honored their women, and he said, “The Great Spirit taught them, and would punish them if they did not.” Among the Germans there existed the same respect for woman, till they became civilized. There may have been some superstitious fear, mingled with a strong governing and controlling principle, but it is not on this account the less marvellous that whole nations, consisting of millions, should have been so trained religiously or domestically, that no degree of beauty or fascination placed under their care, though hundreds of miles in the solitudes of the wilderness, should have tempted them from the strictest honor and the most delicate kindness. Mary Jewison was eighty years a resident among the Senecas, and in the early part of the time the forests had few clearings, and the comforts and the vices of white men prevailed but little among them. She was born on the ocean, with the billowy sea for her cradle and the tempest for her lullaby. Her parents emigrated from England to this country in 1742, and settled in the unfortunate vale of Wyoming, where date her first remembrances, which were of the woes that fell upon her family—the wail of the sorrow-stricken and the breaking of heart-strings. The last meal they took together was a breakfast, after which the father and three eldest brothers went into the field, and Mary, with the other little children, were playing not far from the house. They were suddenly startled by a shriek, and knew it must be from their mother. On running in, they found her in the hands of two Indians, who were holding her fast. A little boy ran to call his father, and found him also bound by another of the party, and his eldest brother lying dead upon the earth. The two others fled to Virginia, where they had an uncle, as Mary afterwards learned, and those who remained were made captive and hurried into the woods. All day they were obliged to march in single file over the rough, cold soil, with no time or permission for conversation, and the lash often applied to quicken their steps. Night found them in the heart of the wilderness, surrounded by their strange captors, and all the horrors of Indian life or Indian death staring them in the face. They had no hope of mercy, whether permitted to live or condemned to die. The mother thought they would perhaps spare the children, but did not on this account take courage, for it seemed to her better that they should die, than live to become the companions of such a people, and grow up very probably to be like them. Mary was the only one old enough to understand her injunctions, and to her she was allowed to speak before they were separated for the night, and, as she feared, for ever.