it is all over–
we are betrayed–your brother is kil-
led!”–“Too true, oh! too fatally
true,” replied he, falling on his knees
beside her as she sunk down,” “my
angel! the very savages that solemnly
engaged to protect us have deprived
him of life; but I am yet alive, my
Maria, be comforted–I will instant-
ly procure carriages, and before morn-
ing you and your innocents shall be
beyond the reach of their malevo-

By this time the family had croud-
ed about them, and with grievous
wailings were enquiring the particu-
lars of this sad adventure. Mr. Kit-
tle having related every circumstance
with brevity, ordered the corpse to
be laid in a remote chamber, desiring
at the same time a horse to be saddled
for him. Then, more oppressed by
his wife’s griefs than his own, he led
the disconsolate fair to her chamber,
where, being seated, she sighing de-
manded where he intended to go at
that time of night. “Only,” said
he, “to the village of Schochticook
to hire a couple of waggons; I shall
return in an hour I hope, with a pro-
per guard to secure our retreat from
this hostile place.” Maria was silent;
at length she burst into a flood of tears,
which his endearments only aug-
mented. Then expostulating with
him, “is it not enough,” cried she,
“that you have escaped one danger,
but must you be so very eager to en-
counter others? besides, you are spent
with sorrow and fatigue–let one of
your brothers perform this silent ex-
pedition.–“It is impossible,” re-
plied the tender husband; “how can
I dare to propose a danger to them
from which I would shrink myself?
their lives are equally precious with
mine–but God may disappoint our
fears, my love.” He would have
continued, but his spouse, rising from
her seat, interrupted him–“At least,
my dear, before you leave us give
your lovely babes a farewell embrace,
that if fate should–should–separate
us, that yet shall sweeten our hours
of absence.” Here she found her-
self clasped in her consort’s arms, who
exclaimed, “my Maria! I love you
passionately, and if the least shadow
of danger did appear to attend this
night’s travel, for your sake, for my
blessed children’s sake I would decline
it–but I have left the Indians life-
less, who, no doubt, attacked us from
some private pique–nor will they
be discovered until morning.”–
“Well then,” Maria answered, “I
no longer oppose you; forgive my
fears.” Mean while as she stept
to the cradle for her suckling, the fair
Anna, who was listening at the door,
anxious to hear her parents’ senti-
ments on this occasion, quitted her
station, and flew to them swift as
light, dropping on her knees before
her father, and looked up in his face
with the most attractive graces, and
the persuasive eloquence of simplicity.
Her neck and features were elegantly
turned, her complexion fairer than
the tuberose, and contrasted by the
most shining ringlets of dark hair.
Her eyes, whose brilliancy were sof-
tened through the medium of tears,
for a while dwelt tenderly on his
countenance. At length, with a
voice scarce audible, she sighed out,
“oh, Papa! do not leave us; if any
accident should happen to you,
Mamma will die of grief, and what
will become of poor Anna and Billy?
who will care for me? Who will teach
me when my Papa, my Mamma’s
Papa is gone?”–“My sweet child,”
replied he, embracing her and hold-
ing her to his bosom, “there is no
danger; I shall return in an hour,
and before to-morrow you shall be
safe on the plains of Albany, and my
heart shall exult over the happiness of
my family.”

Mrs. Kittle now approached with
her playful infant in her arms; but its
winning actions extorted nothing but
groans from her pained bosom, which
was more stormy than Ontario Lake,
when agitated by fierce winds. Mr.
Kittle perceiving this uncommon e-
motion, gently took the child from
her, and repeatedly kissed it, while
new smiles dimpled its lovely aspect.
“Oh!” said he to himself, “this
gloom that darkens Maria’s soul is
supernatural!–it seems dreadfully
portentious!–Shall I yet stay?” But
here a servant informing him that his
horse was ready, he blushed at his
want of fortitude; and having con-
quered his irresolution, after the most
affecting and solemn parting, he quit-
ted his house, never to review it

(To be continued.)

[2. October 1790]

Maria then walked sadly back
again, and having assembled
the family in a little hall, they closed
and barred the doors. Mrs. Cornelia
Kittle, Maria’s sister-in-law, was far
advanced in her pregnancy, which
increased her husband’s uneasiness for
her; and they were debating in what
manner to accommodate her at Al-
bany, when the trampling of feet
about the house, and a yell of com-
plicated voices, announced the Indi-
ans’ arrival. Struck with horror and
consternation, the little family croud-
ed together in the center of the hall,
while the servants, at this alarm, be-
ing in a kitchen distant from the
house, saved themselves by a precipi-
tate flight. The little Billy, frighten-
ed at such dreadful sounds, clung fast
to his mother’s throbbing breast, while
Anna, in a silent agony of amaze-
ment, clasped her trembling knees.
The echo of their yells yet rung in
long vibrations through the forest,
when, with a thundering peal of
strokes at the door, they demanded
entrance. Distraction and despair
sat upon every face. Maria and her
companions gazed wildly at each o-
ther, till upon repeated menaces, and
efforts to break open the door, Co-
rnelia’s husband giving all for lost, lei-
surely advanced to the door. Corne-
lia seeing this, uttered a great shriek,
and cried out, “oh God! what are
you doing, my rash, rash, unfortu-
nate husband? you will be sacrificed.”
Then falling on her knees, she caught
hold of his hand, and sobbed out,
“oh! pity me, have mercy on your-
self, on me, on my child!”–“Alas!
my love,” said he, half turning, with
a look of distraction, “what can we
do? let us be resigned to the will of
God!” So saying, he unbarred the
door, and that instant received a fatal
bullet in his bosom, and fell back-
ward writhing in the agonies of death;
the rest recoiled at this horrible spec-
tacle, and huddled in a corner, send-
ing forth the most piercing cries; in
the interim the savages rushing in
with great shouts, proceeded to man-
gle the corpse, and having made an
incision round his head with a crook-
ed knife, they tugged off his bloody
scalp with barbarous triumph. While
this was perpetrating, an Indian, he-
deously painted, strode ferociously up
to Cornelia, (who sunk away at the
sight, and fainted on a chair) and clift
her white forehead deeply with his
tomahack. Her fine azure eyes just
opened, and then suddenly closing
forever, she tumbled lifeless at his
feet. His sanguinary soul was not
yet satisfied with blood; he deform-
ed her lovely body with deep gashes,
and tearing her unborn babe away,
dashed it to pieces against the stone
wall, with many additional circum-
stances of infernal cruelty.

