XVIII.

ABIGAIL SNELLING.

Thomas Hunt, the father of the subject of the present memoir was a Revolutionary officer, and a native of Watertown, Massachusetts. He entered the American army as a volunteer, and was soon commissioned in the regular service; was in the expedition against Ticonderoga commanded by Ethan Allen, and one of the party who made themselves masters of Crown Point. He was with Gen. Wayne at Stoney Point, among the volunteers of the “forlorn hope,” and was there wounded in the ankle. In 1794, he joined the army under Wayne against the Indians, and served out the campaign, returning then to his family residence at Watertown. In 1798, he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel of the first regiment of infantry, and ordered to Fort Wayne, where he remained until the death of Col. Hamtramck at Detroit, when he became Colonel, and took the command of that post, remained there some time, and afterwards went to Mackinaw.

Our heroine was but six weeks old when the family left Watertown, and was carried on a pillow in such a vehicle as was then used for stages, over very rough roads, for many miles only rendered passable by logs placed side by side, forming what are termed corduroy roads. The severity of the exercise, as may be remembered by those who have travelled over such roads in a new country, always caused an outcry on approaching them, from man, woman, and child, with petitions to get out and walk; frequently at the risk of being bitten by rattlesnakes which were often concealed between the logs. When they arrived at Mackinaw, they went to the Government House, which they were to occupy. The English commander had left it with the furniture, even the window curtains suspended from the windows, and there was an air of comfort in and about the house. The Fort stood on the height, the town was small, the streets were very narrow, the houses built in the old French style, and the town was enclosed with pickets, with a gate at each end.

One of the little girl’s earliest recollections was visiting in the family of a Scotch gentleman, Dr. Mitchell, who had married an Indian wife. She dressed herself in silks and satins when at home, but resumed her native dress when among the Chippewas, her own people. She would sometimes be absent many months, purchasing furs to send to Montreal, for her agent there to sell; and in this way she amassed a large fortune for her husband. At one time, after she had been absent more than six months, it was reported that she had been killed by some rival trader. She heard on her way home that such news had been received, and when her flotilla appeared in sight, threw herself on the bottom of her birch canoe. Her husband, with spy-glass in hand, was on the beach, eagerly looking to see if indeed his wife was not there, and was about turning away with a heavy heart, when she leaped from her bark exclaiming, “Not dead yet!” Her two daughters were sent to Montreal to be educated, and returned home highly accomplished and very beautiful women. One of them afterwards married an officer.

Abigail was about seven years old when her parents left Mackinaw to return to Detroit, on their way to St. Louis. The troops had left Detroit but a short time when the town was burned to ashes, in 1805. The little party reached Fort Wayne, where they rested for a week, at which time Col. Hunt’s eldest daughter, not quite fifteen, was married to the surgeon of the post, Dr. Edwards. She was left behind when the family resumed their journey, and they proceeded in a flat-bottomed boat, called an “ark,” which could only be used in descending with the current. Col. Hunt had one of these boats partitioned off into rooms, making a parlor, bed-rooms, and kitchen; bedsteads were put up, and each apartment arranged in the same order as in a house. This was a slow mode of travelling, but extremely comfortable, and little apprehension was felt at that time of the Indians, although they frequently surrounded the boat, begging for bread and some of their “father’s milk” (whiskey). At Vincennes, the voyagers were hospitably received at the house of Gen. W. H. Harrison, but their stay was short, and they proceeded to St. Louis. Gen. Wilkinson was there at that time, and ordered Col. Hunt to take command of the garrison at the mouth of the Missouri, eighteen miles above St. Louis. This was about the time of Burr’s conspiracy, and a court martial was immediately held to try a Major Bruff, who was suspected of being one of his adherents. He was acquitted. Then arrived at the garrison Lewis and Clark, from their exploring expedition; and the peculiar appearance of their dress, made of deerskins, the outer garment fringed and worked with porcupine quills, something between a military undress frock coat and Indian shirt, with their leggins and moccasins, three-cornered cocked hats and long beards, caused no small wonder among the younger members of the family.

Gen. Pike was at this time a captain in Col. Hunt’s regiment, and was selected by the government to explore the Upper Mississippi. He left his wife and little daughter under the protection of Col. Hunt, on his departure in the following year. His absence was prolonged nearly two years, during which time his friend was removed from this world. Col. Hunt died after a protracted illness, in 1809. The dispensation was a heart-breaking one to the devoted wife. She did not, could not, shed a tear, but would sigh continually, and sometimes exclaim, “Oh! that I could weep—what a relief it would be!” Ere long she was unable to swallow solid food, and even liquids without difficulty. Some friends thought visiting the grave would have the effect of making her weep, but it threw her into spasms, after which no further effort was made, and she gradually sank, until she died in six months after the death of her husband.

Mrs. Hunt’s eldest son, twenty-two years of age, was then just established in business as a merchant in Detroit. When he heard of his father’s death, he prepared immediately to meet the family at St. Louis, and on the journey tidings reached him that his mother also was no more. This double bereavement, with the responsibility of a large family depending upon his care, was too heavy a burden for his anxious mind. He became ill of a fever, which reduced him so much, that on arriving at St. Louis he could scarcely reach the house of a friend where the family were awaiting his arrival. For the first time in her life, his little sister felt a dreary sense of desolation—a knowledge that she was homeless, and an orphan. No tender mother now called her child to her in the evening to say her prayers; no longer were the children assembled together on the Sabbath afternoon to be instructed from the Bible and catechism. This feeling of loneliness added to the poignancy of grief for her departed parents; the first of the sorrows by which that young, gentle, loving heart was to be tried—the first experience of the universal lot of humanity. The young mourner was led, in that time of suffering, to turn to the Bible for consolation, and was consoled in the promise there found, “I will be a father to the fatherless.”

As soon as her brother had recovered his strength, the family commenced their journey, their destination being Waltham, Massachusetts, where their maternal grandfather, Mr. Samuel Wellington, resided. When they reached Vincennes, they were again received into the family of Gen. Harrison, and stayed two weeks to recruit. The mode of conveyance at that time was in an open barge, with an awning stretched over it. The crew were soldiers for a part of the way, afterwards Frenchmen, “voyageurs,” as they were called. Tents were pitched every night, and the evening was spent in preparing food for the following day. The party was often supplied with game by the Indians, who frequently spread their blankets around their fires to sleep for the night; yet though the savages were friendly, the children could not divest themselves of fear which often drove away sleep at night, to be made up by sleeping all the next day in the boat. The next stopping place was Fort Wayne, where the eldest sister, Mrs. Edwards, had been left six years before. The meeting was an affecting one. The travellers did not remain long, as Mr. Hunt’s business demanded his presence in Detroit. One of the brothers, John E. Hunt, was left with Dr. Edwards, and the youngest but one of the sisters (now married to Mr. Wendell, of Detroit); and as soon as Mr. Hunt had arranged his business, the rest resumed their journey, another brother, Thomas, being left in Detroit in his brother’s store as clerk. Afterwards, in 1812, he was commissioned in the army as captain.

