Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 42, January, 1851 by Various

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Her sufferings from Indian hostility were not terminated by this
overwhelming stroke. A brief list of those who fell victims, among her
family and kinsmen, may afford some idea of the trials she endured, and of
the strength of character which enabled her to bear up, and to support
others, under such terrible experiences. In January, 1793, her son Anthony,
then seventeen years of age, while passing near the present site of
Nashville, was shot through the body, and severely wounded, by a party of
Indians in ambush. He was pursued to the gates of a neighboring fort. Not a
month afterwards, her eldest son, Thomas, was also desperately wounded by
the savages, and escaped with difficulty from their hands. Early in the
following April, he was shot dead near his mother's house, and scalped by
the murderous Indians. On the same day, Colonel Isaac Bledsoe was killed
and scalped by a party of about twenty Creek Indians, who beset him in the
field, and cut off his retreat to his station, near at hand.

In April, 1794, Anthony, the son of Mrs. Bledsoe, and his cousin of the
same name, were shot by a party of Indians, near the house of General
Smith, on Drake Creek, ten miles from Gallatin. The lads were going to
school, and were then on their way to visit Mrs. Sarah Shelby, the sister
of Anthony, who lived on Station Camp Creek.

Some time afterwards, Mrs. Bledsoe herself was on the road from Bledsoe's
Lick to the above-mentioned station, where the court of Sumner county was
at that time held. Her object was to attend to some business connected with
the estate of her late husband. She was escorted on her way by the
celebrated Thomas S. Spencer, and Robert Jones. The party were waylaid and
fired upon by a large body of Indians. Jones was severely wounded, and
turning, rode rapidly back for about two miles; after which, he fell dead
from his horse. The savages advanced boldly upon the others, intending to
take them prisoners.

It was not consistent with Spencer's chivalrous character to attempt to
save himself by leaving his companion to the mercy of the foe. Bidding her
retreat as fast as possible, and encouraging her to keep her seat firmly,
he protected her by following more slowly in her rear, with his trusty
rifle in his hand. When the Indians in pursuit came too near, he would
raise his weapon, as if to fire; and, as he was known to be an excellent
marksman, the savages were not willing to encounter him, but hastened to
the shelter of trees, while he continued his retreat. In this manner he
kept them at bay for some miles, not firing a single shot--for he knew that
his threatening had more effect--until Mrs. Bledsoe reached a station. Her
life and his own were, on this occasion, saved by his prudence and presence
of mind; for both would have been lost had he yielded to the temptation to
fire.

This Spencer--for his gallantry and reckless daring, named "the Chevalier
Bayard of Cumberland Valley"--was famed for his encounters with the
Indians, by whom he had often been shot at, and wounded on more than one
occasion. His proportions and strength were those of a giant, and the
wonder-loving people were accustomed to tell marvelous stories concerning
him. It was said that, at one time, being unarmed when attacked by the
Indians, he reached into a tree, and, wrenching off a huge bough by main
force, drove back his assailants with it. He lived for some years alone in
Cumberland Valley--it is said, from 1776 to 1779--before a single white man
had taken up his abode there; his dwelling being a large hollow tree, the
roots of which still remain near Bledsoe's Lick. For one year--the
tradition is--a man by the name of Holiday shared his retreat; but the
hollow being not sufficiently spacious to accommodate two lodgers, they
were under the necessity of separating, and Holiday departed to seek a home
in the valley of the Kentucky River. But one difficulty arose; those
dwellers in the primeval forest had but one knife between them! What, was
to be done? for a knife was an article of indispensable necessity: it
belonged to Spencer, and it would have been madness in the owner of such an
article to part with it. He resolved to accompany Holiday part of the way
on his journey, and went as far as Big Barren River. When about to turn
back, Spencer's heart relented: he broke the blade of his knife in two,
gave half to his friend, and with a light heart returned to his hollow
tree. Not long after his gallant rescue of Mrs. Bledsoe, he was killed by a
party of Indians, on the road from Nashville to Knoxville. For nearly
twenty years he had been exposed to every variety of danger, and escaped
them all; but his hour came at last; and the dust of the hermit and
renowned warrior of Cumberland Valley now reposes on "Spencer's Hill," near
the Crab Orchard, on the road between Nashville and Knoxville.

