In March, prior to the letter Sarah Cary sent to her son in July (see previous post) she wrote to Sam in Grenada regarding his request for a miniature portrait of his father. Miniatures were a popular form of art as they were portable. One could take a likeness of a beloved relative along on a trip or to a new home, the way a person today might take a photograph of a wife or child to display in a hotel room. In the following letter I love the way Sarah describes the reaction a miniature tends to evoke.

Retreat, Chelsea, March 4, 1792.

My Dear Sam,-. . . . You wrote some time ago to request one of the miniature pictures. I should be happy to gratify you with mine, but no consideration could prevail upon me to part with your father’s, for numberless reasons. He has, perhaps, the same reason for refusing to part with mine. If my purse would allow of a little trifling in that way, I would sit again, and request yours in return. Although absence nor time can efface you from my mind, yet to look on the pictures of those we love excites the tenderest and most pleasing emotions, and makes them, if possible, more dear and amiable to our hearts and affections. In the absence of our friends we contemplate only their virtues; those, too, heightened greatly by the loss of their company and conversation. We look on the little representation, forget their faults, and think them all perfection, as certainly we would wish to appear to one another. Yet how vain the wish! In another life, perhaps, when in different pursuits, and surrounding objects more calculated to calm and harmonize the human passions, we may appear, what in reality we doubtless shall be, as perfect as Him who made us. . . .

My two little girls at Medford are just recovering from the whooping-cough; the others are all well; and the school being completed, with a master at its head, relieves me very much. My dear little Ned, now at my elbow, is scrawling a letter, and, though he cannot write, says, “My dear Sam, I will tell you more stories.” Farewell, my dear boy.
Most affectionately yours, Sarah Cary.

Margaret is well and now writes to you. Your father is now writing to Mr. Barry. He wrote you a little while ago via New London; desires to be kindly remembered to you. He is in excellent health.

Sarah Cary’s letter can be found in Caroline G. Curtis, The Cary Letters (Cambridge, Mass.: Riverside Press, 1891), page 93 online HERE..

How to treat the Native Americans was a perplexing question for the American colonists. Aside from problems arising from different concepts of land, its ownership and use, there was the matter of religion. Many firmly believed that attempts should be made to convert Indians to Christianity and subsidized missionary societies with that goal. After the Revolution American policy was directed not only toward converting Indians but toward “civilizing” them and encouraging them to adopt a more settled way of life. However, not everyone subscribed to the doctrine of conversion. Some questioned proselytization and suggested that Indian religious beliefs and practices be respected. Sarah Cary of Chelsea, Massachusetts, was one of these. In addition to property in Massachusetts, her husband Samuel owned a sugar plantation in Antigua of which her son Sam was in charge when she wrote this letter to him in July 1792.

My dear Sam,
. . . There was always since my remembrance a Society for Propagating the Gospel among the Indians, with how much success I am not able to tell, but I am rather inclined to believe very little. . . . As to their religion, there are various accounts about it. Some say they worship the sun, and at break of day every person upward of twelve years old goes to the waterside until sunrise, then offers tobacco to this planet, and does the same again at sunset; that they acknowledge one Supreme God above them, but do not adore him, believing him to be too far exalted above them, and too happy in himself to be concerned about the trifling affairs of poor mortals. My dear Sam, is not the particular mode of their worship as acceptable to their Maker as ours? Why are we arrogantly to presume to dictate to any sect of people if they have not the advantages of Christianity revealed to them? Neither will the fruits of that holy religion be expected to influence their conduct. For wise purposes, no doubt, have our doctrines been withheld from them. The Judge of all the earth will do right. He is the great Creator of all, and doubtless receives with equal condescension the worship of the Pagan and the Christian. Do these sentiments agree with yours? . . .
Farewell, my dear boy, and believe me to be
Yours most affectionately, S. Cary.