After a tedious journey of months, the travellers arrived at their grand-father’s in Waltham. Abby was sent to a boarding school in Salem, under the charge of Mrs. Cranch, and there remained until some time in 1811. Col. Henry J. Hunt of Detroit, who was then married to Miss Ann Mackintosh of Moy, Canada, then came, in company with his wife, to take his sister, and she returned with them to Detroit.

The following year, war was declared with Great Britain. The first intimation had of it in Detroit was seeing the ferryboat hauled up, and the ferryman taken prisoner and sent to Malden. This caused a dreadful sensation in the town, especially in the house of Col. Hunt, his wife being deprived of the privilege of communication with her father’s family, and plunged into deep distress on that account. There were many other families in the same situation; and brothers seemed arrayed against each other. The only Protestant church near enough to be attended every Sunday, was at Sandwich, nearly opposite Detroit, and the Hunt family had always crossed the river on Saturday, spending Sunday at Mr. Mackintosh’s in order to attend the Episcopal service. It was the first Protestant church Miss Hunt had ever attended, and she was there baptised and received the communion. The privation of such privileges was deeply felt by her.

Before long, intelligence was brought of the approach and the arrival of Gen. Hull’s army at the Maumee on the 30th of June. The troops had collected at Dayton to the number of about two thousand drafted men and volunteers from Ohio; the regular force comprising about three hundred soldiers. They had cut their way through the wilderness and endured many hardships. The 4th regiment, commanded by Col. James Miller, had acquired a good reputation in the battle of Tippecanoe under Gen. Harrison on the 6th of November, 1811. None of the officers had distinguished themselves more than Capt. Snelling. He was one of the gallant band that made a successful charge, and drove the enemy into the swamp, putting an end to the conflict. An incident of this battle gave occasion for the exercise of his benevolence. At dawn of day a lad fourteen years old, was seen bending over the lifeless body of his father, which lay weltering in blood, and proved to be that of Capt. Spencer of the militia. The lad had been seen fighting by his father’s side during the engagement, and even after his death, at one moment weeping for his parent, the next loading his rifle and firing upon the enemy. Capt. Snelling was much interested in the boy, took charge of him, and afterwards petitioned for a cadet’s warrant, which he received, and sent him to West Point. From that institution he graduated at the termination of four years with honor, and while there sent every month half his pay to his widowed mother, then in Kentucky. He received a commission in the army and many years afterwards died, having the rank of major.

Before leaving the Maumee, Gen. Hull sent a vessel to Detroit, in which were placed his sick and most of his goods, sending with it his instructions and army roll. The British at Malden having information of the declaration of war, captured the vessel and unsuspecting crew, and from them received the first intelligence of the war. Capt. Gooding, of the 4th regiment, and his wife were on board. She related afterwards an exploit of her’s while at Malden, which showed the tenderness of female nature combined with manly perseverance and courage. The prisoners were confined below deck, and very much crowded, as it was a small vessel; the weather was very warm, they were fed with salt meat, without sugar, tea or coffee, and many fell sick. When Mrs. Gooding was told by the Captain of their situation, she set her wits to work to contrive how to relieve them. She knew they were soon to be sent in the same vessel to Montreal, and no time was to be lost. She obtained leave from one in authority to visit a family up the river with whom she had formerly been acquainted, and walked on a mile or more alone, without exactly knowing what she was about to do, when she observed a large house on a farm which seemed blessed with abundance. She entered, introduced herself to the lady of the house, and told her, in a very pathetic narrative, who she was, the situation of the sick prisoners, and her desire to awaken sympathy in the hearts of those who had it in their power to relieve them. The lady hesitated a moment and then said, “What can I do in this matter? If I listen to the dictates of my own heart, I could easily fill you a basket with coffee, tea and sugar, rice, etc., but I dare not send it.” “Listen to the dictates of that heart,” cried Mrs. Gooding, “I myself will carry the basket, and if you have fresh meat for soup I can conceal it in the bushes until I can convey it to the vessel.” The lady immediately had a lamb killed; Mrs. Gooding herself hid it; managed to carry the basket on board that afternoon, and in the evening, before nine o’clock, the four quarters of lamb.

Gen. Hull arrived with his army at Detroit early in July. Dr. Edwards joined the army at Dayton, as Major of one of the regiments, and had John E. Hunt with him, so that amidst the din of war their young sister was rejoiced to see them again. In a few days Capt. Snelling was introduced to Miss Hunt, as one of the heroes of Tippecanoe, by Maj. Edwards; and soon after the young officer asked the brother’s permission to address her. In due time they were engaged.

On the 12th July, Gen. Hull crossed the river to Sandwich, and established his forces there, with a view to the attack on Malden. Many of the officers urged him immediately to storm that place, which was twelve miles below his encampment, and then very weakly garrisoned, as was made known to the officers by deserters who came thence after they heard Gen. Hull had crossed. Captain Snelling said, “Give me permission, and with my company and those who will volunteer, I will make the attempt.” Colonels Cass and Miller, by an attack on the advanced party, on La Riviere Canard, showed that the men were able and willing to push their conquest if the chance were given; but they were suddenly recalled, and the enterprize was abandoned. On the 7th of August Gen. Hull returned to Detroit, much to the disappointment of the whole army, who now had lost all confidence in him, since he had lost, by refusing to listen to his eager officers, the opportunity of obtaining possession of the key to the Canadian provinces, when it might have been taken with scarce the firing of a gun.

Col. Proctor soon after arrived at Malden, attempted to cut off supplies from Ohio, and succeeded in stopping some stores on their way to Detroit, at the river Raisin, thirty-six miles distant, defeating Van Horn, who had been sent by Gen. Hull to escort them. On receiving this intelligence, Gen. Hull sent three hundred regulars, the 4th Regiment and two hundred militia, under the command of Col. James Miller, to open the communication. The British had thrown up a breastwork four miles from Brownstown, at a place called Monguagon, behind which a great number of the Indians under Tecumseh lay concealed. On the 9th of August, while on its march, the detachment drew near the ambuscade. The advanced guard, commanded by Capt. Snelling, was considerably in advance of the main body when suddenly the attack was made on him. His party sustained themselves until Gen. Miller, with the utmost speed and coolness, drew up his men, opened a brisk fire and then charged. The British regulars gave way, but the Indians under Tecumseh betaking themselves to the woods on each side, did much execution. The British again rallied, and were again repulsed; and Majors Muir and Tecumseh both being wounded, were compelled to yield, retiring slowly before the bayonets to Brownstown. They would all have been taken prisoners had they not had boats in readiness to cross the river. During the engagement a mounted officer delayed charging as he was ordered; Capt. Snelling directed him to dismount, and himself sprung upon the horse. The officer being a tall man, he found the stirrups much too long, but there was no time to be lost; he therefore clung to the horse with his knees, and in this ludicrous predicament performed the duty which belonged to another. His brother officers often laughed at the recollection of his appearance at that time.

