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4,1 ,lavo sworn upon the Altar of God, eternal hostility to every form or Tyranny over the Blind of JVIau.' Thomas Jcfl'erson.
MINTED AND PUBLISHED BY II. WEBB.
Volume MI. BliOORSSKftJRGr, COLUMBIA COUNTY, PA. SATURBAY, OCTOBEIi 12, 1839. Numlici! 8t.
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From the North American.
VALIiY OFWITOMING-TIIE
X.OST SISTER.
After the battle and massacre, of Wyo
ming most of the settlers fled. But here
nd there a straggler returned from the
mountains or wilderness, and in the course
of three or four months, other cabins w ere
oing up over tho ashes of their former
homes, and quite a little neighborhood was
collected. But the Indians kept prowling
around on the mountains, now descending
here and now therq, killing this family
scalpigg that,, or making it captive- At a
little distance fiom the present Court House
?t Wftesbarro, lived a family by tho name
of Slocum, upon whom the visitations of
the Indian's cruelties were awfully severe.
The riisn were one day in the fields, and
in in instant, tho hoOst YtfaViurroundad by
Indians! Theft were in it, the mother, a
daughter about nine years of age, a son aged
thirteen, another daughter aged five, and a
little boy aged two and a half. A young
man and a boy by the name nf Kingslcy,
vrers present grinding a knife. The first
thing the Indians did was to shoot down the
young man and scalp him with the knife
which he had in his hand. The nine year
old sister took the litlie boy two year and
a half old, and ran out of tho back door to
get to tho fort. The Indians chased her
just enough to see her fright, and to have a
hearty laugh as she ran and clung to and
lifted her chubby little brother. They then
took the Kingsley boy and young Slocum,
aged thirteen; and littlo Frances aged five,
and prepared to depart. But finding young
Slocum lame, at tho earnest entreaties of
the mother, they set him down and left him.
Their captives were then young Kingsley
and the little girl. The mothers heart swel
led unutterably, and for years she could not
describe the scene without tears. She saw
en Indian throw her child over his shoulder,
and as her hair fell over her face, with one
hand she brushed it aside, while the tears
fell from her distended oye, and stretching
out her other hand towards her mother, she
called for her aid. The Indian turned into
the bushes and this was tho last seen of lit
tle Frances. This image,probably was car
tied by the mother to her grave. About a
month after this they came again, and with
-tho most awful cruclties,murdcred the grand
father, and shot a ball in the leg of tho
lama boy. This he carried with htm in
his leg nearly sixty years, to the grave.-
The last child was born a few mouths after
theso tragedies ! What were the conversa
lions, what were the conjectures, what were
the hopes and fears respecting little Fran
ces. I will riot attempt to describe. Prob
ably the children saw that in all after life,
tho heart of the stricken mother was yearn
ing for the the Utile one whoso fate was so
uncertain, nnd whose face she could never
ite again.
As the boys grew up and becamo men,
they were'very anxious to know tho fato of
their littlo fair haired sister. They wrote
letters, they sent Inquiries, they made jour
nej'B through all the West and into the Can
ada, if pcradveuture they might learn any
thing respecting her fate, Four of these
longjourncys were made in vain. A silenco
deep as that of the deepest forest through
which she wandered, hung over her fete, and
that sixty years.
My reader will now pass over 58 years
from the lime of this captivity, and suppose
himself far in the wilderness in the furtherest
part of Iudiana. A very respectable agont
of the United States is travelling there, and
weary and belated, with a tired horse, he
stops at an Indian wigwam for the night.
Ho can speak the Indian language the fam
ily are rich for Indians, have horses and
skins in abundance. In the course of the
evening, he notices that the hair of the wo
men is light, and her skin, under her dress
is also white. This led to a covcrsation.
She told him she was a white child, but had
been carried away when a very small girl.
She could only remember that her name
was Slocum that she lived in a little house
on the banks of the Susqiiha.n.n,i, and how
many they were in her father's family, ad
the order of their a;.3 1 But the name of
the town she could not remember. On
reaching his home, the agent mentioned this
story to his mother. She urged and pres
sed him to write an account. According
ly he wrote it and sent to Lancaster of this
state, requesting that it might be published.
