More than fifty years ago, I was wont to sit at the feet of a lady, then advancing considerably in years, and to listen to her narrative of Indian wars and French aggressions, until it seemed to me, on closing my eyes, that I could call before me troops of hostile aborigines dancing, by the light of a burning dwelling, around prostrate prisoners, and celebrating their victory with tortures upon the victims of their vengeance. Or I could discern in the distance the fleets or troops of the French king, rushing upon some weakly defended colonial settlement, and sweeping away the inhabitants, as if the full reward of a Frenchman’s toil was an Englishman’s blood. I cannot say that I had any very correct view of the geographical limits where such scenes were enacted; nor am I able now to say that my conceptions of the French or Indian character were made wholly faultless by the exactness of the lady’s account. ’Tis marvelous how the minds of some persons become warped by early prejudices or fears, but my instructive female friend, while she was no exception to the general rule, did not, I imagine, carry her prejudices much beyond those of persons who would probably sneer at, if not condemn her, should I tell the tales as she narrated them to me. But I cannot so tell them. Often indeed have I tried to recall the story, to give it shape and continuity, but in vain; I can only recollect some vague fragments of different tales, which she deemed history, and bring back the impression which her narrative caused upon my mind. It is certainly a sort of pleasure thus to fish in pools whither are gathered the currents of other years, and seek to drag to the shore, for present use, what has so long remained undisturbed beneath the waters. It is pleasant but profitless, for I cannot succeed; and even if I could, is it likely that what was so calculated to amuse me as a child, would be profitable and pleasant with half a century’s experience on my head since they were made its tenants?
An opportunity occurred last summer to refresh my memory, while I was on a visit to that part of the country in which I heard the stories. The good old woman had survived those who started in life with her, had buried the companions of her children, and witnessed indeed the sepulture, or mourned the death of most of the children of those who had been her contemporaries; but she survived, and when I presented myself before her she was knitting what appeared to be the mate of the same stocking upon which she was engaged two generations back. Time had done no more for her locks than he had for mine, and so we met on conditions as newly equal as were those which distinguished our circumstances fifty years before. After some conversation, by which I supplied, at her request, information that served as some required links to the chain of my own history, I ventured to ask for a repetition of one or two of those stories which were wont, in olden times, to keep my little feet from the ice, and my tender hands from the snow-balls.
“Why, don’t you remember them?” said she.
“Not the narrative, but I distinctly recall some incidents, and the general effect.”
“But you must remember them, for Mr. Wilmer’s daughter has frequently read to me some of your stories, in which I recognised my own share in the composition.”
“It may be so. I may have drawn upon memory instead of imagination, and thus have been retailing your supplies instead of dealing in my own wares. And to say the truth, Aunt Sarah, I should be very happy now to owe you credit for a whole story.”
“Alas! I have found so few who would listen to the whole of any story, that I have forgotten most that I ever knew, and as books have been greatly multiplied of late, neither I nor those who would have been my auditors have any thing to regret.”
“Cannot you recall the principal events in the account which you gave me of the Wilkinson family?”
“If you will have patience with my feeble voice, and assist with your own recollection my even more feeble memory, I will attempt that story, especially as certain events have served to keep a portion of it, at least, fresh in my mind, and especially as the act of narrating it will call back to my memory the times when I hired you to forbear outdoor sports, too rude, in the weather too inclement for your tender age. I have always considered that Providence had much to do with the affairs of
‘THE WILKINSON FAMILY.’ ”