Meanwhile his friends in Detroit hearing the roar of the cannon knew there was fighting. Thomas Hunt was then a volunteer, and the feelings of the young girl, whose brother and betrothed lover were in danger, may be imagined. Young Hunt had rode a white horse, which returned and stood at the stable door, the saddle pulled away and covered with blood; and the conclusion was inevitable that he had fallen from his horse, either killed or wounded. As cart after cart came in with the wounded, Miss Hunt heard it whispered, “It must be Capt. Snelling,” and on enquiry was informed that an officer answering the description of him had been mortally wounded. In the agony of her feelings she was about rushing by all to the cart when she was forcibly detained, and some one went to ascertain if it indeed was so; but soon returned with a bright countenance, saying, “it is not Snelling, it is Peters, and he is only slightly wounded.” On further inquiry she learned that Mr. Hunt was safe, having given up his horse for the use of a wounded man who had fainted and fallen off. The next day the absentees returned. In this engagement Capt. Snelling had his hat knocked off by a ball, and the hilt of his sword grazed. At one time he observed an Indian from behind a tree very near him raise his rifle to shoot him; he sprang forward, knocked the gun from his grasp, and plunged the point of his sword through his neck, when he fell lifeless. The Captain supposed from the situation of the Indian that he had been previously wounded.

On the 13th of August, Miss Hunt, then only fifteen years old, was married to Capt. Snelling by the Chaplain of Gen. Hull’s army. General Hull and several other officers were present, with a few ladies. The ceremony had been performed but a few moments when the drum beat to arms; and Capt. Snelling instantly started up to go in search of his sword. All rushed to the door except Gen. Hull, who laying his hand on the young officer’s shoulder as he was about leaving the house, said, “Snelling, you need not go, I will excuse you.” “By no means,” was the reply, “I feel more like doing my duty now than ever.” “Stay, it is a false alarm by my order,” said the General.

About this time, Gen. Brock reached Malden with reinforcements, and immediately planted batteries opposite the fort of Detroit. From Col. Hunt’s house the family could distinctly see the men at work, by the aid of a spy glass. Then were seen two British officers with a white flag of truce, crossing at the ferry; they were met at the wharf and blindfolded, and were conducted to the first house, which happened to be that of Col. Hunt. The youthful bride saw them enter the parlor with Gen. Hull, his aid, who was his son, and some others; and the door was locked. They demanded, in the name of Gen. Brock, a surrender, stating that he should otherwise be unable to restrain the fury of the savages, but were answered by a spirited refusal. The British officers returned to the boat in the same manner, and presently the firing commenced from their batteries, and continued without much effect until the next morning.

About this time Michilimackinac was captured, and Lieut. Hanks, who commanded, was sent on parole to Detroit; his wife being with him. His command consisted of but fifty men, the enemy numbered over one thousand, including Indians; and Lieut. Hanks had received no information of the declaration of war! Being on parole, he was of course bound to remain neutral, and it happened that he was in a room with some others, when a shell from the enemy passed into the room, scattering death and destruction. Mrs. Hanks was with the other ladies in an adjoining room, where all were employed in making flannel bags to put powder in for the cannon. When they heard the report and the groans, all rushed to the door, for it was but a narrow entry that divided the two rooms. Mrs. Hanks was in advance, when the door was opened by one of the wounded, and Lieut. Hanks was seen with his bowels torn open and dreadfully disfigured. A blanket was immediately thrown over him by one who came in. Three others had been badly wounded and two killed by that single bomb-shell. Mrs. Hanks saw at a glance the condition of her husband, and that there was no hope of life, and for a time she was bereft of reason.

It having been reported by some Frenchmen, that the British were preparing to cross the river opposite Spring Wells, Capt. Snelling was sent to watch their movements and report. He left Detroit about nine o’clock in the evening, with a detachment of men, and returning next morning before daylight, he reported to the General that from appearances, they would cross the river at that point, three miles from Detroit, that morning. The alarm of Gen. Hull now became extreme, and his appearance that morning was pitiable. The balls were flying very fast over the fort, and several men were killed; the chimney of the room in which the ladies were at work, was struck and fell with some of the roof into the apartment. The ladies were then advised to go into an empty bomb-proof magazine for safety, and took Mrs. Hanks with them, she being quite frantic. In passing the parade ground several shells burst over them, but they escaped injury, and reaching the magazine found it filled with women and children from the town; some fainting, and some in convulsions with fear. The picture of woe was complete when Mrs. Hanks was placed among the sufferers. Presently, Mrs. Snelling heard herself called by name, and going to the door, found it was her husband. He said, “My dear wife, I know not what moment I may be shot down; I have come to say farewell, and ask you to make me a promise, that in case I fall you will never marry an Englishman.” His weeping bride assented without being able to speak, and they parted.

While the British were crossing the river, Gen. Hull was entreated by the officers to prevent their landing, which they insisted could be done; at least, they might sink every other boat; but he would not allow a gun to be fired. The field officers, suspecting he intended to surrender, determined on his arrest; this, however, was prevented, in consequence of the absence of Colonels Cass and McArthur, who had been detached with four hundred men on a third expedition to the river Raisin. Had they been present, there is no doubt the project would have been carried into effect. On that morning Gen, Miller was very ill of chill and fever.

The morning of the 16th (three days after the marriage of our fair friend) the British landed at Spring Wells, and marched up in solid column along the river bank. The American troops now eagerly waited for orders; they were strongly fortified, and cannon loaded with grape stood on a commanding eminence, ready to sweep the advancing columns. At this crisis, what was their mortification and disappointment, when orders were given them to retire within the fort! When there, Capt. Snelling saw Gen. Hull’s aid trying to plant a white flag: “Snelling,” said he, “come and help me fix this flag.” “No, sir; I will not soil my hands with that flag,” was the indignant answer.

Gen Hull, panic-stricken, surrendered the fortress without even stipulating the terms; even Colonels Cass and McArthur’s detachment was included. Language cannot adequately describe or express the emotions that filled the hearts of those brave soldiers, as they stacked their arms to be conveyed away by the British soldiers. Mrs. Snelling now returned to her brother’s house, and for the first time saw Tecumseh. He was a noble looking warrior, on horseback at the head of his band of Indians, who had fired off their guns before they were permitted to enter the town; they passed by the door in good order, being evidently under restraint; but how long would it last! It was felt to be a relief when Capt. Snelling informed his wife the vessels were in sight in which all the prisoners were to embark. Col. H. I. Hunt was permitted to remain on parole, Detroit being his home, and John E. Hunt stayed with him; but Thomas, afterwards a captain in the army, and the brother-in-law, Maj. Edwards, accompanied the prisoners. They were put on board the Queen Charlotte, where they found Gen. Hull and staff, with several other officers and their wives. They were very much crowded, the state-rooms being occupied by the General and his staff, while the rest made pallets on the cabin floor. It may be supposed that no one slept much that night. Gen. Hull’s conduct was freely discussed within his hearing; and bitter, bitter indeed, were the feelings expressed against him. The next day, much to the satisfaction of Mrs. Snelling, her party, with others, was put on board the vessel commanded by Captain Mackintosh, at his request. He gave her up his own stateroom, and handed her the key of the box that contained his preserves and other niceties. He told the prisoners that if the army had marched to Malden at the time they crossed the river, that post would have been taken without the cost of a life.

