Schuyler, accompanied by her daughters, arrived at Washington's head-quarters at Morristown. Here Miss Schuyler again saw Captain Hamilton, recently appointed first aid to General Washington, who renewed his attentions to her, which ere long terminated in marriage. This period, fraught with the most exciting events, made a lasting impression on the mind of this daughter of the Revolution; the welfare of her country was near her heart, she felt deeply for the misguided Andre, and sympathized in the afflictions which had befallen the lovely wife of the traitor Arnold. In her correspondence with Captain Hamilton, she often made anxious inquiries as to the supposed result of this unhappy affair, which drew from him the following letter, illustrative of the earnest of his affectionate and generous nature; in which he says:

"Arnold, hearing of the plot being detected, immediately fled to the enemy. I went in pursuit of him, but was much too late, and could hardly regret the disappointment, when on my return I saw an amiable woman, frantic with distress for the loss of a husband she tenderly loved-a traitor to his country and to his fame-a disgrace to his connections; it was the most affecting scene I was ever witness to. She, for a considerable time, entirely lost herself. The general went up to see her, and she upbraided him with being in a plot to murder her child. One moment she raved; another she melted into tears. Sometimes she pressed her infant to her bosom, and lamented its fate, occasioned by the imprudence of its father, in a manner that would have pierced insensibility itself. All the sweetness of beauty, all the loveliness of innocence, all the tenderness of a wife, and all the fondness of a mother, showed themselves in her appearance and conduct.

"We have every reason to believe that she was entirely unacquainted with the plan, and that the first intimation of it was when Arnold went to tell her he must banish himself from his country, and from her forever.

"This morning she is more composed. I paid her a visit, and endeavored to soothe her by every method in my power; though you may readily imagine she is not easily to be consoled.

"Added to her other distresses, she is very apprehensive the resentment of her country will fall upon her (who is only unfortunate) for the guilt of her husband. I have tried to persuade her that her fears are ill-founded, but she will not be convinced. She received us in bed, with every circumstance that would interest our sympathy; and her sufferings were so eloquent, that I wished myself her brother to have a right to become her defender. As it is, I have entreated her to enable me to give her proofs of my friendship. Could I forgive Arnold for sacrificing his honor, reputation, and duty, I could not forgive him for acting a part that must have forfeited the esteem of so fine a

woman. At present, she almots forgets his crime in his misfortunes; and her horror at the guilt of the traitor is lost in her love of the man. But a virtuous mind cannot long esteem a base one; and time will make her despise, if it cannot make her hate."

This letter was received by Miss Schuyler about two months previous to her marriage, which took place at the residence of her father, in Albany, on the 14th of December, 1780. After the capture of Yorktown, in which Colonel Hamilton was signalized, he returned to Albany, but did not remain there long before he was elected to Congress, and after the evacuation of the city of New York by the British troops, he took up his residence there. In a peaceful simplicity, Mrs. Hamilton performed the duties of her station with exemplary care, manifesting great interest for her beloved and struggling country, at the same time cherishing that public spirit which so much distinguished the women of the Revolution.

She remained in New York until 1790, when Colonel Hamilton, having been appointed Secretary of the Treasury, removed his family to Philadelphia, where his station brought around him the exalted characters composing the early government. His house was the hospitable resort of all persons entitled to his regard. This was heightened by the kindness and cordial benevolence of his amiable ladytraits which time has not erased, but remain as a memento of that virtue which was the fascination of her visitors. On the retirement of General Hamilton from the Treasury Department, after a short visit to Albany, he again took up his residence in New York, where he passed the residue of a life too short for the welfare of his country. In July, 1804, General Hamilton fell by the hand of Aaron Burr, leaving a widow and seven children, the youngest about four years old. The cares of so young a family, which, upon the decease of her husband, devolved upon her, instead of oppressing, seemed to bring into fuller action the remarkable energies of her character. For, soon after that event, with the aid of some other ladies, she founded the orphan asylum of that city, and, until her removal from it, continued to be the "first directress" of that institution. Nothing was ever permitted by her to interrupt her cares of this interesting charity. Its appeals for aid were never made in vain; and she has lived to see it placed, through the munificence of a few benevolent benefactors, above merely casual resources. Until three years past, Mrs. Hamilton continued to reside in New York, when she removed to Washington, where she now lives. Her very advanced age, and her familiarity with the historical events and persons of this country, reaching back to its colonial condition, have rendered her the object of much public curiosity and interest, heightened by the character of her domestic relations and affinities. The portrait of any human being whose life embraces almost a century is an object of strong

emotions; of one who has lived through such a century fixes the mind and the heart. It tells a tale of many joys and many sorrows, of a noble spirit equal to them all, and, as we pass from it, 'tis with a solemn regret that it tells also of one who, ere long, will only live the object of respectful and lasting remembrances.

