The Wilderness
by James McHenry
Published By E. Bliss And E. White. J. Seymour, printer. Printed in New York, United States of America. Copyright 1823
by James McHenry
Published By E. Bliss And E. White. J. Seymour, printer. Printed in New York, United States of America. Copyright 1823
For the information of some readers, it may be necessary to state, that the language spoken by the Presbyterians of Ulster, the class of Irishmen to which the character, with whose adventures the following tale commences, belonged, is, with some slight shades of difference, the same as that of the Lowlands of Scotland. Those acquainted with the latter, will easily perceive, that any difference which exists between the two dialects, lies more in the turn of the expression, than in the pronunciation of the words, although even in this last respect, there is an occasional variation.
But it is not in their speech alone, that the Presbyterians of Ulster display their affinity to their Scottish ancestors. Their manners, feelings, views of propriety, habits of industry, and their religious rites and opinions, are similar, or differ only in as slight a degree as their dialects. These circumstances render them a distinct people from the inhabitants of the other provinces of the Island, who are chiefly Catholics, accustomed to speak the vernacular language, and are emphatically called the native Irish. It has been almost entirely, from among the latter, that any picture of the Irish character, that has yet been given in works of fancy, has been taken. But, however rare the attempt to paint the manners of the Ulster peasantry may be, in this work, fidelity to truth and nature, required it; for the character who here represents them is any thing but fictitious; and it is hoped that as he represents a class of mankind, which, at this day, forms a very large portion of the population of the British Islands, being scarcely less numerous than the whole of the inhabitants of Scotland, his humble story, interwoven as it is with that of more important personages, will not be found uninstructive nor uninteresting.
A WORD TO THE READER.
MY FRIEND,
There is nothing easier than to write a preface to a work of which one knows the contents. It is not, therefore, the difficulty of doing it, that prevents me from giving you one to the following history;---it is, because I know that prefaces to such works are seldom or never read; and I am unwilling to write what would run such a manifest hazard of being treated with neglect.
I offer this as an apology for not prefixing to this book, according to custom, half a dozen pages of useless matter, like a clumsy, ostentatious vestibule to a house that would be more easily entered without one.
While we are together, my friend, I shall take the opportunity of whispering in your ear, that the best way to become interested, as I am extremely desirous you should, in the following tale, is to believe every word of it to be true. Permit me also, before we part, to satisfy a little harmless curiosity, which, if you do become so interested, you will naturally feel to know who I am, to inform you, under the stipulation of profound secrecy, that I am by profession a book-worm, and by name,Your humble servant, SOLOMON SECONDSIGHT
As slow our ship her foamy track,
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pendant still look'd back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving;
So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us,
So turn our hearts where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us! Moore
Let melancholy spirits talk as they please concerning the degeneracy and increasing miseries of mankind, I will not believe them. They have been speaking ill of themselves, and predicting worse of their posterity, from time immemorial; and yet, in the present year, 1823, when, if the one hundreth part of their gloomy forebodings had been realized, the earth must have become a Pandemonium, and men something worse than devils, (for devils they have been long ago, in the opinion of these charitable denunciators,) I am free to assert, that we have as many honest men, pretty women, healthy children, cultivated fields, convenient houses, elegant kinds of furniture, and comfortable clothes, as any generation of our ancestors ever possessed.
This notion of mine, be it right or wrong, has not resulted from any course of abstract syllogizing upon the nature of things, a mode of discovering truth in which I never had much confidence. It has arisen from that more certain source of acquiring opinions, vulgarly called "ocular demonstration"--- having lately had a view of part of that portion of the American hemisphere, which extends from the South Mountain in Pennsylvania, over the Alleghany ridge, to the head of the Ohio river; a country which, in the recollection of many yet living, was long the scene of want, hunger, desolation, terror, and savage warfare; where the traveller had not a path to guide his course, nor, in a journey of many days, could find a hut in which to repose his frame; where the hardy white man, who ventured to make a settlement, had not a neighbour within many a league, and where he seldom retired for the night, without fearing that, before the morning, both his family and himself might become the victims of the tomahawk and the scalping-knife.
As a remedy for the unhappy malady under which the misanthropic believers in the deteriorating condition of mankind labour, I think, that an attentive ramble, at the present day, over this extensive region, making, at the same time, a careful comparison between what it now is, and what it was about fifty years ago, would be effectual. Wild and giigantic mountains are, indeed, still there; but beautiful and well cultivated valleys, lying on the bosom of peace, and in the lap of plenty, are spread beside them. At the distance of every two or three hours' ride, a flourishing town or village, inhabited by sober Christians and industrious freemen, salutes the eye of the traveller; while people of all ages, sexes, tastes, and tempers, enliven the road as they pass along,
either on foot or on horseback, or in vehicles, which are here to be met with of every description, from the light sulky, which scarcely presses upon its springs, to the heavy, cumbersome waggon, dragged slowly along by six horses. In this region, there is now neither want, nor fear of want; neither enemy, nor fear of enemy; but every man earns his bread in comfort, and eats it in safety, in the midst of his family and friends, without fear of molestation from either civilized tyrants or savage marauders.
Far different was the situation of things in this fair region of the earth, when Gilbert Frazier first erected his log-house on the bank of the Monongahela. Then, indeed, might a misanthropic grumbler have had reason to complain of the condition of men, at least of those men whose fate it was to be planted like Gilbert, in a savage "Wilderness." It was fate, indeed, and not choice, as may well be supposed, that had, at first, planted him there; but notwithstanding his residence was exposed to numerous inconveniences, and constant dangers, a stout heart, (for he had a good conscience and feared nothing,) combined with a feeling of generosity, the source of which will be hereafter explained, to bind him to it, and Providence had hitherto preserved him in safety. Nay, in process of time, habit had so reconciled him to his situation, that he scarcely looked upon the misfortune that had brought him there as an evil. Years had mellowed its impression upon his mind; and, sitting by his winter fireside, he would often relate the story to his family with much the same feeling that a sailor, snug on shore, recounts the dangers he has undergone at sea.
He had entered the world nearly about the same time with the century in which he lived, and somewhere between Colerain and Londonderry,
in Ireland. Whether his father or mother was forty-second cousin, or no cousin at all, to some nobleman or squire, is of no consequence, merely because he thought it of none, or rather because he never thought any thing about it. A far more important matter of recollection with him, was his marriage, which took place in his twenty-first year, with Nelly M`Clean, a pretty rosy-cheeked, fair-skinned Irish girl, with dark eyes and black hair, who was about a couple of years younger than himself, and whose heart, although it was as light and as tender as a linnet's, had stood nearly a twelvemonth's siege before it surrendered to his attacks. When it did surrender, however, it was at absolute discretion, and Gilbert ever after found it as faithful and fond as a hearty lover like himself could wish.
As Gilbert wished to make his dear Nelly a lady, but was unable, from a cause very prevalent among his countrymen, the want of funds, nothing would now satisfy him but a trip to America, in order to make his fortune. Not that he intended to leave his own country for ever, for with all its poverty, he still thought it was a dear and sweet country, but he supposed that a residence of seven years at the farthest, in a land so far off as America, must make him rich enough to return home, and live the remainder of his days like a gentleman.
"What fine times will it then be for Nelly, (thought he,) when, dressed in her silks and laces, she visits her poor cousins, the Burrels and the Blairs, and gives each of them every year, on Hansel Monday, some handsome present for a New-year's gift. Faith, it will be happy times for us then!"
To America, therefore, it was settled that he should go; but think not, that he separated from
his Nelly---no; he would as soon have thought of separating his head from his shoulders. They set sail together from fair Londonderry, one bright morning in April, 1723; and Gilbert felt, as many an Irishman has since felt, on taking the last look of his native country, that it required all his courage to prevent him from betraying his sorrow; for notwithstanding the prosperity that he supposed awaited him abroad, he felt that he was about to purchase it dear by forsaking the land of his nativity. He looked at his wife, as she stood beside him gazing at the fast retiring promontory of Inishowen, which was the last vestige of dear Ireland that she was to see. He perceived that her eyes were swollen with the moisture of grief; and although his own heart was filled from the same cause, he thought it his duty to comfort her, as he tried to comfort himself, by half whispering and half singing in her ear,
"We need not grieve now, our friends to leave now,
For Erin's fields we again shall see;
But first a lady in Pennsylvania,
My dear, remember thou art to be."
Whether this promise of her becoming a Pennsylvanian lady, had the consolatory effect upon his wife that Gilbert intended, I cannot say; but it is certain, that except about three weeks, during which she laboured under the tortures of sea-sickness, she endured a boisterous passage of nearly three months with considerable liveliness and good humour. At length, if we may believe Gilbert's own account of the matter, one Sunday morning---(as good luck would have it)---he had the happiness to land on the wharf at Philadelphia, with his Nelly in his arm, and twenty gold guineas in his pocket.
Gilbert was now in the Land of Promise, the bright Eldorado of his imagination, where every
thing he did was to be so richly remunerated, that his very scratching of the ground would cause it to teem with wealth, and his spreading his hands to heaven would bring down a shower of gold. During the first week after his arrival, he was in ecstasy. Although none of the expected riches had yet made their appearance, he very reasonably ascribed this to his not having made any of the exertions necessary to attract them; for he was not such a fool as to suppose that they were to be gained without exertions of some kind. But these exertions he could make when he needed them; and, like a true Irishman, he considered his twenty guineas sufficient for all present purposes. He therefore thought that it could not be wrong to enjoy himself a little in a new country; and, as Nelly, who was rejoiced to have her foot once more on Terra Firma, was unusually cheerful and engaging, he could do no less than spend a couple of weeks in showing the dear girl the novelties of the place.
At length his twenty guineas were reduced to ten; and he began to think, for he had a mixture of Scotch blood in him, that he should do something to prevent their farther reduction. He expressed his wishes to several of the natives, expecting that they would make him acquainted with the plan of getting rich which suited their country. They told him to "work."
"Work!" ejaculated Gilbert to himself; for he had the prudence to perceive that it would not do to affront the natives, by expressing audibly any feelings of disappointment respecting their country--- "work! an' was it for that, after a', that I left the snug toonlan' o' Maughrygowan, an' cam' owre the ocean, whan I thoucht I wad become a gentleman on my very landin! Work! why what waur could I hae done at hame, than to have
laboured for my daily bread? But I was hae quite at that need either. Eh! sirs---Nelly, puir lass! is as little likely to become a "lady in Pennsylvania," as the sang we used to sing, says, than she was in her ain country!"
However, Gilbert was not of a temper to be cast down by trifles; and, as his eyes were now pretty much opened to the real circumstances of the country, and his funds were every day diminishing, he thought at last of seriously betaking himself to work, as he had been advised. He was healthy, young, and active, and, as far as respected himself, had no other objection to a life of labour, than the slowness with which it brought in that affluence which had been the great object of his emigration. His Nelly, however, was more affected at the thought of his being obliged to earn their sustenance by the sweat of his brow; and her sorrow galled his feelings far more sensibly than the necessity which occasioned them. She became home-sick, as it is termed, and for several months internally pined after the oat-cakes, the hedge-rows, the genial zephyrs, the warbling groves, the fairy haunts, and the rural sports of her native land. But her mind, naturally cheerful and elastic, soon recovered its tone, and, becoming resigned to her situation, she not only encouraged her husband in his industry, but assisted him by her own.
In a short time Gilbert's diligence and good conduct became noted among his neighbours, and several gentlemen of property were heard to speak in his commendation. It may be here observed, that the manners of the Philadelphians towards strangers on first settling among them, seem, at this day, to be much the same as our friend Gilbert found them to be a hundred years ago, that is, reserved, discouraging, and forbidding,
until some species of merit shall appear to justify attention and kindness, which will then be afforded exactly in such proportion as the merit deserves, but in no more. In other words, the Philadelphians appear to be the most punctual in rendering justice, but the most backward in displaying generosity, of any people in the world.
Gilbert Frazier's merit was also pretty much of the kind that has always been in highest estimation with the inhabitants of Philadelphia---for "sobriety and perseverance" seem to be their characteristics, and might, without much impropriety, be adopted as the motto of the city. It is true, that the warmth of his Irish blood prevented his manners and conduct from being so rigidly regular, tamed, and disciplined in all things, as those of the older citizens; but, for his levities and indiscretions, as they called them, his neighbours had the good nature to make a suitable allowance, on account of his being an Irishman, and also to give him the greater credit for that unexpected degree of steadiness and attention to his employment that he exhibited.
But, although resolute and determined to do what he could to earn a comfortable and honest living, the income of his occupation, which was only that of a common labourer, was by far too inconsiderable to satisfy his wishes. He was also, on account of having received, when he was about five months in the city, from his Nelly, the interesting present of a fine son, to whom, although he was no catholic, he gave the name of Patrick, in honour of his native tutelary saint, the more solicitous to change his employment for one more lucrative. He had been bred to no mechanical trade, and he had neither inclination nor talents for traffic. The management of a farm was, therefore, what best suited him; and it was not long
after the interesting event just mentioned, that he agreed with a gentleman, who passessed some land on the Juniata river, a short distance above its junction with the Susquehannah, to remove there, and cultivate a certain number of acres on the shares.
On this place Gilbert had resided about ten years, and had thriven so much, that he felt himself able to make to its owner such proposals for purchasing it, as he had every reason to believe would be accepted; when, unfortunately, a formidable party of Indians made a furious irruption into the settlement, and after pillaging or destroying whatever articles of value came in their way, they carried off, as prisoners, upwards of twenty families, among whom was that of the unhappy Gilbert. He was, at this time, the father of three children, two sons and a daughter, who, with their mother and himself, were carried rapidly, for more than two hundred miles, over a pathless and interminable wilderness of thick, lonely, and gloomy forest, corresponding in its state of wild and dismal savageness with the nature of the ferocious and vengeful prowlers, on whose barbarous caprice their very existence now depended.
To expend a quantity of elaborate tropes and sounding superlatives in describing the woful contrast produced by this disaster upon Gilbert's affairs, would not, I am convinced, in the slightest degree, strengthen that vivid conception of it with which the reader must be already impressed. The threats, the barbarities and exultation of the savages; the terrors, the tears, the lamentations and the actual sufferings of the captives, many of whom, during their rapid and cruel march, died of their wounds or their ill-treatment, might require description if they were not already present to every imagination. The party at length arrived
at an Indian town, on the banks of the Alleghany river, called Catanyan, on the scite of which the present Kittaning is built. Here a council of the chiefs and other great men of the several tribes in the neighbourhood met, in order to deliberate on the fate of the prisoners. Among these, Gilbert was surprised to observe five or six white men in military dress, but different in its decorations and construction from any he had ever before seen. He was nevertheless strongly inclined to conceive them Europeans, and the only thing that caused him to doubt on the subject, was their speaking neither English, Irish, nor Dutch, the only European languages of which he had any knowledge. His doubts were, however, soon removed by some of his fellow-prisoners, whose information was more extensive than his own, from whom he learned that these military men were French officers, who were now exploring the country, and forming alliances with the Indian tribes. He was also given to expect that their presence might be advantageous to the prisoners, as they would no doubt make exertions to save as many as they could from that cruel fate, which the Indians, if left to themselves, would not fail, according to their custom, to inflict.
Accordingly it so happened; for out of about seventy prisoners, there were only five selected to be burned, and about twenty to run the gauntlet. It was Gilbert's fate, however, to be one of the latter; but he underwent it courageously, and being "brave an' supple," as he himself phrased it, he reached the goal with the infliction only of a few bruise, which broke neither bone nor blood-vessel. A few days afterwards the greater number of the prisoners were marched off, as Gilbert was informed to Canada. With respect to himself he, together with his family, were permitted to
remain at the Catanyan town, even after all the other families were sent off, some of them separated from each other, to different directions. This was a favour for which he could not account, but which gave him the greater joy, as it was unexpected.
Nelly, whose mind had been greatly shaken by her misfortunes, soon began to recover her serenity after the departure of the other prisoners; and permitted as she was to enjoy the society of her children and her Gilbert, she thought it ungrateful to repine at that providence which had been so much kinder to her than to so many others of her companions in misfortune. Gilbert's mind, also, on this occasion took a pious turn, so that both husband and wife felt in their adversity, a disposition to religious exercises, to which, during the period of their prosperity they had been strangers. Such feelings are natural, and could be easily accounted for, but it is not the province of a novelist to do so. His duty obliges him only to state the fact, and leave it to the philosopher, or rather, perhaps, the divine, to discover the cause.
Although Gilbert and his family had been exempted from many of the severities which they saw inflicted upon their unfortunate fellow-prisoners, their minds were still much agitated with apprehension; for they knew not how soon so capricious a people as the Indians, would take it into their heads to torment, and perhaps, destroy them. But the same religious feelings which made them thankful to heaven for the reprieve they had obtained, inspired them also with hopes of continued protection and final deliverance.
But Gilbert's mind was not so entirely engrossed with his own concerns, as to spare no feelings of sympathy for the more disastrous fate of his neighbours; and he was considerably puzzled to
account for some who had been more rigid, at least in the externals of religion, and full as attentive to moral appearances as himself, coming off so much worse than he did.
"Ah! it is a wonnerfu' thing,"said he to Nelly, to think how they were permitted to burn that holy man, Matthew Morrison, that they say never missed makin' family worship three times a day since he began hoose-keepin', an' yet to owre-look a caulrife member o' the kirk like me, an' no saelig;[sic] muckle as brak' a bane in my body!"
"Matthew Morrison was fit for heaven, an' the Lord took him,"was Nelly's reply; "but he has gien ye time to repent---"
"An' oh! that he would gie grace wi't!"returned Gilbert, "baith to make me thankfu' for't, an' to use it richt."
"Ay, ay, Gilbert,"she observed---"we should aye be constant in prayin' for his grace, baith to pardon us an' to guide us, for ye ken they're weel guided, that He guides."
In this manner did Gilbert and his wife frequently converse and encourage each other, on this occasion; and although their minds were naturally much agitated with fears and doubts, they were still supported by the kindly influence of piety and hope.
It was not long, however, before Gilbert discovered the agent to whom, under providence, he was indebted for the favour he had experienced from the Indians. A French officer came one day into his tent and, to his great surprise, addressed him in English.
"I have been the means,"said he, "of preventing you and your family from being sent to Canada, and I wish from you a favour in return."
"A favour! your honour!"replied Gilbert, who instantly felt the workings of gratitude in his heart,
"A favour---ay! that you shall---only tell me how I maun do it, an' I'll rin owre the worl' to oblige you."
"I do not wish to send you quite so far," returned the officer, "but, if you would have no objection to part with your wife for a few weeks, I have occasion for her services."
At this Gilbert bent his head, and looked somewhat glum, which the officer observing, corrected his phraseology, by saying---"But no---I will not separate you from her. I'll obtain permission for you also to go; and your children---you will all be as secure there as here."
"An' whar do you want us to gang?---and what want ye wi' Nelly?" asked Gilbert in a tone half angry, and half fearful.
The officer perceived the state of his feelings, and with a smile observed---"I shall answer your last question first, as I believe you consider it the most important. It is a female, and to be plain with you, my own wife, who wishes at present for the society and attendance of a white woman. She is far advanced in pregnancy, and is unfortunately surrounded altogether with Indians, for the presence of whose females, on the occasion she so soon expects, she has the utmost aversion. When I perceived your wife among the prisoners, a married woman, the mother of children, and of decent, respectable appearance and demeanour, I at once conceived that she would make a suitable companion for mine under present circumstances; and, therefore, I successfully exerted myself to prevent your being sent away with the other prisoners. As to your first question---where I wish to send you?---My wife is at present under the protection of an Indian Queen, who resides on the bank of the Monongahela, a large river about forty miles distant."
During this statement, the countenances of both Gilbert and his wife brightened into an expression of delight, which perfectly satisfied the officer that they would cheerfully and thankfully comply with his wishes.
"We will attend ye, sir"---replied Gilbert--- instinctively reaching for his hat, of which the Indians had not deprived him, and which now lay on a short log that was used inside of the tent for a seat---"yes---your honour"---said he, clapping it on his head, and making a motion to march forward---"we will attend you, or your sweet wife, by nicht or by day, in a' weathers, an' whare'er ye like to send us."
Nelly also assured him of the care and zeal with which she would serve his wife, in order to make some return for what he had done for them.
The next morning, therefore, the officer accompanied them to the residence of Queen Alliquippa, a short distance above Turtle Creek, near the Monongahela river.
--- Now to yon mourner go,
Mark the hot tears that from his eyelids flow,
And smothered sighs that all his breast dilate---
Speak not---for comfort doth on silence wait---
But thou poor widow'd bird that quivering seest,
At one fell swoop thy dwelling desolate,
Oh! what shall comfort thee, thou o'er thy nest,
In vain may'st chirp and call for thy lost mate---
Bromiey.
In a reasonable time our party arrived at the royal wigwam of Alliquippa. Reader! startle not at the word royal---for why should not a wigwam be royal as well as a palace, when it is the residence of a queen? If we believe those who conceive that royalty altogether consists in a fair, uncorrupted descent of legitimate blood from enthroned ancestors, or in the title given by a blood thirsty sword, to the supreme authority of a conquered country, then it has nothing more to do with a mansion built of marble and covered with gold, than with a hut constructed of oak bark, and covered with rush mats, except this, that whenever it can, for it is a very selfish principle, it secures to itself residences of the former kind. But setting abstract reasoning aside, for I hate it in a novel, we hear of royal gardens, royal forests, royal
theatres, royal baths, royal fish-ponds, royal stables, and royal hog-sties---and surely, dear reader, you will tolerate a far more decent and respectable phrase than some of these---a royal wigwam. Alliquippa's royal residence, when Gilbert visited it on this occasion, was not, indeed, so costly and magnificent a building, as the good people of New-York and Philadelphia have, no doubt, hitherto fancied a royal residence to be; for their ideas on this subject are full as elevated as those of the Londoners, Dubliners, or Edinburghers themselves, who are every day blest with the sight of royal fabrics in abundance. But I would have the New-Yorkers and Philadelphians to know, what in their republican ignorance they, perhaps, do not, but what the Londoners, Dubliners, and Edinburghers, know well, that the presence of a royal personage has the virtue, not indeed of the philosopher's stone, to transmute every thing into gold---but of Adam's seeds and animals, to produce every thing after its own kind, and consequently to make all things royal. Hence Alliquippa, whose blood is stated by the ancient chronicles lately fished up from the bottom of the Monongahela, to have been as purely royal as a descent of upwards of forty generations could make it, was undoubtedly capable of making the wigwam that had the honour of holding her royal person, a royal wigwam.
Having settled this important point, we shall introduce Gilbert and his family to her majesty, who received them graciously, and presented each of them with a string of beads made of red berries, in token of her royal favour. She was seated on a conveniently formed block of wood, about eighteen inches high, covered with a neat mat, in the outer apartment of the wigwam,---for this edifice, although the generality of its species contain only one apartment, happened to contain two, the
additional one having been constructed at the request of the French officer for the accommodation of his wife, of whom we shall directly take notice. But we must first finish our respects to her majesty. She was a widow, and still young, and considerably handsome. Her manner united dignity with affability, and her personal attractions had lately induced several chiefs and great men to solicit her in marriage. At the present time, her most encouraged lover was king Shingiss, a young warrior whose residence was on the south bank of the Ohio, about two miles below the confluence of the Alleghany and the Monongahela---and it was so confidently believed that he would succeed in obtaining her, that almost all her other lovers had relinquished in his favour. Being, however, somewhat like the British queen Elizabeth in her disposition, fond of being admired, but fonder of being obeyed, she acted much in the same manner, by encouraging lovers, but keeping free from a husband. Her tribe, which was called the Shannoahs, was in complete and satisfied subjection to her authority, and that authority she was resolved neither to depute nor divide with any one. As, however, Shingiss was much devoted to her, she contrived to keep alive his hopes so long, that he never sought any other for a wife, and after a courtship of nearly thirty years, he died a bachelor.
She was dressed, when Gilbert first saw her, in rather a showy costume. A kind of diadem made of the red feathers of the flamingo plaited together, encircled her brows, and, in some parts, seemed to be fancifully enwreathed with her hair, which was very plentiful, and of a brilliant jet colour. A large splendid crystal hung pendent from each ear; and from her neck, which, as well as a considerable part of her breast, was bare,
hung a glittering chain of variegated beads. Her elbows and wrists were surrounded with scarlet bands made of dyed skins, and ornamented with beads. A kind of gown, or wrapper fabricated from a large silk shawl, of which the French officer's lady had made her a present, covered her body from the breast downwards, being suspended to the shoulders by straps of beaver skin, so formed as to have the fur on both sides. This garment was also fastened round her waist by a beautiful fur belt of various colours secured with silver clasps. Light coloured moccasins of deer skin covered her feet, and completed an arrangement of dress, of which Alliquippa was as proud as ever queen Elizabeth was of her court-day robes.
The ceremony of introducing the strangers to her Shannoah majesty being over, she addressed the French officer as follows.
"My Brother, "I am glad you are come back so soon.--- My sister---your wife---was cast down in your absence. But I could not blame her---for I remember when Shanalow, my husband, went first to hunt, after our marriage, I was disconsolate, and dreamed every night of evil till he returned. He is now gone to his fathers, and shall never more return. But he died of a breast-wound fighting the Otawas, and our whole tribe has praised him.
"Brother! you did well to bring these people--- your wife will be better pleased with a woman of the east, than with my squaws. You will tell me at another time, why the rising sun gives a fairer skin than the setting.
"Brother! I shall order provisions for your people. But your wife wishes for your conversation. I shall detain you no longer than to request,
that until the Great Spirit makes you a father, you will be free to tell me your wants, and use my wigwam and my people as your own."
The officer made a suitable reply, and the conversation, descending from the stateliness of ceremony, became promiscuous and familiar.
Nelly soon became much attached to the officer's lady, who was, indeed, as sweet and lovely a woman as the sun ever beheld. They had, at first, some difficulty in understanding each other's discourse, for the lady, who was a French woman, spoke but imperfect English; and with respect to Nelly's English, she scarcely knew one word in ten. But minds that are disposed to accommodate each other soon overcome difficulties of this kind; and Nelly and her mistress, in less than twenty four hours' acquaintance, contrived not only to be mutually intelligible, but mutually agreeable and interesting.
As to Gilbert, his habits of industry while he resided on the Juniata, rendered his present prospect of idleness irksome, and perceiving at the junction of Turtle Creek with the Monongahela, a short distance from the wigwam, a suitable place for building a log cabin, which he thought would be a more convenient residence for the French lady on the approaching occasion, he proposed to her husband to erect one, which, with the aid of a few axes and a few Indians, he said he could do, so as to make it considerably more commodious than the wigwam, in a single week. The officer gladly acceded to the proposal, and procured from Alliquippa, not only permission for Gilbert to build the house, but also a grant to him of several hundred acres of the land around it.
Gilbert knew too well how to appreciate this unexpected piece of good fortune, not to turn it to advantage. He immediately commenced
building his house, and as the queen directed a number of her Indians to assist him, it was completed in a more comfortable style, and in a shorter time, than the officer had conceived to be possible. His lady was conveyed into it; but in a few days, her husband's joy at finding her so conveniently lodged, was turned into grief---into distraction--- by her death in giving birth to a daughter!
On the first intelligence of this event, he sunk to the earth overpowered with anguish; but, recovering his muscular energy he suddenly arose, hastened to the beloved corpse, and pressed it to his bosom in an agony of sorrow. Tears now gushed from his eyes, and to all appearance he became somewhat calmed. He asked to see his infant. Nelly brought it forward. He kissed it with an almost convulsive fervour, and burst again into tears. He then withdrew to a bench on which, with his throbbing temples pressed between his hands, he sat in silent anguish for a short time. He then started to his feet.
"Mrs. Frazier,"said he, "dreadful, dreadful has been my loss! and dreadful has it been to that infant! I have lost---but oh! I need not now recount her virtues, her loveliness, her tenderness! The world now has nothing for me!---But what will become of this---Oh! God!---God! support me! Oh! protect this tender plant! Nelly, I conjure you to be its mother, for it has now none else. And you, my friend!" he here caught Gilbert by the hand, "be you in place of that unhappy father, who is now unfit to look after it---here, here!" So saying, he ran to one of his wife's trunks,---"here, take this," and he cast a purse of gold upon a table, "and whatever else these trunks contain---support my child---bury my wife decently. Oh, God! her grave will be here in the wilderness, but her soul is with thee in
heaven!" He again ran hastily to the corpse, and embracing it for several minutes,---"Farewell, farewell!" he at length exclaimed, and hurried out of the house.
Gilbert, after a moment's deliberation, followed him, for he saw him in a fit of frenzy, and dreaded his committing some rash and fatal deed. But he had disappeared, and Gilbert perceiving from the thickness and intricacy of the woods, that pursuit would be fruitless, soon returned to console and assist his wife, whom grief had rendered almost unable to attend to her domestic duties.
Alliquippa, who was much affected with these distressing occurrences, attended herself, and ordered a number of her tribe to assist at the funeral of her deceased friend, which they readily did; so that Gilbert had the satisfaction to see the remains of this unfortunate lady deposited in the earth in as decent and respectable a manner as the circumstances of the time and the place would admit.
As to the infant whom Providence had thus thrown upon his care, he was resolved both to do for it a father's duty, and cherish for it a father's feelings; and on conversing with his wife, he found her not only ready to approve, but solicitous to perform, every benevolent wish he had conceived in its favour. The little orphan, therefore, whom they named Maria, as its mother had been so called, they resolved to esteem as their own offspring, and provide for it accordingly.
It was now a matter of much deliberation with Gilbert and his wife, whether they should determine to make a permanent residence on the spot where Providence had placed them, or endeavour to obtain permission from the Indians to return to their former habitation on the Juniata.
"I canna weel tell, Nelly," said he, "what's best to be done. Gin we stay here, we may ne'er see the face o' a gospel Christian again, unless it may be some blackguard trader, drappin' ance or twice a year doon the river, to cheat the Indians o' their furs. I ne'er liked them traders---it's their cheatery that mak's the Indians sae wicked against the white people---"
"An' what's the warst o't," observed Nelly, "if we stay here, we'll no see a worshippin' congregation in a hale lifetime."
"But we can worship as the bible directs in oor ain family," he replied; "for Joshua said, that he an' his hoose should serve the Lord: an' ye remember what oor minister at the Juniata himsel' has aften said, that if we seek the Lord sincerely at oor ain fireside, he will be fan' there as readily as in a temple, by whilk he meant a church or a meetin-hoose; for, I tak' it, that he could na think o' Solomon's temple, that was burnt lang syne in the days o' the Jews. Besides, I fear muckle whether the savages will gie us leave to gang back; an' ye ken it's an unco road."
"Ah! I weel ken that," said she; "it's na road ava. In Ireland, we had better anes through the peat bogs."
"Ah! dinna talk o' Ireland," he replied, drawing a deep sigh; "it mak's my heart sair ilka time it's named. But we maun e'en bend to Providence--- an' it's late in the year: gin we had liberty, I doot muckle, whether we could mak' oor way hame withoot a road to guide us in frosty weather, and four helpless weans wi' us. Think o't, Nelly!---"
"I do think o't," she replied; "I doot muckle we maun bide here for yen season at ony rate. We canna think o' the road just noo, an' we hae a
decent biggin owre oor heads to shelter us till the simmer comes---"
"An' I'm thinkin' beside," observed Gilbert, "that we hae a chance gin we bide, to hear frae, or may be see, oor wee helpless Mary's father, gin he be in the lan' o' the leevin', whilk may be o' mair use to the puir bairn than ony thing we can do for it."
"Ye're quite richt, Gilbert---puir wee Mary!" Here Nelly lifted the object of her condolence in her arms, and kissed it: "Puir wee thing!" she continued, "we'll bide here; ye're father's, may be, to the fore yet, an' may come back in search o' ye. Gilbert! I think it wad, indeed, be wrang to gang aff. The gentleman's mind may come to him again, an' he may want his dochter, an' wadna ken whar to find her if we were gane."
"It's a' true," replied Gilbert; "an' ye ken the place at the Juniata was nae oor ain either; an' the pleneshin' has been a' ruined; an' so, on the puir bairn's accoont, I think we had as gude content oorsels. I'll e'en try to fence awee, an' chap wood, an' put some things in order to mak' us leevin'-like through the winter; an', wi' the blessin' o' God, we'll try to be content an' thankfu'."
It was now that Gilbert began, in the midst of the desert, that course of industry which, in a short time, created a smiling and comfortable farm round him, and which, in a few years, attached him so much to the place, that he abandoned all thoughts of ever leaving it.
Alliquippa and her Indians continued friendly to him, and occasionally assisted him in the heavier exertions which his improvements required; but their habits were too unsteady and uncalculating, ever to imitate him by making any of their own. Besides, they were now almost entirely occupied in
either planning or executing predatory and bloody incursions upon the frontier settlements of the British colonists, who, with wonderful hardihood, were every year encroaching more and more upon those mountainous regions that form the great barrier between the eastern and western portions of the continent, and to the eastern portion of which the Indians were resolved, if possible, to confine them.
History informs us, that the French, who, at this time, claimed the whole of Western America, from Quebec to New Orleans, were now very industrious in urging the Indians to restrain the rapid progress that the British settlements were making in that direction. The savage warriors had, besides these, other inducements of a powerful nature to urge them in lifting the hatchet against the adventurous frontier settlers. These settlers, instead of attempting to soothe and conciliate a people whose heritage they were thus gradually, but rapidly, engrossing to themselves, treated them, often unnecessarily, as enemies, and always repaid blood with blood, and outrage with outrage.
In the savage state the feeling of revenge is, perhaps, the strongest and most inveterate that actuates the minds, especially of a warlike people; and, heaven knows, the unfortunate Indians were never allowed to remain long without suffering abundance of injuries to excite this feeling;---a feeling which not only their natural propensities, but their religious opinions taught them to believe that it was meritorious to gratify. It is reasonable also to suppose, that a taste for pillage must have had its influence upon numbers of those improvident and homeless warriors, who were engaged in the sanguinary depredations so frequently committed on the white inhabitants of the frontier settlements in Pennsylvania and Virginia
during the middle times of the last century; and, at the present day, when we reflect that these inhabitants must have expected such depredations, it cannot but astonish us how they could possess hardihood and boldness enough to expose both themselves and their families, by their perpetual advances to the dangerous vicinity of their barbarous foes, to such imminent hazard of destruction. But, in times of danger, there is an excitement often produced in the minds of men, which enables them to encounter, nay sometimes to court hazards and hardships, from the bare idea of which they would be apt in ordinary times to shrink with horror and dismay; and there have been instances--- but a truce with philosophizing!---I must go on with my story, and shall, for that purpose, open another chapter.
The sculptor's art can mould the form,
Can give its shape a mein and grace,
Yet cannot give that godlike charm,
The music breathing from the face.
The form Prometheus' hand had wrought,
Remained a lump of lifeless clay,
Until the gleaming heaven he sought,
And fir'd the clod with heavenly ray.
Anonymous.
Although separated from the world of Christians, as he conceived himself, Gilbert Frazier felt that amidst his seclusion, he possessed many comforts, and he was thankful for them. His farm advanced yearly in improvement, and its produce in value; for being long the only cultivator of the soil for many days' journey around him, and living convenient to a navigable river, which was, even then, a considerable thoroughfare to those adventurous spirits who traded with the Indians, he could always without difficulty, make a ready and profitable sale of his surplus produce. With respect to security, in either life or property, he felt perfectly at ease. He knew that Alliquippa and her lover Shingiss, were both his friends and declared protectors; besides which, his own inoffensive conduct, not to speak of his useful industry and occupation, from which all classes of the neighbouring Indians had, at one time or other, derived some benefit,
had interested them in his prosperity, and excited for him such a feeling of attachment that they would have been ready to avenge his cause, had any one, even of themselves, attempted to injure him.
With respect to his children, they increased in years and in strength, but not in number, for Nelly had given him none since her settling in "The Wilderness." His eldest son, Patrick, the Philadelphian, we have before mentioned, was soon able to assist him in farming, which he did pretty attentively until he became seventeen or eighteen years old, when, being of a temper far more restless, daring, and shrewd than his father, he manifested a disposition for traffic rather than labour; and, contrary to his father's wishes, spent a great portion of his time in rambling over the country, and dealing with both Indians and white people, as chance afforded an opportunity. By this time, however, his younger brother, who was called Archy, was able to fill his place on the farm, so that the old man's industry suffered but little inconvenience from the defection of his first-born.
His daughter, whose name was Nancy, was the youngest of his three children, and but one year older than the little orphan Maria, whom Providence, as we have seen, had thrown upon his care and affections under circumstances so well calculated to excite them. Nancy grew up to be a pretty young woman, the picture of health and good humour, with well-rounded regular features, glancing eyes, smiling aspect, and rosy complexion. She was an open-hearted, honest creature, with little penetration, and less suspicion; one, who, had she lived in what is called the "civilized world," would have been better calculated to enjoy it, than to thrive in it; but for that description of world where her lot was cast, she was well
adapted. There she might roam the woods in safety without fear of a betrayer, and indulge her thoughtless gayety without giving offence. Her affections were warm, but her sensibility not extremely acute, for although she may have been said to have loved almost every one with whom she had become acquainted, yet their misfortunes, though they might cloud, could not obliterate her bias to mirth and hilarity. In short, she was like many of her sex, more fitted for love than for hatred, and for joy than for sorrow.
Such was the young female who had been from her infancy, the companion of Maria Frazier, for so we must at present call the little orphan who had been taught to call our friend Gilbert, father, since by that name every body knew her so far as she was known. During her childhood, Maria was of a very playful disposition, partaking much of the vivacity of her sister---for the two girls long conceived themselves to be really sisters---but she was too timid to join in many of her freaks; and, although she was the younger, her superior prudence and discernment had imperceptibly acquired for her a degree of control over the other, to which Nancy had become so habituated, and which, indeed, was always exerted with so much good-nature and kindness, that it never caused her any soreness of feeling, while it had often the effect of preserving her from indiscretions.
Although in their persons these two young women were both highly attractive, their attractions differed much both in kind and degree. Nancy was, if any thing, rather robust and stout in her appearance to suit the general idea of symmetrical beauty; yet, to many tastes, that firmness and solidity of frame which was the consequence of this slight variation to the side of plumpness and
vigour, was rather pleasing than otherwise. Her countenance, like her person, was also, perhaps, too much rounded and full to entitle her to the character of a finished beauty; but from its regularity in its individual features, and its healthy complexion, together with the perpetual expression of content and gayety that it exhibited, it never failed to please the beholder. Her manners sometimes possessed a little too much forwardness and familiarity to be strictly correct and agreeable; but these, most people would think, were fully atoned for by her innocence, archness, and vivacity.
As to Maria's manners, if modesty without coldness, delicacy without affectation, affability without obtrusiveness, liveliness without pertness--- if easy dignity and attentive complaisance can be pleasing, hers were eminently so. Her person was elegantly proportioned, inclining, as some perhaps would think, rather much to the slender form of nymphlike beauty, but, at the same time, displaying solidity and fulness enough to indicate a healthy and sound constitution. Her motions and gestures were natural, flowing, and harmonious. As to the charms of her countenance, they were so full of that magical attraction which I have heard called the "inexpressible somewhat," and the impression of which no iciness of heart can resist, that it is impossible for words to depict them justly. A mere delineation of her exquisitely-formed features, and beautiful complexion, when she reached the interesting age of seventeen---an account of the bright expression of her black eyes, shaded with their thick silken eye-lashes, and surmounted with her white and polished forehead---of the damask bloom of her cheeks, of the coral of her lips, and the shading of her dark ringlets profusely flowing round her fair
temples and snowy neck---would afford but a faint idea of the striking loveliness, which, no doubt, partly emanated from these, but which had their principal source in that soul-speaking intelligence, that living lustre of mind, that glow of sensibility and benevolence, which characterized her looks to an unrivalled degree, and made her the delight, as well as the admiration, of every beholder.
