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[Illustration: Cover]




Olive Leaves




[Illustration: The Indian Chief.--_P._ 229.]




    OLIVE LEAVES.

    OR,

    SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.

    BY

    MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

    GALL & INGLIS.

    London:
    25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE.

    Edinburgh:
    20 BERNARD TERRACE.




PREFACE.


An Olive Leaf was the first gift of the Earth after the Flood, to the
sole survivors of a buried race. It was borne by the Dove, spreading a
timid wing over the surging waters, so lately without a shore.

The plant thus honoured, as the love-token of a World, rising in
freshness from the wrecks of the Deluge, has long been a consecrated
emblem of peace. It then brought the joyful tidings to the voyagers in
the lonely Ark, of a home once more upon the green earth; and has since
cheered many a Christian heart, with the assurance that the bitter
waters of strife had abated.

These, my simple "Olive Leaves," would fain be love-tokens to you, sweet
young friends, who may chance to take them in your hand. Buds of the
olive and of the rose, are ye: pour forth the spirit of peace and love,
as ye unfold and ripen on the pilgrimage of life, that you may be
gathered at its close, where their bloom is eternal.

    L. H. S.

    _Hartford, Connecticut._




CONTENTS.


                                              Page

    PREFACE,                                     3

    THE LOST AND FOUND,                          9

    CHILDHOOD'S PIETY,                          18

    FRANK LUDLOW,                               19

    VICTORY,                                    35

    SILENT PEOPLE,                              37

    LAURA BRIDGMAN,                             53

    HUMBLE FRIENDS,                             55

    BUTTERFLY IN A SCHOOL-ROOM,                 61

    A BRAVE BOY,                                63

    MAY MORNING,                                66

    THE HUGUENOT GRANDFATHER'S TALE,            67

    THE OLD WATCH,                              86

    ENTERTAINING BOOKS,                         88

    THE NEW YEAR,                               91

    CYRUS,                                      93

    ROME AND ITS RULERS,                        97

    THE PLOUGHING OF THE SWORD,                105

    THE GOOD AND BAD EMPEROR,                  108

    BONAPARTE AT ST. HELENA,                   120

    POLYCARP,                                  124

    CHRISTMAS HYMN,                            127

    THE FRIVOLOUS KING,                        128

    TO A PUPIL LEAVING SCHOOL,                 131

    PIOUS PRINCES,                             132

    EVILS OF WAR,                              138

    THE LIBERATED FLY,                         143

    THE GOOD BROTHER AND SISTER,               146

    THE WAITING CHILD,                         155

    THE ADOPTED NIECE,                         156

    THE ORPHAN,                                160

    THE ONLY SON,                              163

    LIFE,                                      175

    A REMARKABLE CHILD,                        177

    THE DYING SUNDAY SCHOOL BOY,               187

    THE PRECOCIOUS INFANT,                     189

    THE LAST ROSE BUD,                         195

    THE CHERUB'S WELCOME,                      197

    THE BABE, AND THE FORGET-ME-NOT,           199

    TREATMENT OF ANIMALS,                      201

    THE TREMBLING EYELID,                      207

    PEACEFUL DISPOSITIONS,                     213

    JOHN AND JAMES WILLIAMS,                   220

    THE INDIAN KING,                           227

    THE DOVES,                                 232

    THE WAR-SPIRIT,                            236

    EARLY RECOLLECTIONS,                       238

    HUGUENOT FORT,                             243

    I HAVE SEEN AN END OF ALL PERFECTION,      252




OLIVE LEAVES.




The Lost and Found.


I have something to say to the young, about the advantage, as well as
duty of obeying their parents. My story will be of an interesting boy,
by the name of Charles Morton. He had a pleasant temper, and almost
always wore a smile. He ardently loved his sister Caroline, who was
several years younger than himself; and whenever he came from school,
would ask for her, and take her in his arms, or guide her tottering
footsteps.

