Three Score Years and Ten | Page 8

inability to support a wife in addition to the care of his mother and sister, although I have heard my father say to him, jokingly, "Scott, it would not cost you so much to keep a wife as it does to keep all these dogs; she'd save more than she'd cost. Try it now, and take the word of one who knows." The lady whom he finally chose was a Miss McCracken, of Rochester, New York, with whom he lived happily for some years. At the battle of Cerro Gordo he was warned to be more careful of the bullets, but he replied, "Never fear; the bullet is not run that is to kill Martin Scott," and almost immediately fell from his horse pierced to the heart by a Mexican bullet. Knowing that his wound was mortal, he, with his usual presence of mind, took from his pocket his purse, containing quite a large sum of money, and, handing it to a soldier who stood near, said: "Give that to my wife." And the brave, true heart was still forever.
Major Laurence Taliaferro was for many years a member of our household, and we all loved and honored him. He was very entertaining in conversation and full of anecdotes of Virginia, which was his boyhood's home. His father owned many slaves, and when he, as a student in an Eastern college, was home for vacation, he delighted to amaze the negro boys with his knowledge and excite their admiration. On one occasion he had been using some pretty big words in a speech for their edification, branching out now and then into Greek and Latin quotations, when one of them, overcome by his young master's proficiency, exclaimed: "Oh, Massa Laurence; you larn so much since you done been to college, you clar fool." He liked to tell this story of himself, and admitted that the boy had good ground for his sweeping conclusion. Dear Major Taliaferro, our happy-hearted, beloved and trusted friend, the faithful servant of the government, and humble follower of Christ. His picture and an accompanying letter, sent me from his home in Bedford, Pennsylvania, when he was eighty-two years old, are before me, and as I look on the well-known features, I repeat from my heart the testimony of his biographer: "For more than twenty years an Indian Agent, and yet an honest man."
A few years ago, in an interview with Major Joseph Brown, so well known to the early settlers of Minnesota, he reminded me of Colonel McNeil's short stay at "Fort St. Anthony," as it was first called, previous to the arrival of Colonel Snelling, and of Mrs. McNeil, a sister of Franklin Pierce, a most estimable woman, of whom he spoke in the most affectionate, grateful terms, saying that her kindness to him, a mere boy, and her wise counsels had had a beneficial influence on his whole life. He spoke most gratefully of all the ladies at the post, and remembered our Sabbath school, established somewhat later, with real pleasure. He went up the river with the regiment as drummer-boy, and was always considered a faithful, well-behaved soldier.
His whole life was passed in the Northwest. He was at one time Representative in the Wisconsin Legislature, and was afterwards appointed Secretary of the First Legislative Assembly of the Territory of Minnesota. He died only a few years ago at an advanced age.

CHAPTER IV.
In 1821 the regiment moved into the beautiful new fort, although it was by no means completed. The outside wall was up on three sides only, and a heavy guard was stationed on the fourth, not only to prevent desertions, but to keep the Indians, our only neighbors, at a respectful distance. The occupation of the new and comfortable quarters was made an occasion of great rejoicing, an event never forgotten by those who took part in it. Then began our regular fort life, the flag-staff was raised in front of headquarters, the stars and stripes were run up at the roll of the drum at "guard mounting" and lowered with the same accompaniment at retreat day after day, and we children learned to love its graceful folds as it floated on the breeze and to feel no harm could come to us under the "Star Spangled Banner."
The only white people within three hundred miles were shut within that hollow square, a community, dependent largely on each other for all the little every-day kindnesses and amenities which make life enjoyable, having no regular intercourse with the civilized world, except by mail, which at first was received semi-annually, after a while quarterly, and for many years not more frequently than bi-monthly. For a long while it was brought from Prairie du Chien by an Indian on a pony, and there is no record of