During this horrid carnage, the
dead were stripped, and dragged from
the house, when one of the hellish
band advanced to Maria, who cir-
cling her babes with her white arms,
was sending hopeless petitions to Hea-
ven, and bemoaning their cruelly
lost situation–as he approached, ex-
pecting the fatal stroke, she endea-
voured to guard her children, and
with supplicating looks, implored for
mercy. The savage attempted not to
strike; but the astonishing Anna shel-
tered herself behind her Mamma,
while her blooming suckling quitting
her breast, gazed with a pleasing
wonder on the painted stranger.–
Maria soon recognized her old friend
that presented her with the belt, thro’
the loads of shells and feathers that
disguised him. This was no time,
however, to irritate him, by remind-
ing him of his promise; yet, guess-
ing her thoughts, he anticipated her
remonstrance. “Maria,” said he,
“be not afraid, I have promised to
protect you–you shall live and dance
with us around the fire at Canada;
but you have one small incumbrance,
which, if not removed, will much
impede your progress thither;” so say-
ing he seized her laughing babe by
the wrists, and forcibly endeavoured
to draw him from her arms. At this,
terrified beyond conception, she ex-
claimed, “oh God! leave me–leave
me my child! he shall not go, though
a legion of devils should try to se-
parate us!” holding him still fast,
while the Indian applied his strength
to tear him away, gnashing his teeth
at her opposition, “help! God of
Heaven!” screamed she, “help!
have pity–have mercy on this infant!
Oh God! oh Christ! can you bear
to see this? O mercy! mercy!
mercy! let a little spark of compass-
sion save this inoffending–this love-
ly angel!” By this time the breath-
less babe dropt its head on its bosom;
the wrists were nigh pinched off, and
seeing him just expiring, with a
dreadful shriek she resigned him to
the merciless hands of the savage,
who instantly dashed his little fore-
head against the stones, and casting
his bleeding body at some distance
from the house, left him to make his
exit in feeble and unheard groans.–
Then indeed, in the unutterable an-
guish of her soul, she fell prostrate,
and rending away her hair, she roar-
ed out her sorrows with a voice louder
than natural, and rendered awfully
hollow by too great an exertion.
“Oh, barbarians!” she exclaimed,
“surpassing devils in wickedness, so
may a tenfold night of misery enwrap
your black souls, as you have depri-
ved the babe of my bosom, the com-
fort of my cares–my blessed cherub
of light and life–Oh hell! are not
thy flames impatient to cleave the
center and engulph these wretches in
thy ever burning waves? are there no
thunders in Heaven–no avenging
Angel–no God, to take notice of
such Heaven-defying cruelties?”–
Then rushing to her dead infant with
redoubled cries, and clapping her
hands, she laid herself over his man-
gled body–again softened in tears
and moans, she wiped the blood from
his ghastly countenance, and prest
him to her heaving bosom, alternately
caressing him and her trembling An-
na, who, clinging to her with bitter
wailings, and kissing her hands and
face, entreated her to implore the sa-
vages for mercy. “Do, my angel
Mamma,” she urged, “do beg them
yet to pity­-beg them yet to save you
for my poor, poor Papa’s sake!–
Alas! if we are all killed, his heart
will break!–Oh! they can’t be rocks
and stones!–Don’t cry Mamma,
they will spare us!” Thus the little
orator endeavoured to console her af-
flicted mother; but their melancho-
ly endearments were soon interrupted
by the relentless savages, who having
plundered the house of every valua-
ble thing that was portable, returned
to Maria, and rudely catching her
arm, commanded her to follow them;
but repulsing them with the boldness
of despair, “leave me, leave me,”
she said, “I cannot go–I never will
quit my murdered child! too cruel
in your mercies, you have given me
life only to prolong my miseries!”–
Mean while the lovely Anna, terri-
fied at the hostile appearance of the
enemy, left her Mamma (struggling
to disengage herself from the Indians)
and fled precipitately to the house.
She had already concealed herself in
a closet, when Mrs. Kittle pursuing
her, was intercepted by flames, the
savages having fired the house. The
wretched child soon discovered her
deplorable situation, and almost suf-
focated by the smoke, with piercing
cries called for help to her dear, dear
mother.–Alas! what could the un-
happy parent do? whole sheets of
flames rolled between them, while in
a phrenzy of grief, she screamed out,
“oh! my last treasure! my beloved
Anna! try to escape the devouring
fire–come to me my sweet child–
the Indians will not kill us–Oh! my
perishing babe! have pity on your
mother–do not leave me quite desti-
tute!” Then turning to the calm
villains who attended her, she cried,
“why do you not attempt to rescue
my sweet innocent? can your unfeel-
ing hearts not bear to leave me one–
a solitary single one?” Again calling
to her Anna, she received no answer,
which being a presumption of her
death, the Indiana obliged Maria and
her brother Henry to quit the house,
which they effected with some diffi-
culty, the glowing beams falling a-
round them, and thick volumes of
smoke obscuring their passage; the
flames now struck a long splendor
through the humid atmosphere, and
blushed to open the tragical scene on
the face of Heaven. They had scarce
advanced two hundred yards with
their reluctant captives, when the
flaming structure tumbled to the earth,
with a dreadful crash. Our travelers
by instinct turned their eyes to the
mournful blaze, and Maria bursting
afresh into grievous lamentations,
cried, “there, there my brother!
my children are wrapt in arching
sheets of flames, that used to be cir-
cled in my arms–they are entomb-
ed in ruins that breathed their slum-
bers on my bosom–yet, oh! their
spotless souls even now rise from this
chaos of blood and fire, and are plead-
ing our injured cause before our God,
my brother!” He replied only in
sighs and groans–he scarcely heard
her, horror had froze up the avenues
of his soul, and all amazed and trem-
bling, he followed his leaders like a
person in a troublesome dream.
The distant flames now cast a fain-
ter light, and the northern breeze
bent the columnes of smoke over the
south horizon. Sad and benighted
they wandered through almost impe-
netrable swamps, forded the broad
stream of Tomhanick, and the rapid
river of Hosack; they passed through
deserted settlements, where the yel-
ling of solitary dogs increased the
solemnity of midnight, nor halted
till the stars, emitting a feebler lustre,
presaged the approach of day. Maria,
overcome by sorrow and fatigue, im-
mediately sunk helpless at the foot of
a tree, while the savages (who were
six in number) kindled a fire, and
prepared their meal, (in a calabash)
which consisted only of some parched
maize pulverized and enriched with
the fat of bears flesh. Observing
Maria had fallen asleep, they offered
not to disturb her, but invited Henry
Kittle to partake of their repast. He
durst not refuse them, and having
swallowed a few mouthfuls of their
unpalatable food, and accepted of a
pipe of tobacco, he desired leave to
repose himself, which being readily
granted, they soon followed his ex-
ample, and sunk asleep, leaving two
centinels to guard against surprise,
which precaution they always make
use of.

I am sorry, dear Susan, to quit
Maria in this interesting part of her
history; but order requires that we
should now return to her spouse,
whom we left on his way through
the wood.