But Charles, with all his kindness of heart, had a sad fault. He would
sometimes disobey his parents, when he was out of their sight. He did
not remember that the Eye of God always saw him, both in darkness and in
light, and would take note of the sin that he committed, though his
parents knew it not. At a short distance from his home, was a beautiful
river, broad and deep. His parents had strictly charged him never to
venture in, and had explained to him the danger which a boy of eight
years old would incur, in a tide so strong. Notwithstanding this, he
would sometimes seek a spot where the banks, or the trees upon the
shore, concealed him, and take off his shoes, and step into the water.
He grew fond of wading, and would occasionally stay in the water a long
time. Then, he greatly desired to swim. He frequently saw larger boys
amusing themselves in this way, and longed to join them. But he feared
lest they might mention it to his father, and determined to go alone.

Here was the sin of the little boy, not only in continuing to disobey,
but in studying how to deceive his kind parents. One fine afternoon in
summer, school was dismissed at an earlier hour than usual. Now, thought
Charles, I can make a trial at swimming, and get home, before my mother
misses me. He sought a retired spot, where he had never seen his
companions go, and hastened to throw off his clothes, and plunge into
the water. He did not imagine that it was so deep there, and that the
current was so exceedingly swift. He struggled with all his might, but
was borne farther and farther from the shore. The sea was not a great
distance from the mouth of the river, and the tide was driving on
violently, and what could he do? Nothing, but to exhaust his feeble
strength, and then give up, and be carried onwards. He became weary of
beating the water with his feet and hands to no purpose, and his throat
was dry with crying, and so he floated along, like a poor, uprooted
weed. It was fearful to him to be hurried away so, with the waters
roaring in his ears. He gave up all hope of seeing his dear home again,
and dreaded the thought of being drowned, and devoured by monstrous
fishes. How he wished that he had not disobeyed his good parents; and he
earnestly prayed God to forgive him, and have mercy upon his soul.

At Charles Morton's home, his mother had prepared a bowl of bread and
milk for him, because he usually was hungry when he came from school.

At length she began to look from the window, and to feel uneasy. Little
Caroline crept to the door, and continually called "Tarle, Tarle!" But
when the sun disappeared, and Mr. Morton returned, and nothing had been
seen of the dear boy, they were greatly alarmed. They searched the
places where he had been accustomed to play, and questioned his
companions, but in vain. The neighbours collected, and attended the
father in pursuit of his lost son. What was their distress, at finding
his clothes in a remote recess, near the river's brink! They immediately
gave him up as drowned, and commenced the search for his body. There was
bitter mourning in his once happy home, that night. Many weeks elapsed,
ere little Caroline ceased calling for her "_dear Tarle_," or the sad
parents could be comforted. And it was remembered amid their affliction,
that the beloved child whom they had endeavoured to teach the fear of
God, had forgotten that All-seeing Eye, when he disobeyed his parents.

But while they were lamenting their lost son, he was not dead. While
faintly struggling on the river, he had been discovered, and taken up by
an Indian canoe. He had been borne by the swift current far from the
place where he first went into the water. And it was very long after he
was rescued, before he came to his senses, so as to give any connected
account of himself. Then, he was greatly shocked at finding himself in a
boat, with two huge Indians. He shrieked, and begged to be taken to his
father's house; but they paid no attention to his cries, and silently
proceeded on their voyage. They wrapped a blanket around him, because he
had no clothes, and offered him some parched corn, but he had no heart
to eat. By the rough tossing of the boat, he discovered that they were
upon the deep sea, and the broad moon rose high, and shone long, ere
they drew near to land. Stupefied with terror, one of the Indians
carried him in his arms to a rude hut, and gave him to his wife.

"What have you brought?" said she, as she loosened the blanket, and
discovered the dripping locks and shivering form of the affrighted
child.

"A white pappoose," answered the hoarse voice of the husband. Poor
Charles looked up with a cry of horror and despair. The woman regarded
him earnestly for a moment.

"He is like my son that I buried," said she, and she folded her dark
arms around him, and wept. She kindled a fire to warm him, and pressed
food upon him, but he was sick at heart. She laid him in the rude bed of
her dead child, and he sobbed himself into a deep, long sleep. It was
late in the morning when he opened his eyes. Who can describe his
distress! No kind parent to speak to him, no little sister to twine her
arms around his neck. Nothing but a dark hovel, and strange Indian
faces. The woman, with her husband and father, were the sole inhabitants
of the hut, and of this lone, sea-girt island. A dreadful feeling of
desolation came over him, and he laid down his head, and mourned
bitterly. The red-browed woman pitied him, and adopted him into her
heart, in place of the child she had lost. She brought him the coarse
garments of her dead son, and he was obliged to put them on, for he had
no other.