Sarah Cary’s letter to her son can be found in The Columbia Documentary History of Race and Ethnicity in America compiled by Ronald H. Bayor (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), taken from Caroline G. Curtis, The Cary Letters (Cambridge, Mass.: Riverside Press, 1891), pages 97-99. The letter can be seen online HERE. The image of Sarah Cary can be found in the Bellingham-Cary House BROCHURE.

Sally Hastings and her party journey on and finally reach their destination. Read the previous posts here and here to trace their route.

October 24. Westmoreland county. This morning is snowy, and very cold. . . . We purpose to cross the Chestnut Ridge, and take shelter wherever Providence may prepare a Place for our reception; for our half-perished Family cannot long endure the fury of the Storm. At this moment I am seated on the top of the Ridge, with two Children beside me; who are crying because of the Cold. I have wrapped my Cloak about them, and endeavored to sooth their Anguish. . . .

October 25. Had not the Storm suddenly abated yesterday, I believe you would not have been troubled with reading this Account; for, I am of opinion, we would have finished our Pilgrimage, through Life, a few paces from the summit of the Chestnut Ridge. . . . To-day we enjoy the Comforts of a warm House, and excellent Fare. Here we remain stationary. . . . The Landlord . . . is a confirmed Drunkard. His Wife (who seems well calculated to perform the Duties of her Station, and who has certainly, some years since, been very handsome) is the Object upon which he vents the Overflowings of his acrimonious Humor. . . .

October 26. Last night was a jovial one. The Landlady had collected a number of persons to husk Corn; and, when their Business was finished, they devoted the night to Dancing, Singing, and other Exercises. Or, to borrow the more elegant Language of the judicious Thompson:

Home is the resort
Of Love, of Joy, of Peace, of Friendship; where,
Supported and supporting, polish’d Friends
And dear Relations mingle into Bliss.

October 27. We . . . continued our Journey; and arrived at Greenburg about dark. Yesterday, being the day of a Public Review, the Town was full of riotous People. . . . Most of the Officers of the Battalions had met at this Place, and were refreshing themselves, after the Fatigues of the day, in all the various Exercises which the martial Spirit of Man could invent, or in a convivial Bottle inspire. Being all completely equipped, in the various Uniforms of their respective Corps, their Appearance was at once solemn, splendid, and ludicrous; for every Man, except the Landlord, was intoxicated. . . .

Being of different political Opinions, Argument soon became ardent. Those stupendous and intricate Affairs, which require the united Wisdom of the ablest Statesmen of our country, were here developed, discussed, and bandied from tongue to tongue, with the same degree of Judgment and Intelligence which is evinced by the Disciples of a certain modern political Commentator, in their Attempts to canvass the holy Scriptures. Conviction was not the Object in view. Every Man became an Orator; and to obtain Audience was the End most desired. The principal Excellence belonged not to him who spoke best, but to him who spoke loudest and most; and every Man seemed to have the lungs of a Stentor. The more unintelligible they became, the more Vociferation had they recourse to; until, finding that their Voices produced no better effect, than if they were shouting to a Whirlwind, and that they became not only incomprehensible, but disregarded—suddenly dropping their Arguments—they seized their Swords, and appeared as terrific as Milton’s Devils! And ‘Confusion’ became ‘worse confounded.’ . . .

October 28. The Gentleman, to whose roof we were indebted for Protection last night, appears to be a great Politician. He talks profoundly of States and Fleets, Revenues and Standing Armies; and with such pompous Phraseology, that I was convinced he could be nothing less than a Member of Congress. In the course of Conversation, I respectfully inquired, which Branch of Government had the Honor of claiming him as its Member; and, to my Astonishment, he answered, that he had nothing to do with Government, other than inspect its Measures; being only the humble Proprietor of an Inn. . . .

Happy, O America! favored Nation! How securely are thou fortified against foreign Invasion and homebred Faction; when even thy Retailers of Gin and Brandy possess Brains adequate to inspect, judge of, and determine the most intricate Affairs of Government— the very sound of which has disordered my intellectual Machine. . . .