By some, to me, unaccouulably blunder, it
lay in the office two yearn before it was
printed. But last summer it was publish
ed. In a few davs it fell in tho hands of
Mr. Slocum, of Wilkesbarre, who was the
little two and a half year old boy, when
Frances was taken. In a few days he was
off to seek his sister, taking with him his
older sister, (the one who aided him to es
cape) and writing to a brother who now
lives in Ohio, and who I believe was born
after. the captwily, to meet him and go with
him.
The two brothers and sister now (1838)
on their way to seek little Frances, just six
ty years after her captivity. After travel
ling more than 300 miles through the wil
derness, they reach the Indiana country, the
home of the Miami Indian. Nine miles
from the nearest white, they find the little
wigwam. I shall know my sister," said
the civilised sister, "because she lost the
nail of the first finger. Your brother, ham
mered it off in the blacksmith shop when
she was four years old." They go into the
cabin and fiind an Indian woman having tho
appearance of seventy-five. She is paint
ed and jewelled off, and dressed liko the In
dians in all respects. Nothing but her hair
and covered skin would indicate her origin.
They get an interpreter and begin to con
verse she tells them wheie she was born
her name &c, with tho order of her father's
family. "How came your nail gone?"
said the oldest sister. " My oldest brother
pounded it oft" when I was a little child in
the shop I" In a word, they were satisfied
that this was Frances, their long lost sistei!
They asked her what her christian name
was ? She could not remember. Was it
Frances ? She smiled and said " yes."
It was the first time she had heard it pro
nounced for GO years! Here,theu, they were
met two brothers and two sisters ! They
were all satisfied they ware brothers and
sisters. But what a contrast ! The broth
eis were walking in the cabin unable to
speak; tho oldest sister was weeping, but the
poor Indian sister sat motionless and pas
sionless, as indifferent as a spectator. There
was no throbbing, no fine cords in her bo
som to bo touched.
When Mr. Slocum was giving mo this
history, I said to him " but could not she
speak English ?" " Not r word." Did
she not know her age?" "No; had no
idea of it." " But was she entirely ignor
ant ?," " Sir, she. did not know when Sun
day came!" This was indeed the consu
mation of ignorance in a descendent of the
Puritans 1
But what a picture for a painter would the
inside of that cabin have afforded ? Here
were the children of civilization, respecta
ble, temperate, intelligent and wealthy, able
to overcome mountains to recover their sis
ter. There was the child of the forest un
able to tell tho day of the week, whose
views and feelings were all confined to that
cabin. Her wholo history might be told in
'a word. She li-ed with the Delawares who
carried her off, till grown up, and then mar
ried a Deleware. Ho either died or ran a
way, she then married a Miami Indian, a
chief as I believe. She has two daughters,
both of whom arc married and who live in
all the glory of an Indian cabin, deer-skin
clothes, and cow-skin head dresses. No
one of the family can speak a work of Eng
lish. They have horses in abundance and
when the Indian sister wanted to accompa
ny the new relatives, she whipped out, bri
dled her horse, and then ala Turk, moun
ted astride and was off. At night she could
throw a blanket around Ker, down upon the
floor and at once be asleep.
The brothers and sister tried to persuade
their lost sister to return with them, and if
she desired it, bring her children. They
would transplant her again to the bank of
the Susquehanna, and of their wealth make
her home happy. But no. She had al
ways lived with the Indians; they had al
ways been kind to her, and she had pro
mised her late husband on his death bed,
that she would never leave the Indians.
And there they left her and hers, wild and
darkened heathens, though sprunr from a
pious race. You can hardly imagine how
much this brother is interested for her. He
says he intends this autumn to go again that
long journey to see his tawny sister, to car
ry her some presents, and pcrpaps will go
and petition Congress that if ever these Mi-
amis are driven off there mav be a tract of
land reserved for his sister and her descend
ents 1 His heart yearns with indiscribabk
tenderness for the poor pelpless one, who
sixty years ago was torn from the arms of
her mothci. Mysterious Providence!
.How wonderful the tie which can thus bind
a tamily together with a chain so strong
that nothing can break its links !