Bereaved of her husband, sons, and brother-in-law by the murderous savages,
Mrs. Bledsoe was obliged alone to undertake, not only the charge of her
husband's estate, but the care of the children, and their education and
settlement in life. These duties were discharged with unwavering energy and
Christian patience. Her religion had taught her fortitude under her
unexampled distresses; and through all this trying period of her life, she
exhibited a decision and firmness of character which bespoke no ordinary
powers of intellect. Her mind, indeed, was of masculine strength, and she
was remarkable for independence of thought and opinion. In person, she was
attractive, being neither tall nor large, until advanced in life. Her hair
was brown, her eyes gray and her complexion fair. Her useful life was
closed in the autumn of 1808. The record of her worth, and of what she did
and suffered, is an humble one, and may win little attention from the
careless many, who regard not the memory of our "pilgrim mothers:" but the
recollection of her gentle virtues has not yet faded from the hearts of her
descendants; and those to whom they tell the story of her life will
acknowledge her the worthy companion of those noble men to whom belongs the
praise of having originated a new colony and built up a goodly state in the
bosom of the forest. Their patriotic labors, their struggles with the
surrounding savages, their efforts in the maintenance of the community they
had founded--sealed, as they finally were, with their own blood, and the
blood of their sons and relatives--will never be forgotten while the
apprehension of what is noble, generous, and good survives in the hearts of
their countrymen.

[1] Milton A. Haynes, Esq., of Tennessee, has furnished me with this and
other accounts.

* * * * *

MORE GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN,

IN A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR.

BY LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK.

MY DEAR GODEY:--

I have not finished my gossip about children. I have a good deal yet to say
touching their sensibilities, their nice discriminating sense, and the
treatment which they too frequently receive from those who, although older
than themselves, are in very many things not half so wise.

If you will take up Southey's Autobiography, written by himself (and his
son), and recently published by my friends, the brothers Harper, you will
find in the portion of Southey's early history, as recorded by himself,
many striking examples of the keen susceptibility of childhood to outward
and inward impressions, and of the deep feeling which underlies the
apparently unthoughtful career of a young boy. It is a delightful opening
of his whole heart to his reader. One sees with him the smallest object of
nature about the home of his childhood; and it is impossible not to enter
into all his feelings of little joys and poignant sorrows. I am not without
the hope, therefore, that, in the few records which I am about to give you;
partly of personal experience and partly of personal observation, I shall
be able to enlist the attention of your readers; for, after all, each one
of us, friend Godey, in our own more mature joys and sorrows, is but an
epitome, so to speak, the great mass, who alike rejoice and grieve us.

I do not wish to exhibit anything like a spirit of egotism, and I assure
you that I write with a gratified feeling that is a very wide remove from
that selfish sentiment, when I tell you that I have received from very many
parents, in different parts of the country, letters containing their "warm
and grateful thanks" for the endeavor which I made, in a recent number of
your magazine, to _create more confidence in childhood and youth_; to
awaken, along with a "sense of _duty_"--that too frequent excuse for
domestic tyranny--a feeling of generous forbearance for the trivial, venial
faults of those whose hearts are just and tender, and whom "kindness wins
when cruelty would repel." You must let me go on in my own way, and I will
try to illustrate the truth and justice of my position.

I must go back to my very earliest schooldays. I doubt if I was more than
five years old, a little boy in the country, when I was sent, with my
twin-brother, to a summer "district school." It was kept by a
"school-ma'am," a pleasant young woman of some twenty years of age. She was
positively my _first love_. I am afraid I was an awkward scholar at first;
but the enticing manner in which Mary ---- (I grieve that only the faint
_sound_ of her unsyllabled name comes to me now from "the dark backward and
abysm of Time") coaxed me through the alphabet and the words of one
syllable; encouraged me to encounter those of two (the first of which I
remember to this day, whenever the baker's bill for my children's daily
bread is presented for audit); stimulated me to attack those of three;
until, at the last, I was enabled to surmount that tallest of orthoepical
combinations, "_Mi-chi-li-mack-i-nack_", without a particle of fear; the
enticing manner, I say, in which Mary ---- accomplished all this, won my
heart. She would stoop over and kiss me, on my low seat, when I was
successful, and very pleasant were her "good words" to my ear. Bless your
heart! I remember at this moment the feeling of her soft brown curls upon
my cheek; and I would give almost anything now to see the first
"certificate" of good conduct which I brought home, in her handwriting, to
my mother, and which was kept for years among fans, bits of dried
orange-peel, and sprigs of withered "caraway," in a corner of the
bureau-"draw." All this came very vividly to me some time ago, when my own
little boy brought home _his_ first "school-ticket." He is not called,
however--and I rejoice that he is not--to remember dear companions, who
"bewept to the grave did go, with true-love showers."