The village of Schochticook is
situated on a circular plain, surround-
ed by high hills, rising in form of an
amphitheatre. Mr. Kittle had just
gained the verge when, chancing to
cast his eyes around, he perceived the
whole southern hemisphere suddenly
illuminated with a bright blaze;
however, being accustomed to the
forests being often fired to clear it
from the under-wood, he was not
much surprised, but proceeded to
descend the hill. On his arriving
with the account of his brother’s
murder, the place was put in the
highest commotion–the men fitting
up their arms, and the women cla-
mouring about them, highly impor-
tunate to be removed to Albany; but
the night being very dark, this man-
oeuvre was deferred till morning;–
nor could Mr. Kittle prevail on a
single person to return with him dur-
ing the darkness–he felt himself
strangely agitated at this disappoint-
ment, and refusing to repose himself,
with great impatience he watched the
first orient beam of Phosphor, which
appearing, he sat off for home with
two waggons and a guard of three
Indians. As he approached his late
happy dwelling, his bosom dilated
with the pleasing hope of soon extra-
cating his beloved family from dan-
ger, he chid the slowness of the car-
riages, and felt impatient to dissipate
the apprehensions of Maria, to kiss
the pendant tear from her eye, and
press his sportive innocents to his bo-
som. While these bright ideas play-
ed round his soul, he lifted up his
eyes, and through an opening in the
woods beheld his farm–but what
language can express his surprise and
consternation at seeing his habitation
so suddenly desolated! a loud ex-
clamation of amaze burst from the
whole company at so unexpected a
view–the blood revolted from Mr.
Kittle’s cheek–his heart throbbed
under the big emotion, and all aghast,
spurring on his horse, he entered the
enclosure with full speed.–Stop here
unhappy man! here let the fibres of
thy heart crack with excruciating mi-
sery–let the cruel view of mangled
wretches, so nearly allied to thee,
extort drops of blood from the cleav-
ing bosom!–It did–it did. Utter-
ing a deep groan he fell insensible
from his horse, while his attendants,
hastening towards him, were shocked
beyond conception at the dismal spec-
tacle, and starting back with averted
eyes from the dead, were thunderstruck,
not having power to move or speak.
After a while two Indians (who be-
ing used to sanguinary scenes, reco-
vered themselves first) took a blanket,
and walking backward to the man-
gled Cornelia, threw it over her nak-
ed body; the others then timidly ad-
vanced, and Mr. Kittle opening his
eyes, groaned again bitterly; then
raising himself on his knees, with a
look of unutterable anguish he called
upon his dear Maria. Alas! No
voice, but the solemn repetition of
his own cries were articulated to him:
then rising with an air of distraction,
he stalked round the bloody scene,
and examined the dead bodies, first
uncovering the pale visage of Corne-
lia, he surveyed in silence her dis-
torted features; but perceiving it was
not Maria, he gently laid the cloth
over again, and turning furiously,
caught up his ghastly infant, whose
little body was black with contusions,
and his skull horribly fractured. Al-
most fainting under his mournful
load, and staggering at the dreadful
discovery, he deposited it again on
the bloody earth, and clapping his
hands together repeatedly with vio-
lence, oh hell! hell! he cried, you
cannot inflict torments so exquisite as
those I now suffer! how am I crush-
ed to the center! how deeply am I
degraded below the worms of the sod!
Oh! my children! my children!
where are you now? Oh! my wife!
my Maria! the beloved of my bo-
som, are you too fallen a sacrifice?
Why do I survive these miseries, my
God? how can mortality support
them? Burst–burst my shrinking
heart, and punish a wretch for not
having died in the defence of such
lovely and innocent beings! Oh!
why was I absent in this fatal hour?
why did not their groans vibrate on
my soul that I might have flown to
their aid? Thus wildly lamenting
and wandering among the smoaking
ruins, he picked up some of the cal-
cined bones of his once beautiful
Anna. At this sight despair shook
his soul afresh, new agonies convuls-
ed his features, and dropping the sad
evidence of his miseries, he extend-
ed his arms to Heaven, and roared
out–revenge, great God! revenge if
thou art just and kind as represented!
Oh! that I had the power of an
archangel to thunder eternal horrors
on the guilty wretches who have blast-
ed the bud of my happiness, who
have darkened the brightest eyes that
ever opened on the light!
The men here interfering, to con-
sole him observed, the bones were
probably those of his brother Peter;
but on finding his skeleton entire,
Mr. Kittle insisted that it must have
been Maria and Anna, who having
hid themselves, had doubtless perish-
ed in the flames. Again, in the fu-
rious extravagance of passion, he tore
the hair from his head, and casting
himself prostrate on the ashes, he ga-
thered the crumbling bones to his
bosom, while the big drops of an-
guish issued at every pore, till life,
unable longer to sustain the mental
conflict, suspended her powers, and
once more deprived him of sensation.
His companions having laid him on
a wagon, now conferred together
in what manner to proceed, and ap-
prehending an attack from the sava-
ges, they unanimously concluded to
lay the dead bodies on the remaining
carriage, and make the best of their
way to Schochticook, which they
accordingly performed with great
silence and expedition.

You may judge, my dear, what a
panic the appearance of this mourn-
ful cavalcade struck over the inhabit-
ants of this defenseless village. Mr.
Kittle was gently laid on a bed, and
being let blood, his respiration be-
came less obstructed, though he con-
tinued senseless till his unfortunate
family were interred.–Six weeks
elapsed before he recovered any de-
gree of strength; but even then he
appeared pale and emaciated, like a
second Lazarus; his disposition was
entirely changed, his looks were
fierce, his attitudes wild and extra-
vagant, and his conversation, which
formerly was sensible, commanding
attention by a musical voice, now
was incoherent, and his cadence deep
and hollow, rather inspiring terror
than any pleasing sensation. Thirst-
ing for revenge, and perceiving that
solitude only tended to corrode his
moments with the blackest melancho-
ly, he soon after entered the British
service in the capacity of gentleman
volunteer, and signalized himself by
his prudence and intrepidity, attract-
ing the particular notice of his officers,
who being affection with his misfor-
tones, proffered their services to him
with so much friendship and candour,
as obliged him to accept of them, and
yet lightened the obligation.

(To be continued.)

[3. November 1790]