His heart sunk within him, when on going out of the door, he could see
no roof save the one where he had lodged. Some little rocky islands were
in sight, but none of them inhabited. He felt as if he was alone in the
world, and said, "This is the punishment of my disobedience."
Continually he was begging with tears, to be taken to his home, and the
men promised "when we go so far again in the boat, we will carry you."
But their manners were so stern, that he began to fear to urge them as
much as he wished. So every night, when he had retired to sleep, the
woman said to her husband, "We will keep him. He will be contented. His
beautiful blue eye is not so wild and strained, as when you brought him.
My heart yearns towards him, as it did over the one that shall wake no
more."

She took him with her to gather the rushes, with which she platted mats
and baskets, and showed him where the solitary bittern made her nest,
and how to trace the swift steps of the heron, as with whirring wing
half spread it hasted through the marshes to the sea. And she taught him
to dig roots, which contain the spirit of health, and to know the herbs
that bring sleep to the sick, and staunch the flowing blood: for she
trusted that in industry, and the simple knowledge of nature, he would
find content. At first, she brought him wild flowers, but she perceived
that they always made him weep, for he had been accustomed to gather
them for his little Caroline. So she passed them by, blooming in their
wild recesses, and instructed him how to climb the trees where the
grape-vine hung its airy clusters. And she gave him a choice bow and
arrow, ornamented with brilliant feathers, and encouraged him to take
aim at the birds that sang among the low branches. But he shrank back at
the thought of hurting the warbler, and she said silently,

"Surely, the babe of the white woman is not in spirit like his red
brother. He who sleeps in the grave was happy when he bent the bow and
followed his father to the chase."

Little Charles spent a part of each day in watching the sails, as they
glided along on the broad sea. For a long time, he would stand as near
the shore as possible, and make signs, and shout, hoping they might be
induced to come and take him to his home. But an object so diminutive,
attracted no attention, and the small island, with its neighbouring
group of rocks, looked so desolate, and the channel so obstructed and
dangerous, that vessels had no motive to approach it.

When the chill of early autumn was in the air, the Indian woman invited
him to assist her in gathering the golden ears of the maize, and in
separating them from their investing sheath. But he worked sorrowfully,
for he was ever thinking of his own dear home. Once the men permitted
him to accompany them, when they went on a short fishing excursion; but
he wept and implored so violently to be taken to his parents, that they
frowned, and forbade him to go any more in the boat. They told him, that
twice or thrice in the year they performed a long voyage, and went up
the river, to dispose of the articles of their manufacture and purchase
some necessary stores. They should go when spring returned, and would
then carry him to his parents. So the poor little boy perceived that he
must try to be patient and quiet, through the long, dreary winter, in an
Indian hut. The red-browed woman ever looked smilingly upon him, and
spoke to him with a sweet, fond tone. She wished him to call her mother,
and was always trying to promote his comfort. After Charles had obtained
the promise of her husband and father, to take him home in the spring,
his mind was more at rest. He worked diligently as his strength and
skill would permit, on the baskets, mats, and brooms, with which the
boat was to be freighted. He took pleasure in painting with the bright
colours which they obtained from plants, two baskets, which were
intended as presents for his mother and Caroline.

The Indian woman often entertained him with stories of her ancestors.
She spoke of their dexterity in the chase, of their valour in battle.
She described their war-dances, and the feathery lightness of their
canoes upon the wave. She told of the gravity of their chiefs, the
eloquence of their orators, the respect of the young men for those of
hoary hairs. She related instances of the firmness of their friendship,
and the terror of their revenge.

"Once the whole land was theirs, said she, and no white man dwelt in it,
or had discovered it. Now, our race are few and feeble, they are driven
away and perish. They leave their fathers' graves, and hide among the
forests. The forests fall before the axe of the white man, and they are
again driven out, we know not where. No voice asks after them. They fade
away like a mist, and are forgotten."

