The Western souvenir, a Christmas and New Year's gift for 1829

UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH

Jjarlington Alemorial Library

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WE.STEI1N 80UVEMI11.

CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR'S GIFT

FOR 1820.

EDITED BY JAMES HALL

CINCINNATI :

PUBLISHED BY N. AND G. GUILFORD

W. M. FARNSWORTH, PRINTER.

PREFACE.

The following work appears before the publick, un-
der the embarrassing character of a first attempt to
imitate the beautiful productions of art and genius,
which have reflected so much honour upon the talents
of our worthy countrymen in some of the Atlantick
states. We have adventured into a new field, and if
we have fallen short of publick expectation, much al-
lowance should be made for the difficulties which al-
ways attend a new undertaking ; and for the want of
time, and the consequent hurry, with which the work has
been prepared and executed.

It will be seen, that this volume aspires to something
beyond the ordinary compilations of the day, and
that we have endeavoured to give it an original char-
acter, by devoting its pages exclusively to our domes-
tick literature. It is written and published in the
Western country, by Western men, and is chiefly con-
fined to subjects connected with the history and char-
acter of the country which gives it birth. Most of
the tales are founded upon fact, and though given as
fiction, some of them are entitled to the credit of his-
torical accuracy.

IV PREFACE.

To the gentlemen, whose contributions compose the
present volume, we return our grateful acknowledg-
ments. It required no small degree of chivalry to in-
duce them to embark with us, and to aid us with their
talents and their names, in an enterprise of which the
success w^as so extremely doubtful. To the modest
and anonymous fcw^ who, from their hiding places
have sent us their contributions, we also tender our
thanks.

The notice of our intention to publish was given at
too late a period to enable writers at a distance to
contribute ; and it was thought adviseable to avail our-
selves of the best materials within our reach, by ad-
mitting, in a few instances, articles, Avhich had before
been published in the ephemeral pages of our jour-
nals, and which were of course but little known.

The paintings, from which the embellishments have
been prepared, were all executed in this country, and
most of them expressly for the work. The views of
Frankfort and Cincinnati, and The Shawanoe War-
rior, were drawn by Mr. Samuel M. Lee, a young, na-
tive, and self-taught artist of this city. The Pea-
sant Girl is from the pencil of Mr. Hervieu, a French
gentleman, who has recently settled at Cincinnati, and
whose talents as a painter have been highly estimated.
It was also our intention to have given a portrait of
Daniel Boon, and for that purpose, we had procured
an excellent copy of a painting by Hardin, and for-
warded it to an engraver ; but it miscarried by acci-

PREFACE.

dent, and did not reach him until too late. We in-
tend that it shall embellish our next Souvenir.

The cordial approbation, with which our enterprise
has been hailed, and the encouragement already ex-
tended to it, have been such as to induce the publish-
ers to hope, tliat they shall be enabled to continue the
work by an annual volume. The aid of our writers
is, therefore, again invoked. The articles desired are
Tales, Poetry, Historical Anecdotes, and descriptions
of Scenery and Manners.

EMBELLISHUfENTSe

Presentation Plate,

The Peasant Girl,

View of Cincinnati, g«

View of Pittsburgh,

The Shawanoe Warrior,

The Deserted Children, an Island Scene

OF THE Ohio, 2yg

View of Frankfort, 300

132
251

CONTENTS,

PAGE.

The New Souvenir. James Hall, - - 10

The Minstrel's Home. Otway Curry, - 12

Speech of an Indian Chief, - . - - 14

Wedded Love's First Home. James Hall, - 15

Love in the Dew. James Hall, - - - 17

Traditions of the Mammoth. N. Guilford, 19

The Mountain Storm. N.Wright, - - 33

Ohio. N. Guilford, 36

The French Village. James Hall, - - 37

The Young Wife's Song. Anonymous, - 62

Misfortunes of Genius. E, R. B., - - 63

Oolemba in Cincinnati. Timothy Flint, - 68
Maria Louisa at the Grave of Napoleon. S. S. Boyd, 102

Ode to Musick. N. Guilford, - - - 104

The Serenade. Anonymous, - . - 106

The Last of the Boatmen. N , - - 107

The Mound. Moses Brooks, - - - 123

The Fever Dream. Dr. Harney, - - 126

The Stranger's Grave. Otway Curry, - 130

The Bachelor's Elysium. James Hall, - 133

La Belle Riviere, James Hall, - - - 155

VIII CONTENTS.

The Emigrant. Anonymous,
The Infant's Grave. Harvey D. Little, -
Chetoca, or the Mad Buffalo, . - -

The Plant of Havana — a Parody. Orlando,
The Forest Chief. James Hall, - - -
A Tale of the Greek Revolution. L. R. Noble,
The Turkish Flag Ship. Caleb Stark,

To Mary. Orlando,

The BilHard Table. James Hall,

Youth and Fancy. N , - - - -

To a Cold Fair One,

The Parting. James Hall, . . .

The Descendants of Paugus. S. S. Boyd, -
Love's Smile. Orlando, - - . -
The Dying Maiden. Harvey D. Little, -
Consolation. Ephraim Robins,
The Egyptian Manuscripts. John P. Foote,
The Sha,wanoe Warrior. James Hall,
The Orphan's Harp. John B. Dillon,

An Elegy. Velasco,

The Indian Hater. James Hall,

Life's Twilight. Orlando, - - - -

To a Young Lady on her Marriage. M. P. Flint, 274

The Star of Love. Orlando, - - - 275

The Deserted Children — A real Incident, - 276

The Rose, 279

Repeat the Strain, ib.

The Indian Maid's Death Song. James Hall, 280
Can Years of Suffering. Orlando, - - 287

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CONTENTS. IX

William Bancroft. Benjamin Drake, - 282

The Massacre. James Hall, - - - 296

Winter. Hassan, 298

To a Young Lady. Orlando, - - - 299

Pete Featherton. James Hall, - - - 301

Addressed To — • • N , - - - 322

The Gift. James Hall, - ^ - - 324

( 10)

THE NEW SOUVENIR.

Oh! a new Souvenir is come out of the west,

Through all the wide borders it flies with a zest ;

For save this fair volume, we Souvenir had none—

It comes unpreceded, it comes all alone ;

So glossy in silk, and so neat in brevier,

There never was book like our new Souvenir I

It stays not for critic, and stops not for puff,

Nor dreads that reviewers may call it "poor stuff!"

For ere the dull proser can rail, or can rate,

The ladies have smiled, and the critic comes late,

And the poets who laugh, and the authors who sneer,

Would be glad of a place in our new Souvenir.

So boldly it enters each parlour and hall,
'Mong Keepsakes, Atlantics, Memorials, and all.
That authors start up, each with hand on his pen,
To demand whence it comes, with the wherefore, and

when ; —
"Oh come ye in peace, or in war come ye here,
Or what is the aim of your new Souvenir?"

We've long seen your volumes overspreading the land,
While the west country people strolled rifle in hand:

THE NEW SOUVENIR. 11

And now we have come, with these hard palms of ours,
^o rival your poets in parlours and bowers.
There are maids in the West, bright, witty, and fair,
|VVho will gladly accept of our new Souvenir.

One hand to the paper, one touch to the pen,
We have ralHed around us the best of our men :—
Away with the moccasin, rifle, and brand I
We have song, picture, silk, and gold-leaf at com-
mand—
Tis done !— Here we go with the fleet foot of deer—
They'll have keen pens that battle our new Souvenir-

James Hall.

i'i;

THE MINSTREL'S HOME-

The image of a happier home,
Whence far my feet have strayed.

Still flits around me, as I roam,
Like joy's departed shade ; —

Though childhood's light of joy has set,

Its home is dear to memory yet I

Here — where the lapse of time hath swept

The forest's waving pride ;
And many a summer's light hath slept,

Upon the green hill's side,
I'll rest — ^while twilight's pinions spread
Their shadows o'er my grassy bed.

Yon stars — enthroned so high — so bright,
Like gems on heaven's fair brow.

Through all the majesty of night,
Are smiling on me now.

The promptings of poetic dreams

Are floating on their pale, pure beams.

The Muses of the starry spheres,

High o'er me wend along,
With visions of my infant years,

Blending their choral song —
Strewing with fancy's choicest flowers.
The pathway of the tranced hours.

THE 3IINSTREl's HOrVJE. 13

They sing of constellations high,

The weary miustrel's home ;
Of da3^? of sorrow hastening by,

And bright one? yet to come —
Far in the sky, like ocean isles,
Where sunny light forever smiles.

They sing of happy circles, bright,

Where bards of old have gone ;
Where rounding ages of delight,

Undimmed, are shining on ; —
And now, in silence, sleeps again
The breathing of her mystic strain.

Leave me — 0 1 leave me not alone —

While I am sleeping here ;
Still let that soft and silvery tone

Sound in my dreaming ear.
I would not lose that strain divine,
To call earth's thousand kingdoms mine !

It is the sunbeam of the mind,

Whose bliss can ne'er be won,
Till the reviving soul shall find

Life's long, dark journey done-, — -
Then peerless splendour shall array,
The morning of that sinless day.

Otway Currv.

o

( 14)

SPEECH OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.

[ The following Speech was delivered by an Ottowa Chief be-
fore a Council of the Americana, held in the neighbourhood of De-
troit, in 1788.]

"Fathers I

I accepted your invitation to meet you here,
with distrust, and measured my way to this Council
Fire with trembling feet. My father and many of our
chiefs have lately fallen in battle. The remembrance
almost makes me a woman, and fills my eyes with,
tears. — Your kindness has relieved my heart.

"Fathers ! — You inform me, that if any of my peo-
ple visit you they shall meet a friendly welcome. My
fears are done away, and I will recommend to our
young men to visit and get acquainted with yours.

"Fathers I — What has happened this day has sunk
deep into my heart, and will never be forgotten. — I
foretell, that the sunshine of this day's peace will warm
and protect us and our children. To confirm it — I here
present my right hand ; — that hand which never yet
was given in deceit ; — which never raised the toma-
hawk in peace, or spared an enemy in war. And I as-
sure you of my friendship with a tongue, which ha?
never mocked at truth !"

( 15)

WEDDED LOVE'S FIRST HOME.

'TwAs far beyond yon mountains, dear, we plighted
vows of love.

The ocean wave was at our feet, the autumn sky
above.

The pebbly shore was covered o'er, with many a va-
ried shell.

And on the billow's curling spray, the sunbeams glitter-
ing fell.

The storm has vexed that billow oft, and oft that sun
has set.

But plighted love remains with us, in peace and lustre
yet.

I wiled thee to a lonely haunt, that bashful love might
speak.

Where none could hear what love revealed, or see the
crimson cheek,

The shore was all deserted, and we wandered there
alone.

And not a human step impressed the sand-beach but
our own ;

Thy footsteps all have vanished from the billow-beat-
en strand —

The vows we breathed remain with us — they were not
traced in sand.

16

WEDDED LOVE'S FIRST HOME.

Far, far, we left the sea-girt shore, endeared by child-
hood's dream,

To seek the humble cot, that smiled by fair Ohio's
stream ;

In vain the mountain cliff opposed, the mountain tor-
rent roared.

For love unfurled her silken wing-, and o'er each bar-
rier soared ;

And many a wide domain we passed, and many an
ample dome,

But none so blessed, so dear to us, as wedded love's
first home.

Beyond those mountains now are all, that e'er we

loved or knew.
The long remembered many, and the dearly cherished

few;

The home of her we value, and the grave of him we

mourn.
Are there ;-and there is all the past to which the

heart can turn ; —
But dearer scenes surround us here, and lovelier joys

we trace,
For here is wedded love's first home,-its hallowed

resting place.

James Hall.

(1' )

LOVE IN THE DEAV.

A MAIDEN went forth at the twilight hour,

To meet her true love in a dewy bower,

Where the rose, and sweet-briar, and jessamine grew,

And the humming-bird kissed from the blossoms their

dew;
She was bright as that bird of the glittering wing,
And pure as the dew-drop, and gay as the spring.

And there in the shade,

The youth wooed the maid ;

But the moon rose high.

In the cloudless sky,
Ere she gave consent, and received the ring.

And then she flew,

From love and from dew,
To dream of them both the long night through I

The night has fled, and the dew is gone,

The maiden sits in her chamber alone ;

She is thinking of love, and moonlight hours.

Of dewy kisses, and jessamine bowers,

And she wonders if rings, and vows, are true,

Or as cold as night, and fleeting as dew.

But her hope is bright,

And her heart is light,

18 LOVE IN THE DEW.

And still she sings

Of bridal rings,
Of rose-buds, and vo^vs, the long day through.

And all her theme,

Is that bright dream,
That came o'er her heart by the moon's pale beam

The maiden is clad in her bridal dress,

The priest is there to unite and to bless ;

And beside her the bridegroom has taken his stand.

To taste of her lip and to touch her hand.

And to wed in the face of the world, the maid

Whom he wooed at night in the jessamine shade.

No eye more bright,

No heart more light.

Than her's, the bride,

Who smiles in her pride,
For the ring is her's, and the vow is paid.

But maidens beware.

Of dew and night air,
Not always are truth and gold rings found there I

James Hall.

( 19)

TRADITIONS OF THE MAMMOTH.

The bones of huge and monstrous animals have
been found, buried in the earth, in different parts of
the Mississippi valley. They have been dug out of
the mud and clay, at Big-bone-lick, in such quantities
as to be carried off in wagon loads. They have also
been found between the Miamies, in the neighbour-
hood of the lakes, and in the banks of the Mississippi,
Illinois, Wabash, Missouri, Osage, and Red rivers.

These remains have greatly puzzled and perplexed
our naturahsts and learned men; — some maintaining
that the animals belonged to one class or genus, and
some to another. Some have crowded all these bones
into the same animal ; and others have divided them
among a dozen different species. Certain celebrated
European philosophers have theorised Aery shrewdly
and technically, upon the subject, and have finally
set them all down as elephants !— And among our own
great men, the question has been warmly discussed —
whether the animals, to which they belonged, were
carnivorous, or herbivorous ; and for this purpose, their
teeth and anatomy have been examined, described,
compared, and commented upon, with great skill, and
professional accuracy.

r20

TRADITIONS OF THE MAMMOTH.

Some of these enormous grinders are found to have
a flat and smooth, masticating surface; others have
high, conical processes ; strongly coated with enamel,
and indicating animals of the carnivorous kind.—
There is also a difference in the size and formation of
the bones ; and although they appear to be the remains
of several distinct species, yet they have all received
the general appellation of Mammoth.

Large claws have also been discovered, correspon-
ding with bones of a size less than the Mammoth's,
which some have conjectured to have been young
Mammoths; others a species of the Sloth; and others
maintain that it must have been the Megalonix.
or Great Lion.

An English traveller, who called his name Thomas
Ashe, a very sagacious and truth-telling tourist, and
who, among other honorable deeds, swindled Dr. Go-
forth, of Cincinnati, out of the largest and most com-
plete museum of these bones ever collected, which he
carried off to England— has given the world the light
and benefit of his researches, and established the fact
beyond a doubt in his own mind, that these claws and
carnivorous teeth all belonged to the Megalonix.

Mr. Ashe declares— and being a person of such high
authority and known veracity, none ought to question
the fact— that the Megalonix was precisely sixty feet
in length, and twenty-five feet in height! That his
shoulder-blade was as large as a breakfast table ;—
that his paw was four feet long and three feet wide;

TRADITIONS OF THE 3IAMMOTH. '21

that his skull was twelve inches thick ; that, his ribs
being formed like the sticks of a fan, he had the
power of contracting his body to a great degree, in or-
der to make more prodigious bounds ; that he was en-
dowed with the passions and appetites of the lion ;
that " his figure was magnificent ; his looks determin-
ed ; his gait stately, and his voice tremendous I"

Now the description of Mr. Ashe appears to be so
minute and accurate, as to lead one to suppose, that,
among the many other wonders which occurred to
him in his tour through America, he must have met
with one of these animals alive — actually taken his di-
mensions, and listened to the thunder of his voice.

Many other descriptions and ingenious theories have
been given of this wonderful animal — some proving,
that he belonged to that class of elephants whose re-
mains are found in the arctic regions of Russia, and
others — that he was a carnivorous and indigenous
monster, peculiar to North x4merica.

But I have in my possession a manuscript treatise
upon this subject, Avritteu by a very learned naturalist,
who is a member of the Antiquarian society — a great
virtuoso in bones, and a regular correspondent of Dr.
Mitchell and professor Raffinesque.

This gentleman has also been a great tourist, having
travelled all over Europe and America. He has been
on several expeditions with the fur traders of the
Rocky mountains, and has formed acquaintance with
most of the Indian tribes, and can fiuently speak

22 TRADITIONS OF THE MAMMOTH.

twenty-seven different dialects of their language. —
Hence it is thought, that he gave professor Raffinesque
many of the very apt, and ingenious roots, derivations,
and analogies, which he has introduced into his learned
disquisition upon the language of the aborigines. But
our author more particularly directed his inquiries as
to the origin of the Indian Mounds, and the size, form,
habits, and character of the Mammoth ; and has col-
lected many curious traditions relating to both, from
which I will take the liberty of giving a few extracts.

"The Pottowatamie Indians," says this manu-
script, " and those who inhabit the country bordering
upon the Great Lakes, represent this extinct creature,
as neither carnivorous nor herbivorous, but a lignivor-
ous animal — called in their language, the Tree-Ea-
ter. They say, that he sought no object less than the
forest, itself, for food ; that he fed upon the limbs and
tops of trees — sometimes consuming trunks and all ;
that he was slow of pace, and clumsy in his movements ;
never travelling out of a walk ; that he was as high as
the trees, and had two immense tusks, standing in his
under jaw, which curved up over his forehead in a cir-
cle, until they nearly reached his back, and when he
moved, these tusks were to be distinctly seen above
the forest trees — which bowed, bent, and cracked be-
neath him ; and that, when a large herd of them got to-
gether, they consumed whole forests for many miles

TRADITIONS OF THE MA3I5IOTH. '2o

Uround, which caused the numerous and extensive
prairies, to be found in so manj- parts of the country.

" According to this tradition, they were of the co-
lour of blue clay — had large, pendant ears — small,
keen eyes — a rough and knotted hide — a short tail,
and cloven feet. But the most extraordinary organ,
which belonged to this animal, was a huge, flexible
trunk, or proboscis — through which he breathed — ma-
king a noise, after a little exercise, or when excited
from any cause, as loud as a high pressure steam-en-
gine. Such was the power and strength of this trunk,
that they would often wind it round trees, and tear
them up by the roots. This also served as a pipe, or
aqueduct, by which they conveyed the water into
their stomachs. They possessed the power of elonga-
ting, or contracting it, at will ; and when they wished
to drink, they would, sometimes, wade into a river,
the deepest of which they easily forded, and take such
copious draughts, as to check the river in its course. —
Sometimes, they would stand on the bank, and extend
their trunks, like a hose, into the stream below^, and
draw up the water in torrents, until their thirst was
slaked. They had also the power of spouting water
to a great height, throu-h these trunks, and would, at
times, wade into the lakes, and gambol in the water —
spouting it in a thousand jets-d'>eau — almost to the
clouds— which produced in the rays of the sun beauti-
ful rainbows, an-rl fell in rain and mist, at the distance
of more than a niile !

'24 TRADITIONS OF THE MA3IM0TH.

" Their mode of fighting was to lock their trunks to-
gether, and pull back ; and the one which could haul
the other out of his tracks, became victorious. It
sometimes happened, that, rather than be pulled out
of his tracks, the weaker would let go his hold of a
sudden, and suffer his antagonist to fall back upon his
rump with a prodigious momentum — from which posi-
tion it was difficult for him to rise again. When at
rest, they coiled them up like a rope, and carried them
upon their foreheads.

" The Tree-Eaters were great favourites of the Indi-
ans who used to seek out their accustomed haunts,
and plant maize in the fields which they had cleared
of wood. They were affectionate and docile in their
dispositions, and would suffer the natives to run be-
tween their legs, and to handle and play with their
trunks. They would frequently accompany the red
men in their hunting expeditions, and when a river
laid in their route, Avould set the whole company upon
their backs with their trunks, and carry them across
to the opposite shore. They tell many anecdotes of
the instances of individual attachments, Mhich were
formed by these animals for some favourite Indian, and
which evince a degree of instinct and intelligence, far
beyond any thing of the kind now known to exist in
the brute creation. One of which is the following :

" During a violent earthquake, near the mouth

of the Ohio, the dam of a young Tree-Eater was
^wallowed up in a yawning fissure of the earth. The

TRADITIONS OF THE MAM^IOTH. 25

;yuuiii;- calf, deprived of his maternal sustenance and
care, wandered up the valley of the Ohio, into the
neighbourhood of a village of the ancient Shawanese.
He was discovered by the chief of the tribe, wander-
ing about the forest, and uttering, from time to time,
the most plaintive cries. He was observed occasion-
ally to seize upon the trunks of small trees and sap-
lings, and after some unsuccessful efforts at mastica-
tion with his toothless gums, he would quit his hold
and continue his wailings.

'-' The Shawanoe understood his condition, and gave
him some green corn and other vegetables, which he
devoured Avith a voracious appetite. He manifested
a strong feeling of attachment to the chief who had re-
lieved his hunger — followed him to his village, and Avas
fed and sustained by him, until his teeth were grown to
such a size, that he could procure his own subsistence
from the cane-brakes and trees of the forest. The Tree-
Eater soon became domesticated in his habits, and ex-
hibited, at all times, a peculiar affection for the chief —
folloAving him wherever he Avent, and yielding a prompt
and Avilling obedience to his commands. He Avould ac-
company him on his hunting and fishing expeditions,
setting him across the rivers, carrying his game, and
carefully guarding him from harm. He would stretcii
his giant frame on the ground, at night, before the hut of
his master, Avhich was in the centre of the village ; and.
like a faithful watch dog, protect the tribe from dan-
ger durina: the niciht.

^6 TRADITIONS OF THE MAMMOTH.

" The Shawanoe chief had neither wife nor family ; '
but had, in one of his excursions to the south, form- \
ed an attachment for the daughter of a Cherokee |
chief, and contracted an alliance which he intended I
soon to consummate. It so happened, that just before
the intended celebration of their nuptials, a wicked
and faithless tribe of the Sioux invited the Cherokees j
to a bear feast, and war dance; and in the midst of
their conviviality, treacherously fell upon, and massa-
cred nearly the whole of their unsuspecting guests ; and
carried away captive the Cherokee maid, to whom the
Shawanoe chief was betrothed. Maddened by this
outrage, he assembled the flower of his nation — deter-
mined to chastise the perfidious Sioux, and redeem
from the hands of violence his captive love. He took
an affectionate leave of his faithful Tree-Eater, cm-
braced his huge trunk, and left him with the women
and children of his tribe to pursue his chivalrous ex-
pedition.

" Before the expiration of another moon, a remnant
only of all the fierce and painted warriors, who went
out to battle, returned to their village. They ap-
proached with a slow march, in Indian file, chaunting
the death song, and intimating to their people, that
death and disaster had thinned their ranks, and giv-
en victory to their enemy. The Tree-Eater rais-
ed himself from his lair, elevated his flapping ears ; —
then extending his ponderous trunk high in the air,
ivith his keen and sagacious eyes, he scrutinized each

TRADITIONS OF THE MAMMOTH. '2^

of the warriors as he passed. With -an air of disap-
pointment, and a low, melancholy moaning, he then
set off witli a quick step towards the setting sun— scen-
ting the tracks, and following the trail by which the
i vanquished warriors had returned.
' a The Shawanese had been truly unfortunate. By
an ingenious ambuscade of the Sioux, they had been
defeated with great slaughter ; and their chief, stunned
by the blow of a war club, had been taken captive.—
The Sioux, after keeping him for some time a prisoner,
and goading him with every cruel indignity they could
devise, determined, at last, upon burning him at the
stake ; and, to aggravate his torture, they decreed, that
the Cherokee maid should also perish in the same flame.
" The captives were brought forth and bound to the
same tree. The circle of combustibles Avas piled high
around them ;— the dance of exultation, and the yell
of triumph, had commenced— and the leader of the
Sioux was in the act of applying the torch to the fa-
gots—when his purpose was arrested by a sudden and
deafening roar in the adjacent forest. All turned
their eyes in the direction of the sound, and beheld
the Tree-Eater of the Shawanoe rapidly approaching,
and brandishing his tusks and sweeping trunk above
the trees. The assembled tribe fled in consternation
to their huts, and endeavoured to hide themselves from
a presence so apDalling. He approached his captive
master, and exhibiting the most extravagant joy, re-
leased him and his companion from their thraldom—

:^8

TRADITIONS OF THE MA3IMOTH.

seated them gently upon his broad shoulders ; and ta- ]
king the trail back again, recrossed the Father of wa- ]
ters, and bore in triumph his chief and the Cherokee I
girl to the tribe of the Shawanese." * * * * \

" The Dela wares have another and different tra-
dition. They represent this nondescript and legenda- \
ry animal to have been of the lion or tiger kind. —
From the stories which have been handed down from :
their fathers, they say— That he was of the size of five •
buffaloes, and as high as three men standing on each ;
other's heads; that he had red, fiery eyes, which shone
in the dark like two balls of fire, or blazing stars;
that he was covered with a long, fine fur— beautifully
spotted and variegated. They say, that his tail was
as long as his body, and had a tuft, or brush, at the end
of it ; that instead of hanging down like most other
animals, it was elevated much higher than the body,
and when watching for game, he kept it constantly
waving in the air; and when excited to anger, he
would lash it with great fury — sometimes making it
crack, like a coach-whip, as loud as the report of a
musket.

"His ket^ or paws, were nearly of the size of those
described by Mr. Ashe ; and had long, sharp and hook-
like claws, which enabled him to rend and tear his prey.
He was active, nimble and fierce, and bounded rather
than walked. His speed was swift as the w^nd. His
bounds were prodigious. He could leap across rivers,
over the tops of trees, and would sometimes jum]) from

TRADITIONS OF THE 3IAMM0TII. 29

one cliff, or hill, to another. They say, that the
Great Spirit, himself, was somewhat afraid of him ;
and he was a terror to the Indians, and all the beasts
of the forest.

"The tradition of the Siiawanese corresponds with
that related by Mr. Jefferson in his Notes on Virginia.
That a race of animals in ancient times existed in
these valleys, huge, voracious, and terrible ; that they
devoured the beasts of the forest, until the red men
were reduced to famine for the want of game ; that the
Great Spirit took pity on his children, and seizing his
lightning, hurled it, in his wrath, among them, until
all were killed, but the big bull, who presented his
forehead to the bolts, and shook them off as they fell —
until missing one, at last, it wounded him in his side : —
whereupon, bellowing with rage and fury, he bounded
over the Ohio, the Wabash, the Illinois, and finally over
the Great Lakes, where he is still living ; and that
since that time, they have never troubled the Indians
or molested their game.

"But among the Sioux, Foxes, and several other
tribes west of the Mississippi, there are several legends
and traditions, from all of which I gather, that the
Tree-Eater, Mammoth, and Megalonix, were distinct
animals, and all existed at the same time. Such was
the fierce and destructive character of the Mammoth
and Megalonix, that some portion of the dread, with
which they inspired the aboriginal inhabitants, has de-
scended to their posterity. They never speak of them
3^^

30 TRADITIONS OF THE MAMMOTH.

without evincing a kind of superstitious horror ; and
in their narrations, their looks and gestures, as well as
language, partake of the terriffick and marvellous.

"From their accounts, the Megalonix was the most
terrible from his great nimbleness and ferocity. Such
were his speed and accuracy that nothing could es-
cape him. He constantly prowled and lurked about
the forest — carrying terror, death, and destruction,
wherever he went. But the Megalonix would be sat-
isfied with a single Indian, bear, or buffalo ; while the
Mammoth would devour whole villages of Indians,
and herds of buffaloes and deer, at a single meal. —
Their roar was so loud and heavy as to shake the earth,
and could be heard at a great distance ; and when they
approached a village none thought of making resis-
tance ; but old men, warriors, squaws, and children,
all fled in affright — each endeavouring to save himself.

" These monsters never met without giving battle.
In the combats between the Megalonix and the Mam-
moth, the latter had greatly the advantage in strength ;
and the former in agility and courage. The Megalo-
nix would leap from the ground upon the back of the
Mammoth, bite him with his voracious teeth, and tear
him with his long claws ; while the Mammoth would
watch his opportunity, and hurl the Megalonix with
his tusks into the air to a great height, from which he
would fall through the trees, breaking the limbs and
stripping them in his fall. And such was the invetcr-

TRADITIONS OF THE MAM^rOTH. 31

ate and determined spirit with which they fought, that
it generally ended in the death of one or the other.

"The Tree-Eater was much stronger and loss active
than either of the others. His mode of warfare was to
wind his trunk round the bodies or necks of his antag-
onists, and by pulling back, entangle, squeeze, choak,
and strangle them to death. In these contests, the
Tree-Eaters would sometimes hold their enemies with
the trunk lashed round their necks, for several hours ;
: and the efforts, boundings, and struggles of the prison-
i ers to release themselves from its uFxyieldi'Jg gripe,
1 were prodigious.

"When in the progress of time they had destroyed
most of the game, they made war in whole herds and
armies upon each other. In these battles, they boun-
ded over the hills— dashed through the rivers— tore up
the earth — and crushed down the trees.

"At length the Great Spirit, being weary with the
uproar and confusion, and incensed at a progeny ot
his creatures so destructive and so terrible, was deter-
mined to extirpate them all from the earth ; and for
this purpose he assembled the remnant of each race at
Big-bone-lick, that they might destroy each other.—
There, as was anticipated, a fearful battle ensued.—
Their rage being increased by the sympathy of num-
bers, they assailed each other with incoviceivable fu-
ry .—The blood flowed in torrents ;— the earth shook
beneath them ; the hills trembled Avith the tumult ; and

3-2

TRABITIOxVS OF THE i>IA3i3IOTil,

the distant mountains echoed with the beliowings of]
death! They continued the combat until all werel
destroyed except a big bull of the Mammoth, who,
though shockingly torn and wounded, remained the
sole surviving monarch of his race. Their carcasses
laid piled in promiscuous heaps at the lick, where
their bones at this day, have been dug up in such
quantities. The big bull retired in gloom and rage
beyond the Great Lakes, where all traditions agree
that he is still living."

N. Guilford.

THE 3IOrNTAIN STOI131,

Give me the scene of uproar Avikl,
The mountain ciitFs, in rudeness piled.
Their summits bald amid the sky,
Where the clouds pause that journey b}^,
Where lightnings gambol round their heads,
As the hoarse storm its curtain si^reads. —

Man — the poor insect of a day !
Just springs from earth to pass awa}",
Flits from the ^cene as light sad fast,
As the lake's shadow in the blast : —
But mark yon hills ! Their clifTs have stood,
Unmoved, since round them dashed the flood.

Skirting the horizon's verge afar,
And neighbours of the evening star,
In varied form of peak and ridge,
Or woody dell, or naked ledge.
They rear their head- above the cloud.
Or veil them in a green-wood shroud ; —
Approaching here — till field and cot
Distinctly mark the cultured spot —
Retiring there — and soaring high,
And softening till they melt in sky.

How sweet, by morning's early light.
To stand unon their starrv height.

34 THE MOUNTAIN STORM*

When through the night, the welcome raiK

Has left its freshness on the plain ; '.

Ad ocean vast, the dawn will greet, \

Of fleecy clouds beneath your feet — .,

With here and there, a lonely head '■

Emerging through their billowy bed ;

All else, so lost, so still, and fair —

You almost ask if earth be there I

And wish the swallow's wing to try

The roagic flood, and bathe in sky. —

But grander far the sable cloud,
Fraught with heaven's fire, and thunder loud ,-
Its fleecy van of silver sheen,
But all the rear a mid-night scene ;
The bursting bolt, in vengeance hurled,
That rends the air, and shakes the world ;
The pensile flash, whose vivid form
Crosses the darkness of the storm ;
Descending now-, with anger red,
Scathes the bleak mountain's distant head.
Or plays in gambols round the sky,
A solemn sport to mortal eye !

At length, the advancing torrents mark
The distant summits, veiled, and dark ;—
Hill, after hill, as fast it nears,
Is shaded — dimmed — and disappears;
And mingle now along the plain,
The flash — the peal — and dashing rain,—

THE MOUl^TAIPi STORM*

The cloud has passed. — Descending day
Beams forth again its brightest ray ; —
The youthful flocks forget to feed,
Through joy's excess, and race the mead :
The songsters strain their little throats,
Put forth their loudest, merriest notes,
And scarce that day does Phosbus part
From saddened eye, or sorrowing heart. —

O ! what were life's dull, transient hour,
Without its sunshine, and its shower —
Its day of gloom, and doubt's dark dream,
And hope's succeeding, brightening beam-

( 36 )

OHIO.

Beauteous are Ohio's avoocIs,
Her forests vast — her virgin flowers ;

I love to trace her lofty groves,
And sit beneath her vine-clad bovi^ers.

Bright, and bland Ohio's clime.
Where sheds the sun his mildest beams ;

Where bright he gilds the evening clouds,
With hues more soft than Fairy dreams.

Luxuriant is Ohio's soil,
Where hills, and woods, and fields are green ,

Where Ceres pours her lavish horn,
And freedom smiles on every scene.

Romantick is Ohio's stream,
Through wild woods wandering, deep, and slow,

While on its waveless mirror seen,
Ciirfs, trees, and cloud=:, inverted glow.

But, ah ! the dear, the magic charm,
That binds my heart so strong to thee,

Is that which lights the angelic face
Of more than mortal purity I

N. Guilford

THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

Ojs the borders of the Mississippi may be seen the

remains of an old French village, which once boasted

a numerous population of as happy, and as thoughtless

souls, as ever danced to a violin. If content is wealth,

as philosophers would fain persuade us, they were opu-

knt ; but they w^ould have been reckoned miserably

poor by those who estimate worldly riches by the more

popular standard. Their houses were scattered in

disorder, like the tents of a wandering tribe, along the

margin of a deep bayou, and not far from its confluence

with the river, between which and the town, was a

strip of rich alluvion, covered with a gigantic growth

of forest trees. Beyond the bayou was a swamp, which

during the summer heats was nearly dry, but in the

rainy season presented a vast lake of several miles in

extent. The whole of this morass was thickly set with

cypress, whose interwoven branches, and close foliage,

excluded the sun, and rendered this as gloomy a spot^

as the most melancholy poet ever dreamt of. And yet

it Avas not tenantless— and there were seasons, when its

dark recesses were enlivened by notes peculiar to itself.

Here the young Indian, not yet entrusted to wield the

tomahawk, might be seen paddling his light canoe

^smong the tall weeds, darting his arrow? at the pare

4

38 THE FRENCH VILLAGE^

quets, that chattered among- the boughs, and screamiEg
and laughing with delight, as he stripped their gaudy
plumage. Here myriads of musquitoes filled the air
with an incessant hum, and thousands of frogs attuned
their voices in harmonious concert, as if endeavouring
to rival the sprightly fiddles of their neighbours ; and
the owl, peeping out from the hollow of a blasted tree,
screeched forth his wailing note, as if moved by the
terrific energy of grief. From this gloomy spot, clouds
of miasm rolled over the village, spreading volumes of
bile, and dyspepsia, abroad upon the land ; and some-
times countless multitudes of musquitoes, issuing from
the humid desert, assailed the devoted village with in-
conceivable fury, threatening to draw from its inhabi-
tants every drop of French blood, which yet circulated
in their veins. But these evils by no means dismayed,
or even interrupted the gaiety, of this happy people.
When the musquitoes came, the monsieurs lighted their
pipes, and kept up, not only a brisk fire, but a dense
smoke, against the assailants; and when the fever
threatened, the priest, who was also the doctor, flou-
rished his lancet, the fiddler flourished his bow, and
the happy villagers flourished their heels, and sang,
and laughed, and fairly cheated death, disease, and
the doctor, of patient and of prey.

Beyond the town, on the other side, was an extensive
prairie — a vast unbroken plain of rich green, embellish-
ed with innumerable flowers of every tint, and whose
beautiful surface presented no other variety than here

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 3&

and there a huge mound — the venerable monument of
departed ages, or a solitary tree of stinted growth,
shattered by the blast, and pining alone in the gay
desert. The prospect was bounded by a range of tall
bluffs, which overlooked the prairie, covered at some
points with groves of timber, and at others exhibiting
their naked sides, or high, bald peaks, to the eye of
the beholder. Herds of deer might be seen here at
sunrise, slyly retiring to their coverts, after rioting
away the night on the rich pasturage. Here the lowing
kine lived, if not in clover, at least in something equal-
ly nutricious ; and here might be seen immense droves
of French ponies, roaming untamed, the common stock
of the village, ready to be reduced to servitude, by any
lady or gentleman, who chose to take the trouble.

With their Indian neighbours, the inhabitants had
maintained a cordial intercourse, which had never yet
been interrupted by a single act of aggression on either
side. It is worthy of remark, that the French have in-
variably been more successful in securing the confi-
dence and affection of the Indian tribes than any other
nation. Others have had leagues with them, which,
for a time,have been faithfully observed ; but the French
alone have won them to the familiar intercourse of so-
cial life, lived with them in the mutual interchange of
kindness ; and by treating them as friends and equals,
gained their entire confidence. This result, which has
l^ecn attributed to the sagacious policy of their govern-
ment, is perhaps more owing to the conciliatory man-

40 THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

Hers of that amiable people, and the absence amwu^
them ofthat insatiable avarice, that boundless ambition,
that reckless prodigality of human life, that.unprinci-
pled disregard of public and solemn leagues, which, ia
the conquests of the British and the Spaniards, have
marked their footsteps with misery, and blood, and
desolation.

This little colony was composed partly of emigrants
from France, and ])artly of natives— not Indians— but
bona fide French, born in America ; but preserving their
language, their manners, and their agility in dancing,
although several generations had passed away since
their first setlle<iient. Here they lived perfectly happy,
and well they might, for they enjoyed to the full ei-
tent, those three blessings on which our declaration of
independence has laid so much stress— life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness. Their lives, it is true, were
sometimes threatened by the miasm aforesaid ; but this
was soon ascertained to be an imaginary danger. For
whether it was owing to their temperance, or their
cheerfulness, or their activity, or to their being accli-
mated, or to the want of attraction between French
people and fever, or to all these together; certain it
is, that they were blessed with a degree of health, only
enjoyed by the most favoured nations. As to hberty,
the wild Indian scarcely possessed more ; for although
the ' grand monarque' had not more loyal subjects in his
wide domains, he had never condescended to honor
them with a single act of oppression, unless the occa-

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 41

sional visits of the Coiiimaudant could be so called ;
who sometimes, Avhen levying supplies, called upon the
village for its portion, Avhich they always contributed
with many protestations of gratitude for the honor
conferred on them. And as for happiness, they pur-
sued nothing else. Inverting the usual order, to enjoy
life was their daily business, to provide for its wants an
occasional labour, sweetened by its brief continuance,
and its abundant fruit. They had a large tract of land
around the village, which was called the " common
field," because it belonged to the community. Most
of this was allowed to remain in open pasturage ; but
spots of it were cultivated by any who chose to enclose
them ; and such enclosure gave a firm title to the indi-
^ddual so long as the occupancy lasted, but no longer.
They were not an agricultural people, further than
the rearing of a few esculents for the table made them
such ; relying chiefly on their large herds, and on the
produce of the chase for support. With the Indians
they drove an amicable, though not extensive, trade,
for furs and peltry ; giving them in exchange, merchan-
dize and trinkets, which they procured from their coun-
trymen at St. Louis. To the latter place, they annu-
ally carried their skins, bringing back a fresh supply of
goods for barter, together with such articles as their
own wants required ; not forgetting a large portion of
finery for the ladies, a plentiful supply of rosin and cat-
gut for the fiddler, and liberal presents for his reverence^
eke priest.

4*

42 TME PRENClt MLLAtJt..

If this village had no other recommendation, it ib
endeared to my recollection, as the birth-place and res-
idence, of Monsieur Baptiste Menou, who was one of
its principal inhabitants, when I first visited it. Hr
was a bachelor of forty, a tall, lank, hard featured
personage, as straight as a ramrod, and almost as thin,
with stiff, black hair, sunken cheeks, and a complex-
ion, a tinge darker than that of the aborigines. His
person was remarkably erect, his countenance grave,
his gait deliberate ; and when to all this be added an
enormous pair of sable whiskers, it will be admitted
that Mons. Baptiste Avas no insignificant person. He
had many estimable qualities of mind and person which
endeared him to his friends, whose respect was increas-
ed by the fact of his having been a soldier and a trav-
eller. In his youth he had followed the French com-
mandant in two campaigns ; and not a comrade in the
ranks was better dressed, or cleaner shaved on parade
than Baptiste, who fought besides with the character-
istic bravery of the nation to which he owed his line-
age. He acknowledged, however, that war was not
as pleasant a business as is generally supposed. Ac-
customed to a life totally free from constraint, the dis-
cipline of the camp ill accorded with his desultory
habits. He complained of being obliged to eat, and
drink, and sleep, at the call of the drum. Burnishing
a gun, and brushing a coat, and polishing shoes, were
duties beneath a gentleman, and after all, Baptiste
s?.w but little honor in tracking the wilv IrdTans

• i'HE FREi\0;H VILLAGE. 43

lliraugh endless swamps. Besides he began to have
fonie scruples, as to the propriety of cutting the throatfi
of the respectable gentry whom he had been in the
habit of considering as the original and lawful posses-
sors of the soil. He, therefore, proposed to resign, and
was surprised when his commander informed him, that
he was enlisted for a term, which was not yet expired.
He bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and submitted to his
fate. He had too much honor to desert, and was too
loyal, and too polite, to murmur; but he, forthwith,
made a solemn vow to his patron saint, never again to
get into a scrape, from which he could not retreat when-
ever it suited his convenience. It was thought that he
owed his celibacy in some measure to this vow\ He
had since accompanied the friendly Indians on several
hunting expeditions towards the sources of the Missis-
sippi, and had made a trading voyage to New Orleans.
Thus accomplished, he had been more than once call-
ed upon by the commandant to act as a guide, or an
interpreter ; honors which failed not to elicit suitable
marks of respect from his fellow villagers ; but which
had not inflated the honest heart of Baptiste with any
unbecoming pride ; on the contrary there was not a
more modest man in the village.

In his habits he was the most regular of men. He
might bo seen at any hour of the day, cither saunter-
ing through the village, or seated in front of his ow^n
door, smoking a large pipe, formed of a piece of buck-
born, euriou sly hollowed out, and lined ^Wthtin; to

44 THE FRENCH VILLASE.

which was affixed a short stem of cane from the neigk-
bouring swamp. This pipe was his inseparable com-
panion ; and he evinced towards it a constancy which
would have immortalized his name, had it been dis-
played in a better cause. When he walked abroad, it
was to stroll leisurely from door to door, chatting fa-
miliarly with his neighbours, patting the white-haired
children on the head, and continuing his lounge, until
he had peregrinated the village. His gravity was not
a " mysterious carriage of the body to conceal the de-
fects of the mind," but a constitutional seriousness of
aspect, which covered as happy and as humane a spir-
it, as ever existed. It was simply a w^ant of sympathy
between his muscles, and his brains ; the former utterly
refusing to express any agreeable sensation, which
might haply tintillate the organs of the latter. Hon-
est Baptiste loved a joke, and uttered many, and good
ones ; but his rigid features refused to smile even at his
own wit — a circumstance which I am the more partic-
ular in mentioning, as it is not common. He had an
orphan niece whom he had reared from childhood to
maturity, — a lovely girl, of whose beautiful complex-
ion, a poet might say, that its roses were cushioned
upon ermine. A sweeter flower bloomed not upon the
prairie, than Gabrielle Menou. But as she was never
afllicted with weak nerves, dyspepsia, or consumption,
and had but one avowed lover, whom she treated with
uniform kindness, and married with the consent of all
parties, she has no claim to bo considered a* the hero-

'£HE FRENCH VILLAfe^E. 4J>

aie oi" ihis history. That station will be cheerfulij
awarded by every sensible reader to the nnore impor-
tant personage who will be presently introduced.