"Oh, my mother! oh, my childhood!
Oh, my brother, now no more!
Oh, the years that push me onward,
Farther from that distant shore!"

But I am led away. I wanted merely to say that this "school-ma'am," from
the simple _love_ of her children, her little scholars, knew how to teach
and how to _rule_ them. I hope that not a few "school-ma'ams" will peruse
this hastily-prepared gossip; and if they do, I trust they will remember,
in the treatment of their little charges, that "the heart _must_ leap
kindly back to kindness." Why, my dear sir, I used to wait, in the summer
afternoons, until all the little pupils had gone on before, so that I could
place in the soft white hand of my school-mistress as confiding a little
hand as any in which she may afterwards have placed her own, "in the full
trust of love." I hope she found a husband good and true, and that she was
blessed with what she loved, "wisely" and _not_ "too well," children.

Now that I am on the subject of children at school, I wish to pursue the
theme at a little greater length, and give you an incident or two in my
farther experience.

It was not long after finishing our summer course with "school-ma'am" Mary
----, that we were transferred to a "man-school," kept in the district. And
here I must go back, for just one moment, to say that, among the
pleasantest things that I remember of that period, was the calling upon us
in the morning, by the neighbors' children--and especially two little
girls, new-comers from the "Black River country," then a vague terra
incognita to us, yet only some thirty miles away--to accompany us to the
school through the winter snow. How well I remember their knitted
red-and-white woolen hoods, and the red-and-white complexions beaming with
youth and high health beneath them! I think of Motherwell's going to school
with his "dear Jenny Morrison," so touchingly described in his beautiful
poem of that name, every time these scenes arise before me.

Well, at this "man-school" I first learned the lesson which I am about to
illustrate. It is a lesson for parents, a lesson for instructors, and, I
think, a lesson for children also. I remember names _here_, for one was
almost burned into my brain for years afterwards.

There was something very imposing about "opening the school" on the first
day of the winter session. The trustees of the same were present; a
hard-headed old farmer, who sent long piles of "cord wood," beach, maple,
bass-wood, and birch, out of his "own _pocket_," he used to say--and he
might, with equal propriety, have said, "out of his own _head_," for surely
_there_ was no lack of "timber;" Deacon C----, an educated Puritan, who
could spell, read, write, "punctify," and--"knew grammar," as he himself
expressed it; a thin-faced doctor, whose horse was snorting at the door,
and who sat, on that occasion, with his saddle-bags crossed on his knee,
being in something of a hurry, expecting, I believe, an "addition" in the
neighborhood, to the subject of my present gossip--at all events, I well
remember peeping under the wrinkled leather-flaps of the "bags" and seeing
a wooden cartridge-box, with holes for the death-dealing vials; and last,
but not least, the town blacksmith, who was, in fact, worth all the other
trustees put together, being a man of sound common sense, with something
more than a sprinkling of useful education. Under the auspices of these
trustees, this "man-school" was thus opened for the winter. "Now look you
what befell."

For the first four or five days, our schoolmaster was quite amiable--or so
at least he seemed. His "rules," and they were arbitrary enough, were given
out on the second day; five scholars were "admonished" on the third; on the
fourth, about a dozen were "warned," as the pedagogue termed it; and on the
fifth, there was set up in the corner of an open closet, in plain sight of
all the school, a bundle containing about a dozen birch switches, each some
six feet long, and rendered lithe and tough by being tempered in the hot
embers of the fire. These were to be the "ministers of justice;" and the
portents of this "dreadful note of preparation" were amply fulfilled.