When they arrived at Erie, the British guards took charge of the captive troops, and each American captain was placed at the head of his company, surrounded by a British guard, and marched to Fort George, eighteen miles, where vessels were in readiness to proceed to Kingston. Gen. Hull and his staff were placed in carriages. Mackintosh promised Capt. Snelling he would place his young wife in the hands of a friend, who would see that she had a conveyance to join him at Fort George. He did so, but was obliged to return to his vessel; however, Mr. Warren promised to send her the same afternoon. Soon after she was joined by the wife of Capt. Fuller, of the 4th regiment. When Capt. Snelling then bade a brief adieu to his wife, “You may have need of money,” said he, and gave her a half eagle.

With much impatience the ladies waited for Mr. Warren to make his appearance with a carriage. When tea was ready he came, but said all the carriages in the place were gone, and he could furnish nothing better than a lumber wagon. They eagerly exclaimed, “That will do, let us have it!” “But you must not go on to-night, it is too late,” he persisted; “the roads are filled with straggling Indians; it will not do—it would be rashness to venture. I will have everything ready by daylight to-morrow morning.” The ladies remonstrated against delay. “They have all gone; the troops will embark, and sail without us, and we shall be left behind.” “Oh, no!” replied Warren; “unless the wind changes they cannot leave.”

His involuntary guests passed a sleepless night in his house. They were up two hours before daylight, and endeavored in various ways to rouse their host, but in vain. Day dawned; they opened the window, to see if the wind had changed; it blew from the same direction, and they were more calm. When the sun rose, they went to Mr. Warren immediately, and begged the fulfilment of his promise. He went out, and expecting him back every moment, they got their luggage ready in the hall, every moment seeming an age. At length, a negro man drove up to the door about nine o’clock, in a large lumber wagon; their hearts sank within them, for they had supposed that Mr. Warren would accompany them. The man came into the hall, and asked, “Is this the luggage? Heavy load!—take all day to get there!” “And is not Mr. Warren going with us “No, marm; cannot go; told me to go.” Thus the wedding tour of our fair bride promised to be an adventurous one! Their fears were divided between the negro man and the Indians who were straggling on the roads. They had a great deal of baggage, and were completely in the power of the driver. Mrs. Snelling said to him imploringly, “If you will make haste, and take us safely through, I will give you this gold piece, and our husbands, who are both Captains in the American army, will pay you well besides.” The man answered that he would do his best.

When he stopped to water the horses at a tavern, there were a number of Indians about the house, and the ladies begged the driver not to let them know they were prisoners. They remained in the wagon while he went for water, watching him narrowly however, and not suffering him to delay a moment. When he resumed his seat, they breathed more freely. At noon some crackers and cheese were purchased, and they prevailed upon the driver to be satisfied with it for his dinner. Often they met three or four Indians, who sometimes stopped the driver to talk to him, and were inquisitive to know who the women were, what was in the trunks, &c., &c. During such times, although the prisoners trembled in every nerve, they appeared in a very merry mood, signifying to them and the driver that they were in a hurry. He cracked his whip, and as they went on, leaving the Indians behind, they set up a frightful yell, enough to chill the blood with fear.

As they drew near Fort George, they became still more anxious, for as nearly as they could judge the wind had changed, or was changing. It was late in the afternoon, and still they had some distance to go. Within a few miles of the fort, they met a foot traveller from there, who told them all the vessels had gone except one. In that one Capt. Snelling and Capt. Fuller were pacing the deck, sometimes looking with eagerness towards the shore, then beseeching the Captain of the sloop, who was a kind-hearted man, to delay only a little longer, notwithstanding orders had been sent him to proceed. Just as the words, “I can wait no longer, I must obey orders,” passed his lips, handkerchiefs were seen waving from the shore; a boat was sent, and the travellers were soon in their husbands’ arms. Even the rough but kind-hearted sailor witnessing the scene, wiped his eyes; and as the good Captain approached, the tears rolled down his cheeks. It was a joyous, though a tearful meeting.

The next thought was for the baggage. Where was it? It had been left in the lumber wagon, for no one had bestowed a thought upon it, and the vessel was already miles from shore. The negro probably carried it home as a prize, for the owners never heard of it again, though for some time they entertained a hope that the trunks would be forwarded to them. The Captain seemed to take quite an interest in Mrs. Snelling, having learned she was a bride of but two weeks, and so young; and his kind feeling was manifested by giving up to her his own stateroom, and sometimes sending nice things from his table to her. Such kindness, at such a time, was sensibly felt and appreciated. Capt. Snelling told his wife he had a little difficulty while on the march with one of the British officers who was with the guard. It was a very warm day, and almost choked with dust and thirst, he stepped on the grass, a very short distance from where he was marching, when the officer rudely pushed him back. Pale with rage, “Sir,” said Snelling, “had I my sword by my side, you would not thus dare to lay hands upon me. I trust the day may come when I shall be able to show you how a gentleman ought to behave under similar circumstances.” It was not a little singular that this same officer was afterwards taken prisoner by the Americans, and fell into the hands of Capt. Snelling, to be conducted to Fort Erie. He was a married man, and expected to have been detained a long time from his family. But his generous foe, then Inspector-General, used his influence to effect his exchange. They parted with expressions of sincere friendship.

The stay of the prisoners at Kingston was only sufficiently long to remove them from the vessels to the large barges or batteaux which were in readiness for the descent of the St. Lawrence. The lot of our party fell again to the same boat in which were Gen. Hull and staff. The journey was without much incident. At night they stopped at some small village, where lodging in bed-rooms could not be had for all who applied; and several times the high-spirited Capt. Snelling would rebel and give expression to his feelings, when a room for which he had spoken, would be given to a British officer.

On arriving at St. John’s, four or five miles from Montreal, the prisoners were ordered to be arranged by companies, with their officers, and marched under guard to the city. Gen. Hull and staff, with an escort of British officers, went in carriages; the officers’ ladies two and two in gigs, and then the troops in the rear, with a guard on each side, completed the procession. When they reached the city, a full band of music went in advance of Gen. Hull’s carriage, and began to play Yankee Doodle. The General having said in his proclamation “I will go through Montreal with Yankee Doodle,” they were determined to make good his promise.

It was evening, and the streets were illuminated, every window in every house being filled with lights, and when the procession came opposite Nelson’s Monument, there were cheers given, and a cry “hats off!” An attempt was made to compel all to the act of reverence, by knocking off the prisoners’ hats or caps. A militia officer tried it with Capt. Snelling, “At your peril. Sir, touch me;” was the quick warning, and before he could do anything rash, a regular officer rode up and rebuked the militia officer. At this moment a lady made her way through the crowd and guard towards the prisoners, and fell, overcome by emotion. She was lifted up, and the Captain recognized Mrs. Gooding. His party was conducted to a hotel, where they met Capt. Gooding also.