But doubtless, my dear, your
generous sensibility is alarmed
at my silence about Mrs. Kittle; I
think we left her reposing under a
tree–she was the first that awaked
as the sun began to exhale the crystal
globules of morning, when half ris-
ing, and reclining on her elbow, she
surveyed the lovely landscape around
her with a deep sigh; they were on
an eminence that commanded an un-
limited prospect of the country every
way. The birds were cheerful; the
deer bounded fearless over the hills;
the meadows blushed with the ena-
mel of Flora; but grief had sadden-
ed every object in her sight–the
whole creation seemed a dark blank
to the fair mourner. Again recol-
lection unlocked the sluices of her
eyes, and her soft complaints disturb-
ed her savage companions, who, ris-
ing and kindling up the dying em-
bers, began to prepare their victuals,
which they invited her to partake of.
This she declined with visible de-
testation; and turning to her bro-
ther, with the dignity of conscious
merit in distress, “No,” said she,
“I never will receive a morsel from
those bloody hands yet dropping with
recent murder!–let me perish–let
the iron hand of famine first pinch
out my vitals and send me after my
children!” Notwithstanding this,
Henry added his solicitations that
she should accept of some refresh-
ment, reminding her of the conse-
quence of her fatal resolution, which
could be deemed no otherwise than
suicide. Finding this had no effect,
he tried to touch her feelings on a
softer key–“Remember, Maria,”
said he, “you have a tender husband
yet living; would you wish to deprive
him of every earthly consolation?
Would you add affliction to affliction,
and after he has performed the sor-
rowful obsequies of his children, to
crush all his remaining hope by the
news of your voluntary death? No,
live my sister! be assured he will soon
get us exchanged, when soft sympa-
thies shall wash away your sorrows,
and after a few years, who knows
but the smiles of a new lovely pro-
geny may again dawn a paradise of
happiness on you.” Maria was af-
fected, and half raising her eyes from
the earth, she replied, “Oh, my bro-
ther! How consoling do your words
sink on my heart! Though my reason
tells me your arguments are impro-
bable and fallacious, yet it soothes
the tempest of my soul–I will try
to live–perhaps I may again behold
my dear–dear–dear–husband!”
Here a flood of tears interrupted her.
As this conversation was held in
English, the savages were inquisitive
to know the subject of it, at the same
time enjoining them both never to
utter a syllable in the presence except
in their own uncouth dialect, which,
as they perfectly understood, they
could not excuse themselves from.
Henry then informed them that his
sister, objecting to their method of
preparing food, had desired him to
prevail with them to indulge her in
dressing her meals herself. This they
readily granted, and farther to ingra-
tiate themselves in the prisoners’ fa-
vour, they dispatched a young Indi-
an to hunt for partridges or quails
in the groves adjoining them: He
instantly returned with a brood of
wood-pigeons, scarcely fledged,
which he presented to Henry, who
cleaned and broiled them on sticks,
with an officious solicitude to please
his sister, which she observed with a
look of gratitude, and taking a pi-
geon from the stick, began to eat
more from complaisance than incli-
nation. Henry was delighted at her
ready acquiescence, and their repast
being ended, they proceeded on their
tiresome journey with less repining
than the preceding night. Maria
was exempted from carrying a bur-
den, yet she found the fatigue almost
intolerable. They continually passed
through a scene of conflagration, the
savages firing every cottage in their
way, whose mournful blaze catching
the dry fields of grain, would scorch
off hundred of acres in a few mo-
ments, and form a burning path for
their destroyers. As the sun ad-
vanced to his zenith, its rays beat
fiercely on our travelers, augmented
by the crackling flames around them;
when meeting with a cool stream of
water, Maria was commanded to sit
down (being overheated) while the
rest approached the rivulet; the In-
dian that guarded Maria was stoop-
ing down to drink, when a loud rust-
ling among the leaves, and trampling
of bushes attracted his attention; he
listened awhile seemingly much a-
larmed, then starting up suddenly, he
flew to Maria, and caught hold of
her hair, aiming his hatchet at her
head: the consequence was obvious,
and her fate seemed inevitable; yet,
with a stoical composure, she folded
her arms across, and waited the fatal
stroke with perfect resignation; but
while the weapon was yet suspended
over her, chancing to look around,
he perceived the noise to proceed from
a large deer, whose antlers were in-
tangled in the branches of a thicket.
Though an uncivilized inhabitant of
the forest, he blushed at his precipi-
tancy, and returning the instrument
of death to his girdle, after some he-
sitation made this apology: “Maria,
this sudden discovery is well for you;
I thought we had been pursued, and
we never suffer our prisoners to be re-
taken; however, I was imprudent to
attempt your life before there was a
probability of your being rescued:”
then desiring her to rise and drink,
he quickly shot the deer, his associ-
ates helping him to skin it. Instead
of quenching her thirst she sat down
pensive on the flowery margin, cast-
ing her eyes carelessly on the stream;
she knew not whether to esteem her
late deliverance from death a happy
providence or protraction of misery.
Observing the spotted trout, and other
fish, to dart sportively across the wa-
ter, she could not help exclaiming,
“Happy! happy animals! you have
not the fatal gift of reason to embitter
your pleasures; you cannot anticipate
your difficulties by apprehension, or
prolong them by recollection; inca-
pable of offending your Creator, the
blessings of your existence are secur-
ed to you: Alas! I envy the mean-
est among ye!” A gush of tears
concluded her soliloquy; and being
called to attend the company, she
arose, and they began their journey
for the afternoon. Henry desiring to
have a piece of venison (having left it
behind, seldom incommoding them-
selves with more than the hide and
tallow) they returned and obliged
him with a haunch, which was very
fat: at the next interval of travel he
dressed it for himself and Maria. In
the evening they crossed the river
somewhat below Fort-Edward, in a
canoe left hid under some bushes for
that purpose. They observed the
most profound silence until the en-
tered the woods again; but it was
very late before they halted, which
they did in a deep hollow, surround-
ed by pines whose tops seemed to be
lost in the clouds. It was necessary
here to light a fire, for the wolves
howled most dreadfully, and the
whole forest rung with the cries of
wild beasts of various sorts. The con-
fines of hell could not have given
Maria more dismal ideas than her
present situation; the horrid gloom of
the place, the scowling looks of her
murderous companions, the shrill
shrieks of owls, the loud cries of the
wolf, and mournful screams of pan-
thers, which were redoubled by dis-
tant echoes, as the terrible sounds
seemed dying away, shook her frame
with cold tremors: she sunk under
the oppression of terror, and almost
fainted in Henry’s arms: however,
on perceiving the beasts durst not ap-
proach the light, but began to retire,
she became a little more assured, and
helped Henry to erect a booth of pine
branches, making a bed of the same
materials in it while he prepared their
supper; having eaten, and kindled a
large fire in the front of her arbour,
she laid down and soon fell in a deep
sleep; she felt herself refreshed by
this unexpected repose, and the next
morning, with some alacrity, conti-
nued her journey, hoping at last to
arrive at some Christian settlement.
Arriving at Lake-Champlain, they
raised a wigwam on the bank, ex-
pecting the coming of Indians from
the opposite shore to carry them over.
Here our unfortunate captives were
stript of their habits, already rent to
pieces by briers, and attired each
with remnants of old blankets. In
this new distress Mrs. Kittle ventur-
ed to expostulate with the savages,
but it was talking to the stormy oce-
an; her complaints served only to di-
vert them; so retiring among the
bushes, she adjusted her coarse dress
somewhat decently, and then seating
herself silently under a spreading tree,
indulged herself in the luxury of sor-
row. Henry, sensible that they es-
pected more fortitude from him, and
that if he sunk under his adverse for-
tune, he should be worse treaded,
affected to be cheerful; he assisted
them in catching salmon, with which
the lake abounds; an incredible
quantity of wild fowl frequenting
the lake also, he laid snares for those
of the lesser sort, (not being allowed
fire-arms) and succeeded so well, that
his dexterity was highly commended,
and night coming on, they regaled
themselves on the fruits of their in-
dustry. The night was exceedingly
dark, but calm; a thick mist hovered
over the woods, and the small ridgy
waves softly rolled to the shore, when
suddenly a large meteor, or fiery ex-
halation, passed by them with sur-
prising velocity, casting on every side
showers of brilliant sparkles. At
sight of this phaenomenon, the Indians
put their heads between their knees,
crying out in a lamentable voice,
“Do not–do not–do not!” con-
tinuing in the same attitude until the
vapour disappeared. Henry, with
some surprise, demanded the reason
of this exclamation; to which they
replied, “What he had seen was a
fiery dragon, on his passage to his
den, who was of so malevolent a
temper, that he never failed, on his
arrival there, to inflict some peculiar
calamity on mankind.” In about
five minutes after the earth was vio-
lently agitated, the waves of the lake
tumbled about in a strange manner,
seeming to emit flashes of fire, all
the while attended with most tremen-
dous roarings, intermixed with loud
noises, not unlike the explosion of
heavy cannon. Soon as the Indians
perceived it was an earthquake, they
cried out, “Now he comes home!”
and casting themselves in their former
posture, filled the air with dismal
howlings. This was a terrible scene
to Maria, who had never been wit-
ness to so dreadful a convulsion of
nature before; she started up and fled
from her savage companions towards
an eminence at some distance, where
dropping on her knees, she empha-
tically implored the protection of
Heaven: however, she was followed
by an Indian and Henry; the latter
highly affected with her distresses,
taking hold of her trembling hand,
“But why, my sister!” said he
“have you fled from us? is the gloom
of a forest more chearing than the
sympathizing looks of a friend?”
“No, my brother!” replied Maria,
“but the thought was suggested to
me, that the supreme God perhaps
was preparing to avenge himself of
these murderers by some awful and
uncommon judgment, and I fled from
them as Lot did from Sodom, lest I
might be involved in the punishment
of their guilt.” They conversed in
English, which displeasing the Indi-
an, he ordered them to return to the
wigwam, threatening to bind Maria
fast if she offered to elope again. The
shock being over, silence again spread
through the realms of darkness, when
a high wind arose from the north and
chilled our half-naked travelers with
excessive cold. The savages, (whose
callous skins were proof against the
inclement weather) not caring to
continue their fires, lest they should
be discovered and surprised by some
English party, they passed here a
very uncomfortable night; but the
wind subsiding, and the sky growing
clear, the sun rose peculiarly warm
and pleasant, streaming ten thousand
rays of gold across the lake. Maria
had scarcely performed her oraisons,
when the savages, forming a circle
round her and Henry, began to dance
in a most extravagant manner, and
with antic gestures that at another
time would have afforded mirth to
our travelers. Having continued
their exercise some time, they incon-
tinently drew out boxes of paint,
and began to ornament their captives
with a variety of colours; one hav-
ing crossed their faces with a stroke
of vermillion, another would inter-
sect it with a line of black, and so
on until the whole company had
given a specimen of their skill or