The little boy wept at the plaintive tone in which she spoke of the
sorrows of her people, and said, "_I_ will pity and love the Indians, as
long as I live." Sometimes, during the long storms of winter, he would
tell them of the Bible, in which he had loved to read, and would repeat
the hymns and chapters which he had learned at the Sabbath school. And
then he regretted that he had not exerted himself to learn more when it
was in his power, and that he had ever grieved his teachers. He found
that these Indians were not able to read, and said, "Oh that I had now
but _one_ of those books, which I used to prize so little when I was at
home, and had so many." They listened attentively to all that he said.
Sometimes he told them what he had learned of God, and added,

"He is a good God, and a God of truth, but I displeased him when I was
disobedient to my parents."

At length, Spring appeared. The heart of little Charles leaped for joy,
when he heard the sweet song of the earliest bird. Every morning he rose
early, and went forth to see if the grass had not become greener during
the night. Every hour, he desired to remind them of the long-treasured
promise. But he saw that the men looked grave if he was impatient, and
the brow of his Indian mother became each day more sad.

The appointed period arrived. The boat was laden with the products of
their industry. All was ready for departure. Charles wept when he was
about to take leave of his kind Indian nurse.

"I will go also," said she; and they made room for her in the boat. The
bright sun was rising gloriously in the east, as they left the desolate
island. Through the whole voyage she held the boy near her, or in her
arms, but spoke not. Birds were winging their way over the blue sea,
and, after they entered the river, poured forth the clearest melodies
from shore and tree, but still she spoke not. There seemed a sorrow at
her breast, which made her lip tremble, yet her eye was tearless.
Charles refrained to utter the joy which swelled in his bosom, for he
saw she was unhappy. He put his arm round her neck, and leaned his head
on her shoulder. As evening approached, they drew near the spot, where
she understood she must part from him. Then Charles said eagerly to her,

"Oh, go home with me to my father's house. Yes, yes, come all of you
with me, my dear, good people, that all of us may thank you together for
having saved my life."

"No," she answered sorrowfully: "I could not bear to see thy mother fold
thee in her arms, and to know that thou wert mine no more. Since thou
hast told me of thy God, and that he listened to prayer, my prayer has
been lifted up to Him night and day, that thy heart might find rest in
an Indian home. But this is over. Henceforth, my path and my soul are
desolate. Yet go thy way, to thy mother, that she may have joy when she
rises up in the morning, and at night goes to rest."

Her tears fell down like rain, as she embraced him, and they lifted him
upon the bank. And eager as he was to meet his parents, and his beloved
sister, he lingered to watch the boat as it glided away. He saw that she
raised not her head, nor uncovered her face. He remembered her long and
true kindness, and asked God to bless and reward her, as he hastened
over the well known space that divided him from his native village.

His heart beat so thick as almost to suffocate him, when he saw his
father's roof. It was twilight, and the trees where he used to gather
apples, were in full and fragrant bloom. Half breathless, he rushed in
at the door. His father was reading in the parlour, and rose coldly to
meet him. So changed was his person, and dress, that he did not know his
son. But the mother shrieked. She knew the blue eye, that no misery of
garb could change. She sprang to embrace him, and fainted. It was a keen
anguish to him, that his mother thus should suffer. Little Caroline
clung around his neck, and as he kissed her, he whispered "Remember, God
sees, and punishes the disobedient." His pale mother lifted up her head,
and drew him from his father's arms, upon the bed, beside her. "Father,
Mother," said the delighted boy, "forgive me." They both assured him of
their love, and his father looking upward said, "My God, I thank thee!
for this my son was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is
found."




Childhood's Piety.


    If the meek faith that Jesus taught,
      Admission fail to gain
    Neath domes with wealth and splendour fraught,
      Where dwell a haughty train,

    Turn to the humble hearth and see
      The Mother's tender care,
    Luring the nursling on her knee
      To link the words of prayer:

    Or to the little bed, where kneels
      The child with heaven-raised eye,
    And all its guileless soul reveals
      To Him who rules the sky;

    Where the young babe's first lispings keep
      So bright the parents tear,
    The "_Now, I lay me down to sleep_,"
      That angels love to hear.




Frank Ludlow.


"It is time Frank and Edward were at home," said Mrs. Ludlow. So she
stirred and replenished the fire, for it was a cold winter's evening.

"Mother, you gave them liberty to stay and play after school," said
little Eliza.

"Yes, my daughter, but the time is expired. I wish my children to come
home at the appointed time, as well as to obey me in all other things.
The stars are already shining, and they are not allowed to stay out so
late."