I had just begun to learn to write. My copy-book had four pages of
"straight marks," so called, I suppose, because they are always crooked. I
had also gone through "the hooks," up and down; but my hand was cramped;
and I fear that my first "word-copy" was not as good as it ought to have
been; but I "run out my tongue and tried" hard; and it makes me laugh, even
now, to remember how I used to look along the line of "writing-scholars" on
my bench, and see the rows of lolling tongues and moving heads over the
long desk, mastering the first difficulties of chirography; some licking
off "blots" of ink from their copy-books, others drawing in or dropping
slowly out of the mouth, at each upward or downward "stroke" of the pen.

One morning, "the master" came behind me and overlooked my writing--

"Louis," said he, "if I see any more such writing as that, you'll repent
it! I've _talked_ to you long enough."

I replied that he had never, to my recollection, blamed me for writing
badly but once; nor _had_ he.

"Don't dare to contradict _me_, sir, but remember!" was his only reply.

From this moment, I could scarcely hold my pen aright, much less "write
right." The master had a cat-like, stealthy tread, and I seemed all the
while to feel him behind me; and while I was fearing this, and had reached
the end of a line, there fell across my right hand a diagonal blow, from
the fierce whip which was the tyrant's constant companion, that in a moment
rose to a red and blue welt as large as my little finger, entirely across
my hand. The pain was excruciating. I can recall the feeling as vividly,
while I am tracing these lines, as I did the moment after the cruel blow
was inflicted.

From that time forward I could not write at all; nor should I have pursued
that branch of school-education at all that winter but that "the master's"
cruelty soon led to his dismissal in deep disgrace. His floggings were
almost incessant. His system was the "reign of terror," instead of that
which "works by _love_ and purifies the heart." His crowning act was
feruling a little boy, as ingenuous and innocent-hearted a child as ever
breathed, on the tops of his finger-nails--a refinement of cruelty beyond
all previous example. The little fellow's nails turned black and soon came
off, and the "master" was turned away. I am not sorry to add that he was
subsequently cowhided, while lying in a snow-bank, into which he had been
"knocked" by an elder brother of the lad whom he had so cruelly treated,
until he cried lustily for quarter, which was not _too_ speedily granted.

But I come now to my illustration of the "law of kindness," in its effect
upon myself. The successor to the pedagogue whom we have dismissed was a
native of Connecticut. He was well educated, had a pleasant manner, and a
smile of remarkable sweetness. I never saw him angry for a moment. On the
first day he opened, he said to the assembled school that he wanted each
scholar to consider him as _a friend_; that he desired nothing but their
good; and that it was for the interest of _each one_ of them that _all_
should be careful to observe the few and simple rules which he should lay
down for the government of the school. These he proclaimed; and, with one
or two trivial exceptions, there was no infraction of them during the three
winters in which he taught in our district.

Under his instruction, I was induced to resume my "experiences" in writing.
I remember his coming to look over my shoulder to examine the first page of
my copy-book: "Very well written," said he; "only _keep on_ in that way,
and you cannot fail to succeed." These encouraging words went straight to
my heart. They were words of kindness, and their fruition was
instantaneous. When the next two pages of my copy-book were accomplished,
he came again to report upon my progress: "That is _well_ done, Louis,
quite _well_. You will soon require very little instruction from _me_. I am
afraid you'll soon become to excel your teacher."

Gentle-hearted, sympathetic O---- M----! would that your "law of kindness"
could be written upon the heart of every parent, and every guardian and
instructor of the young throughout our great and happy country!

I have often wondered why it is that parents and guardians do not more
frequently and more cordially _reciprocate the confidence of children_. How
hard it is to convince a child that his father or mother can do wrong! Our
little people are always our sturdiest defenders. They are loyal to the
maxim that "the king can do no wrong;" and all the monarchs they know are
their parents. I heard the other day, from the lips of a distinguished
physician, formerly of New York, but now living in elegant retirement in a
beautiful country town of Long Island, a touching illustration of the truth
of this, with which I shall close this already too protracted article.

"I have had," said the doctor, "a good deal of experience, in the long
practice of my profession in the city, that is more remarkable than
anything recorded in the 'Diary of a London Physician.' It would be
impossible for me to detail to you the hundredth part of the interesting
and exciting things which I saw and heard. That which affected me most, of
late years, was the case of a boy, not, I think, over twelve years of age.
I first saw him in the hospital, whither, being poor and without parents,
he had been brought to die.