Such were the distinguishing traits in the manners and appearance of these two flowers of "The Wilderness," that had grown up and flourished into full and beauteous bloom under the diligent care of Gilbert Frazier, and his attentive and managing wife. But they differed more in the extent of their information, and in their natural aptitude and relish for acquiring knowledge, than in either their persons or their manners. To Nancy the labour of study was always rather an irksome task, while Maria ever courted it as her chief delight. It will be naturally supposed that her means of gratifying this inclination for learning must have been necessarily very limited; but Providence furnished her with them to a greater extent than could have been expected. A singular old man, named Tonnaleuka, whom the Indians regarded as a prophet, frequently made his residence in the vicinity of Gilbert's for several months together, and, on these occasions, took great delight in teaching his children, and seemed particularly interested in giving instruction to Maria, perhaps because he found her so capable and solicitous to receive it.
He informed Gilbert, who, on their first acquaintance, expressed his astonishment to find such a variety and extent of information possessed by an Indian, that he had, in his early youth, imbibed a great thirst for knowledge; in consequence of which he had run off from his tribe, who
opposed his desires in this particular, and travelled, for several years, through the towns of New-England, where he studied the English language, and became acquainted with various sciences. "From thence," said he, "I visited Canada, for the purpose of acquiring whatever useful knowledge the French could give me. When in Quebec, the governor, at his own expense, placed me at a seminary, with the intention of qualifying me to act as an emissary among the Indian tribes, whom he wished to secure to the interests of his country. While there, I acquired a knowledge of the French language, and of the histories, institutions, and political views of the principal European nations. I then returned to my own people, that I might gratify the wishes of my benefactor, the governor, to whom I felt very grateful. My friends received me well, and forgave my leaving them, as they said it was the Great Spirit that put it into my head, that I might acquire knowledge to direct them in the management of their affairs with the white people. But they would not permit me to teach any of their young men or young women the sciences I had learned. "For," said they, "if it were useful for us to know these things, the Great Spirit would have communicated them to our fathers, and they would have taught us." However, they gave me credit for my knowledge; and whenever I am among them, or any of their kindred tribes, they consult me concerning all their undertakings, and generally follow my directions. But I do not wish my knowledge to be useless---I am desirous to communicate it---and since the children of my own people will not hear my lessons, I am glad that yours will."
The reader may wish to know, how an event so fortunate for the little Maria, as Tonnaleuka's introduction to her father's, (for she naturally
considered Gilbert as such,) took place. It happened about two years after Gilbert's first settlement on the Monongahela, and under the following circumstances. His son Patrick, or Paddy, as he was usually called, who was then about twelve years old, had gone one day into a deep glen, or defile, about a mile from home, to search for some cows that had been missing, where, not finding them, he amused himself by climbing the rocks that walled up the sides of the glen, when happening to slip, he fell from a considerable height, and broke one of his legs. His cries occasioned the appearance of Tonnaleuka who immediately placed the boy on his shoulders, and carried him home. Gilbert had several times of late heard of this Tonnaleuka, and on one occasion, a few weeks before, had seen him, but had never spoken to him. Grateful now for the service he had rendered his son, he invited him to frequent his house, and enjoy his hospitality, whenever he should visit the neighbourhood.
"We'll, maybe no' treat you in your ain way, wi' roasted venison, an' sic like, although we kill a deer noo an' then; for we ha' leev'd unco muckle in the Indian fashion, thir twa year back--- but, howsomever, come an' see us, my freen, an' we'll aye mak' ye welcome to a share o' what's gaun."
"My brother," [sic] said Tonnaleuka, "[sic]think not that I dislike your offer---whenever I have occasion, I will accept of it; but I want you to know that I do not accept of it as wages for carrying home your wounded son. A virtuous Indian will receive no return from men for an act like this. If he did, the Great Spirit might refuse to give him that reward which he expects when he dies---for he rewards every good deed that is not rewarded here, a hundred fold better than either Indian or white man can."
"But, brother, hearken to me, I will tell you what I will do. I will take you for my friend, and because you are my friend, I will eat at your table; and when I am hungry, if I happen to be near you, I will come and tell you, and you will prepare for me, and I will eat as you eat---for I have been among white people, and have been taught to sup from various dishes, and also to use the instruments of eating, employed by the nations of the cast.
"Brother, hearken to me, I know something of the art of bone-setting, for I have studied it under the great Maralooma---and, if you permit me, I shall now set your son's leg."
As this was an operation of which Gilbert himself was entirely ignorant, and as there was no professed surgeon within perhaps a hundred miles of him, this request was readily granted, and the service speedily and dexterously performed. The operator daily waited on his pationt for several weeks until a cure was perfectly accomplished.
It was during these visits that this Indian sage appeared to become so much attached to Gilbert's little girls, that he resolved to commence their tutor. He also extended his benevolent instructions to the boys; but the chief object of his care, as we have before observed, was the little Maria, who, although the youngest of the females, soon shewed herself the most capable and willing to profit by his instructions. As she advanced in years, he drew up for her use a book which he entitled "Wisdom for a Young Lady," in which he laid down maxims for the regulation of her conduct in both a state of seclusion and society, but particularly the latter. "For,"[sic] said he, "[sic]fortune may yet place you there, among white people like yourself. While I lived among them, I found it was difficult for men, but far more so for women to act
properly. Their manner of life is not like ours. Propriety and duty call for a thousand things to be done among them, which they do not require among us, and the best informed of their people, whether male or female, cannot at all times remember, and attend to every thing that the multiplicity of their institutions, customs, and ceremonies, renders incumbent upon the person who would in all respects act well. Hence it is, as I perceived while with them, that no one either expects perfection from another, or aims at it himself, and this may be the chief cause why they have never known any instance of complete happiness. But although I do not expect, my child, that if ever you live among them, my lessons will enable you to behave better than any of them, yet I hope they will qualify you for behaving better than the most of them."
There was another copious source of information within Maria's reach, of which the instructions of her friendly preceptor enabled her to avail herself. This was a small but well selected collection of books of both English and French literature, that was contained in one of the trunks belonging to her mother, which the reader will remember her father to have mentioned in his address to Gilbert on the melancholy day of his wife's death. She was soon taught by her instructor to read and understand the French authors almost as easily as the English, and to comprehend whatever was difficult or obscure in either. Thus a fund of great enjoyment, as well as of improvement, to which she could, at all times, have recourse, was in her possession, and altogether under her control. She valued this the more, as the sage Tonnaleuka, whom she now esteemed as her second father, was often called away on the business of the tribes with whom he was
connected; for the fame of his wisdom and foresight had spread widely amongst them, and they never wished to undertake any important enterprise without consulting him, and obtaining his advice and direction how to conduct it. On such occasions, he was often obliged to be absent for many months together, during which she generally felt as much solicitude for his safety, as if he had been some near and dear relative.
Next to Tonnaleuka, and the members of her own family, Maria's greatest favourite, and most agreeable associate, was queen Alliquippa. This Indian lady had always manifested for her a great affection, to which the melancholy circumstances of her birth, perhaps, at first gave rise; but which her own endearing sweetness, loveliness, and good nature, afterwards strengthened and confirmed into a sincere and permanent attachment. In consequence of this intimacy with Alliquippa, Maria obtained a tolerable knowledge of the language spoken by the queen, and a considerable acquaintance with the manners, customs, and traditions of various Indian tribes.
Thus, notwithstanding this beautiful young woman was reared by strangers, in the heart of a vast and barbarous "Wilderness," and in the midst of savage tribes, yet providence had not only protected her childhood from injury, but had, almost miraculously afforded her such means of cultivating her mind as, with the aid of her own excellent understanding, in a great measure, supplied the want of a more regular and finished education. When, therefore, she had arrived at the age of womanhood, whether we consider the endowments of her mind, or the charms of her person, she was eminently qualified to adorn and delight the most polished society in civilized life.
If thou art parentless, my daughter, hear me;
Childless I live, and never can have offspring;
But in my heart for thee a parent's love I long have cherish'd---for a mother then,
Oh! do thou take me, and thou never shalt,
While beats this heart that loves thy gentleness,
Know what it is to feel a mother's loss.
Saveladour.
Thus until about her sixteenth year, did the life of Maria Frazier pass along in an unruffled, undisturbed stream of contentment and satisfaction. No misfortune had occurred either to herself or her friends of such importance as to occasion any lasting impression of grief upon her mind. It is true, that the prevalent quietude of the most secluded and tranquil life will be sometimes interrupted by small domestic cares, crosses, inconveniences, and ungratified wishes; and she was, no doubt, like every one else in the world, occasionally annoyed with such unaccommodating occurrences. But compared with the general serenity of her life, these were only like the touch of a fly upon the cheek, soon obliterated and soon forgotten.
She was about the age before mentioned, when the first uneasy impression of a durable nature, was
made upon her mind. Of the history of her birth she had hitherto been kept in ignorance, and never entertained the least suspicion but that Gilbert and his wife,(who had always treated her with the most affectionate indulgence,) were her parents. Alliquippa's attachment to her was the cause of her now becoming acquainted with the truth. This Indian princess, who was now advancing in years, was childless, and had, therefore, for some time past, unknown to Maria, cherished a strong desire to adopt her for a daughter. She had once or twice expressed her wish to Gilbert, but could not procure his consent. She thought, however, that her favourite was now sufficiently old to act for herself. She, therefore, one day as they conversed together in her wigwam, unexpectedly addressed her as follows: "My daughter, hear me! and think seriously upon what I am going to say. Nature has not made me thy mother, but affection for you has long ago told me that it would have been well had she done so, for had you been formed of my own body, I could not have loved you more strongly than I do, or felt more interested in your welfare.
"Daughter; our customs enable me, in this case, to correct nature. You are already the child of my heart. I wish to make you the child of my adoption. If you consent, I shall call the heads of my tribe together that they may confirm my wish."
This unexpected proposal both astonished and confused Maria so much, that for some moments she could not reply. Alliquippa, therefore continued:
"My child, listen again! I see your perplexity. It may be, you do not approve of my proposal. Perhaps you do not love me so much as I thought; or, perhaps you may be unwilling to live in this
wigwam, after our manner. Here we have not so many utensils for cooking, and preparing luxuries for the table, as where you have been accustomed to live. But if we have not, look to it, my daughter! have we not more ease?---have we not less annoyance to endure from fire-side labour? And yet we are nourished and have flesh and blood upon our bones, as well as the white people. Look at me, my child! I have seen forty two summers, and am I impaired in strength? Are my bones drier, or is my flesh more shrivelled than if I had been fed at a white man's table?
"My child, listen to me! If you become my daughter, you will become accustomed and reconciled to our mode of living.---You will be honoured by our tribe. Kings and Sachems will desire you in marriage. You will, if you choose, have the pleasure to resist them, and yet keep them in subjection, as I did. Or, as Shannalow, the eagle of his tribe, gained me in marriage, so may some great warrior gain you, and make you happy in his love, and joyful in his renown. You have heard me, my child! Will you become my daughter?"
Maria was still much perplexed for a reply.--- She was resolved to refuse, but she feared to offend. She found now, however, that she must say something; and she endeavoured to express her refusal in terms as little offensive as she could.
"Mother," said she,---for so she had been always accustomed to address Alliquippa---"I have heard your proposal which is the result of kindness for me. It excites gratitude in my heart, and although I cannot become your daughter, for I have parents to whom I owe a child's affection and duty---yet I love you as much as if I could.--- Think not, therefore, that my refusal springs from
my not loving you, for how can I but love one who has been so kind to me?"
"My child! hear me!" returned Alliquippa--- "I believe you love me. But hearken to a truth. It is right you should hear it. What parent have you in the world nearer to you than I am? None. Or is there one in it that loves you better? None. Gilbert Frazier is not your father, as you have supposed---nor is his wife your mother---she did not bear you more than I did. Alas, she who bore you, died in doing so. What, my child! be not surprised. Oh, do not tremble! I wished not to frighten you---Oh! Spirit of Maneto! save my child!"
Here Alliquippa caught Maria, for she appeared to be falling from her seat. Her countenance had turned deadly pale, her lips quivered, and sensation for a moment forsook her. She recovered gradually, but it was several minutes before she could sufficiently collect her senses to speak distinctly concerning the strange and distressing intelligence she had just received.
"Ah!" said she, without recollecting Alliquippa's presence---"what has she told me? Some strange thing. Alas! it was this---that I have not a mother---and she died in giving me birth! Merciful Providence! and am I so bereaved!"Here she melted into tears, and her agitation somewhat subsided, when perceiving Alliquippa to be much affected, she addressed her calmly.
"My mother! be not so disturbed on my account. I have, indeed, heard what distresses me. I will not ask you to tell me the whole story. I will ask it of my father. But, I think you said I had no father. Ah! say, was I dreaming? or am I really a bereaved orphan?"
"My child!" replied the queen, "I am rejoiced to hear you again. I feared you were gone
for ever, and I blamed myself for what I told you. But, listen, child! Alliquippa never told lies--- what I said was truth. The Great Father is your only parent---but he is a good one; and he has given you friends who love you, and you have never wanted for any thing. Then, child, listen to me, it is not right for you to grieve so much. It is as if you distrusted the good will of your Great Father towards you. But let me not find fault with what I have done myself. I grieved when Shannalow was killed, although it was in battle against our enemies, and he has been much praised. But I was to blame. And I have since thanked the Great Spirit, that my husband died a hero!"
"Hearken further! I wished you for my daughter, because I have no child, and you have no parent, and because I love you, and believe that you love me. But my brother, Gilbert Frazier, and my sister, his wife, love you also, and have been good to you. They are of your own kind, and you may not wish to leave them for a mother of a red colour. Child! I speak plainly! Follow your own inclinations. If you become my daughter, I shall be glad. If not, you can still be my friend, and I shall be satisfied."
For these generous sentiments Maria felt, and expressed a sincere gratitude; and taking leave of the queen, she returned home, with a mind more disturbed and oppressed with melancholy reflections, than she had ever before experienced.
"And is it thus---thought she--- am I really thus alone in the world---without any being attached to me by the indissoluble ties of nature and kindred! Forlorn, helpless, and destitute, must I still depend upon the charitable support of the hard-working, generous people that have hitherto supplied my wants! Alas! that I have been so long in a
state of dependence! But I knew it not---Perhaps it would have been better that I had never known it. Then would this proud heart have felt no pangs at living the unintentional object of compassion and charity. But---God forgive me! thou hast ordered it so. Enable me to humble my spirit, and submit to thy dispensations. Ah! it was thy pleasure to take my mother from me, ere I could enjoy a mother's tenderness!---And my father, alas! what was his fate? Oh, God of the fatherless! enable me to listen to the story of his sorrows.---Oh! point out to me what I should do, for I feel now as if on thee alone I had any natural claim for support."
There was something of a comfortable feeling connected with the last reflection. It was a feeling, as if, on account of her being destitute of all claims to any other natural support, she felt assured that she had something like a greater claim upon her Heavenly Parent, the supporter of all his creatures, and the only friend of the destitute and the helpless. This assurance tended to calm her agitation, and throwing her whole dependence upon her Maker, and resolving never to distrust his providence, she reached home in a far more composed state of mind than when she left Alliquippa's.
Her agitation, however, was too apparent not to be at once observed by the affectionate Nelly, who felt for her well-being all the solicitude of a real parent.
"What ails you Maria?" said she---"I doot something's wrang, my bairn---are you no weel?"
"No---my kind mother!" she replied, "I am not well, but it is my heart alone that is sick. Alas! that heart feels that it owes you a debt of gratitude, which it never will be able to repay."
"Why, my child," said Nelly, surprised at such an observation---"Why, what's come owre ye?
That's strange talk, indeed! I doobt some o' thir books ye're aye readin hae put ye crazy. I aften tauld ye it was wrang to study sae muckle. Tak' mair diversion, an' sport yoursel', like Nancy, for it vexes your puir mother to see you sae."
"My mother, do you say!" cried Maria, almost unconsciously---"Ah! would to heaven that you were my mother---then, you would not see me now unhappy."
"Would I were your mother!" repeated the alarmed Nelly. "Did ony body ever hear the like o' that? Why ye ken, I hae aye been your mother--- ay, an' I aye will be your mother, for ye hae aye been a gude bairn to me. Dinna cry noo, my bonny jewel---dinna cry sae---some yen---foul fa' their tongues! maun hae tauld ye some ill story to vex you. But dinna mind them, my bairn---ye hae aye been my ain, an' aye will be my ain!"
So saying, she kissed Maria, who was weeping bitterly, on the cheek, and wiped the tears from it with a handkerchief, while at the same time the moisture was breaking from her own eyes.
"Tell me," she said, "my bonny lamb! what vexes ye sae! for I canna bear to see ye cryin' this way."
Maria grasped her hand; she looked in her countenance and saw that her heart was full, and she could not resolve to increase its sorrow by disclaiming that tender relationship she had hitherto conceived herself to bear to the affectionate guardian and cherisher of her childhood.
"Yes! I feel it," she exclaimed, "you are my mother---my best of mothers, and shall still, still be so---though I have been told you were not."
"An wha was sae hard-hearted as to tell you sae, my bairn?---shame fa' their ill tongues! could they no hae been better employed than to blab oot what can noo do naebody gude to hear?"
"Ah! then the tale is true, my mother---Oh! I will still call you so, though I fear I have no right."
"Nae richt! Maria! my ain! sae lang my ain wean! Wha dare tak the richt frae ye to ca' me mother? Sair, sair, to me will be the day when ye cease to do sae."
"I never will cease to do so, while I live," said Maria; "and now, mother! I am better."---And she here endeavoured to appear more cheerful--- for she perceived that her sorrow had produced a violent agitation in Nelly's mind. "Be comforted, my dear mother," she continued, "I will not again permit this story to vex me. Only do not let it vex you, and we shall again be happy together."
"God bless you, my gude bairn---you were aye a gude lass, a gude dauchter to me. An' though I did na bear ye, I bred ye, an' watch'd owre ye, an' nursed ye in my lap, an' fondled ye in my arms, an' ye lay in my bosom.---Oh Maria! Maria! indeed ye are my ain as muckle as if God had made ye sae. Oh! dinna think o' aucht else, for I canna bear it."
"Yes---you, who have been the tender protector of my infancy, and the affectionate supporter of my childhood, from whom I never experienced any thing but kindness, I never can, and never shall, think of you in any other light than that of a parent, whose duties you have with so much care and solicitude fulfilled towards me. Gratitude for these---ah! that is but a cold word for what I feel--- a daughter's love you deserve from me, and warmly and truly do I feel it, and for ever shall I cherish it for you."
They now embraced, and felt a confidence and comfort springing up in their hearts, that soon restored them to tranquillity and cheerfulness.
Maria now informed her mother of Queen Alliquippa's proposal to adopt her as a daughter, and the account she had given her of the loss of her parents.
Nelly, in return, acquainted her with all the circumstances connected with her birth, of which the reader is already informed. She ended her relation by observing---"Your father an' I would hae tauld you thir things lang syne, but, no likin' to disturb you wi' a bad story, an' no likin' eether, it may be, that you should nae think us your father an' mother, wha like you as weel as we do them that are oor ain flesh an' bluid, we aye put it aff frae day to day. We feared it wad be an unco trial, an' ye micht hae thoucht we did it frae unkindness. But you canna think sae noo. The trial's owre; I'm glad o't, an' I hope in God, the Great Parent o' us a', that he'll keep us a' happy lang tighether."
Fortitude, reflection, and piety, soon restored Maria's mind to such a state of serenity, that, if it was not quite so undisturbed with uneasy sensations as formerly, it was sufficient at least to prevent either Gilbert or his wife from thinking her unhappy. It was, indeed, reluctance to give that uneasiness to this good couple, which she knew any apparent affliction of hers would occasion, that induced her to make exertions to conceal from their view many a long hour's mental anxiety, which, in spite of all her efforts to resist it, would, from this time forward, frequently obtrude upon her. She could not, at any time, totally divest her mind of the recollection that she was dependent on their goodness and bounty, and that she was fortuitously cast upon the world, without possessing any natural claim to the protection and support of any fellow-being. "Alas!" she would often involuntarily say to herself, "if I knew any
human being, whose blood could claim affinity with mine, how comfortable I should feel. But, alas! there is none!"
But this sense of forlornness never interrupted, for one moment, her gratitude to God, for the manifold blessings she had hitherto enjoyed, nor her affection and duty towards those kind people, who had been the instruments of his bounty.
Her preceptor, Tonnaleuka, had been for several months absent at the time she received the intelligence of her state of orphanage; and her tranquillity of mind had been considerably restored before his return. His acute penetration, however, soon discovered that something had taken place, since he last saw her, to disturb that cheerfulness and vivacity of disposition which she had hitherto displayed, and which he knew was her natural bent of mind. He mentioned his suspicion, and without hesitation she told him the truth.
"My daughter," said he, "you do wrong to grieve for events which you cannot recall, and which no fault of your own has produced. A wise person will only grieve for sin; and even then his grief will not be lasting, since grief for sin is repentance, and repentance reconciles him to both God and man, and should, therefore, reconcile him to himself.
"My daughter---you say you have no kindred; but you only mean such kindred as have been called so by the customs of the world. These it may sometimes be a comfort to have, but it is not always a misfortune to want; for the faults of a man's kindred often reflect upon him their evil consequences, when he himself is blameless. But, daughter, you have kindred. The Father of the world has given us all a common origin: we have all sprung from himself. Every one you see is, therefore, your relative, whether white man or
Indian. Such is the unchangeable law of nature!--- and so long as you act justly towards these your relatives, they are bound, by that unchangeable law, to support and protect you.
"But, my child, I speak thus, not to chide, but to advise you, not blame, but to comfort you; for although it is hurtful for you to grieve, yet, for such a cause as yours, it is natural, and, therefore, cannot be offensive to your Great Father. Nay, my daughter, hear me! I am glad to see that you possess those fine feelings of the heart, that sweet and amiable sensibility, which is the true source of affection and tenderness, and which, when it can be controlled by religion and reason, is a great ornament to your sex. But, for your own sake, I wish you to restrain its impulses within due bounds. Its possession is often a great augmentation to happiness, but, unless under proper control, it is almost constantly a great source of misery, and the origin of misfortune.
"And now, daughter, I must say, that you have reason, considering all things, to be satisfied with your lot. God has given you kind and steady protectors in my brother Frazier and his wife; and, have I not been to you the father of instruction, and can you think me less than a father in affection, or that I shall ever see you in misfortune, and not step forth to relieve you?
"Daughter, be of good cheer---your blessings are many. You have health, and understanding, and knowledge, and on earth many friends, and God in heaven!"
Lo! to the desert bend their venturous way,
A daring band, regardless of each toil;
Beneath a youthful leader's valiant away,
To rear their standard in a distant soil,
And open out an empire which might tame
The lawless wild to cultur'd arts of peace,
Bid the bleak waste the boon of plenty claim,
And cause th' accursed reign of savage times to cease!
Savelabour.
About two years after Maria became acquainted with her state of orphanage, an event took place, which, as it had the most important influence upon her destiny, it is our business to relate.
Shortly after the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, which left the boundaries between the British and French dominions in America altogether undefined, the British government, which claimed an unlimited extent of country westward, on a parallel with their eastern settlements, granted a large portion of land, situated about the head of the Ohio river, to a number of noblemen and opulent merchants, who associated together under the title of "The Ohio Company." This company, which was formed some time in the year 1750, contemplated territorial as well as commercial advantages, and employed several adventurous individuals to explore the country, with a view to its settlement. It was soon understood, however, that the French, who also made pretensions to this country, would resist any British establishment that should be made there. But the company determined to persist in their designs; and, for the
purpose of giving effect to their operations, in the year 1752, it was resolved to send a party of men to take formal possession, and erect a fort on the southeast side of the Ohio, near Chartier's creek, about three miles below where Pittsburgh now stands.
Thomas Adderly, Esq. a wealthy merchant of Philadelphia, and a leading member and a director of the company, was one of the chief promoters of this enterprise. He was a native of Ireland, and of the same neighbourhood with our friend Gilbert Frazier; a few years after whose arrival in America, having offended his father, who was a man of large property, by marrying a portionless young lady of extreme beauty and fine accomplishments, he also emigrated to the same country, where, in a short time, his success in mercantile business amply remunerated him, in point of fortune, for what he had lost by his father's displeasure.
This gentleman had an only son, named Charles, who was born shortly after his arrival in Philadelphia, which was in the year 1730. Being very solicitous for this young man's education, he had, when about fifteen years of age, sent him to Europe, where he studied for five years at Trinity College in Dublin, and spent another in travelling over the British islands, and several parts of the European continent. After an absence of about six years, he returned to Philadelphia, only a few months previous to the fitting out of the abovementioned expedition to the Ohio.
Being a young man of an enterprising disposition and inquiring mind, he felt a strong desire to explore the western Wilderness, and get acquainted with the languages and customs of the Indian tribes. He communicated his wishes to his father, and requested permission to avail himself of the favourable opportunity now offered of gratifying
them, by accompanying the intended expedition. His father conceiving, at once, that such an excursion would afford a valuable addition to the already extensive stock of general knowledge that he possessed, and might tend ultimately to the obtaining of vast commercial advantages with the Indians, after some little deliberation on account of the perils of the undertaking, yielded to his request; and as Charles's education, talents, and courage were well known, he had no difficulty in getting him placed at the head of the expedition.
At the time that Charles Adderly undertook the management of this enterprise, which was one, in those days, somewhat novel in its nature, he was in his twenty second year, and as accomplished, active, handsome and gallant a young man as any lady could wish to behold. His stature wanted but one inch of six feet. His features were well formed and expressive; glowing with benevolence, and animated with good nature. His eyes were dark, intelligent and penetrating. His hair was black and somewhat curled---while the complexion of his countenance was altogether Irish, consisting of a happily blended union of white and red. His limbs were well modeled, firmly knit, and justly proportioned. In short, for I must be brief, his manners and gestures united an air of intrepidity and dignity with conciliation and kindness.
A journey from Philadelphia to the Ohio river, at the period about which we are writing, was a quite different thing from what it is now---At the present day there is nothing to obstruct the traveller, except those numerous annoyances to badly supplied purses and avaricious tempers, the turnpike gates; but when Charles Adderly set out with his party, for more than two thirds of the way, there was not a path nor a track to direct them
onwards. Instead of the numerous houses of entertainment, and the constant and cheerful concourse of travellers that are now to be met with every where in the whole distance, there was then nothing to be seen but an unceasing and monotonous continuation of gloomy, thick, and, in many places, impenetrable forests, covering vast and awful mountains and wild and gloomy glens and valleys; concealing lonely rivers and impassable swamps; and yielding inaccessible retreats to numerous races of wild animals and beasts of prey, and human savages, the most dreaded and dangerous of all the obstacles our adventurers feared to encounter.
The party started about the latter end of August. It consisted of twenty persons. They had about a couple dozen of pack horses laden with luggage, consisting of provisions, amunitions, labourer's tools, and merchandise for the Indians. They were all hardy, courageous, able-bodied men, regardless alike of fatigue, hardship, or hazard. The majority were men accustomed to work, such as labourers, masons, and carpenters; but they were all able and willing to assist in case of need in the performance of any duty. Charles himself; a half-pay military captain, who had once fought in the New England wars against the Indians, and understood several of their languages; an engineer; a young surgeon who was employed not merely as such, but as secretary to the expedition; and two young men of mercantile knowledge, who had been bred merchant's clerks, were the only individuals, not professionally workmen; unless we exclude from this class, Charles's body servant, Peter M'Fall, who had followed his dear master from the sweet city of Dublin---Och! long life to it!---Over all England and Scotland, and Germany and Italy, and France, and now to
America; and was ready besides to follow him all the world over, and Ireland into the bargain, if he should ever go back to it.
Every man of this stout-hearted and stout-bodied party was well armed, and well prepared to encounter either the natural obstacles of the way, or the attacks of an enemy, should they meet with any, whether French or Indians.
They left Philadelphia laden with the prayers and good wishes of the citizens, and the fourth day afterwards crossed the Susquehannah in a flat, amidst the cheers and acclamations of the people then resident upon its banks. As they proceeded, however, the obstacles to their progress increased, and it was the eighth day from their starting before they reached the South Mountain. They had great difficulty in passing this mountain. Their axes and mattocks were put in frequent requisition. On the eleventh day of their journey, however, they reached the plain near where Chambersburg is now situated. They here pitched their tents and halted for a couple of days, in order to shoot game, and give those who were fatigued an oportunity of resting.
They set forward again on the tenth day, and arrived at the eastern foot of the North, or, as it is sometimes called, the Cove Mountain, that night. The crossing this stupendeous mountain was one of the most laborious tasks they encountered on the whole rout. They set their bodies to it, however, with great vigour, and hewed their way manfully, through the almost impervious thickets that incumbered the numerous rocks and precipices over which they had to pass into the valley on the western side, in about four days. Here, on the scite of the present M'Connelstown, they again halted for two days, for the sake of rest and recreation.
In this manner, they proceeded over the vast
and mountainous wilderness, not unaptly called the Backbone of America, with infinite labour securing footing for their horses, by sometimes filling up, and sometimes bridging over, ravines, runs, creeks, rivers, and morasses, and levelling impenetrable woods and rocks, as they tottered dizzily along the sides of fearful precipices, on the edges of which trunks of trees had frequently to be fixed to afford a passage for their trembling horses, until, about the latter end of the sixth week of their journey, they reached Shanapins, a small Indian village at the head of the Ohio, where fort Du Quesne was built about eighteen months afterwards, and where Pittsburgh now boasts her cheap markets, her noisy manufacturers, and her industrious ten thousand inhabitants.
They here remained several days, trafficking with the Indians, from whom they had not as yet met with any molestation. Nay; several of their kings and chief men who visited them, seemed to be rather friendly disposed. Among others, our friend Shingiss, king of the Delawares, Alliquippa's lover, treated them with great attention, and ordered his people to furnish them with provisions and furs in exchange for their goods, whenever they wanted them. His residence being near the place where they had instructions to erect their fort, Charles took care to secure his acquiescence and assistance in the undertaking, by a splendid present of rings, pen-knives, small looking-glasses, tobacco-boxes, glass beads, and other trinkets. In managing these matters the half-pay captain before noticed, whose name was Ridgely, acted as interpreter; and the whole affair was settled so much to the satisfaction of all concerned, that a few days after their arrival at Shanapins, Charles thought proper to remove the
party to Chartier's creek and take formal possession of the ground he intended to fortify.
He soon marked out the place best adapted for a fortification. It was a high bank near the creek on the south side of the Ohio river, commanding its channel, but sloping towards the land, so as to render its approach from that direction, easily susceptible of being made difficult. Here he resolved without delay to raise a small entrenchment, and erect a block-house for a temporary defence, for he was informed that the French commander at the fort of Le Beuf, about twenty miles distant, had expressed great displeasure at the report of his incursion to this country, and it was probable that he would not even refrain from violence in order to drive him off.
Charles thought that it was not likely the French would use force for such a purpose, as it was then a time of peace between France and England; but, at all events, he conceived it prudent to erect some species of defence, for if the French commandant should not venture openly to attack him, he might secretly spur on some of the Indian tribes to do so.
His men were immediately set to work; some in preparing timber for the block-house, and some in digging the trench. They had been two or three days employed at this business, when Peter M`Fall, who had been hewing timber at some distance from the rest, perceiving a deer, threw down his axe, and seizing his gun, (for, to guard as much as possible against any hostile surprise, each man was ordered to have his charged musket convenient to him while at work,) proceeded after it for a short distance. It had stopped, and in a crouching posture, among some thick undergrowth of hazels and spicewood, he silently and slowly approached it, when, all at once, he heard the sound of human
voices, as if talking together. He thought no more of the deer, for he was altogether attracted by the sounds, in which he believed there was something not absolutely unknown to him. He drew near them with as much silence and circumspection as he could, and soon distinguished the words to be French, a language of which he had acquired some knowledge while attending his master on his European travels. He still continued cautiously approaching until he obtained a stolen view of the speakers. They were white men, and he had no hesitation in believing them to be French, although they had on no uniform that could distinguish them as such. Each of them wore a plain round hat, a short gray coloured hunting roundabout, and gray pantaloons. They were standing leaning upon their guns beneath a brush-covered bank that over-looked a small run, and from which bank, concealed by the brush, he saw them only four or five yards below him. After listening to their discourse for about fifteen or twenty minutes, he became impatient to communicate it to his master, it being of such a nature as to show that there was mischief to be soon expected; but happening to withdraw from his skulking-place rather incautiously, they espied him, and immediately fired at him.--- One of their balls passed through his hat, and another through the skirt of his coat, without injuring him. He speedily returned their favour, and saw one of them fall, but did not wait to ascertain whether he was killed or merely wounded. He hastened through the wood with the swiftness of an Asahel, and was, in a few minutes, breathless before his master.
"Oh! holy Bridget! master!" cried he in a great flurry---"I am wounded both in the head and the tail!"
"Wounded! how?" exclaimed Charles. "Why, what has happened, Peter?"
"Ogh, nothing, your honour," replied Peter, somewhat recovering his respiration; "but I shot a Frenchman as neat, your honour, as neat as a pigeon, through the---"
"Then, Peter, I dare say it is the Frenchman, and not you, that is wounded."
"Ogh! now, master, sure didn't I tell you the truth? Look at the ball they shot through my head---I heard it whistling like a pipe-staple --- You'll see it there in both sides of my hat, your honour. Ogh! it flew like the wind through a barn door---"
"But it has not cracked your skull for you, I hope, Peter. Let me see. Why! you blunderpate, there is not so much as a scratch here---"
"Agh! your honour, let Peter alone for that. The devil never yet made the bullet that broke my head, although he sent one through my tail too. By my sowl, it was tight going, to be shot through at both ends, master!"
"And yet to be injured in neither," observed Charles, who was now satisfied that Peter had received no hurt. "But tell me how this affair has happened. Where did you see the Frenchman, and what was he about?"
"By my sowl, sir, it wasn't one, but two of them I saw, skulking, like thieves from a Kilmainham twist, behind a hay-stack. It was just, your honour, under the brow of the big ditch yonder where the little river runs, that I spied them, as snug as a pig, from among the bushes. They were speaking French treason, when I listened like a lark, and heard every word of it."
"Well! and they discovered, and shot at you, did they?"
"O! it was when I got up to run, that they did
it. But, faith, I left my mark in one of them--- and if there had been only another ball in my gun, I would have killed them both, for sure they disarved it, master."
"Well, but tell me, Peter, what conversation did they hold? Did you hear it distinctly?"
"Ay, faith, that's the news for you---Hear it! your honour---why, my mother never heard me squalling plainer."
"But what did they say? Peter---tell me, and be quick---"
"Why! they just said, that they would take every soul of us prisoners, if them Indians, the--- the---hang their name!---"
"Go on, sir---what about them?---never mind their name."
"The Ch---Chipys---I think they called them. When they would come on, they said, they could take us all at our work. But I thought it a devil of a lie, master; for sure didn't I know we could shoot every soul of them if they touched us?"
"But, Peter, did they say when they expected these Chippeways, as I suppose was their name?"
"By the holy Derg! but you're right, your honour--- How did you hear them? You know the whole matter better than I do. Ogh! what it is to be larned now!---"
"Peace, Peter! and tell me if you heard when these Indians are expected?"
"Ogh! in faith, then, I believe they expect them already, for they cursed them for not having come yet."
"Haste, Peter!---sound the bugle, and call in the men immediately."
Peter did as he was directed---and in a few minutes the whole party was assembled.
Charles communicated to them Peter's account of the danger that threatened them, and desired
them to keep a good look out, and not to separate until further orders. He then conferred privately with Captain Ridgely on the best measures to be adopted.
It was agreed that the men should at once be employed in constructing a hasty parapet for immediate defence, of the materials they had already prepared, so that if attacked they might have some shelter from the enemy. At the same time a messenger was sent to king Shingiss, acquainting him with the state of affairs, and requesting his assistance as an ally in repelling any attack.
Shingiss with five or six warriors soon waited upon Charles, and addressed him in the following manner:
"Brother! I will speak freely---your people and the French dislike each other, and many of us dislike you both. Your two nations disagree about this country which belongs to neither of you. It is a hundred generations since the Great Spirit who made it, first gave it to our fathers, and to their sons for hunting ground. They and we have possessed it ever since. Is it not strange that you white nations should quarrel more fiercely about our property than we ourselves?
"Brother! I will speak truth, and you will hear. We have no objection to your lodging among us, and trading with us, so long as you trade fairly, and behave peaceably, and make no attempt to engross our land.
"Brother, be attentive! I do not say that you have yet cheated us, nor that you intend it. But we have heard of some traders from the rising sun who did so. This has affronted our people. They see that the children of your nation can be dishonest, and they distrust you.
"Brother, hear the truth! I gave you permission to build here, because I know that you
cannot, as we do, live in wigwams, and I wanted you to be comfortable that you might have no cause of complaint, and that you might trade with us the longer.
"Brother! I tell you these things that you may know how to please the Indians. If you attend to them, they will, when you are distressed, lend you assistance. If you despise them, they will sit still when you need them, or it may be they will lift the hatchet against you.
"Brother! Let me now say, that you have not yet displeased me, but the French have; and if my warriors were at home I would now help you, for you have my permission to live here, and the French have no right to forbid you. I will call upon the Shannoahs. Their warriors will come when they hear my story, and with those of my own tribe that are with me, I will join them; but there will be a whole day before we can assemble.
"Brother! Look to it! If you are delivered from this danger, do not become proud, and say it was your own strength that did it; and that the Indians should be despised, and may be treated unjustly. If you do, think you that they will again relieve you? For you may again be distressed, nay, if you act unjustly you will be so. I have done, my brother! I go to call the Shannoahs--- Let what you have to answer be brief."
"Brother!" replied Charles, "I am aware that our people have not always acted right towards you, and I am sorry for it. But we are a very numerous people, and have no doubt some bad men amongst us, for we are much diversified in our dispositions. But you are too just to visit upon the innocent the punishment due to the guilty.--- You acknowledge we have hitherto acted justly. It is our intention always to do so. Nay,
more, if you assist us on this occasion, we shall feel bound to act generously, and shall not soon forget your kindness."
Shingiss now took his leave; and it was scarcely an hour afterwards, when two warriors of his tribe came running towards Charles's tent. While yet at some distance, they were heard to imitate the screeching of the owl, the signal by which they inform each other that there is a foe approaching. When they reached Charles, they informed him that there was a large party of the Chippeways within a short distance advancing to attack him, and that their king was very sorry he had no force at hand to assist in repelling them.
They had hardly delivered their message, when the terrific war-whoop was heard to rise from different quarters of the woods at once; and Charles had hardly time to form his men into a posture of defence, ere a continued peal of musketry began to rattle all around, and a shower of bullets sent by foes, as yet invisible, rushed through the interstices and other openings in the scarcely half finished breast-work they had been hastily attempting to throw up.
Charles did all in his power to encourage his men, and they, indeed, fought gallantly. But their situation was extremely disheartening. They knew not the exact strength of the enemy, but they had reason to believe that it was beyond comparison superior to theirs. Nor did they know to what particular point to direct their efforts, for every part of the surrounding wood seemed to pour forth upon them its destructive thunder, while their ill-constructed rampart afforded them little or no protection.
At length the savages becoming bolder, drew near, and necessarily exposing themselves, as they advanced, to the shot of the English, a
number of them was killed. But they continued to approach, sheltering themselves as much as possible, behind trees, until Charles perceiving that there was no chance of keeping them off much longer, determined to make a charge upon them with the bayonet, in order, if possible, to cut a passage through them, by which means he hoped, that at least a remnant of his men might escape. He gave orders to this effect, and led the way himself, armed with a case of pistols, and a large broadsword. His men followed with great intrepidity, and soon drove off all the savages that were before them.--- But they were suddenly closed upon by a host from behind, and every man was seized by five or six Indians, and either killed or taken prisoner, and bound on the spot. Charles placing his back to a large tree, defended himself for a considerable time, even after he saw that all was lost; for he determined to die fighting, and to make his death costly to his assailants, rather than become their prisoner, and endure the tortures to which he knew he would in that case be subjected. He had expended the contents of his pistols with deadly effect among them, and now his broadsword alone remained to him for the infliction of his vengeance.
He had laid several of them bleeding at his feet with mortal wounds, when he perceived one of more than ordinary strength, stateliness, valour, and fierceness, approaching with the utmost fury in his countenance. When within a few yards of Charles he stopped, and called in a loud and commanding voice to those who were fighting with him. They immediately ceased, and withdrew to a distance. Charles stood firm and collected, waiting the attack of this formidable savage, for the latter had paused in his approach, as if to scrutinize the appearance of his antagonist, and meditate his
mode of attack upon one so worthy of his valour--- so apparently well calculated to call forth its whole extent, and prove its invincibility. Charles on his part, perceived that the struggle was likely to be a hard one, and he felt a sense of self-congratulation that it was so, because if he conquered, he should rid the world of one who, if he lived, was likely to be a scourge to his countrymen, and if he himself died, he should die by the hands of a hero.
These thoughts had the duration only of a moment, for the savage was soon at the attack. Having observed the kind of weapon possessed by Charles, as if disdaining to use what he supposed gave him an advantage over an opponent whom he wished to fight only on equal terms---he threw the battle-axe, with which he had often turned the tide of victory against his enemies, away, and occupied but a moment in snatching, from the dying grasp of Captain Ridgely who had fallen near him, his sword, which was nearly of the same size and formation with that of his antagonist.
At this instant, Charles paid a tacit, but high compliment to the magnanimity of his opponent, by relinquishing his station at the tree, and coming forward to meet him in the open space; for he instinctively felt that the followers of a brave man, although they should be savages, would not dare to disgrace, both him and themselves, by using unfair means, in the moment of combat, to secure him the victory.
The combatants now met, and fierce and terrible was the encounter. For, although they respected each other's bravery, each was determined to destroy or die. The Indian managed his unusual weapon with wonderful address; and it required all Charles's skill, (and he was an educated swordsman,) to ward off the fiery, the rapid---
almost invisibly rapid, and nearly overwhelming thrusts, strokes, and movements of his antagonist. And when at the beginning of the contest he tried on his part to strike, or thrust, he was always baffled by some unexpected, and unaccountable turn of his opponent's weapon or bodily position. The savage, however, could make no impression upon him. He was too well acquainted with every manoeuvre of parrying for that. Both were beginning to be wearied, and provoked at such an unavailing contest, when Charles reflected that even if he should in the end conquer, there was no possibility of escaping the terrible tortures destined to one captured by such foes, hundreds of whom stood around, ready to seize and carry him bound to torment and death, the moment his victory should be declared. This idea rendered him desperate; and, almost careless of conquest, he made a spring like lightning for suddenness, upon the Indian's sword, the blade of which he caught firmly, but most unexpectedly, in his left hand, (for the Indian, who had hitherto beheld him fight rather cautiously, had not calculated on a movement of so much rashness) and thrusting it aside with uncontrolable force, he dashed his own into his opponent's heart.
The Indian fell, and expired without a groan, a fate which, at that instant, the conqueror ardently wished had been his own; for as many savage hands as could lay hold of him, had now seized him, and he was carried away bound, along with eleven of his company, who were also prisoners, (the remainder having been killed on the field,) to the Chippaway encampment, to undergo the investigation and judgment of the victorious chiefs.
All the way to the encampment, which was on the north side of the Ohio, about two miles from the field of battle, the Indians continued shouting
and dancing, and singing songs of triumph, in a manner so wild and frantic, that to their unfortunate prisoners their conduct appeared tainted with actual madness. It was wearing near the evening when they arrived at the camp, which was composed of a number of rude and hastily erected tents and wigwams, in one of which the chiefs assembled, and having approved of an appropriate Song of Victory, ordered two of their best singers to chant it in the hearing of all the warriors, many of whom joined in the chorus. As one of the prisoners happened to preserve a copy of this song, it has come into our possession, and we beg leave to offer the following translation of it to our readers.
An Indian Song of Victory
CHORUS.
Now the storm of battle's o'er,
Victory the brave has crown'd;
Heroes! we exult once more,
O'er the hard contested ground,
Raise the voice of triumph high!
Let it loudly pierce the sky,
And to our father's spirits tell,
How their sons have fought so well!
How they crushed the daring foe!
How they laid the white man low!
And how their haughty souls to tame,
They bound them on the field of fame!
Now the storm, &c.
From climes towards the rising day,
The intruders hither bent their way:
They loved the country we possess'd,
Our native region of the west;
They came with murderous fire and brand,
To drive us from our father's land;
But warriors! we have let them know,
The land is ours, and shall be so!
Now the storm, &c
The praises of the brave who fell,
Our songs shall never cease to tell;
Our sons shall hear their deeds of fame,
And warmly glow to do the same;
Our daughters shall fond trophies weave,
Such as true heroes should receive,
To crown the memory of the dead,
Who gloriously in battle bled.
Now the storm of battle's o'er, &c.
After this song, the whole savage party, which consisted of nearly three hundred, spent the remainder of the evening in feasting, dancing, and every species of exhibition they could contrive to display their feelings of triumph and exultation. The prisoners were exposed to view during the whole of these revels, in order to stimulate the joy of the revellers, by keeping in their minds a perpetual recollection of their victory, as well as to mortify their enemies, by reminding them of their vanquished condition, and the degraded and deplorable state to which the vengeance and valour of their conquerors had reduced them. At length the hour of repose arrived, and the wretched prisoners, relieved from the painful situation where they had performed the part of public spectacles, were huddled together in a wigwam, and left there to endure the intolerable agony of their own rereflections until the morning. They were all securely tied by both their arms and legs, and a sufficient guard of Indians stationed round the wigwam, to render their escape impossible.
Mark yonder the captive! his doom is decreed, His merciless foes to the faggot have bound him: No pity they give; the poor white man must bleed, While they raise the wild chorus of triumph around him--- But who speaks his freedom? What strange one is he? Who bursts from the mountain-top down to his side? 'Tis the mocker of fortune, the fearless and free, Whose deep-piercing ken through its mazes can see.--- Basket of Scraps.
The reflections of Charles Adderly during this melancholy night, experienced but one short hour's intermission by means of a frightful slumber a little before daybreak, when his unreposing imagination tormented him with ideas incomparably more painful, and more horrible, than his waking thoughts. A confused, unconnected, and unintelligible, but terrifying crowd of ideas, unqualified and unmitigated by any suggestions of hope, or effort of fortitude, gave to his feelings during this short sleep more the character of agonized madness than of uneasy dreaming, and when he awoke, he felt in his real affliction a considerable relief from the intolerable pangs inflicted by the creations of his imagination.
He was not, indeed, without hopes that some of his companions might be saved from the Indian cruelties that threatened them, by the efforts of two or three French officers, whom he had seen among the victors during their revels the preceding evening. One of them had also humanely addressed to him a few words of condolence, but
without conveying any precise hope of deliverance.
At length the sun arose---and the victorious Indians starting from repose, the noise and bustle of life again animated the camp, and broke in upon that monotonous and tedious dulness which had been so oppressive to Charles during the night. Two Indians soon entered his wigwam, and ascertaining that none of the prisoners had escaped, distributed refreshments among them, of which the harassed and desponding feelings of the majority prevented them from partaking.
Shortly after this, a council of the chiefs met to deliberate concerning the prisoners, who were ordered to be present, that they might receive their doom. This consultation took place in the open air, in a small glade that skirted the banks of a rivulet, or run, as such streams in America are usually called, and beside which the encampment was situated. Here the prisoners, tied in pairs to each other, were seated on the ground, near the centre of a circle formed by all the warriors, armed with guns in their hands, and axes and tomahawks in their belts. Beneath a large chesnuttree, near the centre of the circle, sat seven chiefs and three Frenchmen, upon logs apparently placed there for their accommodation. To these seven chiefs had been entrusted the determination of the fate of the prisoners.
When they commenced their deliberations, they spoke separately, each, when he had any thing to say, standing up, and generally, but not always, addressing himself to an elderly warrior, who appeared to be their principal sachem, or king, but who had nothing in his dress to distinguish him from the rest. What each man said, was communicated to the French by an interpreter; by which means Charles became acquainted with their
various sentiments, and the progress and management of the consultation.
The first proposal made was to sacrifice half of the prisoners according to their customs, and to give the others to the French; the division to be made by lot.
To this the French refused to assent; and one of them standing up, addressed them to the following purpose: "Brothers! you say it is to please your departed warriors, that you would sacrifice these men. Where are those warriors now! Are they not in heaven! Are they not happy, having done their duty, and having died bravely? If they are then already happy, can you suppose, that they require the tortures of these men to make them more so? Will they not rather be angry with you, seeing these prisoners fought bravely, and heroes always esteem brave men, and wish them well?
"But do you think that the English will never take any of your people prisoners? They are a warlike nation.---Have you not often heard of them gaining victories? Were they not successful in king Philip's wars? Think you then that they will never have any of you prisoners? And think you that, if you now destroy these, their brethren, they will not destroy your people in return, when any of them fall into their hands. Think of this, brothers!"
One of the chiefs replied: "Brother, Hear my answer to your speech.---Our departed friends we know to be happy, nor do we think that it will make them more so to burn these prisoners on their account. But it will shew them our affection, and they will say to each other: "Our brothers love us so that they cannot endure the people by whom we fell. See how they consume them from the earth!
"Brother! If the English do not burn us when they make us prisoners, it is not because they love us, but because they respect their customs; and the reason why we burn them is not because we hate them, but because we revere the ways of our fathers, and walk in them.
"Brother! Let the English adopt our customs if they please. It will not dissatisfy or alarm us. Our people have been often burned by our enemies. It was their fate, and we submitted.
"But, brother; I wish to please you, for your people are our allies and friends. I will propose, therfore, that, since for your share you are to have six prisoners, of the six that shall remain to us, we shall save one half by adopting them for our sons. With the other half, we shall support the customs of our fathers, and sacrifice them to the memory of our slain warriors.
"Brother! Will this satisfy you?"
The French still remained unsatisfied; but they despaired of making any better terms with their savage allies, and were about to give up the contest, when one of them, who had, by examining the prisoners, found that there were four so badly wounded that they were not likely to survive many hours, conversed a few minutes with his companions, and then addressed the chief of the council as follows: "Brother! Our nation and yours have been long friends. We have been often useful to each other. We wish not now to disturb our harmony. No seeds of strife shall be sown by us. If you grant us one thing, we will, therefore, oppose you no further. We wish you to choose now those you will adopt as sons, and then permit us when the sun goes down this evening to select, without lot, the number that falls to our share. The others will be those you will offer according to your customs."
To this proposal the council appeared willing to accede. There was one chief alone, who had not yet expressed his assent. This man, indeed, had during the whole proceedings hitherto said nothing; but he had manifested great earnestness and attention to all that passed. His countenance was grave and mournful, and he was somewhat elderly, although still healthy, strong, and active in his appearance. He now rose in considerable agitation and addressed them as follows.
"Warriors! Behold me! I here stand alone, like an old oak that his its branches cut from around it.
"Brothers! I know you grieve for me. It was but yesterday that I was sheltered by a sapling that grew from my own roots stronger and more comely than myself. That noble sapling, the pride of the whole forest of our tribe, has been hewn down by a white man, and I see that white man---mine eye pierces his soul,"---here he fixed such an intense and fierce look upon Charles as he could scarcely endure.---"he is now before me!
"Brothers, I disagree to the proposal made by our French brother, unless you will except from the number to be saved, the slayer of my son. Ye knew Carrawissa. Were not ye proud of him? Was he not an example to your warriors? Was he not wise and valliant? Your oracle in peace, and your thunder-bolt in war? It is true he was but young, and had not the gray hairs of a sage. But had he not the wisdom of one?
"Warriors! what he would have been had he lived 'till his brow had been wrinkled like mine, you may conjecture by what he was ere his beard required pulling.
"Brothers, attend to me! Do you not grieve for him? I look at your faces, and they tell me that
you grieve from your very hearts. Then let me ask, how can you save his distroyer? But, hear me! if you can consent to it, I cannot.
"Warriors, and brothers! I request that you will deliver him who bereaved you of a hero, and me of a son, into my hands, that he may be made an offering to the memory of that hero, that he may glut the vengeance of the father who lost that son. The man that slew Carrawissa must be destroyed by me, or else my sorrows will never cease. I will not yield to the proposal of our French brother, because it might deprive me of my victim.
"Brothers, and warriors, you have heard me."
The whole party of the Indians seemed much affected with this address, and remained indulging a deep melancholy silence for some minutes after the speaker sat down. At length one of the counsellors arose, and in a solemn tone, addressed the assembly. "I have heard Carrawoona, and I am affected. What he said is true. His son was a hero, greater than his fellows, as the noble eagle is greater and more generous than the buzzard, or the hawk. We were proud of him, for he was a Chippeway, and no other tribe could shew his equal. It was but yesterday when we said, "now we will gain the victory, for Carrawissa leads us." But when shall we say so again? Never!
"Warriors! Carrawoona has asked what is right. He has asked that we shall honour his son as he deserved, by sacrificing a foe to his memory; and who so fit---who so acceptable a sacrifice as he who slew him? Can we refuse so just a demand? Can we say, "Carrawoona, we grieve for your son's death, but we will not avenge it! We admired him, but we will not honour him; we loved him but we will let his memory pass away from our feelings as the shade vanishes when
the substance is no more. We cannot say so, Chippeways. A hero is dead; we were proud of that hero. Our foes often fled before him---nay, they have trembled at his very name. He has fallen in his youth, in the midst of his glory, when he had many years to be useful. His destroyer is in our hands, and shall we spare him? Our brothers, the French, will not ask so hard a matter. But should they insist on it, I will not consent. Carrawissa was a hero whom we loved. Is it much that we desire to sacrifice to his memory the foe who killed him?
"Brothers, and warriors! To please our allies, I will propose that all the prisoners except the slayer of our hero be theirs. Let them save them if they wish it, but him I will not consent to save. We must give him to Carrawoona, to avenge his son.
"Brothers, you have heard my opinion."
This opinion, so inimical to our hero, was embraced by the whole of the seven chiefs, and after several unavailing attempts on the part of the French to procure its reversal, they had at length, to yield.
Charles was then sentenced to the flames; and his execution was ordered to take place under the direction of Carrawoona, "before the sun of that day," as the chief sachem expressed it, when pronouncing the decision of the council, "should conceal himself behind the trees that overshadowed the hills of the West." The chief sachem had finished the awful annunciation, and all the prisoners, except the devoted Charles, had been given over to the French, when some straggling Indians, at a distance, were heard to give a peculiar shout, denoting both joy and admiration, by which was indicated the approach of some distinguished and respected visitor.
The sounds of "Tonnaleuka! Tonnaleuka!" were soon heard from numbers of the assembly; and Charles perceived a man rapidly descending amidst the woods from an abrupt rising ground, which bounded to the northward the low glade where the council was held. He stopped a few yards from the warriors, when the counsellors all rising up, saluted him with a sound, denoting "welcome, thou messenger of God!" and the chief sachem invited him to come forward.
He was venerable, grave, and majestic in his appearance, and in his manner there was something wonderfully awful. His head was bare, for, when he stopped, he had taken off a cap of buffalo skin, which he held in his left hand, and had lifted his countenance towards heaven, in the attitude of devotion. That countenance displayed an uncommon degree of fervour, dignity, and intelligence. His nose was of the aquiline form, and his cheek-bones slightly prominent, but well turned, and proportioned so as to give an oval, rather than a broad outline of countenance. His forehead was high and round, imperceptibly rising backwards into a broad, smooth, and shining crown, altogether bald, but from the sides of which, and from behind, abundance of long black hair, mixed with gray, streamed down upon his shoulders, and was arranged so as to cover part of his cheeks, and hang on each side upon his breast for several inches beneath his chin. From his dark piercing eyes, there issued an expression of authority almost overpowering to the beholder, but which excited a feeling of reverential awe rather than personal peril.
His dress was simple, consisting of a long flannel garment, like a shirt, with short sleeves, the skirts of which reached down to the calves of his legs. Above this, a wide mantle of bison-skin, thrown
round his shoulders, flowed loosely over his arms and down his back, in the manner of a short cloak. His moccasins and leggins of half-tanned deer-skin, were of the usual construction, and completed every thing observable in his dress, except a leathern belt round his waist, to which was attached a deer-skin pouch, for containing, as the Indians asserted, some mystical books, in which were recorded the communications he received from the Great Spirit, whose prophet they believed him to be. In his right hand he held a long rod, around which were entwined a variety of feathers taken from birds of different colours, which rod the Indians looked upon as sacred, and gave it the name of the "prophet's wand."
When he approached the council, he held, stretched out, this wand towards the chief sachem, and addressed him as follows:
"My brother---I am sent to talk with you. The Great Spirit, whom you worship, knows all things--- he knows what you have decided upon to-day. It was he who sent me.
"Then hearken to me, and let all these warriors hearken, for my words are dictated from above. I was not of your council. No one saw me here. But Maneto sent a good spirit, who has declared to me your proceedings. I will, therefore, speak freely. You have offended the Great Spirit by your sentence against that prisoner; and, if you execute it, you will offend him still more. Maneto loves you. He has given you a great victory. He has cast down your enemies before you; and he now warns you, lest you sin too much against him, and provoke him to consume you more than he has consumed them. Take warning, therefore, and sin not!
"Hearken to my voice! Maneto wishes you to spare this young warrior. You know he made
the white people as well as the red, and can govern both in any manner he pleases. He has services for this young man to perform, which he communicated to me. He, therefore, calls upon you to spare him, and give him into my possession.
"Brothers and counsellors! you have heard. Will you obey the voice of the Good Spirit, and preserve his love, or will you disobey him, and provoke his vengeance?
"Brother! say, what is your choice?"
The chief sachem arose, and replied:
"Prophet! I will give my own opinion. The Great Spirit should be obeyed. We are the workmanship of his hands, and he has a right to our submission. What are we without him? Were it not for him, we should have neither deer, nor buffalo, nor bear's flesh to cat, nor air to breathe, nor water to drink, nor weapons to destroy our enemies.
"Prophet! you say he has use for this prisoner, whom we were going to burn. Why were we going to burn him, but to please the spirit of Carrawissa, which yesterday left its body? But it is better that we should please the Great Spirit who has existed for ever, and can easily recompense Carrawissa, if we do him an injury.
"Brothers and warriors! I think none of you will refuse to give our prisoner to the prophet, Tonnaleuka, as the Great Spirit commands us. If any one refuses, we will hear him. If none speaks, I shall order the prisoner to be loosened, and given to the prophet."
He here paused for some one to reply---but all continuing silent, he was about to command the giving up of the prisoner, when Carrawoona rose in great agitation.
"What! brothers!" said he, "have you so soon forgot my son? Will no one speak in his behalf? Has he no friend here, who will ask justice for him? I cannot believe this story of Tonnaleuka. Prophets have sometimes spoken falsely, or they may have mistaken dreams for the orders of the Great Spirit.
"Listen to me. The Great Spirit loved Carrawissa, and made him a hero. Think ye then, that he could thus command us to defraud his memory of the accustomed sacrifice? I, for one, cannot think it---I, for one, will not consent to spare the prisoner. If Carrawissa has a friend in this council, let him now speak."
When he sat down, the same chief that had so warmly espoused his cause in the former part of the deliberations, now rose and addressed him.
"Brother! I am the friend of your son's memory; but I am a worshipper of the Great Spirit, and wish more to obey him, than to please any friend. I spoke for your son to-day;---you heard me. I spoke sincerely---but I did not then know the will of Maneto. He wishes for the victim we intended for your son. That victim, your son, and all of us, are his already. He only asks for his own. We cannot refuse him---and your son cannot be offended. Carrawissa is too just, to ask from us what is not ours to give, and too generous, to be angry for our not doing what we can not. He saw, from our decision to-day, that our hearts were with him, that our desires were to please him, and that it delighted us to do him honour. He will not, therefore, blame us for surrendering to the prophet of Maneto what we had devoted to him, but what Maneto claims as his own. Nay, hearken to me;---he loved Maneto so well, that he will rejoice in yielding his offering to him; and Maneto
will reward him, for he returns every service ten-fold.
"Brothers and warriors! we must give up the prisoner."
Carrawoona again rose, and in a hasty and impassioned manner exclaimed--- "Brothers! hear me again! I am but one among hundreds, and my voice is nothing. But, were I only one among thousands, I would let you hear it. I say, the man who slew my son, shall die! I will hunt him over the earth, till he be sacrificed. My heart must have revenge! Maneto could never forbid it. I do not believe what the prophet says. He says that Maneto wants this white man. What can he want with him? Are there not plenty of Indians to perform his errands, and to worship him? And are they not more faithful to him, and more beloved by him, than the superstitious white men, who have so many different creeds? If it be true, that Maneto wants some one, would he not prefer an Indian? If the service he wishes to be done requires honesty, are not Indians more honest than the Whites? What Indian defrauds his neighbour?---If it requires bravery, are we not brave? Think of our last battle.---If it requires wisdom, think of our sages, and our old men, endowed with prudence.
"Hear me, brothers!---I will not believe that for any purpose the Great Spirit would prefer a white man to an Indian. Has Tonnaleuka said what Maneto wants with the prisoner? If Maneto wanted him, he would have told for what purpose. But he has not, or we would have heard it, if Tonnaleuka be his prophet.
"Brothers! you percieve there is something wrong in this matter. Be not, like children, ready to believe every story; nor upon such a slight pretence, deprive my son of his right. Act
wisely. Comply with the customs of your fathers, or refrain from them only when you have some sufficient cause.
"Warriors! I only ask justice for my son, and the Great Spirit never yet opposed justice."
He sat down, and Tonnaleuka again advanced--- He pointed his sacred wand, the very motion of which had power to strike awe into the minds of the savages, three times towards heaven, and three times towards each member of the council. He then raised it, and streching his arms upwards with his eyes directed to heaven, exclaimed:
"Oh, Great Spirit! what is man, that he should question thy will! Didst thou not make him! Dost thou not sustain him! Is not the ground he treads on, thine! Is not the light he sees, thine! Is not every step he takes, and every breath he breathes, dependent on thy will! And he presumes to dispute thy right to thy creatures---He dares to ask for what purpose thou layest claim to thine own! Glory be to thee, that thou dost not consume him in the instant of his presumption!---Thou art merciful---infinitely more merciful than he is. Thou acquittest when he would condemn; thou forgivest when he would revenge; thou sparest when he would destroy. Happy is it for him, that thou art not like him!
"Oh Maneto, hear me! wilt thou now indulge the vain questions of him who disputeth thy will? Oh, wilt thou answer his sinful inquiries?"
He here paused for about a minute, during which he seemed to mutter something in a super-natural language, and displayed so much the impressive, sublime, and entranced appearance of one holding communication with superior beings, that all present gazed silently upon him with spell-hound attention and astonishment.
At length he was heard to say:--- "Thanks! thanks!---It is good in thee!" Then turning abruptly to Carrawoona, he touched him with his wand, and with an energy and a fervour which made even that hardy savage tremble, he exclaimed:
"Son of presumption! Thou who would thwart the wishes of God; instead of blasting thee on the spot, I am permitted to tell thee what in thy daring wickedness thou hadst the hardihood to ask. Listen to me now, and ask no more. That man in bonds, whose flesh thou wouldst roast in the fire kindled by thy vengeance, is in the favour and under the protection of the Great Spirit; and, listen farther, I am commanded by the power who moveth all minds, to open to him the sacred fount of inspiration, to lay before him the oracles of the Great Father contained in this holy book, which profane hands should never touch, into which profane eyes should never look---and which none but the favoured of Heaven can understand. This is the destiny allotted to this youth---let man resist it if he dare!
"Brother," said he, turning to the chief sachem, "I claim that prisoner in the name of the Great Spirit;---I claim him as the successor to my gifts. Order him to be unbound!"
The chief sachem instantly complied. Charles was unbound---and Tonnaleuka advancing towards him,
"Follow me, my son!" said he; "we go to worship our Great Father!"
Charles followed his conductor, who, with his eyes steadily fixed upon heaven, in an attitude of deep and solemn devotion, walked slowly from amidst the assembly towards the east, leaving every individual who beheld him, not excepting Carrawoona himself, awe-struck, and fixed
immoveably to his place, as if by the effects of enchantment.
It was several minutes before any of the Indians recovered from the spell that was over them, sufficiently to speak Carrawoona, whose thirst for revenge against the conqueror of his son was still the leading passion of his soul, was the first to recover from that temporary entrancement which had produced a suspension of all passion, so irresistibly thrown over the whole assembly by the wonder-working power of Tonnaleuka's energy of manner, and preternatural and awful appearance. With the return of his faculties, this thirst of revenge, heightened now by the irritation of opposition and the vexation of disappointment, returned with all the force and rancour with which such a feeling can fire a savage breast.
He started up, with all the wildness of ungovernable rage agitating every feature, and addressed the assembly.
"Warriors! hear me! I am bereaved---I am defrauded---I am used ill! Did my son deserve such treatment? Would Carrawissa have acted so to the memory of any one here?
"Warriors! What have you done? Think of it. You have permitted the destroyer of a Chippeway and hero, to walk free from his bonds, and to escape that fire through which his soul should have been sent as a grief-offering to comfort th soul of your hero.
"Chippeways! It is useless now to argue. It is useless to rage. It is useless to complain. I will act. Is there any man here who will act with me? I will have my vengeance. Has Carrawissa here any friend who will assist me? You condemned the white man. By your sentence he was mine. You gave him to be sacrificed to my wrath. Your own act made him mine. You
could not take him from me. I will yet have him, and execute your sentence.
"Warriors! I again ask, is there one who will assist me?"
He sat down, and no one offering to reply, the chief sachem addressed him.
"Brother! None speaks to you. I will. Hear me patiently, and let the madness of your passion yield to reason. We all grieve for you. Look round, is there a countenance but has grief upon it!
"Brother! Do not fight against the Great Spirit. Do not resist the will of Maneto! He, who is the author of all things, should be permitted to regulate all things as he pleases. It was he, and not we, who deprived you of vengeance. He had a right to do so. The prisoner was his property, before he belonged to either us or you. I am sorry you oppose him. It is awful, Brother!---For our parts we would offer ourselves to the sacrifice first.
"Brother! we love you---but if you fight against Maneto, we must resist you. Your madness grieves us. We fear it will lead you to wickedness, and to ruin---for in contending with the Great Spirit you must be overcome. Persist not, or your fate will be awful!"
Carrawoona started to his feet, and, in a tone of rage, bordering upon absolute frenzy, exclaimed,
"Chippeways! Have I no friend, then! Am I alone in my wish for justice! Do you want to frighten me from my purpose! You should have known long since, that Carrawoona cannot be frightened. My revenge you call madness. But I call it justice. You advise me to desist from seeking it. Bid the rocks of the mountains skip like the squirrels of the tree. Will they obey you?
No. Bid the roar of Niagara resemble the purling of that brook. Will it listen to you? No. Neither will I. But I will talk no more. I will pursue the destroyer of my son. My weapon shall find his heart, if it should be through the heart of Tonnaleuka---nay, the bosom of Maneto will not protect him. Maneto protects no one from justice. But should his lightning shrivel me on the instant, if I only obtain vengeance on my enemy, I shall be satisfied."
He here gave a sudden yell, and made a leap to the eastward, as if he intended immediately to pursue the object of his resentment. The chief Sachem ordered him to be stopped, when a warrior rising, called out---
"Brother! Let Carrawoona take his way. We have nothing more to do with the business. We have given up the prisoner as the Great Spirit ordered. He has not ordered us to restrain Carrawoona's madness. We should not take the protection of the white man out of the hands of Maneto. Let Carrawoona go. We have done our duty."
The furious and untractable savage was accordingly allowed to take his course as he pleased, and the assembly broke up.
A merry day, my boys, we'll have,
And form a happy quorum: Confound the dog who would be grave,
While he can swig the jorum! While grog inspires we'll frisk it out,
Just as the whim may please us; And daddy Care will kick about,
Till he no more can teaze us.
Savelabour.
It will be readily supposed, that the French officers were much pleased with this fortunate termination of an affair in which they had so much interested themselves. During the time that their feelings alone influenced their minds, they were, indeed, heartily rejoiced. But when they reflected on the political consequences that might arise from the escape of any of the English prisoners, especially of the leader of the enterprise, which had, as every one of the prisoners now knew, been defeated by their secret instrumentality, they began to feel uneasy, and heartily to wish Charles Adderly in perdition, rather than in Philadelphia, or any other place where he could inform the world of what they had done. They felt a strong repugnance to have any human being sacrificed in the cruel manner in which the Indians often sacrifice their captives; but they, at the same time, dreaded the results which they had a right to suppose must take place if the government of Great Britain should hear of the part they had taken in the attack upon their subjects in the time of peace. Either a national war might be the consequence, or their own government might disavow
their conduct, and deliver them up to the vengeance of the British. As men they rejoiced in the safety of Charles Adderly, but as politicians, and servants of a European power, which might not, in the end, sanction and defend their conduct, they feared the evils that would most probably result from the information which, in the event of his safe arrival among his friends, he would not fail to give to the political world.
The contingency, however, suggested by this political consideration, was more remote and uncertain, than that produced by the splendid and unexpected triumph of humanity they had just witnessed; and we must do them the justice to state, that they, for some time at least, gave way to the amiable impulse of feeling, rather than to the selfish influence of policy. The more, however, they considered the matter, the influence of the political consideration increased; and rather than be brought to an account for their conduct, by their own government, or be the occasion of a European war, of which they could not foresee the consequence, they became the more heartily inclined to wish that the prisoner, for whom they had felt so much, and pleaded so strenuously, had been, by some means or other, put out of the way, as it was from his information alone, they believed they had any thing to fear.
It must not be supposed, however, that the steps they had taken to defeat the designs of the British Ohio Company, were altogether unauthorized by their government. The French ministry had given instructions to their Canadian servants, the spirit of which, at least, sufficiently warranted all they had done. But the agents in this affair knew too well the degree of reliance to place upon such instructions, especially when they are at all vague and indefinite in their particular application, as
] these happened to be, when it suits the interests of cabinet ministers to disclaim them, to feel altogether easy under the idea that the British government might hear of their conduct, and make it a national concern. It would, indeed, they were aware, be soon known that the Ohio Company's party had been attacked and defeated by the Indians; but, without some specific information, they themselves, although they might be suspected, could not be convicted of participating in the deed.
Had Charles, like the other prisoners, been in their custodym [sic] every thing would then have gone to their satisfaction; since their prisoners they could hold an indefinite time, and liberate only when other national concerns occurred to render what they had done of too little importance to occasion inquiry.
It was partly under the influence of these considerations, and partly, we would fondly hope, with a view to save Charles's life, that after the breaking up of the Indian council, one of them offerred to Carrawoona a large reward if he should bring Charles a living prisoner to them at the fort of Le Boeuf within six months from that time.
To this offer the chief replied,
"Brother! what do you mean? Do you think I will give up my son's right for a hire? Will I let him remain unavenged for the sake of presents? No. I will pursue this white warrior from no such motive. I would not move my finger at him, to injure him for the paltry object of gain. And, listen to it---had I him now in my power, all the wealth of your great king would not save him from being sacrificed to the departed spirit of my son.
"Brother, I would be angry with you but for this reason---I know that the customs of your country prevent you from thinking your offer an insult.
This, and your ignorance of our customs, excuse you. But, as every Indian may not make this consideration, that I now do, I would advise you never again to offer any of our warriors a bribe to act contrary to his feelings. If you do, he will be apt to turn upon you as the bear turns upon those who wound him.
"Brother! I leave you---I pursue our released prisoner, but it is to destroy him, for he who killed my son must not walk abroad upon the earth."
So saying, he left the Frenchman with a look of high disdain, and set off on his revengeful errand.
The day after the council was held, the French proceeded with their prisoners for fort Le Boeuf, which was situated on French Creek, near where the present village of Waterford stands. It was the commander of this fort, who, in conformity both to his official instructions, and to the general policy of his government, to prevent any English settlement from being made west of the Alleghany mountains, had excited the Chippeways to attack our hero's party, and thereby laid the foundation of that memorable war, which, although it began disastrously for the British arms, yet resulted, under the energetic auspices of the elder Pitt, in the total expulsion of the French authority from this extensive region of America, and in their discomfiture in the East and West Indies and several other parts of the world, raising the power and influence of the British nation to the highest pinnacle of strength and glory.
It was during the disastrous period of this war, that the celebrated but unfortunate expedition of Braddock to this wilderness, the most impressively disastrous of all its events, took place, and perhaps, had more the effect of drawing the attention
of mankind towards these remote regions, and their savage inhabitants, than any other transaction recorded in history. This noted expedition, which is still referred to as an epoch in the annals of Western America, will, on account of the influence it had upon the fortunes of those persons whose adventures we have undertaken to relate, come again under our notice during the course of this work, when, we trust, it will be in our power to give the reader some more circumstantial details, concerning it, than he can procure from any public history at present extant. We may here observe, however, that it is not our intention to dwell more minutely upon those matters that are already known to the world, than will be necessary to afford a clear and satisfactory view of their connexion, with the individuals in whose affairs we are more immediately concerned. We, therefore, beg leave respectfully to refer those who may wish for more extended information, of a public character, concerning "Braddock's Times," to the numerous, well-written, and copious histories of that interesting period, which the world already possesses, and which we can assure the reader are, generally speaking, almost as authentic and worthy of credit as our own.
The French officers, who, as we have seen, were both glad and sorry at the escape of Charles Adderly, finding that they could make no better of it, like true Frenchmen cast care aside, and the next day set out with those prisoners which remained to them for Fort Le Boeuf, in order to have them there secured, as soon as possible, from any accident, whether of escape or of Indian violence. The prisoners were now only seven in number, four having died of their wounds the preceding night. Of those who survived, three also were slightly wounded, among whom was our
acquaintance Peter M'Fall, whose left arm had been broken by the stroke of an Indian battle-axe before he submitted to be bound. Thus, of those twenty gallant fellows that had so lately crossed the Alleghany mountains, only eight were now living; and but five, one of whom was Charles Adderly himself, had escaped from their savage foes without personal injury.
The French were assisted by a dozen of Chippeway warriors, in escorting the prisoners to their destination, the remainder of the savages having agreed to continue their excursion into the Virginian settlements, for the sake of additional plunder and scalps.
When the escort with the prisoners had proceeded about five miles on their way, they came to a tent situated at the foot of a hill, near a small brook, at which they halted. In this tent there were three or four squaws, and two Frenchmen, one of whom was lying on a tolerably comfortable bed made of buffalo skins and some blankets spread upon dried leaves, which, as it was now considerably advanced in the fall, were scattered in great abundance all through the woods. This man was labouring under a bad wound from a musket ball he had received in the groin, which still remained there. His appearance, as well as that of his companion, immediately suggested to Peter M`Fall that these were the men he had overheard conversing previous to the attack of the Indians, one of whom he knew he had wounded. He heard this man moan once or twice from the pain he endured, and his heart smote him from a consciousness of having been its cause.
He went forward to the patient, and taking him by the hand, "Now, honey," said he, "did you ever see me before?"
The man looked at him, and answered "No."
"By my sowl, then," he continued, "your eyes were not so good as mine. And it is lucky for my head they were not, or else a bullet might now have been lying as snug in my brain as in your kidney, my jewel!"
The man stared at him---when, as if struck with some happy idea, he continued---
"Arrah now! I have it as nate as my nail. Be asy, now---You'll be cured as stout as a peat-stack in a jiffy, my dear. I'll have the doctor at you at once, with his tongs and pincers, and he'll soon whisk out the fellow that tazes you, smack into your fist, like the toss of a ha'penny."
He here called out to the young Philadelphia surgeon we have before mentioned, whose name was Killbreath.
"By my sowl, doctor! here's one of the natest jobs for you, you ever did in your life. Och, now! if Doctor M`Faddyen was only here, he wouldn't be after asking the second bidding to do it, when he knew it was an ould friend of mine. But, God bless the mother's son of you, you can do it as nate as a hair---for you spliced my arm, long life to you, as firm as a whip handle."
By this time the surgeon had approached, and offered his service in extracting the ball which tormented the patient; and the French having secured the instruments he had brought with him from Philadelphia, being a part of the plunder, of which they knew the value better than the Indians, they were soon produced, and the operation performed.
When Peter got the bullet in his hand, he examined it closely, and perceiving that it was perforated with a small hole, he commenced flinging it into the air, and catching it again, exclaiming as he continued this operation---
"By Saint Columb! I have you again, my boy! But the devil a bit of Billy Binder will ever hang a string of pig's byrses to you again, my honey--- He's snug in the moulds now, under the rotten leaves yonder, where we left him yesterday. Jasus be with him!---But when I again send you scampering after a Frenchman, don't stick in his hip, my honey, to torment him, but blow his brains out at once, or don't touch him at all, at all, my boy!---"
Peter was here interrunted in his apostrophe to the bullet, by one of the Frenchmen accosting him rather abruptly, in an unintelligible mixture of French and English, to repeat which verbatim, would be as difficult as to read it would be uninteresting. It merely contained an exclamation, par le diable! that Peter looked as if he were the man who had wounded the patient. Either the suddenness of the address, or the awkwardness of the language, prevented Peter from at once comprehending its meaning; and after staring a little in some surprise at the Frenchman, he replied---
"Look how, master? But ogh, in troth, my jewel, it's your own self that looks like a gentleman, every inch of you. Arrah! blessings on the swate mother who bore you!"
The Frenchman, impatient at not receiving a direct answer, chattered something still more unintelligible, and completely beyond Peter's comprehension, which occasioned him to exclaim---
"By the holy Derg! master, if I can make either top or bottom of what you mane, I'll be hanged."
The Frenchman catching at the word hanged, of which he knew the full meaning, repeated it several times, with so many significant gestures, as well as sounds, that Peter began very distinctly to perceive the alarming purport of the uncouth
jargon addressed to him. He knew some French, as we have before observed; but this man had spoken neither French nor English. Hence Peter either did not, or he perhaps wished not, at first, to understand him. His meaning, however, was now too plain for misconception, and Peter replied---
"Why, master, sure now, your honour, you'll be asy---You wouldn't be after hanging me for shooting a man through the griskin, after he had shot me through the head? By Jasus! it wouldn't be law, your honour."
"Shoot vous troo de head!" exclaimed the Frenchman in astonishment.
But Peter continued, without noticing his exclamation--- "And didn't I tell you besides, your honour, that the doctor would cure him as nate as a leek?---and faith and troth, you see (here he tossed up the bullet, and caught it again) he has half done it already. My blessing on the swate mother's son of him, and the jewel of a smith that made his long tongs for catching bullets, into the bargain."
The wounded man now understanding the nature of the discussion between his countryman and Peter, explained to the former the circumstances of the case, acknowledging himself and his companion to be the aggressors, not only on account of acting, as they were then doing, in the character of spies, but on account of having shot first at Peter.
Peter, finding that the patient had exculpated him, seized his hand, and cried out, "Arrah! long life to you, for yourself is a gentleman; and I wouldn't send my ball any where but into your kidney, my honey, where it lay snug among the fat, like a little pig in a gutter, and the devil a bit of harm I knew it would do you, my jewel. Och!
the blessing of Saint Bridget be on you, for you have saved poor Peter's neck from the twist, master--- and the doctor will cure you in a week, as sound as a church bell---Only now take a little of the swate stingo to warm your stomach, dear.--- Sure, don't I know from experience, that whiskey---"
Here the surgeon interrupted Peter, desiring him to leave the patient, for that quietness and repose were absolutely necessary to him after the operation he had undergone. "As to whiskey or brandy, or any such liquor, it would," he observed, "be extremely detrimental to him in his present situation."
Peter complied, observing, "Sure, doctor, you know better than I do. But, by my sowl, I always found a drop of the cratur good for myself--- and sure you know I couldn't think it bad for another."
The performing of this operation, and the enjoying of a plentiful repast, consisting of venison, wild fowl, Indian-corn bread, biscuit, and various other luxuries supplied from the French stores, and which the squaws, assisted by one of the Frenchmen, who was fond of good eating, had set about preparing for the party immediately on its arrival, consumed so much of the day, that it was proposed to pitch a few more tents, and spend the remainder of it in this place in jollity and enjoyment. This agreeable proposal was relished by the whole company; and the French, during the evening, got into such good humour with the prisoners, that they permitted them to join in their revels, ordering the Indians, however, to keep a good look out, lest any of them should escape. As to the surgeon, whose manners, education, and good sense, indicated the gentleman, he had, immediately after the operation, obtained, on his
parole of not attempting to leave them until they should arrive at Le Boeuf, the indulgence of being master of his own motions, with the command of a rifle, for the purpose of hunting and fowling.
There are, perhaps, no people in the world better qualified to enjoy the passing moment than the French. They have the happy faculty of dismissing care whenever it becomes troublesome to their feelings, or unnecessary for their purposes; and on this evening they exerted that faculty in a most commanding and masterly manner. We have seen that they had brought themselves into a predicament calculated to make the most serious impression on their minds, and that they were fully aware of the circumstance; and yet, when they had got their bodies replenished with a reasonable portion of substantial fare, and had warmed their minds with a sufficient dose of brandy punch, or, as on this occasion they were not over nice, with whiskey grog, they bade for the time adieu to all uneasy reflections, and absolutely set the power of fortune at defiance, except the power she had of making them happy for the present.
Random catches, songs, jests, glees, dances, and loud laughing, were all that they now either could or would think of. In vain did the affairs of to-morrow venture to intrude. Out they were hurled--- there was no room for them in bosoms where hilarity, mirth, and pleasure possessed every corner that could be spared.
If the French are noted for unthinking frivolity, the Irish are no less so for a fervency of feeling, by which they are enabled to suppress the suggestions of care, as effectually as the French can dismiss them. Hence, when opportunity tempts, they are ever ready to yield with their whole heart
and soul to the full tide of enjoyment, and swim away on its stream, regardless of consequences. On this occasion, therefore, there was none who entered with more spirit into the humours of the evening, than Peter M`Fall.
On a green level sward, by the edge of the rivulet, the party formed a circle; but it was for a very different purpose from that formed the preceding day by the Indian council. Here were no life and death matters to be discussed---here were no serious and vehement calls for the destruction and burning of a fellow-being---no loud and sorrowful manifestations of grief---no fierce and reiterated imprecations of vengeance upon an unfortunate captive. Grief, vengeance, and every other uncomfortable feeling, were banished as unwelcome guests; while good humour, sprightliness, cordiality, and joy, were invited to be present, and inspire the revels of the evening by the merry strains of a Frenchman's flute, and the jolly sounds of an Irishman's voice; for, in the intervals of the flute player's performance, Peter, with great spirit, industriously exerted himself, to prevent the company from wanting music, by singing the merry lilts of his native country.
At the commencement of the supple-heeled sport, the Indians had entertained the party by exhibiting the various dances of their nation. The war dance, the hunting dance, the courtship dance, the marriage dance, and the birth dance, had each its characteristic gestures and manoeuvres---some of which were, to the eyes of the Europeans, so grotesque, wild, and ludicrous, that they were kept in an almost continued roar of laughter.
Peter was particularly tickled with the romping and capering of the squaws, who were tolerably handsome women, and had been nothing loth to
exhibit their personal attractions in the various attitudes of their native dances.
"By the holy Patrick! but it's yourselves can do it in style, my girls!" would Peter every now and then exclaim, while he snapped his fingers and beat time with his feet, in the high glee of admiration at their extraordinary and laughable performance.
His fancy was particularly taken with the gracefulness and agility of the youngest of the squaws, who made really an interesting figure among the groupe; and at every remarkable bound she gave, smack went Peter's fingers in the air, dash went his heel upon the ground, and loud rose his obstreperous cheers of applause.
"Well done, by the powers of Barnaby! Och! kape it up, you swate little soul, ye! There goes mettle for you!"---he thus kept vociferating, while the company kept laughing, almost as much at his extravagancies, as at the singularities of the dancers. At length his heels itched so much to bear a part in the boisterous amusement, that he could keep his seat no longer, but springing up, and with his sound arm, hooking in with the squaw, who had pleased him so much, he leaped, and bounded, and capered among the Indians with all his might, imitating as well as he could, their gestures and behaviour, to the great admiration and delight of all present.
When the Indians and Peter had finished, the French felt inclined to succeed them in the exhilarating pastime; but as their musician was desirous to join them, and it was impossible for him to both dance and play the flute at the same time, it was determined that Peter should either whistle or sing to them, as he best could, to keep them in time. But he knew none of the airs to which they were accustomed, and after several
ineffectual attempts to learn some of them, the French were at last obliged to accommodate themselves to those he did know. They accordingly set off with "Nancy Dawson," to which they tripped airily and nimbly along in measured movements, with great art, sprightliness, and vivacity. Now, (for every ten or fifteen minutes they changed their mood, and Peter had as often to change his tune,) the light corant, the gay cotillion, the merry riggadoon, the measured waltz, and the sprightly jig; succeeded to each other, and were rattled off to the successive tunes of the Irish Washerwoman, the Soldier's Joy, the White Cockade, Patrick's Day, and Morgan Rattler. Through these various measures the nimble-toed Frenchmen tript gaily and smilingly without much noise, so that their easy but busy exertions were, in comparison to the violent romping, jumping, and tearing which had just preceded them, what the rippling of a gentle river is to the roaring billows of the stormy ocean.
Becoming at length somewhat wearied with this species of pastime, the party sat down to an evening repast, rudely enough served up, no doubt, but plentiful and substantial. This was succeeded by the singing of some jovial songs, of which, only the two following have come into our possession. The first was sung by one of the Frenchmen, and the other by our friend Peter. Each sung in his own language. Of the Frenchman's performance we of course can only give a translation.
The Frenchman's Song.
Let philosophers prate, and discuss as they will,
The maxims of knowledge, the sources ofbliss[sic];
The true fount of knowledge and pleasure is still
To be found in a free-flowing bottle like this.
Ah! look where it sparkles so brilliant and gay,
To enlighten our minds and our sorrows to cheat,
Ah! think of what virtues the soul can display,
When 'tis warm'd into bliss by a cordial so sweet,
Though scorn'd by the world, and deserted by friends,
Each evil in life I will bravely despise,
If only this cordial that energy lends,
Which to each jovial fellow it freely supplies:---
When in debt, I will care not for bailiff or dun,
If this heart-cheering cordial sticks close to my side,
For in life, as in war, half the battle is won,
When the foe is met boldly, and boldly defied.
Then, hear me, ye sons of true wisdom and mirth,
For mirth and true wisdom are always combined,
The wisest of things we can do upon earth,
Is like true-hearty souls to give care to the wind.
Then drink from this bottle, the draught of delight,
That can banish each harassing care from the soul,
Round and round let us drink, and experience to night,
The best cordial of life is a free flowing bowl!
Peter M'Fall's Song.
In Ireland so frisky,
With girls and with whiskey, How happy was I when a strapping young lad: Every market and fair,
To be sure I was there, With my breeches and boots like a gentleman clad.
And then as to money,
Och! sure it was funny, To hear the dear shillings and sixpences clink,
And the lasses so sweet,
Arrah, faith! when we'd meet, By the powers I could bring them along with a wink
Then so snug in the fashion,
We'd take up our station, In a tent that was covered with blankets and sheets;
"Arrah, landlord! be quicker,
And bring us that liquor!" I would cry---and he'd skip like a cat in the streets.
So snugly thus fix'd up,
The punch I soon mix'd up, Then handed it round so genteely and neat,
That the girls, the dear creatures,
With sweet smiling features, Said---"punch in a tent was an elegant treat!"
Och! the punch was so cheery,
That soon we got merry, And the lass I lov'd best sat so snug in my arms;
That I courted and kiss'd her,
And teaz'd her and bless'd her, 'Till she blushed like the moon with a million of charms!
I was then in my glory;---
But to cut short my story, The best thing---och! conscience, I tell you the truth,
On the girls to be trying,
To make them complying, Is a jug of good punch and a neat strapping youth.
The next morning the party re-commenced their journey to fort Le Boeuf, leaving the wounded Frenchman, who was unable to endure removal, under the care of one of his countrymen, and two squaws. They arrived at the fort on the fourth day of their journey, without meeting with any accident worth recording. Here the escort of Indians received presents for the services they had performed, and were dismissed.
As for the prisoners, they were all strictly confined within the ramparts, except the surgeon, who was occasionally permitted on his parole, to recreate himself in the adjacent country. Our friend Peter had it in his power, very shortly after his arrival, on account of his understanding a little French, to have exchanged his situation of a prisoner, for that of a servant to one of the officers---but he promptly refused it, from a motive whimsical enough, perhaps, but certainly honourable to his fidelity---which was his resolution not to serve any one in a menial capacity except Charles Adderly, to be again with whom, soon became the leading feeling of his mind. He was, indeed, treated
] tolerably well as a prisoner, and the gay sprightly manners of the garrison were perfectly congenial to his disposition; but still he was a prisoner, and consequently under the control of certain regulations which he did not relish; and what was worse, he was absent from his beloved master, who might be so circumstanced as greatly to require his services. He, therefore, jolly, gay, and thoughtless as his disposition was, had sufficient reason for feeling uneasy in his captivity.
Creation's God! with thought slate,
Thy hand divine I see
Impressed on seenes where all is great,
Where all is full of thee!
In every scene, where every hour
Sheds some terrific grace,
In nature's vast o'erwhelming power,
Thee, thee, my God! I trace.
Helena Maria Williams.
Although Tonnaleuka and his protegee had retired in a slow and unhurried manner, while in view of the Indians, yet they were no sooner removed from their observation than the former, who was aware of Carrawoona's implacable and rancorous temper, thought proper to hasten onwards with the utmost speed. He conceived it prudent also to change his direction, so that if the unappeasable savage should pursue them, he might not be on the proper track. He accordingly turned towards the northward, in which course he kept for about two miles, then turning again towards the east, in about two hours after he left the savages, he reached the Alleghany river nearly six miles above the Shanapin's town. Here they entered the wigwam of an Indian, who received them with great reverence and respect. Tonnaleuka desired this man to prepare some refreshments, and while this was doing, he beckoned to Charles, to whom he had not yet, since their leaving the Chippeways, spoken a single word, to follow him. He led the way into a narrow dingle at a short
distance from the wigwam, and to Charles's surprise addressed him in English.
"My son," said he, "let us here worship the Great Father of all, and thank him for thy deliverance."
They fell on their knees, and the prophet lifting his eyes, and spreading his hands to heaven, addressed the Supreme Origin of all things as follows.
"Almighty Spirit! We kneel here to adore thee, and to thank thee. We adore thee for thy incomprehensible greatness, for thy illimitable power, and thy everlasting purity. We thank thee for thy inexhaustible goodness, thy readiness to forgive, and thy forbearance to punish. Thy greatness fills us with wonder, thy power with awe, and thy purity with admiration. Thy goodness inspires our love, thy readiness to forgive, our hope, and thy forbearance to punish, our gratitude.
"Almighty and good Spirit! We humbly adore thee and thank thee, at this time in particular, for the manifestation of thy goodness in delivering this youth, as thou hast this day done, from the hands of an unpitying and cruel enemy, who had determined on his destruction. He is on his knees and I am on mine. Look at us, merciful Spirit! look into our hearts---thou wilt see them truly thankful for this signal instance of thy protecting and kind providence. He thanks thee because thou hast, in this manner, assured him of thy friendship, and I thank thee, both because thou hast saved him, and because, in doing it, thou hast made me thy humble instrument.
"Almighty Spirit! Hear us yet! We entreat thee to be always our protector from evil, our deliverer from distress, and our director and conductor through all the snares and intricacies of
life, so that we may act pleasingly to thee, and be worthy to be called thy children, and deserving of thy favour.
"Almighty Spirit! we have done, and we hope thou hast been graciously attentive to what we have said. Amen."
When they arose, Charles caught the prophet by the hand.
"Father," said he, "permit me to ask, who thou art, whom that holy God we have been worshipping, has made the means of rescuing me from a cruel death?"
"My son," replied Tonnaleuka, "I am a man like thyself. I have borne trials, perhaps more severe than thou hast, and yet survived them; for our Great Father was good to me. He has sustained me, and thanks be to his goodness, he has not left me without some comfort in the world. In return for his mercies, I wish to serve him in that way, which of all others, is the most pleasing to him, the doing good to his creatures.
"My brothers, the Indians, wage often bloody and cruel wars against each other, and, as I know, that the Great Father is always displeased at any cruelties inflicted upon his children, I think it my duty, and I make it my business to go from tribe to tribe, endeavouring to reconcile them when they quarrel, or if they will fight and destroy each other, trying all in my power to mitigate their mutual ferocity, and to soften and restrain their revengeful feelings, or when I cannot succeed in this, to disappoint them, if possible, in the execution of their barbarous designs.
"I may have other cares and employments on hand. But, my son, I wish you to inquire no further concerning me. Tonnaleuka cannot now tell all he knows to the world, and I should not wish inquiries to be made, that I must refuse to answer.
"My son, you are now in a vast wilderness, far from the habitations of your people, without friends or resources. Something must be done for you, and as our common father has thrown you upon my care, I shall try to do something. May I ask what would best suit you to be done?"
Charles now stated to him the name and residence of his father, and gave him a concise account of the expedition which he had commanded, and which had ended so disastrously. He concluded by observing, that he now saw nothing left for him but to make his way back to Philadelphia as speedily as he could.
"My son," said the Prophet, "you speak wisely. To return to your friends is the most prudent thing you can do. But the journey is long; and considering the state of the country, to a single individual, especially a white man, bred up in cities it must be impracticable. You will find no provisions on the way, and there is scarcely a path to guide you, for more than two hundred miles. It will not be easy to overcome these difficulties. But I shall try to assist you, and, perhaps, it may be done. In this country you are not safe, I acknowledge it, my son. My brothers of the different tribes will distrust you, for they have had reason to both distrust and dislike white people. But from Carrawoona your greatest perils will arise. Beware of him, for I know he is implacable, and will destroy you if he can.
"My son, until we can prepare matters for your return to the east, I will tell you where to reside, and where I hope Carrawoona will not find you. About fifteen miles from us on the bank of the Monongahela, lives the only man of your nation in our country. His name is Frazier. He is my friend. He will entertain you till I meet you there, which will not be many days. I would go
with you now, but I must watch the motions of the Chippeways, and especially of Carrawoona, that I may frustrate, if possible, any attempt against you.
"My son, we will now partake of the refreshments prepared for us in this wigwam. Its owner will supply you with arms for your protection, for he is my friend; but as the day is now advanced you had better lodge with him to-night. In the morning you will proceed to the house of my white brother, Frazier, where you will remain till I see you."
They accordingly partook together of a tolerable comfortable repast of some wild-fowl, and a preparation of Indian corn called homony; after which Tonnaluka departed, having first given Charles particular directions how to find the way to Gilbert Frazier's residence. It is as needless to repeat the expressions of gratitude poured out by Charles to his deliverer, when they separated, as to describe the profound feeling of pious awe and thankfulness to the Deity with which, when left to his own reflections, he felt his mind impressed.--- The reader who knows the circumstances we have detailed, will give him credit for both, as readily, and to as great an extent, as if they were painted with all the accuracy and force that the colouring of language could give them.
There is no feeling whatever so conducive to sound repose as the impression of being in the favour and under the protection of a supreme providence. The wonderful deliverance which Charles had obtained from an awful and apparently inevitable fate, naturally produced upon his mind this evening such an impression; and with feelings of a most comfortable, although still much excited description,---such feelings as the mariner who, after the extinction of all hope, has been
just rescued from the power of the raging main, experiences on laying his exhausted frame upon the kindly-spread couch of some hospitable cottager--- he laid himself down upon the bed of dry leaves and buffalo skins prepared for him in one corner of the wigwam by its friendly owner, and enjoyed a sound and refreshing sleep, which continued till the morning.
When he arose, his friendly host supplied him with a gun and a war axe; and with the former upon his shoulder, and the latter, together with some ammunition and provisions girt to his side, he set forward on his journey to Gilbert Frazier's. The reader may smile at the care with which a young fellow like him took to equip himself for so short a ramble as fifteen miles; an excursion which a smart young man of his age would in our day think no hardship to perform in two or three hours. But although I have, on careful inquiry, satisfactorily ascertained that the young men in "Braddock's Times" were in all respects as courageous, spirited, and active, as they are even in ours, and that Charles Adderly was one of the most eminent of them in all these particulars; yet he expected and found the performing of that same journey of fifteen miles in about seven hours, to be no despicable task. But it was the difficulty of the road, and not the incapacity of the man, that made it so; and I can assure any of our modern heroes, who may imagine themselves fit to make as good a figure in a novel as Charles Adderly, that they would have considered the journey of which we are speaking as difficult, and found it as tedious as he did.
To have a proper idea of his situation, and what he had to encounter, let any reasonable reader lay down this book for a moment, and figure to himself a young man of sociable habits,
accustomed during all his past life, to the animation and refinement of cities, colleges, and churches, to paved roads, flagged pathways, and graveled walks, now dropped, by one of fortune's capricious freaks into the midst of a barbarous and pathless wilderness, a close grown forest of heavy timber of all sorts, oak, hiccory, maple, chesnut, walnut, birch, dogwood, poplar, &c. &c. the small spaces between which were completely choked up by a luxuriant growth of underwood, wild grasses of innumerable descriptions, not to mention the trunks of large trees that had fallen from the decrepitude of age, or were overthrown by the fury of storms, and which were perpetually presenting impassable obstructions to the progress of the traveller. And this too, in an extremely hilly country, intersected by deep ravines, glens, and dingles, without number or regularity, and out of some of which it was impossible for a'stranger to disentangle himself without incredible labour and dexterity.
Such was the country through which Charles Adderly, to whom any savage path that might be in it was totally unknown, undertook, in the year 1752, without guide or companion, to traverse, for a short distance indeed, but over ground so difficult, and amidst impediments so intricate, that it would be easier now to traverse the same space in two hours than it was then in seven.
The directions, however, which Charles had received from the prophet, were plain, and he set forward fearing nothing, although it was the first time he had ever been altogether alone amidst the woods. But this very circumstance, instead of rendering his excursion disagreeable, threw over it a peculiar charm of novelty and romance, which, to a mind constituted and circumstanced as his then was, was inexpressibly attractive.
"Here I am," he would say to himself, as he often paused to reflect, on arriving at a height from whence he could look for some short distance a round him; "here am I, in the midst of this immense forest, cut off from that busy world of civilization with which alone I am acquainted---Here am I, with God alone for my companion! Oh, what a sublime and awful thought! Yet, why tremble at its vastness! It cannot be presumptuous, for it is true; "[sic] For He is always present; ever felt In the void waste as in the city full!" "[sic] Oh, adorable Being! thou hast placed me here, where I feel the true independence and dignity of my nature, for here I am only dependent on thee. In this place society claims nothing from me, nor I any thing from it. Were all my fellow-men extinguished from the earth, and I left alone here, dependent, just as I now almost feel myself to be, solely on my own exertions and thy blessing, how awful, how solemn, but how ennobling, how elevating would be the thought! O! let me for a moment enjoy the magnificence of the idea, for it will only last a moment. There are yet men in the world with whom I must unite, and to whose institutions and forms, I must bend---and this soulexalting illusion of my God and myself, being all my concern, will soon vanish. But it is thy will, and I submit."
At other times the recollection of Carrawoona's malignancy towards him, would occur to his mind, and he would, especially in passing ravines, glens, and rivulets, instinctively exert all his faculties of hearing and seeing, lest an enemy should attack him unawares. At length, having exerted both mind and body, with intense energy for a number of hours, he reached the Monongahela; but he
was uncertain from not seeing the marks referred to in his directions, whether Gilbert Frazier's house was, in respect to the river, above or below him. In this state of incertitude respecting his course, he reclined himself beneath a large maple tree that grew upon the bank, amidst a thicket of sassafras, elders, and hazels, in order to reflect a little before he should determine on which way to proceed. Here his mind soon wandered from its original object, and turned towards the waste and barbarous state of the country where he was then seated, a forlorn, solitary being, amidst ferocious savages, and the object of intense hatred to some of them.
Among other subjects of reflection, the strange circumstance of a white man enjoying a permanent and unmolested residence, in such a country, and amidst such inhabitants, drew his attention, and excited his surprise. What could induce a single individual of European origin to settle among such a people, and in such an unpromising region, he could not understand; and if it had not been that he considered it almost profane to doubt the word of Tonnaleuka, he should have conceived the tale of a white man being in that vicinity, as altogether fabulous. To believe it, however, he was resolved, since his deliverer had said it---and believe it he did; but he conceived that this man must be some adopted son of a savage, perhaps married to a squaw, and in point of manners, disposition, and understanding, in all probability, nothing superior to his wild brothers of the forest.
Having come to this charitable estimate of Gilbert's character, he rose to pursue his course up the river, almost careless whether or not it should bring him to the residence of one of whom he had formed so indifferent an opinion. Since
Tonnaleuka had agreed to meet him there, he, indeed, was desirous to find the place; but that he believed he could easily do without at present giving himself much trouble about it, before Tonnaleuka could be expected to reach it. In the meantime, the falling in with any Indian wigwam might afford him for the night, as hospitable, and perhaps as comfortable a lodging. With these ideas revolving in his mind, as he was advancing from his thicket, he perceived to his utter astonishment, two white and decently attired females, approaching towards him down the bank of the river. He suddenly drew back into his concealment, struck, not with fear, but with awe; for as he could not suppose civilized white women to be in such a place, and, at the first glance, he saw they were not squaws, he for an instant concluded them to be nothing less than supernatural beings, sent for some divine purpose, to visit him in his present extraordinary situation. His philosophy, however, instantaneously arose in arms against this conclusion; yet he thought fit to remain concealed for a few minutes, until he had discovered something more satisfactory concerning objects that had struck his excited fancy as being almost too lovely to be earthly.
When they drew near enough, however, to be more minutely distinguished, he became satisfied that they were of kindred clay, real flesh and blood like himself; and he was delighted to hear their language to be English, for not perceiving him, their discourse was not interrupted as they passed.
"It was indeed, a noble, a holy proceeding, worthy of Tonnaleuka, whose whole pleasure is in doing good," said she, whom he perceived to be by far the most beautiful of the two, and whose loveliness had, indeed, rivetted his attention so much
as to make him almost overlook her companion, who replied---
"And Paddy says that the prisoner was one of the best looking young men he has ever seen. I hope Carrawoona will not find him."
"A good providence will protect him!" said the first. "That God who afforded him such a timely rescue is able, and I trust that he will still be willing to extend over him his shield of safety."
Charles, who at once, knew himself to be the subject of this conversation, felt something inexpressibly sweet in the tones of that voice which had uttered this wish for his safety; and he was only prevented from rushing forward to express his gratitude, by that profound feeling of awe he had imbibed at their first appearance, and which was now kept alive, not by an impression of their being unearthly, but by a conviction that one of them surpassed all of her sex he had ever seen, in loveliness and excellence. He came forward, gradually, out of his concealment, as they moved from him, with his eyes steadily fixed upon them, or rather upon her who had charmed him more than ever woman had before. At length, descending into a valley, they were hidden from his sight.
"I will follow her," thought he, "although it be not the course I intended---such a being can lead no where but to safety---to happiness."
He accordingly hastened after them; but, on coming to the point at which they had disappeared, he was surprised to behold, in a romantic vallcy beneath him, through which a meandering rivulet sought and obtained a union with the Monongahela, a neat and prosperous looking farm, with its worm fences, it orchards, its meadow-ground, and its fields of maize, and its stacks of grain, surrounding a large, substantial log
dwelling house, of comfortable appearance, having the necessary establishment of barn, stable, cowhouse, hog-pens, &c.; not, indeed, all under one tremendous roof, as is the present Pennsylvania fashion---but separated from each other, and erected at different, but convenient distances; giving the whole as much the air and character of a small village, as many a one whose name may every day be seen honoured as such, with a place in the maps of the American states.
He paused for a moment, at the unexpected sight, and experienced such a sensation of home-felt comfort glowing in his heart, as the long wandering exile on returning home, feels at the first sight of his native village. He felt something congenial to his very existence, in the appearance of the sheep, cows, and horses, that were browsing in the meadows; nay, the very cackling of the geese, and dung-hill fowls, had on this occasion, the power to warm his heart, and give him pleasure.
The fair object that had attracted him hither, had been for about a minute concealed from his view, by the intervention of some trees. But he now again perceived her, with her companion, advancing along a short lane towards the dwelling house. He hastened after them, when, through an opening in the wood to his left, he suddenly perceived two men hoeing out potatoes in a field, which here spread itself to view between him and the river.
He approached them and perceived---but I also perceive that I must cut short this chapter. A dull performance ought never to be a long one; it is so exhausting upon the reader's patience, of which I am desirous that he should retain a sufficient stock to accompany me through the whole work. I therefore make it a rule when I feel myself beginning to write heavily, to cease writing;
and, if possible, to cease at a place where it will be convenient for the reader to cease reading. By this means we have both an opportunity of recovering our spirits, and of recommencing our respective tasks with renewed vigor and animation.
'Tis the nobility of nature, which
Survives through all vicissitude of time
And fall of states; that pure and innate love
Of human kind, which prompts the generous soul
To hospitable deeds, which bids it ask
The lone and friendless for its welcome guest.
Basket of Scraps.
I may, at once, inform the reader, for I hate a round-about way of telling a story, that the two men whom we at the termination of the last chapter, left Charles Adderly in the act of approaching, were Gilbert Frazier, and his son Archy. They were so busily employed in hoeing out their potatoes, that they did not observe him till he had advanced almost close to them, when Archy called out---
"Father! look about! I purtest there's a white man comin' to us!"
Gilbert turned round, and with an evident emotion both of surprise and respect, moved his hat, and then standing stock still with his hoe in his hand, gazed intensely at the stranger until he spoke.
"My good friend," said he, "I am an unfortunate wanderer in this wilderness, where I am both surprised and rejoiced to meet with a white man. May I ask a few night's lodging from your kind ness?"
"Lodgin'! yes---wia' my heart---a white man! an' a gentleman! wia' my heart! But, may I ask your name, sir?"
"My name is Adderly."
"Adderly---Adderly!---you cam' wi' the Ohio settlers, I doot na, sir, ye hae been unfortunate.--- But we'll gang to the hoose, sir. Ye'll be needin' something to eat an' drink, na doot---for there's no muckle to be had that's guid for ony thing in thir woods."
So saying, he moved forward a few steps---then turning suddenly, he muttered---"Wha kens! wha kens---it may be sae"---and turning to Charles, he asked---
"Adderly, ye say they ca' ye?"
"Yes---"
"An' canna ye mind to hae ever heard o' yen Thomas Adderly, wha, when I leev'd on the Junaita, I was tauld had come frae Ireland to Philadelphia?"
"That Thomas Adderly is my father."
"Thomas Adderly! your father!" Gilbert exclaimed, staring earnestly in Charles's face--- "Thomas Adderly your father! my auld frien'!"--- here he threw away the hoe which he had till now retained in his hand, by way of a walking stick--- and catching Charles eagerly by both hands, he continued his exclamations---"Why! why! the sin o' my auld frien', Thomas Adderly o' Maughrygowan! come to ask lodgin' frae me---ay, that ye'll hae, the best that I can gi' ye---the best bed, the best meat, the best drink, the best o' every thing that Gilbert Frazier can gie you. The sin o' my auld frien' frae Maughrygowan---Archy! Archy! rin fast, my braw lad! rin fast, and tell your mother that the sin o' my auld frien', the sin o' Thomas Adderly o' Maughrygowan, is come to see us. An' haste ye, Archy! get the white-faced calf killed, it's the fattest---an' be na langsome, noo---that's a braw lad! An' the sin o' my auld frien' o' Mauhgrygowan!" (here he again eagerly
shook both Charles's hands) the sin o' Thomas Adderly, has cam' a' the way owre the Alleghany Mountain, an' the Laurel Hill, an' the Chesnut Ridge, to ask lodgin' frae me. Guid bless ye, man! ye'll hae lodgin' and leevin' frae me baith, as lang as ye like wi' a guid-wullie heart, an a' thoosan' welcomes. An' the auld squire, yere gran'father, (mony a funny day I had sportin' wi' the youngsters roon the shrubberies an' the park wa's) I wonner if he's to the fore yet?"
Charles informed him that according to the latest accounts, the old man was alive.
"I'se warrant ye for it," replied Gilbert; "he was aye a douse body, an' will, dootless, wear weel. But come in, come into the hoose. Nelly, puir Nelly! hoo glad she'll be to see the sin o' her auld acquaintance! Ye were na born in Maughrygowan, were ye?"
"No; Philadelphia is my birth-place."
"Ah! weel, it's na difference---ye're the sin, an' the gran'-sin o' Maughrygowan men---an' na doot a true Irishman in your heart."
Charles assured him, evidently very much to his satisfaction, that he had a great partiality for that country; for, independent of its being the land of his fathers, he had there received the chief part of his education, and spent the happiest portion of his life.
"Then ye hae been in Ireland, sir?"
"Yes; within these last six months I sailed from Londonderry."
"Frae Derry! frae Derry!---an' hoo did the auld country, and the auld city look?---An' ye were at Maughrygowan too, dootless?"
"Yes, I spent part of the last winter there."
"An' was every thing the same? Ah! I doot na, there are mony changes there syne I saw it. But
I need na ask sae fool a question frae you, that was na then in the lan' o' the leevin'."
They had by this time arrived at the door of Gilbert's dwelling, where Nelly, in consequence of Archy's information, was waiting in a state of great impatience to meet them. Recollecting Maughrygowan, and the days of her youth, she had just taken time to make herself decent, as she phrased it, by putting on a clean cap and a shawl, in which, although she was now verging towards the pale days of fifty, she still exhibited some remains of those blooming graces which thirty years before had captivated Gilbert; and if report spoke truth, had drawn some eulogies, which had come to her ears, and now returned to her recollection, from the then young squire, Thomas Adderly, himself.
"Nelly! Nelly!" exclaimed Gilbert, as they approached where she stood in the door; "here, here is the sin o' young squire Adderly, oor auld acquaintance, an' the gran'-sin o' the auld squire, just cam frae Derry owre the sea, an' a' the way owre the Alleghany mountain, an' the Laurel Hill, an' the Chesnut Ridge, to ask lodgin' frae us! Did you ever think o' seeing sitch a day?"
Nelly made a courtesy, and Charles holding out his hand, she caught it, and, while the tears were perceptibly swelling in her eyes, she bade him welcome, adding,
"Ah! sir, indeed ye pit me in min' o' auld times, ye hae sae muckle o' the braw looks o' your father. Glad I am truly, to hae yen frae the place un'er my roof. In thir wild woods, I ne'er expected to be sae christianlike on this side o' the grave. I kenned your father weel in Maughrygowan--- Ye hae muckle o' his looks! But come in---we maun get something ready to mak' ye comfortable--- for ye maun hae had a hard time o't through the
woods. I wonner in the wide warl hoo ye could guide yoursel' amang them."
She had by this time led Charles to the door of a decent but small apartment, in which the furniture, although it was rough, was convenient, and extremely clean in its appearance. It had been, as the greater portion of the furniture in the house was, of Paddy Frazier's workmanship, whose industry, when he would be industrious, inclined more to matters of this kind than to cultivating the soil. It was well for the respectability, at least in point of appearance, of Gilbert's household concerns, that Paddy did possess ingenuity of this nature; for he himself possessed little or none, and as to Archy, he was totally destitute of any thing like it. We may here mention, that Paddy had procured tools, and other necessaries for making furniture, from several of the Indian traders, and that he had, in consequence, frequently tried his hand in manufacturing chairs, tables, bedsteads, chests, &c. which, although, as we have already said, they were coarse, yet were convenient, and gave the whole habitation an air of considerable comfort. The floors, doors, partitions, and shelves of the house, were also placed and kept by him in a tolerably neat condition; so that if, upon the whole, Gilbert's residence had no splendour to exhibit, nor much display of taste to boast, it was at least clean, commodious, and comfortable.
It was two stories high, built of large logs hewn square, with a long platform or porch in the front, made of logs squared on the upper side, and solidly fixed together, like a wooden pavement, on which were constructed seats for enjoying the luxurious atmosphere of a summer's evening. The front door was in the centre of the building, from whence an entry or hall, of about five feet wide, extended through the house, leading out of the back door
into a secondary or inferior house of round or unhewn logs attached to the other, which served for a kitchen. The stairs, or rather steps, for they were nothing but a broad-stepped ladder, boarded behind, arose from the back part of the entry. Both floors consisted of four rooms, of nearly equal size and construction, but not equally well furnished; the one into which Charles was now introduced by Mrs. Frazier being by far the most favoured in this particular.
But this room contained what would, in Charles's eyes, had it been ten times more rustic than it was, have given it the superiority, in point of attraction, to the most splendid apartment in any of the king of England's palaces. After saying this, we need scarcely add, that it contained the beautiful being whose charms had lately, as we have related, so strongly riveted his attention, and attracted him hither, and whom the reader has no doubt already conjectured, and conjectured with truth, to be Maria Frazier.
She arose at his entrance, and was introduced to him as Gilbert's youngest daughter; and Nancy, who had been in another apartment, at that instant appearing, she was introduced as the eldest. The manner in which these two buds of the forest received Charles, was considerably different, and, considering the circumstances of their respective minds and education, somewhat surprising. From Archy's report, which had been faithfully made to his mother, they knew that some extraordinary visiter, and a white-man, was approaching them. When they received this report, they were both in a plain, but neat dishabille. But with this Nancy was not content. She hastily retired to improve her appearance, and exhorted Maria to do the same, which she declined. It must not, however, be supposed that she did so from any
affectation of humility, much less from any unwillingness to show the stranger a proper degree of respect. Neither was she quite indifferent as to the effect of her appearance upon him; nay, it must be confessed, that before she decided against changing her apparel, she had taken a sly stolen glance or two at a mirror, (for Gilbert had been supplied by the river traders with several of these articles,) which hung conveniently for such a purpose, upon the wooden wall of the apartment. The result of this examining glance was, that she should be content with her present condition; for, although not gaudily, she was neatly apparelled, and having no desire particularly to attract the stranger, she did not think it necessary studiously to adorn her person. When she first saw Charles Adderly, however, a feeling of an undefinable nature, such as she had never before experienced, seized upon her mind, which caused her, in a certain degree, to repent her not having followed Nancy's advice: and when this feeling became considerably heightened, by his name suggesting to her, that this must be the same interesting youth who had been so lately rescued from the cruel vengeance of the savages by her revered Tonnaleuka, she, in spite of herself, felt uneasy and embarrassed, from the idea that it had been in her power to have made a better appearance in his presence. The reception she gave him, therefore, was cordial, but a little constrained, and her salutation, although kind and sincere, was diffident and timid, and her manner was rendered the more embarrassed from her dissatisfaction with it.
On the other hand Nancy, prepared for the occasion, with all her rural grandeur on her, addressed him with an ease, gaiety, and self-possession partaking somewhat of familiarity, which
Charles would have felt rather disagreeable and unbecoming, but for the apparent candour and innocency with which it was accompanied. In short, the manners of the uninformed, and, comparatively speaking uncultivated Nancy on this occasion, displayed all the undaunted and unblushing ease of the fashionable lady, while the intelligent and enlightened Maria exhibited the bashfulness, diffidence, and confusion of the rural maid.
But, strange to tell, Charles Adderly gave unhesitatingly the preference to the manner of his reception by Maria. In her he either saw, or fancied he saw, the effects of artless nature, genuine modesty, and refined sensibility; and these he preferred infinitely to any effort of cultured manner, or disciplined conduct. In his view, nothing in the world could exceed in elegance, tastefulness, and propriety, the dress and behaviour of Maria, while every thing he had ever seen, or believed he ever could see, fell infinitely short of the charms of her expressive countenance, and the witchery of the thousand nameless graces that he was every moment discovering more and more to adorn both her person and manners. But at this time, it must be confessed, that he was in a state of mind which disqualified him from being an impartial judge of any thing relating to this young woman. He was, although, perhaps, not quite aware himself of the circumstance, getting fast in love with her, and, consequently, was unfit to conceive of any thing but perfection in all she either thought, did, or said.
"Thir twa lasses o' mine," said Gilbert, after all the party were seated, except his wife, who, placing some bread and cheese before them, withdrew for the purpose of getting ready refreshments of a more elaborate description for her guest--- "Thir twa lasses o' mine, ye maun ken, hae been broucht up like deers amang the woods here, an'
it maun be a treat for them to see ony thing like a ceevilized white man. Lasses, haud up your heeds, an' dinna be shy---Mr. Adderly's a gentleman born, the sin o' my auld acqua'ntance, young squire Adderly, o' Maughrygowan. Agh! I kenned your father weel thirty year syne---there wasna a brisker an' bonnier young fellow in a' the parish. I hope he's douse yet, an' wears weel?"
Charles assured him that he was still healthy, and very little altered in his appearance since he first knew him.
"Glad o't, glad o't, sir," replied Gilbert; "I wad gie the best horse ere put leg in my stable to hae yae shake o' his auld hand, just for the sake o' Maughrygowan an' oor daffin days. But, sir, Paddy tells us, ye hae had an unco escape frae them wicked Indians, the Chippeways. But Tonnaleuka can manage them when naebody else can--- he's a wonnerfu' man that."
Charles now informed him, that it was by Tonnaleuka's directions that he had obtruded himself upon his hospitality.
"Obtrude, sir!" interrupted Gilbert, "obtrude! I'm no' very muckle learned, sir, but I think that word means comin' to whar yen's no' weelcom'.--- Noo, sir, gin ye were na as weelcom' here as in your father's parlour, this hoose shouldna belong to Gilbert Frazier."
"I am sensible of your kindness," observed Charles; "and to tell you the truth, I in reality feel happier just now under your roof than ever I remember to have felt under my father's, or I believe that of any other person whatever."
"Thank ye, sir, I'm glad o't---an' I wish hoo lang ye may bide wi' us, gin it will answer ye. Ye'll no' think o' ganging hame this six months, at ony rate. The winter's sae near-han', it wadna' be possible."
Charles replied, that his duty required that he should carry or send speedy intelligence of his late disasters to Philadelphia; but that with respect to the measures he should adopt concerning his return, he had thoughts of being regulated altogether by the advice of Tonnaleuka, on whose knowledge of the circumstances and nature of the country, and on whose prudence, candour, and friendship for himself, he had every reason to rely.
"Ye're richt, my frien'," said Gilbert, "'an ye're wise too in that---Tonnaleuka kens ever thing aboot this country, an' I may say aboot every ither country in the warl', better than ony man leevin'. I'll no' except Sir Isaac Newton the Englishman, wha they say is the greatest philosopher, an' the wisest man, except Solomon, that was ever known. Ye wad wonner, sir, to hear Tonnaleuka sometimes talking. He's sae learned, an' has sae muckle knowledge, that nane o' oor family can after comprehend him, except Maria there, that he has made amaist as wise as himsel'.---Dinna think shame, Maria! it's na affront. I wad rather than my hale stackyard fu' o' corn that I could un'erstan' sitch things sae weel as you do. That glaiket lassie, yere sister---feggs, Nancy, I maun tell on you, ne'er could master a single lesson for a' the pains he took wi' her."
"Father," replied Maria, who perceived that Nancy felt uneasy at this exposure of her ignorance, "you draw too unjust a comparison between us. Nancy has in many things profited much by Tonnaleuka's instructions. And as to myself, considering the remote and secluded situation in which I am doomed to pass my life, the gratifying my desire for knowledge may have been rather disadvantageous than otherwise; it may have occupied that time which would have been
employed with more advantage to both you and myself in personal labour."
"Personal labour, my bairn! why think ye, that gin ye had never sae muckle as learned the alphabet, that I wad hae let you work in the cornfields or meadows, or in grubbing roots, or makin' rails?---Na, na, faith! I wad hae done a' thir things on my knees first. But hae na ye been aye busy, Maria? Why Nelly has aften said that ye hae doon mair sewin', an' spinin', an' knitten in yen week than Nancy, wi' a' her disregard to learnin', has done in a month."
"My dear father," said Maria, seeing that Nancy was extremely hurt at this invidious comparison, "do not be so unjust towards my sister. I cannot bear to be complimented so much at her expense. She is far from being so ignorant as you suppose; and Tonnaleuka, whose judgment you will not dispute, has often borne testimony to the goodness of her heart, and the amiability of her disposition. As to industry, does she not perform thrice the labour that I do in dairy matters, and in kitchen concerns? From which of us does our mother receive the greatest assistance in the preparation of your food? Is it not from her? Yes, father, she has often, when she supposed I was too busily employed in these matters, desired me to leave their performance to her, lest I should fatigue myself. I cannot bear that so much kindness should not receive justice."
Here Nancy, whose feelings were more touched with her sister's generous defence than they had been with her father's accusation, caught her by the hand, (for she sat next to her,) and with a heart evidently as full at least of gratitude as of vexation, said---
"I must confess that my father speaks truth; for you hae obtained far more benefit than I ever
could from Tonnalenka's lessons. And as to heavy working, you are always as willing as I am, but as you are not so strong, you are more easily fatigued, and on that account I do not like to see you much at it. You are better and more usefully employed at quilting and darning, and figuring, and knitting, and such things that keep the house trig and comfortable, than I could be, for I couldna like you confine myself closely at them, as they sometimes require."
Here Gilbert, pleased with this generosity of Nancy, as if his heart misgave him for having said any thing to hurt her feelings, arose and, catching both her and Maria by the hand, said---
"Ye are baith my bairns---gude lasses to yere father, an' I hae na' fan't to find wi' ye. I dinna prefer the tane to the tither; I like ye baith alike, an' I'm muckle pleased that ye hae aye liked yen anither sae weel. Indeed ye hae aye been a comfort to baith me an' yere mither in this wild wilderness. Withoot ye, I think we wad hae brak' oor hearts. But God has gien ye to us, an' ye hae made the desert smile on us. An' oh! may he lang preserve ye to us, my bairns, baith gude, an' innocent, an' contented as ye noo are."
So saying, he kissed them both upon the cheek, and turning to Charles, asked him if he would walk out with him upon the porch for a few minutes, until supper should be ready. Charles readily assented, for he perceived that the old man wished to relieve his daughters of their presence, in order that Nancy might the sooner recover her serenity and cheerfulness.
Around the bowl of vanished years,
We talk of joyous seeming;
And smiles that might as well be tears,
So soft, so sad's their beaming;
Till memory brings us back again,
Each early tie that twin'd us,
How sweet's the cup that circles then,
To those we've left behind us!
Moore.
As Nancy's mind was not the most susceptible in the world of lasting impressions, especially of a disagreeable kind, a short time was sufficient to restore her usual vivacity and good humour; and as both she and Maria now assisted their mother, supper was soon got forward, and Charles and his host were without delay summoned from their perambulation on the porch.
When Charles saw the plentiful, and even luxurious table that was spread before him, and the good-hearted and contented family, whose own industry, under the blessing of Providence, had thus procured it for them in a wilderness, sitting down to partake of it, his heart was filled with sensations of pride for his species, arising from this proof before his eyes of what their own efforts, if properly directed, can do to supply their wants, and make them happy in this world, under even the most unpromising circumstances. What a contrast, thought he, is what I now behold, to that scene of savage wrath and vengeful feelings to which I was yesterday so nearly becoming the victim!
Impressed with these ideas, his heart was in a fit state to join fervently and thankfully in that simple but sincere address to the Giver of all good, which Gilbert who, ever since he had been cut off from all opportunity of enjoying public worship, had been careful always to pronounce, not in set words, but in the spontaneous expressions dictated by his feelings at the moment, before partaking of the bounty of his Maker. Sometimes this address, being the only species of religious worship strictly attended to by Gilbert, was extended through the duration of several minutes. On the present occasion, it was not so long, but it was still longer than any fashionable clergyman would ever think of making a grace. As it was, notwithstanding its illiterate and unharmonious phraseology, at the time, highly gratifying to Charles Adderly, I presume it will not be unacceptable to the reader, and shall, therefore, submit it to his perusal, as follows:
"Great God! oor Maker, an' the maker o' a' things whilk are in the heavens or on the yearth, an' the ruler o' baith the city an' the desert! thou hast gien us these gude things oot o' the bountifu' stores o' thy providence, that we may nourish oorsels wi' them.---Albeit we are na' worthy o' the sma'est morsel o' thy favour, an' could na' mak' the grun' produce a single ear o' corn, or a koo bring forth a single calf without thy ordering!--- yet thou hast gien us plenty o' baith, an' mair nor that, thou hast gien us this e'ening, un'er oor roof, what we hae na' had for near-han' thirty year, a visiter, an Irishman's son, o' oor ain kind, frae Maughrygowan. Oh! bless him, an' bless us a', so that we may be nourished by this temporal food, an' also, or a' be owre, wi' the spiritual food o' grace an' glory in heaven. But thou kens better what fits us than we do oorsels---we, therefore,
lippen every thing to thy mercy, whilk we earnestly pray for, through Christ our Redeemer---Amen."
Many a more splendid supper than Gilbert Frazier, the only cultivator of the ground, at this time within, perhaps, a hundred miles of him, could afford, has been more splendidly described than I could describe it. No entertainment could, therefore, be expected from a middling description of what, at the table of a great man, would scarcely be accounted a middling supper. I will, therefore, be excused from not entering into tedious particulars concerning it. I shall merely state, that at the one end of the table, (the end where our hero himself was stationed,) was placed an elegant roast-joint of the fatted calf which Archy had speedily sacrificed for this joyful occasion. By special request, Charles had undertaken to carve and distribute this, which I can assure any gay lady or gentleman, who wishes to be informed on the subject, that he did with exceeding good grace and gentility. Mrs. Frazier and her son, Archy, had each under their jurisdiction a large barn-door fowl, elegantly and sumptuously stuffed with the most sapid and agreeable ingredients the good hostess could command; the very smell of which when opened out would, in less than a quarter of an hour after a full meal, have restored to original vigour and voracity, the appetite of any hundred thousand pound alderman in existence. Gilbert himself had charge of a large dish of excellent potatoes, which although he said they were as gude as he ever could raise here, yet were naething like the rich, laughing, mellow, an' meally jeanachies he used to raise in Maughrygowan. Still wi' a' their fau'ts they were aye a favourite dish wi' baith him him an' Nelly.
When a reasonable havoc was made among these substantials, Maria and Nancy distributed to
the company and to themselves dainty and enticing slices of apple pies, custards, or egg puddings, just as the appetite of each desired. After the disappearance of these, Gilbert returned thanks, and the cloth being removed, (for, dear reader, Mrs. Frazier had several table cloths,) he produced from a cupboard, which was in one corner of the room, a bottle of brandy; and soon the fragrant and inspiring vapours of the punch-pitcher curled swately and nately as Peter M`Fall would have said, over the table, which was now lit with a flaming candle of Gilbert's own mana acture.
On this occasion the social bowl did not frighten away the ladies as it mostly does within the circles of ultra civilization and high refinement. But in Gilbert Frazier's house the superb customs of the haut `on were unknown, or rather uncared for; and as no excess from spiritous liquors was feared by the ladies, for neither Gilbert nor Archy were drunkards, and they had no reason to suppose Charles Adderly one, they conceived that they could spend the evening as comfortably and as creditably in their society as any where else.--- Nay, they did not disdain, for the sake of complaisance and good humour, to use a moderate portion of the exhilarating fluid themselves, and to pledge in its socializing draught their good wishes for their visiter's health and prosperity. But the degree of their complaisance, I can assure the world of sobriety, was both as moderate and modest as the most rigid could wish, and extended no farther than the most precise-mannered and delicately-nerved lady in Christendom might have carried it, without risk to either her reputation or her morals.
Neither did the gentlemen indulge too heartily in the use of the fascinating liquor. They only drank as much as tended to expel vapours and
enliven conversation, thereby showing themselves to be real men, whose strength of resolution enabled them to stop at any assigned point in the path of enjoyment. But we must confess that, although the ladies only tasted a little for the sake of complaisance, yet the gentlemen used a sufficiency of the cordial fluid to render their situation comfortable, and their conversation free. It was now that Gilbert communicated to Charles the history of his life from his leaving his native country till the present time, excepting that passage which related to Maria's birth. He explained, at the same time, in his own homely language, the feelings that the passing events had excited in his mind. In return, Charles detailed to him the history of the expedition that he had lately commanded, its unfortunate result, and his own adventures with, and providential deliverance from the Indians. Maria listened to his recital with great interest, and seemed to be particularly affected with his hair breadth escape. She hung upon his story with fervid and enthusiastic intensity, and when he had finished she could not help exclaiming---
"Happy, happy Tonnaleuka, who has had it in his power to do so much good!"
"Heaven bless ye, my bairn," said Gilbert, "for that gude-hearted sayin'. Oh! Mr. Adderly! gin Tonnaleuka could only teach the Indians humanity to their prisoners, I think he wad be amaist as great an' usefu' a man as Moses, wha taucht the Jews the sixth commandment, "Thou shalt not kill!" Gin the savages only knew that commandment, and feared to break it, I'm thinkin' I micht soon hae white neighboors plenty roon me, and may be some Irish families---an' its no' likely that Nelly an' I wad then break oor hearts sae muckle aboot Maughrygowan."
"Alack!" cried Nelly, "bonny Maughrygowan
will ne'er be oot o' my head gin a' the Irish in America were to settle beside us. Its bonny green meadows, an' its hawthorn hedges, wi' their sweet smelling blossoms, an' its saft dimplin' burns, wi' the yellow primroses an' speckled daisies on their banks, an' the sweet pretty larks an' the thrushes, an' the lads an' the lasses, an' the sports o' a simmer evening, an' the jokes an' mirth o' a lang winter's nicht---ah! I canna think o' them withoot a sair heart---for---for I'll ne'er see them again!"
Here Nelly's heart filled, and she was wiping away a tear that annoyed her, when Gilbert addressed her---
"Dinna fret---dinna fret, Nelly, at misfortunes. It micht hae been waur wi' us---God didna forsake us a' thegither. We are aye leevin' examples o' his gudeness, an' hae oor weans aboot us. We hae mony comforts. Nelly, gin we should ne'er see Ireland again. Dinna think think o't noo---it maks ye greeve owre muckle."
"Ah! ye may bid me no grieve, gin ye like," replied Nelly--- "but dinna Gilbert, dinna bid me no think o't, for I canna obey ye in that. I maun aye think o't, though my heart should bleed for't--- though it should break for't, as it's sometimes like to do. It would noo please me, Gilbert, to hear Maria sing the sang she learned frae ye, an' which ye're sae fond to hear yeresel, that was made by Tam Beggs, oor neighboor on the Juniata, whom the savages burned on that awfu' day at Catanyan. He made it on leavin' Larne, an' I ne'er hear it but it does my heart gude, its sae melancholy, an' it shews that there were ither folk that grieved for ither places as muckle as I do for Maughrygowan. An' Maria aye sings it so sweetly, that it makes my heart baith pleased and sorrowfu'. Ah! it's a warm-hearted, comforting sang!"
"Weel, Nelly," observed Gilbert, "if it will
comfort ye ony thing, an' Mr. Adderly has nae objection, I'm sure Maria will please ye. That sang aye pleases me, though it aye mak's me mournfu'."
Charles signified his desire to hear the song, and Maria, knowing that it would yield satisfaction to both her father and mother, required no further solicitation, but sang as follows, with a voice, every tone of which thrilled through Charles' heart, and awakened all his feelings of sympathy, tenderness, and admiration.
The Haunts of Larne.
Oft as I think on other days,
When with a blithe light heart I rov'd,
Those haunts which lovely Larne surveys,
Where first I felt, and first I lov'd;
What sorrows pierce my bosom's core,
Since I must sigh,
Farewell to joy! Ah! lovely Larne! must I ne'er see, ne'er see thee more?
By Curran's shore I often stray'd,
And scenes of purest rapture knew,
When there I met the sweetest maid
That ever blest a lover's view;
But ah! these joyful scenes are o'er,
And I must sigh,
Farewell to joy! Ah! lovely Larne! must I ne'er see, ne'er see thee more?
By Inver's banks, so green and gay,
I join'd each little warbler's song,
And tun'd to love the blithesome lay,
The fragrant hawthorn shades among.
Fate ne'er can scenes like these restore,
For I must sigh,
Farewell to joy! Ah! lovely Larne! must I ne'er see, ne'er see thee more?
Oh! mem'ry, cease! it gives me pain
Such recollections dear to wake;
Yet I will think them o'er again,
Although my tortur'd heart should break.
Yes; still I'll think, and still deplore,
How I must sigh,
Farewell to joy! Ah! lovely Larne! must I ne'er see, ne'er see thee more?
When Maria had done singing, so deep was the impression which her melodious voice and affecting manner had made upon her auditors, that they all, for a minute or two, sat silent, as if for the purpose of prolonging that luxury of sorrow which she had thus so strongly excited in their bosoms. At length Nelly, whose feelings had become so acute as evidently to require relief from weeping, retired, that she might indulge her grief more privately. Her daughters withdrew also, and as Charles arose to bid them good-night, he was irresistibly impelled to say to Maria. "This has been my happiest night. I shall never, never forget it!" He then checked himself as if he felt that he had taken too much freedom, and resumed his seat considerably embarrassed, with his eyes fixed steadily upon the door through which she had passed, as if still beholding the lovely image that had there left them.
His meditations were soon interrupted by Gilbert exclaiming, "Poor Tam Beggs! his story was a mournfu' yen! But grievin's a folly, an' we maun e'en just tak' the warl' as it comes---the sweet wi' the soor. I yence ran through the gauntlet wi' the savages mysel'. That was na to be sure sae bad as being burnt. But there's na gude in complainin'--- what's gane past is done, an' canna be help't. We'll e'en, Mr. Adderly, talk o' something else, an' no' torment oorsel's this way wi' sorrow. Ye hae na seen my son Paddy yet. I christened him for oor auld Irish saint---he's a through-gaun chap--- winna min' the farm, an's awee owre fand o' the drap by times. Ye hae na seen him yet, Mr. Adderly?"
"No," replied Charles, who had by this time thrown off his reverie, "no---but I have understood that you had a son of that name."
"Ay; but he's a quite different chap frae Archy.
He's a smart fellow, sir, an' a wee crafty in his disposition, that is, when he's dealin' wi' the Indians. I'm no' pleased at it, for I dinna like them cunning tricks, it's so much like cheatery. Though Paddy winna cheat either, I'll no say that o' him---but he'll no' gie the Indians fair play an' he can help it. He palms on them shells, an' beads, an' brass rings, an' ither things, no' worth a button, for whilk they sometimes gie him hale back-burdens o' skins o' musk-rat, an' beaver, an' buffalo, that he sells to the traders comin' doon the river for fifty times as muckle as they cost him I canna think it a' thegither fair---forbye I canna see the gude o' him tradin' this way. I'm sure that a' the skins an' trumpery he has gathered thegither this six year past wouldna get us a comfortable dinner in thir woods. I kenna what they're gude for here, but to look at."
"Father," observed Archy, who had just come in from disposing of the cattle for the night, as Gilbert commenced this complimentary picture of Paddy's character and employment, "father, I maun say you speak owre hard o' Paddy. He disna cheat the Indians half so muckle as some o' the ither traders. They aye say he deals fair, though he maks hard bargains; but the men that come doon the river often cheat them ootricht. The gentleman maunna think Paddy sae bad as ye ca' him."
"I hae na ca'd him a downricht cheat, Archy, I canna think that badly o' him; but I think it wad be a mair honest employment, forbye being mair usefu', to stick by the lan', an' help us to raise something that we can eat an' wear; for, atweel, I can see nae gude in them wild beast's skins, an' bits o' glass, an' auld brass rings that he's so fand o'. They can neither be made into cakes nor puddin', Archy; an' as to wearin' them---troth, a
coat o' the coarest sacking that was ever made into a beggar-man's poke, wad be mair comfortable."
"I perceive," said Charles, "that it is not with your approbation that your son has devoted himself to traffic rather than agriculture. But you seem to get on with the latter tolerably well without him; and, perhaps, the furs you speak of him having amassed, may yet turn out much to his benefit. They are very valuable in the eastern cities. As to his obtaining them for articles of such little real value, if the Indians attach an imaginary importance to these articles, they have a right to please themselves, as much as the white people have to attach a value to gold and silver, which are in themselves as intrinsically useless for either sustenance or apparel, as any of the trinkets you mention. Your son cannot be said, at least in the common meaning of the word, to cheat the Indians, when he makes them such a return for their goods as renders them content to part with them."
"It may be sae," replied Gilbert, "I dinna dive sae deeply into sitch arguments as to ken a' aboot them; but I aye think, that Paddy wad hae mair ease o' min', an' lieve happier, helpin' us here on the farm, than in rinnin' after the tails o' the savages to spy farlies, or to catch a chance o' a bargain. Forbye, I'm awee flyed that he may sometime or ither fa' in wi' some slut o' a squaw, an' turn Indian himsel!"
"For aught I know," observed Charles, "there may be some danger in that respect, especially as he never sees any other females except those of his own family. A trip to the eastward might remove this danger."
"I hae aften thought sae," returned Gilbert; "an' sometimes whan I think o' my twa boys, I canna help comparin' mysel to auld Isaac, wi' his Esau and his Jacob. The auldest is the Esau, an'
the youngest is the Jacob; the yen wilfu' an' stubborn, an' the ither obedient an' gude-natured; an' wi' respect to baith, I aften feel as if I could apply to mysel' the words o' Rebekah: `I am weary of my life because of the daughters of Heth: if Jacob take a wife of the daughters of Heth, such as these which are the daughters of the land, what good shall my life do me?"'
"An' what wad ye hae yen to do," said Archy, who felt himself interested in the cause of his father's uneasiness. "What wad ye hae yen to do, whar' there are na ither women to be had? Ye wad na surely ask yen to leeve a' his days withoot a wife?"
"It's a hard matter, I acknowledge," said his father; "an' gin I could spare ye, Archy, I wad send ye, wi' my blessing, owre the mountains eastward, as Isaac did Jacob, to get a wife amang the daughters o' yere ain kind."
"But wad it no' be neest thing to impossible," said Archy, "to coax ony o' them white lasses at the ither side o' the mountains, to come back here to lieve in thir savage woods? An' ye ken, father, ye wad na be pleased gin I staid awa frae ye a' the gither. Trouth, I canna' tell weel hoo ye could work the lan', and mind things right withoot me, noo when ye're getting auld, an' hae sae muckle mair cleared than ye had no mony years ago. I think, Mr. Adderly," said he, turning to Charles, "that it wad be better for the auld man that I should bide wi' him, an' gin I should tak' a fancy to marry, to tak' a squaw, than gang twa or three hundred miles owre the Alleghany mountains, for a wife, or else ha nane ava. Want, ye ken, is an unco bare word, sir."
Charles acknowledged that the dilemma was rather of a perplexing nature. All he could counsel him to, was to stay with his father, and have
patience; as fortune, by some unforeseen occurrence, might throw a white woman in his way; in which case, if he were too hastily to unite himself with a squaw, he might feel inclined to regret his precipitancy.
"Oh! sir," said Archy, "I'm na just yet sae madrife for a wife as that comes to. I'm no' just gaun to marry the first Indian woman I meet wi'. I'm thinking that I'll gie fortune the opportunity o' half a dozen o' years yet to bring me a white wife; after that, I think the auld man canna say muckle gin I should bring a red daughter-in-law ben the hoose to him."
"Guid forbid! Guid forbid! ye should do sae, Archy!" exclaimed Gilbert, shaking his hand, "But we'll no' talk mair aboot it noo. Gin ye only keep your word, an' gie us six years to come an' go on, I doot na but Providence will consider your case, and provide some yen for you that we may a' like, before that time. But as to Paddy, I dinna ken but it wad be wiser in me.---"
Here Gilbert was interrupted by the door opening without ceremony, and Paddy himself entered, and Gilbert, in a kind of continuation of his discourse, addressed him; "An' there ye are, my lad. We were just talking o' ye, an' I was telling this frien' o' mine.---Paddy, ye maun ken that's a frien' o' mine, a sin o' my auld acquaintance, Thamas Adderly, the young squire o' Maughrygown. Ye didna ken the squire, Paddy, but your mither kenned them a' weel; an' sair she grat this vera nicht wi' joy to see the sin o' her auld frien' un'er her roof in this wild wilderness."
Paddy had by this time approached Charles, and cordially shaked him by the hand, expressing great pleasure to see him here so far safe from the savages.
This young man was rather below the middle size, and of a slender, but very firm make, indicating great agility and endurance of fatigue, rather than muscular strength. He was not, however, deficient in the latter respect, his want of sufficient weight alone preventing him from being remarkably powerful. His countenance was keen, smart, and intelligent; expressive, however, of ingenuity rather than deep thought, and of cunning rather than caution. He was slightly pockpitted, and so much sun-burnt as to be almost of that Indian hue which he sometimes affected, when he wished to flatter the native tribes. He also often dressed in their fashion, and, on such occasions, as he had learned several of their languages, and spoke them fluently, he could not easily be distinguished from any of his red brethren. He had been present, as a spectator, at the Chippeway council, which had so nearly sacrificed Charles, in his Indian costume, on which account, as his dress was now more of a European than of an Indian fashion, he was not recognised by Charles, who had not, indeed, paid much attention on that occasion, to the appearance of the individuals forming the mass of the assembly. He was at this time attired in a rudely formed white flannel jacket, or rather long vest, with sleeves attached to it, being put on in the manner of a shirt, with that part of the front, usually permitted to open, tied with tapes. A pair of long canvas drawers came up to his waist, round which, outside of his vest or shirt, they were bound with leathern thongs, instead of buttons, and kept in their place by a broad leathern strap carried over each shoulder in a crossing direction, like modern suspenders. The common Indian gaiters, and moccasins of half tanned deer skin, and a bear skin cap, constituted the residue of his dress, which, from its lightness and freedom from every kind of incumbrance upon
his motions, was well adapted to the full exercise of that swiftness and dexterity in scouring the woods, for which habit, and a healthy, sinewy, and buoyant frame, had rendered him remarkable, even among the wild sons of the forest.
When he first entered the room he had a musket in his hand, and a long knife of the dagger form, for bleeding any animal he might shoot on his excursions, in a leathern sheath at his left side, which sheath was suspended from a belt that crossed his right shoulder. On perceiving Charles, without paying any attention whatever to the address of his father, before given, he hastily deposited his gun in a corner of the room, and, with an air of recognition, saluted him with the cordial expression of satisfaction for his safety, we have mentioned, adding, at the same time, "But I am sorry that you have met with so rude and uncivil a reception in our country."
"In that respect," replied Charles, "it is a question whether I ought to complain or rejoice; for, since coming to your Wilderness, I have met with the extremes both of kindness and hatred---happiness and misery."
"Then you have met with all that life can give you, since you came among us," observed and who [sic] "But I think you have purchased your pleasure, whatever it may have been, dear, by the sufferings you have paid for it."
"But I, perhaps, enjoy it the more sensibly on that account," returned Charles; "and I do not know if I can grudge the personal hardships and trials I have sustained from the Indians, since they have been the means of procuring me the happiness your father's house has this night afforded me."
"It was but a sma' thing we could do to make you comfortable," said Gilbert. "Could we do mair, I wad be glad o't; for the very sicht o' ye, sae
Christianlike, sae like oorsel's, and o' oor ain kind, has made us a' blither an' happier nor we hae been for mony a year."
"Mr. Adderly," observed Paddy, "you have gained one friend by your misfortunes, for whom it was, indeed, worth while to endure something--- I mean Tonnaleuka---although, I confess, I should be very loth to undergo what you did even for such an acquisition."
"To have acquired the esteem and friendship of that good and wonderful man," replied Charles, "might itself have been sufficient remuneration for my sufferings; but Providence has added to this satisfaction others that"---(here he checked himself, and hesitated for a moment; then continued) "that providence has shown me in this house to-night, that virtue can secure to herself happiness, even in a `Wilderness,' amidst savages; and henceforth I resolve to keep in her paths, so far as I know them in despite of all temptations to the contrary. Is not the arriving at such a result worth all I have endured?"
I have no means of exactly comparing the benefits such a resolution with the evils you have undergone," observed Paddy; "for I do not understand matter sufficiently. But this I know, that yesterday saw you in a predicament, to get out of which I would have thought you excusable in committing any sin, although I confess I was better pleased to see you escape by a miracle; and I only wish that in every scrape of the kind you may fall into, you may be so fortunate. To be sure, you have a watchful and powerful friend in Tonnaleuka. If any man can protect you from Indian violence, it is he. But he cannot do every thing; and, to be plain with you, for it is only this very day that he desired me to be so, there are trap-doors of destruction into which you may yet fall, if you be not
circumspect. Your arch-enemy, Carrawoona, is intractable. He has vowed either to sacrifice himself or you, and is, at the present time, ranging the woods, like a wild and infuriated animal, in search of you. You are safe here, in the mean while, however; and I have reason to believe that the prophet will manage matters so, that the implacable savage will take the wrong direction in pursuit of you."
"Surely," observed Charles, "I need not be under much apprehension from the hostility of a single man. His tribe relinquished their claim upon me, and he will scarcely dare to destroy what it was their pleasure to spare."
"He has sworn your destruction," said Paddy, "and his tribe have abandoned any further concern in the business. The contest is now between you and him, and God grant the right side to be successful, say I, which is a wish altogether at your service."
"With arms in my hand, and a watchful eye in my head, I think," said Charles, "if the contest be only between him and me, I have nothing to fear. He cannot be more terrible in fight than his son."
"He is not, perhaps, more terrible," rejoined Paddy, "but he is more treacherous; and who knows but he may seduce some of the haters of the white men (for there are many of them in this country) to join his cause. He would have had half a dozen after you from Shanapins-town, but for the timely interference of Tonnaleuka, who represented to the warriors that you were under the protection of the Great Spirit, who had denounced vengeance against any one who would harm you."
"I fear much," said Charles, "that the prophet's generous zeal in my behalf will excite this rancorous savage to his destruction, which would
be to the world a much greater loss than mine, and a loss that would grieve me more than any evil that can befall myself."
"You have nothing to fear on that point," returned Paddy. "Carrawoona, with all his ferocity, will not dare to harm the prophet. If he did, every Indian arm of man, woman, and child, from the Alleghany mountain to the Mississippi river, would be lifted against him, and his name and memory would be for ever held in abhorrence, as the enemy and destroyer of the prophet of Maneto, their chief deity."
"For myself, then," said Charles, "I will fear nothing. Let the savage do his worst."
"By heavens! sir," said Paddy, who had learned a number of civilized oaths from the white traders he had so frequently dealt with, and with which, when he wished to express himself with more than usual energy, he never failed to garnish his speech; "By heavens! sir, I like your spirit, and shall keep an eye upon Carrawoona myself, if he pursues you to this neighbourhood, where I know every foot of the country a thousand times better than either he or any one of his tribe."
Charles thanked him for his friendly intentions, observing, "With such protectors as you and Tonnaleuka, I do not see why I should apprehend any thing from a savage, whose power, unless I am taken unawares, or unprepared, can do me no injury."
"Paddy! ye please me noo," said Gilbert; "I aye kenned ye had some spunk in ye, though ye never made a gude worker on the lan'. I thought ye were carried awa' owre muckle wi' the Indians, but I see ye hae nature in ye, an' aye like to serve yere ain kind, when the pinch comes. Goth! Archy! you an' I too maun hae an e'e to this matter. We mauna sit still, an' see a
Maughrygown man ill-used amang us. Na, na; fegs! that wadna be natural."
Archy having assented to the propriety of this opinion, and Charles expressed his thanks for their kindness and good-will, Paddy observed that the night was pretty far advanced, and proposed retiring to rest. Gilbert yielded to the proposal, although, he said, he would hae been glad to hae cracked an 'oor or twa langer wi' his Maughrygowan freen'; but he comforted himself with observing, that it wadna be the last nicht he should share a jug o' punch wi' him.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom ringing!
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
Burns.
Although Charles's frame had need enough of repose, his mind had too many objects of contemplation to dwell upon after he had retired for the night, to permit him for a long time to enjoy it. There was one object, in particular, that soon swallowed up the rest, and engrossed every faculty of his mind, and every feeling of his heart, so entirely that he neither thought, nor wished to think, of any other. What was this object? Was it the sudden and enthusiastic friendship of his good host and hostess, and the singular and unexpected state of domestic comfort in which he found them? No. Was it the extraordinary and almost super-human character and conduct of the benevolent Tonnalenka? No. Was it his own miraculous deliverance from an apparently inevitable fate? No. Was it the unfortunate issue of the expedition he had commanded? No. Was it the persecution and perils he was likely to sustain from the inveterate malignancy of Carrawoona? No. It was something that had a more immediate, more uncontrollable influence over his thoughts and feelings than all these put together: the sagacious reader will, no doubt, have anticipated me in saying, that
the loveliness of Maria Frazier was this object. Not her personal beauty, which he thought he had never seen equalled; not the sweet intonation, enchanting melody, and almost overpowering pathos of her voice and manner, when she sung; not the interesting manifestations of feeling and embarrassment in her first reception of him; not the wisdom, propriety, and refinement of her whole deportment and conversation; not the kind and generous disposition displayed in her defence of her sister; not one of these, perhaps, singly and by itself, would have been capable of producing the intense impression that was now made by her image upon his feelings, and to the influence of which, as he lay meditating upon her, he totally resigned his whole faculties. It was the happy union of all these excellences, which he perceived so strikingly combined in one captivating individual, and that too in a Wilderness, amidst savages, where, of all places in the world, he least expected to meet with such a being, that now overpowered and absorbed his whole fancy, feelings, and reflections, his whole desire, his whole heart and soul---in short, that had thrown him desperately and incurably into love, as fervent and rapturous as ever man felt.
It was to the enchantment of this wonderful, this all-subduing passion, that his mind alluded, but which his words dared not express, when he informed Paddy that he had experienced a happiness since he arrived in the "Wilderness," sufficiently remunerative of all the evils he had undergone; and he now blessed that Providence which had conducted his steps, even though it had been through danger and bloodshed, to the abode of so much beauty and excellence.
"With such a woman for my wife, my life would, indeed, be one of happiness; but without
her, alas! it must be one of misery!" he would frequently say to himself during this night's meditations. The difficulty of obtaining her would, it is true, sometimes occur to him, and torment him. His father might forbid, or she herself might resist his addresses. But he was young and sanguine, and could not but believe that he had some grounds on which to hope for success. With respect to his father, the only objection could be her want of fortune. But, did he not himself choose a wife without regard to fortune? It would, therefore, be with a very bad grace that he should condemn him for following his example. His example, however, he was determined to follow, provided he could only obtain the fair one's consent. Of this, although he might have hopes, he could have no certainty. It was not indeed probable that her affections could be engaged. She was yet very young, and, except the Indian traders, to none of whom it was likely that she could become attached, there was no white man, he had reason to presume, had ever seen, much less solicited this captivating daughter of the Wilderness.
"Shall I declare myself?" thought he. "Shall I tell her how much I love her! how I cannot be happy without her? Shall I do so to-morrow? Ah! I fear it would be imprudent. I am yet too much a stranger to her. Such precipitancy might alarm her delicacy, and rouse her pride to oppose me. I must act with caution, if I mean to gain such excellence. Her understanding must be convinced, that I am not unworthy of her. Oh! if I could only gain some interest in her heart. But time, and time only, can effect these things. I must have patience! I wish Tonnaleuka were here. I will tell him how I feel. His wisdom will advise me how to act; and perhaps his friendship may successfully plead for me, if my own suit be
rejected; for she reveres him as a father, and will attend to his counsel. I will wait the coming of Tonnaleuka."
With this resolution, whether wise or foolish the reader may decide, formed in his mind, after about three hours active meditation, Charles at last resigned himself to sleep, in which he spent about three hours more, very deliciously dreaming of Maria, love, and happiness.
Some of our sympathizing readers will, perhaps, wish to know how Maria felt on this eventful night, towards by far the most interesting young man she had ever seen, and upon whose heart her charms had made such an indelible impression. But as I never considered it proper to inquire minutely into the feelings of young ladies on such occasions, I cannot give the exact chain of thoughts that passed through her mind, although I have ascertained that their tenor was even something more than favourable towards Charles.
"And was it this noble youth," she would say to herself, "that the hard-hearted savages were about committing to the flames? Oh, happy Tonnaleuka! I shall love you, I shall revere you more than I ever yet did, since you were the blessed instrument, in the hands of God, to save him. Oh! may heaven still grant him protection from that barbarous enemy, who seeks his destruction!--- Ah! if he were destroyed now, in the bloom and fervour of youth, what an ornament to his species would be cut off from the world!"
But, as I have already said, I know not the exact chain of Maria's reflections on this occasion, I shall not, therefore, follow them further. I have given a few of them only, to show the temper and feeling with which they were conceived, not the form or manner in which they arose. But I have another view in refraining to detail Maria's thoughts on
the first night that she beheld her lover, even if I could do it in a regular and connected series, which is, my wish to acquire the reader's favour, by leaving him something on which to exercise his own imagination.
The whole of the ensuing day was spent by Charles Adderly, in the manner of all others the most delightful to a youthful lover, in looking at and listening to the mistress of his heart. It was a day altogether unchequered by any incident of importance enough to claim a place in this narrative. It passed on in the calm enjoyment of domestic and social happiness; or, if it be thought that the happiness derived by Charles from the presence of his Maria, was something different, perhaps superior, to this, then the appellation of enamoured felicity may suit it better. In beholding and conversing with Maria, the world and all its concerns were forgotten, or only so far remembered as to occasion a comparison which added a higher relish to his present happiness. If, during the preceding evening, the chains of love were prepared and thrown around his heart, they were now riveted there, never to be taken off; and so delighted was he with these chains, that he would not have exchanged them for king George's crown. Although he was afraid to excite her displeasure by a premature disclosure of his feelings, and had also resolved to consult Tonnaleuka, whom he knew to be her friend, on the subject, before he disclosed them, yet, during this day, several tempting occasions offered, when, forgetting his resolution, he, by the warmth and energy of his expressions and manner, permitted the state of his mind to be almost as well known to her, as if he had made a formal declaration.
Towards the after part of the following day, however, as he walked along the bank of the river
in company with his beloved and her sister, his feelings so plainly betrayed themselves, as to leave Maria no room to doubt concerning them. It was a beautiful afternoon, in that most delightful of all seasons on the American continent, characteristically called the "Indian Summer." The atmosphere was in a sweet, mellow temperature, equally free from summer's heat and winter's cold. A soft, waving species of fog encircled the brows of the hills and the tops of the trees, but in such a manner as rather to enliven than conceal them, and to throw over them an air of romantic wildness and grandeur. The trees of the forest were indeed in the season of decay, and shedding their wasted verdure profusely around them, allowing it to be scattered abroad, and to cover every path, and all the surface of the ground, with a variegated bed of red, brown, and yellow leaves, which moved to and fro, and sparkled to the view, with every impulse of the passing wind. Yet, in this very decay, there was a serene and composing influence, which, while it reminded the spectator of nature's great and awful change, at the same time assured him of a prosperous and happy renovation of his original and uncorrupted condition.
"Is it not strange," said Charles, "that this decay, this disorder of nature, which we now behold, and which reminds us so forcibly of the great change we must all undergo, should, instead of inspiring us with melancholy and desponding ideas, animate us with feelings of the most welcome and agreeable description, and produce a contentment and cordiality of existence, which neither the freshness of spring nor the bloom of summer can effect?"
"Tonnaleuka has often explained to me," replied Maria, "the source whence the feelings we derive from external nature arise. But in the
civilized world, you must have had opportunities of becoming better acquainted with these things than a child of the forest. It would, therefore, be presumption in me to offer you Tonnaleuka's explanation of the feelings you mention."
"In the civilized world, as you are pleased to call it," said Charles, "there are many appearances of nature which cannot be studied so well as in the desert; and such of the sons of the forest as have inquiring minds, frequently discover truths for which the drudges of science often search in vain. I doubt not, but the most learned of our philosophers would find Tonnaleuka capable of teaching them many things, especially on abstract and metaphysical subjects, which require not the proof of experiment, but only the suggestions of nature, for their elucidation. As for myself, I will always be proud to learn from Tonnaleuka, and always delighted, ah! more than delighted, to receive his lessons from you."
"It may be so, sir," replied Maria; "since you say it, I must believe it. But in this instance, as I am convinced you will be more benefited by getting your lesson from its original source, I will not deprive you of that benefit, by communicating it at second hand."
"Forgive me, Maria," said Charles, somewhat startled at this reply, "if my asserting the truth has given offence. Believe me, I spoke seriously, and not with the least view to compliment, when I mentioned the delight your communicating Tonnaleuka's doctrines would give me."
"You mistake me, sir," replied Maria; "you have given no offence. But do you suppose I shall be so presumptuous as to turn your instructor? What a reflection it would be upon the learned professors of Dublin college, if a simple girl, born and bred in the wilds of America, should
be found teaching a pupil upon whom they, no doubt, expended all their lore!"
"I beg you, for mercy," said Charles, "be not so severe with me. What those men taught me, might be of service to me in the ranks of society; but here, I acknowledge---here, in the midst of sublime and beautiful nature, it sinks into insignificance;--- and here, heaven knows, I feel happier, and would be more content to spend my whole life as I now do, than in the midst and in possession of all the pleasures and all the honours that society could afford me."
"Sir," said Maria, "I believe all you say; for even in these wilds, I have learned that it is uncivil to disbelieve any one. But I may venture to express my surprise, that the social life should be so very disagreeable as to induce you to give these barbarous woods such a vast preference. Neither Tonnaleuka, who for several years lived in society, nor my father, nor my mother, who were bred up in it, and who have this many a year fretted almost to broken-heartedness to return to it, have ever described it to me as so very disagreeable and hateful as your language would infer."
"I mean not to say," replied Charles, "that society is destitute of its charms and enjoyments. It has many, and those too, powerfully alluring. But to me, all its charms are inferior to the charms I have here beheld---all its enjoyments are insipid, to those I have, within these last two days, experienced. Ah, Maria! I do not undervalue the joys of society---but I value more highly, because I feel far more acutely, those I have felt here!"
"I am glad that Mr. Adderly is so happy with us," observed Nancy; "but I cannot guess what has made him so. It surely cannot be the bonny blue mist that's now around us, curling over the
tops of the trees like smoke rising from the burning of brushwood."
"No," said Maria, smiling, "I think not; neitheir our fogs, nor our withered leaves, nor any other feature of our landscape, nor yet the gentle reception that our native tribes have given him, could have been the strangely attractive cause that has bound his fancy so strongly to these uncultured wilds. I rather imagine that Mr. Adderly is subject to a certain complaint, with which I have heard Tonnaleuka say that young travellers and young poets were often afflicted. He called it the hyperbole, which, he said, in English means `overstraining.' Not, Mr. Adderly," said Maria, somewhat raising her voice, to check an effort which Charles was here making to speak, at the same time sweetly smiling in his face, so as to keep him in good humour; "not, Mr. Adderly, that you have wilfully, or even knowingly, fallen into this disease. Your judgment and your candour, I believe, are sound; but your imagination--- I beg your pardon, sir, I say nothing about it."
"Ah! tantalizing girl!" said he, not knowing whether he ought to be pleased or displeased with her observations; "tell me whether you really think me mad, for you half seem to do so---or are you only bentering me?"
"Think you mad!" repeated Maria---"Why, I admit it is likely enough. But then, if you were mad, it might be dangerous to tell you so, and still more dangerous to banter you. No, no; I shall never banter a madman, unless I first become mad myself. But, in sober earnestness, sir, I do not think you mad---I only think you wild. But, perhaps it is customary for you civilized gentlemen to be so."
"I beg a truce," cried Charles; "for really if I have offended by expressing the sense I have of
my present happiness, I have surely been chastised enough. But no," he added; "even this chastisement is happiness."
"What," said Maria, "Hyperbole again! But I see you are incurable, sir. I will have done with you, and leave you to your malady. So let us return home, if you please."
They according turned towards the house, when Nancy observing some cattle at a short distance in the woods, which she wished to drive homewards, ran after them, and left Charles alone with his beloved.
"Alas! Maria," said he, as soon as their companion was out of hearing, "the true cause of my happiness here---oh! would to heaven that you knew it, and approved of it!"
"Mr. Adderly," she replied, in a tone and manner which had become suddenly serious and embarrassed, "what, what good would my knowledge of that circumstance do you? If it will do you good, let me hear it, for I will rejoice to serve you. But if you are happy, as you say, already, is it not enough? Be content and continue so.--- My knowledge of your concerns, or my interference with them, can surely, for my power is exceedingly limited, do you no good."
"Yes---you---my Maria!" he cried, rather instinctively than rationally---"you alone, of all the world, have the greatest control over my fate--- you alone have---"
"Sir," said she, interrupting him, "this is mysterious language. How I can in any manner control your fate, I do not understand, nor do I wish, at the present time to be informed. Mysteries and secrets have never been pleasing to me, and to become acquainted with yours now, is what I will not, with my own consent. I am persuaded that while it might do me harm, it could do you
no good; and now, when I think of it properly, I desire you to let me remain in ignorance concerning your affairs."
"Ah! Maria," said he, "why put this cruel injunction upon me. But it is your wish, and I shall obey it."
They here walked for sometime in silence, during which, Charles's manner betrayed great agitation. Maria afraid that this might continue after their arrival at the house, and be observed by some of the family, stopped at a short distance from it, and said---
"Mr. Adderly, I wish what has occurred between us this evening, not to alter our bearing towards each other, nor to interrupt whatever degree of friendship may have existed between us. I assure you I have not changed my opinion of you, be that opinion what it might, nor will I change my manners towards you, unless a change becomes perceptible on your part."
"Maria! Maria!" said Charles, looking seriously and affectingly at her, while he laid his hand upon his heart, "I here seriously promise, that whatever may be your wishes, only let me know them, and I shall obey them---for obedience to you is, and ever shall be, my chief happiness."
Maria blushed deeply, for she could not now avoid comprehending his meaning, but she said nothing, and continuing their walk, they soon arrived at the house.
She felt his flame, but deep within her breast
In bashful coyness, or in maiden pride
The soft return conceal'd; save when it stole
In side-long glances from her downcast eye,
Or from her swelling soul in stifl'd sighs.
Touch'd by the scene, no stranger to his vows,
He fram'd a melting lay to try her heart;
And if an infant passion struggl'd there,
To call that passion forth.
Thrice happy swain!
A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate
Of mighty monarchs, then decided thine.
Thomson.
The day after the preceding interview, Tonnaleuka visited Gilbert's residence. Taking Charles aside, he informed him of various unsuccessful attempts that Carrawoona had made to engage the neighbouring Indians to assist in pursuing him.--- "But," said he, "my son, although he is not likely to obtain auxiliaries in this vicinity, yet he may obtain them elsewhere. Besides, without any auxiliary, his own personal exertions, his cunning, ferocity, perseverence, and intrepidity, are formidable perils to encounter. There will be no end to his attempts against you, while you remain in this country. Alas! my son, while here, you are not for a single day assured of your life. You know not how soon, from some unsuspected ambush, the treacherous savage may discharge the bolt of your destruction. Then, hear my advice--- Fix an early day for your departure. Our brother Frazier will furnish you with a horse and provisions, and I will procure you a guide. My son, I wish you were safe with your friends in the east, for I fear much for you here."
"My father, and my deliverer," said Charles, "I know you wish your son to be happy---Ah! if you wish him to be so, do not bid him so soon leave this place. When I last saw you, father, I wished for nothing more ardently than to get out of this Wilderness. Now I dread, I tremble, to leave it, for in leaving it, under present circumstances, I shall separate from happiness and, perhaps, bid adieu to it for ever. Oh, Father! forgive the weakness of your son. I will reveal to you my heart. I want a confidant and an adviser, and where can I find a better than you? You whose friendship will sympathize with me, and whose wisdom will direct me. Father, my heart is bound to this place, for it loves, fervently, and unalterably loves, the fairest, the sweetest maiden that ever charmed the affections of man.---Ah! need I tell you, when I say so, that it is Maria, the daughter of our kind host, to whom I am become so attached---so devoted, that without her, or without hopes of her, I know not how I shall support life."
"My son," said Tonnaleuka, "you have made me your confidant---I will endeavour to be a true one---you have told me your weakness---I will not blame you for it, nor coldly exhort you against encouraging it---for I am not ignorant of what love is, and therefore know that it would be fruitless. Advice to a lover is like the wind to the burning forest, instead of cooling and diminishing the fury of the flame, it aggravates and increases it beyond the power of control. But my son, I will say that I grieve for you---your passion is, at present, extremely inconvenient, it is unfortunate---it may interfere with your safety---for if it will not permit you to leave this country, you are sooner or later likely to fall by the revenge of Carrawoona. My
son, may I ask if the maiden knows that you love her?"
"Alas! Father," replied Charles---"she has not permitted me to make the declaration. But I believe she suspects, ah! she cannot but suspect how I feel!"
"Hear me---my son," said Tonnaleuka. "The maiden you love is the child of my instruction, and as dear to me as if she were the offspring of my loins. Her peace of mind, therefore, and her prosperity are as much the objects of my solicitude as yours can be. Your attentions may have made an impression upon her mind, even at present unknown to herself, which may, in the end, be ruinous to her peace---for, alas! the female mind is too susceptible of such impressions. I shall try by studying her attentively while I talk to her about you, to discover the state of her feelings; and if she be undisturbed, if she be cool, if she be indifferent towards you, hear me, my son, nor consider it unkindness if I say, that I shall then require you, for her sake, to relinquish all pretensions to her, and, if possible, for your own sake, to abandon all thoughts of her. For I will not sanction any measure that will tend to interrupt the even and smooth tranquillity which has hitherto occupied her unruffled mind."
"Ah! Father! will you be---"
"Hear me, further---son, do not interrupt me; I have not yet done. If an impression has been made on Maria's mind; if I find that your attachment is likely to be mutual, I will then advise you to declare it. I will encourage you to persevere, and use any influence I may have over her in promoting your success. My son, you may now speak."
"Father---by what you have said, you have bid me despair. I hoped for your interference in my
behalf, but, alas! I now expect none. You will not befriend me, nay, you will oppose my efforts to gain her favour, unless you discover that I already enjoy it! Father, you may save yourself the trouble of making the inquiry, for I know I do not enjoy it. She has forbidden me to speak to her the feelings of my heart; and, alas! I have no friend who will prevail on her to withdraw that prohibition. Oh! if I had only permission to plead my cause, permission to tell her how much she causes me to suffer, I know she would pity me---she is too kind-hearted to be aware of my sorrows, and not bid me be comforted."
"My son," replied Tonnaleuka, "I really feel for you---I grieve for you. But if Maria cannot love you, grief is all I can give you; for never will I assist in either constraining, or even in persuading her to join her fate with one she cannot love. It is my anxiety for her welfare, and not my indifference for yours, that prevents me from interfering with any undue influence in this matter."
"My son, listen to another thing. Have you thought seriously upon what would be the consequence of your suit being successful? You would, no doubt, make her your wife. But your laws require a certain prescribed ceremony to be performed by a privileged person for that purpose.--- Where could such a perspon be found here? Neither she nor you would think of submitting to our Indian form of marriage; and you could not expect that she would leave her father and her mother, and travel with you, for weeks together through a howling wilderness, in search of a priest to tie the nuptial knot! No---my son, you cannot expect this---for you must see it could not be done. Why, therefore, disturb the mind of an innocent and hitherto happy young woman, by exciting her affections and securing her love, when to gain the
object for which these are done, is, under present circumstances, so utterly impracticable? No, my son, you will be wise, you will be generous; and if you really love this young woman, you will permit her to remain happy as you found her; and not, by indulging in the pursuit of a wild and visionary, and, you may now perceive, unattainable object, plunge both her and yourself into perhaps a series of misfortunes, the extent of which can neither be foreseen nor calculated."
"Oh! Father! bear with me yet!" replied Charles. "Surely to procure a lawful person to unite our hands, if our hearts were once united, would not be so difficult a matter as you suppose. Oh! let me only be sure of an interest in her heart---let me but have her consent to join me in wedlock, and I will soon hasten through the desert, and bring from the habitations of christians a clergyman to perform the ceremony."
"My son! hear me again," said Tonnaleuka, "your impetuosity blinds you to obstacles. It is indeed, always the nature of passion, and especially the passion of love, to blind its votaries. The accomplishment of what you propose, may not be absolutely impossible, but an immense majority of chances are against it. My son, let us suppose you have gained the affections of Maria; you are obliged to leave her speedily, or risk falling the victim of Carrawoona. This would render her miserable. Or you get safely out of the Wilderness, and your father opposes your return, unwilling that you should again encounter such hardships and perils as will even make him shudder to hear recited; or he perhaps, compels you to marry some eastern heiress; or, if left to your own inclinations, you may search in vain for a priest to accompany you back to the desert; or distance may cool your affection, and your desire
to return; or---hear me yet---you may meet with some fatal accident on your perilous journey; you may sicken and die. In short, a thousand things may take place to prevent Maria from ever again seeing you. She, in consequence, sinks into an agonizing suspense concerning your fate; she pines under the weight of long continued disappointment, and at length, dies of a broken heart, the victim of disappointed love!
"Listen, my son---is it not my duty to protect her if I can, against such a fate? and Oh! may her great Parent above assist me! Still, my son! hear me. If I find that her heart is already touched, that her affections are already yours---then, as I know she will be unchangeable---as I know that her happiness will then depend on yours---I will bid adieu to caution on the subject; and, as I before said, will be the promoter of your suit. For when two minds are thus mutually attached, the sooner they come to a mutual understanding, they are the sooner relieved from an unnecessary burden of suspense and anxiety."
"Father!" said Charles, "your sentiments may be reasonable; but I do not feel as if I could judge of them properly just now. They sound harsh to me, but you are my deliverer, and I know you are my friend. I will, therefore, think nothing you can say to me harsh. But, Oh! these sentiments promise nothing to my happiness, and I am not now in a fit state of mind, altogether to acquiesce in their propriety. But you need not fear that I will importune Maria with my passion. I shall for ever love her, and none but her. I shall bear in silence the tortures of an unrequited love; for she has commanded me to be silent, and she shall be obeyed. With respect to any danger from Carrawoona, since my life is thus likely to be miserable, it is scarcely worth preserving.
Still it would be criminal to tempt fate; and the sooner I proceed to the eastward, the sooner I shall have it in my power to return with the means of removing at least some of your objections to my suit. As soon, therefore, as the necessary preparations for my journey can be made, I shall bid, but I trust only for a time, farewell to a country, where, in the space of a few weeks, I have felt both more joy, and sorrow, than I ever did during the whole course of my previous existence."
The effects of this conversation upon Charles's mind, were visible during the whole of that day, and Maria could not but observe them. Indeed, her own spirits were not in the most comfortable condition. Tonnaleuka had decided that Charles was only to remain another day with them, and she saw that preparations were now making for his journey.
"But what, thought she, is this affair to me, that I should permit it to affect me so much? This young man is but a stranger to me. 'Tis true he is interesting, brave, and unfortunate, and he has almost said that---that---no I will not presume so---for if he did love me, how imprudent it would be to return or encourage his partiality, when fortune compels us to reside so far asunder? Why should I regret that he must now leave us, when his safety requires it? I will try to be cheerful--- although I see he is not. Unfortunate young man! I really wish his safety permitted him to stay, for some short time, at least. But it does not. He must go and I must not appear to grieve for it. I will keep up my spirits. It might occasion remarks to be made, if I should appear particularly melancholy at this time."
During the whole of that evening, she accordingly did keep up her spirits very successfully,
and so great was the triumph of her resolution over her feelings, that when Tonnaleuka, with the design of discovering how they were affected towards Charles, talked pointedly to her about his leaving them, professing great regret for the necessity that occasioned it, and great admiration for the openness, manliness, and general excellence of his character, she completely succeeded in deceiving him with regard to the state of her affections. She acknowledged that he was a very fine, accomplished young man---but she did so in such a careless manner, that Tonnaleuka supposed she conceived it of no importance whether he was or not. She pitied his misfortunes, and wished him safe at a distance from Carrawoona's vengeance, with so much undisturbed and tranquil sincerity, that Tonnaleuka believed her to be actuated only by the mere charity of her nature, to desire his safety. He gave up his examination, which by the bye, he had commenced just when she was best prepared to meet it, thoroughly convinced, that she felt for Charles no feeling tenderer than might arise from mere benevolence and good nature.
When, however, the morning of that day came, which was to be the last of Charles's abode with them, she felt internally so agitated, that she feared that during its course, if she staid at home, she might betray herself. She thought it prudent, therefore, to spend the day at a distance. After breakfast, she accordingly set off on a visit to Queen Alliquippa, so that Charles, very much to his dissatisfaction and mortification, felt himself compelled to pass this last of his days at her abode, without the satisfaction of seeing her. His chagrin at her absence was the greater, that all the rest of the family paid him more than usual
attention, frequently expressing their regret that it did not suit him to remain longer with them.
"Ah! thought he---is she whose attention I alone cared for, indifferent towards me? She avoids me, she flies from me---perhaps because she knows, for she cannot but know, that she renders me miserable by so doing. Ah! this is indeed refinement in cruelty, and inflicts a torture less tolerable to my soul, and less excusable, than that which Carrawoona himself would inflict upon me. He would only inflict vengeance upon an enemy---but, alas! she entails misery and despair upon a lover. But, heaven forgive me if I accuse her wrongfully! She certainly knows not how much I desire her presence to-day, or she would not so cruelly absent herself, for it is not in her nature to be so cruel."
Thus he reasoned, and thus he fretted, and thus he accused, and thus he acquitted her, until the day had advanced somewhat into the afternoon; when unable longer to bear her absence, especially as he was not sure whether she would return at all before his departure, he resolved to set out for Alliquippa's, and solicit at least a parting interview.
He accordingly, without acquainting any one with his intention, set off in that direction. Fortune sometimes favours lovers even in their most desponding moments, and, on this occasion, she favoured Charles so far as to permit him, when a little more than half way to Alliquippa's residence, to meet his Maria returning homewards alone in the woods.
His heart leaped with joy as he beheld her continuing to advance; for he was afraid, when he first saw her, that she would, in order to avoid him, perhaps return back to the queen's residence. But I may now inform my readers of what Charles
himself was at that time ignorant, that feelings similar to his own actuated the mind of Maria, and were the cause of her now returning so unexpectedly soon from her visit. She thought that it would be carrying her caution with respect to her lover, (for she knew well that Charles was such,) too far, and that it would be acting with too much harshness to both his and her own feelings, (for she too felt a tenderness, or something else for Charles Adderly, which she did not wish to consider love, although it possessed every one of its qualities except the name,) to refuse him an opportunity of bidding that farewell, which, in all probability, was to be both the first and the last he should ever bid her.
"I will, at least, see him once more before he departs," she said to herself; "there can be no harm in that, since we shall bid farewell, it is likely never to meet again."
Charles, in consequence of this charitable resolution of Maria, met her, as we have stated, and met her with feelings such as none but those who have loved can comprehend, and which it would be a folly to describe to those who have not.
"Oh, Maria!" said he, when he approached her, while she blushed in some confusion as she held out her hand to him by way of salutation---"Oh, Maria! how glad I am to meet you! I really feared I should not have seen you to have taken a long, but, I hope, not a last farewell."
"Your not seeing me, Mr. Adderly," said she, "would have been no great disadvantage to you. I believe it would not have added one particle to either the length, wildness, or difficulty of your way homewards."
"It would, however," replied Charles, "have dispirited and enfeebled me. I should have feared that you wilfully avoided me, from some
personal dislike; so that I should have been by far less capable of encountering the difficulties of the journey, than if I commenced it with a consciousness of possessing your esteem and good wishes."
"My esteem or good wishes either can be of but little importance to any one," she replied; "but such as they are, I have no hesitation in saying, that they are yours, in welcome and sincerity, wherever you go; and if no harm befalls you until I wish it, you will always be in safety and comfort."
"Oh! dare I ask nothing but esteem from you? Is there no warmer feeling of your heart to which I might lay claim? will it be presumption---"
"Sir!" said she, interrupting him---I wish to hear nothing, at the present time, upon that subject, to which I see you wish to bring the conversation. We are soon to part, and may, perhaps, never again meet. To cherish, therefore, under such circumstances, feelings in any degree warmer than sincere esteem, might be detrimental to the peace and happiness of us both. Let us, therefore, look upon each other only as---"
Here she was startled with a loud report of a musket, the ball of which struck Charles in the right arm, and broke it. This was immediately succeeded by the terrifying and tremendous yell of a fierce and powerful savage, who leaped with dreadful ferocity and force upon Charles, now unable to defend himself, and throwing him upon his back, held him firmly down, with one knee upon his breast, while the other fixed his uninjured arm to the ground. With his left hand, he grasped Charles by the throat, thereby, forcibly pressing him to the earth, while with his right hand he brandished his tomahawk, and as he aimed the blow, with which he intended to terminate Charles's existence, he exclaimed---
"Destroyer of my son! where liest thou now? In his father's grasp. Yes, smile thou spirit of Carrawissa! This is thy victim. I sacrifice thy enemy to thee. Thou art revenged, in despite of Tonnaleuka!
"What sayest thou, white man! Dost thou not now wish that thy sword had been deep in the caverns of the earth, when it pierced the bowels of Carrawissa! Thou didst look at the youth--- was he not stately, an ornament to man? And didst thou not slay him? Yes, perdition seize thee! thou didst kill the hero of his tribe---the pride, the delight of his father! But my soul now riots in pleasure. I now have my revenge---Yes, I will let thee see that woman! I perceive thou castest thine eyes towards her. Didst thou love her! Then I am doubly revenged---for see, her soul is departed. Look at her---for I delight to torment thee. She is killed! I will send thee to death after her. Thy blood shall appease my passion, thy scalp shall gratify my pride, and thy soul I shall devote as an offering to Carrawissa! Now for it!---No prophet of Maneto saves thee now!"
So saying, he collected his whole strength, and and the fatal blow was in the act of descending, when a rifle-ball penetrated the brain of the savage, and he fell lifeless by the side of his intended victim. Charles being thus unexpectedly freed from the death-like grasp of his terrible foe, started to his feet, and springing to Maria, who had entirely fainted away, from the effects of such a sudden and terrifying scene, he perceived she was still quite insensible, and in a voice of despair, he called out---"Oh! God! is she indeed dead! Is there nothing I can do to save her?"
At that instant, Paddy Frazier was at his side: but directing his whole attention towards
Carrawoona; on lifting whose head, and seeing his brains scattered on the earth, he cried out---
"By heavens! it is what he deserved. It was a good hit too, at such a distance. It took the very spot I aimed at. I had no time to get nearer--- but never yet, since I was a boy, have I missed within a hundred yards. It has done his business, and killed him snugly---thank God!"
Maria's senses were now returning, and the first words she distinctly heard, were the awful ones, "and killed him!" which, in the present scattered state of her senses she supposed were applied to Charles, whom she did not at once perceive beside her, supporting her head with his sound arm under it, and with the wounded one lying on the other side, bleeding on the ground.
"Ah! my Charles! my Charles!" she in a frenzied manner exclaimed, "has he killed thee! Has the monster killed my beloved! Oh! let me see my Charles! Is he dead!"
(Here seeing him beside her, and thinking what she saw to be only his corpse, she threw her arms around him)---
"Oh! my best beloved, have they murdered thee?" she again exclaimed. "Oh, God! thou hast soon taken him from me. I am left miserable here. Oh! that I could die with him! Why did not the murderer kill us both! These pangs---I--- I---(here her senses had returned so far that she began to discover the truth)---I, I---Oh! what---" she now distinguished Charles, saying in a soothing manner---
"My love! be calm, neither of us is killed. Thank God! you are yet safe---still alive to comfort and delight your Charles."
"Thank God! thank God! indeed," she replied--- "but Charles how is this! Was not that
shot mortal! and surely I saw you fall beneath the grasp of that dreadful savage. I thank heaven there has been no murder here."
"No murder, indeed," said Charles, "has taken place; but there is a death, although a very deserved one. My enemy, Carrawoona, has breathed his last."
"Your enemy!" repeated Maria---"God be praised! God who twice protected you, and delivered you from your enemies. Oh, Charles, how thankful we should be!" Then checking herself, as if she felt that she had expressed her feelings too warmly, she said---"Indeed, Mr. Adderly, you have singular reason to be thankful for the protection of heaven, which has now twice so miraculously rescued you from impending fate."
"I am thankful, Maria," said he, "not for my deliverance only, but also for my danger, for it has been the means of letting me see that the heart whose affections I should rather possess than those of the whole world besides, is not indifferent to my fate. Oh, Maria! there has been a sweet consolation afforded to me this evening. Tonnaleuka will not now ask me to leave thee so soon."
"Mr. Adderly," said she, "you have, I believe, discovered the weakness I wish to conceal; but let us talk, at present, no more about it. Ah!" she exclaimed, noticing the condition of his right arm, "ah! I fear you are wounded, perhaps, dangerously wounded. Oh, Charles! the worst may not yet be over!"
"The worst is over, my love!" said he, in a low voice, so that Paddy could not overhear him, "I think this hurt nothing, when I consider the sweet confession I have gained from lips the loveliest, the dearest to me in the world."
"Oh! talk not of this," said she; "let us hasten home, that your arm may be bound up. Oh,
Charles! how much you have suffered in the short time you have been in this Wilderness! But let us go; your wound, indeed, must be very painful."
"Yes;" said Paddy, turning from the examination of the deadly proof which Carrawoona's skull exhibited of his dexterity as a marksman, and addressing the lovers---"Yes," said he, "Mr. Adderly must be taken care of. This savage, thanks to the goodness of my rifle, requires no more care; he'll frighten you no more, Maria."
"The goodness of your eye, Paddy, I believe also deserves credit for this result," said Charles.
"No matter," replied Paddy, "about my eye; "[sic]the fellow won't trouble us more, that is the best of it. As to the worst of it, your broken arm, that dangles there like a twig from a tree---Maria lend me that shawl, I will sling it comfortably to his breast till we get home, and then Tonnaleuka will fix it as neatly as he did my broken leg long ago, for his hands are as well skilled in these matters, as his head is in philosophy."
Maria hastily loosened her shawl, and tremblingly assisted Paddy in fixing Charles's fracture with it, so that its motion might not give him pain till he reached the house, which, as he was able to walk stoutly enough, was accomplished speedily, and without accident.
O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uacertain[sic], coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wrung the brow,
A ministering angel thou!
Scott.
The excitement---the mixture of alarm and joy produced on Charles's arrival at the house of his kind host, upon the minds of its inmates, must, like many other things hinted at in this history, be left for the reader to imagine. Their joy soon predominated, however, when Tonnaleuka, after binding up his arm, as art, or rather as nature, suggested, declared that the hurt was not dangerous, and that a few weeks of care and good nursing would restore him to as much vigour and soundness as he ever possessed; and they warmly expressed to Charles the great satisfaction they felt at this successful termination of his contest with his rancorous enemy. Paddy also came in for a share of their joyful attention, and obtained many hearty thanks and eulogies for his timely and fortunate interference, with his steady and keen eye, on this occasion.
"Goth, man!" said his father, "it was the best guided an' luckiest aim ye ever took. Aye draw ye're trigger in sitch a cause, Paddy; aye shoot sharp in favour o' yere ain kind o' folk, an' dinna spare the ithers when they wad do mischief, an' I winna say, but after a' ye were born for a guid
end, though ye'll no work christian-like on the lan'. Heth, lad! ye hae at last done what maks me prood o' ye!"
As for Charles, the assurance he now had of being beloved by the mistress of his heart, and the assiduous attentions which, in this period of his affliction, she unhesitatingly paid him, gave him such a delightful flow and buoyancy of spirits, that he appeared all cheerfulness, animation, and gaiety, happy in himself, and pleased with all around him.
Tonnaleuka, who did not know that he had discovered the state of Maria's feelings, naturally ascribed Charles's good humour to his having so providentially got rid of his persecutor, together with the prospect he now had of enjoying a longer residence in the same place with the woman he loved. His mind, being now at ease with respect to Charles's safety, he was not, of course, so solicitous for his speedy departure as he had been; and the wounded arm making a delay of some weeks necessary, he acquiesced in its propriety. He thought it prudent, however, to take an early opportunity of cautioning Charles against disturbing the present serenity of Maria's mind by any disclosure of his passion.
"You know, my son," said he, "that there are difficulties in the way of your union which you may never be able to overcome. How unfortunate would it then be for this young woman to fix her affections upon one whom it is so unlikely she shall ever call her husband. If you wish her well, my son, you will be careful to conceal your passion from her knowledge. I know it is, under the circumstances in which you are now placed, a hard task that I prescribe to you. There are few young men who could accomplish it; but if you can do it, so much greater will be your victory, and, in
the end, believe me, so much greater will be your self-approbation."
"Father," replied Charles, "it would be wrong in me to conceal aught from you. Of my attachment for her, she is already aware. If you have discovered that she views it with indifference, it is my misfortune. But, father, permit me to say, that I cannot, and I believe no one can, love as I do, without hope. Yes, kind-hearted, lovely maiden! she has given me ground for hope. Ah, father! I feel here, within my breast, a presentiment, in which I cannot but confide, that this sweet, this fascinating young woman and I are destined for each other. Do not---do not, I implore you, you who are my best of friends---do not, by your cold, discouraging injunctions, forbid me to cherish that sacred presentiment, which affords me so much happiness!"
"My son," observed the prophet, "I am then mistaken in respect to Maria. I have talked to her about you, and concluded, from her manner as well as her language, that her mind was yet at ease. I may have been deceived. But you yourself said you were certain she did not love you."
"I said so once, my father," replied Charles; "I was then miserable---I believe differently now, thank heaven! and I am happy."
"If it be so," said Tonnaleuka, "then the die is cast. If she loves you once---I know her---she will love you for ever; and the only method to secure her happiness, will be to promote yours, and use every fair means to clear the way for your union. She has been more than a favourite pupil with me. She has been the very child of my tuition. I must for ever feel concerned in her welfare. My son, if you have her affections, you have, indeed, a valuable prize, which, I trust, you
will ever possess wisdom enough to appreciate justly, and honour enough to cherish fondly.
"My son, I go off to-morrow to the northward. An Indian council requires my presence in a few days. It will be three weeks before I return here. You will be then much recovered, and, under your present prospects, I expect will have no objection to proceed soon to Philadelphia, where you may smooth the way for the attainment of your future views."
During Tonnaleuka's absence, Charles, who had, as we have seen, exchanged an almost broken heart for an altogether broken arm, was so rejoiced at such an improvement in his affairs, that he felt as if all the world was in the Wilderness--- all of it, indeed, that he at this time considered necessary to his happiness, namely, Maria Frazier, was there.
Since the accidental discovery he had made of her feelings towards him, she had not shown him the same shyness and reserve as before; nay, during the first few days of his fracture, she manifested for him unusual tenderness and sympathy, under the persuasion that his misfortune was sufficient justification for the display of such feelings. But she soon found herself under the necessity of abating her attentions, and sometimes even of avoiding his presence, in order to prevent him from exposing both her and himself, by an ill-timed display of his fondness; and also, perhaps, with the view of keeping alive that respectfulness of passion which he had hitherto borne for her, and which she supposed (for she had occasionally a slight tincture of the prude in her disposition) that too much familiarity would tend to weaken and diminish. She, however, knew how to regulate this slight assumption of dignity so well, that in place of reserve, it appeared gracefulness, and
instead of displeasing, it only the more charmed her lover. But she, in reality, allowed him so many opportunities of enjoying her society, of talking of his love, of his hopes, and of his intentions with respect to her and connubial happiness, that he had, on the whole, during Tonnaleuka's absence, no reason to complain.
His love matters, that is, the matters dearest to his heart, being thus providentially placed on the most favourable footing, he began seriously to reflect on the propriety of returning home, that he might not only acquaint the Ohio Company of the misfortunes that had befallen their expedition, but also arrange matters for a speedy return to the Wilderness, with the necessary means of making Maria his wife. Paddy Frazier, to whom gratitude now naturally much attached him, was desirous to accompany him on his journey, for the purpose of carrying his furs and peltry wares to Philadelphia, to exchange them there for such merchandise as suited the Indians. This desire of Paddy was very agreeable to Charles, not only because he would be both a useful and agreeable companion on the way, but because he would have an opportunity, when they should arrive at Philadelphia, to reward him by a present of merchandise, for the active and dexterous management by which he so critically saved his life; and, if the whole truth must be told, he also wished to have the means of writing to his beloved by some safe and speedy conveyance, if it should so happen that uncontrollable circumstances compelled him to remain longer personally, for he felt assured that he could never be mentally, absent from her.
Paddy accordingly having resolved upon this journey, (considerably to his father's satisfaction, who hoped he might fall in with some good christian woman on the journey, whom he might bring
back with his other eastern goods, as his own property,) was now busied preparing for the great undertaking, by assorting, cleaning, and packing up his wares, and adding considerably to their quantity, by hastily purchasing whatever the Indians in the neighbourhood could spare him.
At length Charles's arm was sufficiently recovered to permit him to undertake the journey, and the day drew near when he was to bid farewell to his beloved. Tonnaleuka had returned from the Indian council which he had been attending, and the guide whom he had some time before provided for Charles was in readiness. This man, whose name was Manhulseh, was much in awe of Tonnaleuka, and was, at the same time, well acquainted with the whole mountainous district of Pennsylvania, from the Chesnut Ridge to the South Mountain. He was also a tolerably brave man, and could handle a musket or a tomahawk with any individual of his tribe. Hence he was one of the best qualified persons our travellers could have procured, to conduct them through the vast, intricate, and appalling Wilderness they had to traverse; and his reverence and attachment for Tonnaleuka, secured to them the full benefit of his fidelity.
Although thus well supplied with a guide, and in every other respect fully equipped for the journey, Charles felt at his heart such a reluctance to commence it, that, under various pretences, some of which were even so frivolous as to be seen through and smiled at, although they were indulged by his friends, he succeeded, in spite of all Paddy's efforts, who was very impatient to proceed, in getting their starting postponed, from day to day, for upwards of a week after the time originally fixed upon for it. At length all pleas and excuses were exhausted, or rather he felt
ashamed to advance more; and, becoming resigned to the necessity of separating, for a time, from his heart's best and dearest treasure, he agreed, that the next rising sun should see him on his way. He had just enjoyed what he considered would be his last private interview, at this time, with Maria, and was wandering, towards the evening, alone in one of Gilbert's fields, indulging a train of none of the most agreeable kinds of reflection, in which he was entirely absorbed, when he was startled by a person springing over the fence near which he was meditating, and suddenly, to his great astonishment, stood before him the well-known and identical person of Peter M'Fall, who, while he eagerly caught Charles's hand, exclaimed---
"Och, Master! now I have found you at last! Just put your hand here, and feel how Peter's heart beats, for I'm all out of breath with joy, and with running to see you alive. By the powers of Moll Kelly! but I thought the ould prophet had taken you to heaven with him, and I feared I should never see you again."
"Had I been taken to heaven, indeed," said Charles, "it is likely you never should. I therefore, suppose, Peter, that my being there would have much displeased and grieved you."
"Arrah, master! now believe me, for its as true as the gospel, that I would almost as soon have wished myself to be there. But, my blessing on the lucky head of you, I see that you are not so badly off yet."
"Then you are pleased," observed Charles, "that I must fret and fight a little longer with this troublesome world."
"By the sweet Hill of Houth!" replied Peter, "and sure I am so---and many a hard fight may you have of it, and the blessing of Saint Kenan into the bargain! But, master, yonder comes the doctor who
set my arm in a sling so neat---but, how! what! your arm in tapes, too! Not broken! master---I hope---but arrah! by my sowl, the doctor must cure it. Not broken, I hope!"
"Yes broken, but mended again," replied Charles.
"Mended!" repeated Peter, "och! sure now, wastn't it a pity to get it done so soon, master, before either the doctor or I could get to you to fix it. Doctor Killbreath is the best hand at soldering bones ever came from a college. Arrah! now how lucky it would have been if you had known we were coming, for, sure now, wouldn't you have waited to get the doctor to cure it?"
"It is pretty well as it is, Peter," observed Charles, "and a good deal better, I believe, than if I had kept it hanging these five or six weeks by flesh and skin, in order to accommodate you and the doctor with a job. But I beg your pardon, doctor!"he continued, turning to the surgeon, who had just approached, for he had not exerted his speed on seeing Charles, with such enthusiasm as Peter had done; but coming forward at a moderate rate, he arrived just at this point of the conversation. "Doctor, I beg your pardon," said Charles, "I was just excusing myself to Peter for not permitting my arm to remain for the last six weeks in a state of fracture, in order that you might now have the pleasure of reducing it."
"Had you done so," said the doctor, smiling, "it is ten to one if you should now have had any arm to talk about."
"Why sure, now, doctor," observed Peter, "he didn't get them both smashed. Arrah, master, I think that you still would have had one of them to show, and to talk about."
"I hope so, Peter," replied Charles, "I am glad you are so witty. Why, you have really
detected the doctor in a bull; unless he supposes, that, had I paid him the compliment to wait for his services, both of my arms should now have been food for the worms, and consequently unfit for me to talk about. But, my friends, I am glad you have come here at such a critical moment, for I was about setting off to-morrow for Philadelphia. Now we can all go together. What say you doctor? My good friend, Frazier, who lives here can have you both equipped for the journey in a single day."
"There is nothing I wish for more sincerely," replied the doctor; "the sooner we get out of these wilds the better. I am happy that we got here so opportunely. I have indeed, reason to thank Peter for it."
"No, by my sowl!" said Peter, "you may thank master, there, for I would not have thought of leaving the French yet, if the ould prophet hadn't told me to a shaving, how master lived here with a decent christian and an Irishman, heaven bless him! but I must see him and shake his ould bone for him on account of the sod."
"Come along then, Peter," said Charles, "old Gilbert will be glad to see you. Yonder comes his daughter, Nancy. Doctor, you must take care of your heart, for she's a pretty girl---and I know it is rather tempting to meet a pretty girl in the wilderness."
"I suppose you have found it so, Mr. Adderly," replied the doctor.
"I cannot say much about it," observed Charles, "but I know, doctor, you are no woman-hater--- and Nancy, as you will soon see, is really handsome."
"I acknowledge," returned the doctor, "that in this desert, I should consider the sight of a handsome young woman a real treat."
"Well---take care of your heart, my good friend," said Charles, "for here comes temptation." At this moment, Nancy, who had been in the woods on some errand, and was now returning home, turned off in another direction, as if to avoid the men with whom Charles was conversing, for she had advanced near enough to perceive they were strangers. Charles called on her to stop, which she did, and the party approached her.
"Why do you run away from me, Nancy?" said he, "these are some of my Philadelphia companions just escaped from Le Boeuf, and one of them is a countryman of your father."
"My father will be glad to see them, doubtless," said Nancy.
"And won't you too, make them welcome for a couple of days?" asked Charles. "Here is Doctor Killbreath, my friend, who, I hope, will be found a pleasant companion."
"Sir," said Nancy, who had taken one or two sly looks at the doctor, for she had observed his eyes fixed upon her, with a meaning she did not exactly understand, but which she thought did not denote any thing uncivil. "Sir, I will do my best to make your friends comfortable, for I doubt not that they will deserve our kindness."
"Doctor! why don't you thank the young lady," said Charles: "Why man! you seem to be in a reverie."
"I feel, I feel---her kindness," replied the doctor, rousing up at this reproof. "Miss---Miss Frazier, I assure you I feel your kindness as much as if I expressed it better."
"Why, I think," observed Nancy, "you express well enough what there is, indeed, no need at all for mentioning. You should first receive the kindness, before you give thanks for it."