"Dear mother, I think I hear their voices now." Little Eliza climbed
into a chair, and drawing aside the window-curtain, said joyfully, "O
yes, they are just coming into the piazza."

Mrs. Ludlow told her to go to the kitchen, and see that the bread was
toasted nice and warm, for their bowls of milk which had been some time
ready.

Frank and Edward Ludlow were fine boys, of eleven and nine years old.
They returned in high spirits, from their sport on the frozen pond. They
hung up their skates in the proper place, and then hastened to kiss
their mother.

"We have stayed longer at play than we ought, my dear mother," said
Edward.

"You are nearly an hour beyond the time," said Mrs. Ludlow.

"Edward reminded me twice," said Frank, "that we ought to go home. But
O, it was such excellent skating, that I could not help going round the
pond a few times more. We left all the boys there when we came away. The
next time, we will try to be as true as the town-clock. And it is not
Edward's fault now, mother."

"My sons, I always expect you to leave your sports, at the time that I
appoint. I know that you do not intend to disobey, or to give me
anxiety. But you must take pains to be punctual. When you become men, it
will be of great importance that you observe your engagements. Unless
you perform what is expected of you, at the proper time, people will
cease to have confidence in you."

The boys promised to be punctual and obedient, and their mother assured
them, that they were not often forgetful of these important duties.

Eliza came in with the bread nicely toasted, for their supper.

"What a good little one, to be thinking of her brothers, when they are
away. Come, sweet sister, sit between us."

Eliza felt very happy, when her brothers each gave her a kiss, and she
looked up in their faces, with a sweet smile.

The evening meal was a pleasant one. The mother and her children talked
cheerfully together. Each had some little agreeable circumstance to
relate, and they felt how happy it is for a family to live in love.

After supper, books and maps were laid on the table, and Mrs. Ludlow
said,

"Come boys, you go to school every day, and your sister does not. It is
but fair that you should teach her something. First examine her in the
lessons she has learned with me, and then you may add some gift of
knowledge from your own store."

So Frank overlooked her geography, and asked her a few questions on the
map; and Edward explained to her a little arithmetic, and told a story
from the history of England, with which she was much pleased. Soon she
grew sleepy, and kissing her brothers, wished them an affectionate
good-night. Her mother went with her, to see her laid comfortably in
bed, and to hear her repeat her evening hymns, and thank her Father in
heaven, for his care of her through the day.

When Mrs. Ludlow returned to the parlour, she found her sons busily
employed in studying their lessons for the following day. She sat down
beside them with her work, and when they now and then looked up from
their books, they saw that their diligence was rewarded by her approving
eye.

When they had completed their studies, they replaced the books which
they had used, in the bookcase, and drew their chairs nearer to the
fire. The kind mother joined them, with a basket of fruit, and while
they partook of it, they had the following conversation.

_Mrs. Ludlow._ "I should like to hear, my dear boys, more of what you
have learned to-day."

_Frank._ "I have been much pleased with a book that I borrowed of one of
the boys. Indeed, I have hardly thought of any thing else. I must
confess that I put it inside of my geography, and read it while the
master thought I was studying."

_Mrs. Ludlow._ "I am truly sorry, Frank, that you should be willing to
deceive. What are called _boy's tricks_, too often lead to falsehood,
and end in disgrace. On this occasion you cheated yourself also. You
lost the knowledge which you might have gained, for the sake of what, I
suppose, was only some book of amusement."

_Frank._ "Mother, it was the life of Charles the XII. of Sweden. You
know that he was the bravest soldier of his times. He beat the king of
Denmark, when he was only eighteen years old. Then he defeated the
Russians, at the battle of Narva, though they had 80,000 soldiers, and
he had not a quarter of that number."

_Mrs. Ludlow._ "How did he die?"

_Frank._ "He went to make war in Norway. It was a terribly severe
winter, but he feared no hardship. The cold was so great, that his
sentinels were often found frozen to death at their posts. He was
besieging a town called Frederickshall. It was about the middle of
December. He gave orders that they should continue to work on the
trenches, though the feet of the soldiers were benumbed, and their hands
froze to the tools. He got up very early one morning, to see if they
were at their work. The stars shone clear and bright on the snow that
covered every thing. Sometimes a firing was heard from the enemy. But he
was too courageous to mind that. Suddenly, a cannon-shot struck him, and
he fell. When they took him up, his forehead was beat in, but his right
hand still strongly grasped the sword. Mother, was not that dying like a
brave man?"

