MUTILATION NOTED

(2015 3-13)

Thoms + Exon

27 Apr. 1932

1r was a lovely July evening, such an evening as is known only in that " Eden of America," which, while in the possession of the Aborigines of our country, was distinguished by the name of "Aquitnet;" a name, which our ancestors, (for certain wise reasons of their own, or perhaps without any reason at all,) thought proper to exchange for that of " Rhode Island."

A few clouds, light and lovely ones, whose borders the declining sun had fringed with gold, floated lazily in the zenith; but the western sky exhibited one dazzling blaze of splendour, and the broad bosom of the majestic Narragansett shone with the reflection of the radiance, like "A burnished sheet of living gold."

The numerous little green islets embosomed in its tranquil waters, cast their picturesque shạdows on its glassy surface, and looked, as they lay there in their deep repose and sylvan beauty, like the fabled regions of fairy-land, rather than the abodes of mere mortals; while safely moored in the spacious harbour of Newport, and upward along the bay, rode the hostile armament of ✦ England; the lofty spars, shooting up in bold ♫ relief against the glowing sky, and the huge black hulls casting toward the city broad lines of deep and gloomy shadow, while from their sides protruded, in dread array and prompt for vengeance, the engines of destruction.

The field and garden flowers were lavish of their fragrance, but not a breeze moved-not a leaf stirred-not a "violet wagged its sweet head"-not a sound broke on the delicious stillness of the hour, save as a belated robin hurried

to his leafy abode, or a sparrow, dissatisfied with its lodgings, flitted to some more convenient twig, with a low twitter of peevishness at its bad accommodations. So tranquillizing was the influence of the scene, that even the stern centinel who was pacing the ground in front of Overinghouse, where the English commander had fixed his quarters, relaxed his vigilance, and gazing listlessly around him at the verdant fields and woodlands, indulged his fancy with a visit to his cottage home, beyond the billows of the wide Atlantic, which were rolling before him far as the eye could reach. And still more marvellous to relate, the imperious military despot himself suspended for a while his menaces and execrations against the inhabitants of the country; and in the admiration with which he surveyed the glowing landscape, to which even the pencil of a Claude could scarcely have done justice, well nigh forgot that he was gazing only upon

"Rebel hills and rebel dales,

By rebel trees surrounded."— Indescribably beautiful must the scene indeed have been, which could, even for a moment, have softened to complacency the morose and virulent temper of a man like the English Prescott, whose overbearing arrogance and unrelenting tyranny are to this day proverbial throughout that island, the inhabitants of which suffered from him, while "drest in a little brief authority," all the privations and persecutions that military despo tism could inflict. Truth requires of us to state, however, that General Prescott had returned from town at a late hour, oppressed by the sultra

ness of the air and fatigued with his ride, and the unwonted placidity of his temper may, perhaps, be more justly attributed to extreme lassitude, than to the delicious tranquillity of the hour, or the beauty of the scenery. Leaving him, however, to the enjoyment of his snug quarters at Overing-house, which, it may be proper to inform our readers, is situated at Portsmouth, about five miles from the old city of Newport, we will hasten to introduce the heroine of our tale.

The young and lovely Sybil Prior was the daughter of an obscure, but honest and industrious farmer, who, by a series of misfortunes, having been deprived of his little patrimony, had died of a broken heart, just as poor Sybil attained her fifteenth year, leaving his destitute orphan without a relative in the wide world. Pennyless and unconnected, the hapless Sybil must, in all probability, have fallen an early victim to hopeless sorrow and "pinching penury," had she not, through the friendly mediation of the aged housekeeper, obtained shelter and protection at Overing-house. At the period when our narrative commences, July 1777, she had been five years an inmate of the family, acting in a variety of capacities, from that of kitchen maid, with which she commenced her career, through all the intermediate degrees, up to the rank of lady's maid, and deputy house-keeper; acquitting herself in each and all to the entire satisfaction of her employers, and receiving from them, in consideration of her many excellent qualities and her unconnected condition, a singular degree of sympathy and regard. Within a year, however, many circumstances had concurred to render her situation exceedingly uncomfortable, if not absolutely distressing. "The course of true love never did run smooth," and poor Sybil's, although a most virtuous, well-placed, and unalienable attachment, was by no means exempt from the sorrows and trials that assail all human love. The family at Overing-house were, unhappily for her, zealous loyalists, and in proportion to the regard they entertained for the beautiful and deserving orphan, they became averse to her union with Martin Gray-or, in the words of the worthy old house-keeper, who had very naturally imbibed their sentiments, 66 to her 'throwing herself away,' on sich a rebel rapscallion." To encrease the perplexity of her situation, separated as she was, perhaps, forever from her lover, and uncertain of his fate, the unhappy Sybil was perpetually annoyed by the assiduities of his rivals, and had of late been persecuted by the attentions of a libertine young officer of the English general's family, who, exasperated by the steady contempt with which his insolent proposals had been treated, was, as she well knew, plotting to inveigle her into his power. This person was now absent on some professional duty, and, notwithstanding she had been baffled, either by the well-meant interference of the family, or the jealous vigilance of her military admirers, in sundry attempts, which, at the earnest instance of her betrothed lover, she had made to escape from the island, she had now re

solved on making one more effort to extricate herself from the perils and snares by which she was surrounded. Means of disguise had been procured, and arrangements made for effecting her elopement to the continent that very evening. It was, therefore, with a perturbation of feeling by no means in unison with the scene, that our lovely rustic, having completed the labours of the day, wandered out in search of the person whom she had chosen as the confidant and assistant of her scheme: should he fail of keeping his appointment, or should her plot be discovered, there was the end, perhaps forever, of all her carthly hopes. With a throbbing heart, and many a melancholy foreboding, therefore, the beautiful and innocent Sybil commenced her evening ramble, attended only by a little spaniel, which had been the faithful companion of Martin Gray, until, after having seen his comfortable little cottage wantonly laid in ashes by the British soldiery, the justly exasperated youth had taken up arms against the spoilers of his country. From that melancholy day the animal had been the constant attendant of the hapless maiden, who fostered him with tenderness for his absent master's sake, and never puppy was half so grateful.

Deeming the faithful animal a sufficient safeguard, Sybil glided by a back door from the house, and, taking a circuitous route, in order to avoid the observation of the soldiers, (who, since the English commander had there fixed his quarters, infested the place, and among whom she unfortunately had many admirers,) she proceeded with a hurried yet stealthy step, and with many an apprehensive start, along the plantation south of the mansion, under shadow of the tall trees and thick underbrush which then skirted the borders of the brook and the beautiful sheet of water, which finally discharges itself in a mimic cascade over the stone wall which separates the lawn in front of Overing-house, from the highway.

This had been the favourite walk of Martin Gray in happier times, when he came of an evening, arrayed in his " Sunday's best," to woo the lovely Sybil. It was there, too, beside the brook and beneath the soft light of a summer's moon, that, after having tormented him to her heart's content, she had first confessed her love; and, only a year since, on that very spot, she had promised, at the expiration of one little month, to become his wife: but

"Wo came with war, and want with wo;
And it was his to undergo

Each outrage of the cruel foe

His fields laid waste-his cot laid low."

Poor Martin no longer possessed a home to which he could conduct his bride, and they were compelled to separate. He for the dangers and hardships of the battle, and poor Sybil to linger around the scenes of former happiness, and weep in solitude over her own blighted hopes and inauspicious prospects. It was not, however, to indulge in fond regret and melancholy reflection that she had this evening proceeded thither; and