Across the street, immediately opposite to Mons.
Baptiste, lived Mademoiselle Jeanette Duval, a lady
who resembled him in some respects, but in many oth-
ers was- his very antipode. Like him, she was cheerful
and happy, and single — but unlike him, she was brisk,
and fat, and plump. Monsieur was the very pink of
gravity ; and Mademoiselle was blessed with a goodly
portion thereof, — but hers was specific gravity. Her
hair was dark, but her heart was light, and her eyes.,
though blacky were as brilliant a pair of orbs as ever
beamed upon the dreary solitude of a bachelor's heart.
Jeanette's heels were as light as her heart, and her
tongue as active as her heels, so that notwithstand-
ing her rotundity, she was as brisk a Frenchwoman, as
ever frisked through the mazes of a cotillion. To sum
her perfections, her com.plexion was of a darker olivft
than the genial sun of France confers on her brunettes,
and her skin was as smooth and shining, as polished
mahogan}-. Her Avhole household consisted of herself,
and a female negro servant. A spacious garden, which
surrounded her house, a pony, and a herd of cattle^
constituted, in addition to her personal charms, all the
wealth of this amiable spinster. But with these she
was rich, as they supplied her table without adding-
much to her cares. Her quadrupeds, according to the
example set by their superiors, pursued their omi ban-

46 THE FRENCH VILLACJi..

piness without let or molestation, wherever they cuniu
find it — waxing fat or lean, as nature was more or less
bountiful in supplying their wants; and when they
strayed too far, or when her agricultural labours be-
came too arduous for the feminine strength of herself,
and her sable assistant, every monsieur of the village
was proud of an occasion to serve Mam'selle. And
well they might be, for she was the most notable lady
in the village, the life of every party, the soul of every
frolic. She participated in every festive meeting, and
every sad solemnity. Not a neighbour could get up a
dance, or get doAvn a dose of bark, without her assist-
ance. If the ball grew dull, Mam'selle bounced on the
floor, and infused new spirit into the weary dancers.
If the conversation flagged, Jeanette, who occupied a
kind of neutral ground between the young and the old, '
the married and the single, chatted with all, and loos-
ened all tongues. If the girls Avished to stroll in the
woods, or romp on the prairie, Mam'selle was taken
along to keep off the wolves, and the rude young men ;
and in respect to the latter, she faithfully performed
her office by attracting them arpund her own person.
Then she M^as the best neighbour, and the kindest soul !
She made the richest soup, the clearest coffee, and the
neatest pastry in the village ; and in virtue of her con-
fectionary was the prime favourite of all the children.
Her hospitality was not confined to her own domicil,
but found its way in the shape of sundry savoury vi-
Sinds, to every table iu the vicinity. In the sick chara-

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 47

ber she was the most assiduous nurse, her step was the
lightest, and her voice the most cheerful — so that the
priest must inevitably have become jealous of her skill,
had it not been for divers plates of rich soup, and bot-
tles of cordial, with which she conciliated his favour,
and purchased absolution for these and other offences.
Baptiste and Jeanette v.ere the best of neighbours.
He always rose at the dawn, and after lighting his pipe,
sallied forth into the open air, where Jeanette usually
made her appearance at the same time ; for there was
an emulation of long standing between them, which
should be the earliest riser.

'•Bon jour I Mara"'selle Jeanette," was his dailj- sal-
utation.

'•Ah I bon jourl bon jour I Mons. Menou,*' was her
daily reply.

Then as he gradually approximated the little paling,
which surrounded her door, he hoped Mam"'selle wai
well this morning, and she reiterated the kind enquiry,
but with increased emphasis. Then Monsieur enquir-
ed after Mam'selle's pony, and Mam'selle's cow, and
her garden, and every thing appertaining to her, real,
personal and mixed ; and she displayed a correspond-
ing interest in all concerns of her kind neighbour. —
These discussions were mutually beneficial. If Mam'-
selle's cattle ailed, or if her pony was guilty of any im-
propriety, who so able to advise her as Mons. Baptiste ;
and if his plants drooped, or his poultry died, who so
skilful in such matters as Mam'selle Jeanette. Some-

48 THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

limes Baptiste forgot his pipe in the superior interesi
of the "tete a tete," and must needs step in to light it
at Jeanette's fire, which caused the gossips of the vill-
age to sa}^, that he purposely let his pipe go out, in or-
der that he might himself go in. But he denied this,
and, indeed, before offering to enter the dwelling of
Mam'selle on such occasions, he usually solicited per-
mission to light his pipe at Jeanette's sparkling eyes, a
compliment at which, although it had been repeated
some scores of times, Mam'selle never failed to laugh
and curtesy, with great good humour and good breed-
ing.

It can not be supposed that a bachelor of so much,
discernment, could long remain insensible to the ga-
laxy of charms which centered in the person of Mam'-
selle Jeanette ; and accordingly, it was currently re-
ported that a courtship of some ten years standing had
been slyly conducted on his part, and as cunningly elu-
ded on hers. It was not averred that Baptiste had ac-
tually gone the fearful length of offering his hand ; or
that Jeanette had been so imprudent as to discourage,
far less reject, a lover of such respectable pretensiont.
But there was thought to exist a strong hankering on
the part of the gentleman, which the lady had man-
aged so skilfully as to keep his mind in a kind of equi-
librium, like that of the patient animal between the
two bundles of hay — so that he would sometimes halt
in the street, midway betAveen the two cottages, and
oa^t furtive slances, first at the one. and then at the

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 49

ether, as if weighing the balance of comfort; while
the increased volumes of smoke which issued from his
mouth, seemed to argue that the lire of his love had
other fuel than tobacco, and wlis litenxlly consuming
the inward man. The wary spinster was always on
the alert on such occasions, manoeuvering like a skil-
ful general according to circumstances. If honest
Baptiste after such a consultation, turned on his heel,
and retired to his former cautious position at his own
door, Mam'selle rallied all her attractions, and by a
sudden demonstration drew him again into the tield;
but if he marched with an embarrassed air towards her
gate, she retired into her castle, or kept shy, and by
able evolutions, avoided every thing which might bring
matters to an issue. Thus the courtship continued
longer than the seige of Troy, and Jeanette maintain-
ed her freedom, while Baptiste with a Diagnanimity su-
perior to that of Agamemnon, kept his temper, and
smoked his pipe in good humour with Jeanette and all

the world.

Such was the situation of affairs, when I first visited
this village, about the time of the cession of Louisiana
to the United States. The news of that event had just
reached this sequestered spot, and was but indifferent-
ly relished. Independently of the national attachment,
which all men feel, and the French so justly, the in-
habitants of this region had reason to prefer to all oth-
ers the government, which had afforded them i)rotec-
tion without constraining their freedom, or subjecting
5

50 THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

them to any burthens ; and with the kindest feelingt
toAvards the Americans, they would willingly have dis-
pensed with any nearer connexion, than that which
already existed. They, however, said little on the
subject ; and that little was expressive of their cheer-
ful acquiescence in the honor done them by the Ameri-
can people, in buying the country, which the Emperor
had done them the honor to sell.

It was on the first day of the Carnival, that I arrived
in the village, about sunset, seeking shelter only for
the night, and intending to proceed on my journey in
the morning. The notes of the violin, and the groupes
of gaily attired people who thronged the street, at-
tracted my attention, and induced me to inquire the
occasion of this merriment. My host informed me
that a "King ball" was to be given at the house of a
neighbour, adding the agreeable intimation, that stran-
gers were always expected to attend without invita-
tion. Young and ardent, little persuasion was requir-
ed, to induce mo to change my dress, and hasten to
the scene of festivity. The moment I entered the
room, I felt that I was welcome. Not a single look of
surprise, not a glance of more than ordinary attention,
denoted me as a stranger, or an unexpected guest.
The gentlemen nearest the door, bowed as they open-
ed a passage for me through the crowd, in which for a
time I mingled, apparently unnoticed. At length, a
young gentleman adorned with a large nosegay ap-
proached me, invited me to join the dancers, and after

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 51

inquiring my name, introduced me to several females,
among whom I had no difficulty in selecting a graceful
partner. I was passionately fond of dancing, so that
readily imbibing the joyous spirit of those around me^
I advanced rapidly in their estimation. The native
ease and elegance of the females, reared in the wilder-
ness, and unhacknied in the forms of society, surprised
and delighted me, as much as the amiable frankness of
all classes. — By and by, the dancing ceased, and four
young ladies of exquisite beauty, who had appeared
during the evening to assume more consequence than
the others, stood alone on the floor. For a moment
their arch glances wandered over the company who
stood silently around, when one of them advancing to
a 3^oung gentleman led him into the circle, and taking
a large bouquet from her own bosom, pinned it upon
the left breast of his coat, and pronounced him, "king !"
The gentleman kissed his fair elector, and led her to a
seat. Two others were selected almost at the same
moment. The fourth lady hesitated for an instant,
then advancing to the spot where I stood, presented
me her hand, led me forward, and placed the symbol
on my breast, before I could recover from the surprise
into which the incident had thrown me. I regained
my presence of mind, however, in time to salute my
lovely consort; and never did king enjoy with more
delight, the first fruits of his elevation — for the beau-
tiful Gabrielle, v/ith w^hom I had just danced, and who
kad .so unexpectedly raised me, as it Avere, to the pur-

52 THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

pie, was the freshest and fairest flower in this gay as-
semblage.

This ceremony v/as soon explained to me. On the
first day of the Carnival, four self-appointed kings,
having selected their queens, give a ball, at their own
proper costs, to the whole village. In the course of
that evening, the queens select, in the manner describ-
ed, the kings for the ensuing day, who choose their
queens, in turn, by presenting the nosegay and the
kiss. This is repeated every evening in the week ; —
the kings for the time being, giving the ball at their
own expense; and all the inhabitants attending with-
out invitation. On the morning after each ball, the
kings of the preceding evening make small presents to
their late queens, and their temporary alliance is dis-
solved. Thus commenced my acquaintance with Ga-
brielle Menou, who, if she cost me a few sleepless
nights, amply repaid me in the many happy hours, for
which I vv'as indebted to her friendship.

I remained several weeks at this hospitable village.
Few evenings passed without a dance, at which all
were assembled, young and old ; the mothers vying in
agility with their daughters, and the old men setting
examples of gallantry to the young. I accompanied
their young men to the Indian towns, and was hospi-
tably entertained. I followed them to the chace, and
witnessed the fall of many a noble buck. In their
light canoes, I glided over the turbid waters of the
Mississippi, or through the labyrinths of the morass, in

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 53

pursuit of water fowl. I visited the mounds, where
the bones of 'fhousaiids of warriors Avere mouldering,
overgrown with prairie violets, and thousands of name-
less flowers. I saAv the mocasin snake basking in the
sun, the elk feeding on the prairie ; and returned to
mingle in the amusements of a circle, where, if there
was not Parisian elegance, there Avas more than Pa-
risian cordiality.

Several years passed away before I again visited this
country. The jurisdiction of the American govern-
ment was now extended over this immense region, and
its beneficial effects were beginning to be widely dis-
seminated. The roads were crov/ded with the teams,
and herds, and families of emigrants, hastening to the
land of promise. Steam boats navigated every stream,
the axe was heard in every forest, and the plough
broke the sod whose verdure had covered the prairie
for ages.

It Avas sunset when I reached the margin of the prai-
rie, on which the village is situated. My horse, v/ea-
ried with a long day's travel, sprung forward v/ith new
vigour, when his hoof struck the smooth, firm road
which led across the plain. It was a narroAv path,
winding among the tall grass, now tinged with the
mellow hues of autumn. I gazed with delight over
the beautiful surface. The mounds, and the solitary
trees, were there, just as I had left them, and they
were familiar to my eye as the objects of yesterday.
It was eight miles across the prairie, and I had not
5-^

54 THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

passed half the distance, when night set in. I straineo
my eyes to catch a glimpse of the village, but two
large mounds, and a clump of trees, which intervened,
defeated my purpose. I thought of Gabrielle, and
Jeanette, and Baptiste, and the priest — the fiddles,
dances, and French ponies ; and fancied every minute
an hour, and every foot a mile, which separated me
from scenes, and persons, so deeply impressed on my
imagination.

At length, I passed the mounds, and beheld the lights
twinkling in the village, now about two miles off, like
a brilliant constellation in the horizon. The lights
seemed very numerous — I thought they moved ; and at
last discovered, that they were rapidly passing about.
"What can be going on in the village?" thought I —
then a strain of music met my ear — "they are going to
dance," said I, striking my spurs into my jaded nag,
"and I shall see all my friends together." But as I
drew near, a volume of sounds burst upon me, such as
defied all conjecture. Fiddles, flutes and tambourins,
drums, cow-horns, tin trumpets, and kettles, mingled
their discordant notes v/ith a strange accompaniment
of laughter, shouts, and singing. This singular con-
cert proceeded from a mob of men and boys, who pa-
raded through the streets, preceded by one who blew
an immense tin horn, and ever and anon shouted,
"Cha-ri-va-ry I Charivary!" to which the mob re-
sponded "Charivary!" I now recollected to have
heard of a custom which prevails among the American

THE FRENCH VILLAGE, OO

French, of serenading at the marriage of a widow or
■widower, with such a concert as I nov/ witnessed ; and
I rode towards the crowd, who had halted before a well
known door, to ascertain who were the happy parties.

"Charivary!" shouted the leader.

"Pour qui?" said another voice.

" Pour Mons. Baptiste Menou, il est marie I"

"Avec qui?"

"Avec Mam'selle Jeanette Duval — Charivary I"

"Charivaryl" shouted the whole company, and a
torrent of music poured from the full band — tin kettles,
Gow-horns and all.

The door of the little cabin, whose hospitable thres-
hold, I had so often crossed, now opened, and Baptiste
made his appearance — the identical, lank, sallow,
erect personage, with whom I had parted several years
before, with the same pipe in his mouth. His visage
was as long, and as melancholy as ever ; except that
there was a slight tinge of triumph in its expression,
and a bashful casting down of the eye ; reminding one
of a conqueror, proud but modest in his glory. He
gazed with an embarrassed air at the serenaders, bowed
repeatedly, as if conscious that he was the hero of the
night — and then exclaimed,

"For what you make this charivary?"

"Charivary!" shouted the mob; and the tin trum-
pets gave an exquisite flourish.

"Gentlemen!" expostulated the bridegroom, "for
why you make this charivary for me ? I have nevej*

56 THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

been marry before — and Mam'selle Jeanette has never
been marry before I"

Roll went the drum ! — cow-horns, kettles, tin trum-
pets and fiddles poured forth volumes of sound, and
the mob shouted in unison.

"Gentlemen ! pardonncz moi — " supplicated the dis-
tressed Baptiste. "If I understan dis custom, Avhicb
have long prevail vid us, it is vat I say — ven a gentil-
man, who has been marry before, shall marry de second
time — or ven a lady have de misfortune to loose her
husban, and be so happ}- to marry some odder gentil-
man, den we make de charivary — but 'tis not so wid
Mam'selle Duval and me. Upon my honor we have
never been marry before dis time I"

"Why Baptiste" said one "you certainly have been
married and have a daughter groAvn."

" Oh, excuse me sir I Madame St. Marie is my niece,
I have never been so happy to be marry, until Mam'-
selle Duval have do me dis honneur."

" Well, well ! its all one. If you have not been mar-
ried, you ought to have been, long ago : — and might
have been, if you had said the word."

"Ah, gentilmen, you mistake."

"No, no I there's no mistake about it. Mam'selle
Jeanette v/ould have had you ten years ago, if you
had asked her."

"You flatter too much" said Baptiste, shrugging his
ghoulders ; — and finding there was no means of avoid-
ing the charivary, he with great good humour accepter^

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. Oi

the serenade, and according to custom invited the
whole party into his house.

I retired'to my former quarters, at the house of an
old settler— a little, shrivelled, facetious Frenchman,
whom I found in his red flannel night cap, smoking his
pipe, and seated like Jupiter in the midst of clouds of
his own creating.

"Merry doings in the village!" said I, after we had
shaken hands.

"Eh, bien! Mens. Baptiste is marry to Mam'selle
Jeanette."

"1 see the boys are making merry on the occasion."
"Ah Sacre! de dem boy! they have play hell to
night."

"Indeed! how so?"

"For make dis charivary— dat is how so, my friend.
Dis come for have d' Americain government to rule de
countrie. Parbleu! they make charivary for de old
maid, and de old bachelor!"

I now found, that some of the new settlers, who had
witnessed this ludicrous ceremony, without exactly
understanding its application, had been foremost in
promoting the present irregular exhibition, in conjunc-
tion with a few degenerate French, whose love of fun
outstripped their veneration for their ancient usages.
The old inhabitants, although they joined in the
laugh, were nevertheless not a little scandalized at the
innovation. Indeed they had good reason to be alar-
med; for their anci«nt customs, like their mud-walletl

58 THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

cottages, were crumbling to ruins around them, and
every day destroyed some vestige of former years.

Upon enquiry, I found that many causes of discon-
tent had combined to embitter the lot of my simple
hearted friends. Their ancient allies, the Indians, had
sold their hunting grounds, and their removal deprived
the village of its only branch of commerce. Survey-
ors were busily employed in measuring off the w^hole
country, Avith the avowed intention on the part of the
government, of converting into private property those
beautiful regions, which had heretofore been free to all
who trod the soil, or breathed the air. Portions of it
were already thus occupied. Farms and villages were
spreading over the country with alarming rapidity,
deforming the face of nature, and scaring the elk and
the buffalo from their long frequented ranges. Yan-
kees and Kentuckians were pouring in, bringing with
them the selfish distinctions, and destructive spirit of
society. Settlements were planted in the immediate
vicinity of the village ; and the ancient heritage of the
ponies, was invaded by the ignoble beasts of the inter-
lopers. Certain pregnant indications of civil degene-
ration y/ere alive in the land. A county had been
established, with a judge, a clerk, and a sheriff; a
court-house and jail were about to be built; two law-
yers had already made a lodgement at the county-
seat ; and a mmiber of justices of the peace, and con-
stables, were dispersed throughout a small neighbour-
hood of not more than fifty miles in extent. A bracf.

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 59

of physicians had floated in with the stream of popula-
tion, and several other persons of the same cloth were
seen passing about, brandishing their lancets in the
most hostile manner. The French argued very rea-
sonably from all these premises, that a people who
brought their OAvn doctors expected to be sick ; . and
that those who commenced operations, in a new coun-
try, by providing so many engines, and officers of jus-
tice, must certainly intend to be very wicked and liti-
gious. But when the new comers went the fearful
length of enrolling them in the militia ; when tlie sher-
iff arrayed in all the terrors of his office, rode into the
village, and summoned them to attend the court as
jurors; when they heard the Judge enumerate to the
grand jury the long list of offences, which fell within
their cognizance, these good folks shook their heads,
and declared that this was no longer a country for
them.

From that time the village began to depopulate. —
Some of its inhabitants followed the footsteps of the
Indians, and continue to this day to trade between
them and the whites, forming a kind of link between
civilized and savage men. A larger portion, headed
by the priest, floated down the Mississippi, to seek
congenial society among the sugar plantations of their
countrymen in the South. They found a pleasant spot,
on the margin of a large bayou, whose placid stream
was enlivened by droves of alligators, sporting their
innocent gambols on its surface. Swamps, extending'

60 THE FRENCH VILLAGE.

in every direction, protected them from further intru-
sion. Here a new village arose, and a young genera-
tion of French was born, as happy and as careless, as
that which is passing away.

, Baptiste alone adhered to the soil of his fathers, and
Jeanette in obedience to her marriage vow, cleaved to
Baptiste. He sometimes talked of following his clan,
but when the hour came, he could never summon for-
titude to pull up his stakes. He had passed so many
happy years of single blessedness in his own cabin, and
had been so long accustomed to view that of Jeanette,
with a wistful eye, that they had become necessary to
his happiness. Like other idle bachelors, he had had his
day-dreams, pointing to future enjoyment. He had
been for years planning the junction of his domains
with those of his fair neighbour ; had arranged how the-
fences were to intersect, the fields to be enlarged, and
the whole to be managed by the thrifty economy of his
partner. All these plans were now about to be real-
ized ; and he wisely concluded, that he could smoke his
pipe, and talk to Jeanette, as comfortably here as else-
where ; and as he had not danced for many years, and
Jeanette was growing rather too corpulent for that ex-
ercise, he reasoned that even the deprivation of the
fiddles, and king balls, could be borne. Jeanette loved
comfort too ; but having besides a sharp eye for the
main chance, was governed by a deeper policy. By a
prudent appropriation of her own savings, and those
of her husband, she purchased from the emigrants^

THE FRENCH VILLAGE. 61

many of the fairest acres in the village, and thus se<-
'Cured an ample property.

A large log house has since been erected in the space
between the cottages of Baptiste and Jeanette, which
form wings to the main building, and are carefully
preserved in remembrance of old times. All the neigh-
bouring houses have fallen down ; and a few heaps of
rubbish surrounded by corn fields shew where they stood.
All is changed, except the two proprietors, who live
herein ease and plenty, exhibiting in their old age, the
same amiable character which in early life, won for
them the respect and love of their neighbours, and of
each other,

James Hall.

(€2)
THE YOUNG WIFE'S SONG.

Speed away — ye lingering hours I

Why stays my love?
He alone decks time with flowers —

Why stays my love 1
Sad I sit, to cheat time trying,
Listening, hoping, fearing, sighing —
Oh ! would I had wings for flying

To meet my love !

Happy, kind, will be our meeting —

Come quick my love !
Sweet, and tender his dear greeting-
Best, truest love !
No fondness his, of artful seeming.
His dark eyes betray no gleaming,
But pure rays of heaven's own beaming
Dear, faithful love I

Hark ! I hear him now advancing —

I'll meet thee, love !
Thy light step sets my heart dancing —

Come quick, my love !
Glad, my eyes shall now behold thee,
Soon, Oh soon ! shall I enfold thee —
To my bosom I shall hold thee —

Throbbing with love !

Anonymous-

( 63)

MISFORTUNES OF GENIUS.

While glowing hopes controul

Young genius with their spell,
He hastes towards the goal,

To which their smiles impel.
With beaming look surveys

The wreath that waits him there,
Which, in all future days.

His victor-brow may bear :
Still brighter, and more bright,

His eye Avith ardour glows,
As to his straining sight,

Its charms the guerdon shews.
Fame speeds his breathless course, .

His fainting heart sustains.
She renovates his force,

New life from her he gains ;
She spreads her glittering scroll,

Where mighty names appear
Of men of daring soul,

Who chose a high career ;
The record there displays,

Of honors that they Avon,
Illumed by brightest rays,

From her unclouded sun : .

64 MISFORTUNES OF GENIUS.

Tells how, when life is past,

And proud ones sleep in dust,
Their memory still shall last,

In song and breathing bust :
The glorious tale relates.

Which o'er their tombs shall swell-
That voice, which consecrates

The praise they gained so well.

Boy of celestial birth !

From thy empyrean sphere,
Why hast thou strayed to earth?

Why dost thou linger here?
Thy generous hopes are spurned,

Thy fervour counted shame,
By slaves, v/ho never burned

In thy Promethean flame.
Will sotted wealth and power

With joy thy presence hail !
Or yield one votive hour,

To list thy song and tale?
When were their golden hoards

Thy just reward confest?
When, at their groaning boards,

Wert thou a greeted guest?
In vain thou may'st recount

The rays of light, that flow
From thy supernal fount.

To charm, the world below

MISFORTUNES OF GEJMIUS. bi>:

Thy loveliness and worth,

To vulgar souls unknown,
But few blest spots of earth,

Their kindling presence own ;
And, as on Afric's waste.

Green isles begem the land
Like fair Oases placed,

These spots of verdure stand.

Thou of the radiant mind I

Whose thoughts are uncontrolled
By servile chains, that w^nd

Round all of grosser mould ;
Thou, Avhose unblenching eye,

From ether's fields surveys
The Day-God of the sky.

In his meridian blaze.
Art thou, deluded youth !

By flattering hope beguiled,
Still trusting to her truth,

As when at first she smiled ?
Then speed thy reckless way,

The empty shade to clasp,
Which, court it as you may,

Will still elude your grasp !
Of genius such the doom.

When by the traitor light.
That rises 'mid the gloom

Of intellectual night,

ti^ MISFORTUNES OF GENIUS.

The simple boy is led,

To seek that wreath of fame,
He vainly thinks shall shed

Fair honors round his name.
With heedless steps he flies

Toward the meteor glare,
False hope new strength supplies,

The gloomy path to dare.

Ah ! who from nature's hand

That envied boon would crave.
Which, in each darkened land,

Is spurned by craven slave —
That gift of priceless worth.

Which worldlings all disdain.
Or, in their idiot mirth,

Proclaim it false and vain?
The spirit that illumes,

The mind w th ray divine,
In its bright flame consumes

That consecrated shrine.

E. R. B

( 67 )

VIEW OF CINCINNATI.

The valley, in which Cincinnati stands, is bisec-
ted by the Ohio. The city is situated on the North
bank of the river. It is terminated on the East by
Deer Creek ; on the West by Mill Creek, and extends
North to the highlands, which shoot down upon the
plain in irregular and beautiful slopes and angles.—
The view here presented was taken from the Kentuc-
ky shore, and embraces tha site of the city with some
of the surrounding hills.

( 68 )

OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

The children of the settlements tell their tales, v/heth-
er their own brethren will hear or forbear. Why may
not I, who am a hunter, and in some sense a native of
the desert — I, who have been alone in the world almost
since I have lived in it — I, who have wandered for
years among the red men, who have kindled as I saw
their oppressions, and have noted them silently melt-
ing away like the snow upon the hills, or the last ice
ef spring, — why may not I relate a tale of sorrows, as
I heard it from the hoary sufferer himself, sitting around
the camp-fires, under the starry canopy of night?

The scene was a prairie ; the listeners were men, wo-
men and children, and they bore with them their slen-
der riches, and the bones of their forefathers, as they
were journeying to the remotest shores of the Arkan-
sas, to change their place of residence. They were
already a hundred leagues beyond the Father of Wa-
ters. A stream ran through the prairie, here and there
shaded by a solitary tree, whose branches twinkled
with innumerable fire-flies. The emigrating tribe were
Shawnees and Delawares. They had left their green
retreats on the Wabash, and the Maumee. They had
left their council-houses, their peach trees, their hazle
&lumps, their maple orchards : — the well rememberei!

OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI. 69

places, where they had bathed, and fished and strolled
listlessly through woods ;— where they had wrestled,,
and played the quoit ; whence they had issued painted
for war, afier singing the death song, and dancing the "
war dance ; the woods where their forefathers remem-
bered to have hunted the buffalo, and where the child-
ren still brought down at times a solitary deer. They
had left the trees, the streams, the scenes, the home of
their youth. They had left ail that endears the re-
membrance of infancy, and the natal spot ; and they
were bound to a ne^v country— among unloiowu and
hostile tribes, four hundred leagues away. True, they
bore some portion of the remains of their forefathers
with them, to consecrate their new home: but those of
their more ancient father? were left to be turned up by
the plough of the white man.

I was the only son of the pale-face among them.—
The narrator, whose story I repeat, was an aged red
man— a stranger, like myself, whoni chance had cast
among them. He came on their camp from the North-
west, I from the South-east. Both in the morning were
bound to opposite points ; he to find a grave among
the valleys of the Rocky mountains ; I to see once more
the abodes of my kindred, and the place where I re-
ceived the consecrated name I bare. Stern thought
sat on the faces of the listening warriors, as they sat
half enclosed in the drapery of their blankets round
their camp fire. Their yagers lay beside them. The
ohildren. w^earied with the long march of the preced-

TO OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

ing day, slept profoundly. Some of their women also
slept, others sat apart mending the dresses of their sons
or husbands. Some gave utterance to a half articula-
ted wail, as they thought of all they had left behind.
The dogs howled at the wolves of the prairie, who re-
turned defiance in a howl still more dismal. The cat-
tle and horses nibbled the grass or slept, and the occa-
sional tinkle of their hundred bells gave a kind ofj
measure to the pauses in the red man's tale of sorrow.
The fire-flies lighted up millions of gems on the grass
and flowers ; and the moon cast her sombre shadows
on the gently waving verdure of the prairie, as she sail-
ed through the fleecy clouds in her noon of night.

Such was the scene and place where I heard what I
relate. The red men talked in turn of the hard desti-
ny that had driven them from their native woods and
waters. As the tale of their wrong? passed from mouth
to mouth, many a young warrior sprung from his re-
cumbent posture, poised his yager, and half raised the
war cry. When it came to the turn of my fellow stran-
ger, OoLEMBA, or the Passing Thunder Cloud, he utter-
ed the admonitions of forbearance and peace. "Why"
said he, "should the blood of the red men flow forever.
Complainings are only wise for them, who can find re-
lief, or redress in complaint. Braves contend, when
there is aught for which to contend; but when the
Great Spirit from behind his throne of clouds, utters a
plain talk, the braves, who are also wise, hear it, and"
submit. Will a single pawpaw stand in the midst of a

OOLEMBA IN CIXCmNATI. 7i

)eech forest, in the season of flowers, and bid the branch-
es of the great trees not to put forth leaves ? No ; it
vill throw forth its own foHage in peace, amidst the in-
creasing shade of the forest. It will say, " the Great
Spirit hath left me a feeble and solitary shrub surroun-
ied by trees, and I will learn to grow in peace amonj

them."

The eye of him, Avho said this talk of peace, was
deep under his brow. Sterner passions had passed
away from his face ; but an indelible trace of what he
had been, spoke that he had not always been a paw-
paw in the beech forest, a shrub amidst trees. His port
and his eye told, that he once guided the fierceness of
the battle, and that the spirit which remained, was one
of msdom, deep thought, experience and sorrow, not
that of a shrinking or servile mind. As he spoke, his
own calmness, and the influence of a master-spirit was
diffused among the rest.

Another strain prevailed. They recounted their ad-
ventures in turn. When it came in order for Oolemba to
speak, the influence of persuasion dwelt on his tongue,
and his accents, though they bore the impress of the
desert, announced a subdued and a sorrowful spirit.-
Would that memory could retrace the words of his sad
story as faithfully as it recalls his looks, gestures, and
tones. He spoke slowly, and it seemed with pain.-
" Joy" he said, "trips readily on the tongue, like the
voluble song of the mocking-bird ; but the utterance of
gri€f is like water drawn from the deep fountain*-"

72 OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

His words, though slow, were full of meaning, and thejj
painted the wants and fortunes of the dwellers in the
desert, with the vivid freshness of colours drawn from
its trees and flowers.

"Five hundred moons" said Oolemba, "have waned
since I dwelt a young warrior of the Delawares, undei
a huge sycamore, on the brow of the hill, whose mar-
gin is washed by the silver wave of the Ohio. This
sweet valley is bounded towards the rising sun, by the
gentle stream Dameta, or the creek of deers; and on
the side of the setting sun, by the transparent waters of
El-hen-a, or the stream of the green hills. Wood-
crowned ridges shut it in on the north. In this valley
I was born, and my fathers before me. I have wan-
deTed far, and seen many vales since ; bnt none of them
was the place of my birth, none of them like El-sin-de-
lowa, or the valley of the Delaware Crossing. I was
married according to the ways of my people. Wan-
sim-met, my first born, already drew a strong bow, and
was fleet as a deer of the hills, when strange talks be-
gan to spread among our people, not only, as we knew,
that those pale-faces beyond the great fresh ponds of
the north, but that white men of another race were
moving onwards towards the silver wave, and that
their great wigwams had already risen beyond the hills
towards the rising sun.

But a few moons passed, before our warriors, that re-
turned from hunting in the cane-groves of the Bloody
Ground, related, that they had seen the smokes, and the

OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI, T3

' wigwams of the pale-faces in Kan-tuck-ee, They said
' that the new race swept away the forests, as though
'whirl-winds had raged among them; that new and
i strange breeds of bufi'aloes and deers fed about their
wigwams; and that they multiplied in such numbers,
that there would soon be neither grass nor cane left for
I our game. Part of their strange talks I heard with
! wonder, part with doubt. Our warriors urged me to
I join them, as they went to make war upon this new
I race, who were destroying the game of the Bloody-
; ground. I loved my wife — I loved my green native
i valley — I loved Wansimmet. The pale-faces had as
: yet done me no harm, and I saw no want of deers and
buffaloes on the north shore of the silver wave. They
reproached my love of peace and home, as if I had not
the spirit of a brave ; and told me, I would soon be com-
1 pelled to fight the pale-faces, whether I would or not.
I Wansimmet had already seen seventeen winters.
i when a band of red men came from beyond the great
fresh ponds, and with them a few pale-faces from that
region. I saw their white skin. I heard their quick,
babbling speech. I handled their guns. They gave
. our people their accursed poison water, which bewitch-
' ed them like the medicine of the Great Spirit. It fill-
ed them with fire and madness. They babbled like
the white skins. They ran with brute fury upon their
mothers and wives, and bragged of their exploits, and
; staggered, and uttered lies. Yes, then I saw that this
'. race had a medicine stronger than ours. Our women

74 OOl.EMBA IN CINCINNATI.

swallo-vved their poisoned fire, and v»-cre bev/itched to
love the white skins. Wansimaiet too, was persuaded
to taste it, and his mother and I could control him no
more than a wiiiri\vind. They gave him a gun and
enticed him away to join their expedition, to hunt,
and make war upon the new i-ace of white skins in
Ka'^ituckee. His mother and I followed him to the
silver wave as he crossed it ; and we sarig the death
song, v/neu he iei'i. us ; expecting never to see him again.
He saw and fought the white skins. He drank the
poisoned Avater. He contracted a deadly hatred to the
new race.

One morning as the mists were brushed avvay from
the silver wave, by the rising sur., I saw, through the
openin:;- of the trees, many huge and strange canoes
floating down the stream. Wansimmet at the same
moment came in breatliless haste to tell me, that 1
might nov/ see the ncv/ white skins for myself; and
learn by my own senses whether tliey were tying squa,ws
who said tl^eir numbers were as the leaves on theHrees.
Under cover of the forest, we moved to the shore to
survey then more nearly. My wife stood trembling
behmd me, and Wansimmct, with his gun charged, by
my side. The great canoes came to the shore on our
side of the river. The proud pale-faces sprung on the
shore, in numbers as the trees of the forest. Among
them y.ere grey headed and feeble old men, and many
women. Their boys skipped like the young deer, and
s,un?. and danced, and discharged their guns, and seem-

OOLEMBA IN C1XC5NNATI. t^

ed equally full of jov, and mischief^ Soon afterwords
thev tunied on shore whole droves of their strange am-
mais, none of which, except their do^., had I ever seen
before. Great nambers of large tame birds a.-re their
.hrill notes heard through the >voods, a. they sang from
the roots of their canoes. I watched their movemeats
with intense curiosity. As they advanced towaras my
^abin, the hand of Wansinnnet grasped his gun ond
hewo.ld have (ired among them, had I not withheld
him. They came upon my cabin, the rlace wheremy
wife had first handed me the iitde Wansuumet. C.n
I tell my thou<;-hts, as they n.errdy shouted at the sight
of my wigwamT I understood too well their laugh of
derision. They mocked and danced on the spot where
my forefathers had left their bones. Though we had
done them no harm, they clearly considered us as ene-
mies Some of their young people put fire to my ca-
:;:;.dit was soon involvedintlames. While they
thus exulted in their vloionc, and their nug^u, (he.
oatUe devoured the grass, broke down the sarab^ and
tramoied under foot the flowers. Some cm down tne
.mailer trees with their accursed hatchets; iror vn>u d
they have spared my sycamore, whose hoilow body
cor^ained a sacred swarm of bees, but ibr us haruness,

and its size.

The burning in my bosom would not ahow rue
longer to hold back the arm of Wansimmet, as the
voof of my cabin sunk in the names. He smgled a
leader in the mischief; and tired upon him ; at tae same

76 OOLEMBA IN fclNCINNATi.

moment I drew an arrow upon another. Both lell |
wounded. A wild cry of wrath rose from the multitude,
and they discharged upon us the mimic thunder of their
guns. The invisible lesid whistled round us, cutting
the limbs, and caused the leaves to fall at our feet.—
Happily we escaped unharmed. We fled before them
to the shelter of our glens. Their dogs bayed, and they
pursued us in vain. We reached the hills, and the
noise of their pursuit, and their guns, and their dogs,
died away. The night that followed was one of dark-
ness and storms. The thunder roared, and the rain,
and hail, poured from the sky. We were used to the
elements, and recked not the thunder. But now, as
we remembered that our cabin was burned, and that
we were as unsheltered as the birds and beasts of the
woods, we all felt desolate and forlorn.

We sheltered ourselves, as we might, under the hills.
When the sun of the next morning mounted above the
trees in the brightness of his glory, we returned to the
place where our cabin had stood. The pale-face was
gone. The marks of wanton and destroying mischief
were left all around. The embers of my ruined cabin
still issued a smouldering smoke. The wild flowers
had been trampled under foot. The paths were defil-
ed, and the pale-faces had wrought more ruin in a day.
than a whole tribe of red men would work in a year.
My wife wailed and tore her hair. Wansimmet ran
to the spot where the blood of the wounded pale-faces
stained the black mould. He kissed it. A gloomv

OOLEMBA IN ClNi IXXATi. 77

loy marked his countenance, and we saw, that between
him and that race an everlasting war was ] rr.claimed.
We spoke of the forewarnings of our fathers ; that
die white people should come to this land, like locusts,
or sea fowls, from the regions of the rising sun ; and
that they would fill all the country along the shores of
the silver wave, and back to the great fresh ponds of
the north. V\'e said that we would not wait to see
that day. It was a hard thought to leave the shade of
our sycamore, that had sheltered us so long ; and the
trees around us, with which we had been acquainted
*o many years, that we felt as if they loved us. It was
hard to trample on a strange soil, to hear the scream of
stran-e birds, and to look on a 4cy that did not know us.
It v^^as hard to leave the silver wave, so pleasant to see,
and from which we had drawn so many fish. It was
still harder to leave the greea moraid wh( re the bones
of our whole race were b-a^ied. But as we looked upon
the ashes of our cabin, Vv' ansimmet said, I will either
fight the pale-faces to the death, or fly the sight of
them altogether.- I told him that they were stronger
than wc, and that braves never fight, when it is to no
purpose.

Cur resolve was formeil in a moment. It was to de-
part to the regions of the setting sun. We had no ca-
bin to leave. We gathered un the bones of our imme-
diate tbreiathors; we placed them wrapped in skins i:i
our canoe. Two do2,s accom.panied our exile. V. e
cur^<^d the fiyraniorcs, and left them to the wndes. —

78 OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

We cursed the green hills, the river, the springs, the
grass, the gan^e, the deer, and every thin^ that we ^ave
up to the pale-faces. Having cur.ed all, we pushed
into tne stream. Sometimes for hours we floated down
the wave m silence; soxnetinies we aroused, and alter-
nately aipped our paddles m the transparent water -
Sometimes the sun looked fiercely upon us ; and some-
times we gUded under the shadows of the high cliffs
or the trees. The woods were as green as those we
had left, but they knew us not, like those. The cliff,
were lofty ; but they were not those, at whose feet ran
the waters of Dameta, nor those over which our fore-
fathers had scrambled so often. The birds screamed
and their notes sounded in our ears as those of defiance
and war.

But the heart of Wansimmct was bold. His .un
brought down wild fowls and deer, and we wanted
neither food, nor the gentle breath of the Great SWrit
We often saw our red brethren stand gazing at'oui^
canoe, as we floated down the stream ; and th:y some-
times raised the cry of brotherhood as they passed us
m crossing the silver wave to the opposite shore. In
this way, we passed the twenty rivers that fall into the
silver wave. For the greater part of the way the =un
was bright, and the stream wafted us .^ently farther
and farther from the natal spot, until near the mouth
of tae silver wave, we saw sweepino- across its watery
path, the Father of waters, himself; rolling on his turbid
torrents from the unknoAvn countries of the north

OOLEMRA IN eiNCINXATI. 79

Before we entered the domiiiious of the powerful
stranger, we surveyed him with something of apprehen-
sion and awe. He was wild and fierce, and we loved
him not, as we did the transparent face of our native
silver wave, gently moving on his calmness. The
mother of Wansimmet shed a woman's tears, as our ca-
noe struck the muddy current of the Father of waters.
I saAV even Wansimmet's countenance melt in sadness.
I spake not ; but I looked up to the Great Spirit, and
thoughts and remembrances, which I Iiad no words to
express, rose in my bosom. For Wansimmet, as the
wild stream whirled our canoe round, he looked up
the bosom of the silver wave, that we had left, and
$ung the war song, and poised his gun in the position
of defiance. '"Cursed be the silver wave," said he, " for
the sake of the pale-face, who hath driven us away
from it. Ma}' its fishes become to them as rattle
snakes. May the trees that wave over its waters be
blasted. May its pure waters bring fevers to the
whites. May the pale-faces redden the Avave with
each other's blood. Cursed for their sakes, be the
whole country towards the rising sun. For Wansim-
met, he is now free. Hail, Father of AvatersI Hail,
regions that spread towards the path of the setting
sun 1 Wansimmet exults in the thought of your free
and wide plains, and would wander westward forever !
Nothing would so please him as to march with the Fa-
ther of day, and hide with him in his secret places!"

30 OOLEMBA IN CLN'ClJvNATf.

Having thus said, in silence, and sadness, we paddled
our canoe across the broad stream. We landed on the
western shore, and puslied our canoe into the wave. —
We bade all the east country farewell. Then bearing
our burthens, and followed by our dogs, we made our
way through the wide belt of woods, that shades the
margin of the Father of waters. We receded to the
west during the progress of three suns. As the fourth
was rising, we passed the last trees, and for the first
time, I stood on the verge of a boundless prairie. —
Great Spirit ! shall I ever forget the new thought that
arose within me ! The whole course of the sun over
the green grass lay before us. My bosom swelled, and
I seemed to possess a new spirit. "Oolemba!" said I,
"thou hast hitherto been a child and a fool. Thou
hast seen nothing." The eye of Wan«immet kindled
with strange thoughts too. But while he gazed, and
drank in the distance, a countless mass of dark atoms
seemed moving towards us from the north. We judg-
ed that they might be those little, mischievous men,
who trouble the traps of the red men, and disturb their
dreams. The multitude every moment enlarged upon
the eye. Soon we saw that they walked on four feet,
and tossed their head=. We heard their wild snort of
defiance. We scented them on the northern breeze. —
We saw that they were buiTaloes. The sound of their
march was as the prolonged roar of thunder. Instead
of a solitary pair, which we had seen along the silver

OOLEMBA IN CINCIXXATU 8l

wave, they were more in number than the stars. They
were as the dew drops of morning. We saw that they
would have trampled us in the dust, as if we had been
grasshoppers. We retreated to the wood ; and as the
li^ang cloud passed by, Wansimmet tired, and I drew
an arrow. Two buffaloes fell ; and we thanked the
Great Spirit, who had made such rich provision for his
red children. Wansimmet exclaimed, '•'who would
not be a hunter in the prairie! Wlio would live like
an oppossum under the branches of a sycamore, and
have his prospects bounded by the next tree?- We
owe thanks to the pale-faces, who have driven us to
these glorious buffalo pastures."

Thus our first advances west of the Father of wa-
ters Avere joyous, and iilled us with courage. Wan-
derers may have their happy hours ; but let those, who
would have repose and peace, stay at home. We
soon found that the Great Spirit hath every where
mixed good and evil in the same draught. We flat-
tered ourselves, that the red men would be united with
us in dread and hatred of the whites. We saw at a
distance the smoke of an encampment of red men;
and we approached them with confidence. They werf
tall, and fierce looking men, and the}" rode on the
strange beasts, that we had seen the white man drive
on shore at our native place. We held up our calu-
ipet and made the sign of peace. They surrounded
us in a moment; but heeded not our signs, or our calu-
met. We told them that we had fled from the pale-

82 OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

faces, the common enemy of all red men, who were
moving upon us from the regions of the rising sun. —
They paused a moment — put their hands to their ears,
to signify that they understood us not, and laughed in
derision. They bound us fast with buffalo ropes. In-
stead of violence from the wliites, we found ourselves
captives to the red men. I then remeinbered my mo-
ther had sung to me, when a child— that the bird
which flies to strange forests, will see strange sights,
and find strange enemies. They treated us as old wo-
men ; and made us carry burthens, bring water, and
drive their beasts. We whispered to each other in our
own speech, that vvisdom should teach us to feign sub-
mission. We made signs that we loved to be with
them, and performed our drudgery with seeming joy.
We journeyed with them some days, and seemed so
happy that they were deceived. We waited the hour
of sleep, when they watched us no longer. The morn
marked the shadows of her clo'jds uron the grass, and
the evening star twin^ilel and seemed to invite us to
the west; and we fled where it poi-^ted us. Wansim-
met cursed them, as we left them, even as he had cur-
sed the w^hite people. Soon we heard their dogs how-
ling after us, and saw them scouring the plains on their
swift beasts in pursuit of us. The Great Sjurit guided
us to a wide stream. We plunged in, hid ourselves in
the water, and they could not find us.

Thus we passed along, among the tribes of the red
men. Some treated us cruellv, and as enemies; other?.

OOLEMEA IN CiXCIXNATI. bO

sho^ved us all the kindness that could be expected from
those that kne^v not our language. Instead of uniting
these tribes, as v.e had fondly hoped, in league against
the pale-face, we found that it required all our wisdom
and management to escape violence, captivity, or
death. We found them more intent upon destroying
each other, than willing to form leagues to bar the pas-
sage of the whites across the Father of waters.

Why need I prolong my tale of dark thoughts?—
The hunter-s moon rode in the sky, when we first saw
the blue shadows of the gates of the Rocky moun-
tains. I felt once more as if I possessed a new spirit, when
we saw them hanging in black mas.es of rock, directly
over the waters of the ^lissooree. We had seen these
homes of the Great Spirit for days; but had thought
them clouds in the sky. None of us had seen moun-
tains before. The bald eagle was soaring high above
their summits, and seemed in the clear blue sky, but
little more than a speck of falling snow. We all ex-
claimed together, who would dwell on the plain after
he had seen mountains? Then we wished for wings,
that we might mount over them. The river in its
wrath rushe^d through the clefit hills, and seemed to
warn us, that all was grandeur and terror above. The
waters slept in a basin at the foot of these mountains.
We rowed our canoe into the shade, and looked up-
wards. The Great Spirit, as we thought, was seated
on the inaccessible tops of the hills. His dark cloud
wa- wrapped close round the snows, and his thunders

84 OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

were continually bursting over them. The mother of
Wansimmet was pale with affright. " Who shall dare "
she said, "to ascend to the invisible chambers of the
spirit of tempests? Let us return to the silver wave.
It is not so terrible to encounter the pale-faces, as the
Great master of life." I wished to soothe her fears;
and I told her we had come too far to return ; that
the noblest birds and game loved these mountains, and
that nothing would tempt me henceforward to dwell
on the plains. The sight of these wild cliffs, the roar
of waters and of thunder, charmed the brave and free
spirit of Wansimmet. "Would" he said, "that there
were other mountains as high as those piled above them ;
and that the thunderer sat on the summit of all. i
would ascend to the highest peak and behave as a
warrior ought before him." When his mother saw-
that her son had the heart of a brave, she was comfor-
ted, and said, that whither Oolemba and Wansimmet
went, she feared not to go.