MRS. ABIGAIL ADAMS.

IN illustration of the character of this estimable woman, we must be permitted to transcribe a few remarks on her ancestry, written by her son, the Hon. John Quincy Adams.

"Abigail Adams was the daughter of William Smith, a minister of a Congregational church at Weymouth, in the colony of Massachusetts Bay; and of Elizabeth Quincy, a daughter of Col. John Quincy, the proprietor of Mount Wollaston. This beautiful spot, about seven miles from Boston, was settled by Thomas Wollaston and thirty of his associates in 1625, five years before that of the Massachusetts Colony. This settlement was broken up by Governor Winthrop, in the summer of 1630, shortly after his landing; and in 1634 was made part of Boston, and the land granted to William Coddington. This estate descended in a direct line till it became the property of William Smith, the father of Abigail Adams, and has been the residence and birthplace of the Adams family to the present day. Abigail Adams, the second daughter of William and Elizabeth Smith, was born on the 11th day of November, 1744. Her father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had all received their education at Harvard College. From this line of ancestry, it may justly be inferred that the family associations of Abigail Smith were from her infancy among those whose habits, feelings, and tastes are marked by the love and cultivation of literature and learning. only learned profession in the first century of the settlement of New England was that of the clergy. At that time, lawyers were but little esteemed. Science was scarcely better cultivated by the practitioners of the medical art; but religion was esteemed among the most important of worldly concerns, and the controversial spirit with which it was taught, and which was at once the cause and effect of the Protestant Reformation, stimulated the thirst for learning, and sharpened the appetite for study and research.

The

"The founders of New England, and the settlers of Massachusetts Colony so well understood the dependence of practical morals upon religious principle, that, no sooner had they raised their sheds and piled their log-houses, before their thoughts turned to the erection of the edifice which should serve them and their children for the habitation of the mind. In 1638, John Harvard, himself one of the

most distinguished of their ministers, bequeathed a sum of money for the establishment of a college for the education of ministers of the Gospel. This institution was soon raised and made, by the constitution of the commonwealth of Massachusetts, a university, bearing the name of its founder in glory from age to age, down to the extinction of time." At this time the Puritan fathers of New England considered female education to consist in the happy arrangement of their domestic concerns. The three daughters of Mr. Smith were therefore educated under his own roof, partly by his own instruction, with the occasional assistance of a teacher residing in the same colony. It has often been remarked that Mr. Smith and his family would have furnished ample materials for another Vicar of Wakefield. Mr. John Adams, an attorney-at-law residing in Braintree, became the admirer of Abigail Smith; but it was some time before the consent of her father could be obtained, he, as a strict Puritan, having conscientious scruples as to the honesty of the profession. At last, however, he consented, and they were married on the 25th of October, 1764, Miss Smith being in her twentieth year. Mr. Adams had been in the practice of the law about seven years before his marriage, and had made great advancement in his profession both as an orator and by his judicial talents.

The first year after his marriage he gave a fortunate stamp to his brilliant talents as counsel for an American seaman, who, in self-defence against a pressgang from his Majesty's ship in Boston Harbor, had killed the lieutenant of their party with the stroke of a harpoon. Mr. Adams proved that the usage of impressment had never extended to the colonies; and that the attempt to impress was unlawful; that the act of killing was justifiable homicide; the seaman was acquitted and discharged. This thrilling and talented address to the court, which lasted four hours, was considered of such importance that it was copied into the London newspapers, and received an extended circulation in the mother country; and, by the exertions of the young lawyer of Braintree, that brand of harsh servitude, stamped on the forehead of the British seaman, was banished from the code of colonial law.