I will only add, that nothing has ever
been heard of the Kingsley. The proba
bility certainly is, that he is not living.-
This account, hastily and imperfectly given,
I had from the lips of Mr. Slocum, the
brother, and the same who was two and a
half yeara old when little Frances was car
ried away. I believe I have altered nothing,
though I have omitted enough to make the
good part of an interesting volume.
A Fragment- Twas night, and such a
night as earth ne'er saw before Murky
clouds veiled the fair face of heaven, and
gave to pitchy darkness a still deeper dye
The moon had fledthe stars had closed
their eyes for deeds were doing they dare
not look upon ! The goda of the elements
were abroad. Eolus exulting led forth his
legions, howling from their dark cavorns:
Neptune, foaming with rage, roared madly,
as he contended with his rock bound pri
son. The incensed Thunder drawn by
his winged steed.in his aeri'al ehuiot, flash
ing lightning from his eyes, bellowed fortti
his madness and ever and anon the de
moniac shout, of. Ate, and the fiendish
laughter of Hecate and her crew were heard
above the tempest. For a time the pure
streams turned stagnant and ceased to flow
the mountain trembled, and tho forest drop
ped its leaves, the flowers lost their frag
rance and withered, and all nature became
desolate. In glee serpants hissed, harpies
screamed, and satyrs revelled beneath the
branches of the Upas. Domestio beasts
crcp near the abode of men. The lion re
linquiahed his half eaten prey: the tiger,
forgetful of his fierceness, ran howling to
his lair; and oven the hiena deserted his re
past of dead men's bones. Man alone of
all earth's creatures slept. But still he
slept as if tho boding of some half unknown
calamity brooded over his mind. The as
piring youth muttered of blasted hopes;
long : cherished young, fair and gifted
maidens would start, and trembling, weep
their injured innocence and mothers, too
would half awake and while, they pressed
their little nurslings to their breasts, would
breathe still another prayer for the protec
tion. On such u night Hell yawned, and
gaqe to earth ? Slanderer
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.
BY WM. MOTHERWELL.
Mournfully 1 oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet plaintive melody
Of ages long gone by:
It speaks a tale of other-years
Of hopes that bloomed to die
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie 1
Mournfully ! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth msan;
It stirs some "hord of memory
In each dull, heavy tone :
The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon;
All, all my fond heart cherished
Ero death had made it lone.
Mournfully ! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell,
With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy,
Hope's passionate farewell :
To the dteamy joys of other years,
Ere yet grief's canfter fell
On the hearts bloom ay ! well may tears
Start at that parting knell.
Prom Rayder's Life of Jefferson.
LAST HOURS " DE T1 OF T.JEFFERSON.
When the morning of that day came, he
appeared to be thoroughly impressed, and,
as if preternaturally, that he could not live
through it, and only cxpiessed a desire that
he might survive until mid day. lie seem
ed perfectly at ease, being willing to die.
When the.docter entered his room, he said,
"Well docter, you see I am here yet.' His
disorder being checked, a friend expressed
a hope of amendment. His reply was,
that 'the powers of nature were too much ex
haustrd to be rallied.' One member of the
family observing that he was better, and
that the docter thought so, he listened with
evident impatience, and said, Do not imag
ine for a moment that I feel the smallest so
licitude for the result. He then calmly
gave directions for his funeral, expressly
forbidding all pomp and parade, when, be
ing answered by a hope that it would be
long ere the occasion would require their
observance, he asked, with a smile, 'Do you
think I fear to die?' ,A few moments after
he called his family and friends around his
bed side, and uttered distinctly the follow
ing sentence: I have done for my country
and for all mankind, all that I could do, and
I now resign my soul without fear to my
God, my daughter to my country.' These
weie the last solemn declarations to the
world, his dying will and testament, be
queathing his most precious gifts to his God
and to his country. A11 that was heard,
from him afterwards, was a hurried repeti
tion, in indistinct and scarcely audible ac
cents, of his favorite ejaculation, Nunc Di
mittas Dominie Nunc, Dimitlas. Domin
ie. He sunk away imperceptly, and breath
ed his last, without a struggle or a murmur
at ten minutes before 1 o'clock, on the great
jubilee of American Liberty the day, and
hour, too, on which tho Declaration of In
dependence received il3 final reading, & the
day and hour, on which he prayed to Ilea
ven'that he might bo permitted to de
part. Astonishing coincidence! wonderful a
thanasia Was not the hand of God most
affectingly displayed in this event, as if to
add another, and a crowning one, to the
multiplied proofs of his especial superinten
dence over this happy country? On the ad
versary of the day the most distinguished
in the annals of mankind;oitthe fiftieth anni
versary of that momentous day, too, which
his own great work had rendered thus mo
mentous; at tho identical moment, when
fifty years beforo he was engaged in repea
ting its sublime and eternal ttuths, for the
final adoption of his country and in mer
ciful fulfilment of his last earthly prayer- he
closed his eyes in patriot ecstaoy, amidst
the Ihundcr of artillery, and tho lightning
of impassioned declamation of a congrega
ted nation united with one voice in pro
claiming the assurance of his immortalityl
The like felicitous combination has never
lappened in the world no, nor can it ever
:iappcn, may be almost said with certainly.