There are public Races in Greensburg; and the Beaux are flocking into Town by dozens. In seems singular to me, that they are principally in Uniform, and have the air of Gentlemen. I am told that there is a Garrison at Pittsburg; and this may, in some degree, account for the military Appearance which the public Roads exhibits. . . .

October 29. Allegany county. Last night we slept in a small Village, called M’Kee’s Port, situated in the point formed by the junction of the Rivers [Allegheny] and Monongahela. . . . [the rivers] are beautiful, and the Country through which they pass is exceedingly fertile. An air of Wildness pervades the Country; but it is the wild Exuberance of overgrown, untamed Nature. The Water of the Monongahela is remarkably clear, and glides along its Channel almost imperceptibly; and that of the [Allegheny] is somewhat green, and rather more rapid. They tenaciously preserve there Distinctions, as far as I had an opportunity of observing them, after their Confluence.

October 30. Washington county. Last night we could find no Inn, at a suitable time; and were necessitated to ask Lodging at a private House. . . . There is a Seminary of Learning in the Town of Canonsburg, which is in great Repute; and this being the time of a commencement, the Streets are crouded, and all is Life and Activity. . . .

October 31. Not being able to reach home yesterday, as was intended, we were once more obliged to solicit Lodging from a private Gentleman. My Spirits are sunk so low, that I may be said to exist, rather than live. . . . I will sit down and moralize myself into Temper; as I believe no temper to be so refractory as not to be perfectly mollified; provided the means adapted for that purpose be judiciously selected. . . .

Sally Hastings and her party finally reached the house that was to be their home. “[Our] Cottage has neither window-glass, Plaister, nor roof—I never felt a better Appetite for a solid Supper in my life.” I think you’ll agree they had quite a “perigrination westward,” as Sally put it.

Read Sally Hastings diary online HERE.

Reaching Huntingdon County and planning to breakfast on the summit of a nearby mountain, Sally Hastings (see previous post) follows a winding path and gets lost—”entangled in a Thicket, on the brow of a frightful Precipice.” After ineffectual attempts to find the way back she seats herself on the ground and “in social converse with the heart” composes a poem! She comments further:

Here the soul is uncommonly alive. Perhaps these are the Scenes for exalted Meditation; or the favorite haunts of the Muses: Or, it may be, as we approach nearer to the celestial Regions, the native element of Spirits, ours become more alert and invigorated; or, perhaps, surrounded as we are with sublime Objects, and those operating on the Senses, they communicate the most exalted Ideas to the Mind; which, exerting all its powers in the Contemplation of awful Nature, expands, until—bursting the Shackles which confine it to Earth, and affecting its native Prerogative and Independence—it rises, in a kind of enthusiastic Ardor, and contemplates the Perfections of Nature’s God!

October 13. It has rained all day; we have progressed only five miles; and lodge, to-night, west of Fort Littleton. Here is a large and very jolly Company; which had, prior to our arrival, engaged every Bed and Bedchamber in the House. We are reduced to the disagreeable Necessity of sleeping on Chairs, Benches, or any other way we please; surrounded, at the same time, with a group of Demi-politicians, antiquarian Story-tellers, and quibbling Humorists, who court Popularity by ever melting measure of sober Dullness. . . .

October 15. Bedford county. Yesterday we crossed Sidling-hill, and lodged at the foot of Ray’s Hill. These are only distinguished from Mountains, by the Name. . . . The day had rained, and the night was severely cold. . . .
The Roads are very bad; and the Juniata [River] twines itself into so many Circumvolutions, that it rolls alternately on the right and left sides of the Road. The lofty Pines form a gloomy shade, and almost exclude the rays of the Sun. You may free yourself of all Apprehension, Madam, of my Pen taking an undue License here. You may take my word for it, that to exaggerate, in describing the terrific Wildness of this Country, would require the efforts of a Genius infinitely superior to mine.