The year 1765 will ever be remembered as the period when the most violent fermentation commenced, occasioned by the resistance of the people to the Stamp Act. Mr. Adams was the first who showed a determination of resistance, and often did he endeavor to prepare his young bride for the trials and sacrifices which he foresaw must occur, before his beloved country could be free from the monarchical shackles by which she was bound. For nearly ten years, Mr. Adams continued his practice of the law, with increasing reputation, till 1774, when he was called to the first Congress at Philadelphia. Mrs. Adams remained at Braintree with her children. In 1775, was the first deadly conflict. This

took place at Lexington. Mr. Adams had left his home some days before, and his partner and her children were left exposed to continual dangers, and, as orders had been given to seize and imprison the members of the Continental Congress, Mrs. Adams expected hourly that her dwelling would be visited in search for her husband, and that she might be exposed to insult. She immediately packed the library of her husband, and the most valuable part of her furniture, and had it removed to a place of safety.

In the autumn of 1775, and during the absence of her husband, Mrs. Adams was called to pass through a severe affliction. An epidemic dysentery was raging; every member of her family was afflicted by it; and her mother, a brother of her husband, and a domestic in her family, were among its victims. In 1778, Mr. Adams was appointed a joint commissioner with Dr. Franklin at the court of France, and required to prepare for a hasty departure; but Mrs. Adams, having at this time four children, concluded to remain at Braintree with the then youngestMr. Adams taking with him his eldest son John Quincy, then about eleven years of age. Mr. Adams remained in France but one year, when he returned to the bosom of his family; but this happiness was to be but of short duration, for he had no sooner returned than he was commissioned to negotiate a peace with Great Britain.

Mrs. Adams again remained at home, and Mr. Adams took with him to England his two eldest sons John Quincy and Charles. In May, 1784, Mrs. Adams left Boston with her only daughter to join her husband, who on their arrival repaired with them to France, and took up their residence at the beautiful village of Auteuil. Here they resided rather more than a year, when Mr. Adams was commissioned as minister plenipotentiary to Great Britain. Mrs. Adams accompanied her husband and family to London, where they resided three years; and in 1778 she bid adieu to the turmoil of foreign courts to return to that country which was the joy of her heart.

During the four years Mrs. Adams spent in England and France, she was a minute observer of persons and things, and seldom allowed any event, however trifling, to escape her notes. Her letters to her friends, giving descriptions of passing scenes, were very interesting, and would even at this distant period be read with interest.

Many of them which appeared at that time were copied into the London and Paris journals, and commented on with general admiration.

In 1789, the government of the United States was organized, and Mr. Adams was elected the first VicePresident. The first Congress met in New York, where Mrs. Adams removed her family; but, after remaining there one year, it was removed to Philadelphia, where Mrs. Adams resided for nearly ten years. In 1797, Mr. Adams was elected President

of the United States, the Congress still meeting in Philadelphia; but, during the first two years of his administration, it was removed to Washington, and Mrs. Adams with her family took up their residence there for the remainder of the term.

During all the changes and vicissitudes of her husband's political life, Mrs. Adams exercised all the virtues that adorn and dignify the Christian character. The freedom, ingenuousness, and pleasantry of her temper were known and admired by all who conversed with her. She was a lady of uncommon parts, ready thought, quick apprehension, and proper expression. In her letters, she used a great aptness and felicity of language, and, having a fine understanding, accompanied with a faithful and retentive memory, she soon accomplished whatever she was desirous to attain. She lived in the habitual practice of benevolence, and of sincere, unaffected piety. Mrs. Adams died of typhus fever on the 28th of October, 1818, at the age of seventy-four, leaving to her countrywomen the example of an obedient and devoted wife, a careful and tender mother, a gentle and beneficent mistress, a good neighbor, and a true and constant friend.

THE LAND OF BEAUTY.

BY R. C. CRANE.

THERE is a land whose glories lie

Beyond the reach of mortal sight, Save when strong faith's prevailing eye

Can pierce through earth's Cimmerian night, And feel upon its visions lone

The shadows of the great white throne.

The founts of music gushing there

Flow not to this beclouded sphere, Save when sweet hope in midnight prayer May catch upon her listening ear, Quickened by inspiration's fire, The echoes from the seraph's lyre.

Untasted are the fruits that spring

'Neath summer skies and quenchless beams, Save when deep love, on tireless wing,

May soar to drink from living streams, And taste the fruits from trees that rise To shade those streams of Paradise.

That land nor sin nor death can tread,
No orphan wanders there forlorn,
Or shivering brother begs for bread
To meet a gilded brother's scorn;
Too
pure the living waters flow
To mirror aught of earthly woe

Thou land afar, my weary soul

Would quickly tread thy plains above, Where sorrow's clouds can never roll, And faith and hope are lost in love. And this my tuneless harp shall be Made perfect through Eternity.