During the evening, after they had taken possession of their room, a tap was heard at the door, and a servant brought in a tray, on which were glasses and a decanter of wine, placed it on the table, and said—“Capt. F—— will be here to see you, Capt. Snelling.” He entered soon after, and Capt. Snelling saw in him the gentleman who had insisted on knocking off his cap; he came to apologize for his conduct, and requested permission to drink a glass of wine with him. In a few days the married officers were paroled, and left Montreal on their way to Boston. Here Captain and Mrs. Snelling remained until he was exchanged, at which time he was ordered to Plattsburg to join Gen. Hampton’s army. The admirable wife, who had shared his dangers, remained in Boston. The separation lasted some months, when unexpectedly the Captain made his appearance, informing Mrs. Snelling that he was going to Washington city, having an extremely unpleasant duty to perform, that of taking a man into custody that very night while in bed, one of a party who supplied the enemy with provisions, and must be taken to Washington. He left his wife about twelve o’clock at night, saying he should have assistance, and she must not be uneasy, for that if he succeeded in securing the man, he would stop in the carriage and let her know of his safety. In two hours he returned, told her they had succeeded, and that the prisoner was in irons in the carriage, with a guard. “I pity his poor wife,” added he, “I wish you to take a carriage to-morrow, drive to No. ——, Water Street, ask for the lady of the house, and say to her that her husband will be in Washington, for a few days, and then return to her in safety.” In two weeks Capt. Snelling came back; the man had turned States’ evidence against others, and had been dismissed.

About this time Mrs. Snelling’s eldest child was born—she being only sixteen year’s of age. Her little daughter Mary beguiled many an anxious hour of separation from her father; that father being in constant peril. He passed through many dangers while in Plattsburg and its vicinity, and rose rapidly in rank, Generals Izard and Macomb being in command. Mrs. Snelling joined him there. Before long Gen. Izard’s division was ordered to Fort Erie, and Capt. Snelling belonged to that division. His wife remained in Burlington, on the other side of Lake Champlain, and was there when Commodore McDonough gained his victory, hearing distinctly the roar of the artillery, and relieved beyond measure when the news came of the victory. It was shouted from mouth to mouth, and from door to door, “Victory! Victory!”

The details of the siege of Fort Erie may be found in historical works. At this time Snelling was in the staff of Gen. Izard, and was Inspector-general, with the rank of Colonel. Gen. Brown commanded at Fort Erie. When the troops went into winter quarters at Buffalo, Mrs. Snelling again joined him at Buffalo with her little daughter. She had travelled forty-one miles on horse-back, over the very same corduroy roads she had been carried over eighteen years before. Her brother, Capt. Hunt, met her at Batavia and carried little Mary on a pillow before him; she had been very ill, and the journey restored her to health.

After peace was proclaimed. Col. Snelling and his family, accompanied by his wife’s brother, left Buffalo to visit friends in Detroit. They embarked in a small vessel with a favorable wind, but the next day there were indications of a storm; the wind veered round and they beat about the lake several days. When the storm began to rage with fury, there were no safe harbors near, and they made but little progress—and were out of provisions and fuel. A few potatoes were found, but no fire to cook them. Mrs. Snelling was very sea-sick, and did not require food, but her little Mary lay by her side gnawing a raw potatoe. The storm still increased, but the captain of the vessel hoped to reach Cleveland with the side wind, and at daylight the third day they found themselves opposite that place, though they dared not approach the wharf. Guns of distress were fired but with little hope, for men could not be found to risk their own lives to save them. The captain then announced that his anchor dragged and he feared would not hold the vessel. Soon were seen preparations to man a boat; it pushed off from shore and approached the shoals; then was the greatest danger; it passed over and reached the vessel. Capt. Hunt came to his sister and said, “Abby, what will you do; remain here in so much peril, or go in the boat, where there is perhaps greater?” She replied, “I will go.” She was taken upon deck; the waves were terrific; the boat would now rise on the summit of a huge billow, now plunge into a deep abyss, and it seemed impossible that the lady and her child could be placed in the boat. But in spite of peril, she hardly knew how, she was seated in the boat with her child and her brother, and after a few minutes gained courage to look back towards the vessel, of which she could only see the top of the mast. At the moment they reached the shoals, a huge wave broke over them and half filled the boat. Some of the men bailed while others plied the oars with renewed energy. When they touched land Mrs. Snelling was taken fainting from the boat and conveyed to an inn; and it was several days before she recovered from the terrors of that storm.

Great was the joy that prevailed in the heart of every wife at the return of peace. In the following spring, Snelling under the peace organization, was Lieut. Colonel of the 6th infantry, and ordered to Governor’s Island, Col. Atkinson commanding. He remained there with his family over a year, when the regiment was ordered to Plattsburg, where they had resided about four years when an order cams for St. Louis, en route for the Upper Mississippi or Missouri! Mrs. Snelling had then three children, and her youngest sister and one of her brothers, a graduate from West Point—Lieut. Wellington Hunt, then a married man—were with her family.

The troops went up to the barracks at Bellefountain, where she visited the graves of her parents, finding them in good order with the exception of the railing which enclosed the mounds. Her youngest child, fifteen months old, was then very ill; he had been named Thomas, after his grandfather. He died and was buried beside his brave ancestor. During the winter of their stay there, the sister, Eliza M. Hunt, was married to Mr. Soulard, a French gentleman of great worth.

In the following summer, Snelling was promoted Colonel of the 5th regiment, and ordered up the Mississippi, to relieve Lieut. Colonel Leavenworth, who was also promoted to another regiment. He had conducted the 5th regiment from Detroit to within eight miles of the Falls of St. Anthony. The journey was exceedingly tedious and disagreeable, in a keel boat laboriously propelled by men with long poles, placed against their shoulders, along a gangway on each side of the boat. The weather was very warm and the musquitoes numerous day and night. The cabin was very low, confined, and uncomfortable. It was three weeks or more before they arrived at Prairie du Chien, during which time very little sound sleep was obtained by the young mother, from fear of the Indians, the Sac and Fox, the most savage looking and ferocious she had ever seen. They seemed to be very fond of dress, and their faces were painted of all colors; the hair cut close to within an inch of the top of the head, and that decorated with a variety of ribbons and feathers, and often a small looking-glass suspended from the neck. Many of them were certainly great beaux, but they looked hideous, and were terrific objects to a timid woman.

When the voyagers arrived at Prairie du Chien, they found Gov. Cass and his party; he held councils with the Indians, for the purpose of bringing about a peace between the Sac and Fox tribes, Chippewas and Sioux. Our friends were detained there several weeks by a court-martial, of which Col. Snelling was President. They had still three hundred miles to go before they reached the encampment of the 5th regiment, and there were several Indian villages on the route. The magnificent scenery of this river has been often described. Lake Pepin is a beautiful expansion about twenty-four miles in length, and from two to four broad. At length they arrived safe through many fatigues to the end of their journey, and received a hearty welcome from friends they had never seen before, and from Capt. Gooding and his wife, whom they were again delighted to meet. Their daughter had been married a few days previous to the Adjutant of the regiment.

