of Pocahontas, and two of her brothers, arrived there, sent by Powhatan to show his approval of his daughter's alliance with an Englishman, although nothing would have induced him to visit the white man's settlement himself, even to witness the marriage of his dearest daughter.
Having become a convert to the white man's faith, Pocahontas was baptized according to the ritual of the Christian church, taking the name of Rebecca, and as she was the daughter of an Emperor, she was afterwards called "Lady Rebecca;" but to those who had known her in childhood she would ever be Pocahontas, the "little romp."
And now the Indian maiden, who by her loyalty to the white race had changed the course of her life, was about to merge her identity in that of the colonists:—
"On a balmy April day, with sunshine streaming through the open windows of the Jamestown chapel, the rude place of worship was filled to overflowing with colonists, all eagerly interested in the wedding of John Rolfe with the dusky princess who was the first Christian Indian in Virginia."
The rustic chapel had been decorated with woodland blossoms, and its windows garlanded with vines. Its columns were pine-trees cut from the forest, its rude pews of sweet-smelling cedar, and its simple Communion table covered with bread made from wheat grown in neighboring fields, and with wine from the luscious wild grapes picked in near-by woods.
There, in the beauty and fragrance of the spring day, up the aisle of the chapel passed the young Indian bride on the arm of John Rolfe, who looked every inch an English gentleman in his cavalier's costume. And very lovely was the new-made Lady Rebecca in her gown of white muslin with its richly embroidered over-dress given by Sir Thomas Dale. Her head-dress of birds' plumage was banded across her forehead, Indian fashion, with a jeweled fillet, which also caught her floating veil, worn in the English way, which emphasized her dark beauty. On her wrists gleamed many bracelets, and in her deep eyes was the look of one who glimpses the future and fears it not.
Slowly they advanced up the aisle, and halted before the altar, a picturesque procession; the grave, dignified Englishman, who now and again cast adoring glances at his girlish bride, of an alien forest race; the old Chief of a savage tribe, in his gay ceremonial trappings and head-dress; the two stalwart, bronzed young braves, keenly interested in this great event in their sister's life, all in a strange commingling of Old World and New, auguring good for the future of both Indians and colonists.
The minister of the colony repeated the simple service, and Lady Rebecca, in her pretty but imperfect English, repeated her marriage vows and accepted the wedding-ring of civilized races as calmly as if she had not been by birth a free forest creature. Then, the service ended, down the aisle, in the flickering sunlight, passed the procession, and there at the chapel door, surrounded by the great forest trees which had been her lifelong comrades, and with the wide sky spreading over her in blue benediction, we have a last glimpse of the "little romp," for Pocahontas, the Indian maiden, had become Lady Rebecca, wife of John Rolfe, the Englishman.
Three years later Pocahontas, for so we still find it in our hearts to call her, visited England with her husband and little son Thomas, to see with her own eyes that land across the sea where her husband had been brought up, and of which she had heard such wonderful tales. One can well imagine the wonder of the girl of the forest when she found herself out of sight of land, on the uncharted ocean of which she had only skirted the shores before, and many a night she stole from her cabin during that long voyage to watch the mysterious sea in its majestic swell, and the star-sown heavens, as the ship moved slowly on to its destination.
London, too, was a revelation to her with its big buildings, its surging crowds of white men, its marks of civilization everywhere, and, girl of the outdoors that she had ever been, her presentation at Court, with all that went before and after of the frivolities and conventionalities of city life, must have been a still greater marvel to her. But the greatest surprise of all awaited her. One day at a public reception a new-comer was announced, and without warning she found herself face to face with that Captain of her heart's youthful devotion! There was a moment's silence, a strained expression in the young wife's dark eyes, then Captain John Smith bent over the hand of John Rolfe's wife with the courtly deference he had given in Virginian days to the little Indian girl who was his loyal friend.
"They told me you were dead!"
It was Pocahontas who with quivering lips broke the silence, then without waiting for a reply she left the room and was not seen for hours. When she again met and talked with the brave Captain, she was as composed as usual, and no one could say how deeply her heart was touched to see again the friend of her girlhood days. Perhaps the unexpected sight of him brought with it a wave of home-sickness for the land of her birth and days of care-free happiness, perhaps she felt a stab of pain that the man to whom she had given so much had not sent her a message on leaving the country, but had let her believe the rumor of his death—perhaps the heart of Pocahontas was still loyal to her first love, devoted wife and mother though she was. Whatever may have been the truth, Lady Rebecca was proud and calm in the presence of the Captain after that first moment, and had many conversations with him which increased his admiration for the gracious forest Princess, now a lady of distinction in his own land.
The climate of England did not agree with Pocahontas, her health failed rapidly, and in the hope that a return to Virginia would save her life, her husband took passage for home. But it was too late; after a sickness of only a few hours, she died, and John Rolfe was left without the vivid presence which had been his blessing and his joy.
Pocahontas was buried at Gravesend on the 21st of March, 1617, and as night fell, and John Rolfe tossed on a bed of anguished memories, it is said that a man muffled in a great cloak stole through the darkness and knelt beside the new-made grave with bowed head and clasped hands.
It was Captain Smith who came to offer reverent tribute to the girl who had given him so much, asking nothing in return, a girl of savage lineage, yet of noble character and great charm, whose blossoming into the flower of civilization had no parallel. Alone there, in the somber night, the silent figure knelt—the brave Captain of her loyal devotion paying tardy homage to Pocahontas, the girl of the Virginia forest, the white man's steadfast friend.
DOROTHY QUINCY: THE GIRL OF COLONIAL DAYS WHO HEARD THE FIRST GUN FIRED FOR INDEPENDENCE
A small, shapely foot clad in silken hose and satin slipper of palest gray was thrust from under flowing petticoats of the same pale shade, as Dorothy Quincy stepped daintily out of church on a Sabbath Day in June after attending divine service.
John Hancock, also coming from church, noted the small foot with interest, and his keen eye traveled from the slipper to its owner's lovely face framed in a gray bonnet, in the depths of which nestled a bunch of rosebuds. From that moment Hancock's fate as a man was as surely settled as was his destiny among patriots when the British seized his sloop, the Liberty.
But all that belongs to a later part of our story, and we must first turn back the pages of history and become better acquainted with that young person whose slippered foot so diverted a man's thoughts from the sermon he had heard preached on that Lord's Day in June.
Pretty Dorothy was the youngest daughter of Edmund Quincy, one of a long line of that same name, who were directly descended from Edmund Quincy, pioneer, who came to America in 1628. Seven years later the town of Boston granted him land in the town that was afterward known as Braintree, Massachusetts, where he built the mansion that became the home of succeeding generations of Quincys, from whom the North End of the town was later named.
As his father had been before him, Dorothy's father was a judge, and he spent a part of each year in his home on Summer Street, Boston, pursuing his profession. There in the Summer Street home Dorothy was born on the tenth of May, 1747, the youngest of ten children. Evidently she was sent to school at an early age, and gave promise of a quick mind even then, for in a letter written by Judge Quincy, from Boston to his wife in the country, he writes:
Daughter Dolly looks very Comfortable,