Hope Leslie (Alice) Character Analysis

It has been seen that Hope Leslie was superior to some of the prejudices of the age. […] Those persons she most loved, and with whom she had lived from her infancy, were of variant religious sentiments. […] Early impressions sometimes form moulds for subsequent opinions; and when at a more reflecting age, Hope heard her aunt Grafton rail with natural good sense, […] at some of the peculiarities of the puritans, she was led to doubt their infallibility; and like the bird that spreads his wings and soars above the limits by which each man fences in his own narrow domain, she enjoyed the capacities of her nature, and permitted her mind to expand beyond the contracted boundaries of sectarian faith. Her religion was pure and disinterested—no one, therefore, should doubt its intrinsic value, though it had not been coined into a particular form, or received the current impress.

“Would it not be wise and prudent to take my brother's counsel, and consign her to some one who should add to affection, the modest authority of a husband?"

Governor Winthrop paused for a reply, but receiving none, he proceeded […] “William Hubbard—the youth who hath come with so much credit from our prophets' school at Cambridge. He is a discreet young man, steeped in learning, and of approved orthodoxy."

"These be cardinal points with us," replied Mr. Fletcher, calmly, "but they are not like to commend him to a maiden of Hope Leslie's temper. She inclineth not to bookish men, and is apt to vent her childish gaiety upon the ungainly ways of scholars."

Thus our heroine, by her peculiar taste, lost at least the golden opportunity of illustrating herself by a union with the future historian of New-England.

"There lies my mother," cried Hope, without seeming to have heard Magawisca's consolations, "she lost her life in bringing her children to this wild world, to secure them in the fold of Christ. Oh God! restore my sister to the christian family."

"And here," said Magawisca, in a voice of deep pathos, "here is my mother's grave; think ye not that the Great Spirit looks down on these sacred spots, where the good and the peaceful rest, with an equal eye; think ye not their children are His children, whether they are gathered in yonder temple where your people worship, or bow to Him beneath the green boughs of the forest?"

Thus had Hope Leslie, by rashly following her first generous impulses, […] effected that, which the avowed tenderness of Miss Downing, the united instances of Mr. Fletcher and Governor Winthrop, and the whole colony and world beside, could never have achieved. Unconscious of the mistake by which she had put the happiness of all parties concerned in jeopardy, she was exulting in her victory over herself, and endeavouring to regain in solitude the tranquillity which she was surprised to find had utterly forsaken her; and to convince herself that the disorder of her spirits, which in spite of all her efforts, filled her eyes with tears, was owing to the agitating expectation of seeing her long-lost sister.

“[M]y sweet mistress […] this having our own way, is what every body likes; it's the privilege we came to this wilderness world for; and though the gentles up in town there, with the Governor at their head, hold a pretty tight rein, yet I can tell them, that there are many who think what blunt Master Blackstone said, 'that he came not away from the Lords-bishops, to put himself under the Lord's-brethren.' […] I know which way the wind blows. Thought and will are set free. […] Times are changed—there is a new spirit in the world—chains are broken—fetters are knocked off—and the liberty set forth in the blessed word, is now felt to be every man's birth-right.

[Hope] gazed intently on the little bark—her whole soul was in that look. Her sister was there. At this first assurance, that she really beheld this loved, lost sister, Hope uttered a scream of joy; but when, at a second glance, she saw her in her savage attire, fondly leaning on Oneco's shoulder, her heart died within her; a sickening feeling came over her, an unthought of revolting of nature; and instead of obeying the first impulse, and springing forward to clasp her in her arms, she retreated to the cliff, leaned her head against it, averted her eyes, and pressed her hands on her heart, as if she would have bound down her rebel feelings.

[Antonio’s] invocation was long enough to allow our heroine time to make up her mind as to the course she should pursue with her votary. She had recoiled from the impiety of appropriating his address to the holy mother, but protestant as she was, we hope she may be pardoned for thinking that she might without presumption, identify herself with a catholic saint. "Good Antonio," she said, "I am well pleased to find thee faithful, as thou hast proved thyself, by withdrawing from thy vile comrades. […] Now, honest Antonio, I will put honour on thee; thou shalt do me good service. Take those oars and ply them well till we reach yon town, where I have an errand that must be done."

Rosa did not set down the lamp, but moved forward one or two steps with it in her hand, and then paused. She seemed revolving some dreadful purpose in her mind. […]

"Why do you not obey me? Miss Leslie is suffocating—set down the lamp, I say, and call assistance. Damnation!" he screamed, "what means the girl?" as Rosa made one desperate leap forward, and shrieking, "it cannot be worse for any of us!" threw the lamp into the barrel.

The explosion was instantaneous—the hapless, pitiable girl—her guilty destroyer—his victim—the crew—the vessel, rent to fragments, were hurled into the air, and soon engulfed in the waves.

"It cannot be—it cannot be," replied Magawisca, the persuasions of those she loved, not, for a moment, overcoming her deep invincible sense of the wrongs her injured race had sustained. "My people have been spoiled—we cannot take as a gift that which is our own—the law of vengeance is written on our hearts—you say you have a written rule of forgiveness—it may be better—if ye would be guided by it—it is not for us—the Indian and the white man can no more mingle, and become one, than day and night."