Soon after two canoes arrived, in
which they passed over the lake,
which was uncommonly serene and
pleasant. They proceeded not far
on their way before they were ob-
liged to halt for two days, on account
of Maria’s inability to travel, her
feet being greatly swollen and lace-
rated by the flinty path. At length,
by easy stages, they came in view of
an Indian settlement, when Maria’s
long unbent features relaxed into a
half smile, and turning to Henry,
“Here, my brother!” said she, “I
shall find some of my own sex, to
whom simple nature, no doubt, has
taught humanity; this is the first pre-
cept she inculcates in the female
mind, and this they generally retain
through life, in spite of every evil
propensity.” As she uttered this
elogium in favour of the fair, the
tawny villagers, perceiving their ap-
proach, rushed promiscuously from
their huts with a execrable din, and
fell upon the weary captives with
clubs and a shower of stones, accom-
panying their strokes with the most
virulent language; among the rest an
old deformed squaw, with the rage
of a Tisiphone, flew to Maria, aim-
ing a pine-knot at her head, and
would certainly have given the
wretched mourner her quietus had
she not been opposed by the savage
that guarded Mrs. Kittle: he at first
mildly expostulated with his passion-
ate countrywoman; but finding the
old hag frantic, and insatiable of
blood, he twisted the pine-know from
her hand, and whirled it away to
some distance, then seizing her arm
roughly, and tripping up her heels,
he laid her prostrate, leaving her to
howl and yell at leisure, which she
performed without a prompter.–
Maria was all in a tremor, and has-
tily followed her deliverer, not car-
ing to risk another encounter with
the exasperated virago. By this time
the rage and tumult of the savages
subsiding, the new-comers were ad-
mitted into a large wigwam, in the
center of which blazed a fire. After
they were seated, several young In-
dians entered with baskets of green
maize in the ear, which, having roast-
ed before the fire, they distributed
among the company.

Mrs. Kittle and her brother com-
plaining of the bruises they met with
at their reception, an old Indian
seemed to attend with great concern,
then leaving the place, in a little time
returned with a bundle of aromatic
herbs under his arm, the juice of
which, he expressed by rubbing them
between two stones with flat surfaces;
this he gave them to drink, applying
the leaves externally. They instant-
ly found relief from the medical qua-
lity of this extraordinary plant, and
composing themselves to sleep, ex-
pected a good night’s repose; but
they were mistaken, for their enter-
tainers growing intoxicated with spi-
rituous liquors, which operating dif-
ferently, it produced a most compli-
cated noise of yelling, talking, sing-
ing, and quarrelling: this was a
charm more powerful than the wand
of Hermes to drive away sleep; but
grown familiar with sorrow and dis-
appointment, Maria regarded this as
a trifle, and when Henry expressed
his concern for her, smiling, replied,
“We must arm ourselves with pati-
ence, my brother! we can combat
with fate in no other manner.”

It were endless to recapitulate mi-
nutely every distress that attended the
prisoners in their tedious journey; let
it suffice, that having passed through
uncommon misery, and imminent
danger, they arrived at Montreal.
Here the savages were joined by seve-
ral scalping parties of their tribe, and
having previously fresh painted them-
selves, appeared in hideous pomp, and
performed a kind of triumphal entry.
The throng of people that came out
to meet them threw Maria in the most
painful sensations of embarrassment;
but as the clamours and insults of the
populace encreased, a freezing tor-
por succeeded, and bedewed her
limbs with a cold sweat–strange chi-
meras danced before her sight–the
actings of her soul were suspended
–she seemed to move mechanically,
nor recollected herself till she found
she was seated in the Governor’s hall,
surrounded by an impertinent, inqui-
sitive circle of people, who were en-
quiring into the cause of her disor-
der, without attempting any thing
towards her relief. Discovering her
situation, she blushingly withdrew to
a dark corner from the public gaze,
and could not help sighing to herself,
“Alas! but a very few days ago I
was hailed as the happiest of women
–my fond husband anticipated all
my desires–my children smiled
round me with filial delight–my
very servants paid me the homage
due to an angel–oh! my God!
what a sudden, what a deplorable
transition! I am fallen below con-
tempt.” As she thus moralized on
her situation, an English woman
(whom humanity more than curiosi-
ty had drawn to the place) approach-
ed Maria, and observing her tears and
deep dejection, took hold of her hand,
and endeavoured to smile, but the
soft impulses of nature were too strong
for the efforts of dissimulation–her
features instantly saddened again, and
she burst into tears, exclaiming, (with
a hesitating voice,) “Poor, forlorn
creature! where are thy friends!
perhaps the dying moments of thy
fond parent, or husband, have been
cruelly embittered with the sight of
thy captivity! perhaps now thy help-
less orphan is mourning for the breast
which gave him nourishment! or thy
plaintive little ones are wondering at
the long absence of their miserable
mother!”–“Oh! no more! no
more!” interrupted Maria, “your
pity is severer than savage cruelty–I
could stand the shock of fortune with
some degree of firmness, but your
soft sympathy opens afresh the wounds
of my soul! my losses are beyond
your conjecture–I have no parent!
no sportive children! and, I believe,
no husband! to mourn and wish for
me.” These words were succeeded
by an affecting silence on both sides:
mean while the Indians testified their
impatience to be admitted to the
Governor by frequent shouts; at
Length his Excellency appeared, and
Having held a long conference with
The savages, they retired with his Se-
cretary, and our prisoners saw them
no more.

(To be continued.)

[4. December 1790]

After their exit the Governor
Turning round to Maria and
Henry, demanded who they were?
Mrs. Kittle’s perplexity prevented
her reply; but Henry, in a most re-
spectful manner, gave him a succinct
account of their misfortunes. The
Governor perceiving him sensible and
communicative, interrogated him far-
ther, but he modestly declined giv-
ing any political intelligence. Ob-
serving that Maria suffered greatly in
this interview, he soon concluded it,
after having presented several pieces
of callicoes and stuffs to them, desir-
ing they would accept what they had
occasion for. Mrs. Kittle immedi-
ately singled out a piece of black cal-
limanco with tears of gratitude to
her benefactor; who, smiling, ob-
served she might chuse a gayer co-
lour, as he hoped her distresses were
now over. Maria shook her head in
token of dissent, but could make no
reply. He then dismissed them, with
a small guard, who was directed to
provide them with decent lodging.
Henry was accommodated at a
bakers, while his sister, to her no
small satisfaction, found herself plac-
ed at the English woman’s who, on
her arrival, had expressed so much
good nature.–She had scarcely en-
tered, when Mrs. D.–, presenting
her with a cordial, led her to a couch,
insisting on her reposing there a little,
“for,” says she, “your waste of
spirits requires it.”