Great solicitude was felt to have a temporary garrison erected with such defences as could be then made, before the long and severe winter set in. The traders brought news that the Indians were very insolent, and it was said a white man had been killed on the St. Peter’s river. A council was called and the murderers were demanded, hostages being taken from the council until they were delivered. They were confined in the guard room, and narrowly watched. All felt that the little community was exposed and almost at the mercy of an enemy, and great exertions were made to complete the temporary barracks for the winter with blockhouses and other defences. Indians meanwhile were collecting in great numbers, and would sometimes show themselves at a distance. The traders in the vicinity often came in, and said the friendly Indians had gone in pursuit of the murderers, and no doubt would succeed in taking them; but if they did not, the friends of the hostages would attempt to rescue them. Scouts were accordingly kept out every night, and the troops slept on their arms. For the mother—trembling for her little ones more than herself, no sooner would she close her eyes at night, than she would start, thinking she heard the war whoop of the savages. The wolves too, half-starved, were extremely daring, and if the cook happened to leave a bucket of swill at the back door, they were sure to empty it of its contents.

As soon as the log barracks were finished, the families moved into them. They were built in four rows forming a square, a blockhouse on either side; and situated where the village of Mendota now stands. The Indian hostages were now put in greater security. They were evidently becoming impatient of restraint, and perhaps had doubts as to the result. One morning as usual, they were taken a short distance into the woods under guard, when suddenly one of them (there were three) started and ran for his life. Those behind set up a yell and the guard fired at him, but he was beyond reach. The others were immediately taken back to the guard-house, and an interpreter sent for, who enquired of them if it was a preconcerted plan of the whole; they declared it was not, and that until the fugitive started to run, they were ignorant of his design, and supposed it merely a sudden desire for freedom. They said further that he would no doubt urge the immediate surrender of the guilty parties, and laughingly said the lad was so fat, from being so well fed, they were surprised to see him run so fast!

Col. Snelling and the Indian agent thought it advisable to send the murderers to the agent at St. Louis, as soon as they should be brought in and before navigation closed. At length they came, conducted by a large number of their own tribe. There were two, but only one was sent to St. Louis, as there was but one white man killed. It was represented to the Indians in council, that when one white man killed another, his life paid the penalty; and since one of their people had killed a white man his life must pay the forfeit, unless their great father in Washington should pardon him. The savages signified assent by a “ugh!” As soon as the criminal was gone quiet was restored among the Indians for the winter.

In September, 1819, Mrs. Snelling’s fifth child was born. Her sick room was papered and carpeted with buffalo robes, and made quite warm and comfortable. There were three ladies besides her in the garrison, and they were like one family, spending their time instructing their children, and receiving instruction in the French language from a soldier who it was said had been an officer in Buonaparte’s army. Mrs. Snelling, Mrs. Clark and an officer, comprised the class. During the winter, parties of men were sent off to cut down trees, hew timber, &c., for the permanent fort, which was to be built on the high point of land between the mouth of the St. Peter’s and Mississippi, a point selected by Gen. Pike when he explored the river, as a good site for a fort, and on which Col. Snelling at once decided it should be built. There was a tree standing at the extreme point, with the name of Pike carved on it by his own hand. Strict orders were given “to spare that tree” for it was looked upon by the officers as sacred to his memory, and was carefully guarded, but the care was in vain. One morning it was found cut down, and great was the lamentation. It never was known who had done the deed; there was a mystery about it that was never solved.

The first row of barracks that were put up, were of hewn logs, the others of stone. The fort was built in a diamond shape, to suit the ground at the extreme point. Where the tree had stood, was a half-moon battery, and inside this was the officers’ quarters, a very neat stone building, the front of cut stone; at the opposite point a tower. The fort was enclosed by a high stone wall, and is well represented in the drawings of it.

At the expiration of two years, the regiment moved into the fort, although not completed. The families of the officers occupied quarters in the row assigned to them. It was just before this time that Mrs. Snelling lost her youngest child—thirteen months old. In June, 1823, the first steamboat made its appearance at the fort, much to the astonishment of the savages, who placed their hands over their mouths—their usual way of expressing astonishment, and called it a “fire-boat.” A salute was fired from the fort, as it was expected that the Inspector general was on board; and it was returned from the boat. The Indians knew not what to make of it, and they were greatly alarmed, until all was explained. Additions were made to the society of the garrison; several officers, who had been absent, returned to their regiment, bringing wives and sisters, so that at one time the company numbered ten ladies. There were six companies, which fully officered, would have given eighteen or twenty officers, but there were seldom or never that number present at one time. An Italian gentleman came on the boat, who professed to be travelling for the purpose of writing a book, and brought letters of introduction from Mrs. Snelling’s friends in St. Louis. The Colonel invited him to his house to remain as long as he pleased, and he was with them several months. He could not speak English, but spoke French fluently, and seemed much pleased when he found his fair hostess could speak the language, she having learned it when a child at St. Louis. A French school was the first she ever attended, and she thus early acquired a perfectly correct pronunciation. She lamented on one occasion to Mr. Beltrami, that her teacher had received his discharge, and was about leaving, and he politely offered his services in that capacity. She was then translating the life of Caesar in an abridged form, and from the emotion betrayed by the foreigner at a portion of the reading, it was concluded he had been banished from the Pope’s dominions at Rome, and that the lesson reminded him of his misfortunes. The passport he showed, gave him the title of “Le Chevalier Count Beltrami.”

About this time, Major Long’s expedition arrived, to explore the St. Peter’s river, and when they left Beltrami accompanied them. When his book was published at New Orleans, he sent Mrs. Snelling a copy. While at the fort he was busy in collecting Indian curiosities. One day he brought a Sioux chief into Mrs. Snelling’s room, who had on his neck a necklace of bears’ claws highly polished, saying, “I cannot tempt this chief to part with his necklace, pray see what you can do with him, he will not refuse you.” “He wears it,” answered the lady, “as a trophy of his prowess, and a badge of honor; however, I will try.” After some time, Wanata said, “On one condition I will consent; if you will cut off your hair, braid it, and let it take the place of mine you may have the necklace.” All laughed heartily at his contrivance to get rid of further importunity.

One day a call was heard from a sentinel on the river bank, to the corporal of the guard, that a child had fallen into the river, and several ran in the direction the sentinel pointed. The gardener who was at work at a short distance, cried out, “It is the Colonel’s son, Henry! Save him!” His mother heard the cry, “A child is drowning!” and ran out upon the battery to see and hear what was the matter. She saw them draw the boy out, place him on a blanket, and hasten up the hill; they approached her house, when the Colonel hastened towards her saying, “We came near losing our child!” and she saw it was indeed her own. He was pale as death, but soon recovered, and lives to tell the story of an immense catfish dragging him into the river while fishing.