We spent a whole moon, wandering among the
mountains, and as it were, alone with the Great Spirit,
At the end of that moon, we descended into a large and
fair valley. The verdure of the grass and trees was
as that of the silver wave— although snows glittered
on every side, on the mountain tops. The smoke of a
hundred cabins streamed into the air. Here dwelt the
Sho-sho-nee, a mild and good people, and to our ad-
miration, they were clearly the children of the pale-
face. The daughters of that people, that saw not the

OOLEMBA IN CINCIN^ATU 85

laoon day sun, v.eie fair as the lily of the prairie. —
Wausiminet would have lied theni. But they sa.\r
that we Avere weary and strangers. They concjuered
our dislike. Thy- gave us a cabin and a share of
their gam^-. They made us feel that they were our
brethren. We learned their speech and their ways. —
They were wiser than we. But we were braves, and
in turn, taught them many secrets relating to war,
:and the chase. They made our days pass happily by
a thousand stories of the far home of their forefathers
over the blue waters. We went to war with them,
and Wansiinmct stayed the battle, when the Shosho-
nees were ready to retreat before the Blackfeet. Every
thing went well with us. Wansimmefs mother was iu
honor with us, for she was pointed out as the wife of the
brave Oolemba, and the mother of Wansimmet. The
place was a sweet place, and it wanted only that I had
been born ther^, to have been all the world to me.

The Sheneedee, who dwelt west of the Rocky moun-
tains, invaded our hapry valley. We met them in
battle. We vanquished them — and Wansimmet wag
more than ever crowned ^vith glory. We chased them
down the hills — we pursued them to their dwellings on
the plains — we subdued them. We made them as
slaves, row us down the Oregon to the great sea, where
the sun sleeps in his Avatery caverns. I plunged iito
this wave. I vainly strove to see the opposite shore.—
As my spirit burned within me at the view, I mourned
that man is so little, and that the path of the Great

86 OOLEMBA IN CINCINNAii.

Spirit on the land and the waters is so wide. I niouru-
ed at the thought, that I should leave this glorious
sight of boundless water, and return to have my spirit
again pent up in my narrow valley. One thing rejoi-
ced me; Wansimmet had gained glory; his name
would live after him.

Great Spirit ! shall I ever forget, that at the grand
corn dance and war feast, that was prepared for our
return, Wansimmet was chosen first war chief of the
Shoshonee! Washnoba, the first council chief, had
an only daughter ; and she was fairer than the virgin?
of the sun. When I had seen her, she seemed to me
as one of those beings of brightness, who are placed in
the happy isles, to receive the brave and free spirits,
and welcome them to the land of shadows. Her fair
hair was not as that of the daughters of the red men.
She wore a robe, all woven with the down of the
swan, and resplendent with the feathers of the paro-
quet. When she sung, my soul melted within, and I
no longer thought of battle. Well was she called
Lenlennee, or the nightingale of the valley. Why
should I recall the remembrance of her songs, and her
beauty? It is the tale of things, that are all passed
away.

When Wansimmet came forth the first war chief ut;
the corn dance, the face of Lenlennee was alternately
of the hue of the wild rose and the lily ; and when the
other Shoshonee girls chaunted the praises of the new
chief, she turned awav her face, and was silent. Coulf .

OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI. 37

sUe do oibcr than feel kindly towards Wansimmet?—
He had saved her father in the fury of battle, when
three warriors of the Sheneedee were waving their
hatchets over his head. The corn dance passed, and
the young warriors and maidens wandered by the
light of the moon among the hemlocks of our happy
valley. The father of Lenlennce walked with me,
and Wansimmet went timidly by the side of his daugh-
ter. I had seen the gleaming of his eye, as he met the
grizzly bear. But when he was beside the fair daugh-
ter of Washnoba, a new lustre, such as I had never
noted before, dwelt there. We reclined on the grass,
and looked at the moon and stars, while we heard the
words of our son and daughter.

"Daughter of Washnoba !" said my son, "nightingale
of the valley ! I love the sun in his high path. I love the
moon, as now, walking in her silvery brightness. I love
to scent the south breeze, when it comes charged from
the blossoms of the wild apple-groves. I love to see the
fawn skip over the grass. I love to hear the lark, as
he soars from his morning covert in the prairie. But I
love them not, and 1 love nothing, nightingale of the
valley ! as I love thee. Neither grizzly bear, nor foe,
nor dreams from the Great Spirit, nor medicine, nor
death, ever melted my heart, as the expression of thine
eye. When thou lookest on me, daughter of Wash-
noba! all thoughts of war and glory die within me;
and my courage is as that of a woman ! Canst thou
^ell me. daughter of Washnoba! hast thou v/itched me

88 OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

with thy sorceries?- Hast thou conquered my proud
heart with medicines, learned from thy book of the
Great Spirit? Tell me, nightingale of the valley I
why thy melting eye destroys my strong purpose ? Tell
me, why I no longer court glory or death in thy pre-
sence ; and why I would gladlj^ throw my war wea-
pons in the stream, and follow thee forever?- Tell me,
why I, who have learned nothing but war, would for
a whole moon be content to gather flowers for thy
hair, or embroider moccasins for thy feetP'

We then heard the soft voice of the daughter of
Washnoba in reply; and it fell on our ears, as the
flakes of snow, when they softly descend at sunset with-
out wind.

"Son of Oolemba !" she said, "where hast thou learn-
ed the flattering speech of the pale-face ?- What pur-
pose would it answer thee, to deceive a simple maiden
of the Shoshonee? What wouldst thou of me? To-
morrovv^, thou vvilt clamber over these hills, and utter
these same words to another daugliter of the Shosho-
nee, in another valley. But, son of Oolemba ! thou
base saved my father in battle, and I will, therefore,
forgive thee all these flattering words, meant to de-
ceive me."

We, their parents, heard these words, and though
we are children of nature and the woods, we knew
their meaning ; for we, too, had had our morning of life.
The pale-fices speak of us, as those, who have no
hearts, and know nothing of love. Fools I thev know

OOLEMBA IX CiXCIXNATI. 89

us aot, and measure 11= by their ovv-n insensible hearts.
The love of money hath not yet seared our aifections.
We have heard the turtles coo in our trees. We
have seen the birds begin, and finish their loves, and
fly abroad with their new offspring;. We have affec-
tions not the less strong;, because we shut them up deep
in our hearts, concealing them under a stern and silent
countenance- as the embers glow under the ashes. I
would linger upon this remembrance forever. They
loved. Wansimmet took the fair daughter of Wash-
noba for his wife. Never was love seen among that
people, liiie their love. I feared at first, that the heart
of Wansimmet would melt down, like that of a wo-
man. But he became not weak, nor ceased to be a
brave, because he loved. The nightingale of the val-
ley, much as she loved him, sent him away, though it
was as parting with life, when the Sheneedee invaded
us again. Again he led his warriors triumphant to the
Western sea.

On their return, the warriors all declared, that my
son had been among the rest, as the bald eagle among
singing birds. His path had been as a gleam of light.
The daughter of Washnoba related his exploits in
songs, and sung them, as she nursed his son in her arms.
The days fled away, as the arrow glides through the
air, and the swift moons seemed but as days.

Gladly w^ould I dwell on these happy moons forever.
But I am now a solitary old man, — a single tree on the
prairie, blasted with the lightning of the Great Spirit .
8*

go OOLEMBA in CINCINNATI.

Joys pass away, like the summer clouds ; but griefs are-
as the sullen storms of Avinter. Oolemba is childless,
and friendless, and is hurrying back, over the wide dis-
tance, to find him a grave beside those he loved. Far
away from our sheltered and happy valley, on the
mountains of the north, dwelt a fierce and cruel peo-
ple. They were leagued with a terrible race of the
pale-faces, called Muscovites. By them this people
were supplied with the white man's gun=, and medi-
cines, and witching and poisonous drinks. First thej
came in small numbers to our streams to trap the bea-
ver, and to spear the salmon. They met us, trapped,
and took the salmon with us, and came to our happy
valley. They loved our daughters, and they coveted
our furs and buffalo robes. We spoke, and dealt
kindly with them, and they departed with the deceit-
ful smile of peace on their faces. But they spied out^
and remembered the passes between our inaccessible
mountains. They returned to their far homes, collec-
ted the whole force of their tribe ; and, like the crafty
serpent, +hey wound among the defiles, and concealed
themselves until night, as the panther watches his
prey, crouching in his covert, in the branches of a tree.
The moon came rejoicing over the eastern moun-
tains. So far from dreaming of war, we had just re-
turned from a successful buffalo hunt, — and we held
high festival. The daughter of Washnoba looked on,
as her beloved led the warrior''s dance. Washnoba
and myself alternately held her boy. All was festivi-

OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI. Si

ty and joy. Just at the happiest moment of our lives,
the northern red men, led on by the Muscovite pale-
face, dashed among the unarmed and joyous group.
The Muscovites fired their small guns in the forehead
of Washnoba's wife and mine. They groaned, and
fell. Then were heard yells, and shrieks, and the
firing of guns, and the howling of dogs. Wansimraet
seized a flaming brand from the fire, and rushed upon
the murderous foe. But the courage of strength and
despair were in vain. The winged lead passed through
his body. The glittering long knife of the Muscovite
flashed over him, and severed his head from his body.
Lenlennee threw herself on his body, and perished by
a hundred wounds. I fought with whatever weapons
chance supplied ; but in the murderous contest, I was
thrown unconscious to the earth, and rolled, like a
lifeless stone, down the hill. Whether they despis-
ed, or lost sight of me, or were glutted with murder,
I know not. But when I came to myself, all was stiil.
I arose and staggered through faintness, as I made my
way to our late abode. The village ruins still sent up
their smokes. The dead bodies lay here and there,—
braves, old men, women, and children,— some so man-
gled, that I knew them not ; and others but too well
known! Washnoba's wife and mine had fallen to-
gether. Lenlennee laid with her arms embracing the
headless trunk of her husband. There was her loved
and noble boy, as he lay supine, and his fair locks
floating over his neck, at the foot of the tree, I groan-

92 OOLFMBA IN CI^T1XXATI.

ed, as I felt, that I had not the arm, nor the bolt oi
the Thunderer. I felt more bitterness of spirit, to
think, that 1 had not fallen with the rest, and thai
they had seemed to spare me, like a harmless -woman.
A few desolate old men, and women, like myself,
remained. We met— We spoke little;— for Avhat
could words avail, when such sights were before us?
We learned, that the foe had carried off most of our
young women; and that the young men, and the
braves, were slain to a man. All the Shoshonces that
survived, proposed to found another village of their
people on the western side of the mountains. Thej
requested me to join them. But I— could I go among
them — now an obscure and solitary stranger? No. —
I determined to wander, and try to forget my sorrows,
and my loneliness, and what I had been, by returning
once more to the spot, where I was born. Full well I
knew, that the spirits of Wansimmet, and his mother,
and his boy, and his wife, had already flown through
the air, and over the mountains ; and that their shades
were now in the valley of Elsindelowa.

They, who say, that we have no feelings, should have
seen the surviving old men and women of the Shosho-
nees, piling their dead sons on the funeral scaffold, bv

the light of the morning, after they were murdered.

They should have seen me, looking for the last time on
the face of W^ansimmet— still stern, and unsubdued in
death. They should have seen me lay on the scaffold,
for the last journey, the mother of Wansimmet, who

OOLEMBA IN C1NCIXN\TI, 93

liad been my inseparable companion for three hun-
dred moons. Do not despise me, braves I My heart
is as a woman's, even now in the relation. We
sat by the dead on their scaiFold, all the follo%^dng
[night. We sung the song of spirits. We called on the
;names of those, who had fought, and hunted for us;
fand who had now gone on their last journey, and left
us alone. We wished them a safe and a happy journey
to the land of shadows. We hoped, they might find
pure and calm lakes, full of fish, and green fields stored
with game. Some wished their sous might be united,
iin the land of spirits, with virgins of the sun, I asked
tof the Great Spirit, only, that Wansimmet might carry
.with him the spirits of his wife, his son, and his mother ;
and might build a cabin in the pleasant wood of spi-
rits for me. I said to him, That I was weary and old,
land longed to be with them.

i With the next morning's sun, I took my last look of

the bodies. It would have done me good, to have

shed the tears of a woman, as I saw my noble son,

holding his boy in his bloody arms, and his fair-haired

wife in her blood by his side. As I Avalked past the

atill smoking ruins of my cabin, I prayed that the

' Great Spirit would grant me tears, to drop on the

ashes. But my brain seemed as much scorched, as the

brands of my cabin, I saw my brethren of the Sho-

«honee moving slowly off, the one behind the other, as

! they started for the village of their brethren. Their

home was on the side of the mountains, west of where

94 OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

we dwelt. At the same time, alone, I began to moun?
the hills towards the rising sun. j

Not a gleam of light came over my dark spirit, du-
ring my weary journey across the mountains. It was
in my dreams only, that I rejoiced ; for then the sha-
dows of my wife, and my son, and his boy, surrounded
me again. I need not speak of this long and painful
journey. I once more saw the boundless prairies. I
once more Avandered beside the mighty Missooree, as
I measured my lonely way over the plains. I often
saw droves of innumerable buffaloes, and I pleased my-
self by night, in thinking, that I saw the spirit of Wan-
simmet chasing them, as they thundered away from ]
my path over the plain. I reached the Ozark, andi
descended its crimson wave, until I once more saw the!
Father of waters — not as before, in the vigour of mj
strength, attended by my wife and son ; but old, weary
and alone — not folloAved even by a dog.

I needed no one to tell me, how the pale-face had
increased, and spread over the land during the many
winters, that I had lived among the Rocky mountains.
The Father of waters was covered with their big ca-
noes. Among them were prodigious white canoes,
which uttered thunder, and threw up smoke, and
struggled rapidly up the powerful wave without wings.
It was a grand sight, to see the mighty boat breast the
surge, as though it moved with the force of the Great
Spirit 1 The whole stream, — above, below, and around
me. — was covered with numberless canoes; — some

OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI. 35

moving up, and some down, and some across the
'stream. My spirit rejoiced in the pleasant sounds,
ithat issued from these canoes; and I was compelled to
tallow, that the white man's path on the waters was
not one of sadness, like ours. In a few days, I arrived
once more at the mouth of the silver wave. The tears
then fell, and relieved me. I could almost think it the
same day, in which, in the vigour of my strength, ac=
aompanied with Wansimmet and my wife, I had de-
scended in my journey to the wx-st. 1 held out my
arms, as if to embrace them. "Shadows 1" I said to
those, who were so dear to me, "return from your green
and misty hills, and go with me up the silver wave,
and let us revisit together the place, where we first
breathed, and saw the sun."' But I held out my arms,
and called them in vain. No spirits descended from the
passing clouds, and the only answer to my cries was
the w^hite man's music from the boats; or the scream
of the water fowls, as they siiled over our heads.

At the mouth of the Kantuckee, weary of paddling
my canoe a-ainst the stream, I left it, and made my
way on foot ^among the hills. 1 soon cleared the hills
and cliffs, and came out upon the open plains. What a
scene I Great Spirit ! thou hast given the dominion of
the earth to the pale-face 1 The few red men that re-
main, are scattering, like the leaves, after the frosts of
autumn. The green woods, the cane-brake, that fed
innumerable buffaloes and deers, and where the wild
turkeys were or^ every tree— all were gone. Big, anc

96 OOLEMBA IN" CINCINNATI.

painted cabins of the pale-faces rose proudly m the
distance. Instead of looking from a hill upon the wavy ,
summit of woods, as for as the eye could reach, great |
cabins, fences, roads, and open lots appeared on every'
side. In some places a few trees remained. The whites
man's cattle of various kinds fed in the pastures ; or h©
was riding them, or drawn by them along the country.
All was naked, enclosed, turned up by the plough, and
to the white man's taste.

Chance brought me at night to the cabin of a white
man, who knew the Delaware speech. Of him I
learned the nature of the changes, which the white
man had wrought. He, too, was a man, who had lov-
ed the woods; and, like me, it grieved him to think of
the day, when all this fair land was covered with
woods, and alive with deers and buffaloes and turkeys^
But he told me, that novv^, were I ever so hungry, and
killed one of the turkeys, or fowls about the white
man's cabin, I should be found guilty of the crime of
being poor ; and should be shut up with iron bolts from
the light of the sun. Cursed ! I replied with a groan^
are the ways of the pale-face, and may they punish
their guilt upon one another in this same way. One
thing alone gave me joy to hear. Two hundred
moons had not passed, since the pale-faces and the red
men seldom met, but in mortal combat. All that was
now gone by. The red man, if he could only give
the little white pieces of the pale-face, passed in as
much peace and safety as the white man himself.—

OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI. 97

But we mourned together over the remembrance of the
days of the hunter, the trapper, and the brave. When
I told my host, that I intended to return, and die in
my nest among the Rocky mountains, he was almost
persuaded to make me a brother, and return back m ith
me to the country of hunters, and the hills of the
winds and snows.

Next morning, I left my kind host, and made my
way still towards the valley of Elsindelowa, keeping,
as much as I could, to the woods, and avoiding the
habitations, the roads and the presence of the wh'te
men. When compelled to pass their cabins, the chil-
dren stared at me, as though I were some strange
beast. The dogs barked at me. But, for the rest, the
people neither regarded, feared, nor cared for me. I
was no longer an object of interest or even dread. —
Once I passed a group of old men, who looked like
hunters. Their countenances were full of wrath, and
as they mentioned the words, "Blue Licks'." they
poised their rifles at me. "Shoot!" I said, in my own
speech. "I should thank him, who would rid a weary
and desolate old man like me, who has neither wife,
nor child, of the burden of existence."

At length I had clambered over a thousand fences,
been barked at by a thousand doa:s, been covered with
dust, and scorched with the sun, when I arrived on the
wooded banks of the Licking. I thanked the Great
Spirit, and prayed, that the valley of Elsindelowa
might be as green and as wooded as these banks. But
9

98 OOLEx\IBA IN CINCINNATI.

when I emerged from the woods at the mouth of Lick-
ing— what a sight spread before me on every side ! —
Spirit of my fathers! Would that I had fallen to the
earth at the sight. The hills still remained, as if to
mock me. They rose in the blue air, and were cover-
ed with green trees, as when I left them. The waters
of the Licking still made their way on their rocky
bed. But how was every thing else changed! All
the vale of Elsindelowa was filled with the big cabins
of the white men. Their big canoes, and buildings
vomited up smoke. A dim dust arose above the cabins,
and a dull, but incessant noise, as of all kinds of
movement and life, rose upon my ear. The big canoes
covered the silver wave. Even the shore, on which I
stood, was covered with the cabins of the whites. I
stood amazed. My head became dizzy, and my thoughts
confounded. "Is this," I asked, "the place I left for-
ty winters ago, one wide forest without a white man's
cabin in the land ]"

After a long and sorrowful survey, I determined at
least to cross the silver wave once more, and discover, if
I could, the place where I was born, and where my wife
bore me Wansimmet. Finding a man, who knew
my speech, I obtained cQgrveyance across the river in
one of the strange round canoes, which was paddled
across by beasts. We flew over the wave, with a
swiftness and power, of which I had no conception. —
As soon, as I landed on the shore, where I was born, I
could have stooped, and kissed the earth. But there

OOLEMBA IN CINCIXNATI. 99

ivas no longer a soft, black mould, and sweet flowers,
and sheltering trees, and coolness and verdure. The
shore was covered with hard rock, placed there by
the white men. Men I — men in crowds were bustling
about on every side. All seemed hurry and distrac-
tion. My ears, and eyes, and senses all drank in dust ;
and there was every annoying and grating noise, that
could be imagined. "Ah! pale-facesl" said I, "I rejoice,
that you have to live in the wretched place, that your-
selves have made." Amidst a thousand noises of their
accursed medicine instruments, and in danger of being
run down by the things, drawn about by their beasts,
I made my way, by the help of ray guide, to the spot,
where once spread the noble sycamore, that sheltered
my infancy. The tears once more rushed to my eyes.
My wife, my Wansimmet, my youth, my forefathers,
my morning dreams rushed upon me. But the dream
soon passed and the sad reality returned to my
thoughts. I was a single red man, amidst thousands
of whites ; and all the change, which I saw, had taken
place in three hundred moons. The very spot, where
my cabin had stood, was occupied by a huge wigwam
of stone, where the pale-faces lock up their little
white pieces of metal. Eyi^ thing was changed ; and
my guide told me it was alPthe same quite back to the
great fresh ponds of the north. All, I had wished, was
accomplished. Nothing could have tempted me to
stay there a night. I recrossed the silver v/ave —
sought the woods of Licking, and made my way in

100 OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI.

peace through Kantuckee. I recrossed the Father ot
waters — I am here ; and I shall press with all haste to
the Shoshonee, who have seen Wansimmet and Wash-
noba. 1 have done."

The old emigrating warriors sat profoundly silent,
and still. The younger ones sprang from the ground,
and pointed their yagers towards the east, and bran-
dished their tomahawks in defiance of those, who had i
driven them from the regions of the rising sun. Oolemba
noted their rising wrath, and in the deep and monoto-
nous strain of the Indian songs, he chaunted these
words —

"It is the will of the Great Spirit! The genera-
tions of leaves succeed each other on the trees ! The
waves follow each other, and break on the shore. —
Men are as leaves and waves. The frost has come,
and the red men are scattered to the winds ! The pale-
faces came after them! They too will give place to
other generations. Braves! we resist the Great Spirit,
when we fight with the thing, that hath been and will
be. Braves! learn to bury the tomahawk, and fold
the hands in submission. Young braves! go to the
fountains of the Yellow river, and hunt the buffalo,
and raise corn in peace. Go ! conduct so, that when
your spirits join those of your fathers, on the aerial
mountains, they shall delight to own you, as their
children, who have not sullied their glory ! War, with-
out wisdom, is a fool ! Patience is now the duty p»f
the red m©H— 1 have said all I "

OOLEMBA IN CINCINNATI. 101

iiis voice sunk away in low iflurmvirs. The ruddy
s;treaks of morning were visible far towards the rising
sun upon the green grass. Oolemba took his pack,
and slung his bow, and slowly disappeared in the
increasing tmlight. I, too, left these Indians, carrying
the remains of their forefathers far towards the setting
sun. I followed the hoary chief, in thought, on his
long way to his desolate goal. I rose and started to-
wards the regions of the rising sun, feeling as I went,
that the days of man upon the earth, are as a shadow !

Timothy Flint-

MARIA LOUISA AT THE GRAVE OF
NAPOLEON.

•' And she proud Austria's mournful flower."—
BYRO^

Rest, warrior! on that sea-girt isle,

Wild tempests hymn thy dirge ;
O, better than the high raised pile.

Thy grave amid the surge!
It seemed another Deles rose,
Called from the ocean by thy foes ;

As if the utmost verge
Of the old world, could yield no space.
Fit for a hero's resting place.

Kings saw the unarm'd stranger come;.

And the mail'd host gave way ; —
The voice of revelry was dumb,

The sceptre powerless lay ;
The halls of an imperial line.
Pomp, power, the throne, the world were thiae :

It was thy very play
To wrest the loftiest wreath of fame.
And deck a brow without a name.

THE GRAVE OF NAPOLEON. 103

And in that hour of god-like pride,

When Monarchs bow'd the knee,
Methinks the victor should have died,

Nor known captivity ; —
Yet it was well, like the great sun,
Thy course did end, as it begun.

Upon the chainless tide ;
Thy youth was cradled on the wave,
And its fierce waters clasp thy grave !

1 would not wake thy slumbers now,

All lowly as th^x art ;
Nor place again upon thy brow,

The crown that crush'd thy heart !
No bitterness of death was left.
When of thy wife and child bereft,

— Captivity's worst smart —
Piecemeal, they meted out thy doom.
Thou living tenant of a tomb.

Rest, warrior ! though no column tell

The story of thy death.
Earth's mightiest shall remember well

Of him that sleeps beneath.
And he, who scarce with infant hand,
Unsheaths his father's battl? brand,

May earn as green a wreath,
And teach how poorly they were free,
When the damp sod closed over thee.

S. S, BoYt),

( 104 )

ODE TO MUSIC.

Come, Music I — strike thy potent lyre I
And let me catch its magic tones —

Such strains as love and joy inspire,
And make despair suspend his groans I

Come, child of Heaven ! — and in thy throng,
Let mystic spirits, hovering round,

With sweetest harps the notes prolong,
And swell the soul-inspiring sound. —

Ah ! the spell I now feel

Of thy hornpipe and reel !
As they play o'er the chords in gay, rapid flight

See jollity prancing —

And ecstasy dancing ! —
And clapping their hands in a thrill of delight 1

Let thy lyre now change its brisk numbers,
And Handel's loud symphonies swell ;

'Till indolence, waked from his slumbers.
Shall strive his compeer to excel.

'Tis the trumpet of glory resounding,
Ambition stands listening the strain!

See heroes her banner surrounding.
See conquerors stalk o'er4he plain I

ODE TO MUSIC. 105

Let Mozart next, in sIoav and pensive airs,
Soft as Zephyr's sigh, or Flora's kiss,

Lull ray senses — sooth my restless cares,
And chain my soul in sad and tender bliss.

And let the voice of her my heart adores,

In accents sweet come stealing thro' my breast ;

'Till I, in fancy, tread Elysian shores.
And mingle souls with those whom love has blest-
N. Guilford.

( lOG )

THE SERENADE.

How sweet to start from sleep's soft dreaiu.
And list by moonliglit's pensive beam.
To sounds which all unearthly seem.

Now sad, now gay, they liquid roll.
And steal, and captivate the soul.
And sorrow's heaviest sigh control.

They call to mind departed time,
The dreams of youth! its joys sublime!
When health, and hope were in their prime.

They tell of hours in memory's store,

The smiles, which love and friendship wore.

When life's full cup of bliss ran o'er.

Sweet, djdng strains ! Ye now expire !
xA.nd, transient as the meteor's fire,
Ye live not — save in memory's lyre.

Anonymous

i 107 )

THE LAST OF THE SOAT3IE^

I EMBARKED a few years since, at Pittsburg, for Cin-
cinnati, on board of a steam boat — more with a
view of realising the possibility of a speedy return
against the current, than in obedience to the call of
either business or pleasure. It was a voyage of specu-
lation. I was born on the banks of the Ohio, and the
only vessels associated with my early recollections
were the canoes of the Indians, which brought to Fort
Pitt their annual cargoes of skins and bear's oil. The
Flat boat of Kentucky, destined only to lloat with the
current, next appeared ; and after many 3^ears of in-
terval, the Keel boat of the Ohio, and the Barge of the
Mississippi were introduced for the convenience of the
infant commerce of the West.

At the period, at which I have dated my trip to Cin-
cinnati, the steam boat had made but kv7 voyages
back to Pittsburg. We were generally skeptics as to
its practicability. The mind was not prepared for
the change that was about to take place in the West.
It is now consummated ; and we yet look back with
astonishment at the result.

The rudest inhabitrait of our forests ; — the man v.-hose
mind is least of all imbued with a relish for the pic-
turesjue — wlio vrould gaze wiih vacant stare at the

108 THE LAST OF THE BOATMEN.

finest painting — listen with apathy to the softest mel-
ody, and turn with indifference from a mere display of
ingenious mechanism, is struck with the sublime pow-
er and self-moving majesty of a steam boat; — lingers
on the shore where it passes — and follows its rapid, and
almost magic course with silent admiration. The
steaai engine in live years has enabled us to anticipate
a state of things, Avhich, in the ordinary course of
events, it would have required a century to have pro-
duced. The art of printing scarcely surpassed it in
its beneficial consequences.

In the old world, the places of the greatest inter-
est to the pliilosorhic traveller are ruins, and monu-
ments, that speak of faded splendour, and departed
glory. The broken columns of Tadmor — the shape-
less ruins of Babylon, are rich in matter for almost
endless speculation. 1 ar difiierent is the case in the
'Western regions of America. The stranger views here,
with wonder, the rapidity with which cities spring up
in forests ; and with which barbarism retreats before the
approach of art and civilization. The rejection pos-
sessing the most intense interest is — not what has been
the character of the country, but what shall be her fu-
ture destiny.

. As we coasted along this cheerful scene, one reflec-
tion crossed my mind to diminish the pleasure it ex-
cited. This was caused by the sight of the ruins of
"the once splendid mansion of Blennerhassett. I had
spent some happy hours here, Avhen it was the favour-

THE LAST OF THE BOAT3IEN. 109

ite residence of taste and hospitality. I had seen it
when a lovely and accomplished woman presided —
shedding a charm around, which made it as inviting,
though not so dangerous, as the island of Calypso ; —
when its liberal and polished owner made it the resort
of every stranger, who had any pretensions to litera-
ture or science. — I had beheld it again under more in-
auspicious circumstances : — ^vhen its proprietor, in a
moment of visionary speculation, had abandoned this
earthly paradise to follow an adventurer — himself the
dupe of others. A military banditti held possession,
acting "by authority." The embellishments of art
and taste disappeared beneath the touch of a band of
Vandals: and the beautiful domain which presented
the imposing appearance of a palace, and which had
cost a fortune in the erection, was changed in one night,
into a scene of devastation 1 The chimneys of the
house remained for some years — the insulated monu-
ment of the folly of their owner, and pointed out to
the stranger the place where once stood the temple of
hospitality. Drift wood covered the pleasure grounds ;
and the massive, cut stone, that formed the columns
of the gatewaj^, were scattered more widely than the
fragments of the Egyptian Memnon.

When we left Pittsburgh, the season was not far ad-
vanced in vegetation. But as we proceeded, the
change was more rapid than the difference of latitude
justified. I had frequently observed this in former
.-•'oyages : but it never was so striking, as on the prespnl
10 ^

110 THE LAST OF TIIS BOATMEN*

occasion. The old mode of travelling, in the sluggish
flat boat seemed to give time for the change of season j
but now a few hours carried us into a different climate.
We met spring with all her laughing train of flowers
and verdure, rapidly advancing from the south. The
buck-eye, cotton-wood, and maple, had already as-
sumed, in this region, the rich livery of summer. The-
thousand varieties of the fiorai kingdom spread a
gay carpet over the luxuriant bottoms on each side
of the river. The thick woods resounded with the
notes of the feathered tribe — each striving to out-
do his neighbour in noise, if not in melody. We had
not yet reached the region of paroquets ; but the clear
toned whistle of the cardinal was heard in every bush ;
and the cat-bird was endeavouring, with its ufcuai zeal,
to rival the powers of the more gifted mocking-bird.

A few hours brought us to one of those stopping
points, known by the name of "wooding places." It
was situated immediately above LetartVs Fall?. The
boat, obedient to the wheel of the pilot, made a grace-
ful sweep towards the island above the chute, and roun-
ding to, approached the Avood piile. As the boat drew
near the shore, the escape steam reverberated through
the forest and hills, like the chafed bellowing of the
caged tiger. The root of a tree, concealed beneath
the water, prevented the boat from getting safSciently
near the bank, and it became necessary to use the
paddles to take a different position.

THE LAST OF THE BOATMEN.

Ill

"Back out! Manneel and try it again!" exclaim-
ed a voice from the shore. '-Throw your pole ^dde —
and brace olTl— or you'll ran against a snag!"

This was a kind of language long familiar to us on
the Ohio. It was a sample of the slang of the keel-
boatmen.

The si;eaker was immediaLely cheered by a dozen of
voices from the deck ; and I recognised in him the per-
son of an old acquaintance, familiarly known to me
from my boyhood. He v/as leaning carelessly against
a large beech ; and as his left arm negligently pressed
a rifle to his side, presented a figure, that SalvatoT
would have chosen from a million, as a model for his
wild and gloomy pencil. His stature was upwards of
six feet, his proportions perfectly symmetrical, and ex-
hibitins: the evidence of Herculean powers. To a
stranger, he would have seemed a complete mulatto.
Long exposure to the sun and weather on the lovrer
Ohio and Mississippi had changed his skin ; and-, but
for the fine European cast of his countenance, he might
have passed for the principal warrior of some power-
ful tribe. Although at least fifty years of age, his hair
was as black as the wing of the raven. Next to his
skin he Vv'ore a red flannel shirt, covered by a blue ca-
pot, ornamented with white fringe. On his feet were
moccasins, and a broad leathern belt, from vrhich hung,
suspended in a sheath, a large knife, encircled his waist.

As soon as the steam boat became stationary, the
<?abin passengers jumped on shore. On ascending thp

112 THE LAST OP THE BO 1T3IEN.

bank, the figure I have just described advanced to oi-
ler me his hand.

"How are you, Mike?" said I.

"Hovr goes it?" replied the boatman — grasping my
hand v^ith a squeeze, that I can compare to nothing,
but that of a blacksmith's vice.

"I am glad to see you, Mannee!" — continued he in-
his abrupt manner. "I am going to shoot at the tin
cup for a quart — off hand — and you must be judge."

I understood Mike at once, and on any other occa-
sion, should have remonstrated, and prevented the
daring trial of skill. But I was accompanied by a
couple of English tourists, who had scarcely ever been
beyond the sound of Bow Bells ; and who Avere travel-
ling post over the United States to make up a book of
observations, on our manners and customs. There
were, also, among the passengers, a few bloods from
Philadelphia and Baltimore, who could conceive of
nothing equal to Chesnut or Howard streets ; and who
expressed great disappointment, at not being able to
find terrapins and oysters at every village — marvellous-
ly lauding the comforts of Rubicum's. My tramon-
tane pride was aroused ; and I resolved to give them
an opportunity of seeing a Western Lion — for such
Mike undoubtedly was — in all his glory. The philan-
thropist may start, and accuse me of want of human-
ity. I deny the charge, and refer for apology to one
of the best understood principles of human nature.

THE LAST OF THE SOAT?,IEN. 113

Mike, follovred by several of hi? crew, led the Avay
to a beech grove, some little distance from the landing.
I invited my fellow passengers to Vvitness the scene. —
On arriving at the spot, a stout, bull-headed boatman,
dressed in a hunting shirt — but bare-footed — in v^-hom
I recognised a younger brother of Mike, drew a line
Avith his toe ; and stepping off thirty yards — turned
round fronting his brother — took a tin cup, which hung
from his belt, and placed it on his head. Although I
had seen this feat performed before, I acknowledge, I
felt uneasy, w^hilst this silent preparation was going on.
But I had not much time for reflection : for this second
Albert exclaimed —

'•Blaze away, 3Iikel and let's have the quart.'-

My "compagnons de voyage," as soon as they re-
covered from the lir.^t effect of their astonishment, ex-
hibited a disposition to interfere. But Tvlike, throvving
back his left leg, levelled his riile at the head of his
brother. In this horizontal position the weapon re-
mained for some seconds as immoveable, as if the arm
which held it, Avas affected by no pulsation.

^•Elevate your piece a little lower, Mike! or you
will pay the corn,-- cried the imperturbable brother.

I know not if the advice was obeyed or not ; but the
sViarp crack of the rille immediately followed, and the
cup rlew off thirty or forty yards — rendered unfit for
future service. There was a cry of admiration from
the strangers, who pressed forward to see, if the fool-
hardy boatman %vas really safe. He remained a^ im-
10*

114

THE LAST OF THE BOATMEN.

moveable, as if he had been a figure hewn out of stone
He had not even winked, when the ball struck the cu};
within two inches of his skull.

"Mike has won!" I exclaimed; and my decisioi'
was the signal which, according to their rules, permit-
ted him of the target to move from his position. No
more sensation was exhibited among the boatmen,
than if a common wager had been Avon. The bet being
decided, they hurried back to their boat, giving mc
and my friends an invitation to partake of " the treat."
We declined, and took leave of the thoughtless crea-
tures. In a few minutes afterwards, we observed their
"Keel" wheeling into the current, — the gigantic form
of Mike, bestriding the large steering oar, and the
others arranging themselves in their places in front of
the cabin, that extended nearly the whole length of
the boat, covering merchandize of immense value. As
they left the shore, they gave the Indian yell; and
broke out into a sort of unconnected chorus — com-
mencing with —

"Hard upon the beech oarl —

She moves too slow! —
All the way to Shawneetown,
Long while ago."
In a few moments the boat "took the chute" of Le-
tart's Falls, and disappeared behind the point, v.ith
the rapidity of an Arabian courser.

Our travellers returned to the boat, lost in specula-
f ion on the scene, and the beings they had just beheld ;.

THE LAST OF THE BOAT3IEX. 115

and, no doubt, the circiimstance has been related a
thousand times with all the necessary amplifications o1"
finished tourists.

iNIike Fink may be viewed, as the correct represen-
tative of a class of men now extinct ; but who once
possessed as marked a character, as that of the Gip-
sies of England, or the Lazaroni of Naples. The pe-
riod of their existence was not more than a third of a
centur}-. The character was created by the introduc-
tion of trade on the Western waters ; and ceased with
the successful establishment of the steam boat.

There is something inexplicable in the fact, that
there could be men found, for ordinary wages, v.ho
would abandon the systematic, but not laborious pur-
suits of agriculture, to follow a lifr, of all others, ex-
cept that of the soldier, distinguished by the greatest
exposure and privation. The occupation of a boat-
man was more calculated to destroy the constitution,
and to shorten life, than any other business. In ascen-
ding the river, it was a continued series of toil, rendered
more irksome by the snail like rate, at which they
moved. The boat was propelled by poles, against
which the shoulder was placed ; and the whole strength,
and skill of the individual were applied in this man-
ner. As the boatmen moved along the running board,
with their heads nearly touching the plank on which
they walked, the effect produced on the mind of an
observer was similar to that, on beholding the ox,
rocking before an overloaded cart. Their bodies, na-

116 THE LAST OF THE BOATMEN.

ked to their waist for the purpose of moving with
greater ease, and of enjoying the breeze of the river,
were exposed to the burning suns of summer, and to
the rains of autumn. After a hard daj^'s push, they
would take their "fillee," or ration of whiskey, and
having swallowed a miserable supper of meat half
burnt, and of bread half baked, stretch themselves,
without covering, on the deck, and slumber till the
steersman's call invited them to the morning " fillee."
Notwithstanding this, the boatman's life had charms
as irresistible^ as those presented by the splendid illu-
sions of the stage. Sons abandoned the comfortable
farms of their fathers, and apprentices fled from the
service of their masters. There was a captivation in
the idea of "going down the river;" and the youthful
boatman who had "pushed a keel" from New Orleans,
felt all the pride of a young merchant, after his first
voyage to an English sea port. From an exclusive
association together, they had formed a kind of slang
peculiar to themselves ; and from the constant exercise
of wit, with "the squatters" on shore, and crews of
other boats, they acquired a quickness, and smartness
of vulgar retort, that was quite amusing. The fre-
quent battles they were engaged in with the boatmen
of different parts of the river, and with the less civil-
ized inhabitants of the lower Ohio^ and Mississippi,
invested them with that ferocious reputation, which
has made them spoken of throughout Europe,

THE LAST OF THE BOAT.iIEN. 117

On board of the boats thus navigated, our merchants
entrusted valuable cargoes, without insurance, and
with no other guarantee than the receipt of the steers-
man, who possessed no property but his boat ; and the
confidence so reposed was seldom abused.

Among these men, Mike Fink stood an acknowl-
edged leader for many years. Endowed by nature
with those qualities of intellect, that give the possessor
influence, he would have been a conspicuous member
of any societ}-, in which his lot might have been cast.
An acute observer of human nature, has said — "Op-
portunity alone makes the hero. — Change but their
situations, and Caesar would have been but the best
wrestler on the green." \A ith a figure cast in a mould
that added much of the symmetry of an Apollo to the
limbs of a Hercules, he possessed gigantic strength ;
and accustomed from an early period of life to brave
the dangers of a frontier life, his character was noted
for the most daring intrepidity. At the court of Char-
lemagne, he might have been a Roland ; w^ith the Cru-
saders, he would have been the favourite of the Knight
of the Lion-heart; and in our revolution, he would
have ranked with the Morgans and Putnams of the
day. He was the hero of a hundred lights, and the
leader in a thousand daring advei^tures. From Pitts-
burg to St. Louis, and New Orleans, his fame v/as estab-
lished. Every farmer on the shore kept on good terms
with Mike — otherwise, there was no safety for his pro-
pertv. Wherever he was an enemy. like his great

118 THE LAST OF THE BOATMEN.

prototype, Rob Roy, he levied the contribution ol
Black Mail for the use of his boat. Often at night,
when his tired companions slept, he would take an
excursion of five or six miles, and return before morn-
ing, rich in spoil. On the Ohio, he v/as known anion
his companions by the appellation of the "Snapping
Turtle ;" and on the Mississippi, he was called "The
Snag."

At the early age of seventeen, Mike's character was
displayed, by enlisting himself in a corps of Scouts— a
body of irregular rangers, which was employed on the
North-western frontiers of Pennsylvania, to watch the
Indians, and to give notice of any threatened inroad
At that time, Pittsburgh was on the extreme verge of
white population, and the spies, who were constantly
employed, generally extended their explorations forty
or fifty miles to the west of this post. They went out,
singly, lived as did the Indian, and in every respect,
became perfectly assimilated in habits, taste, and feel-
ing, with the red men of the desert. A kind of bor-
der warfare was kept up, and the scout thought it as
praiseworthy to bring in the scalp of a Shawnee, as
the skin of a panther. He would remain in the woods
for weeks together, using parched corn for bread, and
depending on his rifle for his meat— and slept at night
in perfect comfort, rolled in his blanket.

In this corps, whilst yet a stripling, Mike acquired T
a reputation for boldness, and cunning, far beyond his i
eompanions. A thousand legends illustrate the fear-,

THE LAST OF TXIE BOAT3IEN. 119

lessness of bis character. There was one, which he
tolfi, himself, with much pride, and which made an in-
iehble impression on n.y bovuh niemory. He had
been out on tne hilis of Mah^aing, when, to use his
3wn words, '-he saw signs of Indians being about." —
He had discovered the recent print of the moccasin
on the grass ; and found drops of the fresh blood of a
deer on the green bush. He became cautious, skulked
for some time in the deepest thickets of hazle and
briar ; and, for several days, did not discharge his rifle.
He subsisted patiently on parched corn and jerk, which
|he had dried on his first coming into the woods. He
o-ave no alarm to the settlements, because he discover-
ed with perfect certainty, that the enemy consisted of
a small hunting party, who were receding from the
j Alleghany.

As he was creeping along one morning, with the
stealthy tread of a cat, his eye fell upon a beautiful
back, browsing on the edge of a barren spot, three
hundred yards distant. The temptation was too strong
for the woodsman, and he resolved to have a shot at
every hazard. Re-priming his gun, and picking his
flint, he made his approaches in the usual noiseless
manner. At the moment he reached the spot, from
which he meant to take his aim, he observed a large
savage, intent upon the same object, advancing from
a direction a little different from his own. Mike
shrunk behind a tree, with the quickness of thought,
and keeping his eye fixed on the hunter, waited the

i
1*20 THE LAST OF THE BOATMEN. |

result with patience. In a few moments, the Indian
halted within fifty paces, and levelled his piece at the
deer. In the meanwhile, Mike presented his rifle at
the bod}- of the savage ; and at the moment the smoke
issued from the gun of the latter, the bullet of Fink pass-
ed through the red man's breast. He uttered a yell.
and fell dead at the same instant with the deer. Mike
re-loaded his rifle, and remained in his covert for some
minutes, to ascertain whether there were more ene-
mies at hand. Pie then stepped up to the prostrate
savage, and having satisfied himself, that life was ex-
tinguished, turned his attention to the buck, and took
from the carcase those pieces, suited to the process o<
jerking.

In the meantime, the country was filling up with a
white population ; and in a few years the red men,
with the exception of a few fractions of tribes, gradu-
ally receded to the Lakes and beyond the Mississippi,
The corps of Scouts was abolished, after having ac-
quired habits, which unfitted them for the pursuits of
civilized society. Some incorporated themselves with
the Indians ; and others, from a strong attachment t®
their erratic mode of life, joined the boatmen, then
just becoming a distinct class. x\mong these was ouf
hero, Mike Fink, whose talents were soon developed ;
and for many years, he was as celebrated on the rivers
of the West, as he had been in the woods.

I gave to my fellow travellers the substance of the
foregoing narrative, as we sat on deck by moonlight,

THE LxVST OF THE BOATMEX. 121

aad cut swiftly through the magnificent sheet of water
between Letart and the Great Kanhawa. It was
one of those beautiful nights, which permitted every
thing to be seen with sufficient distinctness to avoid
danger; — yet created a certain degree of illusion, that
gave reins to the imagination. The outline of the
river hills lost all its harshness; and the occasional
bark of the house dog from the shore, and the distant
scream of the solitary loon, gave increased eifect to
the scene. It was altogether so delightful, that the
'hours till morning flew sAviftly by, whilst our travellers
dwelt with rapture on the surrounding scenery, which
shifted every moment like the capricious changes of
•the kaleidescope — and listening to tales of border war-
fare, as they were brought to mind, by passing the
places where they happened. The celebrated Hun-
ter's Leap,* and the bloody battle of Kanhawa, were
not forgotten.

The afternoon of the next day brought us to the
beautiful city of Cincinnati, which, in the course of
thirty years, has risen from a village of soldiers' huts
to a town, — giving promise of future splendour, equal
to any on the sea-board.

*A man, by the name of Huling, was hunting on the hill above
Point Pleasant, when he was discovered by a party of Indians.—
They pursued him to a precipice of more than sixty feet, over which
he sprang and escaped. On returning next morning with some neigh-
bours, it was discovered, that he jumped over the top of a sugar
tree, which grew from the bottom of the hill.
11

122

THE LAST OF THE BOAT3IEN.

Some years after the period, at which 1 have dated
my visit to Cincinnati, business called me to New
Orleans. On board of the steam boat, on which I had
embarked, at Louisville, 1 recognised, in the person of
the pilot, one of those men, who had formerly been a
patroon, or keel boat captain. I entered into conver-
sation with him on the subject of his former asso-
ciates.

"They are scattered in all directions," said he. "A
few, who had capacity, have become pilots of steam
boats. Many have joined the trading parties that
eross the Rocky mountains ; and a few have settled
down as farmers.''

"What has become," I asked, "of my old acquain-
tance, Mike Fink?"

"Mike was killed in a skrimmage," replied the pi-
lot. "He had refused several good offers on steam
boats. He said he could not bear the hissing of steam,
and he wanted room to throw his pole. He went to
the Missouri, and about a year since was shooting the
tin cup, when he had corned too heavy. He elevated
too low, and shot his companion through the head. A
friend of the deceased, who was present, suspecting
foul play, shot Mike through the heart, before he had
time to re-load his rifle."

With Mike Fink expired the spirit of the Boatmen-

N.

( 123 )

THE MOUND.

Here stood a Mound, erected by a race
Unknown in history or poet's song ;
Swept from the earth, nor even left a trace,
Where the broad ruin rolled its tide along : —
No hidden chronicle, these piles among,
Or hieroglyphic monument survives
To tell their being's date, or whence they sprung ;
Whether from gothic Europe's northern hives,
Or that devoted land where the dread Siroc drives.

Mysterious pile ! O say for Avhat designed 1
Have flaming altars on thy summit shone?
Have victims bled, by pious rites consigned
To appease the wrath above, and thus atone
For sinful man to the Eternal Throne?
Momentous monitor of mortal woe !
Thou dost proclaim a nation lost, unknown,
Smitten from earth by some tremendous blow,
Which but a God could give, and but the Omniscient
know.

Hill of the Lord ! where once, perchance, of yore,
Sincere devotion woke her pious strain ;

1:34 THE MOLND.

Mountain of God I did prostrate man adore,
And sing hosannahs to Jehovah's name,
While sacrifices fed thine altar's flame ?
And when stern War his sanguine banner spread,
And strewed the earth with many a warrior slain,
Didst thou become the charnel of the dead,
Who sought imperial sway, or for fair Freedom bled?

Yes — here may some intrepid chieftain lie,
Some Alexander, great as Philip's son,
Whose daring prowess bade the Persian fly
Before the conquering arm of Macedon ;
Or greater still, some former Washington,
Whom glory warmed and liberty inspired !
Who for this hemisphere perchance had won
His country's freedom, and, deplored, expired,
Bathed by a nation's tears, beloved, revered, admired.

High o'er this Mound, where Aborigines
Have mouldered with their long extinguished line,
Majestic stands a group of aged trees,
With trunks encompassed by the wreathing vine :
Close through the sylvan canopy entwine
Luxuriant growth of clustered vintage wild,
That not a penetrating ray can shine
To mar the cool retreat ; M'hich oft beguiled.
From summer's noontide beam, fair nature's loveliest
child.

THE 3IOUNR.

1-25

And here, from these o'ershadowing boughs among,
A choir of countless warblers cheered the dale,
While gentle zephyrs bore the strains along,
The plaintive dove her absent mate would wail.
And here to breathe the balmy fragrant gale,
On Sabbath eve would neighbouring youth repair,
And each recount full many a pleasing tale,
And thus the flow of social converse share.
While some would laugh aloud, and some with won-
der stare.

Moses Brooks.

11*

[ m )

THE FEVER DREA3i.

A FEVER scorched my body, fired my brain 1

Like lava in Vesuvius, boiled my blood

Within the glowing caverns of my heart.

I raged with thirst, and begged a cold, clear draught

Of fountain water. — 'T^vas with tears denied.

t drank a nauseous febrifuge, and slept ;

But rested not — harrassed with horrid dreams

Of burning deserts, and of dusty plains,

Mountaiiis disgorging flames — forests on fire,

Steam, sun-shine, smoke, and boiling lakes —

Hills of hot sand, and glowing stones that seemed

Embers and ashes of a burnt up world I

Thirst raged within me. — I sought the deepest valr.
And called on all the rocks and caves for water ; —
1 climbed a mountain, and from clifiTto cliff,
Pursued a flying cloud, howling for water : —
I crushed the withered herbs, and gnawed dry roots,
Still crying, Water ! water ! — While the cliffs and caves
In horrid mockery, re-echoed " Water!"
Below the mountain gleamed a city, red
With solar flame, upon the sandy bank
Of a broad river. — "Soon, Oh soon!" I cried,
" I'll cool my burning body in that flood,
And quaff my fill." — I ran — I reached the shore.-

THE FEVER DREATu. 1*27

The river was dried up. Its oozy bed
Was dust ; and on its arid rocks, I saw
The scaly myriads fry beneath the sun !
Where sunk the channel deepest, I beheld
A stirring multitude of human forms,
And heard a faint, wild, lamentable wail.
Thither I sped, and joined the general cry
Of — "water!" They had delved a spacious pit
In search of hidden fountains — sad, sad sight!
1 saw them rend the rocks up in their rage.
With mad impatience calling on the earth
To open and yield up her cooling fountains.

Meanwhile the skies, on which they dared not gaze,
Stood o'er them like a canopy of brass —
Undimmed by moisture. The red dog-star raged,
And Phoebus from the house of Virgo shot
His scorching shafts. The thirsty multitude
Grew still more frantic. Those who dug the earth
Fell lifeless on the rocks they strained to upheave,
And filled again, with their own carcasses,
The pits they made — undoing their own work!
Despair at length drove out the labourers.
At sight of whom a general groan announced
The death of hope. Ah I now no more was heard
The cry of " Avater 1" To the city next.
Howling, we ran — all hurrying without aim : —
Thence to the woods. The baked plain gaped for

moisture,
And from its arid breast heaved smoke, that seemed

128

THE FEVER DREAAl.

The breath of furnace — fierce, volcanic fire.

Or hot monsoon, that raises Syrian sands

To clouds. Amid the forests we espied

A faint and bleating herd. Sudden a shrill

And horrid shout arose of "Blood! blood! blood!-'

We fell upon them with the tiger's thirst.

And drank up all the blood that was not human I

We were dyed in blood ! Despair returned ;

The cry of blood was hushed, and dumb confusion

reigned.
Even then, when hope was dead ! — past hope—
I heard a laugh I and saw a wretched man
Rip his own veins, and bleeding, drink
With eager joy. The example seized on all :—
Each fell upon himself, tearing his veins
Fiercely in search of blood ! And some there were,
Who, having emptied their own veins, did seize
Upon their neighbour's arms, and slew them for their

blood —
Oh ! happy then were mothers who gave suck.
They dashed their little infants from their breasts.
And their shrunk bosoms tortured to extract
The balmy juice. Oh ! exquisitely sweet
To their parched tongues ! 'Tis done ! — now all is gone !
Blood, water, and the bosom's nectar, — all I

"Rend, Oh! ye lightnings! the sealed firmament,
And flood a burning world.— Rain! rain! pour! pour!
Open — ye windows of high heaven! and pour
The mighty deluge ! Let us drown, and drink

THE FEVER DREAM. 129

Luxurious death ! Ye earthquakes split the globe,
The solid, rock-ribbed globe ! — and lay all bare
Its subterranean rivers, and fresh seas!"

Thus raged the multitude. And many fell
In fierce convulsions ; — many slew themselves.

And now I saw the city all in flames —
The forest burning — and the very earth on fire !
I saw the mountains open with a roar,
Loud as the seven apocalyptic thunders,
And seas of lava rolling headlong down,
Through crackling forests fierce, and hot as Hell,
Down to the plain— I turned to fly, and waked 1

Dr. Harney.

( iSO)

THE STRANGER'S GRAVE.

1 SAW thee languish. Thou wast where
No pitying arm was stretch'd to save : —
I saw thee borne on the rough bier

By strangers to t'le grave.

They've laid thee here ; and I alone,

With stainless flowers have decked thy bed;

Vnd I have raised this nameless stone

Above thy lowly head.

And thou canst never more awake,
Though gentle eyes for thee should weep ;
Nor kindred sorrows ever break

Thy long undreaming sleep.

But thou wilt lie in this dark cell,
Beneath the unconscious clay ;
While they, whom thou hast loved so well,
Will chide thy long delay.

And they will wait for thy return,
At home, sweet home I so far away, —
For many a bright returning morn,

And many a twilight gray.

THE stranger's GRAVE. 131

And oft when lingering hope has fled,
Affection's tear for thee will flow,
While thou art slumbering in that bed,

Aflfection can not know.

Yet, when a few more years are fled,
They'll meet thee in the bright abode ;
And thou and they together tread

The star-embossed road.

Oh ! then, at life's immortal springs,

How sweet with those dear friends to bow —

Where peace and joy on seraph wings

Sublime are circling now.

Otway Curry,

( 132 )

VIEW OF PITTSBURGH.

Pittsburgh was laid out in 1784. It is situated
on a plain, at the junction of the Alleghany and
Monongahela rivers, which meet here and form the
Ohio.

The ground plat of the city is somewhat contrac-'
ted by the approach of hills, two of which. Grant'?
and Boyd's, run down close upon the eastern or back
line. This evil is, however, remedied by two elegant
bridges, traversing both rivers, one of which — that ovei
the Alleghany, operates as a street connecting the town
of Alleghany with Pittsburgh.

Under the French, this place was called Fort dir
Quesne. When the English took possession of it, thej
called it Fort Pitt, in honour of the Earl of Chatham.
When it came to be laid out as a county town, it
took its present name of Pittsburgh.

( 133)

THE BACHELORS' ELYSIUM.

[The following, written by the Editor of this work, was published
some years since in the Port Folio. But, as it will be new to most
of our readers, we give it a republication in the Souvenir.]

I PASSED an evening lately in company with a num-
I ber of young persons, who had met together for the
laudable purpose of spending a merry Christmas ; and
i as mirth exercises a prescriptive right of sovereignty
at this good old festival, every one came prepared to
! pay due homage to that pleasant deity. The party
; was opened with all the usual ceremonies ; the tea was
sipped, the cakes praised, and Sir Walter Scott's last
^ novel criticised ; and such was the good humour which
: prevailed, that although our fair hostess threw an es-
i tra portion of bohea into her tea-pot, not a breath of
I scandal floated among the vapours of that delightful
beverage. An aged gentleman, who happened to drop
in, at first claimed the privilege, as an old Revolu-
tioner, of monopolizing the conversation, and enter-
tained us with facetious tales, told the fiftieth time,
of Tarleton's trumpeter, general Washington's white
horse, and governor Mifflin's cocked hat, with occa-
sional pathetic digressions relating to bear-fights and
Indian massacres. The honest veteran, however, who
12

134 THE bachelors' ELYSIUM.

was accustomed to retire after smoking one pipe, soon
grew drowsy, and a similar affection, by sympathy I
suppose, began to circulate among his audience, when
our spirits received a new impulse from an accidental
turn of the conversation from three-cornered hats and
horses, to courtship and marriage. The relative ad-
vantages of married life and celibacy were discussed
with great vivacity ; and as there were a number of
old bachelors and antiquated maidens present, who
had thought deeply and feelingly on the subject, and
were, therefore, able to discuss it with singular felici-
ty, the ladies' side of the question had greatly the ad-
vantage.

A gentleman, who had reluctantly left the card-
table to join the ladies, gave his opinion, that life was
like a game of cards; that a good player was often eu-
cred by a bad partner — he thought it wise, therefore, to
play alone. "Perhaps," said a fair miss, "a good
partner might assist you." "Thank you, madam,"
said he, "courting a wife is nothing more than cutting
for partners — no one knows what card he may turn."

My friend, Absalom Squaretoes, gravely assured us,
that he had pondered on this subject long and deeply,
and it had caused him more perplexity than the bank-
ing system, or the Missouri question ; that there were se-
veral ladies whom he might have had, and whom, at one
time or other, he had determined to marry ; "But,"
continued he, arching his eye-brows with a dignity
which the great Fadladeen might have envied, "the

THE bachelors" ELYSIUM. 135

more I hesitated, the less inclination I felt to try the

experiment, and I am now convinced that marriase is

I not the thing it is cracked up to be!"

I Miss Tabitha Scruple, a blooming maid of three

, score, confessed that for her part, she vras very much

of Mr. Squaretoes' opinion. It was well enough for

honest, pains taking people to get married, but she

could not see how persons of sentiment could submit

I to it— "Unless, indeed," she added, "congenial souls

i could meet, and, without mercenary views, join in

I the tender bond : — but men are so deceitful, one runs

i a great risk you know I"

Mr. Smoothtongue, the lawyer, who had w^aited to
hear every other opinion before he gave his own, now
rose, and informed the company that he would con-
I elude the case, by stating a few points, which had oc-
, curred to him in the course of the argument. He be-
I gan by informing us, the question was one of great
i importance, and that much might be said on both
i sides.

He said that so great a man as lord Burleigh, treasurer
j to queen Elizabeth, had written ten rules of conduct,
i which he charged his son to observe, and keep next to
the ten laws of Moses, and that the very iirst of them
■ related to the choice of a wife. He pointed out all
I the unfortunate husbands mentioned in history, from
j Adam down to George the fourth, and after detailing
I the relative duties and rights of baron and femme, as
' laid down in Blackstone, concluded with sundry ex-

136 THE BACHELORS' ELYSIUai.

tracts from Pope, whose works he declared he set ,
more store to, than those of any writer in the English
language, except Mr. Chitty. He was interrupted by
a young lady, v/ho declared that Pope was a nasty,
censorious, old bachelor — so he was. The laAvyer re-
plied, that as Mr. Pope's general character was not
implicated in the present question, it could not be pro-
perly attacked, nor was he called on to defend it ; and
that, as long as his veracity was unimpeached, his tes-
timony must be believed, which he offered to prove
from Peake's Evidence, if the lady desired him to
produce authority. The lady assured him, that she
was greatly edified by his exposition of the law, and
had no desire to see the books ; — but confessed, that
though she admired his speech very much, she was still
at a loss to know which side he was on. " Madam,"
said he, with great gravity " I admire marriage as a
most excellent civil institution, but have no inclination
to engage in it, as I can never consent to tie a knot with
my tongue, which I can not untie with my teeth."

These opinions, coming from such high authority,
seemed to settle the controversy, and the question was
about to be carried nem. con. in favour of celibacy,
when an unlucky Miss, whose cheeks, and lips, and
teeth, reminded one of pearls, and cherries, and pea-
ches, while all the loves and graces laughed in her
eyes, uttered something in a loud whisper about "sour
grapes," which created a sensation among a certain
part of the company, of which you can form no ade-

THE BACHELORS* ELV!?IL;.I. 137

quate idea, unless you have witnessed the commotions
of a bee hive.

I now began to be seriously afraid, that our Christ-
mas gambols would eventuate in a tragical catastro-
phe ; and anticipating nothing less than a general pul-
ling of caps, was meditating on the propriety of saving
: my own curly locks by a precipitate retreat. For-
tunately, however, another speaker had taken the floor,
and before any other hostilities were committed, drew
! the attention of the belligerents, by a vi\ad descrip-
i tion of fiddler's Green. This, he assured us, was a
I residence prepared in the other world for maids and
. bachelors, where they were condemned as a punish-
ment for their lack of good fellowship in this world, to
I dance together to all eternity.

I Here was a new field for speculation. A variety of

i opinions were hazarded ; but as the ladies all talked

I together, I was unable to collect the half of them. —

I Some appeared to regard such a place as a paradise,

i while others seemed to consider it as a pandemonium.

[ The ladies desired to knov/ whether they Avould be

provided with good music and good partners ; and I

could overhear some of the gentlemen calculating the

chances of a snug loo-party, in a back room. On

these points our informant was unable to throw any

light. The general impression seemed to be, that the

managers of this everlasting ball would couple off the

company by lot, and that no appeal could be had from

their decision. Miss Scruple declared that she had a

138

mortal aversion to dancing, though she would not ob-
ject to leading off a set occasionally with particular
persons ; and that she would rather be married half
a dozen times, than be forced so jig it with any body
and every body. Mr. Skinflint thought so long a siege
of capering would be rather expensive on pumps, and
wished to know who was to suffer. Mr. Squaretoes
had no notion of using pumps ; he thought moccasins
would do ; he was for cheap fixings and strong. Miss
Fanny Flirt v/as delighted with the whole plan, pro-
vided they could change partners ; for she could ima-
gine no punishment more cruel than to be confined for
ever to a single beau. Mr. Goosy thought it would
be expedient to secure partners in time, and begged
Miss Demure to favour him with her hand for an eter-
nal reel. Little Sophy Sparkle, the cherry-lipped belle,
who had nearly been the instrument of kindling a war
as implacable as that of the Greeks and Trojans,
seemed to be afraid of again giving offence ; but, on
being asked her opinion, declared, that it was the most
charming scheme she ever heard, and that she would
dance as long as she could stand, with any body or
nobody, rather than not dance at all.

During all this time, I was lolling over the back
of a chair, — a lazy habit which, with many others, I
have caught since my third sweetheart turned me off;
and was rolling and twisting the pretty Sophy's hand-
kerchief— for I can't be idle — into every possible form
and shape. I was startled into consciousness by the

THE BACHELORS' ELYSILMI. loJ

dulcet voice of my fair companiou, as she exclainied,
"La ! Mr. Drywit, how melancholy you are I How ca:i
you look so cross, when every body else is laughing? —
Pray, Avhat do 3-ou think of the grand ball at Fiddler's
Green?" "I never trouble myself, madam, to thir^k
'about things which do not concern me." "Oh dear!
ithen you have no idea of going there?" "Not I, in-
!deed. — I go to no such places." "And not expecting
'•to inhabit the paradise of bachelors, it is a matter of
inditlerence to you, how your friends enjo}- themselves?'
'"No, indeed : I sincerely hope that you may caper in-
i to each others' good graces, and romp yourselves into
[the best humour imaginable with the pains and pleas-
I ures of single blessedness : As for my single self, I in-
I tend, unless some lady shall think proper to stand in
I her own light, to alter my condition." Having utter-
\ ed this heroic resolution, I made my bow and retired.
' But the conversation of the evening still haunted my
i imagination, and as I sunk to sleep, general Washing-
ton's white horse, Sophy Sparkle, and Fiddler's Green,
alternately occupied my brain, until the confused ima-
ges settling into a regular train of tbouglit, produced
the following vision,

I thought that the hour of my dissolution had arri-
ved, and I was about to take my departure to the
world of spirits. The solemnity of the event, which
' was taking place, did not aflect me however, as it.woukl
have done, had the same circumstance occurred in re-
ality ; for my mind was entirely filled vrith theconver-

140 THE bachelors' ELYSIUM.

sation of the previous evening ; and I thought, felt, and
died like a true bachelor. As I left the clay tenement
which I had inhabited so long, I could not avoid ho-
vering over it for a moment, to take a parting view of
the temple, which had confined my restless spirit, and
for- which, I must coofeps, I had a high respect. I
could now perceive, that time had made ravages in the
features which had lately been mine, that I had not
been a%vare of while living; and that the frame which
had carried me through a stormy world, was somewhat
the worse for the wear ; and I really felt a joy in esca-
ping from it, similar to the emotions with which the •
mariner quits the shattered bark, that has braved the
billov/s through a long voyage. Still, however, I felt
something like regret in quitting ray ancient habita-
tion ; and was beginning to recall to memory, the con-
quests I had made in it, and the sieges it had with-
stood, when I was obliged to take my departure. I
had ahvays thought that spirits flew out of a window,
or up the chimney ; but I nov/ found, that whatever "
might have been the practice of others, mine was a
ghost of too much politeness to withdraw in this man-
ner from a house, in which I had been only a boarder;
and accordingly, I walked deliberately down stairs,
and passed through the parlour. As soon as I reached
the open air, my spirit began to ascend for some dis-
tance, and then floated rapidly towards the north. It
was a brilliant evening, and as the stars shone M'ith
uncommon lustre, I could not help fancying them the

THE BACHELORS* ELYSIUM. 141

«yes of millions of beauties, avIio, having made it their
business to teaze the beaux in this world, were doomed
to light them to the next.

I do not know how long I had been journeying, when
'I discovered the sea beneath me, filled Avith mountains
of ice ; and I perceived that I was rapidly approaching
the North Pole, I now congratulated myself upon be-
ing able to determine, by actual observation, whether
the Poles are flattened, as some philosophers imagine,
together with other questions of like importance to
the happiness of mankind. But, how great was my
surprise, when, on arriving at the place, I found that
all the philosophers in the world were mistaken, ex-
cept captain Symmes ; and discovered only a yawning
cavern, into which I was suddenly precipitated !

I now travelled for some distance in utter darkness,
iand began to be very fearful of losing my waj^, when
I suddenly emerged into a new world, full of beauty,
melody, and brightness. I stood on the brink of a
small rivulet, and beheld before me an extensive lawn
of the richest green, spangled with millions of beauti-
ful flowers. Clusters of trees and vines were scattered
in every direction, loaded with delicious fruit. Birds
of the loveliest plumage floated in the air, and filled
the groves with melody. The garden of Eden, or the
[paradise of Mahomet, could not be arrayed by a poet-
ic fancy with half the charms of this Elysium.

While I stood enchanted with delight, a strain of
music stole along the air. ressmbling that which pro-

142 TllE BACHELORS' ELISIUM.

ceeds from a number of violins, tambourins, and tri-
angles ; and I was not a little surprised to recognise the
well-known air of "O dear, what can the matter be!''
At the same moment I perceived a female figure ad-
vancing with a rapid motion, resembling a hop, step anci
jump. I now cast a glance over my own person, as a
genteel spirit would naturally do at the approach of a
female, and discovered for the first time, that although
I had left my substance in the other world, I was pos-
sessed of an airy form, precisely similar to the one I had
left behind me, and was clad in the ghost of a suit of
clothes made after the newest fashion, which I had pur-
chased a few days before my death. I mechanically
raised my hand to adjust my cravat; but felt nothing,
and sighed to think that I was but the shadow of a
gentleman.

As the figure came near, she slackened her pace, and
struck into a graceful chasse forward, at the same time
motioning me to cross the rivulet, which I no sooner
did, than I involuntarily fell to dancing with incredi-
ble agility. The fair stranger was by this time close
to me, and we were setting to each other, as partners
would do in a cotillion, when she presented her ri^'ht
hand, and turned me, as she w^elcomed me to Fiddler's
Green. I was now more astonished than ever, for al-
though, when I took the lady's hand, I grasped noth-
ing but air — "thin air" — yet she spoke and acted with
precisely the grace, manner, and tone of a modern fair
helle. She was exceedingly happy to see me at the

THE bachelors' ELYSIUM. 143

Green — hoped I had left my friends well — and desired
to know how I had been for the last twenty years —
since she had seen me. I assured the lady, that she had
[the advantage of me — that I was really so unfortunate
las not to recollect my having had the honor of her ac-
iquaintance, and that I was totally ignorant of any
thing that had occurred twenty years ago, as that was
before my time. She told me, that it was useless to at-
tempt to conceal my age, which was well known at
the Green, and equally unpolite to deny my old ac-
Iquaintance. Upon her mentioning her name, I recog-
[nised her as a famous belle, who had died of a con-
[sumption at the introduction of the fashion of short
'sleeves and bare elbows. Having thus passed the com-
;pliment of the morning, my fair companion desired to
[conduct me to the principal manager of the Green, by
jwhom my right of admittance must be decided, and
ioffering both of her hands, whirled away in a waltz.
' We soon came to a part of the laAvn Avhich was
crowded with company, all of whom were dancing,
and I was about to advise my conductress to take a
circuitous course, to avoid the throng, Avhen she direc-
ted me to cast off, and right and left through it, a
manceuvre Avhich we performed with admirable suc-
i cess. On our arrival at the bower of the principal
I manager, the sentinels danced three times forward
; and back, then crossed over, and admitted us into the
. enclosure. My conductress now presented me to an

144

ofScer of the court, who, after cutting a pigeon wing
higher than my head, led me to his superior.

The manager was a tall, graceful person, dressed in
a full suit of black, with silk stockings, shoes, and
buckles ; an elegant dress sword glittered by his side,
but he wore his own hair, and carried a chapeau de
bras gracefully under his arm. He is the only person
in these regions, who is permitted to exercise his awn
taste in the ornaments of his person. He was beating
time with one foot, not being obliged, like the others, .
to dance ; I v/as informed, however, that he sometimes
amused himself v/ith a minuet, that step being appro-
priated solely to the managers, as the pigeon wing is to
the officers of inferior dignity. On such occasions, an
appropriate air is played, and the whole company are
obliged to dance minuets, to the great perplexity of
those ladies and gentlemen, who have not studied the
graces in the upper world. He received me with a i
polite bow, and desired me to amuse myself on the
Green for a few moments, as he was not then at leisure
to attend to me ; by which I perceived that dancing
gentlemen are every where equally fond of putting
off business.

On my return to the plain, I was attracted by the
delicious appearance of the fine clusters of fruit that
hung from the trees, and reached my hand to pluck a
peach— but I grasped nothing! My fair companion
was again at my side, and condescended to explain
the mystery.

•THE BACHELORS* ELYSIUM. 145

"Every thing you see here," said she, "surprises
you. You have yet to learn that marriage is man's
chief good, and they, w^ho neglect it, are sent here to
be punished. In the other world we had the substan-
tial and virtuous enjoyments of life before us, but we
disregarded them, and pursued phantoms of our own
creation. One sought wealth, and another honor;
but the greater number luxuriated in idle visions of
fancy. We were never happy but in imagining scenes
of delight too perfect for mortals to enjoy. The
heart and mind were left unoccupied, while we were
taken up with frivolities Avhich pleased the eye and
ear. In the affairs of love, we were particularly remiss.
Its fruits and flowers hung within our reach, but we
refused to pluck them. Ladies have danced off their
most tender lovers, and many a gentleman has gam-
bled away his mistress. The flurry of dissipation, and
the soft emotions of affection will not inhabit the same
breast. We were to choose between them, and we chose
amiss — and now behold the consequence ! We are
here surrounded by fruits and flowers that we can not
touch — ^we have listened to the same melody until it
has become tedious — we are confined to partners not
of our own choice — and the amusement, which was
once our greatest delight, is now a toil. When alive,
our fancies were busy in creating Elysian fields — here
we have an Elysium, — and we lead that life which
maids and bachelors delight in — a life of fiddling,
dancing, coquetry, and squabbling. We now learn
13

146 THE bachelors' ELYSiU3I.

that they only are happy who are usefully and virtu-
ously employed."

This account of the place which I was probably
destined to inhabit, was rather discouraging; but my
attention was soon drawn by fresh novelties. I was
particularly amused with the grotesque appearance of
the various groups around me. As the persons who
composed them were from every age and nation, their
costumes exhibited every variety of fashion. The
Grecian robe, and the Roman toga, the monkish cowl,
the monastic veil, and the blanket and feathers of the
Indian, were mingled in ludicrous contrast. Nor was
the allotment of partners less diverting. A gentleman
in an embroidered suit led off a beggar girl, while a
broad shouldered mynheer flirted with an Italian counr
tess. But I was most amused at seeing queen Eliza-
beth dancing a jig with a jolly cobbler, a person of
great ^'bonhommie,'" but who failed not to apply the
strap, when his stately partner moved with less agility
than comported with his notions. When she com-
plained of his cruelty, he reminded the hard-hearted
queen of her cousin Mary and lord Essex. Several of
her maids of honor were dancing near her with catho-
lic priests, and I could perceive that the latter took
great delight in jostling the royal lady, whenever an
opportunity offered.

My attention was withdrawn from the dancers by
the approach of a newly deceased bachelor, whose
appearance excited universal attention. He was a

THE bachelors' ELYSIUM. 147

tall, gaunt, hard-featured personage, whose beard had
evidently not known the discipline of a razor for a
month before his decease. His feet were cased in
moccasins, and his limbs in rude vestments of buck
skin ; a powder-horn and pouch were suspended from
hi^ shoulders, and a huge knife rested in his girdle.—
I knew him, at once, to be a hunter, who had been cha-
sins: deer in the woods, when he ought to have been
pursuing dears of another description. I determined
to have a little chat with him, and approaching, asked
him how he liked Fiddler^s Green.

"I don't know, stranger," said he, scratching his
head. "I'm rather jubus that Tve got into a sort of a
priminary here."

I expressed my surprise at his not admiring a place
where there were so many fine ladies.

"Why as to the matter of that," said he, "there's a
wonderful smart chance of women here— that are a
foct— and femfile society are elegant— for them that
likes it— but, for my part, I'd a heap rather camp out

by the side of a cane-brake, where there was a good

chance of bears and turkeys."

"But you forget," said I, " that you have left your
• flesh and blood behind ^ou."

" That are a fact," said he, "I feel powerful weak :

but I don't like the fixcns here, no how— I'm a *bomi-

nable bad hand among women— so I'd thank 'em no<

m be rnttins their shines about me.'*

148 THE bachelors' ELYSIUM,

"But, my friend, you will have to turn in directly,
and dance with some of them."

"I reckon not," said he,— "If I do, I'll agree to
give up my judgment ;— but if any of 'era have a mind
to run, or jump for a half pint, I'd as leave go it as
not."

This gentleman was followed by another, who came
in a still more questionable shape. The polite ghosts-
could not suppress a smile, at the sight of this moiety of
a man, while the ill-bred burst into peals of obstrep-
erous laughter. I easily recognised him to be a Dan-
dy ; and as he, with several other newly arrived spirits,
were hastening to the Manager's court, I repaired
thither also, in hopes of obtaining an audience.

As we passed along, my conductress pointed out to
me a most commodious arm-chair, in the shade of a
delightful bower, near which was suspended a richly
ornamented tobacco-pipe— while a huge tabby cat sat
purring on the cushion. It had an inviting air of com-
fortable indolence. On my inquiring whose limbs
were destined to repose in this convenient receptacle,
my companion replied : —

" It is called the chair of Celibacy.— The happy
maid or bachelor, whose singleness shall not be impu-
ted to any blameable cause, who spends a good hu-
moured life, and dies at a respectable age, in charity
with all the world, shall be seated in that commodious
chair, enjoy the company of this social quadruped.

THE bachelors' ELYSIUM. 149

and while pleasantly puiTing away the placid hours,
may indulge in any remarks whatever upon the sur-
rounding company, and thus enjoy all the luxuries of
unmarried life. Its cushion, however, has not as yet
found an occupant."

"But this," said I, "can be the reward of only one
meritorious individual. — What is to become of the
remainder of those that shall not be sentenced to
dance?"

"1 cannot answer your question," said she, "for as
yet no one has appeared, who could claim an exemp-
tion from the common fate. I suppose, however, that if
this chair should ever be fdled, others will be provi-
ded, should any future members of the fraternity es-
tablish their claims to the same felicity."

We soon arrived at the dread tribunal, which was
to decide our future destiny ; but before the anticipa-
ted investigation commenced, the court was thrown
into confusion by an altercation between the Dandy
and my friend from the back woods. The former, it
seems, had indulged himself in some imprudent jests
upon the dress of the latter, which so irritated the
gentleman in buckskin, that he threatened "to flirt
him sky high." The Dandy upon this swelled very
large, and assuming an air of vast importance, declar-
ed, that if a gentleman had used such language to
him, he would know v/hat to do.

" I tell you what, stranger," said the woodsman,
" you musnH intimate any thing of that sort to me,-^
13*

150

i don't want to strike such a mean white man as you^
but if you come over them words agin, drot my skin
if I don't try you a cool dig or two, any how."

An officer here interposed, and with some difficulty
restored peace, as the bachelor in buckskin contin-
ued to assert, that the other had hopped on him
without provocation, and that he wouldn't knock
under to no man. He was at length in some de-
gree pacified, and strolled off muttering that he wasn't
going for to trouble nobody — but that they musn't
go fooling about him.

The Manager had now ascended the justice-seat,
and was prepared to examine the newly arrived spirits.
The first who presented herself, was an unseemly mai-
den of forty, v,-ho stated her case with great fluency.
She assured the court, that it was not her own fault
that she was here, as she had always conducted herself
with great decorum, and had never evinced any dis-
like to matrimony. Indeed, she had once been duly
engaged to marry ; but her lover came in unexpec-
tedly upon her one day, when she was only just spank-
ing her youngest sister a little, for breaking a bottle of
perfume. — "And do you think," continued she, "the
ungrateful wretch didn't march off, swearing he had
caught a tartar ; and from that blessed day to this, I
never set eyes on him again."

" You may stand aside," said the Manager, "until
wo can find a suitable partner for you."

THE BACHELORS' ELYSIUM. 151

The Dandy now made his appearance, and was
about to commence his story with a bow as low as his
corsets would permit, when the Manager, suppressing
a smile, said— "Be pleased, Sir, to pair off with the
obliging lady who stands at the bar ;— your appearance
precludes the necessity of a hearing."

A languishing beauty now approached, and gently
ral^lng her downcast eyes, ogled the judge with a most
l^c^vltchingly pensive smile, which seemed to say, "Oh 1
take me to your arms, my love." "My history," said
she, "is short and melancholy. My heart was formed
for the soft impulses of affection, and was rendered
still more sensitive by a diligent perusal of the most
exquisite fictions in our language, I devoured those
productions, which describe the amiable and unfortu-
nate susceptibilities of my sex, and endeavoured to re-
gulate my conduct by the most approved rules of ro-
mance. I doted on Kanly beauty ; and knowing that
gentlemen admire the softer \irtues, I endeavoured,
while in their presence, to be all that was soft and
sweet. I selected several handsome men, on whom 1
conferred my particular regard and friendship, in the
hope that out of many I could fix one. To each of
these I ;;ave my entire confidence, consulted as to my
studies, and entrusted him with the feelings and the
sorrows of a too susceptible heart— leaving each to be-
lieve, that he was the only individual who enjoyed this
distinguished honour. To all other gentlemen, and to
my own sex, I evinced a polite indifference. My friends

152 THE bachelors'

treated me v/ith great kindness, but alas ! what is mere
kindness ! Some of them pressed my hand, and said a
great many soft things without coming to the point;
and some woukl even snatch a kiss, for which, not be-
ing followed by a declaration of love, I thought I
ought to have dismissed them ; but I had not sufficient i
resolution. And thus, with a heart feelingly alive to
the delights of connubial affection, and after a mise-
rable life devoted to its pursuits, I died without en-
joying its blisses."

"A little less solicitude to attain the object, might
perhaps have been attended with more success," said
the Manager. "We Avill endeavour to provide you
with a friend, of whose constancy you shall have no
reason to complain. For the present— be pleased to
stand aside."

This lady was succeeded by my sturdy acquain-
tance in buckskin, who declared that he never had
any use for a vafe. "Once in my life, I felt sort o' lone-
some," said he, "and it seemed like I ought to get
married. I didn't think, that it would make me any
happier, but thought, somehow, I'd feel better conten-
ted. So I went to see a young woman in the neighbour-
hood;—she was a right likely gal too, and her father
w^as well off; but, somehow, I didn't Hke the signs, and
so I quit the track;— and that's all the courten that
ever I did, to my knov/ledge."

"There is a lady in waiting," said the Manager,
pointing to the pensive beauty last examined, "who

THE BACHELORS' ELYSIUxM. 153

las been as unsuccessful as yourself; perhaps you may
ike the signs better in that quarter." "I reckon its
IS good luck as any," rejoined the gentleman; "I
srouldn't give a 'coon skin to boot between her and
my of the rest." Thus said, he seized her hands
and whirled her off with a swing, which kept her
lancing in the air, until they were out of sight.

Many other persons of both sexes were examined ;
3ut their loves were common place, and their pleas
rivolous or unfounded. Pride and avarice appeared

0 be the greatest foes to matrimony. It would be tedi-
»us to detail the numberless instances, in w'hich young
persons otherwise estimable, had, in obedience to their
mruly passions, done violence to the best affections of
Jieir hearts. The fear of marrying beneath them-
lelves, on the one hand, and the ambition to acquire
ivealth upon the other, constituted prolific sources of
)elibacy.

1 Parental authority was frequently alleged by the
ladies to have been exerted in opposition to their mat-
rimonial views ; but it appeared to have been used
successfully only where the lover Mas poor, and where
the lady's passion was not sufficiently strong to con-
tend against the parent's prudence.

Many suitable matches had been broken off by ma-
Qoeuvering. This seemed to be equally effectual,
■Whether used in friendship or in hostility. We heard of
imany old ladies, who having sons or daughters, or ne-
phews or nieces, to provide for, resolutely set their face^:

154 THE bachelors' ELYSIUM.

against all matrimonial alliances whatever, by which
a fortune or a beauty could be taken out of the mar-
ket ; and many others who, without such interest, oppo-
sed all matches which were not made by themselves.

I observed, moreover, that every gentleman averred,
that he could have married if he had been so disposed ;
and that not a single lady alledged, that she had been
prevented by want of offers.

The last lady who was put to the ordeal, was tlie
daughter of a rich confectioner, who fancied herself a
fine lady, because she had fed upon jellies and con-
serves. It seemed as if all the sweet meats and sugar
plums, which she had swallowed in the course of her
life, had turned to vinegar, and converted her into a
mass of acidity. She forgot that sweet things — such at
girls and plum cakes — grow stale by keeping; and
turned up her nose at lovers of all sorts and sizes, un-
til she became unsaleable. On hearing her doom, shr
cast a glance of indignation at the judge, and throw-
ing her eyes sunerciliously over the assembly, fixed
them on me, and darting towards me, with the ferocity
of a tigress, seemed determined to make me her part-
ner, or her prey. Alarmed at the prospect of a fate,
which appeared more terrible than any thing I had ev-
er fancied, I sprang aside, and rushing towards the
judge, was about to claim his protection — when
awoke.

James Hall.

( 155 ;

LA BELLE RIVIERE.

Wert thou here, my dear Fanny, to brighten my dream,

Could we roam through the cotton-tree grove,
That o'ershadows the bank of the beautiful stream,

And repeat the soft tale of our love ;
Then each scene were eurich'd with the hues of delight,

And the eye now bedim'd v/ith a tear.
Would be sparkling with rapture from morning till night,

As we trod the green shores of La Belle Riviere.

Could I bear you, my dear, to the sycamore grove.

By the graceful young cane could we stray,
Where the ever-green foliage resembles our love,

Blooming fresh through each wintery day ;
Then our faith would be brighten'd by pleasure's beam,

And while ling^'ring in bov/ers so dear,
We could hope that in future life's placid stream.

Would be margin'd with sweets like La Belle Riviere.

As the chrystal drops blend to be sevcr'd no more,
Till they fall in the far distant sea.

In some vine-cover'd cot by this sweet blooming shore-
Should my Fanny be Avedded to me.

Then would love be no longer the poet's day-dream.
But the warmth-giving sun of our sphere.

And life's tide gliding smoothly, a beautiful stream,
Would reflect its gay beams like La Belle Riviere.

James Hall-

( 156)

THE EMIGRANT.

Pride and folly only

Enticed me far from home-
Friendless, sad, and lonely,
Through distant lands to roam.

Sparkling glows the sun-beam,
O'er evening rock and tree ;

But there is not one beam
Of pleasure here for me.

Father now I know not,

Nor mother's face I see ;
Eyes of love now glow not,

With tears of joy for me.

Sisters have I none here,

Nor brothers good and kind -.

No ! ! am alone here,
The sport of every wind.

Shall no bosom ever

Warmed with affection be ?
Shall the tear-drop never

Wet the dear eye for me ?

ANONyMOUS

( 15?)

THE INFANT'S GRAVE.

How calm are thy slumbers, thou sweet, little stranger !
Unmindful of sorrow, regardless of danger ;
Thy mild spirit left thee, as pure as it found thee,
Ere the cold cares of life spread their darkness around
thee.

Sleep on, lovely cherub ! No more shalt thou waken ;
Thy body lies tenantless, cold, and forsaken :
No more shall the arms of a parent enfold thee,
No more shall the eye of affection behold thee !

Though now thy frail body in death is reclining.
Thy bright, spotless spirit with angels is shining ;
For our Saviour to us, an assurance has given,
That of such as thou art, is the kingdom of heaven,
Harvey D. Little.

14

( 158 )

CHETOCA, OR THE MAD BUFFALO.

The following facts are given on the authority of
Major Davenport of the army, an officer of high and
respectable standing, and who was conversant with all
the circumstances. They are presented without em-,
bellishment, as no art could add to the simple and
deep interest of the unadorned recital.

It will be necessary to premise, that the Osage lu
dians occupy an extensive tract of country on the
North and West of the Arkansas territory. The
game continued to be abundant throughout this region,
until the whites began to intrude upon their hunting
grounds. Killing the buffalo for the tongue and skin
alone, the whites committed great havoc among them,
and the animals continually attacked, receded from
the scene of slaughter. The government of the Uni-
ted States, to protect these, and other Indians, from
such unjust invasions of their territory, passed a law
prohibiting our citizens from hunting on the Indian
lands. This wholesome law was often evaded ; and its
violation was the more distressing to the Osages, as
the game had already become scarce ; and being hem-
med in to the westward by the Pawnees, a powerful
and warlike tribe, with whom they were always at war.

THE MAP BUFFALO. 159

ihey were unable to extend their hunting grounds in
1 that direction.

In the spring of 1824, a party, consisting of three or

' four whites, as many half breed Indians, and a negro,

disregarding the law, went from the borders of the Ar-

I kansas territory, to hunt in the Indian lands. They

' were discovered by a party of Osages, led by Chetoca

I Washenpesha, or the Mad Buffalo, the most famous

; war chief of that tribe. Mistaking the hunters, as

they afterwards stated, for Indians of an unfriendly

nation, they attacked and killed several of the party.

But upon ascertaining the character of those who had

fallen, they expressed much regret. "We fear," said

they, " that it will make trouble." Some of them were

even melted to tears.

As always happens in such cases, the affair produced
great excitement among the inhabitants on the fron-
tiers ; whose fears and passions are always excited by
the slightest insult from their warlike neighbours. The
aggressors were demanded from their tribe by the com-
mandant of the American troops stationed on the Ne-
otio river. After much consultation among themselves,
and upon the frequent reiteration of the demand, they
met in council at the garrison to the number of three
or four hundred. They formed themselves into a cir-
cle to hold their talk after their own fashion. The
demand was again repeated, and an appeal made to
them, enforcing the necessity of their compliance, and
the evil consequences which must result from a refusal

160 THE MAD BUFFALO.

At length the Mad Buffalo arose with great dignity,
and coming forward, declared himself to have been the
leader of the party accused. He said that he had
mistaken the hunters for a party of unfriendly Indians ;
and did not know, that there were any whites among
them, until after the deed was done. He expressed his
wilHngness to make any atonement for the wrong,
which he had ignorantly committed against the chil-
dren of his great father, the president ; and stepping
into the middle of the ring, "I deliver myself up," said
he to the American commandant, " to be dealt with as
may be thought proper." Five other warriors imme-
diately followed his example. They were taken in
charge, and held in close custody at the fort for a few
days, and then sent under a strong guard, down the
Arkansas to Little Rock, distant about three hundred
miles. During the first, or second night of their jour-
ney, one of them slipped off his hand cuffs, and made
his escape. Mad Buffalo was very much distressed at
the event. He spoke of the deserter with vehement
indignation, as a coward, who had disgraced his nation
and himself.

At the mouth of the Porto, they met with Major
Davenport, who had beer known to Mad Buffalo and
his people for about two years, and whose frank and
soldierly deportment had won their confidence. They
expressed great pleasure at this meeting, and consult-
ed with him as a friend, respecting their situation. —
He explained to them, as well as he could, the nature

THE MAJJ BUFFALO. 1(31

of their offence ; and that under the laws of the Uni-
ted States, they would have to be tried for murder, by a
court of justice, under the civil authority, and if found
guilty, would be punished with death by hanging. —
He advised them to employ counsel to defend them, as
our own citizens did under similar circumstances.

The Mad Buffalo seemed to be much moved by this
explanation, and for the first time to comprehend his
real situation. He told Major Davenport, that he had
expected to appear before a council of warriors like
himself, who would decide, on principles of honour,
and the particular circumstances, whether he had vio-
lated the plighted faith between his tribe and the chil-
dren of his great father. He did not expect, he said,
to be tried by laws, of which he was ignorant, and
which, as it appeared to him, very unjustly affixed the
punishment to his offence beforehand. He requested
Major Davenport to act as his counsel. But he de-
clined, assuring the chief, that not being a lawyer, he
could render him no semce, and that it was, besides,
impossible for him to leave his post to attend a trial,
at a spot so distant.

On the following morning, the Mad Buffalo appear-
ed much dejected, and told Major Davenport, that he
knew not how to act ; that he knew not what his fate
would be, nor what in justice it ought to be. His
countenance was indicative of strong sensibility, and
many contending emotions. He exhibited no symp-
toms of fear or alarm. But all the unyielding pride
14*

162 THE MAD BUFFALO.

and stubborn prejudices of the Indian character were
aroused, as he looked at the approaching crisis.

He a<'-ain desired Major Davenport to speak for him,
and delivered to him his war club as a token, that he
made him his deputy, with full power to act for him in
every emergency. He requested the Major to show
the war club to Claimore, the principal chief of the
Osages, who, on seeing that symbol, would do whatev-
er might be required of him.

''. When I saw you yesterday," said he, " I felt as if
I had seen ray father. I know you to be my friend.—
Go to Claimore— show him my war club. Whatever
you think ought to be done for me, tell Claimore and
he will do it."

They parted, the one for Little Rock, the other for
the post on Neotio river. On their arrival at the Rock,
a smith was sent for to remove the manacles from the
arms of the prisoner?, previous to their being confined
in jail. But the Buffalo, without waiting for assis-
tance, threw the irons from his wrists, and turning to
the officer who had charge of him —

"Go," said he, "-and tell your colonel, that the
Mad Buffalo could have escaped at any moment he
pleased, but would not. Tell him, that I gave my-
self up to the white people to answer for M'hat I had
done. I expected to be tried immediately by a coun-
cil of warriors, without being confined. They said
they must tie my arras — and I would not refuse. —

THE MAD BLFFALG. 163

They said I must be brought here— and I have come
without resistance."

Major Davenport saw Claimore, showed him the
war club, advised him to employ counsel for his peo-
ple below, and told him, that the Buffalo wished him
to attend his trial, and see justice done him. Clai-
more refused to attend the trial, as he considered it
not safe to trust himself among enemies ; but offered
five hundred dollars for counsel, which was accepted
and paid.

When the trial came on at the Rock, no exertions,
corresponding with the importance of the case, were
made for the prisoners. No legal evidence was pro-
duced against them, nor a case made out to warrant
conviction. Three of them were acquitted. But as
it was thought necessary by the politic jury to make
an example, which should strike terror among the In-
dians, the Mad Buffalo and the Little Eagle were se-
lected as victims to the prejudice, and vengeance of
the neighbouring whites ; — the Buffalo on account of
his influence in the tribe, and the Eagle, because the
lot happened to fall upon him.

The Buffalo behaved during the trial, with the same
resignation — the same calm courage and dignity, as
he had all along exhibited. He and the Eagle were
condemned to be hung ; and the three who were ac-
quitted returned to their tribe.

The sons of the Buffalo, some of whom were quite
grown up, frequently visited Major Davenport at the

164 THE MAD BUFFALO.

garrison, and alwaj-s requested to see the war club,—
After they heard that their father was condemned,
and they despaired of again seeing him, they request-
ed the Major to give them the war club. They ivould
often secretly and silently examine it, while the tears
would roll down their cheeks. He promised to give it
to the eldest of the sons, when it should be ascertain-
ed that their father never would return, but not before

The Buffalo declared he would never submit to be
hung up by the neck ; and made some unsuccessful at-
tempts to destroy himself. They were respited, from
time to time, by the acting governor, who took occa-
sion to visit them in prison. Upon being introduced^
the Buffalo made him a speech ; in which he expressed
his sentiments in loud, figurative, and fearless lan-
guage. In the midst of his speech, the Eagle touched
him, and told him, that in speaking so loud, he might
give oifence. " Give offence I" replied the Buffalo in-
dignantly, " am not I a man as Avell as he?"

Much interest was made by Major Davenport, Gov-
ernor McNair, and some others to obtain their pardon.
After about a years imprisonment, they were finally
pardoned by president Adams, soon after entering up-
on the duty of his office in 1825. They were liberated
at the Rock, and supplied by the people of the village
with a gun, ammunition, and provisions for their jour-
ney home.

Such, however, are the jealousy and hatred existing
between the frontier settlers, and the Indians, that, to

THE MAD BUFFALO. 165

■ avoid the danger of being shot on the way, it was ne-
cessary for them to take a circuit around the settle-
ments of more than three hundred miles. With this
view, they took the direction of the mountains be-
tween the Arkansas and Red rivers, lying close by day,
and travelling by night — and following the chain of
mountains, until they had passed the last settlement.

Here they were so much exhausted with hunger, fa-
; tigue, swelled legs, and sore feet, that thej could pro-
\ ceed no farther ; and, to add to their other sufferings, the
t Buffalo was taken sick. The Eagle left him with a
view of saving himself, and if possible, of sending re-
lief to his companion. Left to himself, the Buffalo
heated a stone, and by applying it to his breast, was
greatly relieved. He again pursued his journey, pass-
ed the Eagle on the way without knowing when or
where; and arrived at the garrison on Grand river, so
much emaciated, that Major Davenport did not know
him. He had not felt himself safe, until he reached
this point; and he could not give utterance to his joy
and gratitude, except by emphatic gestures, and inar-
ticulate sounds. Major Davenport gave him his war
club, supplied him with a horse and provisions, and
sent him on to his tribe. The Littfe Eagle arrived
soon after, and was sent on in the same manner.

The document containing their pardon, was soon af-
ter sent on, and delivered to them. But they could
not comprehend its meaning. And as it was a large
paper, and such as had been presented to them to sign.

166 THE MAD BUFFALO.

when they gave away their lands, they viewed it witi:
much jealousy and alarm. After recruiting their
strength a little, the Buffalo and Eagle, accompanied
by about two hundred of the Osages, returned to the
garrison to learn what the big paper meant. On its
being read and explained to them, and being told that
it said nothing about their lands, they went away per-
fectly satisfied, expressing the most friendly dispositian
towards their great father, the president.

Thus terminated the affray and trial of the Mad
Buffalo and his companions — strongly illustrating the
character of these rude sons of the forest, their viewf^
of civilized jurisprudence, and the absurdity, if nol
injustice, of making them amenable to laws, of which
Ihey must be wholly ignorant.

( 167)

THE PLANT OF HAVANA— A PARODY

There is not in the wide world a joy so divine,
As the joy we inhale from tobacco and wine ;
Oh ! the last rays of credit, and cash must depart,
'Ere the bloom of those pleasures shall fade from my
heart.

Yet it is not that nature has shed o'er the plant.
The strength to excite, and the fume to enchant,
'Tis not the soft joy of a dear sneezing fit, —
Oh, no ! it is something more exquisite yet !

'Tis, that round me choice spirits in high glee are seen,
Who pour wit brightly out, as the wine they pour in.
And who know how the looks of our sweethearts im-
prove.
When we see them reflected in cups that we love.

Sweet plant of Havana ! how calm could I rest.
If no clouds, but thy own, could o'ershadow my breast ;
Not love, nor false friendship, should vex or provoke,
And my woes, like thy dear self, should vanish in
smoke !

Orla>"do,

-( 168)

THE FOREST CHIEF.

'' Accursed be the savage crew,
That came with murderous hand.

And captive bore my only child,
To some far distant land !

My darling! shall I ne'er again

Thy cherub features see?
Oh, would that thou hadst ne'er been born,

Or I had died for thee !

The heartless monsters bore thee off,

Regardless of thy cries,
And soon thy blood may flow to grace

Some heathen sacrifice !

To die of lingering torture,

Or live an abject slave I
Oh would my child had ne'er been born

Or found an earlier grave !"

Thus spoke the Spanish commandant.

While tears profusely flowed ;
In mute and tearless agony,

The childless mother stood,

THE FOREST CHIEF. 169

When lo 1 a painted warrior stood

Before the weeping pair ;
And kind the words he spoke, though rude,

And fearless was his air.

'• Thy grief be hushed," the warrior said,

" And let thy terror cease ;
My heart is good, my arm is strong.

My feet are swift in chase.

The hawk has borne the lamb away —

The eagle shall pursue ;
The hawk is swift — but the eagle's wing

Is swifter, and more true.

The Muskogee is strong in war —

But feeble as a squaw.
When on the battle field he meets

The valourous Quapaw.

Farewell ! Before the sun shall rise,

The prowling Muskogee
Shall fall beneath my tomahawk.

Or yield his spoil to me."

He said. — No answer waited he,

But vanished from their sight,
And pierced the forest fearlessly,

As flies the bird of night.
15

170 THE FOREST CHIEF.

Thick darkness overshadowed him,
No eye could pierce the gloom ;

And, save when distant thunder moaned,
'Twas silent as the tomb.

The wolf forgot to bay that night,

The owl forgot to scream,
The wind was hushed, no murmur c rept

Along the placid stream.

Pale spirits glided silently
Their mouldering bodies o'er,

And weary nature slept as if
She ne'er would waken more.

But swift, and true, and fearlessly,
Pressed on that Foi'est chief;

And cautiously, with noiseless foot.
He crushed the fallen leaf.

In each opposing stream he plunged —

Nor ever halted he.
Till by the ambushed camp he stood.

Where slept the Muskogee.

No moment lost, the Forest chief
Proceeds with bush and brand ;

And many an ample pile uprears
Around the sleeping band.

THE FOREST CHIEF. 171

Then suddenly, each heap sends forth

A bright and fearful gleam ; —
The chieftain shouts! — a hundred caves

Send back the hostile scream.

As starts the timid deer;
Amazed those blazing lights to see.
That warlike yell to hear.

When lo ! a warrior rushes in,
Quick throws the pointed lance —

His knife gleams bright, and on the foe
Scowls terribly his glance.

Then waited not the Muskogee —
Their spirits quail with fear,

In fancy they, the battle cry
Of countless foes can hear.

With panic filled, they turn to fly,
While dastard flight may save,

And yielding to the foe their spoil,
They plunged into the wave.

The vdly conqueror mocks their fliglit ^
With menace long and wild —

Then seeks, in the forsaken camp.
The pale and trembling child ;

172 THE FOREST CHIEF.

He soothes him with a fond caress —
Then binds him to his back ;

And through the forest shade resume?
His lone and fearless track.

The morning came. — O'er banners gay.

The sunbeams brightly shine;
But mournful sits the commandant

Within the guarded line.

A murmur — and a step he hears —
Then shouts and laughter wild —

He start.?! — T'nere stands the Forest chief.
And there the lovel j child !

With transport, and with dumb amaze.

The father clasps his boy ;
The mother kissed his pallid cheek.

And o'er him wept with joy.

In every eye that gazed on them,

A generous tear-drop shone ;
All turned to thank the Forest chief—

The Forest chief was gone !

James Halt .

A TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION.

1) The beauties the Mgean sea presents, on a sum-
mer evening, have often been the subject of descrip-
tion. Though prepared for the splendour of the scene
by the story of others, yet the traveller, sailing over
its bosom, feels that no Avords can give an adequate
idea of the reality. The calm serenity of the azure
sky, the peaceful slumbers of the waters, and the glo-
ries of the setting sun, Avould create a poetic spirit in
a breast devoid of feeling. The air. the voyager
breathes, inspires romantic sentiments; and many a
elassick pilgrim, as his vessel gHdes onward, realizes,
why the poets of that clime were unrivalled, and the
chivalry of the Greeks unsurpassed in after times.

The islands, that perpetually rise and sink as it
were, have been compared to pleasing thoughts, that
continue to chase one another through the mind, and
when gone, recollection is delightful. But when the
story of the past is called to mind, the traveller ac-
knowledges ^^ith a sigh, that "all except their sun is
set." And yet, when sailing over the '' blue iEgean,' '
with the aid of fancy, one could easily imagine him-
self on the ocean of happiness, and hourly passing the
isles of bliss— where the gales are loaded with^ fra-
grance, where music floats in the air, and where with
15*

174 TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION.

enraptured cars, he continually hears the sounds of
gladness.

Such Avas the picture which painters for ages con-
templated in rapture, and poets strove to excel in de-
scribing.

The Greeks of the islands may be said to have en-
joyed a state of comparative freedom. They were
allowed to carry on a lucrative commerce ; and as long^
as they seemed insensible to their really enslaved con-
dition, they lived unmolested. The islanders were all
adventurous and brave. Their insular situation, ren-
dering them more or less dependent on the people of
other countries for many of the comforts and luxuries
of life, they were all early inured to lives of hardihood.

The little isle of Hydra, one of those " gems of the
sea," rises from the iEgean at the distance of a few
hours sail from NapoH di Romania, the capital of mo-
dern Greece. The traveller bound to Hydra, gener-
ally leaves the quay of that city in the evening ; and
while going out the harbour, he loses in the contem-
plation of the magnificent scenery around, the recol-
lection of the dirt and filth of the capital.

The Palamede hill towers aloft in the rear of the
city, and with its top bristling with batteries, seems
the giant guardian of the place. Before him lie the
ruins of the city of Agamemnon, while to the left, he
sees the snowy Taygctus bounding the view.

No Avhere is the scenery of Napoli surpassed. It
has repeatedly been pronounced one of the most pic-
turesque in the world.

TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION. H;)

The vova-e to Hydra is performed in a Caique or
open boat, and if the night prove pleasant, is both
speedy and delightful. Then is the magic ot a Gre-
cian evening truly felt. The moon shines wxth un-
clouded, snarkiing lustre, and the stillness is oaly mter-
Irupted by the slight noise of the purling wave, and
the revolutionary song of the sailors.

At Midnight, the traveller approaches Hydra, i ne
; Hand is a mass of rock with but scanty vegetation,
j and would seem every way unforbiddi.g as ares:dence ;
I yet here, a century or so ago, a few hardy adventurers
' settled, that on its barren shore., they might pos.eas a
kind of freedom.

\ few years since, its population was thirty thou-
sand The number has been doubtless thinned by war ;
and throughout the whole of the revolution, the Hy-
driotshav^ been conspicuoas for the most ardent de-
motion to the cause of Greece. At first it appears a
huge black mass, surrounded by a belt of snow, but
soon the tall white houses of the city are distinctly
seen. The Hghts, flitting about from place to place,
eive it the air of enchantment ; and some oue has not
unaptly compared them to stars of gold, upon a silver
ground. The quay was once lined with vessels from
all parts; but, at the time of our story, war had di-
minished the commerce of the island. In place ol
the neaceful merchantmen, the proud ship of war rode
at anchor. The dreadful fire ship lay at a safe dis-
■ tance from the =hovp. cannon fmwned from every chrt

ivO TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION.

and rock, and the air was filled with the busy note of
preparation.

It was here, that Anastasius, the hero of our tale,
was born. His father was a merchant, who, by long
and successful trade, had amassed immense wealth.
His connexions were extensive in the various quarters
of the Levant ; and the Hydriot, Andreas, was as well
known for his riches as his generosity. He had three
sons, and x\nastasius was the second. Our hero Avas
the favourite son ; and while his two brothers were inu-
red to lives of hardihood in their father's vessels, he
was nursed in the lap of ease. The primate of the
island initiated him into the sciences, and the younger
priests delighted in learning him some accomplishment.
At eighteen, Anastasius was learned for a modern
Greek. He was as remarkable for his talent of pleas-
ing, as the embellishments of the mind. But, yet, while
he pleased and flattered the old, and the young imita-
ted him, the life he led was not agreeable to his dis-
position. His spirit was romantick and venturous in
the extreme. To be careering over the waves in quest
of glory, to raise his country into importance, ivas his
desire.

Andreas was secretly proud of these noble aspira-
tions of his son ; but he trembled, lest they might prove
his ruin. Under a despotick government like that
which oppressed them, prudence directed, that such
feelings should be, as much as possible, repressed.

j^., TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTIOX. 177

J Andreas felt they possessed but a dangerous kind of
liberty, and he cautioned Anastasius against any ill-
timed burst of passion. While no Greek could — v/ere
time fitting — be more prodigal of his riches and bicod
than he, he would even have his proud son, like the
Roman patriot, make pretence of foolishness, till the
auspicious moment came, when he could tling aside
the mask, and assume his real character. Anastasius
obeyed, as far aspossible, the dictates of prudence, and
bowed with reluctance, to the force of surrounding
circumstances. When he reflected on the little chance
of distinction he had, he was overcome by the thought,
that he might leave the world unknown. The Mace-
donian conqueror grieved that his career was ended;
Anastasius wept, that his had not begun.

When Anastasius had just reached manhood, the
Greek revolution broke out. All had been long ex-
pecting that event, and hailed it with acclamation.
The people of Hydra early pledged every thing for
the cause of liberty. When the information first ar-
rived, an asrembly was called — not to debate whether
to rebel, but to determine on the manner trey could
best give their assistance Yet some there were, that
wavered. Anastasius, forgetful in the mordent of ex-
citement of the precedence due to age, sprang to an
elevated part of the assembly, and with the energy of
patriotism, silenced all doubts.

"Who is there," he cried, "chat Avould hesitate,
when the alternative i= freedom or slaverv) Let such

[78 TALE OF THE GREEK RE\OLUTIOi\.

an one but view the condition of the modern Greek.,.
The Spartan Helot was not more degraded. Has he
ever felt the equal influence of justice? And when has
the wretch, whose only crime was, that he was feared,
ever heard the sweet voice of mercy 1 Chained down
in his lowly condition, guarded on every side by mas-
ters, who, Avhen they became such, never ceased to be''
enemies, the Greek sees every avenue that might lead
from his prison, shut up forever. The axe or the bow ,
string finishes the brief career of him, who indulges in
a patriotick thought. Let us swear to submit no lon-
ger ! — We will free our soil from Asiatick pollution — or
if we can not — leave this classick land, and elsewhere
find a country. Does any one demand, how this shall
be done? — ^I answer, like the Athenians, let us trust to
our wooden walls."

As he ended,, the applause of those who heard, show-
ed their readiness to put his advice in practice.

The Greeks, at that time, possessed no regular built
ships of war. They were compelled to select their
largest merchantmen, and arm and equip them in
the best manner their scanty means could allow.

In a short time, a large fleet was brought together,
composed of the vessels of Hydra, and those of the
neighbouring islands. The young and hardy seamen
of the island, hastened to embark. Our hero's elder
brother, Demetrius, commanded one of the largest
5hips, while a younger. Leander, was lieutenant. Anri^-

TALE OF THE GIIEEK REVOLUTION. i7U

, tasius, as yet little acquainted with a seaiaring- life.

j acted only as a volunteer.

! We pass by several skirmishes between the Greek

i and Turkish fleets, and hasten to the first general en-

I gagement that happened.

I As soon as the Turkish fleet was descried, and sig-
nals were made by the admiral to engage, each Greek

! vessel pressed on, emulous of being the first to close ; but
the ship of Demetrius far outsailed the others. She
was met by a general discharge from every ship of the
enemy that could bring her guns to bear. But her
crew gloried in their critical situation, and giving one
loud, long shout for liberty, the ship was soon wreathed

! in the smoke of their incessant firing. But the odds

I were too much against her. By the time the other
ships had come up, she was almost unmanageable. Her

! rigging was cut to pieces, several shot between wind
and water, nearly half her crew dead or dying — and
her brave commander wounded. Demetrius was not
discouraged. He determined to board a frigate, that
continued to pour in a murderous fire, and take her, or
perish. The shreds of sails but just served to bring
his ship along side the other — he grappled with her, and
he and Anastasius, begging the remnant of the crew
to fight but a few moments longer as they had done,
sprang on board. The Turks were prepared to meet
them, and soon the decks of the frigate ran in blood.
The combat Avas of the most deadly character. No
quarter v»'as given, and none expected. Musket, pike.

180 TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTiOIS.

and sabre were all at once in requisition, and the fight
advanced, or receded along the decks, like the waves
of the sea. The dying crawled to each other, and ex-
hausted the last remains of their strength, in the fee-
ble attempt to kill.

As was to be expected, Anastasius was among the
foremost. He had as yet escaped unhurt : — and by the
side of Demetrius and Leander, was hewing his way
to the after part of the vessel, where the Turkish com-
mander stood. But the strength of the boy, Leander,
did not permit him to keep even pace with his broth-
■ers. They forced their way some distance into the
crowd of opposing Turks, and while fighting with a
strength that seemed to his enemies supernatural, An-
astasius was arrested in his course by a short, convul-
sive cry proceeding from the rear. He instantly turn-
ed, and saw his brave, younger brother lying on the
deck, pierced already with a mortal w^ound, and a
ferocious sailor standing on him, about to plunge his sa-
bre in his bosom. Anastasius sjirang on him like a
tiger, and at one blow his head roiled on the deck. Jusl
as Anastasius embraced his brother, a tremendous ex-
plosion lifted them all in the air, and our hero w^ith
the dying Leander in his arms, fell in the sea, a few
yards from the frigate. The explosion was caused
by a box of cartridges, that had accidentally taken
fire on the second deck. Anastasius, unhurt, support-
ed Leander in his arms, and swam to the nearest Greek
ship. The dying, young officer was received onboard

Tx\LE OF THE GREEK PvEVOLUTION. iSl

Anastasius could just give him a last embrace, and
he made his way back through the fire, to the ship,
where his brother was engaged. He climbed on deck
by the fore-chains, wrenched a sabre from the hand of
a dead Turk, and with his blackened figure and furi-
ous mien, struck the few who yet defended the ship
Tpith terror. The Greeks, animated by his presence,
soon forced them to surrender. He then sought out
his brother, Demetrius, and found him lying among the
dead. Life was not quite extinct. He laid beside

the Turkish captain, who had fallen by his hand.

At the time our hero was thrown in the sea, Demetrius
had forced his way to him. With the utmost fury
they struck at one another, each more intent on the
lother's destruction, than individual safety — the Turk
iWas instantly killed, and the Greek mortally wound-
ied. When their captain fell, the Greeks continued
to fight, that they might avenge him. Anastasius
soothed his brother's last moments with the assurance
of victory.

I When Anastasius returned to Hydra, Andreas shed-
tears over him, — now his only son. But, though the
old man had already lost two sons, he was readj^ to
lose the third and dearest. He fitted out a brulot, or
fire ship, of the largest class, and putting him in com-
imand, wished him to go to sea immediately, as his
country had a right to his continued services. The
old man accompanied his boy to the quay, and giving
him a fond embrace, said with a fanlterin^- voice —
16

18*2 TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION.

"•Go, my sonl and fight, as you have done, for your
country. There rides your fire ship, the best gift i
can bestow on thee. I know that thou wilt show thy-
self worthy of it."

Anastasius could but return his father's embrace,
and they parted.

The brulots in the Greek service, are among the
most formidable engines of destruction, known in war.
The hold is filled with powder, the decks covered with
barrels of pitch and tar, and the rigging smeared, and
saturated with the most inflaraable substances. That
commanded by Anastasius, was of the finest descrip-
tion. He burned for an opportunity to distinguish
himself; but, for a long time, he accompanied the fleet,
and coasted about among the islands without meeting
it.

He happened to stop at the island of Ipsara. He on-
ly touched there for a few hours to view the place, and
give his sailors an opportunity of seeing their friends
and acquaintances. He occupied himself in rowing
about the island, already so remarkably distinguished
by the exertions of its people in the cause of liberty.
Like his own native isle, it was a heap of rocks, with
but little vegetation — and the resemblance made it the
dearer. Here and there, throughout the little island,
was a spot, where great labour and expense had made
the forbidding face of nature smile. Towards eve-
ning, as Anastasius neared the town, he passed one of
^hose retreats, which was of rather a superior or

TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION. 18o

der. Every thing about showed the man of taste and
wealth. But a few acres surrounded the house, yet
that house was embosomed in trees, and the rocks Mere
fancifully fringed with evergreens. — Near the house,
a little cascade foamed over the cliff. — A statue or
two, taken from the ruins of sorhe ancient temple,
were made to adorn the walks — while the air was load-
ed with the perfume of the citron and the pomegran-
ate. Anastasius was attracted by the beauties of the
place. He entered, and making himself known to the
owner, was gladly received. The family was small,
consisting of the parents and an only daughter. But
that daughter was a fit person to be the divinity of
that little paradise. Her beauty was of the most
transcendent character. Her figure was tall and com-
manding ; — her dark eye spoke the generous soul, and
her whole manner had a charm, that at on ^e, attrac-
ted the attention of Anastasius.

He had passed the Hydriot girls, almost without no-
tice. The Ipsariot ladies are pre-eminent for beau-
ty, and Helena might be said to unite in her person,
their every charm. When our hero parted, his thoughts
were of her. He found a pleasure, before unknown, in
again and again revisiting that lovely spot. He post-
poned, from day to day, the time of sailing, and each
hour rendered him the more loath to quit the island.

Helena at first felt maiden timidity, when in compa-
ny with Anastasius ; but soon, the pleasure she felt
when he approached, was manifest to all.

i54 TALE OP THE GREEK REVOLUTION.

To be brief, they were of congenial minds. Their
sentiments were of the same noble order. — They loved
their country, and each other, with the same pas-
sionate attachment.

At length, after some weeks passed most happily,
the day arrived, when the weight of Turkish fury was
to fall on Ipsara.

The bravery her people had always displayed, while
it excited the admiration of their countrymen, roused
the indignation of the Turkish government, and she
was now to be made a frightful example to others.—
Anastasius was on board his ship, which lay at a part
of the island, distant from the little town, when he
was aroused by the sound of cannon ; and he had hard-
ly reached the deck, when a loud shriek, as if from
every inhabitant, reached his ears. It was a horrible
death yell, in v/hich the moan of anguish and misery
was mingled Avith the laugh of savage satisfaction.

From every part of the island, he beheld the flame;
towering in the air. The rattling of muskets— the
explosion of magazines— the shooting flames— the yells
and cries on every side, rendered it a frightful scene ! —
Anastasius leaped into the boat with a few followers,
and with frantick haste, rushed to that part of the isl-
and, where the father of Helena lived. His way laid
on the clifls, at some distance from the scene of action,
as they passed on, his comrades saw the town in flames,
and its miserable people shot down in heaps. Bands of
maddened Turks were running to and fro, some plun-

TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION. 185

dering — some butchering, while crowds were fi2;htinc;

among themselves about the division of their booty,

Others were quarrelling over the beautiful and helpless
women, who had fallen victims to their brutal power
and licentiousness. Some wretched females were seen
running with frantick rapidity — pursued by scores of
ruffians — and when escape wa- impossible, thev threw
themselves from the rocks into the sea. The scene
was dreadful I The rough sailors of Anastasius, as
they passed on, covered their faces with their hands —
or turned their eyes from the picture of horror.

The}^ soon came to the place, where was once the
beautiful residence of Helena's father. They found
the house a smouldering mass of ruins, the trees scorch-
ed, or burnt, and at a little distance, lay the bloody
remains of the father and mother, as they had been
shot down in the attempt to fly, Anastasius could
just look farther, where a group of Turks were collec-
ted. He beheld her, the idol of his heart, in the cen-
tre of the savage crew, held firmly in the arms of their
leader, a tall, ferocious Turk. She was exhausted by
her exertions to free herself from the violence he offer-
ed, and was just sinking down in despair, when she
saw Anastasius. She called on him, in a heart rending
tone, to save her.

The savage who held her, turned, and seeing Anas-
tasius ready to spring upon him, pulled a pistol from
his belt, and brought our hero to the ground. Anasta-
sius s:nve but one look more — and saw her borne off
16^-

186 TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION*

senseless. — His eyes became glazed, and it was not till
his men had carried him beyond the reach of danger,
that animation returned. For some time, he continued
in a state of stupor — and when the tide of life flowed
with more celerity — fever and delirium succeeded. —
He incessantly called on her, whom he had lost. — He
would often spring from his bed — and w^hen confined
to it, by the strength of his affectionate men, he would
curse them for preventing him from rescuing her. —
When he, at length, regained his health and strength,
the desolate state of his feelings can not be described.
His heart was like a waste, where no vegetation
smiles, and where not a sunbeam comes to cheer its
loneliness. He prayed that he might soon have an op-
portunity of sacrificing his life for his country, and at
the same time, freeing him?elf from the load of misery
that weighed him down. He loved the dangerous ser-
vice he was engaged in ; — its desperate nature suited
the gloomy habit of his soul.

He had almost despaired of having an opportunity
of distinction, Avhen, after seeking it in ev^ery quarter,
he was, at last, rejoiced to see a large Turkish frigate ri-
ding at anchor near the island : and the stillness, that
prevailed on her decks, showed that her crew were un-
conscious of the proximity of danger. But v/hen the
black scowling hulk of the fire ship hove in sight, far |
different was their conduct. Her deadly chara.cter
was instantly known.

TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION. 187

Anxiety first seized them — then frantick terror, as
they saw her steadily bearing down upon them, like
the demon of destruction. The decks of the frigate
became a scene of confusion. An ineiTectual attempt
was made to cut her cables and escape. Some essay-
ed to point the ship's guns at the brulot ; but fear and
despair prevented their taking aim. The shot skipped
harmlessly over the blue waves. The fire ship came
steadily on, with every sail set, and not a living thing
to be seen on deck. Yet the unseen helmsman kept
her straight to her prey, and as she neared the frigate,
her crew lost all subordination, under the influence of
terror. They cut down such officers as opposed them,
seized the boats, and made for the shore. The captain
of the frigate saw that destruction was inevitable;
yet with the fixed determination of a fatalist, he exer-
ted himself to the utmost to prevent desertion.

The nature of the service required the greatest pre-
sence of mind ; and Anastasius briefly requested his
crew to be calm and collected. Their duty was sim-
ple and easy. They were to cause the fire ship to be
driven onward by the united force of wind and currrent,
and as thej- approached the enemy, to watch their
captain, and the moment they saw him apply the
match, rush to the stern port, cut loose the boat, and
rov^' for their lives.

The crash of the vessels, as they came together, Avas
soon heard . The grappling hooks of the brulot were in-

188 TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION.

stantly entangled in the rigging of the frigate — Anas-
tasius touched the deadly train.

" Now !" cried he, " to the boat ! — to the boat ! — and
may God be with us !"

They sprang to the boat, with the rapidity of light-
ning— cut the ropes — and with a force, which the most
imminent danger could only give, sent her, the first
plunge of the oars, some distance from the brulot. As
they shot out from under the stern, they saw the Turk-
ish captain, standing on the quarter deck of the fri-
gate, leaning on the ca-.istan, deserted by his crew,
and contemplating in grim despair, the . approach of
death. For him there was no alternative but to die.
He could not save his ship ; and he well knew, that if
he survived her, he would be suffered to live but for a
brief time. But as he beheld his destroyers about to
escape, he assumed the look of a fury. His eyes flash-
ed with anger, he sprang forward, fired both his pistols
at the retiring crew, and with impotent rage, flung the
weapons after them.

Anastasius had hardly applied the match, before the
flames ascended through the hatch, and the hull of the
brulot was a mass of fire. Like streaks of lightning,
it darted through the rigging. The fire ran along the
j-ards, and in one short moment, the flames of the fri-
gate towered in the air. They leaped from sail to
sail, and climbed the ropes, until they sent up their
forked points from the tops of the masts. The crack-
ling of the burning rigging, the roar of the fire in the

TALE OF THE GREEK iiEVOLUTiOiX. 189

hold, and the successive explosion of the barrels of
powder, all formed a scene of awful grandeur.

Just then a loud shriek reached the ear of Anasta-
sius. He cast his eyes toward the scene of destruc-
tion, and saw a female form on the deck of the frigate
imploring their assistance. He knew the tones of the
voice, though altered by despair. In spite of the
efforts of his men, he leaped from the boat, and with a
supernatural strengtli, swam to the frigate— mounted
the side— and Helena, whom he had mourned as
lost and dishonoured, was locked in his arms. The
captain of the frigate was the man, who had borne her
off from Ipsara, had taken her on board his ship, and
i as yet, had retrained from ibrce. She had closed her
ieyes on the light of day ever since she saw her home
(destroyed, her parents murdered, and him she loved
i apparently killed.

In the general confusion of the scene, she was neglec-
ted and forgotten. The dreadful noise of the flames
restored her to a sense of her situation. She ran on
"deck, and the horrible scene around caused her to ut-
|ter the shriek, that rose above the noise, and reached
:the ears of Anastasius. She fell in the arms of our
jhero senseless. But the rapturous feelings excited by
this unhoped for meeting were momentary, and a
mournful presentiment crossed the minds of both, that
now was the time they were to die together. The idea
[was even pleasant. To think that amid the dangers
ithat had surrounded them, she had been preserved in

190 TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION.

innocency for this grand and awful hour, made them
grateful to heaven. That he might die for his country,
had long been the wish of Anastasius. And now, when
escape was impossible, a feeling of satisfaction posses-
sed his soul. He viewed with pleasure the fiery canopj
above, and the flaming walls around.

Suddenly, the thought struck him, that he might save, ,
her and himself, by plunging into the sea, and endea-tj
vouring to reach his boat, in which his men were wait-
ing. With this view he grasped her more closely in hii
arms, and, unopposed by the Turkish captain, who ir
a kind of stupor awaited his fate, he leaped ove;
the side of the vessel, and with the assistance o
a floating spar, supported the yet insensible Helena ir
his arms. His men from the boat could yet see wha
passed at the frigate. They witnessed the act of ou
hero, and knew his wish ; but their rough natures weri
subdued into tears, when they could not afford any as
sistance. The frigate might blow up ; every momen
her guns were discharging themselves from heat, ant
destruction was the inevitable consequence of an at
tempt to approach. But the strength of Anastasius
already exhausted by his exertions, was unable to hol(
out longer. He felt himself failing fast. He cast oi
Helena a last, mournful regard, and overcome witl
grief, begged her to give him a look before they sun!
forever. At the sound of his voice, she opened he
eyes — and for a moment they beamed with the lustr
they had possessed in days of happiness ; and whil

TALE OF THE GREEK REVOLUTION. 191

Anastasius contemplated that face, they sunk — and the
blue waves of the iEgean closed over them in placid
calmness.

Long as the sailors of Anastasius continued in sight,
they could distinguish the Turkish captain, the solita-
ry monarch of his ship, standing in lonely majesty. —
On a sudden, the hull of the frigate seemed to lift it-
self from the water, the air was darkened by the
smoke of the explosion, and the sea covered with the
floating timbers of the wreck.

Louis R. Noble.

( 192 )

THE TURKISH FLAG SHIP.

The Moslem crew lay wrapt in sleep,

Nor dreamed of foe or danger near ;
And not a beacon o'er the deep,

Gleamed to awake distrust or fear.
.\11 silent was the lonely deck,

As rocked the flag ship on the tide,
Whose hundred ports oped wide and black

The terrors of her bulwarked side.

The sea-bird's cry was heard no more,

In calmness heaved the ocean's swell,
No sound the gentle night breeze bore,

But tread of watchful sentinel.
But soon from sweet and deep repose,

The startled mariner awoke : —
A flash has burst ! — An instant shows

The Moslem flag ship wrapt in smoke.

O'er mast, and 3' ard, and shroud it came,

While through the darkness fearfully,
The hot guns — pouring streams of flame.

Pealed their last thunders o'er the sea.
No shriek was heard : — the warrior oak

Parted with earthquake shock in twain.
A moment's gleam o'er ocean broke —

Then night resumed her sleep again.

Henry Stark^

( 193 ,)

TO MARY.

My Mary, if the tales v.ere true.

Of fairy forms that tell,
"^Vho sip from flowers the balmy dew.

Or haunt the shadowy dell ;
Who watch the silent glance or tear.

That bashful maids conceal,
\nd softly to the enamoured ear,

The tender tale reveal ;

How blest would be the rapid wing

Of herald, true as these ;
Soft messages of love to bring,

Swift as the sweeping breeze ;
For they to thee would whisper, dear<

Of him far from thee driven.
Whose sighs ascend in daily prajer,

For thy dear sake to Heaven !

And, Mary ! they would softly tell,

Where'er I chanced to rove,
What anxious thoughts my bosom swell.

For thee — my plighted love I
\nd, daily, when thy cheeks reveal

Charms so divine in thee,
^oft kisses they would gently steal,

And bear the sweets to me !

Orlando.
.17

( 194)

THE BILLIARD TABLE.

On one of those clear nights in December, when the
cloudless, blue sky is studded with millions of brilliant
luminaries, shining with more than ordinary lustre, a
young gentleman was seen rapidly pacing one of the
principal streets of Pittsburgh. Had he been a lover
of nature, the beauty of the heavens must have at-
tracted his observation ; but he was too much wrapped
up in his thoughts — or in his cloak — to throw a single
glance towards the silent orbs, that glowed so beaute-
ously in the firmament. A piercing wind swept through
the streets, moaning and sighing, as if it felt the pain
that it inflicted. The intense coldness of the weather
had driven the usual loiterers of the night from theii
accustomed lounging places. Every door and shutter
was closed against the common enemy, save where thf
"Blue spirits and red,
Black spirits and grey,"
which adorn the shelves of the druggist, mingled thei'
hues with the shadoM's of the night ; or where the win-
dow of the confectioner, redolent of light, and fruit,
and sugar plumbs, shed its refulgence upon the half
petrified wanderer. The streets were forsaken, except
by a fearless, or necessitous few, who glided rapidly and
silently along, as the spectres of the night. Aught else

THE BILLIARD TABLE. 195

than love or murder would scarcely have ventured to
stalk abroad on such a night; and yet it would be
hardly fair to set down the few, unfortunate stragglers,
who faced the blast on this eventful evening, as lovers
or assassins. Pleasure sends forth her thousands, and
necessity her millions, into all the dangers and troubles
of this boisterous world.

On reaching the outlet of an obscure alley, the young
gentleman paused, cast a susoicious glance around, as
if fearful of observation, and then darted into the
gloomy passage. A few rauid steps brought him to the
front of a wretched frame building, apparently unten-
anted, or occupied only as a warehouse, through whose
broken panes the wind whistled, while the locked doors
seemed to bid defiance to any ingress, but that of the
piercing element. It was in truth a lonely back-buil-
ding, in the heart of the town ; but so i&Qncealed by
the surrounding houses, that it might as well have been
in the silent bosom of the forest. A narrow flight of
stairs, ascending the outside of the edifice, led to an
upper story. Ascending these, the youth, opening the
door with the familiarity of an accustomed visitor,
emerged from the gloom of the night, into the light and
life of the Billiard Room.

It was a large apartment, indifferently lighted, and
meanly furnished. In the centre stood the billiard ta-
ble, whose allurements had enticed so many on this
evening to forsake the quiet and virtuous comforts of
social life, and to brave the bitina: blast, and the not

196 THE BILLIARD TABLE.

less "pitiless peltings" of parental or conjugal admo-
nition. Its polished mahogany frame, and neatly
brushed cover of green cloth, its silken pockets, and
party-coloured ivory balls, presented a striking contrast
to the rude negligence of the rest of the furniture;
while a large canopy suspended over the table, and in-
tended to collect and refract the rays of a number of
well trimmed lamps, which hung within its circumfer-
ence, shed an intense brilliance over that little spot,
and threw a corresponding gloom upon the surroun-
ding scene. Indeed, if that gay altar of dissipation
had been withdrawn, the temple of pleasure would
have presented rather the desolate appearance of the
house of mourning.

The stained and dirty floor was strewed with frag-
ments of segars, play-bills, and nut-shells ; the walls,
blackened with smoke, seemed to have witnessed the
orgies of many a midnight revel. A few candles, des-
tined to illumine the distant recesses of the room, hung
neglected against the walls — bowing their long wicks,
and marking their stations by streams of tallow, which
had been suffered to accumulate through many a long
winter night. The ceiling was hung with cobwebs,
curiously intermingled with dense clouds of tobacco
smoke, and tinged by the straggling rays of light,
which occasionally shot from the sickly tapers. A set
of benches, attached to the walls, and raised sufficient-
ly high to overlook the table, accommodated the loun-
gers, who were not engaged at play, and who sat or

THE BILLIARD TABLE. 197

reclined— solemnly puffing their segars— idly sipping
their brandy and water — or industriously counting the
chances of the game ; but all observing a profound si-
lence, which -would have done honour to a turbaned
divan, and was well suited to the important subjects
of their contemplation. Little coteries of gayer spir-
its, laughed and chatted aside, or made their criticisms
on the players in subdued accents ; — any remarks on
that subject being forbidden to all but the parties en-
gaged ; while the marker announced the state of the
game, trimmed the lamps, and supplied refreshments to
the guests.

Mr. St. Clair, the gentleman, whom we have taken
the liberty of tracing to this varied scene, was cordial-
ly greeted on his entrance, by the party at the table,
who had been denouncing the adverse elements, which
had caused the absence of several of their choisest
spirits. The game, at which they were then playing,
being one, which admitted of an indefinite number of
players, St. Clair was readily permitted to take a ball ;
and, engaging with ardour in the fascinating amuse-
ment, was soon lost to all that occurred beyond the lit-
tle circle of its witchery.

The intense coldness of the night was so severely felt
in the badly warmed apartment, which we have at-
tempted to describe, that the party broke up earlier
than usual. One by one, they dropped off, until St.
Clair and another of the players were left alone. These
being both skillful, engaged each other single-handed,
17*

198

THE BILLIARD TABLE.

and became so deeply interested, as scarcely to observe
the defection of their companions, until they found
the room entirely deserted. The night was far spent.
The marker, whose services were no longer required,
was nodding over the grate ; the candles were wasting
in their sockets, and although a steady brilliance still
fell upon the table, the back ground was as dark as it ,
was solitary.

The most careless observer might have remarked the-
great disparity of character, exhibited in the two play-
ers, who now matched their skill in this graceful and
fascinating game. St. Clair was a genteel young man
of about five and twenty. His manners had all the
ease of one accustomed to the best society ; his coun-
tenance was open and prepossessing; his whole de-
meanour frank and manly. There was a careless gai-
ety in his air, happily blended with an habitual polite-
ness and dignity of carriage, which added much to the
ordinary graces of j'^outh and amiability. His features
displayed no trace of thought or genius ; for Mr. St.
Clair was one of that large class, who please without
design and without talent, and who, by dint of li^^ht
hearts, and graceful exteriors, thrive better in this
world, than those who think and feel more acutely. —
Feeling he had, but it was rather amiable than deep;
and his understanding, though solid, was of that plain
and practical kind, which, though adapted to the or-
dinary business of life, seldom expands itself to grasp
at any object beyond that narrow sphere. It was very

THE BILLIARD TABLE. 199

evident that he had known neither guile nor sorrow.-—
In his brief journey through life, he had as yet trod only
in flowery paths ; and having passed joyously along,
was not aware, that the snares, which catch the feet
of the unwary, lie ambushed in the sunniest spots of
our existence. He was a man of small fortune, and
was happily married to a lovely young woman, to
whom he was devotedly attached ; and who, when she
bestowed her hand, had given him the entire posses-
sion of a warm and spotless heart. They had lately
arrived at Pittsburgh, and being about to settle in some
part of the western country, had determined to spend
the ensuing spring and summer in this city, where Mrs.
St. Clair might enjoy the comforts of good society un-
til her husband prepared their future residence for her
reception.

His opponent was some ten years older than himself;
a short, thin, straight man— with a keen eye, and sal-
low complexion. He was one of those persons, who
may be seen in shoals at the taverns and gambling hou-
ses of a large town, and who mingle with better people
in stage coaches and steam boats. He had knocked
about the world, as his own expression was, until
like an old coin, whose original impression has been
worn off, he had kw marks left by which his birth, or
country could be traced. But, like that same coin,
the surface only was altered, the base metal was un-
changed. He aped the gentility which he did not pos-

200 THE BILLIARD TABLE,

sess, and was ambitious of shining both in dress antf
manners ; — but nature, when she placed him in a low
condition, had never intended he should rise above it.

It is unfortunate for such people, that, like hypo-
crites in religion, demagogues in politics, and empirics
of all sorts, they always overact their parts, and by an
excessive zeal betray their ignorance or knavery. —
Thus the person in question, by misapplying the lan-
guage of his superiors in education, betrayed his igno-
rance, and by going to the extreme of every fashion,
was always too well dressed for a gentleman. In short,
he was a gambler — who roamed from town to town,
preying upon young libertines, and old debauchees;
and employing as much ingenuity in his vocation, as
would set up half a dozen lawyers, and as much in-
dustry, as would make the fortunes of a score of me-
chanics.

Such were the players who were left together, like
the last champions at a tournament — who, after van-
quishing all their competitors, now turned their arms
against each other. For a while they displayed a
courtesy, which seemed to be the effect of a respect for
each other's skill. It was natural to St. Clair ; in the
gambler it was assumed. The latter having found the
opportunity he had long eagerly sought, soon began to
practise the arts of his profession. The game of bill-
iards, requiring great precision of eye, and steadiness
of hand, can only be played well by one who is com-

THE MILLIARD TABLE. 20l

pletely master of his temper ; and the experienced op-
ponent of St. Clair essayed to touch a string, on which
he had often worked with success.

" You are a married man, I believe]" said he.

"Yes, Sir.— "

" That was bad play — you had nearly missed the
ball."

"You spoke to me just as I was striking," said St.
Clair good humouredly.

" Oh, I beg pardon. — Where did you learn to play
billiards?"

"In Philadelphia."

" Do they understand the game?"

"I have seen some fine players there."

"Very likely. But I doubt whether they play the
scientific game. New Orleans is the only place. There
they go it in style. See there now ! That was very bad
play of yours. You played on the wrong ball."

"No, Sir, I was right."

" Pardon me, Sir. I profess to understand this game.
There was an easy cannon on the table, when you
aimed to pocket the white ball."

"You are mistaken," said St. Clair.

"Oh, very well! I meant no oflTence. — Now mark
how I shall count off these balls. — Do you see that? —

There's play for you ! You say you are a married

man?"

"I said so.— What then?"

"I thought as much by your play."

202 THE BILLlAliD TABLE.

"What has that to do with it?"

"Why you, married men, are accustomed to early
hours, and get sleepy earlier than we do."

" I did not think, I had shown any symptoms of drow-
siness."

"Oh, no! I meant no allusion. — "There's another
bad play of yours."

" You will find, I play sufficiently well, before we
are done."

"Oh! no doubt. — I meant nothing. — You play an
elegant game. — But then, you, married men, get scared,
when it grows late. — No man can play billiards, when
he is in a hurry to go home. — A married gentleman
can't help thinking of the sour looks, and cross answers,
he is apt to get, when he goes home after midnight." I

"I will thank you to make no such allusions to me," |
said St. Clair, " I am neither scared nor sleepy, but |:
able to beat you as long as you please."

"Oh, very well ! I dont value myself on my playing, i
Shall v/e double the bet? and have another bottle of ;
wine?"

" If you please. — "

"Agreed. — Now do your best — or I shall beat you.*"

Pestered by this impertinence, St. Clair lost several
games. His want of success added to his impatience ;
and his tormentor continued to vex him with taunting
remarks, until his agitation became uncontrollable. —
He drank to steady his nerves ; but drink only inflamed
his passion. He doubled, trebled, quadrupled the bet>

THE BILLIARD TABLE. 201^

to change his luck ; but in vain. — Every desperate at-
tempt urged him towards his ruin ; and it was happy
for him, that his natural good sense enabled him to stop,
before his fate was consummated — though not until he
had lost a large sum.

Vexed with his bad fortune, St, Clair left the house
of dissipation, and turned his reluctant steps towards
his own dwelling. His slow and thoughtful pace Avas
now far different, from the usual lightness of his grace-
ful carriage. It was not, that he feared the frown of his
lovely wife ; for to him her brow had always been un-
clouded, and her lips had only breathed affection. She
was one of those gentle beings, whose sweetness with-
ers not with the hour or the season ; but endures through
all vicissitudes.

It was the recollection of that fervent and forbearing
love, that now pressed like a leaden weight upon the
conscience of the gambler, when he reflected upon the
many little luxuries, and innocent enjoyments, of which
that lovely woman had deprived herself, while he had
squandered vast sums in selfish dissipation. Having
never before lost so much at play, this view of the case
had not occurred to him ; and it now came home to
his bosom with full force — bringing pangs of the keen-
est self-reproach. He recalled the many projects of
domestic comfort they had planned together, some of
which must now be delayed by his imprudence. That
very evening they had spoken of the rural dwelling,
they intended to inhabit; and Louisa's taste had sug-

204 THE BILLIARD TABLE.

gested a variety of improvements, with which it should
be embellished. When he left her, he promised to return
3oon ; — and now, after a long absence, he came, the
messenger — if not of ruin — at least of disappointment.
The influence of wine, and the agitation of his mind,
had wrought up the usually placid feelings of St. Clair,
into a state of high excitement. His imagination
wandered to the past and to the future ; and every pic-
ture, that he contemplated, added to his pain.

"1 will go to Louisa," said he. " I will confess alL
Late as it is, she is still watching for me. — Poor girl 1
She little thinks, that while she has been counting the
heavy hours of my absence, I have been madly cour-
ting -^vretchedness for myself, and preparing the bitter
cup of affliction for her."

In this frame of mind, he reached his own door, anc
tapped gently for admittance. He was surprised that
his summons was not immediately answered ; for the
watchful solicitude of his wife had always kept her
from retiring in his absence. He knocked again and
again — and at last, when his patience was nearly ex-
hausted, a slip-shod house-maid came shivering to the
door. He snatched the candle from her hand, and as-
cended to his chamber. — It was deserted !

"Where is Mrs. St. Clair?" said he to the maid who
had followed him.

" Gone "

"Gone! Where?"

" Why, Sir. she went away with a gentleman.''

I THE BILLIARD TABLE. 205

■ "Away with a gentleman! Impossible!"

"Yes, Sir, indeed she went off with a gentleman in a
carriage."

I " When ?— Where did she go T"
' "I don't know where she went, Sir. — She never inti-
mated a word to me. — She started just after jou left
I home."

" Did she leave no message?"
"No, Sir, not any. — She was in a great hurry."
St. Clair motioned the girl to retire, and sunk into
: a chair.

" She has left me," he exclaimed, " cruel, faithless,

Louisa ! Never did I believe you would have forsaken

, me! No, no — it can not be. — Louisa eloped! The

! best, the kindest, the sincerest of human beings'? — Im-

i possible!"

He rose, and paced the room — tortured with pangs
of unutterable anguish. He gazed round the apart-
ment, and his dwelling, once so happy, seemed desolate
as a tomb. He murmured the name of Louisa, and a
• thousand joys rose to his recollection. — All — all were
blasted ! For she, in whose love he had confided, that
pure, angelic being, whose very existence seemed to be
entwined with his own, had never loved him! She
preferred another ! — He endeavoured to calm his pas-
i sions, and to reason deliberately ; — but in vain. — Who
' could have reasoned at such a moment? He mechan-
ically drew out his watch ; — it was past two o'clock,

■ Where could Louisa be at such an hour? she had no

18

206 THE BILLIARD TABLE.

intimates, and few acquaintances in the city. Could
any one have carried her away by force ? No, no —
the truth was too plain I Louisa was a faithless wo-
man— and he a forsaken, wretched, broken-hearted I
man !

In an agony of grief, he left his house, and wander-
ed distractedly through the streets, until, chance direc-
ted, he reached the confluence of the rivers. To this
spot he had strolled with his Louisa in their last walk..
There they had stood, gazing at the Monongahela and
the Alleghany uniting their streams, and losing their
own names in that of the Ohio ; and Louisa had com-
pared this "meeting of the waters" to the mingling of
two kindred souls, joining to part no more — until both
shall be plunged in the vast ocean of eternity. To the
lover — and St. Clair was still a fervent lover — there is
no remembrance so dear, as the recollection of a ten-
der and poetic sentiment, breathed from the eloquent
lips of affection ; and the afflicted husband, when he;
recalled the deep and animated tone of feeling, with
which this natural image was uttered by his wife, could
not doubt, but that it was the language of her heart.
All his tenderness and confidence revived ; and he turn-
ed mournfully, with a full but softened heart, deter- ;
mined to seek his dwelling, and wait, as patiently as
he could, until the return of day should bring some
explanation of Louisa's conduct.

At this moment, a light appeared, passing rapidly
from the bank of the Alleghany toward? the town.—

I THE BILLIARD TABLE. 207

In an instant it was lost — and again it glimmered
among the ancient ramparts of Fort du Quesne — and
,; then disappeared. He advanced cautiously toward?
the ruined fort, and, clambering over the remains of
the breast-work, entered the area — carefully examin-
ing the whole ground by the clear moonlight. But no
animate object was to be seen. A confused mass of
misshapen ridges, and broken rocks were alone to be
discovered— the vestiges of a powerful bulwark, vi'hich
had once breasted the storm of Avar.

" It is deserted," said the bereaved husband, "like
my once happy dwelling. The flag is gone— the mu-
sic is silent — the strong towers have fallen, and all is
desolate I"

Perplexed by the sudden disappearance of the light,
and indulging a vague suspicion that it was in some
way connected with his own misfortune, he continued
to explore the ruins. A faint ray of light now caught
his eye, and he silently approached it. He soon reach-
ed the entrance of an arched vault, formerly a powder
magazine, from which the light emanated. The door-
way was closed by a few loose boards, leaned carefully
. against it, and evidently intended only to afford a
; brief concealment ; but a crevice, which had been in-
[ advertently left, permitted the escape of that strag-
gling beam of light, which had attracted his attention,
I and which proceeded from a small taper placed in a
( dark lantern. Two persons sat before it, in one of
■ whom, the astonished St. Clair recognised his late

208 THE BILLIARD TABLE.

companion, the gambler ! The other was a coarse, ili-
dressed ruffian, with a ferocious, and sinister expression
of countenance, which, at once, bespoke his charac-
ter. They were busily examining a number of large
keys, which seemed newly made.

"Bad, awkward, clumsy work 1" said the gambler;
" but no odds about that, if they do but fit."

"It's ill working in the ni,£:ht, and with bad tools,"
rejoined the other. "Me and Dick, has been at 'em for
a week, steady — and if them keys won't do, I'll be
hanged, if I can make any better."

"Hav'nt I been working in the night too, my boy?"
said the gambler. " I have made more money for us
since dark, than a clumsy rascal, like you, could earn
in a month."

"Clumsy or no, you put us into the danger always,
and play gentleman yourself."

"Well, that's right. — Do'nt I always plan every
thing? And do'nt I always give you a full share? Come,
do'nt get out of heart. — That key will do — and so will
that. "

St. Clair could listen no longer. Under any other
circumstances, the scene before him would have excited
his curiosity ; — but the discovery, that he had been
duped by a sharper — a mere grovelling felon — added
to the sorraws that alreadj'- -illed his bosoin, stung him I
so keenlv, that he had not patience, nor spirits to push
his discoveries any further.

THE BILLIARD TABLE. 209

"It was for the company of such a wretch," said he,
as he again mournfully bent his steps homeward, "that
I left my Louisa ! Perhaps she may have guessed the
truth.— Some eaves-dropper may have whispered to
her, that I was the associate of gamblers and house-
breakers I Shocked at my duplicity and guilt, she
has fled from contamination !— No, no! She would
not have believed it.— She would have told me.— She
would have heard my explanation.— Her kind heart
would have pitied and forgiven me. Perhaps my ne-
glect has alienated her affection.— I have left her too
often alone, and in doubt.— She has suffered what I
have felt to-night, the pangs of suspense and jealousy.
She could bear it no longer, my cruelty has driven her
forever from me I"

^He again entered his habitation. How changed!
No hand was extended to receive him ; no smile to wel-
come him.— All was cheerless, cold, and silent. A can-
dle, nearly exhausted to the socket, was burning in the
parlour, shedding a pale light over the gloom of the
apartment :-but that bright, peculiar orb, that had
given warmth and lustre to this little world, was extin-
guished! St. Clair shuddered, as he looked round.-
Every object reminded him of the happiness he had
destroyed ; and he felt himself a moral suicide. Half
dead with cold, fatigue, and distress, he approached
the tire— when a note, which had fallen from the card-
rack to the floor, caught his eye. The address was to
18*

*210 THE BILLIARD TABLE.

himself, and in Louisa's hand writing. He tore it
open and read as follows :—

" That agreeable woman, Mrs, B. who has paid us
30 many kind attentions, has just sent for me.— She is
very ill, and fancies that no one can nurse her so well
as myself. Of course, I can not refuse, and only re-
gret, that I must part Avith my dear Charles for a few
hours. Good night. Your devoted

Louisa."

The feelings of St. Clair can be better imagined
than described, as he thus suddenly passed from a
state of doubt and despair, to the full tide of joy. He
kissed the charming billet, and enacted several other
extravagances, which our readers will excuse us from
relatin«-. He retired, at length, to his couch — where
his exhausted frame soon sunk to repose.

He rose early the next morning. Louisa was alrea-
dy in the parlour to welcome him with smiles. He
frankly related to her all that had happened on the
preceding night. Louisa's affectionate heart sympa-
thised in the pain he had suffered, and tears stole
down her cheek which was pale with watching.

"Do not tell me," said St. Clair, " that 1 have only
suffered that M^hich you have often endured. No—
you will not reproach me— but I know it, 1 feel it ;—
and 1 here renounce gaming forever! Never again
shall you have cause to complain of my dissipation or
neglect."

THE BILLIARD TABLE.

211

He kept his word; and acknowledged, that the
peace and joy of his after days were cheaply pur-
chased with tiie miseries of that eventful night.

James Halt-.

( ^1^ ;

YOUTH AND FANCY.

Tnr visions, oh Fancy! are dear to the heart.
While life's ardent morning is passing along,
And we feel, with delicious emotions, the art.
Which music and poetry blend in their song.

Oh ! then the warm soul is alive to each story,
That love's joyous magic to memory can bring,
And lists to the proud tale of valour and glory,
Which high sounding chivalry wakes from the string.

Sweet period of confidence, feeling, and truth!
Alas ! that its brightness should leave us so soon !
That the freshness, M^hich breathes round the dawning

of youth.
Like the deAvs of the morning, should vanish ere noon !

But, ah ! chill experience still sheds o'er our way.
The poison of doubt, and suspicion, and sorrow;
And the warm, trusting heart, that is happy to-day.
May be frozen by cold disappointment to-morrow!

(.313)

TO A COLD FAIR ONE.

Beware, beware ! or love's arch eye,

May teach thy trauquii breast to smart —
Beware, beware ! or love's soft :--:'gh,

May plant its sorrows in thy heart.
For, oh! there's nougat so cold and chill,

That love can not teach to i:;iow;
And, oh 1 there's nothing so fixed and still,

That love can not force to now.

The unpressed lip may doubtful smile,

When the power of love is sung ;
And the untouched heart ma^' mock the while,

Love's fitful change is rung.
But, ch ! that lip may sigh in vain,

When once his power is known ;
And the 'leart, that mocked another's pain.

May learn to w«ep for its own.

{ 214 i

THE PARTING^

We parted ne'er to meet again,

In this dark vale of tears ;
That cruel moment broke the chain,

That had endured for years.
But not a tear-drop dimmed her eye; —
And that fond lip, that used to sigh

Love's softest hopes and fears,
"Was colourless, and cold, as though
The stream of life had ceased to flow.

No fond adieu escaped her tongue —

No tender prayer for me ; —
She only sobbed, and madly wrung

Her hands in agony.
She laughed. — Then terror shook her frame
Then hid her face, as if in shame.

Though none was there, but me ; —
And then she wept, and would have spoke.
But, ah ! too late—her heart was broke.

•James Hali

i 215

THE DESCENDANTS OF PAUGtTS,

" Their heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A nobler monument command —
The mountains of their native land!'*

At the battle of Lovewell's Pond in New Hampshire,
fousjht in the year 1725, it is well known, that the two
celebrated chiefs, Paugus and Wahwa, were slain.
Previous to this discomfiture, a vague and melancholy
impression of impending destruction prevailed throu-^h
the whole tribe. A conviction of this nature, once
fastened upon the mind of the savage, renders him reck-
less, sullen, and desperate. Hence the frequency and
bloody character of all the contests of the Pequawkets
during the three year's war ; and hence, too, the alac-
rity with which they engaged in acts of aggression up-
on the settlements of the whites. Finding themselve:
always the losers, even by victory, they determined
to consult their Deities, in solemn form, touching the
destinies of the nation.

The holy men, chosen to conduct the ceremony,
had been deterred from proceeding to the mountain
height, usually appropriated to such purposes, by a
violent tempest, which raged among the hills for sever-

216 DESCENDANTS OF FALGUS,

al days in succession. Believing the storm to be sent,
as an indication that the great spirit was angry with
his children, and would be appeased only by the stron-
gest evidence of th^ir penitence and devotion, the ter-
rified Pequawkets had. come out, on the very week of
the battle, to aticompany Faugus to the loot of that
sublime altar, from vvhose summit he was to offer him-
self a sacrifice for the salvation of the tribe.

This circumstance accounts for the fury which they
displayed at the commencement of the action, and the
readiness -with which tiiey gave way after the death of
their chief. The little remnant of survivors took up
their lirte of march at night fall, a vanquished, deject-
ed, and broken spirited people.

The connecting liiilv was struck from the chain,
which bound them with their red brethren in Canada
and on the sea coast. Both extremities seemed nov/ re-
ceediag from their common centre, and the}- stood un-
armed in the midst of powerful and exasperated ene-
mies.

They were saddened, not merely by defeat, but be-
cause the great sacrifice was still to be made, when
they could least afford to part with a warrior, much
les=, with a distinguished chief. True, Paugus had been
slain ; but the death required by their superstition must
be voluntary, and he had yielded up his life upon the
field of battle. His oldest son, Powhela, had fallen by
his side, covered with wounds; and Algoucheek, the
youngest member of the family now stood in the place

DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS, Sit

t>i' his father, and was the only living being, capable of
averting the doom denounced upon the miserable Pe-
quawkets.

Under these circumstances of painful interest, the
warriors assembled around the council-fire, for the last
time in the pleasant places which they were soon to
abandon forever. The Moon of Flowers smiled up-
upon the dejected Indians, as they mustered in silence
together. Long and sad were the deliberations of
their aged and venerable seers, and morning dawned,
ere the stricken assembly resolved to leave the valley
of the Saco, and risk whatever of evil the determine
ation might bring upon them hereafter. They were
conscious how feeble a resistance they could offer
against a powerful foe, and this resistance Avould be
rendered still less, if the last inheritor of the blood of
Paugus could no longer hold the rank, in which his an-
cestors had so often led them to victory.

The council broke up by acknowledging the com-^
mand, to which a single disastrous day had raised Al-
goucheek. The oldest warrior present then presented
him with the tomahawk and belt of the deceased
chief. Around his neck was hung a broad ornament of
dark wood, bound with a rim of plain silver, and
having in its centre a little plate of the same metal,
iipon which was engraved the totem of his father.

Before the next moon arose, they were again in mo-
tion towards the waters of the St. Francois, where
large settlements of the French and Indians, of ihe
19

^218 DESCENDANTS OF PAUGLjt,

great Taratcen family, had been placed by treaty,
near a century before.

We must now leave this devoted band for awhile,
and return to the battle ground at Lovewell's Pond. —
The Indians had fled so hastily, that most of their
dead were left unburied upon the field. Paugus and
Wahwa had been brought off and hurried into the
grave, without any of the solemnities usual when
great warriors are committed to the earth. The body
of Powhcla remained unmoved, in the very spot where
he had fallen. Though severely bruised, and covered
with wounds, he was still alive ; and about noon of
the next day, he so far recovered his consciousness a?
to be sensible, from the number of his slaughtered
brethren around him, that he was resting upon a soil,
that had now witnessed, for the first time, the defeat
of his tribe.

He was left entirely ignorant of the direction in
which the vanquished party had retreated. Something
was, indeed, said, upon the very eve of the battle, of
retiring towards the St. Johns, or St. Francois, in case
the day Avent against them ; but nothing definite was
agreed upon, and he possessed no means of ascertain-
ing whether cither of these proposals had been adopt-
ed.

Abandoned to this uncertainty, Powhela felt the
necessity of removing himself beyond the reach of the
whites, should they be inclined to revisit the arena of
^heir bloody victory. With great exertion, he wa?

DESCENDANTS OF P AUGUS. 219

l?oabled to drag himself, in the course of a Mhole day
to a place of security, about a mile distant from the
Pond. Here his wounds, which were severe, but not
dangerous, soon closed over, like the scarred bark of
a young and vigorous sapling. In a week, he was suf-
ficiently recovered, to find little difficulty in revisiting
the lake, so fatal in the annals of the Pequawkets.

Not till this moment, M'as he fully sensible of the deep
desolation which had swept over this unha])py peo-
ple. He saw before him brave hearts torn from tlie
breasts of the mighty, to glut the ravening appetite of
foul birds; and noble limbs become the banquet of
wild beasts, who shook with seeming terror, while they
gorged the corrupting mass, as if they still doubted,
Avhether the spirit had indeed deserted the lifeless bo-
dy. But he was too well acquainted with scenes of
carnage, to be much moved by the ghastly aspect of
the festering dead. There was a gloomier subject of
reflection reserved for him — far gloomier, than all these
imposing emblems of mortality. He stood by the grave
of his slaughtered father. He knew it by the little
mound, hastily raised over the warrior, and if he read
aright the scroll of birch with its symbols of bale and
wo, the whole male line of the Pequawket chiefs was
extinct.

The savage, with all his disciplined insensibilit}' to
danger, has his hours of bitter and withering anguish ;
and when the occasion arises powerful enough to move
the solemn (\eey> of hi? passions and feelings, every ves-

ii20 DESCENDANTS OF PAUGLS.

tige of vitality is swept away ; there comes no calmness
again over the agitated surface, and the seeds of hope
and joy are torn from their native soil, and cast forth
forever upon the troubled waters.

Powhela would have lived for revenge ; but he re-
membered the awful doom which hung upon his tribe,
and which he alone could avert. Still revenge was
dear to him — dearer even than the dream of his ear-
ly love ; and while he swore upon the ashes of his
sire, to bow his head to the anger of the Great Spirit,
he determined to make one effort to unite the neigh-
bouring nations, in a great and general attack upon
the hated race of the v/hite men. This object ac-
complished, he was ready to offer himself, a living
sacrifice, in the place of his offending brethren.

Powhela knew he could receive but feeble assistance
from any of the numerous branches of the Tarateens,.
in New England. He resolved, therefore, to proceed
at once to the more powerful tribes near the great
lakes. With this design, he was soon equipped for the
journey, and immediately set forth for the principal
residence of the Six Nations, at Onondago Hill, a lit-
tle to the south of Ontario.

The time of his application to the Six Nations was
opportune. The tidings of the fight at Lovewell's
Pond had already reached them, and impressed upon
them strongly, a sense of the power of the enemy.
growing up upon all their borders. They were them-
selves, of old, incensed against the English, and had .

DESCENDANTS OF PAI Cx t 3* '221

t>rteii joined with the French to liarrass their nearest
settlements. The_y were now distrustful of the in-
creasing influence of the French, and had assembled
their widely- scattered warriors to consult upon the
difficulties, which they saw gathering like a tempest
about their dwellings.

At this critical juncture, Fowhela arrived at Onei-
da lake. His brief chronicle of misery was soon re>
lated, sometimes in words of sadness, and again with
the fervid eloquence of burning indignation.

The tree, he said, had been struck at its summit, its
leaves and flowers were withered, its root was dried
up, and he, the last remaining branch must soon fall
from the ruined trunk. He entreated them not so
much to avenge the death of Paugus, as to save their
own wives and little ones from the bloody fate, that
had befallen the children of Paugus, As a last request,
he besought the attendance of their holy prophets,
when he should return to the ancient home of his tribe,
that they might invoke with him the Great Spirit, and
listen to his death song.

After the young chief finished his earnest ai^peal,
the warriors expressed their opinions with reserve, —
making allowance for tlie excited state of his feelings,
and bearing constantly in mind the hazardous measure,
which he urged them to adopt. The result of their dc
liberations was favourable to the main wish of his heart ;
but they took care to provide, that no decided step
should be taken, until it was rendered certain the at-
19^^

22*3 DESCENDANTS OT PAUGUS.

tempt would not overwhelm them ail in rain. In fine,
here commenced that system of deceptive policy, which
so nearly proved successful forty years afterwards. —
With reiterated assurances of readiness to commence
hostilities, so soon as a favourable moment should ar-
rive, the warriors departed to their respective dwel-
lings, in the silence of the night. Powhela was now left
to his own solitary reflections. His joy at the certain,
though distant prospect of revenge, Avas alloyed by
the idea, that, come when it might, he should never
witness the hour of retribution.

It is not our design to follow him in his path through
the wilderness. We shall carry our readers at once
to the period of his arrival in the valley of the Saco.
He was standing again in the heritage of his fathers.
Their abodes were noAV silent as the tomb, and the
wild beasts of the forest had already reclaimed their
long lost empire. No living being had crossed his
track, through the whole line of country from Oneida
lake. Nothing but the ruins around him, indicated
that the place had ever been occupied by the habita-
tions of men.

The four prophets, who accompanied Powhela, were
to go no farther than the base of the sacred mountain ;
thence, he was to proceed alone to the little pond
above,* which superstition regarded a& the entrance

* Bluo Pond is situated about two thirds of the way up one of the
loftiest peaks in the whole range of the White Hills. It is Aisible
from the summit of Mount Wasliington.

DE.SCENDAKTS OF PAIGUS. Xi23

to the islands of the blest. From this spot the Dcity
received his favourite children, and conducted them to
the hunting grounds, far aAvay, in the western ocean.

As the little band drew near the base of the hill,
the distant sound of a rifle gave notice, tliatthe}- were
not so absolutely alone, as the quiet scenery had
led them to suppose. Shortly afterwards, they came
upon a fresh trail, running forward in the direction
they were pursuing. The foot prints indicated to an
experienced eye the elastic tread of the red men ; —
Avhether many or few, it Avas not easy to tell, — hostile
they certainly could not be. In about an hour more,
their course, which had been hitherto in a northv.ard-
ly direction along a little spur of the mountain, turned
abruptly to the west, and brought them, at once, in
view of those, whose track they were cautiously fol-
lowing.

Directly before them, and within twenty yards, two
Indians completely armed, and one of them decorated
with all the ornaments of savage royalty, were seen
seated upon an eminence, apparently resting from the
fatigues of the chase. Powhela had, at this moment,
fallen in the rear of his attendants. The strangers,
aroused by tlie sudden interruption, seized their wea-
pons, and placed themselves immediately in an atti-
tude of defence. The advancing party halted, and
extended to them the emblems and salutation of peace.

The young chief now came up with his companions.
His eye rested a moment upon the warriors before him.

^2*24 DESCENDANTS OF PAUGLb*

In another moment, he rushed by the prophets, and
uttering a strong exclamation of surprise, struck his
hand violently upon his breast ! — He then stood silent
and motionless as a statue, with his dark form raised
to its utmost height.

"Shade of my brother!" cried Algoucheek, for it
was he, *' do you come from the silent home of the
dead to reproach the son of Paugus with the ruin of
his race ? Behold ! my footsteps are already turned to-
wards the hunting ground of the blessed."

The reply of Powhela removed every doubt. He
promptly claimed the performance of the solemn duty,
Avhich belonged to him, as the inheritor of his father's
rank, and explained the manner of his escape from
the field of battle. Algoucheek, on the contrary, ur-
ged the obligations which bound him to follow the for-
tune of the dispersed tribe, and informed him of the
direction they had taken after the fight.

Leaving the brothers thus engaged in asserting their
respective rights to stand in the place of the devoted
Pequawkets, — the one relying upon his age, and the
other upon the comparatively small importance of his
life, we must briefly recur to the events which brought
them so unexpectedly together.

The defeat of the Pequawkets has already been re-
lated. On the evening after the battle, it was deter-
mined, in a hastily summoned council, to save the
life of Algoucheek. This resolution once formed, the
warriors started forward for the waters of the St. Fran-

1>ESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS. 225

cois. But difficulties and disasters cro-\vdcd their path ;
the cup of misfortunes was not yet drained to its
dregs ; and the iron arm of the whites again fell hea-
vily upon them. Their fighting men were hourly
dropping beneath the weapons of a lurking foe. And,
as if in mockery of their woes, their red brethren,
through whose territory they advanced, opposed their
progress. Every thing, in fact, seemed to the mind
of superstition indicative of the continued and increa-
sing displeasure of the Great Spirit.

Algoucheek had never assented to the proposal, which
was to rescue him from an untimely death. He now
urged upon his brethren, when their minds were irres-
olute with fear, the necessity of his return, and his
determination to submit to the decree of fate. He call-
ed no consultation, for his rank had been acknowledg-
ed, and it was unnecessary to seek advice, which he Avas
determined not to follow. His last request was, never to
bury the hatchet, or cease in their efforts to arouse the
neighbouring nations, till every white man was swept
from the soil of New England. With this parting in-
junction, he left them, accompanied by a single atten-
dant, and arrived at the White mountains nearly at
the same time with Powhela, Avhom he supposed to
have been slain.

The meeting of the brothers has been told — their
mutual surprise, and steady resolution to meet death
for the good of the tribe. Algoucheek had evidently,
strong reason on his side. He was not, indeed, enti-

226 DESCENDANTS OP PAUGLS.

tied of right to the rank of chief, but he had been so
acknowledged, and at any rate, he inherited the blood
of Paugus. On the contrary, the Pequawkets had suf-
fered too much by their apparent disobedience to the
strict requirement of their Deities,

Meantime, while they were thus engaged, their at-
tendants consulted together apart.

The oldest of their number, at length, interrupted
the young warriors, and reminded them, that as the
Great Spirit demanded the sacrifice, he would select
the appointed Tictim. The sus:gestion aiforded a rea-
dy means of settling their mutual claims; and they fi-
nally agreed to depart in different directions into the
solitude of the forest — there to offer up their supplica-
tions to the unseen powers, whose heavy commands
they sought to fulfil. Each party was to give notice
to the other of the result, and he who might be spared,
was then to return speedily, and follow up the good
work begun by Powhela.

The events of our narrative will now carry us to a
distant region of the country, and forward about fif-
teen years in the order of time. Powhela had return-
ed, zealous and steady in the pursuit of his darling
purpose of revenge. By argument and entreaty, by
indignant reasoning and earnest appeals to the feel-
ings, and more than all, by the most unsparing expo-
sure of his person in the hour of danger, he had ac-
quired a preponderating influence in the affairs of the
Six Nations. At length, he arose to the command of

l>ESCENDANT!s OF PAUGUS. *2*21

? the Oneidas, who were styled, " the oldest son/' in this
great confederacy. Sometimes, motives of policy kept
him from open hostilities ; but his design was never
abandoned, and he laboured the more incessantly to
unite the various tribes subject to his swaj-, — em-
ploying artifice and concealment, when force was un-
availing. One spirit seemed to actuate the exten-
ded family. A favourable opportunity was only want-
ing to strike a bloAv, which, all felt, must recoil in ru-
in upon themselves, if it did not crush their enemies.

Notwithstanding the union thus effected, success
had rarely attended their expeditions, and, at the pe-
riod of which we speak, the personal influence of the
chief was materially shaken. Often had the Six Na-
tions been made sensible, that they were placed in the
midst of raging fires, which might in time check the
violence of each other, but must first consume every
living thing within the course of their devouring flames.
Then it was, they recurred to their former fortunes. —
In their whole progress from the north, according to
tradition, they had overcome every obstacle ; the tim-
id fled ; the powerful were vanquished ; and even the
mighty Delawares had submitted to their control. Af-
terwards, while allies of the French, victory had al-
ways crowned their united efforts. But since the ar-
rival of Powhela, the face of things was entirely chan-
ged. The story of his return seemed to afford a
glimpse at the cause of their multiplied disasters. —
The curse denounced u^ion the descendants of Paugus,

'22S DESCENDANTS OF PALGLs.

had fallen upon those with whom he was connectedj
Might it not be, that they had received and honored
one whom the gods had denounced !

Distrust of this kind is not easily removed from the
susceptible mind of the Indian. In the present case,
the belief, which, from its very vagueness possessed the
greater power, was strengthened by the fact that no
one had witnessed the death of Algoucheek. Pow-*
hela had not; and the prophets who accompanied
him, had long since returned to their respective tribes.
Such was the state of affairs among the Six Nations,
in the autumn of 1745, the period fixed upon for a
general attack upon the white settlements.

Powhela was apprised of the delicate situation in
which he was now placed. He knew the influence of
superstition, and determined to yield to its utmost re-
quirements, rather than give up, or even put in jeop-
ardy, his project of revenge. As the time for the pro-
posed expedition drew nigh, little bands of warriors
Avere daily arriving, to deliberate around the council-
fire upon the most important movement they had ever
been called to make. The day at length came. The
fighting men gathered about their chief in silence ; and
a deep and portentous gloom rested, like a shadow*
over the whole assembly. The dark features of the
Indians, as they glided to their appointed places Avith
noiseless tread, exhibited that strange expression, Avhich
the human countenance sometimes puts on, — an ex-
pression of melancholy determination — s»f sorrow and

DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS. *22^J

1 ^resolution— of firm purpose and tortured feeling, as if
■ the heart bled in anticipation of the deed, which the
whole soul was determined to perform.

Powhela was the first to interrupt the death like
stillness. He arose with doubt and hesitation— for his
worst fears had been more than realized— and he saw,
that, unless confidence could be restored, his power
was at an end. He recounted briefly the more promi-
nent events of their history, and dwelt earnestly upon
; their character for courage acquired under his guidance.
Adverting to their critical position between the French
and English, both of whom they had deceived, he
pointed out the necessity of preventing that union of
their enemies, which would inevitably follow in case of
their defeat. Finally, he declared his determination,
never to return from the field of battle, unless victo-
rious.

The chief ceased his address ; but it was too evident
he had failed to produce the desired effect. This was
no time for concealment. The oldest warriors ex-
pressed their readiness to arm themselves for the ap-
proaching contest, on condition only, that Powhela
should not place himself at their head. Their belov-
ed chief need not relinquish his rank,— it was enough
that he remained for a time inactive, while they pros-
ecuted the war. The door of hope seemed now closed
iupon Powhela. He knew that even if he could over-
come their scruples by his personal influence, he should
thereby endanger the success of the meditated attack.
20

S30 DESCENDANTS 6Y PAUGUS.

Once more, and for the last time, he stood forth to
speak. He declared at the outset, his willingness to
make the painful sacrifice. The countenances of the
savages lighted up as he went on. And when he ex-
horted them to roll back the advancing tide, or sink
together beneath its resistless waters, they brandished
their weapons with exultation, and raised the shout of
anticipated victory.

The wary chief saw with delight the effect produced I
by his artful compliance with their wishes, and when i
silence was restored, he stood for a moment as if
doubtful how to proceed. But he had only half gain-
ed his purpose, and he again recurred to the subject to-
which he had last alluded. He led them gradually
from their more powerful enemy, and turned their
attention to the little tribe of Wyandots just upon
their border. He knew it would not be difficult to
direct their feelings, so strongly excited, against a peo-
ple who had resolutely refused to join with them in
hostility to the English. Their cowardice and grovel-
ling treachery were portrayed with the sneer of con-
tempt.

" So detestable were they," said he, " to their ancient
neighbours, that they have been driven down from
the upper waters of the St. Lawrence, and are now
cooped up for slaughter in an island near our territo-
ries. Let them be swept from the earth, since they
dare not go with us, to lop off the arm, which holds the?
knife to their throats."

DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS. 231

Another shout of applause testified their willingness
to accede to his proposal. But the most difficult point
yet remained to be gained, and he now sought, not
without many fears, to guide their rising enthusiasm
into another channel.

" Where then," he proceeded, " shall the father of the
Oneidas be, when his children are drinking the blood
of their foes ! Shall he skulk in the wigwams with
the women, and leave his warriors to gather the scalps,
and tear out the hearts of the Wyandots? Even the
timid doe will not fly from the dogs, if the fawn be in
danger, and when did Powhela ever linger behind in
the day of battle? The cowardly foe will laugh as
you approach, and ask, " Where have the Oneidas hid-
den their chief!" — The son of Paugus will wipe the stain
from his name. If the Great Spirit still frown upon us,
then let him be stript of the weapons of a warrior, and
when his brethren come back to carry destruction into
the dwellings of the white men, let him remain idle at
home. — He will never complain."

The chief had not miscalculated upon the influence
of his appeal. The Oneidas were unwilling to place
him in a situation, which the Indian most dreads ; and
the proposal of leaving the decision of his fate to the
attack upon the Wyandots, seemed a very appropriate
method of testing the justness of their superstitious ap-
prehensions. There was more of art in the request
than they perceived, for their enemy, feeble in num-
!)ers, would probably afford an easy conquest. The

!^32 DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS.

desired effect was, however, produced, and they de-
parted pleased at an opportunity of still retaining
Powhela.

In about a week, the Oneidas set forth to execute
their sanguinary purpose. The Wyandots, as we be-
fore mentioned, were Uriven from the North, and had
sought refuge in an island at the foot of lake Ontario.
They had always refused to engage with the Six Na-
tions, believing it the better policy to submit to a pow-
er, which could not be resisted with any hopes of suc-
cess. Towards the peaceful home of this unhappy
tribe, the hostile party was now rapidly advancing.

Having arrived upon the shore of the lake, they hal-
ted some time, waiting for the canoes, which were to
ascend by the Onondago creek. Arrangements were
finally made to transport the forces during the night,
so that the attack might be made about day break in
the morning. Powhela was never for a moment inac-
tive. He felt how much depended upon the struggle,
and was every where present, exhorting and encoura-
ging the warriors, as they embarked for the island.

The fate of the Wyandots was sealed. Six hun-
dred fighting men wercAvithin an hour's march of their
wigwams, v/hile they, unconscious of impending dan-
ger, were wrapt in deep sleep. Their village was situ-
ated upon the banks of a small river, which ran north-
wardly into the lake. A hill of moderate elevation
covered the settlement towards the south,

I)ESCENDA>TS OF T AUGUS. '233

rhc advancing party had been deceived as to the
s.irae, by a dense fog, and the sun arose while they were
yet a mile distant from their enemies. This circum-
stance produced a momentary confusion. In a hasty
consultation among the chief warriors, it was agreed
to separate their forces. A part were to sweep round,
and come down upon the foe, in a direction opposite to
that Avhich they were now pursuing. The remainder,
after waiting to give their companions a sufficient start,
were to proceed directly forward.
_^ The party remaining with Powhela now advanced
towards the foot of the hill. Here they halted to pre-
pare their weapons for an immediate assault. At this
moment, the shrill war cry of their brethren announ-
t:ed that their motions had been discovered, and they
rushed for^vard eager to mingle in the fight.

A hunter, who had been early pursuing the chase,
had given notice to his tribe of the approach of a
powerful enemy. The alarm was soon spread, and
when the Oneidas came up, they were in some meas-
ure ready for battle. Raising the war cry of the na-
tion, they hurried on to commence the work of exter-
mination.

The Wyandots struggled bravely, but at length gave
way, and retreated sullenly towards the hill at the
rear of their wigwams. Here they were met by Pow-
hela and his warriors, who now echoed back the hor-
rid yell of their brethren. They Avere completely sur-
rounded. They expected no mercy, and fought with
20*

:234 DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS.

the ferocity of wild beasts or demons, rather than like
beings clothed with the attributes of humanity. The
rifle and the musket were rendered useless, for the con-
test wore the aspect of numberless, independent, pri-
vate combats. Each selected his antagonist, and
gi-appled with him in a struggle, from Avhich more than
one could not escape. There was no room, and ap-
parently no wish for retreat. The utter destruction
of one party appeared the onl}- possible termination to
the fight.

Powhela's countenance beamed with delight. He
actually breathed more freely, as he saw the foe falling
thick around him. His war dress was heavy with gore,
and his very weapons seemed instinct with the power of
death. He endeavoured in vain to force his way up to
the tall chief of the Wyandots, who was surrounded
and guarded by a band of his chosen warriors.

As the numbers of this faithful cohort diminished^
they resolved to rally their feeble forces, and make a
last effort to break the fatal circle, that was fast clos-
ing around them. With a wild yell of despair, they
rushed upon the Oneidas, who were not unprepared to
receive them. The slaughter was terrible. Most of
them were borne down by the press ; but a party of
about fifty effected their escape, and hurried towards
their canoes.

Their unsparing pursuers followed them even here,
as if determined to leave no witness to tell the tale of
their woes. Powhela perceived that their chief was

DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS. '235

among the survivors, and he wished to overtake him,
as a victim worthy of his arms, before he could reacli
the creek. Both parties arrived at the bank nearly at
the same moment. The battle now assumed a singu-
lar aspect, and was transferred from the land to the
water. The frail barques were soon surrounded, some
of them were overset, and others held fast, while the
savages completed the business of slaughter. In every
direction the dark forms of the warriors were seen sink-
ing in the death struggle, their features distorted Avith
rage, and gleaming with malignity from the bottom of
the transparent stream. Powhela had, by this time,
come up with the Wyandot chief, and they sprang to-
gether into a canoe, which, yielding to the sudden im-
pulse, floated rapidly from the shore.

" Dog of a Wyandot !" shouted he, " do you fly when
the earth drinks the blood of your fighting men, and
your children are falling like the leaves of the forest!''

He had not ceased speaking, before the tomahawk of
his enemy flashed in tlie sun and whizzed past his head,
striking deep into a sapling upon the opposite bank. —
The moment the weapon left his hand, the hostile chief
drew his long knife, and endeavoured to close with his
opponent. Powhela was, however, on his guard, and
they stood sometime engaged in a skilful and danger-
ous contest. Both of them were severely wounded.
The Oneida seemed to possess the advantage in point
of dexterity. At length, watching his opportunity, he
made a skilful feint, and instantly changing the direr-

236 DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS.

tion of his weapon, brought it down with the full force
of his vigorous arm, directly upon the breast of his an-
tagonist. The fate of the Wyandot appeared inevi-
table, but the elastic weapon was bent double, and re-
coiling, threw the hand of Powhela violently back.

If he had before been excited, he now became fran-
tic with rage ;— for nothing more exasperates a man of
high and chivalric spirit, than the idea that he has
been exposing his own life, mthout the possibility of
taking that of his adversary.

" Offspring of a cowardly race I" cried he in tones al-
most choaked with passion, "does the Wyandot bear
the heart of a dove beneath the shell of the turtle !"

A flush passed across the cheek of the chief, as if he
felt vexed rather than ashamed, that circumstances
had subjected him to a reproof, which he knew to be
ill deserved. Instantly tearing open his garment, he
threw out the ornamented brooch, which had been ac-
cidentally thrust beneath its folds in the hurry of the
fight. All this was but the work of a moment, and he
now sprang forward to renew the contest. Powhela
stood motionless, and apparently stupified, with his
eyes still fixed upon the medallion, which hung suspen-
ded from the neck of the chief.

"Son of Paugus!" at length he exclaimed ;— but it
was too late, the knife of Algoucheek was at his heart,
and the canoe glided from beneath them as they fell in
the grapple of death. The Oneidas, who had witnes-
sed the unexpected termination of the combat, now

DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS. ^37

imrried wildly to the spot. Powhela was already dead
from the blow, and Algoucheek, by falling upon the
blade of his brother, whose arms had been thrown
unconsciously about him, with ihe muscular vigor of a
dying man.

The brothers were mutually deceived when they par-
ted at the foot of the White mountains. Their atten-
dants, the prophets, after they retired into the forest,
sent the same deceptive message to both parties, declar-
ing to each, that the other had been selected as the
proper sacrifice to their offended deity. Algoucheek
then returned, and overtook his tribe, just as they had
uoited their fortunes with the Wyandots, w^ho were
retreating before their enemies. His merits, in time,
raised him to;the rank of chief over their common for-
ces. His melanchol}' fete has already been told.

The v/arriors buried them in the same grave, and
raised over them a little mound to mark the spot. —
The island was ever afterwards regarded by the Indians
with superstitious fears. Whenever their pathway led
them to the resting place of the devoted or accursed,
as the brothers were called in the figurative language
of the savage, they passed by in silence, with averted
faces. The Six Nations ahvays spoke of them as be-
ing? born beneath unlucky influences, — condemned to
a fate, which they sought anxiously to accomplish, —
freely encountering obstacles and difficulties in pursuit
of death, and finally swept aAvay with unrelenting se-

238 DESCENDANTS OF PAUGUS.

verity, by the very Deities who had frustrated their ef-
forts, and compelled their disobedience.

The extensive scheme of destruction projected by
Powhela did not die with him. About fifteen years
after the overthrow of the Wyandots, that powerful
alliance, composed of almost all the Indians on this
side of the Mississippi, was effected,— chiefly by the ex-
ertions of the Oneidas. Harvest was selected as the
time for a general attack. So well had every measure
been concerted, that the strong garrisons of Venango,
Presqu' Isle, and others along the line of the lakes, were
surprised and taken. Terror and consternation pre-
vailed among the whites, from Canada to the Atlantic.
An effectual resistance was, at length, commenced, by
calling out the forces of all the northern colonies ;—
the Indians were forced to terms of peace, hostilities
ceased, and the Six Nations were reduced to a state of
dependence from which they ne\er after recovered.

S. S. Boi-D.

•239

LOVE'S S3IILE.

With careless step, by folly led,
In pleasure's path I lingered long,

Incautious, plucked each opening bud.
And sipped the sweets 1 roved among.

Those cloying sweets were bitter soon —
My youthful day was wrapt in shade.
Before it knew the warmth of noon.

With steadier step, in nobler fields,
Less fickle joys my heart pursued :

Thej' withered too — nor left a hope.
To cheer my bosom's solitude.

I sighed for something soft and sweet,
My chilled affections to beguile,

And, oh 1 was destined soon to meet
That something in a woman's smile I

Orlando.

( 240 )

THE DYING MAIDEJV.

She spake of joy : — while in her heart,

She felt the tide of sorrow swell ; —
As if her soul could then impart

The themes she once had loved so well^
She still was fair. — But that rich light,

Which pleasure once around her threw.^
Was fled ; — and cheeks, of late so bright.

Wore the sweet lily's pallid hue.

Her grief was silent.— ^Long confined

Within her own, pure, gentle breast,
It revelled on her spotless mind.

And dimmed the sunshine of her rest : —
Yet her pale face would oft reveal

A lingering gleam of withered joy —
A smile, which pain could not conceal.

Or sorrow's ruthless blight destroy.

'Twas like the sun's rich, mellow ray,

That breaks through drapery of clouds<
More soft and sweet — yet far less gay,

Than when no shade its lustre shrouds.
As setting stars, in their decline,

A brighter gleam of glory cast ;
So her pure spirit seemed to shine,

More sweet, and lovely to the last 1

H.^VEY D. Little

( 241

CONSOLATION.

When smiling hours for aye are flowD.

And rent our holiest ties ;

When in the world, bereft, alone,

Our bosom torn with sighs ; —

When those on whom our hearts are placed.

Greet us on earth no more,

Nor we those tranquil pleasures taste.

Which cheered our hearts before ; —

We find that all is emptiness,

A glittering, pageant show, —

That here is no substantial bliss,

No lasting joy below.

Then the Blest Page, and that alone.

The mystery will explain.

Why thus our bleeding hearts are torn.

And we bereaved remain :

There the fair field of wisdom lies,

Its paths we then explore,

The world throws oflf its deep disguise,—

Illusions cheat no more !

EPHRAIM ROBBINS

n

(242)

THE EGYPTIAN MANUSCRIPTS.

The Western Museum is, as a matter of course,
visited by every body, who is so fortunate, as to have
an opportunity of seeing the lions of the renowned city
of Cincinnati. It is equally a matter of course, for
all those fortunate persons to be delighted with the
neatness and good order of the establishment, and to
wonder, that so many really curious articles are to be
found there. But the greatest wonder with most visi-
tors is, what can be the contents of those antique man-
uscripts on papyrus, in the glass case, which contains
so many specimens of the intolerably bad taste of the
ancient Egyptians. Being written in a most villanous,
awkward, and uncouth hand, like the autographs of
some of our modern great men, they are, like them,
supposed to conceal treasures of genius ; which, the
laudable curiosity to discover whatever is hidden,
prompts almost every one to wish could be displayed
to the public.

One of my friends, with whom I lately paid a visit
to the Museum, feeling this curiosity very highly exci-
ted— in his anxiety to have it gratified — urged me very
strongly to oblige the public, by giving a translation of
these extraordinary antiquities. To this I objected —
somewhat hastily, and inconsiderately, as I was after-

THE EGYPTIAN MANUSCRIPTS. 24o

wards convinced — that however desirous I might be to
gratify him and the public, yet my ignorance of the
language in which these manuscripts were written,
disqualified me from attempting it in this instance. —
For I had, from some cause or other, imbibed a notion,
that a translator, ought to understand the language^
from which he translates. This notion, however, my
friend immediately undertook to refute, and brought
forward the examples of many successful, modern
translators to prove, that it was totally unnecessary.

"Indeed," added he, " you have a decided advan-
tage over most of those I have mentioned : for they un-
derstood neither the language of their author, nor the
one into which they rendered his work. Now, although
you may not perfectly understand this ancient lan-
guage, yet you have some slight knowledge of your
OAvn, which will give your translation a manifest supe-
riority over many, which are very popular — particu-
larly some from the German. Indeed, one of the most
celebrated translations in the English language, requir-
ed no knowledge of that of the author ; and it is found
to be only the more popular from this circumstance."

It was impossible not to be convinced, by this rea-
soning, of my fitness for the undertaking proposed to
me, and of my duty to add one more to the many ob-
ligations, which I had already conferred upon the pub-
lic. I, therefore, proceeded to the accomplishment oi
my task, with the usual diffidence of my own abilities^
which I prepared myself to exhibit, by showing, what

244 THE EGYPTIAN MANUSCRIPTS.

amazing difficulties I had to encounter, how success-
fully I had overcome them, and how every body, who
had ever made a similar attempt, had completely fail-
ed. This part of my labour, however, the publisher
informs me must be omitted for want of room. I shall,
therefore, reserve it for a future work, and shall mere-
ly mention, that I have consulted all the authors,
whose works could in any way aid me in my underta-
king; discovered all the various readings, of which
the manuscript is susceptible, and selected the most
correct one ; and finally, have been, as I flatter myself,
completely successful in exhibiting my author, precise-
ly as he would have appeared, had he written in Eng-
lish. As the copy is much mutilated, we have neither
its beginning, nor end ; — a circumstance which would
be a decided advantage in the works of many modern
authors, and particularly in the published speeches of
our members of congress — of which we always dread
the beginning, and to the end no one has ever had the
patience to travel.

The subject of this curious work, appears to be an
account of the manners and customs of a very extra-
ordinary race of people, whose country is not named
in that part of it that remains ; so that we can not
judge of its correctness. — Indeed, it appears altogether
so improbable an account, that we can not be certain,
that it is not entirely fictitious. It may possibly be a
correct account — or, at least, as much so as could be
expected from a traveller — of some nation, former/y

THE EGYPTIAN MAXUSCRIPTS. 245

inhabiting the interior of Tartary, or the northern
part of China ; but, if so, the period to which it relates,
must have been very remote ; — since customs so absurd,
as tliose mentioned, could only have existed at so early
a period, and in so rude a nation, as to be beyond the
reach and province of history. I can not pretend, in
gi-v-ing this translation, to be doing any thing more,
than merely gratifying curiosity ; since it can not be
supposed, that in so very different a state of society,
as that which exists at present, we can be benefitted by
such accounts — either by regarding them as warnings
or examples.

The translation commences with the very first word;
which are legible ; and it appears to be in that part of
the work, which is devoted to the subject of the reli-
gion of the people described, and is as follows : —

.? Vf «= * * "Another of the religious rites

of this extraordinary nation is one, which is performed
only occasionally, and by the higher classes of these
barbarians. The most usual occasion of its performance
is, when one of them has, by any accident, lost his tem-
per, and wishes to regain it ; in which case he consider?
this ceremony, as the only means, whereby it can be
accomplished, consistently with the laws of honour. —
These lav.s are a code for the express government of a
particular class, who are said to imagine, that by com-
plying with its requisitions, they are absolved from the
performance of all other duties, and from obedience to
■21*

^46 THE EGYPTIAX 3lAiNL>;CR2PTfc.

all other laws. At what period, or by what law-giver,
it was instituted, I could not learn ; nor could I obtain
much information concerning this ceremony, except
the manner, in which it is performed. This, as nearly
as I could learn — not having had an opportunity of
witnessing it myself — is as follows :

" The person desirous of performing this rite, selects
one of his friends as a temporary servant, or assistant,
and sends him with a letter to another friend, in which
are contained professions of respect, and an assurance,
that the writer is the humble and obedient servant of
the friend he addresses ; in which capacity, he begs the
favour of him to meet the writer, at such time and
place, as may be agreed upon by him, and the servant,
who carries the letter; and then to give him, what, in
their barbarous language, is termed the satisfaction of
a gentleman. This request it is always necessary to
grant ; for to refuse it, would be considered an affront,
not so much to the person making the request — as to
all the associates of the one refusing it, who would
punish him by degradation, and repeated insults, for
any such refusal. He, therefore, prepares to perform
his part of the ceremony ; which he does, by selecting
one of his friends, to act as a servant, or assistant, for
the occasion, as in the former case, whom he sends
with a letter, in reply to the one he has received, and
similar to it — granting the request, and mentioning
the time and place for meeting. At such time and
place, thev accordingly meet; and it is then the dutv

THE EGYPTIAN MANUSCRIPTS. 247

oi the two servants to ajipoint places, a short distance
apart, where each one places his master, and gives him
a couple of warlike weapons — such as have been
agreed on, which they proceed to display their skill in
the exercise of, until one is killed, or severely wounded.
In this latter case, the other immediately steps up, and
expresses much regret at the misfortune which ha?
happened, and says many ilattering things; — to which
the wounded man replies, by requesting the servant?
to bear witness, that he has behaved honourably, and
like a gentleman— and declares, that if he should die,
he acquits the other of the blame of having caused his
Jeath ; — hopes he will suffer no inconvenience on ac-
count of it, and bids him farewell, with great cordial-
ity and good humour ; — and thus the ceremony ends.

" It is then considered, that the satisfaction of a gen-
tleman has been given to the one, who begged for it,
whether he happens to be the one killed or wounded,
or not. I was not able to acquire a sufficient knowl-
edge of the language of these barbarians, to under-
stand v/hat satisfaction they could take, in being thus
killed or v/ounded. All to whom I applied for infor-
mation on the subject, appeared umviilingto elucidate
this portion of their religious mysteries to a foreigner.
It must, doubtless, be an exclusively mental satisfac-
tion ; since no other can be possibly supposed to be en-
ioyed, either in the performance of the rite, or in suf-
fering its consequences. And this supposition is con-
firmed bv the fact, that the practice i^ confined to

'^48 THE EGYPTiAX MAISL SCRIPTS.

those, who be.-tow most time in cultivating their meji-
tal faculties.

" But I suppose, that a thorough knowledge and com-
prehension of this, and their other religious rites, can
only be obtained, by studying their sacred books, in
which all the mysteries of their religion are explained.
This I was not able to do ; for I was unwilling to re-
main with so savage a nation long enough to acquire
a thorough knov/ledge of their language ; and it will
be seen by what I am about to relate, as well as by
what I have already said, that such a religion, as they
are governed by, is not worthy of any extraordinary
labour, or sacriflce, for the purpose of understanding
it. And in truth, it seems to me, from what knowl-
edge I did obtain on tlie subject, that no one, but a
person born and educated in the same state of barba-
rism, as these people themselves, could ever arrive at
a sufficient understanding of this matter.

"It seems, likewise, to be the wish of these people to
keep their religious doctrines concealed ; for whenever
I asked for information respecting them, I received
accounts so different from what my own observation
showed me to be the facts, that I was convinced, that
they pui-posely deceived me, from an unwillingness,
that I should acquire any knowledge of their religious
mysteries.

" I did not, indeed, wish to know any thing more than
the general principles, or laws, by which they are gov-
erned, y/hich always, among all people, emanate from

THE EGYPTIAN MANUSCRIPTS. 249

their religious belief. But so little regard to truth is
displayed, and so careless are they about being believ-
ed, that, notAvithstanding they saw that their own con-
duct contradicted all their assertions, and that 1 could
not help observing it ; yet they had the astonishing im-
pudence to assure me, that these general principle?
taught them to be meek, kind, charitable, forgiving
their enemies, and loving one another ; and doing to
others, as they would have others do to themselves. —
These rules they are so far from following, that, in
most cases, they spend their lives in doing acts, which
are precisely the reverse of them. For instead of for-
giving their enemies, they are always endeavouring to
injure them ; and they do not even forgive their friends^
if they happen to be unfortunate, or if they happen to
be uncommonly fortunate. In either of these cases,
they frequently add them, to the number of their ene-
mies. And as for meekness, it is universally despised.
and held in such detestation and abhorrence, that they
'who are entirely devoid, or possess the least, of it, are
generally raised to the highest stations, and have pow-
er granted them— not only to do themselves, but to
enable others to do, the very acts, which they pretend
are forbidden by their religion. And to show that this
power is exercised, and how it is made to destroy one
of the qualities, which they pretend is most strongly
enjoined by their religion, viz : charity. I will here
mention one of those customs, which have arisen nat-
urally, from such a practice.

250 THE egyptiajn manuscripts.

"Whenever it so happens, that, from misfortune, or
any other cause, one of these barbarians owes to an-
other more than he can pay — he, to whom the debt is
due, obtains the power, from the rulers, to prevent the
debtor from ever being enabled to pay — by confining
him in a prison, where he can neither labour, nor, by
any other means, acquire wherewithal to make pay-
ment. In order to account for this unnatural trait of
barbarism, I supposed, that it was considered a crimi-
nal act in this country, to contract a debt. But upon
enquiry, I was greatly surprised to learn, that instead,
of this being the fact, the reverse of it is true. Their
laws hold out temptations, in various ways, to induce
men to be indebted to one another, and to the rulers
themselves. They even compel a certain class of mer-
chants— those who traffic with foreign countries —
whenever they bring home any merchandize, to con-
tract a debt to their governors, for about one third of
its value ; and they are nat allowed to bring any thing
into the country, upon any other conditions. Various
other measures are adopted, of which the following are
some of the most common." * * * * *

The remainder of the manuscript is in such mutila-
ted fragments, that it would require more time to ar-
range them, than I have as yet been able to afford. —
At some future period I propose to communicate to the
public such further translations, as I may be enabled
to make.

J. P. F,

{ ^51 )

THE SHAWANOE WARRIOK.

O'er this bank, now so still and forlorn,

The dark Shawanoe used to rove ;
And his trail might be found every morn.

In the cane-brake and cotton tree grove.
His war song he often has sung,

By the shade of yon wide spreading tree.
While the far distant echoes have rung,

To the voice of the bold Shawanoe.

When'er in the dark winding dell,

Or the prairie, in ambush he lay,
The huge elk and buffalo fell,

And the nimble, wild deer was his prey.
But in war was the chieftain"'s delight —

No warrior more valiant than he ;
There was none, in the bloodiest fight.

So fierce as the bold Shawanoe.

The Shawanoe warrior is gone —

The light of his valour is fled ;
And his cruel oppressor, alone,

Can show where he battled and bled.
The fate of the chief is fulfilled.

His foes from his vengeance are free ;
But the heart of the white man is chilled.

When he speaks of the bold Shawanoe 'i

253 THE SHAWANOE WARRIOR.

I have set by the grass covered mound,

Where the bones of the warrior repose :
There in bountiful fragrance around,

Bloom violet, daisy, and rose ;
For 'tis ever the fate of the brave,

By beauty high honoured to be.
As the wild flower decks the lone grave,

Where is mouldering the bold Shawanoe,

Some, enamoured, dark maiden has here

Given vent to a torrent of grief,
And moistened, with many a tear.

The grave of her dearly loved chief.
Thus hallowed, the soil has no more

Given place to a thorn-bearing tree ;
But flowers adorn the wild shore.

And the grave of the bold Shawanoe.

James Hall

^53 )

THE ORPHAN'S HARP.

And its notes will cheer us never ;

For she, who could waken its deepest thrill.
Lies voiceless, and cold, forever !

She sleeps in the vale, where violets bloom,
And the wild rose twines above her : —

No friends to lament o'er her hapless doom-
No kindred to pity, or love her.

Her cheek wore a bloom in her early day,

Ere the tear of sorrow started.
Or childhood's bright dreams had faded away,

And left her broken-hearted.
The kind look of pity, or affection, smiled

On the desolate Orphan never ;
Love's sweet illusion her heart had beguiled—-

Then left it in gloom forever I

Tlie depth of her anguish none could know-
Her emotions never were spoken ;

But the hope of Heaven a gleam can throw
Of joy, o'er the heart that is broken.

122

^54 THE OUPHAN's HAIli'.

She passed from earth, like the pensive ligii%

Which slovvly fades at even;
And her spotless spirit hath winged its flight,
To its own bright home in Heaven.

Her harp hangs alone : — its musick is hushed,

And will waken ne more on the morrov/ ;
For the heart, that loved its tones, was crushed,

By its own deep weight of sorrow.
No sigh is breathed o'er her lonely tomb —

No eyes are dim with weeping ;
But the violet, and the wild rose bloom

O'er the grave where the Orphan is sleeping.

J. B. DILLo^.

( -255 )

ELEGY.

Adieu ! ye shady walks and bower?,

Where oft, in brighter days, I strayed,
When life's rough path was strewetl with flower?

And joys, like sun-beams, round me played.
Oh ! then I deemed it happiness,

To wander o"er that shady green,
And gaze at nature's verdant dress,

With her, the enchantress of the scene.

And can I e'er those scenes forget.

While memory binds me in her spell]
Ah, no I — 'twas there, that first we met,

'Twas there, we took our last farewell 1
How often, at the close of day,

Have we reclined beneath yoa trees,
To watch the sun's last golden ray.

Or listen to the evening breeze.^

But, ob 1 no more the sun's last ray.

Shall glitter on her faded eye ;
Xor ever more, at close of day.

She- 11 listen to the zephyr's sigh !
Xo longer now those bowers I prize.

No more those walks my feet retrace,
For she, v.ho loved them, darkly lies.

Beneath their shade, in death's embrace.

VF.T.ASrO.

( :^56j

THE INDIAN HATER,

In the course of a journey, which I lately took
through Illinois, I stopped one day at a village for a few
hours, and stepped into a store to purchase some tri-^
fling article of which I stood in need. Finding a num-
ber of persons there, and being not unwilling to while
away a few minutes in conversation, I leaned my back
against the counter, and addressed myself to a well
dressed farmer, who answered my enquiries respecting
the country with intelligence and civility.

While thus engaged, my attention was drawn to a
person who stood near. He was a man who might
have been about fifty years of age. His height did not
exceed the ordinary stature, and his pei'son was rather
slender than otherwise ; but there was something in his
air and features, which distinguished him from common
men. The expression of his countenance was keen
and daring. His forehead was elevated, his cheek-
bones high, his lips small and compressed — Avhile long
exposure to the climate had tanned his complexion to.
a deep olive. The same cause seemed to have harden-
ed his skill and muscles, so as to give him the appear-
ance of a living petrifaction. There was over all a
settled gloom — a kind of forced composure, which in-
dicated resignation, but not content. In his eye, there

THE INDIAN IIATEH. '^O t

was something peculiar, yet it was difficult to tell in
what that peculiarity consisted. It was a small grey
orb, whose calm, bold, direct, glance seemed to vouch,
that it had not cowered with shame, or quailed in dan-
ger. There was blended in that eye a searching keen-
ness, with a quiet vigilance — a watchful, sagacious, self-
possession — so often observable in the physiognomy of
those, who are in the habit of expecting, meeting, and
overcoming peril. His heavy eye-brows had once been
black; but time had touched them Avith his pencil. —
He Avas dressed in a coarse, grey hunting shirt, girded
round the waist with a broad, leathern belt, tightly
drawn, in which rested a long knife, a weapon com-
mon to the western hunter. Upon the whole, there was
about this man an expression of grim and gloomy stern-
ness, fixedness of purpose, and intense, but smothered
passion, which stamped him as of no common mould;
yet there Avere indications of openness and honesty,
which forbade distrust. His was not the unbludiing
front of hardy guilt, nor the lurking glance of under-
handed villany. A stranger Avould not ha^e :ic?ita-
ted to confide in his faith or courage, but vrould haxe
trembled at the idea of proA'oking his hostility.

I had barely time to make these observations, when
several Indians, Avho had strolled into the village, en-
tered the store. The effect of their presence upon the
backAvoodsman, Avhom I haA'e described, Avas instanta-
neous and A^olent. His eyes rolled Avildly, as if he had
been suddenly stung to madness, gleaminy; Avitli a

03 *

258 THE INDIAN HATER,

strange fierceness ; a supernatural lustre, like that which
flashes from the eye-balls of the panther, when crouch-
ed in a dark covert, and ready to dart upon his prey^
His hollow cheek was flushed — the muscles, that but a
moment before seemed so rigid, became flexible, and
moved convulsively. His hand, sliding quietly to the
hilt of his large knife, as if by instinct, grasped it firm-
ly ; and it was easy to perceive, that a single breath
would be sufficient to blow up the smothered fire. —
But, except these indications, he remained motionless
as a statue, gazing with a look of intense ferocity at the
intruders. The Indians halted when their eyes met his,
and exchanged glances of intelligence with each other.
Whether it was from instinct, or that they knew the
man, or w^hether that sagacity, which is natural to
their race, led them to read danger is his scowling vis-
age, they seemed willing to avoid him, and retired. —
The backwoodsman made a motion as if to follow;
but several of the persons present, who had watched
this silent scene with interest, gently withheld him, and
after conversing v/ith him a few moments in an earn-
est, but under tone, led him oif in one direction, while
the Indians rode away in another.

Having understood from the farmer, with whom 1
had been talking, that he v/as about to return home,
and that my route led through his neighbourhood, I
cheerfully accepted the offer of his company, and we
set out together. Our discourse very naturally fell up-
on the scene wo had witnessed, and I expressed a curi-

THE IINDIAN HATER.

259

usity to learn something of the history and character
of the man, Avhose image had impressed itself so forci-
bly upon my mind.

"He is a strange, mysterious looking being," said I,
'' and I should think he must be better, or worse, than
other men."

"Samuel Moisson is a very good neighbour,"— re-
plied the farmer, cautiously.

"You say that in a tone," rejoined I, "which seems
to imply, that in some other respects he may not be so
good I"

"Well, as to that— I can not say, of my ownknowl-
edf'-e, that I know any harm of the man."
" And what do other people say of him?"
The farmer hesitated, and then with a caution verj
common among people of this description, replied : —
"People often say more than they can prove. It's
not good to be talking of one's neighbours. And Mon-
son, as I said before, is a good neighbour."
"But a bad man, as I understand you."
u^Q — far from it:— the man's well enough — ex-
cept " and here he lowered his tone, and looked cau-

tiouslv around. " The folks do say he is rather toe
keen with his rifle."

"How, so ;— does he shoot his neighbour's cattle?"
"No, Sir — Samuel Monson is as much above a mean
tiction, as any other man."

"What then:— is he quarrelsome?'"

260

THE INDIAN HATER.

^'Oh, bless you, no!— There's not a peaceablcr man
in the settlement ;— but he used to be a great Indian
fighter in the last war, and he got sort o' haunted to
the woods ;— and folks do say, that he is still rather
too keen on the track of a moccasin."

"I do not exactly comprehend you, my dear Sir.—
The Indians are, I believe, now quiet, and at peace
with us."

"Why, yes, they are very peaceable. They never
come near us, except now and then a little party
comes in to trade."

" They are civil, are they not?"
"Yes, Sir, quite agreeable— bating the killing of a
hog once in a while— and that we don't vally see-
ing that it is but just natural to the poor savage to
shoot any thing that runs in the v/oods."

"In what way then does this Monson interfere Avith
them?"

" I did not say, stranger, that Monson done it. No,
no; I wouldn't hurt no man-s character; but the fact
and truth are about this. Now and then an Indian is
missing; and sometimes one is found dead in the
range ;— and folks v/ill have their notions, and their
talk, and their suspicions about it— and some talk
hard of Monson."

"But why charge it upon him?"
"Why if you must have it out, stranger, in this
country we all know the bore of every man's ritic.—

THE INDIAN HATEK. 261

Alousou's gun carries just eighty to the pound. — Now
the bullet holes in all these Indians that have been
shot, are the same, and we know whose rifle they suit.
Besides this, horse tracks have been seen on the trail
of the moccasin. They were very particular tracks,
and just suited the hoof of a certain horse. — Then a
certain man was known to be lying out about that
same time ; and when all these things are put together,
it don't take a Philadelphia lawyer to tell who done
the deed. Then he sometimes goes otf, and is gone
for weeks, and people guess that he goes to their own
hunting grounds to lie in wait for them. They do saj^,
he can scent a red skin like a hound, and never lets a
chance slip."

'• But is it possible, that in a civilized country, with-
in the reach of our laws, a wretch is permitted to hunt
down his fellow creatures like wild beasts] To mur-
der a defenceless Indian, who comes into our territory
in good faith, believing us a Christian people?"

"Why it is not exactly permitted ; we don't know
for certain who does it, nor is it any particular man's
business to inquire more than another. Many of the
settlers have had their kin murdered by the savages in
earl}" times ; and all v/ho have been raised in the back
woods, have been taught to fear and dislike them. —
Then Monson is an honest fellow, works hard, pays
his debts, and is always willing to do a good turn, and
it seems hard to break neighbourhood with him, fov
the matter of an Indian or so "

262 THE INDIAN HATER.

"But the wickedness — the shame — the breach of
law and hospitality !"

"Well, so it is. — li: is a sin ; and sorry would I be to
have it on my conscience. But then some think an In-
dian or two, nov7 and then, v/ill never be missed ; others
again hate to create an interruption in the settlement ;
others, who pretend to know the law, say that the gen-
eral government has the care of the Indians ; and that
our state lav/s won't kiver the case ; and Avithal Mon-
son keeps his own counsel, and so among hands he es-
capes. After all, to come to the plain sentimental
truth, Monson has good cause to hate them ; and many
a man, that would not dip his own hand in the blood
of an Indian, would as soon die as betray Monson ; for
few of us could lay our hands on our hearts, and say
that we would not do the same in his situation. — "

At this point of the conversation, we were joined
by several horsemen^ who were pursuing the same road
with ourselves ; and my companion seeming unwilling
to pursue the subject in their hearing, I was unable to
jearn from him what injury the Indian-hater had re-
ceived, to provoke his sanguinary career of vengeance.
Nor did another opportunity occur; for we soon came
to a point where the road diverged ; and although my
friendly compa,nion, with the usual hospitality of the
country, invited me to his house, I vv^as obliged to de-
cline the invitation, and we parted.

I continued my journey into the Northwestern part
of Illinois, which was then just beginning to attract

THE INDIAN HATER. 263

tiie attention of land purchasers, and contained a few
scattered settlements. Delighted with this beautiful
country, and wishing to explore the lands lying be-
tween this tract and the Wabash, i determined on my
return to strike directly across through an uninhabited
wilderness of about a hundred and fifty miles in ex-
tent. I hired an Indian guide, who was highly recom-
mended to me, and set out under his protection.

It is not easy to describe the sensations of a travel-
ler, unaccustomed to such scenery, on first behold-
ing the vast prairies, which I was about to explore. —
Those, Avhich I had heretofore seen, were comparative-
ly small. The points of woodland wh-ch make into
them like so many capes or promontories, and the
groves which are interspersed like islands, are, in these
lesser prairies, always sufficiently nee.r to be clearly
defined to the eye, and to give the scene an interesting
variety. We see a plain of several miles in extent,
not perfectly level, but gently rolling or undulating
like the swelling of the ocean when nearly calm.—
The graceful curve of the surface is seldom broken,
except when here and there the eye rests upon one
of those huge mounds, which are so pleasing to the
poet, and so perplexing to the antiquarian. The whole
is overspread with grass and flowers, constituting a
rich and varied carpet, in which a ground of lively
green is ornamented Avith a profusion of the gaudiest
hues. Deep recesses in the edge of the timber, resem-
ble the bays and inlets of a lake ; wliile occasionally a

•264 THE INDIAN HATER.

long vista, opening far back into the forest, suflers the
eye to roam off and refresh itself with the calm beau-
ty of a distant perspective.

The traveller as he rides along these smaller prairies
finds his eye continually attracted to the edges of the
forest, and his imagination employed in tracing the
beautiful outline, and in finding out resemblances be-
tween these wild scenes, and the most highly embellish-
ed productions of art. The fairest pleasure grounds, the
noblest parks of European princes, where milhons have
been expended to captivate the fancy with elysian
scenes, are but mimic representations of the beauties
which are here spread by nature; for here are clumps,
and lawns, and avenues, and groves — the tangled thick-
et, and the solitary tree — and all the varieties of scenic
attraction — but on a scale so extensive, as to offer an
endless succession of changes to the eye. There is

an air of civilization here, that wins the heart even

here, where no human residence is seen, where no foot
intrudes, and where not an axe has ever trespassed on
the beautiful domain. So different is this feeling from
any thing inspired by mountain, or woodland scenery,
that, the instant the traveller emerges from the forest
into the prairie, he no longer feels solitary. The con-
sciousness that he is travelling alone, and in a M'ilder-
ness, escapes him ; and he indulges the same pleasing
sensations, which are enjoyed by one, who, having
been lost among the labyrinths of a savage mountain,
suddenly descends into rich and highly cultivated

THE INDIAN MATER. 265

fields. The gay landscape charms him. He is surroun-
ded by the refreshing sweetness, and graceful beau-
ty of the rural scene ; and recognises at every step
some well remembered spot, enlarged and beautified,
and, as it were, retouched by nature's hand. The clus-
ters of trees so fancifully arranged, seem to have been
disposed bj^ the hand of taste, and so complete is the
delusion, that it is difficult to dispel the belief, that
each avenue leads to a village, and each grove con-
ceals a splendid mansion.

Widely difierent was the prospect exhibited in the
more northern prairies. Vast in extent, the distant
forest was barely discoverable in the shapeless outline
of blue, faintly impressed on the horizon. Here and
there a solitary tree torn by the wind, stood alone
like a dismantled mast in the ocean. As I followed my
guide through this desolate region, my sensations were
similar to those of the voyager, when his barque is
launched into the ocean. Alone, in a wide waste, with
my faithful pilot only, I was dependant on him for sup-
port, guidance, and protection. With little to diversify
the path, and less to please the eye^ a sense of dreariness
crept over me — a desolation and withering of the spir-
it, as when the heart, left painfully alone, finds noth-
ing to love, nothing to admire, nothing from which to
reap instruction or amusement. But these are feelings,
which, like the sea sickness of the young mariner, are
soon dispelled. I began to find a pleasure in gazing
over this immense, unbroken waste ; in watching the
23

266 THE INDIAN HATER.

horizon in the vague hope of meeting a traveller, and
in following the deer with my eyes, as they galloped
off — their forms growing smaller and smaller, as they
receded, until they faded gradually from the sight. —
Sometimes I descried a dark spot at an immense dis-
tance, and pointed it out to my companion with a joy,
like that of the seaman, who discovers a distant sail in
the speck which floats on the ocean. When such an ob-
ject happened to be in the direction of our path, I
watched it as it rose and enlarged upon the vision —
supposing it one moment to be a man — and at anoth-
er, a buffalo ; until, after it had seemed to approach for
hours, I found it to be a tree.

Nor was I entirely destitute of company ; for my
Pottowattomie guide proved to be both intelligent and
good humoured, and although his stock of English
was but slender, his conversational powers were by no
means contemptible. His topographical knowledge
was extensive and accurate, so that he was able not
only to choose the best route, but to point out to me
all the localities. When we halted, he kindled a fire,
spread my pallet, and formed a shelter to protect me
from the weather. When we came to a stream which
was too deep to ford, he framed a raft to cross me over
with my baggage, while he mounted my horse and
plunged into the water. Throughout the journey, his
assiduities were as kind and unremitting, as all his ar-
rangements were sagacious and considerate. A high-
er motive, than the mere pecuniary reward which he

THE INDIAN HATER. "267

expected for his services, governed his actions ; a gen-
uine integrity of purpose, a native politeness and dig-
nity of heart, raised him above the ordinary savage,
and rendered him not only a respectable, but an inter-
esting man.

After travelling nearly five days without beholding
a human habitation, we arrived at the verge of a set-
tlement on the Wabash. We passed along a rich
bottom, covered with large trees, whose thick shade
afforded a strong contrast to the scenes we had left be-
hind us, and then ascending a gentle rise, stood on a
high bluff bank of the W' abash. A more secluded and
beautiful spot, has seldom been seen. A small river,
with a clear stream, rippling over a rocky bed, mean-
dered round the point on which we stood, and then
turning abruptly to the left, was lost among the trees.
The opposite shore was low, thickly wooded, and
beautifully rich in the variety of mellow hues painted
by the autumn sun. The spot we occupied was a slip
of table land, a little higher than the surrounding coun-
try. It had once been cleared for cultivation, but was
now overgrown with hazle-bushes, vines, and briars,
while a few tall, leafless trunks, once the proudest oaks
of the forest, still adhered tenaciously to the soil. A
heap of rubbish, intermingled with logs, half burnt and
nearly rotten, showed the remains of what had once
been a chimney — but all else had been destroyed by time
or fire. One spot only, which had been beaten hard,

*268 THE INDIAN HATER.

brush ; and here we stood gazing at this desolate spot,
and that beautiful stream. It was but a moment, and
neither of us had broken silence, when the report gf a
rifle was heard, and my guide uttering a dismal .yell,
fell prostrate. Recovering his senses for an instant,
he grasped his gun, partly raised his body, and cast
upon me a look of reproach, which I shall never for-
get ; and then, as if satisfied by the concern and alarm
of my countenance, and my prompt movement to as-
sist him, he gave me one hand, and pointing with the
other towards the woods, exclaimed — "Bad — bad,
white man ! — Take care! — " and expired.

I Avas so much surprised and shocked at this catas-
trophe, that I stood immoveable, thoughtless of my
own safety, mourning over the brave Indian, who lay
weltering in his gore, when I was startled by a slight
rustling in the bushes close behind me, and raising my
eyes, I beheld Monson! Advancing without the least
appearance of shame or feor, until he came to the
corpse, and paying not the slightest attention to me,
he stood and gazed sternly at the fallen warrior.

" There's another of the cursed crew," said he, at
length, '' gone to his last account ! — He is not the first,
nor shall he be the last. — It's an old debt, but it shall
be paid to the last drop."

As he spoke, he gnashed his teeth, and his eyes gleam-
ed with the malignity of gratified revenge. Then
turnin?: to me, and observing the deep abhorrence with
which I shrunk back, he said : —

THE INDIAN HATER. '269

^*May be, stranger, you don't like this sort of busi-
ness?"

" Wretch — miscreant — murderer ! begone ! Approach
me not," I exclaimed, drawing a large pistol from my
belt; but — before I was aware, the backw^oodsman,
with a sudden spring, caught my arm, and wrested the
weapon from me; and then remaining perfectly calm,
while I was ready to burst with rage, he said —

"This is a poor shooting-iron for a man to have
about him — it might do for young men to "tote" in a
settlement, but it is of no use in the woods — no more
than a shot-gun."

"Scoundrel I" said I, "you shall repent your vio-
lence "

"Young man!" interrupted he, very coolly, "lam
no scoundrel ; — you mistake — you do not knoAV me."

" Murderer!" repeated I, "for such I know you to
be. — Think not this bloody deed shall go unpunished.
My life is in your power, but I dread not your venge-
ance!"

While I was thus exhausting myself in the expres-
sion of my rage and horror, the more politic Monson,
having possessed himself of the Indian's gun, drop-
ped it, together with my unlucky pistol, on the ground,
and placing one foot on them, he proceeded deliber-
ately to reload his rifle.

"Don't be alarmed, young man," said he in reply
to my last remark, " I shall not hurt a hair of your
23*

270 THE INDIAN HATER.

head. — You can not provoke me to it. — I never liar-
med a christian man to my knowledge."

" See here 1" he continued, as he finished loading his
piece. — Then pointing to the ruins of the cabin, he
proceeded in a hurried tone : —

" This was my home. — Here I built a house with my
own labour. — With the sweat of my brow I opened
this clearing. — Here I lived with my wife, my children,
and my mother. — We worked hard — lived well — and
were happy. One night — it was in the fall — I had
gathered my corn, the labour of the year was done^
and I was sitting by the fire among my family, with the
prospect of plenty and comfort around me, — when I
heard a yell ! I never was a coward, but I knew that
sound too well ; and when I looked round upon the
women and the helpless babes that depended on me
for protection, a cold chill ran over me, and my heart
seemed to die. I ran to the door, and beheld my stacks
in a blaze. I caught up my gun — but in a moment, a
gang of yelling savages came pouring in at my door
like so many howling wolves. J fired, and one of them
fell. — I caught up an axe, and rushed at them with such
fury that I cleared the cabin. The monsters then set
fire to the roof, and we saw the flames spreading around
us. What could I do ? Here was my poor, old mother,
and my wife, and my little children, unable to fight or
fly. — I burst the door, and rushed madly out ; but they
pushed me back. The blazing timbers came falling

THE INDIAN HATER. '271

among us— my wife hung on my neck, and called on
me to save her children — our pious mother prayed —
while the savage wretches roared, and laughed, and
mocked us. I grasped my axe, and rushed out again.
I killed several of them ; — but they overpowered me,
bound me, and led me to witness the ruin of all that
was dear to me. All — all perished here in the flames
before my eyes. — They perished in lingering torments.
I saw their agonies — I heard their cries — they called
on my name. — Oh, heaven I can I ever forget it?"

Here he stopped, overcome with his emotions, and
looked wildly around. — Tears came to his relief, but
the man of sorrows brushed them away, and contin-
ued:—

"They carried me off a prisoner. I was badly
wounded, and so heart broken, that for three days I
was helpless as a child. Then a desire of revenge
grew up in my heart, and I got strong. 1 gnawed the
ropes they had bound me with, and escaped from them
in the night. In the Indian war that followed, I join-
ed every expedition — I was foremost in every fight ; —
but I could not quench my thirst for the blood of those
monsters. I swore never to forgive them, and when
peace came, I continued to make war. I made it a
rule to kill every red skin that came in my way, and
so long as my limbs have strength I shall continue to
slay the savage.

"Go!" he continued, "pursue your own way, and
leave me to mine. If you have a parent that prays for

272

THE INDIAN HATER,

you, a wife and children that love you, they will receive
you with joy, and you will be happy. I am alone ;—
there is none to mourn with me, no one to rejoice at
my coming. When all that you cherish is torn from
you in one moment, condemn me, if you can : but not
till then. Go !— That path will lead you to a house ;—
there you will get a guide.'-

James Hall.

(t373)

LIFE'S TWILIGHT.

-Tis sweet to behold the soft light,

That lingers at eve in the west;
But the evening of life is more bright,

And the twilight of hope is more blest.
For suns, though in brilliance they sink,

Are followed by shadows of gloom ;
But virtue, on life's fearful brink.

Sees glory beyond the dark tomb.

And sweet, when the morning's first beam.

O'er hill, and o'er wave, smiles serene;
But brighter by far is hope's gleam.

When it dawns upon sorrow and sin ;
For morn ushers in a brief day.

That night shall o'ershadow with gloom, —
But piety's hope sheds a ray.

That triumphs o'er night and the tomb.

Orlando.

( ^^^4 )

TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER 3IARRIAGE.

Midst gratulations, warm and loud,
From thronging friends, who round thee crowd,
Will mine seem cold, or please thee less.
For coming from the wilderness 1

Oh I will it not the rather seem,

Thus heard o'er mountain, vale, and stream,

Some distant echo, borne along.

In answer to that joyous throng.

Blest be thy home ! — May no rude care,
Nor sorrow, find admittance there ;
Nor aught to dim thine eye with tears,
Through the long lapse of coming year.-.

Oh I may it be the loved retreat,
That friendship seeks with willing (eet ;
Where all is calm, serene, and clear,
As heaven's unclouded atmosphere.

A peaceful scene of sweet content,
O'er which, e'en angels — mercy sent —
Might lingering pause, and thus delay
Th^ir gentle mission on the way.

M. P. Flint.

i 275 )

THE STAR OF LOVE,

Oh, who would consent through this wide Avorld to roam,

With a canker of doubt and distrust in his breast,
If it was not that heaven had pointed a home,

Where the pilgrim may soothe all his sorrow to rest !
Dark, dark is the path, ever winding the way,

And thorny and chill is the ground that we tread,
But still through the darkness there glimmers a ray,

To arrest smiling hope, ere its bright wing be spread.

The orbs that allure us, are many and bright.

Yet briefly they shine, or deceitfully glare.
Like the lightning's red flash that illumines the night.

But to show the dark tempest that rides on the air;
One only is true, — 'Tis the bright Star of Love,

That allures us to virtue, wherever we roam,
A~id conducts us at last to that refuge above.

Which is love's last retreat, and virtue's blest home!

Orlando,

( 276 )

THE DESERTED CHILDREN.

A REAL INCIDENT.

In the autumn of the year 1823, a man was descend-
ing the Ohio River, with three small children, in a ca-
noe. He had lost his wife, and in the emigrating spir-
it of our people, was transporting his all to a new
country, where he might again begin the world. Ar-
riving towards evening at a small island, he landed
there with the intention of encamping for the night.
After remaining a short time, he determined to visit
the opposite shore, for the purpose, probably, of pur-
chasing provisions ; and telling his children that he
would soon return to them, he paddled oif, leaving them
alone on the island. Unfortunately, he met on the
shore with some loose company who invited him to
drink. He become intoxicated, and in attempting to
return to the island in the night, Avas drowned. The
canoe floated away, and no one knew of the catastro-
phe until the following day.

The poor, deserted, children, in the meanwhile, wan-
dered about the uninhabited island, straining their
little eyes to catch a glimpse of their father. Night
came, and they had no fire, nor food— no bed to
rest upon, and no parent to v^^atch over them. The
weather was extremely cold, and the eldest chikL

THE DESERTED CHILDREN. 277

though but eight years of age, remembered to have
heard that persons, who slept in the cold, were some-
times chilled to death. She continued, therefore,
to wander about ; and when the younger children, worn
out with fatigue and drowsiness, were ready to drop
into slumber, she kept them awake with amusing, or
alarming stories. At last, nature could hold out no
longer, and the little ones, chilled and aching with
cold, threw themselves on the ground. Then their
sister sat down, and spreading out her garments as
wide as possible, drew them on her lap, and endeavour-
ed to impart to them the warmth of her own bosom, as
they slept sweetly in her arms.

Morning came, and the desolate children sat on
the shore, weeping bitterly. At length, they were
filled with joy, by the sight of a canoe approach-
ing the island. But they soon discovered that it
was filled with Indians; their delight was changed in-
to terror, and they fled into the woods. Believing
that the savages had murdered their father, and were
now come to seek for them, they crouched under
the bushes, hiding in breathless fear, like a brood of
young partridges.

The Indians having kindled a fire, sat down peace-
ably around it, and began to cook their morning
meal ; and the eldest child, as she peeped out from
her hiding place, began to think that they had not
killed their father. She reflected too, that they must
inevitably starve, if left on this lone island, while
24

278 THE DESERTED CHILDREN*

on the othor hand, there was a possibility of being
kindly treated by the Indians. The cries, too, of her
brother and sister, who had been begging piteously
for food, had pierced her heart, and awakened all her
energy. She told the little ones, over whose feebler
minds her fine spirit had acquired an absolute sway,
to get up and go with her ; then taking a hand of ea«h,
she fearlessly led them to the Indian camp-fire. For-
tunately, the savages understood our language, and
when the little girl had explained to them what had
occurred, they received the deserted children kindly,
and conducted them to the nearest of our towns,
where they were kept by some benevolent people, un-
til their own relations claimed them.

279 )

THE ROSE.

Lady, the rose,
Plucked by thy hand is doubly blest:

For though it knows
No more, its native bed of rest,
By beauty's hand the flower was prest.

Thus should you steal,
Some light heart from its home away,

It soon would feel,
That beauty's touch, and beauty's ray,
Could keep the wanderer from decay !

REPEAT THE STRAIN.

Repeat the strain — too lovely maid I
The last that love shall hear —

Already has the vow been paid.
That dooms thee to despair !

Sing, careless maid ! still sweetly sing
The bliss that lovers know !

Then go ! receive the fatal ring,
That binds thy fire to snow.

( '280 )

THE INDIAN MAID'S DEATH SONG.

The valiant Dacota has gone to the chase,
The pride of my heart, and the hope of his race ;
His arrows are sharp, and his eye it is true,
And swift is the march of his birchen canoe ;
But suns shall vanish, and seasons shall wane,
Ere the hunter shall clasp his Winona again I

Away you false hearted, who smile to destroy,
Whose hearts plan deceit, while your lips utter joy ;
Winona is true to the vow she has made,
And none but the hunter, shall win the dark maid,
I sing my death dirge ; for the grave 1 prepare.
And soon shall my true lover follow me there.

His heart is so true, that in death he shall not
Forget the sad scene of this blood-sprinkled spot ;
But swift, as the foot of the light bounding doe,
He'll fly through the regions of darkness below,
To join his Winona in mansions of truth,
Where love blooms eternal, with beauty, and youth.

Stern sire, and false hearted kindred, adieu !
I sing my death song, and my courage is true,
'Tis painful to die — but the pride of my race,
Forbids me to pause betwixt pain and disgrace ; —
The rocks they are sharp, and the precipice high ;
See, see 1 how a maiden can teach ye to die !

(281)

CAN YEARS OF SUFFERING.

Can years of suffering be repaid,

By after years of bliss ?
When youth has fled, and health decayed,

Can man taste happiness?
When love's bright visions are no more,

Nor high ambition's dream,
Has heaven no kindred joy in store,

To gild life's parting beam.

Oh bright is youth's propitious hour,

xlnd manhood's joyous prime,
When pleasure's sun, and beauty's flower,

Adorn the march of time.
But age has riper, richer, joy,

When hearts prepared for heaven,
Thrice tried, and pure of all alloy.

Rejoice in sins forgiven.

When long tried love still twines her wreath.

Around the brow of age ;
And virtue, the stern arm of death.

Disarms of all its rage ;
When friends, long cherished, still are true,

When virtuous offspring bloom ;
Then man's enjoyment purest flows.

Though ripening for the tomb.
24*

( 282 ;

WILLIAM BANCROFT.

FROM THE PORT-FOLIO OF A YOUNG BACKWOODSMAN.

The morning of life, radiant with the rain-bow
promises of youth, smiles upon us, as we are swiftly
passing along the stream of time; and all that can
gratify the senses, invigorate the body, and delight
the intellect, appear at our bidding, and contribute to
our felicity. We look back upon the path of our
young existence without regret ; and, casting our eyes
down the bright vista of futurity, perceive no interve-
ning cloud, to throw even a passing shadow over it. —
But, alas ! the brief revolution of a week too often
changes the scene ; substituting for our late enlivening
visions, the prospect of a cheerless waste, over which,
the wearisome pilgrimage of life must be run, amid
blighted hopes, disease, and disappointment.

The current of our days may oft-times, be aptly
compared to a river, rising in l>eauty, and meandering
through meadows and wood-lands, gathering strength
from a thousand rills, and sporting in the pride of in-
creasing volume — until suddenly it is dashed from rock
to rock, and from chasm to chasm, and finally sinks
beneath the quick-sands, and is lost : — but not forever ;

\VILLIA3I BAIsCROrr.

28-

hi renovated purity and gentleness it again rises to the
surface, and glides calmly along, until it mingles Vvith
the ocean ; — thus beautifully prefiguring that glorious
resurrection, the assured promise of v»iiich, sheds its
sustaining influences over the pillow of the expiring
christian, — robbing even death of its sting, and the
grave of its victory.

Near the close of a fine autumnal day, in the year
1822, a pleasure boat was seen gliding over the bosom
of one of the small romantic lakes, in the western part
of isew York. As it approached the shore, the inspi-
ring sound of a huntsman's horn was heard ; and ere
its prolonged echoes had entirely died away among
the surrounding hills, a panting deer leaped from a
thicket, and dashed into the lake, to elude the close
pursuit of a pack of hounds. The pleasure boat im-
mediately joined in the chase; and on overtaking the
exhausted stag, a struggle ensued, which threw two of
the females over-board. Several of the gentlemen,
immediately plunged into the water, and, without
difficulty, eilected their rescue. On the return of
the party to the village of • this little inci-
dent gave rise to much merriment, and elicited some
sparkles of wit, — having just enough of the romantic
to make it an amusing topic of conversation.

The most conspicuous member of this party, was a
beautiful bride, in honor of whose recent marriage
the aquatic excursion bad been projected. A short

384 WILLIAM BANCROFT.

time previous to her union, An>-a C had returneo

from the excellent Female Academy at Troy, to a
joyous welcome beneath the paternal roof. Uniting,
in a high degree, those moral and personal attributes
which constitute the essential charm of woman's love-
liness, she was not less esteemed for her amiable dispo-
sition, than admired for the beauty of her person and
the extent of her intellectual attainments. Her young
affections had, already been taken captive ; and, just
as she was entering, with buoyant hopes, and quicken-
ed impulses, upon that delightful period of life, which
usually intervenes between the time of leaving school
and the assumption of the cares incident to a family,
she was led, a gay, timid, and blooming bride, from
the hymenial altar.

William Bancroft, once her juvenile play-mate,
now her youthful husband, was a junior, but promising
member of the Bar, in his native village. While yet
a boy, he had manifested a passion for a soldier's life;
and, accordingly he had been placed, at the age of fif-
teen, in the Military Academy at West Point. Upon
his return from that valuable institution, the solicita-
tions of an affectionate mother induced him to resign
his commission, and engage in the more peaceful and
self-denying study of the law:~thus achieving, in
yielding up to parental love his fondly cherished vi-
sions of military glory, a victory over young ambition,
more valuable even than the laurels that entwine the
hero's victorious brow.

WILLIAM BANCROFT. 285

Few, perhaps, have entered upon the career of mar-
ried life under circumstances more auspicious than at-
tended this confiding pair. Indeed, if the possession
of wealth, talents, and virtue, could ever shield the
pilgrimage of man from the chilling blasts of misfor-
tune,— then had the path of the enthusiastic William
and Anna, been one of unvarying brightness and pros-
perity.

The little incident connected with the pleasure boat,
however amusing at the time of its occurrence, was, in
its consequences to the bride, of an evoitful charac-
ter. Her immersion in the lake resulted in a cold,
which, being neglected in its incipient stages, was at-
tended by a troublesome cough, united with other
symptoms of pulmonary disease. Medical advice was
obtained; and, the usual remedies having proved una-
vailing, the mild climate of the West Indies was pre-
scribed. Preparations for the journey were speedily
made, and in a few weeks, the lovely invalid and her
devoted husband embarked at New Orleans, on board
the substantial packet ship Triton, bound to Havana.

For two days, borne onward by favouring gales, she
bounded merrily over the waters. On the morning of
the third, while becalmed in a dense fog, the report of
a gun disturbed the silence of the ocean, and, amid
whirling volumes of smoke and vapour, an armed
schooner was descried, with the flaming pennant of
Piracy floating in careless folds at her mizen peak. —
Preparation was promptly made for battle; and the

286

WILLIAM IJANCIIOFT.

unceremonious salute returned with ardour and efieci.
The second fire from the Pirate raked the deck of the
Triton, and suddenly deprived her of her gallant com-
mander. After a few more rounds, the pirate ship
closed on the Triton's bow, and swinging astern,
brought the combatants in the fearful array of yard-
arm and yard-arm. The attempt of the buccaneers
to board, was met with a spirit of determined resis-
tance : — the mate and Bancroft, leading on the hardy
crew, fought with desperation, until overpowered by
numbers, they were compelled to yield, and suffer
themselves to be manacled and driven below ; while
their dead and wounded companions were carelessly
tumbled into the ocean.

"A rope — quickly — bring forth the mate!" — Was
the first and stern command of the Pirate chief, as he
deliberately raised his fur-cap and wiped the blood
from a finely expanded forehead, that had been severely
gashed during the contest. When his order vv^as obeyed
for a brief space he gazed upon his unresisting victim
with an immoveable countenance, and then pointed
T*'ith his cutlass to the yard-arm : — The next moment
the convulsed and quivering limbs of the mate were
swinging high in the air;— one deep, agonizing groan
was heard, and his body hung lifeless before the jeer-
ing crew.

The Pirate again pointed to the hatchways, and
Bancroft Avas brought upon deck ; the same stern com-
mand was repeated ;— A rope was passed around his

WILLIA3I BANCROFT. '28?

neck, and, as the heartless executioners were about to
consummate the horrid act, the frantic Anna — pale,
emaciated, with disshevelled hair and streaming eyes,
rushed upon deck, and clasping the knees of the lawless
chief, besought in the impassioned accents of a phren-
sied spirit, the life of her husband. Until then, it was
unknown to the marauders that a female was on board ;
and the appearance of the distracted wife, in such a
scene of blood and carnage, startled for a moment
even the leader of the band. Her appeal was not in
vain. Bancroft was speedily released ; and with his
exhausted partner removed on board the piratical
schooner. The Triton being hastily plundered of her
more valuable articles, was scuttled and sunk, Avith
many of her unfortunate crew, confined under the bat-
tered hatches : — As she went down, one wild scream
was heard to issue, like the shriek of suffocation, from
that last living tenement of the dead, and the circling
waters closed over her forever.

In a few hours all traces of the late bloody conflict
were removed from the deck of the Rover, and she
again sped before a light breeze, like a felon, retreating
from the scene of his guilty doings. To retain Bancroft
and his wife on board the buccaneer was incompatible
with prudence ; to throw them into the sea, after im-
pliedly promising them protection, was a degree of
faithlessness, that even the leader of the band felt un-
willing to manifest: To land them on one of the lit-
tie, desolate islands, presented almost the only alterna-

288 WILLIAM BANCROFT.

live. This wa? done on the succeeding day ; — the Pi-
rate sending with them, a liberal supply of provisions,
together with the greater part of their baggage. They
were landed on one of the Bahama Keys, uninhabi-
ted, wild, and sandy, but affording some of the fruits
and flowers of the tropical regions. The first act of
Bancroft, was that of constructing a hut for their ac-
commodation, which in a temporary manner, he soon
accomplished by means of a hatchet, a few ropes, and
a portion of an old sail, that was luckily attached to
their trunks. When removed into her humble habita-
tion, Anna looked around, and with a placid smile
beaming in her countenance, remarked, —

^' With you, dearest William ! I can be happy even
here."

Touched by such evidence of devoted affection, the
husband folded her in his arms, unable to express his
mingled gratitude and affection.

The afflicting incidents of the last few days, had
evidently quickened the ravages of disease upon the
wasted form of the suffering invalid, who was, never-
theless, far from being sensible of her critical situation.
Her husband watched unceasingly over her rude couch,
soothing her with the tenderest assiduities, and wit-
nessing, in speechless agony of soul, the returning hectic
flush, and sunken eye, — the certain and appalling har-
bingers of approaching dissolution. The afternoon of
the eighth da}^ presented them with a succession of
scenes of deep interest .Sublimity and horror. The

WILLI A3I BANCROFT. 289

emaciated patient having risen from her pallet ^vith
unwonted strength, aided by her husband, walked to-
wards the sea shore, to enjoy the refreshing breeze.—
Here they remained contemplating the ocean, Avhose
gently heaving billows were reflecting the beams of a
fiery tropical sun, until a dark cloud, that had for
more than an hour been visible in the M^estern horizon
began to spread, with a lowering aspect, far up the
heavens : — A brisk wind was agitating the waters and
the sea-birds, careering to and fro in frantic gambols,
chanting as it were in joyous frolic the sailor's funeral

dirge, — gave fearful omen of an approaching storm.

Suddenly their attention was arrested by some objects
far off upon the ocean, and they were soon delio-hted
to behold two vessels, with crowded sails, standino- to-
wards the island. While dwelling with the liveliest
emotions of joy, upon the prospect of an immediate
escape from their desolate situation, the startling report
of three guns, in rapid succession, told the anxious
spectators, that the vessels were enemies, and that their
hopes of a rescue were much diminished. A severe
cannonading, — every sound of which struck like an ice
bolt, on the heart of the trembling Anna, no%v follow-
ed, and marked a desperate running fight. The pur-
suing vessel gained upon the other, which seemed to
have no alternative, but that of being captured, or
suffering a ship-wreck on the breakers. When the
schooner, for such proved to be the chase, — lier pursu-
er being an armed brig, approached within about a
25

*290 WILLIAM BANCROFT.

league of the island, — her mainsail was suddenly drop-
ped, and the long-boat launched and rowed rapidly
towards the shore. As the boat parted from her side,
a column of smoke began to ascend from the deserted
schooner, which, with telegraphic precision, indicated
that she was on fire. The brig no sooner perceived this,
than she tacked, and stood off to the windward to
avoid the conflagration that was evidently about to
spoil her of her anticipated prey. The rapidly in-
creasing smoke, that rose in tremendous majesty from
the burning schooner, — ascended for the space of a few
minutes in one unabated volume of blackness, when it
was suddenly illuminated by the bursting of a vivid
flame from the deck, mounting in swift convolutions to
the main-niast-head, which resembled the apex of a
huge column of fire, surmounted by clouds of smoke,
wove into fantastic wreaths with braids of flame. In
an instant, the schooner seemed to burst into atoms,
and to fly, like the ignited particles of a sky-rocket,
crackling high in the air. The report of the awful
cxp'losion, that to the wrapt imaginations of the ex-
cited couple, appeared to convulse the island and the
sea, gradually died away ; — the burning fragments of
the vessel were quenched as they fell into the water;
and the expanding volumes of smoke rolled off majes-
tically to the leeward, and were imperceptibly blended
with the shadows of night.

The sun was now sinking beneath the horizon ; — his
iii^.gering rays still tinging the circle of the ocean.

WILLIAM BANCROFT. :29I

darted in a thousand hues through the waves, as they
broke in foaming white-caps, dancing in the breeze. —
The heavens, as if mocking the impotent strife of
man, continued to gather blackness, and the wind
raged with increasing violence, dashing the tumultuous
waters in reckless fury on the shore. At a short dis-
tance on the lee of the struggling boat, a ledge of rocks
projected into the ocean; and the last glimpse of the
little bark, that Bancroft could catch through the
brief twilight, descried her drifting towards the reefs
which flung the spray far into the air.

Deeply solicitous for the safety of the boat, vrhich
appeared to be crowded with the crew of the schooner,
Bancroft hastened to his hut, and hung out a light to
guide her to a safe landing. The resounding thunder
soon afterwards broke over the wide expanse, and was
followed by torrents of rain, which at distant inter-
vals continued throughout the night.

When morning came, Bancroft looked out on the
ocean, but no traces of either the long-boat, or the ship,
could be seen. He wandered down to the water's
edge, where he was pained to discover the frail bark
drifted high on the beach ; and pursuing his search, he
found a lifeless body still floating and rocking in the
last feeble surges of the ocean. He immediately re-
cognised the Pirate Chief, all doubts of whose identi-
ty were removed by finding on his forehead the wound
inflicted in the battle with the Triton, and in his pock-
et the gold watch, of which the Rover had divested

292 WILLIAM BANCBOFT.

him soon after his capture. He removed the body
beyond the reach of the waves, and there hastily buri-
ed it in the sand, that his enfeebled wife might not be
shocked in beholding the corpse of him, who had so
cruelly added to her cup of earthly bitterness.

Returning to the couch of his wife, Bancroft found
her unusually weak in body, and depressed in spirits ;
and upon learning that neither the boat nor the pur-
suing vessel could be seen, and that the promised
means of escape from the island had vanished, even
hope, the last lingering feeling that sustains us in the
hour of calamity, seemed to have expired. Her voice
began to faulter, she sunk calmly back upon her pil-
low, and, before mid-day, her gentle spirit ceased to
animate its mortal tenement. The doating husband
threw himself by her side, where he laid until the mor-
row's sun beamed brightly through his hut, as if chi-
ding the gloom of its only living tenant. At length,
with a heavy heart, the simple faneral preparations
were made, and towards sunset, Bancroft sorrowfully
engaged in the performance of the last melancholy
offices, which bereaved love is permitted to render
to the object of its adoration. He dug the grave be-
neath a palm tree, close by the door of their hut, and
affectionately strewed it with a profusion of wild flow-
ers and evergreens. And now, for the last time, the
disconsolate husband gazed on that face,

"So coldly sweet, so deadlv fair; — "'

WILLIAM BANCROFT.

29-

lor even the withering touch of disease had not poAver
to destroy its Hneaments of beauty :

"Her's was the loveliness in death,
That parts not with the parting breath ;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay."
The corpse was carefully wrapped in a winding
sheet, formed of the canvass that had sheltered her
w^asting form from the tropical rains, and then placed
in its lonely bed. The companionless husband return-
ed to the silent apartment, sad, exhausted, and incon-
solable. Tor the tvv^o succeeding days, he lingered
around the grave of his buried love, indiilerent to the
calls of hunger, and reckless of every thing, save that
of dying upon the sod that covered her earthly remains.
On the third, he once more discovered a sail approach-
ing the island, and having made a signal, a boat was
sent on shore. The ship proved to be an American
merchantman, passing from Rio Janeiro to the United
States, in v/hich Bancroft returned to New Orleans.
On reaching that city, his system yielded to disease,
and for several weeks, he was confined to his bed.

Partially restored to health, he embarked in the early
part of February, 1823, for Louisville, on board one of
the larger class of steam boats. Between Natchez and
the mouth of the Ohio, about 10 o'clock, on a dark
night, in the midst of a violent snow storm, and while
26*

294 WILLIAM BANCROFT.

running under a heavy press of steam, she struck, in
the impetousness of her course, one of those formida-
ble planters^ which at that day were so destructive to
the commerce of the western waters. It passed di-
rectly through the bottom of the boat, entered the
forecastle, and Avas broken oif — partially checking her
headway. At the time of the accident, most of the
deck passengers were asleep — those of the cabin being
engaged in various kinds of amusement. The shock
was sudden and tremendous. The sleeping were arou-
sed in dismay, and all were filled with unutterable
horror. The boat was instantly turned to the shore,
from which she was distant but a few rods, and by
command of captain Campbell, who exhibited an ad-
mirable self-possession^ the extent of the injury was
prompty ascertained. When she neared the beach,
one end of a cable that lay coiled on her bow w^as fas-
tened to a tree ; — no one, in the hurry of a moment
fraught with such imminent danger, thinking to en-
quire whether the other end was made fast. The boat
swung round in the rapid current, and soon the treach-
erous cable ran out; — the lost end fell splashing in the
water, and the agitated passengers saw the almost cer-
tain prospect of escape, changed in the lapse of an in-
stant, to immediate and remediless destruction. A scene
of tumultuous confusion ensued. The long-boat was
filled with passengers and rowed to the land ; but unfor-
tunately losing an oar, it was not returned in time to
affortf^ny further assistance to this perishing mass of

VViLLlAx>l BA?iCR01T. 295

human beings. Some plunged into the cold stream to
save themselves by swimming; — some clung to the
willows ; — while others threw themselves upon the fire-
wood, and such articles of furniture as were most like-
ly to bear them up. The raging of the storm, the deep
gloom of the night, — the prayers, and shrieks, and ex-
piring groans of such as were sinking beneath the tur-
bid waters — the confusion and despair of tho?e cling-
ing to the trees, or still standing on the wreck, presen-
ted a scene, sickening, terrific, indescribable! In a
few minutes, the Teivnessee filled with water and
sunk ; and, in one mournful hour, not less than sixty of
her tv/o hundred passengers, were hurried from time to
eternity.

A few days after this melanclioly occurrence, the
body of Bancroft was found, not far belov/ the fatal
spot. It was known by discovering, suspended on hi?
bosom, the miniature likeness of a beautiful female,
with her name engraven on the gold in which it was en-
cased.

The grave of William Bancroft, indicated only by
a rough stone, on which are rudely traced the initials
of his name, stands beneath a towering sycamore, on
the south bank of the Mississippi, near the Walnut
Hills.

( ^96 }

THE MASSACRE.

O'er Raisin's wave the willow tree

Its funeral shadow flings,
And many a night-bird mournfully

His wail of sorrow sings.
A curse hangs o'er, that gloomy shore.

And o'er the silent wave,
And spirits stalk at midnight hour,

Around the warrior's grave.

They fell unarmed, unpitied here.

Beneath the assassin blade ;
No friendly eye to drop a tear,

No generous foe to aid.
They quailed not, and they scorned to sue,

But met the dastard blow,
And sighed a last, a fond adieu,

To all they loved below.

Long, long, upon that deed of crime.

The stamp of shame shall be,
When hero's fell in youthful prime.

By Briton's perfidy.

THE MASSACRE. 297

The sin Avas foul ; and deep the wail,

That mourned that guilty hour ;
The plighted maiden heard the talc,

And woke to peace no more.

The father would have given his son,

With but a parent's sigh,
The bright career of fame to run.

And for his country die ;
But parents, friends, and country mouvn,

The murdered captive's doom.
And fierce revenge, and hatred burn,

Around the martyr's tomb.

The blood is washed from Raisin's shore —

There loveliest llowers bloom,
And many a shrub is bending o'er

The solitar}^ tomb ;
But deep the stains of crimson glow,

Upon the victor's fame ;
Time will efiace the mourner's woe.

But not the murderer's shame !

James Hall.

(298)

WINTER.

Arrayed like a bride, in her mantle of white,
The Goddess of Winter has broke on our sio-hl.
And creation confesses her presence — for lo I
She has come in her crystalized chariot of snow.
The winds are her steeds, and her scourge is the haiL
And her course can be tracked over mountain and vale ;
She has sliook her white wreath on the forest clad hill,
Has chained with her cold icy fetters the rill,
And the verdure of Spring, and the harvest of Fall,
Are concealed by her bright, and her beautiful pall.

Let us hail her approach, as the herald of mirth : —
Let the faggots be lit to enliven the hearth —
Deck the festival hall, where the happy ones meet —
When the soft strains of musick, in melody sweet.
Are bursting around ; — for the dance shall be wove,
By the forms we adore, and the friends that we love ;
And the revel and song shall not cease, while the reign
Of the health-breathing Goddess is felt on the plain —
While her spangles of frost can be seen in the air,
Or the mountains, and valleys, her liveries wear.

Hassan.

299

TO A YOUNG LADY.

Plucked from the parent stem, the rose

Is hastenina; to a swift decaj^ ;
For now its bloom no longer knows

The moistening dew, the genial ray.

Thus should some rude, unfeeling hand,
Despoil that sunny breast of thine,

And steal the heart, so gay, so bland —
Soon on thy cheek the rose would pine.

But should some frank and generous youth
Possess the bud that's blooming there.

And cherish it with vows of truth,
And guard it with a lover's care ;

'Twill flourish then, as now it blows.

In beauty on the parent stem.
And still will be as bright a rose,

A*^ over decked a diadem.

Orlatvdo

( 300 )

VIEW OF FRANKFORT,

Frankfort is the Capital of the State of Ken«
TUCKY. It is surrounded by hills, and is in a deep ba-
sin. It was sportively compared by Mr. Poletica,
the Russian Minister, to a city in a hat crown. It is
well built, and the principal streets are paved. The
Kentucky River runs through it, and the banks are
very high. A new and beautiful State House built of
the white marble, dug from the neighbouring cliffs,
has been erected on the ruins of the one, which was
burnt in the winter of 1824. Benson Creek empties
into the Kentucky just below the town.

The view here given, was taken from a point about
two miles up the creek, and presents one of the most
romantick, and beautiful landscapes in the country.

I

(301 )

PETE FEATHERTON.

Every country has its superstitions, and will con-
tinue to have them, so long as men are blessed mth
lively ima^anations, and while any portion of man-
kind remain ignorant of the causes of natural phenom-
ena. That, which can not be reconciled with expe-
rience, will always be attributed to supernatural influ-
ence, and those who know little, will imagine much
more to exist than has ever been witnessed by their
own senses. I am not displeased with this state of
things; for the journey of life would be dull indeed, if
those who travel it, were confined forever to the beat-
en highway, worn smooth by the sober feet of experi-
ence. To turnpikes, for our beasts of burden, I have
no objection ; but I can not consent to the erection of
railways for the mind, even though the architect be
"Wisdom, whose ways are pleasant, and whose paths
are peace." It is, sometimes, agreeable to stray off
into the wilderness which fancy creates, to recline in
fairy bowers, and to listen to the murmurs of imaginary
fountains. When the beaten road becomes tiresome,
there are many sunny spots where the pilgrim may
loiter with advantage — many shady paths, whose lab-
yrinths may be traced -with delight. The mountain,
and the vale, on whose scenery we gaze enchanted.
26

302 PETE FEATHERTON.

derive new charms, when their deep caverns, and gloo-
my recesses are peopled with imaginary beings.

But above all, the enlivening influence of fancy is
felt, when it illumines our fire-sides, giving to the
wings of time, when they grow heavy, a brighter plu-
mage, and a more sprightly motion. There are sea-
sons, when the spark of life within us, seems to burn
with less than its wonted vigor ; the blood crawls hea-
vily through the veins ; the contagious dullness seizes
on our companions, and the sluggish hours roll painful-
ly along. Something more than a common impulse is
then required to awaken the indolent mind, and give
a new tone to the flagging spirits. If necromancy
draws her magic circle, we cheerfully enter the ring ; if
folly shakes her caps and bells, we are amused; a
witch becomes an interesting personage, and we are
even agreeably surprised by the companionable quali-
ties of a ghost.

We, who live on the frontier, have little acquain-
tance with imaginary beings. These gentry never em-
igrate ; they seem to have strong local attachments,
which not even the charms of a new country can
overcome. A few witches, indeed, were imported in-
to New England by the fathers ; but were so badly used,
that the whole race seems to have been disgusted with
new settlements. With them, the spirit of adventure
expired, and the wierd women of the present day,
wisely cling to the soil of the old countries. That we
have but few ghosts will not be deemed a matter of

PETE FEATHERTON. 303

surprise, by those who have observed, how miserably
destitute we are of accommodatioRs for such inhabit-
ants. We have no baronial castles, nor ruined man-
sions ; — no turrets crowned with ivy, nor ancient ab-
beys crumbling into decay ; and it would be a paltry
spirit, who would be content to wander in the forest,
by silent rivers and solitary swamps.

It is even imputed to us as a reproach, by enlight-
ened foreigners, that our land is altogether populated
with the living descendants of Adam — creatures with
thews and sinews ; who eat when they are hungry,
laugh when they are tickled, and die when they are
done living. The creatures of romance, say they, ex-
ist not in our territory. A witch, a ghost, or a brow-
nie, perishes in America, as a serpent is said to die, the
instant it touches the uncongenial soil of Ireland. —
This is true, only in part. — If we have no ghosts, we
are not without miracles. Wonders have happened in
these United States. — Mysteries have occurred in the
yalley of the Mississippi. Supernatural events have
transpired on the borders of "The beautiful stream;"
and in order to rescue my country from undeserved
reproach, I shall proceed to narrate an authentic his-
tory, which I received from the lips of the party prin-
cipally concerned.

A clear morning had succeeded a stormy night in
December ; the snow laid ancle-deep upon the ground,
and glittered on the boughs, while the bracing air, and
the cheerful sun-beams invigorated the animal crea-

304

PETE FEATHERTON.

tion, and called forth the tenants of the forest from
their warm lairs and hidden lurking places.

The inmates of a small cabin on the margin of the
Ohio, were commencing with the sun, the business of the
day. A stout, raw-boned forester plied his keen axe,
and lugging log after log, erected a pile in the ample
hearth, sufficiently large to have rendered the last hon-
ours to the stateliest ox. A female was paying her mor-
ning visit to the cow-yard, where a numerous herd of
cattle claimed her attention. The plentiful break-
fast followed; corn-bread, milk, and venison crowned
the oaken board, while a tin coffee-pot of ample di-
mensions supplied the beverage, which is seldom wan-
ting at the morning repast, of the substantial American
peasant.

The breakfast over, Mr. Featherton reached
down a long rifle from the rafters, and commenced
certain preparations, fraught with danger to the brute
inhabitants of the forest. The lock was carefully ex-
amined, the screws tightened, the pan wiped, the flint
renewed, and the springs oiled; and the keen eye of
the backwoodsman glittered with an ominous lustre,
as its glance rested on the destructive engine. His
blue-eyed partner, leaning fondly on her husband's
shoulder, essayed those coaxing and captivating blan-
dishments, which every young wife so well understands,
to detain her husband from the contemplated sport. —
Every pretext which her ingenuity supplied, was ur-
ged with affectionate pertinacity ; — the wind whistled

PETE FEATHERTOi\. 305

bleakly over the hills, the snow lay deep in the valleys,
the deer would surely not venture abroad in such bit-
ter, cold weather, his toes might be frost bitten, and
her own hours would be sadly lonesome in his absence.
The young hunter smiled in silence at the arguments
ol his bride, for such she was, and continued his pre-
parations.

He was indeed a person with whom such arguments,
except the last would not be very likely to prevail. —
Pete Feathertox, as he was familiarly called by hi?
acquaintances, Avas a bold, rattling Kentuckian, of
twenty-five, who possessed the characteristic peculiari-
ties of his countrymen — good and evil — in a striking de-
gree. His red hair and sanguine complexion, announ-
ced an ardent temperament ; his tall form, and bony
limbs indicated an active frame inured to hardships ; his
piercing eye and tall cheek-bones, evinced the keen-
ness and resolution of his mind. He was adventurous,
frank, and social — boastful, credulous, illiterate, and
at times, -wonderfully addicted to the marvellous. He
loved his wife, was true to his friends, never allowed
a bottle to pass untasted, nor turned his back upon a
frolic.

He believed, that the best qualities of all countrici-
were centred in Kentucky ; but had a whimsical man-
ner of expressing his national attachments. He was
nrmly convinced, that the battle of the Thames Avas
the most sanguinary conflict of the age, and extolled

•5olonel J n, as "a severe colt." — He Avould ad-

of5*

306 PETE FEATHERTO?^.

mit that Napoleon was a great genius; but insisted
that he was "no part of a priming" to Henry Clay. —
When entirely "at himself,"' — to use his own lan-
guage,— that is to say, when duly sober, Pete was
friendly, and rational, and a better tempered soul nev-
er shouldered a riile. — But let him get a dram too
much, and there was no end to his extravagance. It
was then that he would slap his hands together, spring
perpendicularly into the air with the activity of a
rope dancer, and after uttering a yeil, which the most
accomplished Winnebago might be proud to own,
swear that he was the "best man" in the country, and
could "whip his weight in wild cats I" and after many
other extravagances, conclude that he could "ride
through a crab-apple orchard on a streak of light-

mnsf.

In addition to this, which one would think was
enough for any reasonable man, Pete would brag, that
he had the best rifle, the prettiest wife, and the fast-
est nag in all Kentuck ; and that no man dare say to
the contrary. It is but justice to remark, that there
was more truth in this last boast, than is usually found
on such occasions, and that Pete had no small reason
to be proud of his horse, his gun, and his rosy-cheeked
companion.

These, however, were the happy moments, which
are few and far between ; for every poet will bear u?
witness from his own experience, that the human in-
tellect is seldom indulged with those brilliant inspira-

PETE FEATHERTON. 30^/

tions, which gleam over the turbid stream of exis-
tence, as the nieteor flashes through the gloom of the
night. When the fit was off, Pete was as listless a
soul, as one would see of a summer"'3 day — strolling
about with a grave aspect, a drawling speech, and a
deliberate gait, a stoop of the shoulders, and a kind
of general relaxation of the whole inward and out-
ward man — in a state of entire freedom from restraint,
reflection and want, and without any impulse, strong
enough to call forth his manhood — as the panther, with
whom he so often compared himself, when his appetite
for food is sated, sleeps calmly in his lair, or wander?
harmless]}^ through his native thickets.

It will be readily perceived, that our hunter was not
one, who could be turned from his purpose, by the
prospect of danger or fatigue ; and a few minutes suf-
ficed to complete his preparations. His feet were
cased in moccasins and wrappers of buckskin : and he
was soon accoutered with his quaintly carved powder-
horn, pouch, flints, patches, balls and long knife ; — and
throwing "Brown Bess," — for so he called his rifle —
over his shoulder, he sallied forth.

But in passing a store hard by, which supplied the
country with gunpowder, whiskey and other necessa-
ries, he was hailed by some of his neighbours, one of
whom challenged him to swap rifles. Pete was one of
those, who would not receive a challenge without
throwing it back. Without the least intention, there-
fore, of parting with his favoMrite rifle, ho continued to

308 PETE FEATHERTON.

banter back — making offers like a skilful diplomatist-
which he knew would not be accepted, and feigning
great eagerness to accede to any reasonable proposi-
tion, while inwardly resolved to reject ail. lie magni-
fied the perfections of Brown Bess.

"She can do any thing but talk," said he — "If she
had legs, she could hunt by herself. — It is a pleasure to
tote her — and I na-ter-ally believe, there is not a rifle
south of Green river, that can throw a ball so far, or
so true."

Thes^ discussions consumed much time, and much
whiske}^ — for the rule on such occasions is, that he who
rejects an offer to trade, must treat the company, and
thus every point in the negotiation costs a pint of
spirits.

At length, bidding adieu to his companions, Pete
struck into the forest. Lightly crushing the snow
beneath his active kei^ he beat up the coverts, and

traversed all the accustomed haunts of the deer.

He mounted every hill and descended into every val-
ley— not a thicket escaping the penetrating glance of
his practised eye.— Fruitless labour I— Not a deer was
to be seen. Pete marvelled at this unusual circum-
stance, and was the more surprised when he began to
find, that the woods were less familiar to him than for-
merly. He thought he knew every tree within ten
miles of his cabin ; but, now, although he certainly had
not wandered so far, some of the objects around him
seemed strange, while others again were easily recog-

PETE FEATHERTON. 309

nised ; and there was, altogether, a singular confusion
of character in the scenery, which was partly familiar,
and partly new ; or rather, in which the component
parts were separately well known, but were so mixed
up, and changed in relation to each other, as to baflfte
even the knowledge of an expert woodsman. The
more he looked, the more he was bewildered. He
came to a stream which had heretofore rolled to the
west ; but now its course pointed to the east ; and the
shadows of the tall trees, which, according to Pete's
philosophy, ought, at noon, to fall to the north, all
pointed to the south. He cast his eye upon his own
shadow, which had never deceived him — when lo ! a
still more extraordinary phenomenon presented itself.
It was travelling round him like the shade on a dial, —
only a thousand times faster, as it veered round the
whole compass in the course of a single minute.

It was very evident, too, from the dryness of the
snow, and the brittleness of the twigs, which snapped
off as he brushed his way through the thickets, that
the weather was intensely cold ; and yet the perspira-
tion was rolling in large drops from his brow. He
stopped at a clear spring, and thrusting his hands into
the cold water, attempted to carry a portion of it to
his lips ; but the element recoiled and hissed, as if his
hands and lips had been composed of red hot iron. —
Pete felt quite puzzled when he reflected on all these
contradictions in the aspect of nature ; and he began
to consider what act of wickedness he had been guil-

310 PETE FEATIIERTON.

ty of, which could have rendered him so hateful, that
the deer fled, the streams turned back, and the sha-
dows danced round their centre at his approach.

He began to grow alarmed, and would have turned
back, but was ashamed to betray such weakness,
even to himself; and being naturally bold, he resolute-
ly kept his way. At last, to his great joy, he espied
the tracks of deer imprinted in the snoAV — and, dash-
ing into the trail, with the alacrity of a well-trained
hound, he pursued in hopes of overtaking the game.
Presently, he discovered the tracks of a man, who had
struck the same trail in advance of him, and suppo-
sing it to be one of the neighbours, he quickened his
pace, as well to gain a companion in sport, as to share
the spoil of his fellow hunter. — Indeed, in his present
situation and feelings, Pete thought he would be v/il-
ling to give half of what he was worth, for the bare
sight of a human face.

" I don't like the signs, no how," said he, casting a
rapid glance around him ; and then throwing his eyes
downwards at his own shadow, which had ceased its ro-
tatory motion and was now swinging from right to left
like a pendulum — " I don't like the signs, — I feel sort
o' jubus. — But, I'll soon see, whether other people's
shadows act the fool like mine."

Upon further observation, there appeared to be some-
thing peculiar, in the human tracks before him, which
were evidently made by a pair of feet, of which one
was larger than the other. As there was no persoi>

PETE FEATIIERTON. 311

in the settlement who was thus deformed, Pete began
to doubt whether it might not be the Devil, who, in
borrowing shoes to conceal his cloven hoofs, might
have got those that Avere not fellows. He stopped and
scratched his head, as many a learned philosopher has
done, when placed between the horns of a dilemma,
less perplexing than that which now vexed the spirit
of our hunter. It was said long ago — that there is a
tide in the affairs of men, and although our friend Pete
had never seen this sentiment in black and white,
yet it is one of those truths, which are written in the
heart of every reasonable being, and was only copied
by the poet from the great book of human nature. It
readily occurred to Pete on this occasion. And as
he had enjoyed through life a tide of success, he re-
flected whether the stream of fortune might not have
changed its course, like the brooks he had crossed,
whose waters for some sinister reason, seemed to be
crawling up-hill. But, again, it occurred to him, that
to turn back, would argue a want of that courage,
which he had been taught to consider as the chief of
the cardinal ^-irtues.

"I can't back out," said he. — "I never was raised to
it, no how, — and if so-be, the Devil's a mind to hunt
in this range, he shan't have all the game."

He soon overtook the person in advance of him,
who, as he had suspected, was a perfect stranger. He
liad halted, and was quietly seated on a log, gazing at
he sun, when Pete approached, and saluted him with

312 PETE FEATHERTON.

the usual — "How are you stranger?" The latter
made no reply, but continued to gaze at the sun,
as if totally unconscious that any other person was
present. He was a small, thin, old man, with a grey
beard of about a month's growth, and a long, sallow,
melancholy visage, while a tarnished suit of snuff-co-
loured clothes, cut after the quaint fashion of some re-
ligious sect, hung loosely about his shrivelled person.

Our hunter, somewhat awed, now coughed — threw
the butt end of the gun heavily upon the ground — and
still failing to elicit any attention, quietly seated him-
self on the other end of the same log, which the stran-
ger occupied. Both remained silent for some min-
utes— Pete with open mouth, and glaring eye-balls,
observing his companion in mute astonishment, and
the latter looking at the sun.

" It's a warm day, this," said Pete, at length ;
passing his hand across his brow, as he spoke, and
sweeping off the heavy drops of perspiration that hung
there. But receiving no answer, he began to get net-
tled. His native assurance, which had been damped
by the mysterious deportment of the person who sat
before him, revived ; and screwing his courage to the
sticking point, he arose, approached the silent man.
and slappling him on the back, exclaimed —

" Well, stranger I Don't the sun look mighty drolL
away out there in the north V

As the heavy hand fell on his shoulder, the stranger
slowly turned his face towards Pete, who recoiled

PETE FEATIIERTON. 31o

several paces ;— then rising, without paying our hun-
ter any further attention, he began to pursue the trail
of the deer. Pete prepared to follow, when the other,
turning upon him with a stern glance, inquired

"Who are you tracking?''

"Not you," rephed the hunter, whose alarm had
subsided, when the enemy began to retreat; and Avhose
pride picjued by the abruptness with which he had been
treated, enabled him to assume his usual boldness of
manner.

" What do you trail then?*'

"I trail deer."

"You must not pursue them further, they are mine."

The sound of the stranger's voice broke the spell,
which had hung over Pete's natural impudence, and
he now shouted —

"Your deer! That's droll, too ! Who ever heard of
a man claiming the deer in the woods'?"

" Provoke me not,— I tell you they are mine."

" Well, now,— you're a comical chap ! Why, man !
the deer are wild! They're jist nateral to the wood?
here, the same as the timber.— You might as well say
the wolves, and the painters are yours, and all the rest
of the wild varmants."

"The tracks, you behold here, are those of wild
doer, undoubtedly; but they are mine.— I roused them
from their bed, and am driving them to my horn p.
^vhich is not of this country."

314 PETE FEATHERTON.

" Couldn't you take a pack or two of wolves along?"
said Pete, sneeringly.— " We can spare you a small
gang. It's mighty wolfy about here."

" If you follow me any further, it is at your peril I"
said the stranger.

"You don't suppose I'm to be skeered, do you?—
You musn't come over them words agin. — There's no
back out in none of my breed."

" I repeat "

"You had best not repeat, — I allow no man to re-
peat in my presence"— interrupted the irritated woods-
man. " I'm Virgina born, and Kentucky raised, and,
drot my skin ! if I take the like of that from any man
that ever wore shoe leather."'

" Desist ! rash man, from altercation. I despise your
threats."

" I tell you what, stranger !" said Pete, endeavouring
to imitate the coolness of the other, " as to the matter
of a deer or two— I don't vally them to the tanta-
mount of this here cud of tobacco ; but I'm not to be
backed out of my tracks.~So, keep off, stranger!—
Don't come fooling about me.— I feel mighty wolfy
about the head and shoulders. — Keep off! I say, or
you might get hurt."

With this, the hunter, to use his own language,
"squared himself, and sot his triggers,"— fully deter-
mined, either to hunt the disputed game, or be van-
quished in combat. To his surprise, the stranger with-

PETE FEATHERTON. 315

out appearing to notice his preparations, advanced,
and blew with his breath upon his ride.

" Your gun is charmed I" said he. " From this time
forward, you will kill no deer." And so saying, he
deliberately resumed his journey.

Pete I'eatherton remained a moment or two, lost in
confusion. He then thought he would pursue the
stranger, and punish him as well for his threats, as for
the insult intended to his gun ; but a little reflection
induced him to change his decision. The confident
manner, in Avhich that mysterious being had spoken,
together with a kind of vague assurance within his
own mind, that the spell had really taken efiect, so
unmanned and stupitied him, that he quietly " took
the back track," and sauntered homewards. He had
not gone far, before he saw a fine buck, half conceal-
ed among the hazle bushes which beset his path, and
resolving to know at once how matters stood between
Brown Bess and the pretended conjurer, he took a de-
liberate aim, fired, and — —away bounded the buck
unharmed I

With a heavy heart, our mortified forester re-enter-
ed his dwelling, and replaced his degraded weapon in
its accustomed birth under the rafters.

"You have been long gone," said his wife; — "but
where is the venison you promised me?"

Pete was constrained to confess he had shot nothing.

"That is strange 1" said the lady. "I never knev:
you fail before."

316 FETE FEATHERTON.

Pete framed twenty excuses. — He had felt unwell ; —
his rifle was out of fix — and there were not many ddev
stirring.

Had not Pete been a very young husband, he would
have known, that the vigilant eye of a wife is not to
be deceived by feigned apologies. Mrs. Featherton
saw, that something had happened to her helpmate,
more than he was willing to confess ; and being quite
as tenacious as himself, in her reluctance against being
*•' backed out of her tracks," she advanced firmly to
her object, and Pete was compelled to own, "That

he believed Brown Bess was somehow sort o'

charmed."

"Now, Mr. Featherton !" said his sprightly bride,
"are you not ashamed to tell me such a tale as that!
Ah, well I I know how it is. — You have been down at
the store, shooting at a mark for half pints!"

"No, indeed!" replied the husband, emphatically,
"I wish I may be kissed to death, If I've pulled a trig-
ger for a drop of liquor this day."

" Well, do now — that's a good dear I — tell me where
you have been, and what has happened 1 For never
did Pete Featherton, and Brown Bess, fail to get a
venison any da.y in the year."

Soothed by this well-timed compliment, and willing,
perhaps, to have the aid of counsel in this trying
emergency, Pete narrated minutely to his wife, all the
particnlars of his meeting with the mysterious stran^fer.

PETE FEATHERTOX.

31T

Unfortunately, the good lady was as wonder-struck as
himself, and unable to give any advice.— She simply
prescribed bathing his feet, and going to bed; and
Pete, though he could not perceive how this was to af-
fect his gun, passively submitted.

On the following day, when Pete awoke, the events
which we have described, appeared to him as a dream ;
and resolving to know the truth, he seized his gun,
and hastened to the woods.— But, alas! every experi-
ment produced the same vexatious result. The gun
was charmed \ and the hunter stalked harmlessly through
the forest. Day after day, he went forth and return-
ed, with no better success. The very deer, themselves,
became sensible of his inoifensiveness, and would raise
their heads, and gaze mildly at him, as he passed ; or
throw back their horns, and bound carelessly across
his path I Day after day, and week after week, passed
without bringing any change; and Pete began to feel
very ridiculously. He could imagine no situation
more miserable than his own. To ride through the
woods, to see the game, to come within gun-shot of it,
and yet to be unable to kill a deer, seemed to be the
ne plus ultra of human M-retchedness. There was a
littleness, an insignificance, attached to the idea of not
being able to kill a deer, which to Pete's mind was
down-right disgrace. More than once, he was tempted
to throw his gun into the river ; but the excellence of the
weapon, and the recollection of former exploits, as of-
ten restrained him ; and he continued to stroll through

318 PETE FEATIIERTOX.

the woods, firing now and then at a fat buck, under
the hope, that the charm would sometime or other ex-
pire bj its own limitation ; but the fat bucks contin-
ued to fri^k fearlessly in his path.

At length, Pete bethought himself of a celebrated
Indian doctor, who lived at no great distance. An
Indian doctor, be it known, is not necessarily a des-
cendant of the aborigines. The title, it is true, origin-
ates in the confidence, which many of our country-
men repose in the medical skill of the Indian tribes.
But to make an Indian doctor, a red skin, is by no
means indispensible. To have been taught by a sav-
age, to have seen one, or, at all events, to have heard
of one, is all that is necessary, to enable an individu-
al to practise this lucrative and popular branch of the
healing art. Your Indian doctor is one, who practises
without a diploma, and without physic ; who neither
nauseates the stomach with odious drugs, nor mars the
fair proportions of nature with the sanguinary lancet.
He believes in the sympathy, which is supposed to ex-
ist between the body and the mind, which, like the
two arms of a Syphon, always preserve a correspond-
ing relation to each other; and the difference between
him, and the regular physician, is, that they operate at
different points of the same figure— the one practising
on the immaterial spirit, while the other boldly grap-
ples with the bones and muscle. I can not determine
which is in the right; but must award to the Indian

PETE FEATHERTON. 319

doctor at least this advantage, that his art is the most
widely beneficial; for while your doctor of medicine
restores a lost appetite, his rival can, in addition, re-
cover a strayed or stolen horse. If the former can
bring back the fiided lustre of a fair maiden's cheek,
the latter can remove the spell from a churn, or a rifle.

To a sage of this order, did Pete disclose his mis-
fortune, and apply for relief. The doctor examined
the gun ; and having measured the calibre of the bore,
with the same solemnity, with Avhich he would have
felt the pulse of a patient, directed the applicant to
call again. At the appointed time the hunter return-
ed, and received two balls— one of pink, the other of a
silver hue. The doctor instructed him to load his
piece with one of these bullets, which he pointed out,
and proceed through the woods to a certain hollow,
at the head of which was a spring. Here he would
find a white fawn, at which he was to shoot. It
would be wounded, but would escape; and he was
to pursue its trail, until he found a buck, which
he was to kill with the other ball. If he accom-
plished all this, accurately, the charm would be bro-
ken.

Pete, who was Avell acquainted v/ith all the locali-
ties, carefully pursued the route, which had been indi-
cated, treading lightly along, sometimes elated with
the prospect of speedily breaking the spell — sometimes
doubting the skill of tlie doctor— and ashamed, alter-

320 PETE FEATHERTO?«.

nately, of his doubts and of his belief. At length, he
reached the lonely glen; and his heart bounded, as
he beheld the white fawn, quietly grazing by the foun-
tain. The ground was open ; and he was unable to
get within his usual distance, before the fawn raised
her head, looked mournfuliy around, and snufted the
breeze, as if conscious of the approach of danger. —
His heart palpitated. — It was a long shot, and a bad
chaiice ; but he dared not advance from his conceal-
ment.

"Luck's a lord," said he, as he drew up his gun, and
pulled the trigger. The fawn bounded aloft at the re-
port, and then darted away through the brush, while
the hunter hastened to examine the signs. To his
great joy, he found the blood profusely scattered ; and
now Hushed vnth the conndence of success, he stoutly
raaitiied down the other ball, and pursued the trail of
the wounded fawn. Long did he trace the crimson
droos upon the snow, without beholding the promised
victim. Hill after hill, he climbed, vale after vale, he
passed — searching every thicket with penetrating eyes ;
and he was about to renounce the chase, the wizzard,
and the gun, when lo I — directly in his path, stood a
noble buck, with numerous antlers, branching over his
fine head !

"Ah, ha! my jolly fellow! I've found you out at
last!" said the delighted hunter, "you're the very
chap, I've been looking after. — Your blood shall wipe

PETE FEATHERTON. 321

oir the disgrace from my charming Bess, that never
missed fire, burned priming, nor cleared the mark in
her born days, till that vile Yankee -vvitch cursed

her ! Here goes 1 "

He shot the buck. His rifle Avas restored to fa-
vour, and he never again wanted venison.

Tames Hall.

( 322 )

ADDRESSED TO

Though Love, that wild, and frolic boy,

Has charmed my cherished peace a^vay^
Yet all his shafts were winged with joy,

And tipped with promised rapture's ray.
And now, with fairy visions bright.
And waking dreams of soft delight.
He cheers the lonely hours of night,
And speeds the lingering flight of day.

When with sad doubt, and rising sigh,
My sinking spirits feel opprest,

Her smiling look of light is nigh.

And sighs, and doubts, are lulled to rest.

Balm of toil and bliss of leisure —

Soul of joys delicious measure!

Oh! Avhat can yield a glow of pleasure.
Like that which warms a lover's breast;

When on my couch, her gentle hand.
Seems strewing myrtles o'er my pillow,

And fancy hears her, soft and bland.
As murmuring of the'distant billow ;

/

ADDRESSED TO

With breath hke violet-scented gale,
When summer wafts it o'er the vale,
With heart like pity's tender tale,

Drawn by love's pencil, Avarm and mellow.

Each sighing breeze, that murmur's by,
Reminds me of her harp's sweet strain ;

Ah, dear and witching minstrelsy,
When shall I hear your tones again ?

Speed lingering moments, speed your flight !

Restore me to her angel sight.

And basking on love's roseate light.
Twine closer round my heart, his chain.

N.

323

( 324

THE GIFT.

Take, oh take, the Gift I bring '
Not the blushing rose of springs
Not a gem from India's cave,
Not the coral of the wave,
Not a wreath to deck thy brow.
Not a ring to bind thy vow —
Brighter is the gift I bring,
Friendship's purest offering.

Take the Book ! oh, may it be=
Treasured long and dear by thee,.
Wealth may buy thee richer toys,
Love may weave thee brighter joys^
Hope may sing a sweeter lay,
Pleasure shed a softer ray ;
But not wealth nor love may twine.
Wreath so pure as this of mine ;
Hope nor pleasure spread a hue,
Half so lasting, half so true —
Keep, oh keep, the gift I brings
It is frieadship's offering!

JA3IES Ha LI,