"AND 80, Julia, you are willing to leave your old father, and be the sunshine of another's home; is it so, darling?" said a gentleman to his daughter, in one of the pleasant homes of England.

"Oh no!" she replied; "I am not going yet, nor shall I ever leave you, father."

"But, my child, have you considered?-no, I need not ask; children do not consider-but you may reflect, at some future day, that your imprudence has brought you to poverty; poverty at least compared to the affluence which you might command. The fortune which I shall leave you is small; that of which Stanley has just come in possession is still smaller. True, he has a noble name; but that is of less consequence, when one is the younger son of a younger son. Why, my dear, if I must part with you, could you not fancy the noble Count Rothwell, who so recently asked me for you? He is certainly Stanley's equal in every respect, with a fortune sufficiently ample to satisfy even my wishes for your happiness."

"I am sure I don't know, father, why it is so," said Julia, with childish naïveté; "and I am sorry that for once our views do not agree."

"Well, my dear, do as you please; but I cannot consent to an unconditional engagement on your part. If, at the termination of a year, you are still of the same mind, you may then"-and the father, too much excited by his subject to finish the sentence, left the daughter to her reflections.

Julia was sad. She saw that she had cast a shadow over the fond heart of her parent. Well might it grieve her spirit to give pain to one whose earnest care from her infancy had been that she should know no sorrow, nor ever feel the ills incident to her situation as a motherless child. Well had the aged oak shielded the tender plant that every day was twisting some new fibre around it, until they were so linked together that no shock of circumstances, and no storm of adversity, could rend them asunder. But the young cannot see with the eye of experience, and age can ill direct the young heart's first dream of love. Julia was brotherless and sisberless, as well as motherless. Stanley had been her playmate in childhood, and as a brother to her in her riper years. Their attachment had grown so imperceptibly that Julia did not attempt to check it, as she might have done, had she been conscious of the strength it was attaining, and the grief which it would cause her beloved parent. The time to crush the germ was passed, yet the plant could still be uprooted; but Julia feared that her happiness

would be destroyed with it, and knew that her father would sooner give her to his enemy even, than see her unhappy. Besides, he had no serious objection to Stanley. He would hardly have thought any one deserving such a treasure, or been willing, but that he knew that he must pass away, to transfer to another the rich jewel in the crown of his old age.

Julia's brow, a brow hitherto placid as the bosom of a lake unruffled by a breeze, now wore the shade of troubled thought; but, on seeing her father resume his wonted cheerful aspect, the cloud which had hovered for a moment over her young heart passed quickly away, and, with spirits buoyant as the mountain air, she returned to her accustomed pleasures and duties; her duties to promote the happiness of all around her, from her doting father and devoted lover to her old nurse; and even Kitty and Rover had their share in her attentions: her pleasures to see every countenance beam upon her with gladness, and even the poor animals manifest their dumb joy in her presence. Rapidly, oh how rapidly on the wings of love and hope passed the gay hours of her bright, joyous existence; and lightly she heeded their flight, little reeking that the arrow was even now pointed which was so soon to be sheathed in her bosom. Stanley loved her truly, if the degree of love of which a selfish nature is capable may be called true affection. She did not dream that he was selfish and sordid, until she saw that he was dazzled by the wealth of one who possessed few attractions save those of rank and fortune. The thought, from the moment that it entered her mind, was a dagger to her peace, and she resolved at once that the moment her suspicions were confirmed, he should be free. She soon became convinced that, though he really preferred herself, yet were he released from his engagement he would seek the hand and the fortune of her rival. She did not parley with her affection, but wrote him immediately that, as the time had nearly arrived when their engagement was, on her part, to be either confirmed or dissolved, she hastened to inform him of a change which had taken place in her feelings; a change so great that she could consent no longer to remain under even a conditional engagement to him. She received a polite acknowledgment of her communication, containing some expressions of regret that the relation which had existed between them should be so suddenly terminated, and that he was no longer deemed worthy of her regard. He could say all this in the sincerity of his heart, for, but for the

desire of riches, he greatly preferred the beloved companion of his childhood.