In 1823, news was brought by the traders that two white children were with a party of Sioux, on the St. Peter’s. It appeared from what they could learn, that a family from Red River—Selkirk’s settlement—had been on their way to the Fort, when a war party of Sioux met them, murdered the parents and an infant, and made the boys prisoner. Col. Snelling sent an officer with a party of soldiers to rescue the children. After some delay in the ransom, they were finally brought. An old squaw, who had the youngest, was very unwilling to give him up, and indeed the child did not wish to leave her. The oldest, about eight years old, said his name was John Tully, and his brother, five years old, Abraham. His mother had an infant, but he saw the Indians dash its brains out against a tree, then kill his father and mother. Because he cried, they took him by his hair, and cut a small piece from his head, which was a running sore when he was re-taken. Col. Snelling took John into his family, Major Clark the other, but he was afterwards sent to an orphan asylum in New York. The eldest died of lockjaw, occasioned by a cut in the ankle while using an axe. His deathbed conversion was affecting and remarkable. One day, after he had been ill several weeks, he said, “Mrs. Snelling, I have been a very wicked boy; I once tried to poison my father because he said he would whip me. I stole a ring from you, which you valued much, and sold it to a soldier, and then I told you a lie about it. I have given you a great deal of trouble. I have been very wicked. I am going to die the day after to-morrow, and don’t know where I shall go. Oh, pray for me.”

His benefactress answered, “John, God will forgive you, if you repent; but you must pray, too, for yourself. God is more willing to hear than we are to pray. Christ died to save just such a sinner as you are, and you must call upon that Saviour to save you.” All his sins appeared to rise before him as he confessed them, and he seemed to feel that he was too great a sinner to hope for pardon. Mrs. Snelling read to him, and instructed him. He never had received any religious instruction, except in the Sunday school taught by Mrs. Clark and herself, and being accustomed to say his prayers with her children, and always to be present when she read the church service on Sundays. The next morning after the above conversation, when she asked him how he had rested during the night, he said, “I prayed very often in the night; I shall die to-morrow, and I know not what will become of me.” For several hours he remained tranquil, with his eyes closed, but would answer whenever spoken to; then suddenly he exclaimed, “Glory! glory!” His friend said, “John, what do you mean by that word?” “Oh! Mrs. Snelling, I feel so good—I feel so good! Oh! I cannot tell you how good I feel.” She knew not that he ever heard that word unless from her prayer-book. He lost all consciousness on the day he said he should die, and expired at the succeeding dawn.

During this year the commandant was visited by Gen. Scott and suite, and the fort was completed. Heretofore it had been called Fort St. Anthony, but Gen. Scott issued an order giving it the name of Fort Snelling. He expressed his approbation of the construction and site of the fort, etc., spent a week with his friends, and visited the falls and a chain of lakes where they were used to amuse themselves fishing, and where the water was so clear they could see the fish playing about the hook. One of the lakes Mrs. Snelling named Scott Lake.

Another of her amusements was riding on horseback. When a child she had been accustomed to ride every morning with her father, and acquired great confidence in the management of a horse. Her husband seldom would ride with her, but Capt. Martin Scott was in the regiment, and often accompanied her. One day they saw a wolf; the dogs gave chase, and they followed until they ran down the poor creature, the bonnet of the fair huntress having fallen back, and her hair streaming loose in the wind.

In 1825, the family left Fort Snelling to visit their friends in Detroit. It was late in the season, October, before they set out homeward, by the way of Green Bay, where Mrs. Snelling’s brother, Lieut. Wellington Hunt, was stationed. They spent a week in his family, and when they reached Lake Pepin the ice was running so rapidly they were compelled to stop; the ice had cut through the cabin so that it leaked. A small log cabin was put up, and an express sent to the fort, one hundred miles, for sleighs to convey them thither, and provisions, as they had nothing but corn, which they boiled in ash-water with a little salt. Fears were entertained by Col. Snelling that the express might not reach the fort, and another was sent a week after. One day, after two weeks, there was a sound of sleigh bells, and Henry, who was the first to hear, ran to meet them, and soon returned with two loaves of bread, which he threw into his mother’s lap, crying, “eat, mother, eat.” The children ate bread as if famished, and even the little Marion, but eight months old, partook of the general joy. They had seen no Indians, who had all gone to their winter grounds. Some of the officers came to meet the Colonel’s family, and they were soon on the move again. They were welcomed back joyfully by all their friends, and many of their favorite Indians came to see them. One poor savage, who always furnished them with game, came leaning on his staff, looking pale and emaciated; he was very sick, he said, and came to see them once more before he died. He could scarcely crawl back to his lodge, and the next day expired.

At this time a party of the Chippewas and Sioux held a council with the Indian agent. There had been war between the two nations for a long time; the agent desired to act as mediator between them, and sent for them to meet him. After the council the two parties smoked the pipe of peace. The Chippewas killed a dog, made a feast, and invited the Sioux to their lodges, which were under the guns of the fort. In the evening, about nine o’clock, the firing of guns was heard; the sentinel called “corporal of the guard” repeatedly, in quick succession. The wild cries of women and children were heard, for the Chippewas had their families with them, and several Indians came rushing into the hall of the commanding officer, trying to tell what was the matter. The officer of the day reported that the Sioux, after partaking of the hospitalities of the Chippewas, and being apparently good friends, had some of them returned, placed their guns under the wigwams, and fired, killing some and wounding others. The wounded were conveyed into the hospital to have their wounds dressed. Other particulars of this occurrence, with the determination of the Chippewas to have vengeance, the action of the commanding officer, and the surrender and punishment of the perpetrators of the deed, are related in another memoir. The traders said the Sioux were perfectly satisfied, much more so than if the offenders had been imprisoned and sent to St. Louis.

In 1826, Capt. Thomas Hunt, who was residing at Washington, wrote to his sister, urging her and the Colonel to send their two eldest children to him to be educated. Their daughter Mary was now fourteen, and as Capt. Plympton and his wife were going, her parents got her in readiness to accompany them. Her mother thought not it would cost so many tears to part with her child; but when she returned home from the boat, she told Mrs. Clark it “seemed like a death in the family.” Soon an opportunity offered, and they sent Henry also.

In 1827 the Indians began to show signs of hostility near Prairie du Chien; they murdered two white men and a young girl, the daughter of one of them, and attacked two boats with supplies for Fort Snelling, killing and wounding several of the crew. Col. Snelling ordered out as many of his command as could be spared from the fort, and with his officers descended the river to the relief of Fort Crawford, or to attack any hostile force of Indians he might meet. There were two large villages of Indians between the two forts, and it was expected, when they approached, they would be attacked, but there was not an Indian to be seen. When they reached Prairie du Chien, they ascertained that the outrage had been committed by Winnebagoes and not Sioux. When Gen. Atkinson heard this at St. Louis, he sent and seized the chief, Red Bird, and one or two others, who were tried, convicted, and executed. After an absence of six weeks, the party returned without being obliged to fire a gun.