"He was the most beautiful boy I ever beheld. He had that peculiar cast of
countenance and complexion which we notice in those who are afflicted with
frequent hemorrhage of the lungs. He was _very_ beautiful! His brow was
broad, fair, and intellectual; his eyes had the deep _interior_ blue of the
sky itself; his complexion was like the lily, tinted, just below the
cheek-bone, with a hectic flush--

'As on consumption's waning cheek,
Mid ruin blooms the rose;'

and his hair, which was soft as floss silk, hung in luxuriant curls about
his face. But oh, what an expression of deep melancholy his countenance
wore! so remarkable that I felt certain that the fear of death had nothing
to do with it. And I was right. Young as he was, he did not wish to live.
He repeatedly said that death was what he most desired; and it was truly
dreadful to hear one so young and so beautiful talk like this. 'Oh!' he
would say, 'let me die! let me die! Don't _try_ to save me; I _want_ to
die!' Nevertheless, he was most affectionate, and was extremely grateful
for everything that I could do for his relief. I soon won his heart; but
perceived, with pain, that his disease of body was nothing to his 'sickness
of the soul,' which I could not heal. He leaned upon my bosom and wept,
while at the same time he prayed for death. I have never seen one of his
years who courted it so sincerely. I tried in every way to elicit from him
what it was that rendered him so unhappy; but his lips were sealed, and he
was like one who tried to turn his face from something which oppressed his
spirit.

"It subsequently appeared that the father of this child was hanged for
murder in B---- County, about two years before. It was the most
cold-blooded homicide that had ever been known in that section of the
country. The excitement raged high; and I recollect that the stake and the
gallows vied with each other for the victim. The mob labored hard to get
the man out of the jail, that they might wreak summary vengeance upon him
by hanging him to the nearest tree. Nevertheless, law triumphed, and he was
hanged. Justice held up her equal scales with satisfaction, and there was
much trumpeting forth of this consummation, in which even the women,
merciful, tender-hearted women, seemed to take delight.

"Perceiving the boy's life to be waning, I endeavored one day to turn his
mind to religious subjects, apprehending no difficulty in one so young; but
he always evaded the topic. I asked him if he had said his prayers. He
replied--

"'_Once_, always--_now_, never.'

"This answer surprised me very much; and I endeavored gently to impress him
with the fact that a more devout frame of mind would be becoming in him,
and with the great necessity of his being prepared to die; but he remained
silent.

"A few days afterwards, I asked him whether he would not permit me to send
for the Rev. Dr. B----, a most kind man in sickness, who would be of the
utmost service to him in his present situation. He declined firmly and
positively. _Then_ I determined to solve this mystery, and to understand
this strange phase of character in a mere child. 'My dear boy,' said I, 'I
implore you not to act in this manner. What can so have disturbed your
young mind? You certainly believe there is a God, to whom you owe a debt of
gratitude?'

"His eye kindled, and to my surprise, I might almost say horror, I heard
from his young lips--

"'No, I don't _believe_ that there is a God!'

"Yes, that little boy, young as he was, was an atheist; and he even
reasoned in a logical manner for a mere child like him.

"'I cannot believe there is a God,' said he; 'for if there were a God, he
must be merciful and just; and he never, _never_, NEVER could have
permitted _my father_, who was innocent, to be hanged! Oh, my father! my
father!' he exclaimed, passionately, burying his face in the pillow, and
sobbing as if his heart would break.

"I was overcome by my own emotion; but all that I could say would not
change his determination; he would have no minister of God beside him--no
prayers by his bedside. I was unable, with all my endeavors, to apply any
balm to his wounded heart.

"A few days after this, I called, as usual, in the morning, and at once saw
very clearly that the little boy must soon depart.

"'Willie,' said I, 'I have got good news for you to-day. Do you think that
you can bear to hear it?' for I really was at a loss how to break to him
what I had to communicate.

"He assented, and listened with the deepest attention. I then informed him,
as I best could, that, from circumstances which had recently come to light,
it had been rendered certain that his father was entirely innocent of the
crime for which he had suffered an ignominious death.

"I never shall forget the frenzy of emotion which he exhibited at this
announcement. He uttered one scream--the blood rushed from his mouth--he
leaned forward upon my bosom--and died!"

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