_Mrs. Ludlow._ "I should think there was more of rashness than bravery
in thus exposing himself, for no better reason. Do you not feel that it
was cruel to force his soldiers to such labours in that dreadful
climate, and to make war when it was not necessary? The historians say
that he undertook it, only to fill up an interval of time, until he
could be prepared for his great campaign in Poland. So, to amuse his
restless mind, he was willing to destroy his own soldiers, willing to
see even his most faithful friends frozen every morning into statues.
Edward, tell me what you remember."

_Edward._ "My lesson in the history of Rome, was the character of
Antoninus Pius. He was one of the best of the Roman Emperors. While he
was young, he paid great respect to the aged, and when he grew rich he
gave liberally to the poor. He greatly disliked war. He said he had
'rather save the life of one subject, than destroy a thousand enemies.'
Rome was prosperous and happy, under his government. He reigned 22
years, and died, with many friends surrounding his bed, at the age of
74."

_Mrs. Ludlow._ "Was he not beloved by the people whom he ruled? I have
read that they all mourned at his death, as if they had lost a father.
Was it not better to be thus lamented, than to be remembered only by the
numbers he had slain, and the miseries he had caused?"

_Frank._ "But mother, the glory of Charles the XII. of Sweden, was
certainly greater than that of a quiet old man, who, I dare say, was
afraid to fight. Antoninus Pius was clever enough, but you cannot deny
that Alexander, and Caesar, and Bonaparte, had far greater talents. They
will be called heroes and praised, as long as the world stands."

_Mrs. Ludlow._ "My dear children, those talents should be most admired,
which produce the greatest good. That fame is the highest, which best
agrees with our duty to God and man. Do not be dazzled by the false
glory that surrounds the hero. Consider it your glory to live in peace,
and to make others happy. Believe me, when you come to your death-beds,
and oh, how soon will that be, for the longest life is short, it will
give you more comfort to reflect that you have healed one broken heart,
given one poor child the means of education, or sent to one heathen the
book of salvation, than that you lifted your hand to destroy your
fellow-creatures, and wrung forth the tears of widows and of orphans."

The hour of rest had come, and the mother opened the large family Bible,
that they might together remember and thank Him, who had preserved them
through the day. When Frank and Edward took leave of her for the night,
they were grieved to see that there were tears in her eyes. They
lingered by her side, hoping she would tell them if any thing had
troubled her. But she only said, "My sons, my dear sons, before you
sleep, pray to God for a heart to love peace."

After they had retired, Frank said to his brother,

"I cannot feel that it is wrong to be a soldier. Was not our father one?
I shall never forget the fine stories he used to tell me about battles,
when I was almost a baby. I remember that I used to climb up on his
knee, and put my face close to his. Then I used to dream of prancing
horses, and glittering swords, and sounding trumpets, and wake up and
wish I was a soldier. Indeed, Edward, I wish so now. But I cannot tell
dear mother what is in my heart, for it would grieve her."

"No, no, don't tell her so, dear Frank, and pray, never be a soldier. I
have heard her say, that father's ill health, and most of his troubles,
came from the life that he led in camps. He said on his death-bed, that
if he could live his youth over again, he would be a meek follower of
the Saviour, and not a man of blood."

"Edward, our father was engaged in the war of the Revolution, without
which we should all have been slaves. Do you pretend to say that it was
not a holy war?"

"I pretend to say nothing, brother, only what the Bible says, Render to
no man evil for evil, but follow after the things that make for peace."

The boys had frequent conversations on the subject of war and peace.
Their opinions still continued to differ. Their love for their mother,
prevented their holding these discourses often in her presence; for they
perceived that Frank's admiration of martial renown gave her increased
pain. She devoted her life to the education and happiness of her
children. She secured for them every opportunity in her power, for the
acquisition of useful knowledge, and both by precept and example urged
them to add to their "knowledge, temperance, and to temperance,
brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness, charity."

This little family were models of kindness and affection among
themselves. Each strove to make the others happy. Their fire-side was
always cheerful, and the summer evening walks which the mother took with
her children were sources both