One day soon after his return, the Colonel came in to tell his wife the express had brought them a mail, holding in his hand a letter sealed with black. She exclaimed, “My Mary is dead.” “No,” said her husband, “the letter is from Detroit.” It brought the intelligence of her much loved brother Henry’s death. He was much loved and respected by all who knew him; was mayor of the city and colonel of the militia, and his funeral was the largest ever known in Michigan. After the massacre at Frenchtown by the Indians, in 1813, he had spent a great deal of money in ransoming prisoners, many of whom still affectionately cherish his memory. He had proved a father to his sister and family, and was mourned by them deeply and long.

In the fall of 1827, the regiment was ordered to Jefferson Barracks. When the family arrived at St. Louis, they took lodgings for the winter. Colonel Snelling having obtained leave to go to Washington to settle some public accounts and to bring home his daughter. He wrote to her mother in glowing terms of her improvement in person and mind, and that she received much attention for one of her age, not yet sixteen. “As Mary will not again,” he concluded, “have so good an opportunity, I have encouraged her to accept invitations to the different soirées; she has had cards for the season from all.” Mary wrote, “I have attended many parties, but I do not enjoy them, for my dear mother is not with me, and I am so impatient to embrace her.” Alas! the All Wise Disposer of events had ordered it otherwise. One more letter her mother received from her, and hoped before many weeks to see her, but at the time she was expecting her arrival, a letter was written to her sister, Mrs. Soulard, that Mary was dead!

Col. Snelling wrote afterwards, that on the 2d of February she had been at Mrs. Clay’s party and danced, and had taken cold while standing to wait for the carriage; the cold terminating in a brain fever. Mrs. Adams, the wife of the President, showed great interest in the young stranger, as did many others, and every attention was paid her that could be desired; but there was no solace for the deep wound in the mother’s heart. She had felt a presentiment that she should never more see her daughter, and was in some measure prepared for the stroke which almost crushed her: she was enabled to look with faith to Him from whose hand it came, to feel that He was too wise to err—too good to afflict willingly, and to bow in humble submission to the most painful dispensation of his Providence. Her husband wrote that he should be obliged to remain still longer in Washington; it would improve her health to travel, and she must join him without delay. In May she left St. Louis with her three children and nurse, found her husband and son well, the latter much grown, and received a cordial welcome from her brother and sister-in-law.

Her cup of affliction was not yet full; in two months her husband was seized with inflammation of the brain and died in three weeks. In communicating the sad event to the army, the General-in-Chief thought it but an act of justice to make a public acknowledgment of his services.[38]

At this period of distress Mrs. Snelling’s youngest child, Josiah, was not expected to live. She resigned him willingly; but he was spared to her, and lived to be her great comfort. In a month she was on her way to Detroit. A farm three miles up the river belonged to her, and thither she took her children. Her brother, George Hunt, took charge of the farm and lived in her family. After residing two years upon it, Mrs. Snelling found it necessary to remove into the city, where she took a few boarders, and rented her farm. In 1835 she sold it for nine thousand dollars, purchased a lot in the city and built a brick house. Her son Henry, who had gone to New York on business, became acquainted with Miss Putnam, the sister of the publisher, a lady of high literary ability and intelligence, and they were soon afterwards married. Capt. Thomas Hunt was at this time residing in Detroit. He died very suddenly in consequence of a fall, leaving a very interesting family. Gov. Mason offered Mrs. Snelling a high rent for her house, and she consented to let it, provided he would purchase her new furniture, which he did. She then accepted an invitation from her brother, Gen. Hunt, at Maumee city, to reside in his family, having now only her daughter Marion (afterwards Mrs. Hazard) and her youngest son with her. Her son James had gone to West Point.

In 1841 Mrs. Snelling was married to the Rev. J. E. Chaplin, the grandson of President Edwards. He was appointed principal to one of the branches of the Michigan State Institution, and they removed to White Pigeon in Michigan, where Mr. Chaplin died in 1846, much beloved and lamented. For five years his wife had lived with him in great happiness, and she felt that he had only gone home a little before her.

In 1844 her son James graduated, and was ordered to Texas in Gen. Worth’s regiment. He was at the battle of Palo Alto and Reseca, in all the battles with Gen. Taylor excepting Buena Vista. At that time Gen. Worth’s regiment was with Gen. Scott’s division. He was at the siege of Vera Cruz and Cherubusco, at which time Gen. Scott mentions him in his dispatches. At Molino del Rey he was severely wounded; the ball entering the left breast passed under his arm, and was cut out from his back. He received two brevets, making him passed captain. Although his father had been in eleven skirmishes and battles he had never lost a drop of blood, but the son was less fortunate, and at twenty-three nearly lost his life. It was six weeks after seeing his name published among those who were severely wounded before his mother heard from him direct, and during that time, her state of suspense was terrible. One day as she left home for a walk, she noticed the stage approaching her house, and as it was passing, Mr. Hazard put his head out and said, “You had better go back, there is some one here you would like to see.” She turned to go back, saw the stage stop, and her son get out, and sank on her knees returning thanks to God that her eyes again beheld him. He afterwards went to Texas with his regiment.

In 1849 Mrs. Chaplin travelled with her nephew, Major Hunt, and her two nieces up the Mississippi to Fort Snelling. She found twenty-one years had made great changes and great improvements; the party went in a splendid steamboat, beautifully furnished, with table sumptuously supplied, and either side of the river was dotted with cultivated fields and large towns—the transformation seemed almost magical. When they arrived at the Fort, she met an old friend in Col. Loomis, who was very polite in taking her about the country that she might see all she could in the short time they had to stay. She visited the grave of her little daughter, and could decipher the name on the stone although much defaced. The Colonel promised to have a new one put up. An old Indian woman recognized her, saying she had seen her a long time ago, and she was much delighted to find she had been remembered. She also went over the house so long occupied by her family. On their return they stopped at St. Paul’s, where the governor of the territory resides, and there found a niece who had married Mr. Welsh of Michigan.

One of the passengers taken in at that place, in conversation with one of the ladies, related the story of the murder of the Chippewas by the Sioux after the treaty, and the punishment of the guilty persons, with some fanciful embellishment, by way of exemplifying the Indian traits of generosity and self-devotion, stating that the friend of one of the culprits had offered himself a voluntary victim in his place, the other being a married man, and that the innocent substitute had been delivered up to the Chippewas by the commanding officer. His strictures on the conduct of Col. Snelling were interrupted by a mild rebuke from Mrs. Chaplin, who informed him the account he had given of the transaction was incorrect. “You seem to speak knowingly on the subject, madam,” said the stranger. “I should be happy to get the right story.” “I was the wife of that commanding officer,” she replied, “and remember well all the circumstances;” which she then related, and was told by the gentleman that he was writing a book, “and had received the story from a trader.” His experience in this instance might be a lesson to those who rely on floating traditions unsupported by competent authority.

Mrs. Chaplin is now happily at home with her daughter, Mrs. Hazard, and resides in Cincinnati. Her life has been a chequered and eventful one, and many sorrows have fallen to her lot; but these have been borne with resignation and submission to the will of her Heavenly Father, to whose guidance she committed her youth, and who has blessed her with the enjoyment of the peace and prosperity won through a period of hardship and distress. Her family connections are numerous, and a very large circle of friends and acquaintances admire her talents and love her virtues.