Few of the miracles recorded in the sacred
writings are moro conspicuous or imping.
Mark again what did not escape the won
der & the record of the auxious spectators
of the scene ; the extraordinary protraction
of physical existence, manifested in the last
moments of Mr. Jefferson, as if to tender
the coincident morn strikingly and beauti
fully complete. At 8 o'clock P. M. on.
the third of July, Ills physician of whoso
eminence it is superfluous to speak, pronoun
ced that he might be expected to cease to
live every quarter of an hour from that
lime. Yet he lived seventeen hours longer
without any evident pain or suffering or
restlessness, and intelligence, for much
more lltau twelve hours of the time; and at
last gradually subsided into inanimation
like a lamp which had shone throughout
dark night, spreading for its beneficient rays
and had continued to burn enough to usher
in broad day light upon mankind His de
sire to see the noontide of the national ju
bilee was thus wonderlully fulfilled, contra
ry to tho expectations of those around him.
Surely a life so precious and illustrious,
should, if possible, be rendered more es
timable, more sacred in the contemplation
of tho incomprehensible felicity of his
death.
The Gentleman At Church may bo
known by the following marks.
1. Comes in good season, so as neither
to interrupt the pastor nor congregation by
a late arrival.
2. Does not stop upon the steps or in
the portico, either to gape at the ladies, sa
lute friends, or display his colloquail pow
ers, 3. Opens and shuts the door gently and ,
walks deliberately up tho aisle or gallery .
stairs and gets to his seat as quietly, and
by making a3 few people remove as possi
ble. 4. Takes his seat either in the back part
of the seat or steps out into the aisle h
any ono wishes to pass in, and never thiriksp'
ofsueha thing as making people crowd
past h:m while keeping his place in the
seat.
5. Is always attentive to strangers, and
gives up his seat to such; seeking another
for himself.
G. Never thinks of defibing the house of
God with tobacco spittle, or annoying those
who sit near him by chewing that nauseous
weed in church;
7. Never unless in casa of illness, gets
up and goes out in time of service But if
necessity compels him to do so, ffoes so
1
quietly that his very manner is an apology
for the act.
8. Does not engage in conversation beforo
commencement of service.
0. Does not whisper, or laugh, or eat
fruit in tho house of God, or lounge.
10. Does not rush out of church like a
tramping horse the moment tife benediction
is pronounced, but retires slowly in a noiss
less quiet manner.
11. Does all he can by precept and ex
ample to promote decorum in others
"WELLERISMS.
Stick no bills here,' as the people in Key
West say to the mosquitoes.
Take, oh take those lips away,'
as the
gudgeon said to the shark.
I'll be sure to meet you,' as the butcher
said ven the man challenged him.
Great many ups and downs in this
world,' as the pump handle said ven they
had been usin 'him.
I dont come without knocking,' as tho
bullet said ven it asked the fox if ho could
give it lodgings in his upper story.
'Vol makes you come end foremost, as
the man said ven the humble-bee stung
him.
'I have no change' as the dandy said vot
had all his wardrobq on his back.
Give us a shako of your hand old frien,
as the ague said to ;he wolvereons.
Look out for squalls,' as the nurse said
ven the child was born.
Til
la