This tenderness, which Maria had
long been a stranger to, relaxed every
fibre of her heart: She again melted
into tears; but it was a gush of grate-
ful acknowledgment, that called a
modest blush of pleasure and per-
plexity on Mrs. D–‘s check. Be-
ing left alone, she soon fell in a pro-
found sleep; and her friend having
prepared a comfortable repast, in less
than an hour awaked her, with an
invitation to dinner–“and how do
you find yourself, my sister?” said
she instinctively, seizing Maria’s hand
and compressing it between hers;
“may we hope that you will assist
us in conquering your dejection?”–
Maria smiled benignly through a
chrystal atmosphere of tears, and kis-
sing the hand of her friend, arose.
Having dined, and being now equip-
ped in decent apparel, Maria became
the admiration and esteem of the
whole family. The tempest of her
soul subsided in a solemn calm; and
though she did not regain her viva-
city, she became agreeably convers-

In a few days, however, she felt
the symptoms of an approaching fe-
ver. She was alarmed at this, and
intimated to Mrs. D–her fears
of becoming troublesome. “Do not
be concerned,” returned that kind
creature; “my God did not plant
humanity in my breast to remain there
an inactive principle.” Maria felt
her oppression relieved by this gene-
rous sentiment; and indeed found her
friendship did not consist in profess-
sion, as she incessantly tended her
during her illness with inexpressible
delicacy and solicitude. When she
was again on the recovery, Mrs.
D–one day ordered a small truck
covered with Morocco leather to be
brought before her, and opening it,
produced several sets of fine linen,
with some elegant stuffs and other
necessaries–“See,” said she, “what
the benevolence of Montreal has done
for you. The ladies that beg your
acceptance of these things, intend
likewise to inhance the favour, by
waiting on you this afternoon.”–
“Ah!” interrupted Maria, “I want
Them not; this one plain habit is
enough to answer the purpose of
dress for me. Shut the chest my dear
Mrs. D–, and keep them as a
small compensation for the immense
trouble I have been to you.”–“If
this is your real sentiment,” replied
her friend, (shutting the chest, and
presenting her the key,) “return
your gifts to the donors; and since
you will reward me for my little of-
fices of friendship, only love me, and
believe me disinterested, and I shall
be overpaid.”–“I see I have wrong-
ed your generosity,” answered Maria.
“Pardon me, my sister, I will offend
no more. I did not think you mer-
cinary–but–but–I meant only to
disengage my heart of a little of its
burden.”–As this tender contest was
painful to both parties, Mrs. D–
rising abruptly, pretended some bu-
siness, promising to return again di-

In the afternoon Maria received
her visitants in a neat little parlour.
She was dressed in a plain suit of
mourning, and wore a small muslin
cap, from which her hair fell in art-
less curls on her fine neck: her face
was pale, though not emaciated, and
her eyes streamed a soft languor over
her countenance, more bewitching
than the sprightliest glances of viva-
city. As they entered she arose, and
advancing, modestly received their
civilities, while Mrs. D–handed
them to chairs: But hearing a well-
known voice, she hastily lifted up her
eyes, and screamed out in an accent
of surprise, “Good Heaven! May
I credit my senses? My dear Mrs.
Bratt, my kind neighbor, is it re-
ally you that I see?” Here she found
herself clasped in her friend’s arms,
who, after a long subsiding sigh,
broke into tears. The tumult of pas-
sion at length abating–“Could I
have guessed, my Maria,” said she,
“that you was here, my visit should
not have been deferred a moment af-
ter your arrival; but I have mourn-
ed with a sister in affliction, (permit
me to present her to you,) and while
our hearts were wrung with each
other’s distress, alas! we enquired
after no foreign calamity.” Being
all seated, “I dare not,” resumed
Maria, “ask after your family; I
am afraid you only have escaped to
tell me of them.” Not so, my sister,”
cried Mrs. Bratt; “but if you can
bear the recollection of your misfor-
tunes, do oblige me with the recital.”
The ladies joined their entreaty, and
Mrs. Kittle complied in a graceful

After some time spent in tears,
and pleasing melancholy, tea was
brought in; and towards sun-set Mrs.
D–invited the company to walk
in the garden, which being very
small, consisted only of a parterre, at
the farther end of which stood an
arbour covered with a grape-vine.
Here being seated, after some chat
on indifferent subjects, Maria desired
Mrs. Bratt (if agreeable to the com-
pany) to acquaint her with the cir-
cumstances of her capture. They all
bowed approbation; and after some
hesitation Mrs. Bratt began:–
“My heart, ladies, shall ever re-
tain a sense of the happiness I enjoy-
ed in the society of Mrs. Kittle and
several other amiable persons in the
vicinage of Schochticook, where I
resided. She in particular cheered
my lonely hours of widowhood, and
omitted nothing that she thought
might conduce to my serenity. I had
two sons; she recommended the edu-
cation of them to my leisure hours.
I accepted of her advice, and found
a suspension of my sorrows in the
execution of my duty. They soon
improved beyond my capacity of
teaching. Richard, my eldest, was
passionately fond of books, which he
studied with intense application.
This naturally attached him to a se-
dentary life, and he became the con-
stant instructive companion of me
evening hours. My youngest son,
Charles, was more volatile, yet not
less agreeable; his person was charm-
ing, his wit sprightly, and his ad-
dress elegant. They often impor-
tuned me, at the commencement of
this war, to withdraw to Albany;
but as I apprehended no danger, (the
British troops being stationed above
us, quite from Saratoga to the Lake)
I ridiculed their fears.

“One evening as my sons were
come in from reaping, and I was
busied in preparing them a dish of
tea, we were surprised by a discharge
of musketry near us. We all three
ran to the door, and beheld a party
of Indians not twenty paces from us.
Struck with astonishment, we had no
power to move, and the savages again
firing that instant, my Charles drop-
ped down dead beside me. Good
God! what were my emotions?

But language would fail, should I
attempt to describe them. My sur-
viving son then turning to me, with
a countenance expressive of the deep-
est horror urged me to fly. “Let
us begone this instant,” said he; “a
moment determines our fate. O!
my mother! you are already lost.”
But despair had swallowed up my
fears; I fell shrieking on the body of
my child, and rending away my hair,
endeavoured to recall him to life with
unavailing laments. Richard in the
mean while had quitted me, and the
moment after I beheld him mounted
on horseback, and stretching away to
the city. The Indians fired a volley
at him, but missed, and I flatter my-
self that he arrived safe–And now,
not all my prayers and tears could
prevent the wretches from scalping
my precious child. But when they
rent me away from him, and dragged
me from the house, my grief and
rage burst forth like a hurricane. I
execrated their whole race, and called
for eternal vengeance to crush them
to atoms. After a while I grew a-
shamed of my impetuosity; the tears
began again to flow silently on my
brow, and as I walked through the
forest between two Indians, my soul
grew suddenly sick and groaned in
me; a darkness more substantial than
Egyptian night fell upon it, and my
existence became an insupportable
burthen to me. I looked up to Hea-
ven with a hopeless kind of awe, but
I murmured no more at the dispensa-
tions of my God, and in this frame
of sullen resignation I passed the rest
of my journey, which being nearly
similar to Mrs. Kittle’s, I shall aboid
the repetition of. And now permit
me (said she, turning to the French
ladies) to acknowledge your extreme
goodness to me. I was a stranger,
sick and naked, and you took me in.
You indeed have proved the good Sa-
maritan to me, pouring oil and wine
in my wounds.” “Hush! hush!”
cried Madame de Roche, “you esti-
mate our services at too high a rate.
I see you are no connoisseur in minds;
there is a great deal of honest hospi-
tality in the world, though you have
met with so little.”

