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LESSON XXVII.

The First Settlement of New England. JOSEPH STORY.

If the origin of nations be, as it confessedly is, a source of deep interest, there are circumstances connected with the first settlement of New England peculiarly to gratify a national pride. We do not trace ourselves back to times of traditionary darkness, where truth and fiction are blended at every step, and what remains, after the closest investigation, is but conjecture, or shadowy fact. We do not rely upon the arts of the poet to give dignity to the narrative, and invest it with the colorings of his imagination. Greece might delight to trace her origin up to the high renown and antiquity of Egypt, and Rome soothe herself with her rise from the smouldering ruins of Troy. We have no legends which genius may fashion into its own forms, and crowd with imaginary personages. Such as it is, our history lies far within the reach of the authentic annals of mankind. It has been written by contemporaries with a simplicity which admits of no embellishment, and a fidelity which invites scrutiny.

Take but a single passage in their lives, the opening scene of that drama, on which we seem but just to have entered. Go back, and meet the first detachment, the little band, which, under the guidance of the worthy, intelligent, and intrepid Endicott, landed on the neighboring shore. It was then, as it is now, the early advance of autumn. What can be more beautiful, or more attractive, than this season in New England? The sultry heat of summer has passed away; and a delicious coolness at evening succeeds the genial warmth of the day. The labors of the husbandman approach their natural termination; and he gladdens with the near prospect of his promised reward. The earth swells with the increase of vegetation. The fields wave with their yellow and luxu

riant harvests. The trees put forth their darkest foliage, half shading and half revealing their ripened fruits, to tempt the appetite of man, and proclaim the goodness of his Creator. Even in scenes of another sort, where Nature reigns alone in her own majesty, there is much to awaken religious enthu siasm. As yet the forests stand clothed in their dress of undecayed magnificence. The winds, that rustle through their tops, scarcely disturb the silence of the shades below. The mountains and the valleys glow in warm green, or lively russet. The rivulets flow on with a noiseless current, reflecting back the images of many a glossy insect, that dips his wings in their cooling waters. The mornings and evenings are still vocal with the notes of a thousand warblers, who plume their wings for a later flight. Above all, the clear blue sky, the long and sunny calms, the scarcely whispering breezes, the brilliant sunsets, lit up with all the wondrous magnificence of light and shade and color, and slowly settling down into a pure and transparent twilight. These, these are days and scenes which even the cold cannot behold without emotion; but on which the meditative and pious gaze with profound admiration; for they breathe of holier and happier regions beyond the grave.

But lovely as is this autumn, so finely characterized as the Indian summer of New England, and so favorably contrasting itself with the chills and moisture of the British Isles, let us not imagine, that it appeared to these Pilgrims, as it does to us, clothed in smiles. Their first steps on this continent were doubtless with that buoyancy of spirit, which relief from the tediousness and dangers of a sea voyage naturally excites. But think you that their first hasty glances around them did not bring some anxieties for the future, and some regrets for the past? They were in the midst of a wilderness, untrod den by civilized man. The native forests spread around them, with only here and there a detached glade, which the Indian tomahawk had levelled, or the fisherman cleared for his tem

porary hut. There were no houses inviting to repose, no fields ripening with corn, no cheerful hearths, no welcoming friends, no common altars.

The heavens, indeed, shone fair over their heads; and the earth beneath was rich in its beauties. But where was their home? Where were those comforts and endearments, which that little word crowds in our hearts in the midst of the keenest sufferings? Where were the objects, to which they might cling to relieve their thoughts from the sense of present desolation? If there were some, who could say with an exile of the succeeding year, "We rested that night with glad and thankful hearts, that God had put an end to our long and tedious journey through the greatest sea in the world," there were many, whose pillows were wet with bitter, though not repentant, tears. Many a father offered his evening prayer with trembling accents; many a mother clasped her children to her bosom in speechless agony. The morrow came; but it brought no abatement of anxiety. It was rather a renewal of cares, of sad reminiscences, of fearful forebodings.

This is no idle picture of the fancy, tricked out for effect, to move our sympathies, or blind us to the real facts. How could their situation be otherwise? They were not fugitives from justice, seeking to bury themselves and their crimes in some remote corner of the earth. They were not prodigals, endeavoring to retrieve their wrecked fortunes in distant adventures. They were not idle and luxurious wanderers, weary of society, and panting for unexplored novelties. They had left a country full of the refinements of social life, and dear to them by every human tie. There were the tombs of their ancestors; there the abodes of their friends; of mothers, who kissed their pale cheeks on the sea-shore; of sisters, who wrung their hands in sharp distress; of children, who dropped upon their knees, and asked a blessing at parting—ay, at parting forever. There was the last, lingering embrace; there the last sight of the white cliffs of England, which had faded

from their straining gaze, for time and for eternity. There, for the last time, were uttered from their broken voices, "Farewell, dear England; farewell, the church of God in England; farewell, all Christian friends there."

They were now landed on other shores. The excitements of the voyage were gone. Three thousand miles of ocean rolled between them and the country they had left; and every illusion of hope had vanished before the sober realities of a wilderness. They had now full leisure for reflection,

"while busy, meddling memory,

In barbarous succession, mustered up

The past endearments of their softer hours,
Tenacious, of its theme."

There is nothing so depressing in exile, as that sickness of the heart, which comes over us with the thoughts of a lost, distant home. There is nothing, which softens the harsh features of nature, like the feeling that this is our country. The exiles of New England saw not before them either a home or a country. Both were to be created.

If the past could bring few consolations, the future was not without its embarrassments. The season was passed, in which any addition could be made to their scanty stock of provisions from the produce of the soil. No succors could reach them until the ensuing spring; and even then, they were subject to many contingencies. The winter must soon approach with its bleak winds and desolating storms. The wild beasts were in the woods; and the scarcely less savage Indians lurked in the ravines, or accosted them with questionable friendship. Trees were to be felled, and houses built, and fortifications arranged, as well for shelter as for safety; and brief was the space, and feeble the means, to accomplish these necessary defences. Beyond these were the unknown dangers of change of climate, and new habits of life, and scanty food; of the pestilence, that walketh in darkness, and the famine that wasteth at noon

day. These were discouragements which might well appal the timid, and subdue the rash. It is not, then, too much to affirm again, that it required stout hands and stouter hearts to overcome such difficulties. But

"If misfortune comes, she brings along

The bravest virtues."

The men who landed here were no ordinary men; the motive for their emigration was no ordinary motive; and the glory of their achievement has few parallels in the history. of the world. Their perseverance in the midst of hardships, their firmness in the midst of dangers, their patience in the midst of sufferings, their courage in the midst of disasters, their unconquerable spirit, their unbending adherence to their principles, their steady resistance of all encroachments, surprise us even more than the wisdom of their plans and the success of their operations.

LESSON XXVIII.

A Day in Newfoundland.

FRAZER'S MAGAZINE.

It was on a warm and sunny day in July that I first visited a fishing village, about nine miles from what was then my home in Newfoundland. The road, (almost the only one the island could then boast,) after skirting the shores of a fine lake, entered a picturesque valley, the hills on either side rising in rich and varied undulations, clothed with the darkgreen foliage of the low fir-trees, varied occasionally by the white blossoms of wild pear and cherry, or the young leaves of birch and balsam-poplar. Here and there a huge mass of rock showed itself above the trees; in one place stone was

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