October 17. This is a rainy day, and the Roads are very bad. We travel slowly. . . . We are all much fatigued; and, the Team being overloaded, I am obliged to walk. . . .

October 20. The Rains having swelled the Waters to an alarming degree, we were obliged to tarry at the Seat of a Gentleman . . . for the space of two days. . . . To-day we crossed the Allegany Mountains, which is not rocky and barren, like the others. There are Farms on the top, and the Land is rich. The ascent is so gradual, that Persons do not suspect the height they are elevated above the common surface of the Earth, until, almost at the summit, by a sudden turn in the Road, the Abyss below appears while the lofty summit of the Allegany towers majestically through the opening Clouds, and looks down on the rest of Creation, as sovereign Mistress of our Northern World. . . .

October 21. Somerset county. Last night we slept on the top of the Allegany Mountain. . . . we continued our route through the Mountains; and arrived in safety at Stoneycreek. Here we have alighted; seated ourselves on a large Stone; and are attentively engaged in a Debate, on the height of the surrounding Pine-trees; which is really surprising. In vain do the rays of the Sun exert their Influence to penetrate their bushy tops. The Turpentine, mingling its Perfume with that of the Shrubs and spicy Underwood,
fills all the Air with Fragrance. This, with the murmuring of the Water, the clank of the Mill, and the sighing of the Breeze among the Pines, conspire to render Stoneycreek the most melancholy, romantic spot I ever saw.

To-night we sleep at a private House; the Owner of which has blessed the Community with fifteen Sons, and one Daughter. I presume it is uncertain how many more such Tokens of Regard he may bestow on his Country; for, both his Wife and Daughter, a few days ago, have each added one to the number. . . .

October 23. Yesterday we crossed the Laurel-hill; which is very steep, and so rocky that no one would venture to ride over it. The rain and snow began to fall in great abundance; which, freezing, formed a crust on the rocks, and rendered them so slippery, that the utmost Caution was insufficient to prevent our receiving some severe Falls. The Cold was intense; Night came on, with pitchy darkness; and my Sister, unaccustomed to Difficulty, and totally exhausted with Fatigue, was obliged to sit down with her Children on a rock, where she wept. . . . Our Situation admitted of no other alternative, than perish on the Hill, or make our way over it on foot; for our Wagon was far before. . . . Considering our Situation, the Condition of the Mountain, the darkness of the night, and the inclemency of the weather, it is a Miracle to me, that we all arrived safe at the base of the Laurel-hill.

I have sometimes thought, that the human Breast resembles a public Inn, and is a receptacle for every way-faring Guest; where it often happens, that, when one has made his exit, another arrives, of quite an opposite Character: Yet, the respectful Proprietor of the hospitable House accommodates himself, with amazing facility, to the humor of each! Last night I had an opportunity of seeing the propriety of this Comparison: For, though our Feelings were of the most uncomfortable kind, having made our way over the Laurel-hill with a Difficulty and Perseverance that would, in Hannibal’s days, have entitled our Names to Immortality; yet, as soon as we arrived at its base, and discovered a House illuminated by cheering Fires, we were the happiest Group West of the Allegany Mountains.

Ligonier is a very rich Valley, and thickly inhabited. Most of the Houses are tolerably good; but such of the Inhabitants, as came within the circle of my Observation, were rather more distinguished by their Curiosity, than by Urbanity or Hospitality. . . . The storm renders it impossible for us to cross the Chestnut Ridge; and our Landlady, it seems, has conceived an Antipathy to ‘Flitters’ [people who move a lot]. . . . The Landlord, who had been all day absent, on his return, seemed determined to compensate for his Lady’s Inattention, by devoting all his time and talents to our Amusement. But it unfortunately happened, that, among the number of his Pastimes, whistling was the most conspicuous; and he filled every pause in his Conversations with a gust of that irritating Music, to the great annoyance of my sensitive Nerves.

Read on in the next post. Sally Hastings finally reaches the end of her journey.

Read Sally Hastings diary online HERE.