And now, having accomplished her purpose, and severed the tie which had so long bound them, Julia's feelings relaxed from the high tension to which they had been wrought, to the deep, deathlike calm of despair. How gladly would she have relinquished the life which, but now, was all joyous, but which had become black as the pall spread over it by the memory of departed joys! But she thought of her father, and nerved her woman's heart to the stern conflict of life, when love, the life of life, was departed. This affectionate parent saw that it was only by a painful effort that she maintained a cheerful deportment in his presence; and, with the delicate perception of her feelings which a long and close study of her happiness had rendered more acute, left her to recover from the first pressure of the shock which she had sustained, free from the restraint of his presence. It was well that she was thus alone, for "there can be no companionship for loneliness of heart." When her spirit was thus overwhelmed within her, she turned to a precious relic of her departed mother, as the only expression of a mother's sympathy which she could now obtain. It was a Bible, which she had been accustomed to venerate and to read with her father daily. She now opened it with a vague feeling that she might find in it some relief to her overcharged spirit, and was surprised to find it replete with meaning which she had never before discovered. Its language of deep pathos so fully expressed her own heart-broken state, and its promises spoke so soothingly to her wounded spirit, that she found it indeed a support in the hour of her calamity. She then resolved that it should henceforth be, in a manner in which it had never yet been to her, the companion and guide of her youth. Youth-ah, that spring-time of the spirit was past forever!

The gay, light-hearted girl was gone, and in her place appeared the calm, thoughtful, subdued, yet dignified woman. It may be that the tender plant could no longer bear the full blaze of prosperity, and was now to be rendered healthful and vigorous by the pruning-knife of adversity.

Her father had studied her character closely, had marked her in every phase of her changeful mood, had analyzed every new development of mind or heart, and knew her better, at least in some respects, than she knew herself. He was therefore less surprised than she had been to find, on his return, her calm, serene bearing under this first visitation of sorrow. It is thus that one who has studied the mechanism of some noble bark sees but his anticipations realized when she rides majestically through the whirlwind and the storm.

Yet, in her solitude, Julia still felt the keenness of the pang they only know who have lavished upon an unworthy object the untold wealth of their affections. Such were the emotions of her soul, poured

forth in a strain "To a Nightingale leaning on a Thorn"

"For sympathy from human hearts my breast doth vainly yearn,

And now to thee, thou mourning one, my aching heart 1 turn.

A keener pang my bosom fills, a deeper fount is stirred; Yet scorn I not thy lowly griefs, thou sweetly plaintive

bird.

Like thine, my early joys with summer flowers are gone,
Like thine, my bosom leans on memory's piercing thorn;
But not, like thee, my soul with grief hath vainly striven,
Till, bowed to earth, I feel its chain can ne'er be riven.
In death thy bleeding heart shall soon forgetful be;
Mine feels a deeper wound from each struggle to be free.
But though the gift of peace shall sooner crown thy lot,
Since that alone is thine, the boon I envy not.

A deeper grief I bear, yet strength to me is given;
Not rest alone I seek, but perfect bliss in Heaven."

Julia became not misanthropic, but the power to discern character seemed to open upon her at once, so little had she before been accustomed to exercise it. Her father sought to divert her mind by journeying, the society of a few chosen friends, and the cultivation of her literary taste.

We will leave the aged parent, who should have leaned upon his child for comfort, endeavoring by every means in his power to restore to her the happiness so much dearer to him than his own, and turn our attention to the unhappy cause of all this suffering. Stanley had been encouraged by the wealthy belle, who was a heartless coquette, until one possessing, in her estimation, more desirable qualities presented himself. Stanley's attentions were then coldly rejected. He felt that this was but the just reward of the mercenary barter of his affections, and would gladly have returned to her who had ever been the object of his esteem and love. He finally so far overcame his mortification as to write her a frank confession of his error, and to beg her forgiveness and a restoration to her favor. But Julia, ere this, had completed the conquest of her affection for him, not merely by her earnest desire and continual struggle to do so, but in a manner in which she looked not for it. She had unconsciously become incapacitated for such an attachment as she had once cherished for Stanley. Her intellectual and spiritual growth had been so rapid, that he could no longer fill the place which he had once occupied in her heart. Yet she wrote him kindly, but firmly, that a change had passed over her which might never be reversed; that she felt no longer towards him as she once had done; nor could she ever feel for him more than the love which she was bound to extend to all her fellow-creatures. How beautifully has Mrs. Hemans expressed this state of the heart in her song!

"If thou hast crushed a flower,
The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quenched a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted;