CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH'S CAPTIVITY.

SMITH'S "General History of Virginia, New England and the Summer Isles" (1624), gives an account of voyages, discoveries and settlements from 1584 to 1624. Book III., which was edited by the Rev. W. Simmonds, D. D., from Smith's account, gives the following narrative. The spelling is here modernized except in proper names.

But our comedies never endured long without a tragedy; some idle exceptions being muttered against Captain Smith for not discovering the head of Chickahamania River, and being taxed by the Council [of the Virginia Company] to be too slow in so worthy an attempt. The next voyage he proceeded so far that with much labor by cutting of trees asunder he made his passage; but when his barge could pass no farther, he left her in a broad bay, out of danger of shot, commanding none should go ashore till his return: himself with two English and two savages went up higher in a canoe; but he was not long absent, but his men went ashore, whose want of government gave both occasion and opportunity to the savages to surprise one George Cassen, whom they slew, and much failed not to have cut off the boat and all the rest.

Smith, little dreaming of that accident, being got to the marshes at the river's head, twenty miles in the desert, had his two men slain (as is supposed) sleeping by the canoe, whilst himself by fowling sought them victual: who finding he was beset with two hundred savages, two of them he slew, still defending himself with the aid of a savage, his guide, whom he bound to his arm with his garters, and used him as a buckler, yet he was shot in his thigh a little, and had many arrows that stuck in his clothes, but no great hurt, till at last they took him prisoner.

When this news came to Jamestown, much was their sorrow for his loss, few expecting what ensued.

Six or seven weeks those barbarians kept him prisoner, many strange triumphs and conjurations they made of him, yet he so demeaned himself amongst them, as he not only diverted. them from surprising the Fort, but procured his own liberty, and got himself and his company such estimation amongst them, that those savages admired him more than their own Quiyouckosucks.

At last they brought him to Meronocomoco, where was Powhatan their Emperor. Here more than two hundred of those grim courtiers stood wondering at him, as he had been a monster; till Powhatan and his train had put themselves in their greatest braveries. Before a fire upon a seat like a bedstead, he sat covered with a great robe, made of rarowcun [raccoon] skins, and all the tails hanging by. On either hand did sit a young wench of sixteen or eighteen years, and along on each side the house, two rows of men, and behind them as many women, with all their heads and shoulders painted red: many of their heads bedecked with the white down of birds; but every one with something: and a great chain of white beads about their necks.

At his entrance before the king, all the people gave a great shout. The Queen of Appamotuck was appointed to bring him water to wash his hands, and another brought him a bunch of feathers, instead of a towel, to dry them: having feasted him after their best barbarous manner they could, a long consultation was held, but the conclusion was, two great stones were brought before Powhatan: then as many as could laid hands on him, dragged him to them, and thereon laid his head, and being ready with their clubs, to beat out his brains, Pocahontas, the King's dearest daughter, when no entreaty could prevail, got his head in her arms, and laid her own upon his to save him from death: whereat the Emperor was contented he should live to make him hatchets, and her bells, beads and copper; for they thought him as well of all occupations as themselves. For the King himself will make his own robes, shoes, bows, arrows, pots; plant, hunt, or do anything so well as the rest.

They say he bore a pleasant show,

But sure his heart was sad,
For who can pleasant be, and rest,
That lives in fear and dread:
And having life suspected, doth
It still suspected lead?

Two days after, Powhatan having disguised himself in the most fearfullest manner he could, caused Captain Smith to be brought forth to a great house in the woods, and there upon a mat by the fire to be left alone. Not long after from behind a

mat that divided the house, was made the most dolefullest noise he ever heard; then Powhatan more like a devil than a man, with some two hundred more as black as himself, came unto him and told him now they were friends, and presently he should go to Jamestown, to send him two great guns, and a grindstone, for which he would give him the country of Capahowosick, and forever esteem him as his son Nantaquoud.

So to Jamestown, with twelve guides, Powhatan sent him. That night they quartered in the woods, he still expecting (as he had done all this long time of his imprisonment) every hour to be put to one death or other: for all their feasting. But Almighty God (by His divine providence) had mollified the hearts of those stern barbarians with compassion. The next morning betimes they came to the Fort, where Smith having used the savages with what kindness he could, he showed Rawhunt, Powhatan's trusty servant, two demi-culverins and a millstone to carry [to] Powhatan: they found them somewhat too heavy; but when they did see him discharge them, being loaded with stones, among the boughs of a great tree loaded with icicles, the ice and branches came so tumbling down, that the poor savages ran away half dead with fear. But at last we regained some conference with them, and gave them such toys; and sent to Powhatan, his women, and children such presents, as gave them in general full content.

NEW ENGLAND.

REV. WILLIAM MORELL, an English clergyman, spent a year or two (1623) at Plymouth, and after his return wrote a Latin poem "Nova Anglia” to which he added an English version. The opening contains the following passage:

FEAR not, poor Muse, 'cause first to sing her fame
That's yet scarce known, unless by map or name;

A grandchild to earth's Paradise is born,

Well limb'd, well nerv'd, fair, rich, sweet, yet forlorn.
Thou blest director, so direct my verse

That it may win her people friends' commerce.
Whilst her sweet air, rich soil, blest seas, my pen

Shall blaze, and tell the natures of her men.
New England, happy in her new, true style,
Weary of her cause she's to sad exile

Exposed by hers unworthy of her land;
Entreats with tears Great Britain to command
Her empire, and to make her know the time,
Whose act and knowledge only makes divine.
A royal work well worthy England's king,
These natives to true truth and grace to bring;
A noble work for all these noble peers,
Which guide this State in their superior spheres.
You holy Aarons, let your censers ne'er
Cease burning till these men Jehovah fear.

MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET.

AMONG the earliest and therefore most honored verse writers of New England was Mrs. Anne Bradstreet (16121672). She was the daughter of Governor Thomas Dudley, and her husband, Simon Bradstreet, also became Governor of Massachusetts. When her poems were printed in London in 1650, the publishers prefixed the title, "The Tenth Muse, lately sprung up in America." They were didactic and meditative, treating of the Four Elements, the Seasons of the Year, and ended with a political dialogue between Old and New England. An enlarged edition, published at Boston in 1678, was superior to the first in literary merit. Mrs. Bradstreet was the mother of eight children, whom she commemorated in these homely lines:

I had eight birds hatcht in the nest;

Four cocks there were, and hens the rest.
I nurst them up with pains and care,
Nor cost nor labor did I spare;
Till at the last they felt their wing,
Mounted the trees, and learnt to sing.

A LOVE-LETTER TO HER HUSBAND.

PHOEBUS, make haste, the day's too long, begone,
The silent night's the fittest time for moan,

But stay this once unto my suit give ear,
And tell my griefs in either Hemisphere:
(And if the whirling of thy wheels don't drownd
The woful accents of my doleful sound),
If in thy swift career thou canst make stay,
I crave this boon, this errand by the way:
Commend me to the man more loved than life,
Show him the sorrows of his widow'd wife,

My dumpish thoughts, my groans, my brackish tears,
My sobs, my longing hopes, my doubting fears
And if he love, how can he there abide?
My interest's more than all the world beside.
He that can tell the stars or ocean sand,

Or all the grass that in the meads do stand,
The leaves in the woods, the hail or drops of rain,
Or in a cornfield number every grain,

Or every mote that in the sunshine hops,
May count my sighs and number all my drops.
Tell him, the countless steps that thou dost trace,
That once a day thy spouse thou may'st embrace;
And when thou canst not treat by loving mouth,
Thy rays afar salute her from the south.