“I now reject,” interrupted Mrs.
Bratt, “all prejudices of education.
From my infancy have I been taught
that the French were a cruel perfidi-
ous enemy, but I have found them
quite the reverse.”

Madame de R. willing to change
the subject, accosted the other stran-
ger–“Dear Mrs. Willis, shall we
not be interested likewise in your
misfortunes?”–“Ah! do,” added
Mademoiselle V. “my heart is now
sweetly tuned to melancholly. I love
to indulge these divine sensibilities,
which your affecting histories are so
capable of inspiring.” –Maria then
took hold of Mrs. Willis’s hand, and
pressed her to oblige them.–Mrs.
Willis bowed. She dropt a few tears;
but assuming a composed look, she

(To be continued.)

[5. January 1791]

“I am the daughter of a poor
clergyman, who being con-
fined to his chamber, by sickness, for
several years, amused himself by edu-
cating me. At his death, finding
myself friendless, and without mo-
ney, I accepted the hand of a young
man who had taken a leased farm in
Pennsylvania. He was very agree-
able, and extravagantly fond of me.
We lived happily for many years in
a kind of frugal affluence. When
the savages began to commit out-
rages on the frontier settlements, our
neighbours, intimidated at their ra-
pid approaches, erected a small fort,
surrounded by a high palisade. Into
this the more timorous drove their
cattle at night; and one evening, as
we were at supper, my husband (be-
ing ordered on guard) insisted that I
should accompany him with the chil-
dren (for I had two lovely girls, one
turned of thirteen years, and another
of six months.) My Sophia assented
to the proposal with joy. “Mamma,”
said she, “what a merry woman the
Captain’s wife is; she will divert us
the whole evening, and she is very
fond of your company: come, I
will take our little Charlotte on my
arm, and papa will carry the lan-
thorn.” I acceded with a nod; and
already the dear charmer had hand-
ed me my hat and gloves, when some-
body thundered at the door. We
were silent as death, and instantly
after plainly could distinguish the
voices of savages conferring together.
Chilled as I was with fear, I flew to
the cradle, and catching my infant,
ran up into a loft. Sophia followed
me all trembling, and panting for
breath cast herself in my bosom.
Hearing the Indians enter, I looked
through a crevice in the floor, and
saw them, with menacing looks, seat
themselves round the table, and now
and then addressed themselves to Mr.
Willis, who, all pale and astonished,
neither understood nor had power to
answer them. I observed they took
a great pleasure in terrifying him,
by flourishing their knives, and gash-
ing the table with their hatchets.
Alas! this sight shot icicles to my
soul; and, to increase my distress,
my Sophia’s little heart beat against
my breath, with redoubled strokes, at
every word they uttered.

“Having finished their repast in
a gluttinous manner, they laid a fire-
brand in each corner of the chamber,
and then departed, driving poor Mr.
Willis before them. The smoke soon
incommoded us; but we dreaded our
barbarous enemy more than the fire.
At length, however, the flames be-
ginning to invade our retreat, trem-
bling and apprehensive we ventured
down stairs; the whole house now
glowed like a furnace; the flames
rolled towards the stairs, which we
hastily descended; but just as I sat
my foot on the threshold of the door,
a piece of timber, nearly consumed
through, gave way, and fell on my
left arm, which supported my infant,
miserably fracturing the bone. I in-
stantly caught up my fallen lamb,
and hasted to overtake my Sophia.
There was a large hollow tree conti-
guous to our house, with an aperture
just large enough to admit so small a
woman as I am. Here we had often
laughingly proposed to hide our chil-
dren, in case of a visit from the olive
coloured natives. In this we now
took shelter; and being seated some
time, my soul seemed to awake as
it were from a vision of horror: I
lifted up my eyes, and beheld the
cottage that lately circumscribed all
my worldly wealth and delight,
melting away before the devouring
fire. I dropt a tear as our apostate
first parents did when thrust out from

“The world lay all before them,
where to chuse their place of rest,
and Providence their guide. Ah!
Eve thought I, hadst thou been like
me, solitary, maimed, and unpro-
tected, thy situation had been deplo-
rable indeed. Then pressing my
babe to my heart, “how quiet art
thou, my angel,” said I; “sure–
sure, Heaven has stilled thy little
plaints in mercy to us.”–“Ah!”
sobbed Sophia, “now I am com-
forted again that I hear my dear
mamma’s voice. I was afraid grief
would have for ever deprived me of
that happiness.” And here she kissed
my babe and me with vehemence.
When her transports were moderated,
“how cold my sister is,” said she,
“do wrap her up warmer, mamma;
poor thing, she is not used to such
uncomfortable lodging.”

“The pain of my arm now called
for all my fortitude and attention;
but I forbore to mention this afflict-
ing circumstance to my daughter.
“The cheerful swallow now be-
gan to usher in the dawn with melo-
dy; we timidly prepared to quit our
hiding place; and turning round to
the light, I cast an anxious eye of
love on my innocent, wondering
that she slept so long. But oh! hor-
ror and misery! I beheld her a pale,
stiff corpse in my arms (suffer me to
weep, ladies, at the cruel recollect-
tion;) it seems the piece of wood
that disabled me, had also crushed my
Charlotte’s tender skull, and no won-
der my hapless babe was quiet. I
could no longer sustain my sorrowful
burden, but falling prostrate, almost
insensible, at the dreadful discovery,
uttered nothing but groans. Sophia’s
little heart was too susceptible for so
moving a scene. Distracted between
her concern for me, and her grief for
the loss of her dear sister, she cast
herself beside me, and with the soft-
est voice of sorrow, bewailed the fate
of her beloved Charlotte–her sweet
companion–her innocent, laughing
play-fellow. At length we rose,
and Sophia, clasping all that remain-
ed of my cherub in her arms, “Ah!”
said she, “I did engage to carry you,
my sister, but little did I expect in
this distressing manner.” When we
came in sight of the fort, though I
endeavoured to spirit up my grieved
child, yet I found my springs of ac-
tion began to move heavily, my
heart fluttered, and I suddenly faint-
ed away. Sophia, concluding I was
dead, uttered so piercing a cry, that
the centinel looking up, immediate-
ly called to those in the fort to assist
us. When I recovered, I found m-
self in a bed encircled by my kind
neighbours, who divided their ex-
pressions of love and condolement be-
tween me and my child. I remain-
ed in the fort after this; but, ladies,
you may think, that bereft as I was
of so kind a husband and endearing
child, I soon found myself solitary
and destitute. I wept incessantly;
and hearing nothing from my dear
Willis, I at length resolved to traverse
the wilds of Canada in pursuit of
him. When I communicated this to
my friends, they all strongly oppos-
ed it; but finding me inflexible, they
furnished me with some money and
necessaries, and obtained a permission
from the Governor to let me go un-
der protection of a flag that was on
the way. Hearing likewise that a
cartel was drawn for an exchange of
prisoners, I sat out, flushed with hope,
and with indefatigable industry and
painful solicitude, arrived at Mon-
treal, worn to a skeleton (as you see
ladies) with fatigue.

“I omitted not to enquire of every
officer, the names of prisoners who
had been brought in. At length I
understood that Mr. Willis had pe-
rished in jail, on his first arrival, of
a dysentery.–Here my expectations
terminated in despair. I had no mo-
ney to return with, and indeed but
for my Sophia no inclination–the
whole world seemed dark and chear-
less to me as the fabled region of Cim-
meria, and I was nigh perishing for
very want, when Mrs. Bratt, hearing
of my distress, sought my acquaint-
ance: she kindly participated my
sorrows, and too–too generously
shared her purse and bed with me.–
This, ladies, is the story of a broken-
hearted woman; nor should I have
intruded it in any other but the house
of mourning.”

Here she concluded, while the
ladies severally embracing her, ex-
pressed their acknowledgements for
the painful task she had complied
with to oblige their curiosity–
“Would to Heaven!” said Madame
de R–, “that the brutal nations were
extinct, for never–never can the
united humanity of France and Bri-
tain compensate for the horrid cruel-
ties of their savage allies.”
They were soon after summoned
to an elegant collation; and having
spent best part of the night together,
the guests retired to their respective

During two years, in which the
French ladies continued their boun-
ty and friendship to Mrs. Kittle, she
never could gain the least intelligence
of her husband. Her letters, after
wandering through several provinces,
would often return to her hands un-
opened. Despairing at length of ever
seeing him, “ah!” she would say to
Mrs. D–, “my poof husband has
undoubtedly perished, perhaps in his
fruitless search after me, and I am
left to be a long–long burden on
your goodness, a very unprofitable

In her friend’s absence she would
descend into the kitchen, and submit
to the most menial offices; nor could
the servants prevent her; however,
the apprised Mrs. D–of it, who
seized an opportunity of detecting her
at her labour. Being baffled in her
humble attempt by the gentle re-
proaches of her indulgent patroness,
she sat down on the step of the door,
and began to weep. “I believe,
good Mrs. D–,” said she, “were
you a hard task-master, that exacted
from these useless hands the most sla-
vish business, I could acquit myself
with cheerfulness: my heart is like
ice, that brightens and grows firmer
by tempests, but cannot stand the
warm rays of a kind sun.” Mrs.
D–was beginning to answer,
when hearing a tumult in the street,
they both hasted to the door, and
Maria, casting her eyes carelessly over
the crowd, in an instant recognized
the features of her long-lamented
husband, who sprang towards her
with an undescribable and involunta-
ry rapture; but the tide of joy and
surprise was too strong for the de-
licacy of her frame. She gave a
faint exclamation, and stretching out
her arms to receive him, dropped
senseless at his feet. The succession
of his ideas were too rapid to admit
describing. He caught her up, and
bearing her in the hall, laid his pre-
cious burden on a settee, kneeling be-
side her in a speechless agony of de-
light and concern. Mean while the
spectators found themselves wonder-
fully affected–the tender contagion
ran from bosom to bosom–they wept
aloud; and the house of joy seemed
to be the house of lamentation. At
length Maria opened her eyes and
burst into a violent fit of tears–Mr.
Kittle, with answering emotions, si-
lently accompanying her; then clasp-
ing his arms endearingly round her,
“it is enough, my love,” said he;
“we have had our night of affliction,
and surely this blessed meeting is a
presage of a long day of future hap-
pines; let me kiss off those tears,
and shew by your smiles that I am
indeed welcome.” Maria then bend-
ing fondly forward to his bosom, re-
plied, sighing, “alas! how can your
beggared wife give you a proper re-
ception!–she cannot restore your
prattling babes to your arms!–she
comes alone–alas! her presence will
only serve to remind you of the trea-
sures–the filial delights you have
lost.”–“God forbid,” answered he,
“that I should repine at the loss of
my smaller comforts, when so capital
a blessing as my beloved Maria is so
wonderfully restored to me.” Here
he was in civility obliged to rise and
receive the compliments of Mrs.
Bratt, Mrs. Willis, and Madame de
R–, who, hearing of his arrival,
entered just then half breathless, with
impatience and joy. The company
encreased. An elegant dinner was
prepared. In short, the day was de-
voted to pleasure; and never was
satisfaction more general–festivity
glowed on every face, and compla-
cency dimpled every cheek.
After tea Maria withdrew in the
garden, to give her beloved an ac-
count of what had befallen her dur-
ing their separation. The eloquence
of sorrow is irresistible. Mr. Kittle
wept, he groaned, while all impassi-
oned (with long interruptions of grief
in her voice) she stammered through
her doleful history, and yet she felt
a great satisfaction in pouring her
complaints into a bosom whose feel-
ings were in unison with her’s–they
wept–the smiled–they mourned,
and rejoiced alternately, with an
abrupt transition from one passion to

Mr. Kittle, in return, informed
her, that having thrown himself
into the army, in hopes of ending a
being that grew insupportable under
the reflection of past happiness–he
tempted death in every action where-
in he was engaged, and being dis-
appointed, gave himself up to the
blackest melancholy. “This gloomy
scene,” he observed, “would soon
have been closed by some act of des-
peration, but one evening, sitting
pensive in his tent, and attentively
running over the circumstances of his
misfortunes, a thought darted on his
mind that possibly his brother Henry
might be alive.” This was the first
time the idea of any one of his fa-
mily’s surviving the general murder
had presented itself to him, and he
caught at the flattering suggestion as
a drowning wretch would to a plank.
“Surely–surely,” said he, “my bro-
ther lives–it is some divine emana-
tion lights up the thought in my soul
–it carries conviction with it–I
will go after him–it shall be the
comfort and employment of my life
to find out this dear brother–this last
and only treasure.” Persuaded of
the reality of his fancy, he commu-
nicated his design to a few of his mi-
litary friends; but they only laughed
at his extravagance, and strongly
dissuaded him from so wild an un-
dertaking. Being discouraged, he
desisted; but shortly after, hearing
that a company of prisoners (who
were enfranchised) were returning to
Quebec, he got permission to accom-
pany them. After a very fatiguing
journey he arrived at Montreal, and
was immediately introduced to the
General Officer, who patiently heard
his story, and treated him with great
clemency. Having obtained leave to
remain a few days in town, he re-
spectfully withdrew, and turning
down a street, he enquired of a man
who was walking before him, where
lodgings were to be let? The stran-
ger turned about, civily taking off
his hat, when Mr. Kittle, starting
back, grew as pale as ashes–“Oh,
my God!” cried he, panting, “oh!
Henry, is it you! is it indeed you!
No, it cannot be!” Here he was
ready to fall; but Henry, with little
less agitation, supported him; and a
tavern being at hand, he led him in.
The master of the hotel brought in
wine, and they drank off many glasses
to congratulate so happy a meeting.
When their transports were abated,
Henry ventured to tell him that his
Maria was living and well. This
was a weight of joy too strong for
his enfeebled powers–he stared wild-
ly about. At length, recovering him-
self, “take care, Henry,” said he,
“this is too tender a point to trifle
upon.”–“My brother,” replied
Henry, “be calm, let not your joy
have a worse effect than your grief–
they both came sudden, and it be-
hoves a man and a christian to shew
as much fortitude under the one as
the other.”–“Alas! I am prepared
for some woeful deception,” cried
Mr. Kittle; “but, Henry, this sus-
pence is cruel.”–“By the eternal
God!” rejoined his brother, “your
Maria–your wife–is in this town,
and if you are composed enough,
shall immediately see her. Mr. Kit-
tle could not speak–he gave his hand
to Henry, and while (like the Apos-
tles friends) he believed not for joy,
he was conducted to her arms, and
found his bliss wonderfully real.