"Agh! let the lasses alone for good manners!" cried Peter M'Fall, "the pretty creatures can still teach us genteelity. God bless the kind hearts of them, for, sure, my mother was one of them!"
"And have you never seen any of them you loved better than your mother?" asked Charles.
"Well, the devil take me, master, but I have," replied Peter, "but it was in sweet Dublin, your honour. Och! there, how I longed, till I was bothered almost out of my senses, for a little bit of the cherry lips of Molly M`Nickle, of Thomas-street. Arrah, master, just think now how it pleased me to sit beside her and sing "Oh, Molly Astore! How much I adore The sweet smiling charms of your beautiful face, On your lovely white breast, Oh! how fond I could rest, And enjoy all the bliss of a mutual embrace." Alas, poor Molly! she may never hear me again!"
The party had now arrived at the house, and a hearty shake of Gilbert's Irish fist soon dispelled from Peter's volatile heart, the melancholy which the remembrance of the happiness he once enjoyed with Molly M`Nickle had excited.
Speed, speed for your freedom, the war dogs are out,
Their scent is a sure one, it marks out your path;
Speed, speed for your safety, I hear the fierce shout
Of the foes who are panting for blood in their wrath!
Basket of Scraps.
Whether the writer of a tale should relate more of it than is just necessary to make it easily understood, is a question which I could wish the critics to decide. It would save an indolent author, like me, many a half hour's troublesome reasoning and balancing with himself the various pros and cons concerning the propriety of narrating incidents, the connexion of which with the grand thread of his story, may be somewhat doubtful; but which, if not narrated, would leave a certain air of incompleteness and obscurity hanging over some transactions and characters, which must be introduced. It is true, there are many readers, who might not observe this want of connexion---for there are indolent readers as well as indolent writers; but there are others who would not only observe it, but feel it offensive, and be, in consequence, heartily inclined to consign the author to unpitied condemnation.
But who are the critics? My dear reader, you are one of them; and if I could possibly have your opinion on this matter, before I write this chapter, the intended subject of which is one of the
above perplexing description, I should then know, whether giving it would please you or not; and to please you, you are aware, is the great object I have in view. But being, of course, ignorant of what may be your wishes on the subject, I can only do what I suppose best adapted to keep you in temper. I will not, therefore, withhold the chapter, lest peradventure, you might desire to read it, but I will tell you the subject, so that, if you should think it has not concern enough with the main story, you may avoid it, and without either troubling yourself, or vexing me by your displeasure, go on with the next, which will be the fifteenth chapter of this volume, and which will carry you along the path of the history, ruggedly and coarsely enough, I forewarn you, but I assure you, with great fidelity and exactness. By this management, I conceive that the only error I shall commit, will be giving to those who may travel through this work, the choice of two roads for their journey---the one shorter, but a little more obscure and abrupt, and the other clearer and smoother, but more winding and tedious. Now, reader, having thus stated the merits and demerits of both these ways of getting onwards, and left it fairly to your own choice, which to take, I think that you cannot in conscience blame me, if you take the one that gives you least pleasure.
The subject of this chapter will be the adventures of Peter M`Fall and Doctor Killbreath, in making their escape from Fort Le Boeuf, and traversing the wilderness from thence to Gilbert Frazier's. It will cousequently have little or nothing to do with the history of either Charles Adderly or Maria Frazier. You may, therefore, pass it by if you choose.
Although Peter M`Fall had the fortunate faculty of soon making himself comfortable in almost any
situation, yet there were places and persons in the world whose presence he infinitely preferred to others. For instance, the air of sweet Dublin he greatly preferred to that of Le Boeuf, and the authority of Charles Adderly to that of the French commandant. Notwithstanding this feeling. Peter had not for some weeks after his imprisonment entertained any desire to escape. At Fort Le Boeuf he could eat and drink, and be idle, or when he pleased, he could be merry, and dance, sing, and frolic away with his gay-hearted jailers, as contentedly and giddily as any of them. But this was because he saw he could do no better. If he got out of the fort, he was convinced that he could never get out of the unbounded forest that surrounded it. The chance was, that in attempting it, he would either perish from cold and want, or fall into the hands of the savages, and perhaps meet that terrifying fate from which the humanity of his present jailers had rescued him.
These reflections had prevented him from harbouring any desire to escape, until about three weeks previous to his appearing in the presence of his master, as related in the last chapter. An accident which befell his fellow-prisoner, Dr. Killbreath, first excited the intention to effect both his own and the Doctor's freedom.
The Doctor had been amusing himself one day in the woods, shooting game, (for it will be remembered that such liberty was permitted to him on his parole,) when he narrowly escaped being killed by an Indian, who shot at him from behind a tree. He immediately fired at the assailant, who attempted to run off, and killed him. Five or six savages instantly raised the war-whoop, and the Doctor was nearly seized by them. By swift running, however he escaped into the fort, which fortunately was at no great distance, where the French
protected him from the immediate vengeance of his pursuers. The whole tribe of the Otawas, to which the man whom he had killed belonged, were excited to revenge, and made such continued and unappeasable demands upon the garrison for the Doctor's punishment, accompanied with threats, if they persisted to refuse, that the commander at length thought that prudence required his compliance. The matter was in consequence submitted to the decision of a council of twelve, composed one half of French and the other of Indians. The latter insisted strenuously that the prisoner should be committed to the flames; and, after as much resistance as they could properly make, the French were on the point of yielding to a compromise which had been proposed, of having him shot, when the approach of the prophet Tonnaleuka was announced to the council. The Indians received him with profound respect, and the French, on account of their expecting some favourable result from his visit, with great cordiality and satisfaction.
After some minutes profound silence, during which he alternately pointed his wand towards heaven and towards the council three times, his lips moving in the meanwhile, as if he were soliciting the dictation of a superior power, he spoke as follows:
"My brothers of the Otawas! Ye seem not at this time to know the will of Maneto.---He has sent me here to reveal it. This white man, whom you would sacrifice, has killed one of our brothers. I grieve as ye all do for his death. But I must tell you, that the Great Father said he should die by the act of this white man, for he himself excited that act. Yes---I can tell you, brothers, that he first fired at the white man, and the Great Spirit, in consequence, permitted his death. Do not,
therefore, bring down upon you the vengeance of Maneto, by destroying this prisoner. Why should you fight against the Almighty, against the Great Father. Otawas, you will be wise, and do as I am ordered by Maneto to direct you, and pardon the prisoner.[sic]
"Brothers, I hope you will obey these directions, for I would grieve much for the calamities that will befall you, if you disobey them. You have heard what I was sent to say; I hope, my brothers, you will attend to it."
One of the Indian counsellors, named Palaro, replied:
"Prophet, to obey the directions of Maneto, who governs all things, is our duty. I believe his words as they have been delivered by you, but all may not believe them. You say that Maneto requires us to let a white man who has killed an Otawa, go free. We have not been accustomed to receive such commands from him when we would sacrifice an enemy to the spirits of the slain, and it is hard to let our brother remain unavenged.
"But, prophet, hear your son! is it not fair, in order that our tribe may be convinced that pardoning our prisoner was right, to ask what sign you can give of your words being the words of the Great Spirit? When we can say to our brothers--- behold the sign! they will not blame us for giving up the prisoner.[sic]
"Prophet, you have heard my suggestion: is it not reasonable?"
Tonnaleuka now lifted his hands and eyes towards heaven, and continued in this attitude, with his countenance expressive of earnest supplication, for several minutes, during which all eyes were fixed upon him with mute attention. He at length spoke audibly:
"Thou art, indeed, kind and merciful; thou dost pity their weakness, and pardon their
unbelief. Oh! that they were as merciful as thou art! then would such thirst for vengeance and for each other's destruction cease.[sic]
"Otawas and brothers, hear me! You have desired proof of my veracity; a sign, by which you may be convinced that Maneto forbids the sacrifice of this man. Were ye not afraid that he would punish such presumption? He would have punished it, but shows himself merciful, that you may learn mercy; and he allows me to give you the sign you ask.[sic]
"Listen to me, brothers! there is a high rock on the shore of Erie, the top of which was rent last summer by the hand of Maneto, when the land shook, and the waters trembled at his thunder. Beneath that rock, you, Palaro, my brother, had then your wigwam; it stood uninjured amidst the agony of nature, and you were piously thankful.[sic]
"Brothers! on the third day from this, let three of your warriors proceed to this rock. A living eagle will be found there fixed in the breach made by the thunder. Seize him; he will be a sacrifice to the memory of your dead brother, and a more acceptable one to his spirit than this prisoner.[sic]
"Brothers! attend to Maneto, and avoid destruction."
The council determined to send in search of the eagle, and accept of it as a substitute for the prisoner, who was given over to the charge of the French, on condition that if no eagle were found, he should be without delay put to death in any manner the Otawas might desire.
Three warriors were accordingly despatched to the rock, who, arriving there at the time directed, found the eagle exactly as Tonnaleuka had described; and to the great surprise and satisfaction of the French, returned with it living to Le Boeuf,
where the council and a numerous party of the tribe still remained anxiously awaiting the result.
Palaro, in the name of the Otawas, now addressed the commandant:
"Father, the Great Spirit, who is the owner of all things, has thought proper that we should not put the white prisoner to death. We submit to his will, as his good prophet our brother Tonnaleuka desired us. We have lost a brother by the hands of the prisoner, but our brother was himself to blame. Maneto knew this, and has not permitted us to burn the slayer.[sic]
"Father! look at this eagle; it has been miraculously found fixed in the fissure of a rock, which the finger of the Great Father opened last summer. The Great Father permits us to sacrifice this bird to the memory of our brother, in place of the prisoner. We will obey him, we will reverence him, and respect the voice of his prophet.
"Father, we wish you to let the prisoner go free."
The doctor was instantly liberated from his bonds, and in about fifteen minutes beheld the unfortunate eagle tied to the stake that had been intended for himself, where, amidst a blazing pile of faggots it was soon consumed in his stead. He was, however, forbidden for the future to be seen outside of the ramparts.
During this sacrifice, the Indians chanted forth with great fervency the glory of Maneto, the praises of Tonnaleuka, and the valour of their deceased warrior. The doctor wished much to thank the prophet to whom he owed so much; but Tonnaleuka had left the fort immediately after pleading his cause before the council, and now all he could do was to supplicate the deity for blessings upon his head. But the prophet had not withdrawn so hastily as to prevent Peter McFall from
obtaining with him a short, but, to Peter, a very satisfactory interview.
Peter was standing, a very anxious and deeply interested spectator of the deliberations, when Tonnaleuka entered and addressed the council. He recognised him at once, as the same extraordinary personage that had delivered his master from the Chippeways, and he immediately concluded that the doctor was safe.
"I will ask him about my master," thought he; "whether he took him to the other world or not, sure he won't be angry at me for inquiring."
Peter accordingly watched his opportunity; and, as the prophet was hastening towards the gate of the fort, with hat in hand, he very reve-rentially approached, and addressed him to the following effect:
"Och, now! I hope your reverence won't be angry with me, if I ask you a civil question?"
"Let that question be brief then," said Tonnaleuka.
"Suppose now, I ask you what you did with my master when you took him away from the Chippeways---would your holiness tell me?" inquired Peter.
"What is your name my brother?" asked the prophet.
"Peter M`Fall, may it please your worship to command."
"And what is your master's?"
"Charles Adderly, your reverence."
Tonnaleuka, now whispered something into Peter's ear, which he ended by enjoining him to strict secresy; adding, "if you reveal it to any one in this garrison, dread my vengeance!"
"May your holiness blast me to pieces," said Peter, earnestly, "if I breathe a word of it to any
woman's son, or daughter either, while I am within twenty miles of this place."
But ere he got the sentence finished, the prophet had departed from the fort, and was instantly out of sight.
"Agh! long life to you, and are you gone! ye jewel of a prophet! I wish to St. Patrick that I was only clear out of these walls with you. I could soon find the Shanapin's-town---and then, ten miles up the river,---why, it would scarcely be a hop, step, and jump, to bring me to---But mum's the word."
So saying, he gave an arch smile, and accompanied the last expression with that very significant gesture of slyness, the placing of one of his fingers upon his nose, and then leaped off, singing with great glee---
"In Dublin so clever,
By Liffy's sweet river,
When Molly McNickle was civil;
With kissing and laughing,
And whiskey-punch quaffing,
Old care I sent smack to the devil!"
From this moment, Peter resolved by some means or other, speedily to attempt his escape. He had the determination fully formed in his mind by the time the doctor's fate was decided; and the eagle was not yet altogether consumed amidst the flames, when he accosted his fellow-prisoner:
"By my sowl! my dear doctor, but the fellow fries well. Och! botheration to them that would have roasted your precious flesh in his stead, in that horrible bonfire. Sure, now, I couldn't have stood to see the fat melting from your crackling bones, like grease dropping from a leg of roast mutton. The devil take me now, dear doctor,--- don't be frightened,"---for the doctor had actually turned pale at this coarse representation of what
was so nearly being his fate; which Peter perceiving, gave him a sly wink, and said---"Och, now! come along, I just want to spake with you, to comfort you a bit?"
So saying, he half dragged the doctor to a convenient place, where he acquainted him with the determination he had come to, of escaping from the fort, and the ease with which he believed he could in three or four days, at furthest, reach his master's present residence, and invited him to join in the enterprise.
The doctor considering that he was now under no obligation from parole, and that while he continued in the garrison, he was still in danger of some accident taking place which might again expose him to the awful fate from which he had been just saved, by an absolute miracle, agreed at once to the measure.
Fort Le Boeuf was situated upon the bank of the western branch of French Creek. It occupied about a rood of ground, and was surrounded by a stockade circumvallation, made of strong piles driven close to each other into the earth, sharpened at the top, and more than twelve feet high, with port-holes for cannon, and loop-holes for small arms, cut through them. The garrison, at this time, consisted of about two hundred men, whose cooking, washing, &c. there being but few European women among them, were principally performed by squaws who had learned a smattering of the French language.
How to get out of this stockade, was the question, upon which Peter M`Fall now for about five or six days exercised his ingenuity. At the end of that time, however, by dint of personal exploring, rather than thinking, he resolved it to his own satisfaction. He had discovered a small sewer commencing in the yard of a
washhouse, which was occupied by a number of squaws in the service of the garrison. This sewer had been made for the purpose of carrying off to the creek, the waste water that had been used in washing. The distance from its entrance to its out-let upon the bank of the creek, Peter conjectured to be about ten or twelve yards. It was through this passage that he contemplated making his escape. It was, indeed, so narrow, he perceived, as scarcely to admit his body; and from the daily flow of dirty water that passed through it, it was an absolute puddle of mud and filthiness. The softness, and spunginess, however, which the latter circumstance occasioned, he calculated would facilitate his passage, by enabling him the more easily to drag his body through. The only obstacle that perplexed him, was a strong iron grating that was fixed over its entrance. This, he however was determined to overcome by some energetic effort. His chief difficulty was in persuading the doctor as to the practicability of the scheme. At length, when the latter perceived that no reasoning would prevent Peter from trying it, he determined not to desert him, but to assist all he could, although he anticipated all the evil consequences of complete failure and detection.
In pursuance of this resolution, having secretly provided a small bag full of provisions, and a couple of spades, they one dark night, about two weeks after the doctor's rescue, when all the garrison, except the sentinels, had gone to sleep, scaled the low wooden fence that surrounded the washer-woman's yard, and commenced their operations by digging a hole close to the grate, sufficiently large to admit their entrance. As the ground was soft, and Peter an excellent spadesman, this was only the work of about fifteen
minutes, and into the mud-bottomed pit he plunged, without hesitation, head-foremost, dragging, by means of a strong cord attached to it, the bag of provisions after him. The doctor had now nothing for it, but to follow.
For the first three or four yards, they swam or paddled, like ducks, in the stagnant water which had here collected to the depth of eight or ten inches, on account of some deficiency in its fall towards the creek. But this was the easiest part of their progress; for during the remainder, Peter found the passage so small that it required all his perseverance and strength, to squeeze himself forward; which, however, he persisted in doing, and at last, with incredible labour, and not without great fatigue, and soreness of both flesh and bones, he arrived at the open air on the bank of the creek. The doctor being a smaller man, found less difficulty in passing, especially as the efforts of Peter had cleared the way for him.
Although enveloped in a complete vesture of mud and dirt, our adventurers did not wait to wash themselves in the creek, but taking to the woods, hastened on as speedily as the darkness and the numerous impediments of the way would permit, towards the Alleghany river. Daylight overtook them while yet in the intricacies of the forest, when being both hungry and fatigued, they thought proper to enjoy some of such fare as their bag afforded, and then to repose themselves for a few hours. About noon they again proceeded, and continued their journey till the evening; when resolving not to undergo the fatigue of another night, struggling amidst brush-wood, swamps, and fallen timber; they selected a place of shelter, and by collecting together a quantity of dry leaves, made themselves as comfortable a bed as they could, on which their fatigue and long
wakefulness, enabled them to sleep soundly, till the morning. After three days troublesome journeying in this manner, during which, they became sometimes afraid of not being on their proper course, they arrived at the Alleghany river, a short distance below its confluence with French creek. From thence they kept down the stream of the river for upwards of four days, and it was the ninth from their leaving Le Boeuf, before they met with Charles, as already stated.
Survey his front, where wisdom sits serene,
And the bright flashing of his fearless eye;
That gallant port, that majesty of mien,
Which promise deeds of unsurpass'd emprise,
Such as to minstrelsy its fondest theme supplies,
And gains the palm the world may not deny.
Basket of Scraps.
The dearest to each other are often doomed to part. It is one of the evils incident to humanity, and one from which all the philosophy in the world will not relieve us. The best way, therefore, to meet the evil, is, to do it courageously, and philosophize nothing about it.
Charles Adderly, on this occasion, did so; and in consequence, he succeeded in separating from Maria, with a reluctant heart, it must be confessed, but not with a desponding one.
His party, consisting of himself, Dr. Killbreath, Paddy Frazier, Peter M`Fall, and Manhulseh their Indian guide, commenced their journey on the third day after Peter and the Doctor had arrived at Frazier's. Besides the horses on which they rode, they had along with them three others, two of which were laden with Paddy's merchandise, and the third with provisions and other traveling stores. They were of course well armed---for in those days, no one ever thought of attempting a journey, of even a short distance, through the Wilderness, without being properly prepared for both defence and attack.
On the third day they crossed the Chesnut Ridge, and encamped that night between it and
the Laurel Hill, in what is now called Ligonier Valley. As they were about continuing their journey the next morning, they were unexpectedly attacked by a small party of Otawas, whom the French had despatched to scour the country in pursuit of Peter and the Doctor. The savages, however, had given their fire at too great a distance to do any serious mischief. Two of their shots feebly pierced through a package of Paddy's furs, and another slightly wounded one of the horses. The rest fell altogether harmless. Each of our travellers immediately took to a tree, and kept up such a well-directed fire upon their enemies, when any of them dared to appear in sight, that the latter thought proper, about mid-day, to withdraw, after having lost five or six of their number, who were killed on the spot.
Our party then cautiously proceeded onwards, keeping on all directions a good look out, which obliged them to travel so slowly, that they only reached the top of the Laurel Hill that night. Here they encamped on a spot where they could not be easily surprised; and Charles, equally with the rest, took his turn in watching as sentinel during the night.
The savages, however, during the preceding day had tasted so bitterly of their intrepidity, that they had no relish for more of it, and they were not molested during the remainder of their journey, which they performed, without meeting with any serious disaster, in about four weeks.
The account which Charles gave to the Ohio Company of the fate of their expedition, which he ascribed altogether to the jealousy and management of the French, made a great noise in the political world, and produced much excitement throughout all the colonies. But there was none of them that took up the matter with greater
spirit than Virginia. That state, indeed, did then, as it does still, possess a high-minded and courageous population, that could not tamely submit to any insult or encroachment upon their rights; and the territory thus usurped by a hostile force being then considered as within the bounds of her charter, she felt herself called upon both to demand satisfaction for what had been done, and to take measures for resisting such aggressions for the future.
But, although the public mind continued, during the whole of the spring and summer succeeding the occurrences we have related, to receive fresh and repeated provocations from Indian incursions upon the back settlements, especially in the Virginian territories, yet the colonial governments thought proper to delay making any public effort to restrain or punish these depredations, until they should receive instructions on the subject from the government of Great Britain. They had reason, indeed, to presume that the remonstrances which they knew the British ministry would make to the French government, would induce the later to recall, and, perhaps, chastise, their Canadian servants for the outrages they had committed on the subjects of a power with which they were then in a state of peace and amity. At all events, they wished to be fully authorized by their own government to make whatever opposition they should find necessary, whether by force or otherwise, to put a stop to the unwarrantable proceedings of the French.
With respect to the hostile Indians, small parties of militia and volunteers were, indeed, immediately employed, but in a very inefficient manner, against them; and for several months, the terror and sufferings of the Virginian back-settlers continued daily to increase.
At length Mr. Dinwiddie, the Governor of Virginia, received intelligence that the French government manifested a very suspicious reluctance to give any satisfaction to the British on the subject at issue, and he was authorized to use his discretion in bringing the aggressors to an account for what they had done. A national war, however, at that time was not to be wished; at all events, he resolved not to act rashly in kindling its flames, but to convince the world that every thing had been done, consistent with the honour and dignity of the British crown, and the prosperity and safety of its subjects, to prevent such a calamity. He, therefore, thought it expedient, before he should have recourse to actual force, to send an envoy to the commander at Fort Le Boeuf, to whose instrumentality the late outrages had been particularly charged, for the purpose of demanding from him, in the name of his Britannic Majesty, an explanation of his hostile conduct towards British subjects, and some satisfactory security that it should not be repeated.
It was, at that crisis, very difficult to find any one properly qualified for such an embassy, willing to undertake it, a circumstance which, if the nature of the country and the state of the times be considered, will not be thought surprising. A distance of several hundred miles through a trackless and rugged wilderness of woods, inhabited only by nations of savages, the most of whom had of late become inveterately hostile to the English name, had to be traversed. No English white man, it was thought, could then penetrate into these wilds and return alive, unless by the aid of a mere miracle; for even the traders, that had formerly been rather invited than forbidden to frequent the country, and were in most instances kindly enough treated by the natives, had latterly
been often plundered, and sometimes massacred, for no other reason than their being English.--- There were in Virginia, no doubt, numbers of patriotic and gallant spirits, whom danger alone could not have deterred from the undertaking. But various other motives operated on their minds. Many were opposed to the measure altogether, as betraying imbecility, and want of promptitude and wisdom. They exclaimed against the folly of sending an embassy into the midst of a barbarous race of men, who neither knew, nor cared for, the sacred character of embassadors; and alleged, that it was worse than madness, even if the messengers should happen to perform their errand in safety, to expect any favourable result from the enterprise.
"No," said they, "if we go at all into the haunts of these savages, let us go sword in hand, and drive them and their christian allies together, out of their dens with the bayonet and the rifle. We should negotiate with such enemies only with the mouths of cannon."
Domestic concerns and family interference prevented others, who might not have the same objection to trying the effects of negotiation and remonstrance, before the drawing of that sword, whose unsheathing might involve two powerful nations in all the evils of a tedious and sanguinary war.
In short, Governor Dinwiddie, after he had decided on the propriety of the measure, found so much difficulty in finding any one qualified for the hazardous service, willing to undertake it, that he began to harbour thoughts of abandoning the idea, especially as the winter season was approaching, until the ensuing spring.
As he was one day in his private apartment, meditating with considerable anxiety on this subject, he was informed that a very respectable looking
young man requested admittance to his presence. The governor desired him to be shown into a front chamber, where he in a few minutes attended him.
The governor, although, as we have seen, his mind had been rendered uneasy by contemplating the unfortunate aspect of a favourite and important measure, saluted the stranger with much complaisance; for notwithstanding his youth, being apparently not above twenty years of age, there was in his manner and aspect an air of dignity and intelligence, with which the governor was struck, and before which any feeling of ill-humour that might have arisen from the unpleasant nature of the reflections from which he had been interrupted, entirely gave way.
As this young man will make a considerable figure during the remainder of this history, it is presumed that a description of his appearance on this occasion will not be unacceptable to the reader.
His stature was exactly six feet, and his form a happy medium between the usual slenderness of youth and the more rounded muscularity of manhood. His chest was already somewhat full and expanded, as if to make room for a liberal and capacious heart. His limbs were in just proportion to the rest of his frame, and so free and unincumbered in all their motions, as to give a peculiar gracefulness to his gait and gestures. His shoulders were broad, but finely shaped, and harmonizing so well with the stateliness and just symmetry of the other parts of his figure, as to impart to the whole an extraordinary degree of dignity and majesty of mien; and indicating, at the same time, strength, hardihood, and activity.
With respect to his countenance, if every there was one that expressed true nobleness and magnanimity of soul, it was his. It was of the oval
form, with a remarkably high forehead, which was open, serious, kind, and candid. His sparkling blue eyes displayed the fire of passion, combined with the coolness of wisdom, while the movements of his eye-brows assured the beholder, that in every contest the latter should gain the victory. His nose was of a commanding agreeable form, neither exactly Grecian nor Roman, but partaking partly of both, and it was, perhaps, this feature which most forcibly impressed the beholder with the idea of his fearless intrepidity and undeviating integrity. But it was in the expression of his mouth that the benevolence, generosity, and tenderness of his nature were chiefly to be seen; for his were lips to which no one could ever impute the utterance of falsehood, calumny, or even unnecessary censure. His chin was muscular, round, and full, but agreeably corresponding with the general contour of his countenance. As to his complexion, it was at this time slightly sun-burnt, but still affording a pleasant mixture of that fairness and ruddiness which is so becoming in youth, and which generally betokens an originally healthy and still unbroken constitution.
His dress was at once modest and genteel, affecting in no particular either to despise, or to be fastidiously imitative of the fashion of the day. It was neither gaudy, nor slovenly, but such as a gentleman who, while he does not despise his person, seems conscious that his mind is his better part, might be expected to wear. When we have said this, and when we add that it was a mourning-dress, (for this young gentleman had lately sueceeded to the ample estate of a deceased, tenderly beloved, and much lamented elder brother,) the reader will easily figure it to himself, without our giving him more particulars.
He was a native of Virginia, and descended from
one of the most respectable families in that province; but in the opinion of governor Dinwiddie on this occasion, such a youth would have made any family respectable. His name was---George Washington---a name which is now synonymous with virtue, and to pronounce which is to eulogize.
After the usual salutation was over, Mr. Washington presented an introductory letter from a valued friend of the governor, who immediately read it as follows:
Letter
May it please your Excellency,
"This letter will be handed to you by Mr. George Washington, of Mount Vernon, a young gentleman of whom I doubt not report has already spoken favourably to you. For myself, I profess to feel a high respect for his promising talents, and a still higher for that steady conduct, unsullied virtue, and strong sense of honour which have hitherto marked his character.
"To speak thus decisively in behalf of so young a man, may seem to your excellency, to be a somewhat overstrained recommendation, but if I know any thing of the characters of men, I am convinced that in giving credit to Mr. Washington for all the virtues and talents my language may ascribe to him, you will not find yourself deceived.
"The ardour of his patriotic feelings, together with his commiserating the distresses under which our back-settlers now labour, and, no doubt, a laudable ambition to signalize himself in doing good to his country, induce him to solicit what he is grieved to find so many of higher name and pretensions have lately refused---the appointment of envoy to the French commandant at Le Boeuf.
"Should it please your excellency to confide to him the management of that arduous and
important mission, I am persuaded, that young, and consequently inexperienced, as he is, you will have no reason to regret having done so; for, I believe, that if prudence, intrepidity, and perseverance in the attainment of the public good can succeed, whatever enterprise he conducts must be successful.[sic]
"I have the honour to be, your excellency's sincere friend and most obedient, humble servant. ---"
Section
"Why! Mr. Washington," observed the governor, when he had done reading, "this is really a complimentary letter, but Mr. --- is a good judge of characters, and I believe he has not mistaken yours. Your brother was a brave man, true to his country, and I think that you cannot be inferior to him. When would it suit you to go on this mission?"
"At a day's warning, whenever your excellency orders---"
"Suppose---let me see---this is Tuesday the 23d of October. In a week from this date could you be ready?"
"To-morrow---to-day---this hour---and at all hours, I am at the service of my country. You are her monarch's representative; order me when you choose. But if I might suggest any thing in this matter, it would be promptitude and expedition.--- Your excellency is aware that the season requires it."
"Young man! my friend has not been mistaken in his estimate of your character. Your ardour in this case is wisdom. Your country has been for tunate in giving you birth; for I perceive, if heaven spares you, that you will be both her blessing and her boast. Had I known of you only two months sooner, this mission might now have been successfully terminated; but name your day, and every thing shall be provided."
"It is your excellency's right to name it."
"Well, then, let it be this day week; your commission and instructions shall be immediately prepared. But, tell me, have you thought of the dangers and difficulties?"---
"I have thought of them seriously, sir."
"And they don't make you hesitate?"
"Nothing, I trust, will ever make me hesitate to do my duty."
"I am satisfied," observed the governor. "It has been perhaps fortunate that the perils of the undertaking have deterred others from engaging in it whose services I should have gladly accepted. The delay may not have been lost to our country, since it has brought you forward to her service; and that backwardness to serve in this case, which I but half an hour ago lamented as an evil, may in reality turn out to be a benefit. My young friend, I shall now detain you no longer, but shall be glad if you come to spend the evening with me."
"With your excellency's permission, I should rather return to Mount Vernon to arrange some matters, so that nothing on my part may retard the expedition."
"You can return to[sic] morrow; one day will make no difference, and you will have sufficient time to be back here in a week. If you should be a day longer, it will not be charged upon you."
"Your excellency will excuse me; I cannot remain to-night, unless some public business requires my presence."
"There is no public business to require your stay, I acknowledge," replied the governor, "but I wish to enjoy your conversation, and cultivate your friendship, so that you may be convinced how much I esteem your gallant proposal to
embark in this service---a single evening will, be of no consequence."
"I should, indeed, feel happy and honoured in your excellency's society," observed the young hero, "but I am now to prepare for a public service which requires expedition; and I confess that, unless my going off instantly to make preparation will give you more displeasure than, if I have any knowledge of your character, I think it will, I should much rather depart: for I must ever make it a rule, that when duty is to be performed, no time should be lost upon pleasure."
"My friend," replied Dinwiddie, "be ever thus proof against temptation. I esteem you the more that you have resisted my wishes on this point. Be as expeditious as you please, and may heaven prosper your zeal! I shall try to imitate you in getting every thing ready without delay."
Washington now withdrew, and immediately hastened home to make the best use he could of his time, in both arranging his private affairs and in providing for the performance of his public duty.
When he was out of sight, Dinwiddie could not help exclaiming---"Admirable youngman! you will yet be of more service to your country than a thousand mines of gold!"
There is a tie, whose magic force
The power of lengthen'd years defies;
There is a thought whose stayless course
A dearer tide of life supplies,
Than gives to other thoughts their source;
And days of gloom may intervene,
Like ocean's wave its flight to stay,
And distant climes may come between---
They cannot---must not---check its way!
And there's a cord which love entwines
Unconsciously round kindred hearts,
Which length of absence but refines,
And death alone for ever parts!
Basket of Scraps.
How it is that the female heart, when in love, can more successfully control its affections, at least the display of them, when their object is present, and suing with all his might, for some little symptom of reciprocal fondness---than when he is absent, and cannot witness, and, consequently, cannot enjoy such endearments---I will not stop to explain; and, perhaps, for the very good reason, that I cannot do it to my own satisfaction. But I can state, that after Charles Adderly's departure from the Wilderness, Maria Frazier experienced that she possessed this feminine quality in perfection.
He was not many hours gone, when his image took such full and forcible possession of her mind, that whether she dreamed by night, or meditated by day, that image was still present with her. It haunted her in her rambles, it engrossed her
studies, and disturbed her devotions; and whether she ate, or drank, or walked, or slept, it would never leave her, and what was in all respects as extraordinary, she never wished it to leave her. No, she cherished it fondly in her heart; it was her only care, her only comfort, and her only joy. Though she dared hardly venture to expect that she should ever see him again, yet she felt that without him the Wilderness was cheerless, life insipid, and the world a blank. Her fears that he should never return were great, but they arose not from any doubt respecting the sincerity and unchangeableness of his love for her, but from the numerous perils and obstacles which she knew he must encounter and overcome before he could retrace the dread and savage-haunted wilds that now separated them.
She, however, succeeded tolerably well in concealing these feelings from the observation of all her friends, except Nancy, who, perhaps, on account of being actuated by some feelings of the same kind, for a different object, but one also now at a distance, the more readily suspected her sister; or, if it be true, that the pangs of love are always relieved by being poured into the ear of a confidant, Maria may have voluntarily intrusted her with her secret.
With respect to Nancy's own case, Dr. Killbreath had found means during his short abode with her, not only to convince her that she possessed his heart, but also to obtain possession of hers. In consequence of this, although the feeling with which she remembered the doctor was not so very deep and acute as that with which Maria remembered Charles, yet it was sufficient to make her sympathize so sincerely with her sister, as induced the latter to confide her sorrows, and her love, to her secresy. Nancy returned the
favour by a reciprocal confidence, which, perhaps, did more to keep alive the doctor's interest in her heart, by occasionally affording her opportunities to talk of him, than any impression his addresses while with her had made.
Maria's affection for Charles Adderly did not require any such stimulus of conversation to preserve it, during his absence, from decay. It was an affection which no time nor distance could diminish, for it was planted in a mind as constant, tender, sincere, and unchangeable in its attachments, as any woman ever possessed. It might, perhaps, be for this reason, that, although she felt more acutely, she talked less freely, on the subject of her feelings than Nancy. Nay, sometimes she felt more enjoyment in meditating alone upon her lover's perfections, as they appeared to her imagination, than in conversing about them. But often the disposition would vary, and she would feel great satisfaction in being able to interchange ideas concerning him with a friend and sister, of whose perseverance in secresy she was fully confident.
Upwards of four months passed on in this manner, and Maria had not heard from her lover, for Paddy had not yet returned from Philadelphia, and she was becoming very uneasy to ascertain his safety.
"Surely, thought she, if they had reached Philadelphia alive, Paddy would have been returned before now, and I should have heard of Charles. The Indians, alas! hated him---they may have taken him---they may have put him to death---a cruel death---when Tonnaleuka could not be near to save him. It is true the prophet has discovered that the mauraders were disa pointed in their attempt near the Laurel Hill---but they may have succeeded elsewhere, for it was a long
Wilderness they had to traverse. Heaven grant that my fears may be unfounded!"
At length, to the great joy of all Frazier's family, Paddy arrived, accompanied by Dr. Killbreath, whose desire to revisit Nancy had rendered him easily persuaded to join her brother in trading with the Indians. They, therefore, brought with them in partnership a large and valuable assortment of goods, not only suited for the Indians, but also for the French, with whom Paddy was desirous to open a trade, because he expected that it would be lucrative, and that it might be the means of preserving their friendship, which he was very anxious to preserve, since they were now become the lords of the forest. As to the danger the doctor was in of falling again into their hands, he believed that it could be easily removed, by a present to the commandant at Le Boeuf, with a declaration that the doctor wished to settle as a trader in the Wilderness under the French protection.
Near the North Mountain they met with several Indians who would, no doubt, have attacked and plundered, and perhaps, massacred them, had some of them not known Paddy, who speaking their language freely, managed matters so well with them, that they agreed, for a present of a few blankets and some trinkets, to escort him home.
If Nancy was rejoiced to see her dear doctor come back again, he was no less so to find himself once more safe under her father's roof, with the prospect of being permitted to remain there unmolested by either the French or Indians.
But the great source of Maria's joy was the assurance she now had of her lover's safety. He had transmitted to her a present of various books of late publication, such as the works of Pope, Thomson, Addison, and others, which he knew she had not seen, and was desirous to peruse. There
were also other presents of considerable value, as jewelry, dress, &c. which need not be particularized. These had been intrusted to the care of Doctor Killbreath, who punctually obeyed his instructions by handing them to her in private. But the gift which afforded her by far the greatest pleasure, was a packet of letters written by her Charles's own hand.
In these letters he assured her of the unabated fervour of his love, which rendered him extremely anxious to return to the Wilderness, to be once more in her presence. "Duties of a very imperious nature,[sic] he said, compelled him to remain a few months longer in Philadelphia, but he trusted that during the summer he should be able to gratify the most ardent desire of his heart, by visiting her. In the mean time, he exhorted---he conjured her, to constancy and perseverance in cherishing that affection which it was his only consolation to know she bore for him."[sic]
But, reader, you have, no doubt read many a love letter, and many, perhaps you have yourself both written and received. To detain you, therefore, with a recital of the sentiments contained in those of Charles Adderly, for the sentimental parts of all love letters, which are always the nine tenths of their contents, are very much alike, would be no treat. But as love had made him something of a poet, and he had enclosed a few verses in one of these letters in praise of his fair one, (a thing which every writer of love letters cannot do,) I shall take the liberty of submitting them to your perusal. These verses although far from being of first-rate excellence, are at least no worse than the rhymes which many a love-sick gentleman has thought proper to string together in compliment to his mistress. But be they good or bad, since Charles Adderly wrote them, I think I may be permitted to print them.
To Maria.
Maria! nature's loveliest child, Sweet floweret of the fragrant wild! When first you met my ravish'd eyes, How leapt my bosom with surprise, To find that, in the desert waste, Nature, with careless hand, had plac'd The loveliest plant that ever grew, To warm the heart, and charm the view! Ah! few, but happy were those days, When on your charms I sat to gaze;--- With heart enraptur'd at the sight, I sigh'd with passionate delight. For ne'er could I believe before That woman had such charms in store, As so to bind the captive soul, In passion's chains beyond control! May fortune bear me soon again, To where you tread the sylvan reign; Where, blest once more, I'll view your charms, Feel the sweet pressure of your arms, As through your native woods we rove, And give our hearts and souls to love: Till then, my only thought thou'lt be; Then think of me---and none but me!
The summer months passed without any remarkable occurrence happening to affect the fortunes of Maria. Her habits of household rural employments were attended to as usual, but her secret thoughts were altogether occupied with the idea of him who loved her so warmly and tenderly, and whom she did not now affect to conceal from herself, she loved with equal warmth and tenderness The perusal of the books, but more particularly the letters he had sent her, occupied the chief portion of her leisure hours; and on some occasions, but not often, she would indulge her feelings by talking about him to her sister. On such occasions, however she still took care not to dwell long upon the dangerous subject, lest she
might express herself more ardently in his favour, than her delicate views of propriety would altogether warrant.
It was one beautiful evening in November 1753, the Indian summer being then in all its glory and sweetness, that these two young women walked upon the bank of the Monongahela. Charles Adderly, Dr. Killbreath, and some Indian transactions, were the chief topics of their conversation.
"I am not sure whether I could wish Mr. Adderly to visit us this fall or not," observed Maria--- "the French dislike him so much, that they might instigate the savages to his destruction. Oh, Nancy! what a barbarous and blood-thirsty people we live among?"
"I can say but little," replied Nancy, "in favour of the Indians when they go out to war, or when they take prisoners, for Dr. Killbreath says that they have then little mercy on men, women, or children. But I think Mr. Adderly could be here long enough without their knowledge; and Tonnaleuka, you know, could protect him."
"Tonnaleuka cannot be every where," said Maria. "He has often to be at a distance among the contending tribes, giving them counsel, and settling their disputes. And the Indians are far more exasperated this season against the English, than they ever were before. But it is before he arrives here, that danger is chiefly to be dreaded. If the savages find him crossing any of the mountains, alas! I fear his destruction will be inevitable. I am sometimes tempted to pray that he may not venture to come, at least until these outrageous times be past."
"Truly," observed Nancy, "it would be better that he should not attempt to visit you, than that he should be killed. But both Paddy and Dr. Killbreath say, that the white people would have no
occasion to fear so much from the Indians, if they would only treat them kindly, and not attempt to cheat them, or wrest their lands from them, as they do."
"But Charles Adderly never cheated them," replied Maria, "nor had he taken any land from them by force when they attacked him last year, and were going to sacrifice him. Ah! I fear much for him, for the French now hate him thoroughly; and from their hatred there is less chance by far, of escaping than from that of the Indians."
"It is hard to say," returned Nancy, "whether he would consent to do what Dr. Killbreath has done; make friends of the French, and live here under their protection. If he would do this, I think all would be safe, and---"
"No!" exclaimed Maria---"Charles Adderly never will stoop to such a thing. I know him to be too dignified in his sentiments for that. He considers the French the enemies of his country, and from such he never will crave protection.--- Alas! no, if he come at all, it will be either privately, or publicly as their enemy; for the savages and they, I fear, have latterly carried their ravages into the English settlements too ferociously and destructively, not to have made every one of that nation their enemy."
"Why, that cannot be!" observed Nancy, "for Dr. Killbreath is English, and he now lives here with us as the friend of the French."
"The doctor's love for you," returned Maria, "has induced him in this affair, I am persuaded, to act contrary both to his inclination and judgment. He has become an exception to the conduct that all the rest of his nation will adopt, which I know Charles Adderly will never become."
"I'm sure you know," said Nancy, "that Mr. Adderly is as much in love, and as desirous to live
here, as Dr. Killbreath; and why shouldn't he as well as the doctor prefer love to politics?"
"Because," said Maria, "it would be preferring private interest to public duty, which Charles never will do."
"La! now," cried Nancy, "I cannot believe that you think so. Don't you suppose that Mr. Adderly would prefer you to all the French, and all the Indians, and all the English into the bargain, in the world?"
"I have no right," said Maria, "to suppose any such thing. Nay, if he did so, it would be very wrong, and I do not think I should esteem him so much if I thought him capable of it."
"Now surely," returned Nancy, with a look of incredulity, "you cannot be serious. What harm has Dr. Killbreath done by making friends of the French? and sure I must like him the better for doing it on my account, and I am persuaded, that if Mr. Adderly's love for you would so far overcome his dislike to them, you could not be displeased."
"You are much mistaken in your opinion of me," said Maria, "if you believe so. A strict adherence to principles and duty, I shall for ever admire; and I shall the more admire it, that it is accomplished in opposition to self interest and personal advantage; for the more difficult the performance of virtuous actions is, the greater must be their merit, and the higher should be the approbation afforded them."
"Then you do not think that Dr. Killbreath has done right?" observed Nancy.
"I do not undertake to judge the doctor," returned Maria. "Duties are, perhaps, like almost every thing else, in the strictness of their obligation, capable of being modified by circumstances. What may be imperiously incumbent upon one
man to perform, may be less so, or even not at all so, upon another; and the same man may, in different circumstances, feel himself bound to act differently in respect to a general duty, if he wants to act right. Dr. Killbreath in making peace with the French, even while they are making war with his countrymen, may have no design to injure the latter; on the contrary, he may thereby have it in his power to serve some of them. But Charles Adderly has higher responsibilities to bear. He has been already employed as a leader, and his countrymen must expect more from him than from many others. But Nancy, to cut short the discussion, I am convinced that, in the present times, no temptation will induce Charles, even in appearance, and I believe that it is only in appearance that Dr. Killbreath has done so, to court favour from the French."
"I know," said Nancy, "that the doctor don't like them in his heart; for when he heard of them sending the Wiandots on their late Blue Ridge excursion, [sic]"it will be a murderous affair,"[sic] said he--- [sic]"I wish to God the Virginians may give them a thorough defeat!"[sic]
"It is, indeed, shocking to think of these doings," returned Maria: "what cruel hearts those men must have, that can engage in them! I fear they will not give over until the English are excited to retaliation; and then, alas! what a terrible state of things may we not expect to witness in this country! But I hope Providence will avert the calamity. My heart sickens to think of it. How different from that secure and peaceful state of society, which the delightful author I have in my hand describes! Let us sit down, Nancy, and I shall read for you the heart-cheering picture of love, peace, and virtue, which the beautiful tale of Palemon and Lavinia exhibits; it will drive away
the disagreeable reflections which the contemplation of those sanguinary horrors, of which we have been talking, have excited."
They sat down beneath a tree which grew on a shelving portion of the bank, and Nancy listened with great earnestness, while Maria read with an audible and sweet voice, and with a tenderness and pathos of manner which shewed that her whole soul was enrapt with the delightful strains in which the poet of the Seasons has told his sweetest tale. She had just pronounced the following exquisite lines,--- "He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd---"When Nancy, happening to direct her attention a little to one side, perceived a white man leaning against a tree scarce two yards distant. She immediately started to her feet in surprise, crying out---
"Oh, Maria! here is a white stranger!"
Maria arose, considerably startled, and the stranger approached, with mildness, benevolence, and admiration strongly expressed in his countenance.
"Ladies!" said he, "I must ask pardon for my delay in addressing you. But how could I interrupt the noble exercise, the refined enjoyment in which I found you engaged! And in such a place too---so unexpectedly! I have traversed the wilderness nearly two hundred miles without seeing a white woman; and here to discover such as you and so employed! Ladies---forgive me, if I say my delight is equal to my astonishment!"
"Sir!" replied Maria---"we meet in this wilderness with so few gentlemen like you, that, if we have on our part manifested any symptoms of childish surprise at seeing you, we presume that you have discernment and candour enough to
ascribe it to its true cause---our peculiarly secluded condition; for these woods, that river, and the sky above us, are the utmost extent and variety of external nature that we have seen since our birth.--- But our father lives near at hand; he always makes the sojourner in the forest welcome. If you have no objection, we will lead you to his house."
"Is your father's name Frazier?" asked the stranger.
"It is, sir," was the reply.
"I was informed that his residence is about this place, and was just in search of it, when I perceived you," he answered.
An idea now crossed Maria's thoughts, which made her change colour, and embarrassed her manner more then even the sudden appearance of the stranger.
"He may be from Philadelphia---he may have news for me (thought she);---but I dare not ask him;"---and she unconsciously heaved a sigh, which was not unobserved by the penetrating stranger, whose eye, indeed, since he first saw her, had, in spite of all his efforts, been kept steadily fixed upon her. He would fain at this moment have inquired into the cause of her slight agitation, but his delicacy, and an agitation which he himself felt, keener, perhaps, than even Maria's, prevented him, and they went towards the house in silence. A few minutes brought them to the lane, where they met Gilbert; and Maria becoming soon satisfied, from their conversation, that the stranger was not from Philadelphia, the fluttering of her bosom gradually subsided.
"That, sir, is my father," said she, as Gilbert approached. He soon saluted the stranger with a friendly welcome, who cordially shook his hand, saying,
"I have heard of you, Mr. Frazier, and was directed to take your house on my way to Fort Le Boeuf, where I am proceeding on public business, by the order of the Governor of Virginia."
The high respect with which the stranger's first appearance had impressed Gilbert, was, of course, nothing diminished by this intelligence.
"Ay, ay! Indian business, na doot," said he; "I wonner the Governor did na lang ere this, send to inquire after thir things; for there hae been unco fearfu' an' troublesome doings lately. I hope noo, howsomever, that ye'll get it a' settled. But come in, come in---I wish I could accommodate ye better; but amang thir woods, ye ken, it's no like lievin' in a christian country."
"Your kindness will far more than compensate for any deficiency of accommodation---George Washington, for such, Mr. Frazier, is my name, will never be fastidious in this respect. If he has not yet learned, he hopes he will learn, how to bear hardships when the public service requires them. In the mean time, to men who have, for several nights past, lodged in the open woods, the shelter of your roof will be a luxury; for I am not, you will suppose, traversing this wilderness without assistants and guides."
"And whar are yere men?" inquired Gilbert; "I'll send for them, an' try wi' heart an' gude wull, to mak' ye a' welcome."
"I left them about a mile up the river, where they halted to refresh themselves, while, with my rifle in my hand, I kept on our course before them."
"Your rifle!" said Gilbert, seeing none in Washington's possession; "an' whar is it?"
"It is at the foot of a walnut tree, not far from the place where I met your daughters; for on perceiving them, I feared to alarm them by
appearing armed in their presence, and dropped it there."
"I'll send my sin Archy to bring your men doon the river," said Gilbert. "He'll likely fin' the rifle on his way. But come yoursel' into the hoose, Mr. Washington, an' the women will hae something comfortable for you, belyve."
"I think I had myself better go back for the rifle," said Washington; "I can from thence call my men together. It will save your son unnecessary trouble."
He accordingly retraced his steps as far back as the walnut tree, where he sounded a horn, as a signal for his company to come on, which was immediately answered from no great distance.--- Archy, who, by his father's order, followed after him, overtook him at that crisis, and was informed that he need proceed no further, for his companions would be present in a few minutes.
"I'll push on, if ye please, sir," said Archy; "the sight of a white man in thir woods, since the Indians have frightened away the traders, is a pleasure we canna get every day.
So saying, he hastened onwards, and Washington returned to the house, desirous again to behold the most beautiful and interesting female he had ever seen.
He came to the cot of the wild mountaineer,
And gladly its inmates receiv'd him:
He came with a tale which he told without fear,
And freely and well they believ'd him;
--- He came with a heart that was blithesome and gay,
And he wot not of love that could bind him,
But when from that cottage he went far away,
He left his gay heart there behind him.
Basket of Scraps.
Maria, who now knew the quality and errand of the new visiter, received him, on his entering the house, with none of that embarrassment which she had manifested before meeting with her father. Her manner was kind and respectful, but easy, graceful, and dignified. Her guest however, was not so much at ease. He saw before him the most perfect model of female excellence, (and no man ever more ardently admired such excellence,) of which he had ever formed any conception; and he saw this where, of all places in the world, he least expected to see it, and under circumstances the most calculated of any that could easily be imagined, to make an impression on his heart. How could he then, at this moment, feel tamely cool and collected in her presence! No; Washington's heart was made of warmer materials, and his soul composed of more amiable qualities, than to behold, unmoved, so rare a combination of all those charms that form the witchery of woman.
When he was seated with Maria and Nancy in Gilbert's little parlour, and some light refreshment
placed before him, until a more substantial meal could be prepared, Maria observing that he scarcely tasted any thing---
"Mr. Washington," said she, "I should have expected that traversing the woods would have quickened the appetite more than it seems to have done with you. I wish you would use some of this fare. It is indeed rustic, but you will make allowance for it, being the produce of the Wilderness."
"I shall eat, since it will gratify you," he replied, "although I confess I have no appetite just now. Yet think not, Miss Frazier, that it is because these cakes and that metheglin are disagreeable to my taste, that I use them sparingly. No---the choicest viands of city luxury could not be more grateful to me. Ah! I feel, believe me I do, that the very heart of the Wilderness can produce attractions equal, nay, let me say superior, to any I have yet met with in society."
"Sir," said Maria, "there must be a refinement in society, arising from a thousand opportunities and advantages enabling the people to cultivate it, that we do not possess here; nor can it be expected that we should. What means, what instructions, what examples, either to infuse and culture taste, or afford the means of its gratification, can we enjoy among nations of savages, whose only object is to prowl the Wilderness, in search of prey, or alas! too frequently, in search of revenge."
"And yet," said Washington---in this very Wilderness, it appears---forgive me for saying it Miss Frazier---but it is truth; that you have been taught both to relish and discriminate with a truer taste, and sounder judgment, the refinements of life, than the majority of even those women in society who have had the advantages of the best,
tuition. I have met with none of them who could have read with more apparent feeling and enjoyment, than you did to-day, the delightful tale of the lovely, the modest Lavinia, who, like yourself, was the child of seclusion; and who, like yourself, possessed as much, perhaps, more real taste and refinement, than if she had been brought up in courts. I must confess, Miss Frazier, that from my first perusal of Lavinia's tale, which was in my boyhood, I have been more enamoured of the idea my fancy formed of her attractions and virtues, than I ever was with those of any other woman; and until---"
He was here interrupted by the arrival of his party, whom Gilbert with great animation and satisfaction, introduced into the apartment.
"I am glad," said Gilbert, when he had them all seated, "to see sae many christians in my hoose, an' speakin' sae as I can understand. It's like getting bock to the world again."
"And I," said Mr. Vanbraam, who was to be Washington's interpreter with the French, "I am heartily glad, after wandering ten or twelve days as we have done, without seeing a house at all, once more to get the walls of one round my sides. So, Mr. Frazier, we have cancelled obligations in this respect, I think."
"I wish we could only cancel the debt of mischief we owe the French, and their red allies as easily," said one Gist, who had acted as guide to the party through the Wilderness. Mr. Frazier, I have often heard the trader's talk of your living down here, and many a time I wondered at your hardihood, and cannot guess how you have escaped so long, unless it be by the aid of the Mingo prophet, or conjurer, that they talk about, as protecting you. It's nation curious, Mr. Frazier."
"It is, indeed, remarkable," observed Washington, "that amidst all their depredations and barbarities of late, the Indians should have permitted a family so very much in their power, and belonging to the nation they so much hate, to remain so long unmolested. You must assuredly, Mr. Frazier, have some uncommon means of conciliating them?"
"I canna say," replied Gilbert, "that I hae ever used muckle means to please them, but I aye tak' care no to offend them. I hae never yet cheated or affronted any o' them, as the traders hae often done."
"I believe," said Washington, "that the injudicious and unnecessary haughtiness, and, perhaps, in many instances, fraudulent conduct of our own people, have been the means of provoking these sons of the forest, to resentment and cruelties against us, that they would not otherwise have displayed. It would be wise and fortunate, Mr. Frazier, if all our back-settlers and traders, would act so inoffensively towards them as you have done. The intrigues of French jealousy and ambition, would not then be so fatally successful as they now are, in stirring them up against us."
"Surely," observed Gist, "you can't 'spose it a sin of much heinousness to take from the enemies of the Lord whatever we can get, and in any how we can get it. These savages are heathens, the Lord's enemies. I expect, and I guess you remember the story of the children of Israel despoiling the Egyptians by borrowing, without returning, according to the command of the Lord."
"But we have no command of the kind," said Washington, "to treat the Indians so; and, Mr. Gist, although you have been a trader among their tribes, I hope, as you were not placed in exactly the same circumstances as the Israelites, you did not feel
bound to imitate their manner of despoiling the Egyptians, who, you will recollect, had been long their tyrannical task-masters."
"Ye're vera right, sir," observed Gilbert---"the Testament says, that the labourer is worthy o' his hire, an' as the Egyptians would na' wi' their ain will gie the Israelites their lawfu' wages, which could na' be ta'en by force, they could na do better than tak' it by craft---an' since the prophet o' the Lord bade it, it could na be a sin, ye ken."
"We han't any express command," said Gist, "to despoil the savages, I grant ye. But are they not heathens, and as wicked, and cursed before the Lord, I guess, as the Egyptians. 'Tarnation to them! han't they plundered, and robbed, and massacred us, if they did not make us slaves!"
"This plundering and massacreing," said Washington, "have, indeed, unhappily taken place; but I fear that they have been sometimes wantonly provoked by the misconduct of our own people. The safety and tranquility of Mr. Frazier here, in the midst of the Indians, is a proof of it."
"He has had the old conjurer, Tonnaleuka, at his back, I guess," said Gist. "Unless the devil had helped him, he couldn't, I expect, have so long escaped his imps, and their tomahawks. They say he's a nation'd curious old fish, that Indian prophet. I guess I shouldn't dislike much, to see whether he has a cloven foot, like his daddy."
"You may examine instantly, thou son of levity," said a solemn and awful voice, which made the blood almost freeze in the heart of the startled and terrified Gist, at the same time, the majestic and hallowed looking figure of Tonnaleuka stood before him, with one leg advanced, as if to invite inspection.
"Look here," continued the prophet, "is there any mark of an evil spirit here? Examine me, all. Is there any such mark about me? Where comest thou from, thou mocker of sacred things? Thou perverter of sacred oracles! Hear me---I will tell you---for I have been in your land. Is it not called the land of puritanism? Upon the river Connecticut, do ye not call yourselves the servants of God---the enlightened children of the east?
"Hearken to me, I will tell you what you are, You are the children of mammon, the followers of lucre, and the victims of witchcraft. It is you that have the cloven foot. When upon the shores of the Concord, and the Merrimack, I saw you sacrifice your sons and your daughters as victims to the spirit of evil, to the angel of darkness, as your priest called him; how did my soul rejoice in the pure religion of my native tribes! How did I congratulate myself that I was none of you! We worship, said I, one Great Spirit who made all men, and desires the sacrifice of none. But these irrational people of the east, worship Lucifer, the deity of gold, and sacrifice to his kindred god, the spirit of darkness, whom they call the author of evil. How preposterous!
"But hear me, son of deceit! thou who wouldst despoil a people more upright and pure than thine own, and think it no crime! Hear me, I can---" At this, Gist, who expected some sudden denunciation, and preternatural infliction of the prophet's wrath, trembled greatly, and turned ghastly pale; which induced Tonnaleuka to assume a look of kindness and forgiveness, with which he thus continued: "Hear me---I am an Indian, and can forbear to be angry when the Great Spirit forbids anger; and for the sake of one here, he who is your leader, whom he hath blessed, whom he hath sworn to lead and guide in the ways of truth,
righteousness, and prosperity, he hath forbidden anger.
"And brother," said he, turning to Washington, "thou blessed of heaven! I will say to thee, thou mayest go on thy way without fear. Thou hast received a spirit of wisdom, and of virtue, to keep thee right, and no one will harm thee; but thou wilt, when thou performest thy errand, return to thy home and thy people, in safety; and from thee they shall learn what to do; and if they hearken to thy words, they will prosper and become a great people.
"Brother, thou hast heard my words."
To this Washington answered:---
"Father---I am glad I have met with you. I have heard of your virtues, and of your influence over the Indians. You know that the object of my mission at present, to the Wilderness, is to effect a reconciliation with those of your nations, who are hostile to us, and to put an end to the intrigues of your French brethren, in exciting them against us.
"Father---I thank you for your good will, and the favourable sentiments you have expressed towards me, and I wish for your aid in accomplishing the pacific object I have in view; an object which I know you must approve.
"Father---My instructions are to visit the French, and to remonstrate with them; for we look upon them as the chief source of our late calamities, and blame them more than we do your people. If we at all lift the hatchet, it will be more to humble them, than to punish the Indians whom they have deceived into the belief that we are their enemies.
"Father! The temper of our red brothers, unless when they are deceived or provoked, I do not believe to be so cruel and malignant as I have
heard reported. You know that they have, during the last summer, done us great injury, by destroying our people and carrying off our property. Hence it was natural we should think them blood-thirsty and inhuman. But they have permitted our friend Frazier to live here in the midst of them in peace, for many years, although he is of our nation. I presume, therefore, that they are not inveterately hostile to us, and that, if they were only well informed as to our intentions towards them, they would be our friends, and withdraw their confidence from those who deceive them.
"Father! you have heard me, and you may believe that we do not wish to be at war with your people."
"Brother," replied Tonnaleuka, "you are a wise man, and know the true interests of your country. I have heard you---I have listened to you with great delight, as I would to the pleasant sound of the summer's breeze, that refreshes the forest when it whistles amidst the leaves of the hazel and the elder bushes---for it is refreshing to hear the words of peace from a white man.
"Brother---our white brother, Frazier, has lived here long; and because he was peaceable we have not disturbed him. The chiefs of thirteen nations have, at different times, smoked the calumet with him, and he has thirteen strings of wampum in his possession---the symbols of amity, and his security from molestation. All your white men might sit in tranquillity and safety, with as little fear and concern for our animosity, as our friend, if they would only conduct themselves as he has done;---for--- hear me, brother, Indians can be kind friends, as assuredly as you have found them to be terrible enemies.
"Brother---hear me---all our tribes have not declared against your nation. Nay---some of them
wish you better than they do the French. The Shannoahs, the Delawares, and the Mingoes, who inhabit these parts, believe the French to be less upright than you, and they have blamed the Ottawas, and the Chippeways, and the Caughnewagoes, and the Wiandots, and the other nations who have lent themselves to your white enemies; for they say,---"who invaded our territories, and built forts among us first? Was it not the French? The English are more numerous and powerful, and yet they have been more moderate, and have kept out of our hunting ground, or else come into it with our permission. We should, therefore, wish the English better than the French."
"Thus, brother, are the Shannoahs, the Delawares, and the Mingoes your friends. You are now among them, and need fear nothing; and as to the hostile tribes, they have, for this season, withdrawn to their huts and their wigwams, and will annoy you no more till the spring; and, if you can persuade the French to be quiet, all will be well; but, brother, the French are not inclined to be so. You have heard my opinions. Receive this wampum in testimony of my friendship. The chief of my tribe, I doubt not, will also give you one.
"Brother---as you are peaceable, may you be prosperous!" So saying, he turned round, and left the apartment.
The impression made on our travellers, by this extraordinary Indian, was a mixture of astonishment and reverence. Washington had before heard of him, as an eccentric man, with some pretensions to the spirit of prophecy, and with just sufficient knowledge of the world and of mankind, to enable him to impose himself upon his barbarous brethren as an inspired person; but he had no idea of that dignity, that wisdom, that elevation
of manner, and commanding potency of language, which scarcely ever failed to effect its purpose with his auditors; and which, consequently, gave him an unbounded influence over many nations of his red brethren.
Washington was extremely desirous to make inquiry of some of Frazier's family, concerning what they knew of the prophet's previous life, and the means by which he had acquired that knowledge of the world which he evidently possessed, in a degree far superior to any thing he had ever expected to find in an Indian. The best qualified person to give him such information, he believed, was Maria; at all events, he felt she would be the most agreeable; and was internally pleased with the idea, that the making such an inquiry would afford him an excellent plea for drawing her into a conversation, perhaps, somewhat of a confidential kind; and which she could have no proper objection to indulge him in extending to a considerable length. She had left the room immediately on the entrance of his companions---he could not, therefore, instantaneously gratify his wishes; but he resolved to seize the first opportunity that offered during the evening for that purpose; and in the meantime, to refrain from asking that information from her father or any other of the family which would be, beyond measure, more sweet and precious when obtained from her lips. The noblest of all poems has informed the world, that our good mother Eve, was actuated by similar feelings towards the man she loved, when she withdrew, while the angel communicated to him the interesting story of the world's creation, in order that she might afterwards enjoy the greater delight of hearing him repeat it. Thus it appears that the effects of love upon the mind did not differ greatly sixty
centuries ago in Paradise, from what they did about sixty years ago in the Wilderness.
As to the observations of the rest of the company concerning Tonnaleuka, when he had withdrawn, they were expressed pretty much as follows:
"By heavens!" said Vanbraam, "that is a strange kind of a man! If it were not against all the rules of Monsieur Bayle's philosophy, I protest I should almost believe him to be really a prophet. He must at least be a soothsayer. Hah, Gist! he gave your yankeeism, with all its shifts and turnings, a complete overset. I never hit a pigeon's crown more fairly with a rifle shot, than he did your witchcraft."
"Tarnation to your rifle, and him too!" cried Gist, rather hysterically, and forcing into his manner an appearance of ease and unconcern, which he really did not feel. "What signifies his gibberish about the Merrimack and the Concord. I guess he wanted to frighten me---but, faith, Elij' Gist ha'nt got so squirrel a heart as to flinch at a pop-gun. But it's nation curious, after all, I expect.---He's an odd fish---and I an't sure whether he mayn't be Satan, or not. His bear-skin moccasins may have hidden his cleft foot."
"Whether his foot be cloven or not," replied Vanbraam, "his sudden appearance, I believe, clove the contents of your cranium, as the philosophers call it, down to the very cella turcica of the learned Voissius; and I doubt the saddle itself has been shattered, for it is plain that your brain has not yet resumed its proper position in it."
"Curse your philosophy, and your Latin!" exclaimed Gist. "You would fire a squib at me too, I guess---but I expect you an't primed enough, Mr. Interpreter! Tarnation to it! but if my head wan't bothered with that conjurer, and your Latin, I could twirl back your jokes till your ears
would ring again, I guess, as easily as I could crack a hazel-nut."
"Ay! and as easily as you lost your wager this morning," replied Vanbraam, "by shooting the squirrel through the tail instead of the head. Pro pudor! Master Aimwell!"
"Pro devil!" cried Gist, considerably nettled; "I tell you, Monsieur---I guess I can aim as well as you---tarnation to you! I'll stake you five guineas, here they are, true spades, I guess, and as good metal as ever had the king's head on them--- down with as many now! Mr. Washington, you'll hold the stakes. I'll shoot for them with any man in the company, except yourself, at a hundred yards distance, through the size of a crown-piece. Vanbraam, I guess now I defy you for the yellow boys."
"Defy me at hitting a mark at a hundred yards! Gist, that you sha'nt," returned the interpreter. "If it were a needle's point instead of a crown piece, I'll take you up. Here is the coin. Mr. Washington will say when and where."
At this moment Mrs. Frazier entered to equip the table for dinner, and Washington observed:
"At present, my friends, this good lady is about furnishing you with other employment, in which, I hope, you will have no objection to engage. To-morrow morning, if you wish to try your skill, you may do it with all my heart; but I would recommend you to do it from a nobler motive than the winning of a wager, I mean the honour of victory. You will, therefore, be pleased, each of you, to take back your money; and let us have to-morrow a friendly contest for the character of the best marksman: I shall myself try a hand in the sport."
"No, sir," said Vanbraam, "I shall not engage to contend with you; Gist is my antagonist."
"Nor I," said Gist; "I guess we would come off devilish losers in that matter. But, sir, I han't no objection you should try the winner."
"As you please," said Washington; "but if the day be suitable for travelling, we must not occupy much of it in amusement."
"We shall only take the best of three hits, sir, and then attend you," said Vanbraam.
Mrs. Frazier's good fare now smoked upon the table, and the party soon applying themselves pretty vigorously to its enjoyment, the conversation was discontinued.
During the repast, Paddy Frazier and Dr. Killbreath arrived from a hunting excursion, and took their seats. The former, after the meal was over, informed Washington that the governor of Le Boeuf was dead, and that an officer named St. Pierre commanded there in his place; that in a few days a council of the chiefs of some tribes, mostly friendly to the English, was to be held at a place called the Loggstown, about thirty miles down the river, and that all the hostile tribes, except the Wiandots and Caughnewagoes, had removed to a considerable distance westward, to spend the winter, with the intention, however, of recommencing in the spring with more than their former force and ferocity their depredations upon the frontiers.
"At the present time," said he, "the only danger your company can have to encounter will arise from the Wiandots and Caughnewagoes, part of whom are yet encamped between this and Le Boeuf, and their chiefs are to attend the council at the Loggstown."
"But on account of the nature of my mission, I have a right," observed Washington, to demand a safe-conduct for my followers from the French, which I suppose those Indians will respect. It is true, the obtaining that safe-conduct may be
attended with difficulty and loss of time. It would not be safe for any of my men to venture singly to the fort for that purpose. It will, therefore, be better to keep together, exert prudence, and trust to Providence for the issue."
"There is a small fortification," returned Paddy, "lately erected at Venango, not much above sixty miles from this place, commanded by a Monsieur Joncaire. Let me see, I think I could be there to-morrow night, for I am well acquainted with the road; and the third day from this, I think, barring accidents, I could meet you at the Loggstown with a safe-conduct. In the meantime, we can start Dr. Killbreath in a canoe to king Shingiss, about twelve miles down the river, with information that you are here. He will afford you all the protection he can, for he is the most steadily attached to the English of any chief in the country."
Washington immediately perceived the propriety of acceding to those proposals; and Paddy, who required no other preparation for the journey than merely to throw on his belts, and a small wallet of provisions, and to see that his rifle was in order, received his instructions, and was off in a few minutes. Dr. Killbreath also set out the same evening in a canoe for king Shingiss' residence. The roads being bad, in order to relieve the horses of part of their burthens, he took a great portion of the baggage with him, which was placed under the care of three of Washington's men, named Stewart, Currin, and McGuire, who accompanied him in the canoe.
It was not till after making these arrangements, that Washington enjoyed the opportunity he so much desired of conversing with Maria on the subject of Tonnaleuka, or, if the reader will have it so, on any subject she might think proper to
permit. At length, various occasions having caused the apartment to be vacated by all except Maria, Nancy, and himself, he addressed them, not, it must be confessed, without feeling some slight agitation at his heart, which, however, he soon overcame.
"Ladies," said he, "next to the astonishment I felt at first finding you in this Wilderness, my greatest surprise has been to see that it contains so extraordinary a man as Tonnaleuka; the Indians cannot surely be quite destitute of intelligent men, when they have such an instructor."
"I am sorry to say," observed Maria, "that the Indians, although they have often benefited by his counsels, are, universally, through all their tribes, too inveterately attached to their ancient habits, to derive advantage from his instructions; nay, so great is their antipathy to all kinds of knowledge not communicated to them by their ancestors, that whenever he has offered to open to their youth any of the stores of his information, they have uniformly forbidden him; and, I believe, that our family is the only one in the Wilderness in which his benevolent efforts to communicate knowledge to the uninformed mind has been thankfully received."
"Then I see the mystery explained!" exclaimed Washington, almost involuntarily; "no wonder, extraordinary maiden, that your mind is so superior, when with your own fine natural talents you have had such an extraordinary instructor! Pardon me, Miss Frazier, I have, perhaps, said too much; but it is really singular and pleasing to meet with such minds as I have met with here!"
"Sir," said Maria, "I know not what may be the privileges of your sex in society; but, if I may credit the authors I have read, they have always been accustomed to work upon the vanity of ours
by praising our excellence beyond all rational bounds; and, I believe, the daughters of refinement have always permitted them to indulge this display of their good manners at the expense of sincerity, perhaps, because they knew the exact value to place upon it. But as here, in the forest, we have no means of ascertaining this value with equal precision, I think our safest method will be to dispense with the custom altogether, and tolerate, from those who converse with us, only such language as is conformable to truth and nature. I, therefore, wish---"
"Oh, Miss Frazier!" said Washington, interrupting her with considerable emotion, "Oh, believe me, if I have offended your delicacy, it was done involuntarily---and let me say in my own justification, that I never spoke insincerely to flatter either man or woman; and that, concerning you in particular, I have not expressed half---ah! I will not---I dare not express half, what I think your merits---"
"Stop, sir," said she, "I will not impeach your sincerity---I believe you incapable of uttering opinions you know to be unfounded; but in this instance you are perhaps too premature in your conclusions---a little more time, a little more acquaintance, might show your first impressions to be erroneous. I will accuse you, therefore, of nothing but incaution, to which I request that so far as respects your opinion of me you will plead guilty, and let us end the discussion."
"Incautious in expressing that opinion," replied Washington, "I may have been; but certainly not in forming it, for, alas! I cannot resist the evidence of my senses."
"Well then," observed Maria, "let the matter rest so; we esteem each other too highly, I hope, to contend about nice distinctions; you have
acknowledged your want of caution in one particular: this is as much as I can ask for. I have no right to turn your confessor, and require you to inform me of every little foible and mistake into which you may have detected yourself falling. Tonnaleuka's character is a public one, and, therefore, a fair subject of investigation. We began with it, I believe, and if you can animadvert upon it without complimenting mine, I have no objection to join you on the subject; for there is scarcely another in the world that could afford me more satisfaction."
"I am desirous," observed Washington, cautiously avoiding the tempting, but forbidden topic of her praise; "I am desirous to know from what sources this singular man has drawn his uncommonly extensive information. A philosopher---a prophet---and a savage!---how can we reconcile the co-existence in one individual of characters so apparently contradictory to each other?"
But, reader, I have given you enough of this dialogue; during the remainder of which our heroine detailed to Washington all she had learned of the prophet's early life, and opportunities of acquiring knowledge. You, however, know all about this already. I will not, therefore, tease you needlessly by repeating an already-told tale. I shall only mention that, during this conversation, the whole heart and affections of Washington were irreclaimably given up to Maria, and that, although the gratification he enjoyed was great, it was dearly enough purchased by the irretrievable loss of his heart's tranquillity.
There is a high and mystic spell,
With which great minds supremely sway
O'er those of grosser mould;
Whose nameless potency obey---
The coward and the bold, Nor of its source aright the history can tell.---
On human fate in darkest hour,
Its beams of light can fall,
And some its intellectual power,
Before whose dazzling beam they cower,
The might of magic call.
Basket of Scrape.
There is many a fair lady in America, who, I doubt not, will think it a great pity that the illustrious character, who had thus become a captive to Maria's charms, should have been fated to throw away the ardent affections of his manly heart upon one who could not return them. Such a one will regret much, that he had not visited the Wilderness a year sooner, when the probability would have been, that he should then have gained that ascendancy over her feelings which Charles Adderly now possessed. Nay, there will be some inclined to challenge the accuracy of our heroine's taste and discernment, in not, at once, giving the preference to her new lover---whom we know now to have been born to the glorious destiny of establishing a new and triumphant era for the rights and dignities of man! If ever, indeed, a deviation from the rigid line of constancy in love could admit of apology, it would have been in this instance: but Maria Frazier, like the noble-hearted youth who had now become devoted to her, was
resolved never, with her knowledge, to do any thing that should require apology. In justification of her discernment, we will say, that she clearly saw all Washington's merits; and although she could not foresee all his future greatness, she esteemed and respected him as much as if she did. At all events, had he been even then the conqueror of Cornwallis, and the emancipator of half the world, devoted, ardently devoted, as his whole soul was to her, he could not have made her change in her attachment, or waver in her constancy, for Charles Adderly.
But Washington knew not this; nay, he knew not that any one possessed those affections, for which he felt that he could sacrifice every consideration but one to obtain. For to him there was something more dear, more sacred, than the dearest, the sweetest throb that could ever warm his heart, or give pleasure to his existence---more dear than life, more dear than fame---more dear than even that Maria, whose loveliness had enchanted his feelings into a sense of bliss he had never before known---it was his Duty. This was the polar star that guided all his actions---this was the moving spirit within him, to whose dictates he was resolved that every prospect, every feeling, and every wish of his existence, should bend. Had he known the state of Maria's mind, ere he permitted her charms to imprint themselves so deeply on his heart, as almost to attain an irresistible influence over his destiny, it is probable that he would have had resolution enough to have successfully combated against their power, and to have preserved that freedom which he now, almost without a struggle, yielded to their fascination. He did not, however, yield blindly, and without reflection, as many lovers do. He yielded because he conceived it to be his duty, to give up
those youthful affections, which he felt were yet unappropriated, to one whom Providence seemed to have thrown in his way as the most suitable, since she was the most lovely, and he believed the most virtuous of her sex, to whom he could attach himself, and to one of whom he knew that he ought, sooner or later, to unite his fate.
Being now upon important public business which required despatch, he thought it would be wrong to make such a delay at her father's house as would justify him in making a declaration of his feelings, or even attempting to engage her affections by any attentions of such a nature as might have that effect. After his public duty should be performed, and his public functions expired, he would then be master of his own time, and of his own movements, and without obstruction from any duty, he could return to the abode of his Maria, woo her affections, tell her how he loved her, and solicit her to become the wife of his bosom. These were the dreams of love in which this young hero now delighted to indulge; these were the captivating pictures of future felicity, the endearing scenes of domestic bliss, when Maria should be his own, which his fancy loved to form; and amidst all the cares, the dangers, and the toils of the arduous enterprise he had undertaken to conduct, these ideas---these visions of Maria, love and happiness were his solace, his joy, and the bright reward which he hoped would crown all his labours.
Although the emotions of his mind had kept him long sleepless after his retiring to rest, yet he was early awake; and soon had the three companions of his journey who remained with him, namely, Vanbraam, Gist, and one Jenkins, at work, fixing the horses, and preparing to move onwards. Their good host, Gilbert, however, thought it would
never do to let them depart without breakfast; and he pleaded so hard that they should delay till it was prepared, that he gained his point, and Nelly put it in a state of forwardness.
In the meantime, according to their agreement the preceding night, Vanbraam and Gist, tried the accuracy of their rifles, and the steadiness of their eyes, upon a mark at a hundred yards distance, which each pierced so dexterously that it was difficult for Washington to allot to either the victory. The distance was enlarged to one hundred and fifty yards, when, after several trials, Vanbraam gained a slight advantage, and Gist was obliged, though with great reluctance, to relinquish the contest.
At length, they set forward, and Washington for the first time in his life, felt what it was to separate from the object of a tender love. He heaved an involuntary sigh as he bade her adieu, and although she perceived it, and suspected its cause, (for she was too sagacious to be easily deceived in this matter) she in a very calm, but kindly and respectful manner, wished him a safe and prosperous return from the perils of his undertaking.
"Thank you, Miss Frazier," was all he said; but he mentally added, "Oh! may heaven soon restore me to her lovely presence, and, for her sake, grant peace to the Wilderness she inhabits!"
A few hours brought them to the Shanapin's town. Here, with the eye of a soldier, he beheld the point of land where the Alleghany and Monongahela meet; and was the first person to be struck with the eligibility of the situation for a fort, on which afterwards Du Quesne, and fort Pitt, were successively built. This was in consequence of the French erecting the former of
these fortifications, the spot which soon afterwards became the great object of contention between the two most powerful nations in the world, each adopting the opinion of Washington concerning it, as being the position which more than any other westward of the Alleghany mountains, was calculated to give its possessors the command of the largest portion of country.
Having spent some time in estimating the height of the banks, and the breadth of the rivers at this place, he accompanied Shingiss, king of the Delawares, who had here met him with ten or twelve of his warriors, to his residence, situated about two miles farther down the river, upon the bank of Chartier's creek, and near the place where Charles Adderly had been defeated. Here he found that doctor Killbreath's party and the baggage, had arrived safe. It was near the evening, when he reached this place, but as he was desirous to view the ground on which our hero's disasters had taken place, Shingiss accompanied him to the spot, with doctor Killbreath, who having acquired a considerable knowledge of the Indian language, acted as his interpreter.
Here he saw the remains of the hasty fortification that Charles had attempted to construct, and perceived some of its logs yet stained with the blood of several of those who fell in defending it. Shingiss also pointed out to him the spot where Charles slew the young Indian chief, Carrawissa, and gave him an account of the desperate encounter between them, of which he said he was an eye-witness, in such terms as raised Charles's heroism to a considerable height in the opinion of Washington; and, indeed, the whole of what he heard and saw, impressed him with a very exalted idea of his character, both as a man and a soldier.
The Indian mode of fighting, described to him on this occasion, by skulking and keeping up an irregular fire from behind trees, or from ambuscades, forcibly struck his mind as being the only one suited for that woody country, and the only one by which its red warriors could be successfully combated. He perceived, therefore, that Charles Adderly, had, in a military point of view, committed a great error in attempting to defend such a frail fortification, when the thickness of the forest offered his men, in every direction, infinitely securer covers for defence, as well as more eligible points from which to attack. He conceived that he ought to have ordered them to screen themselves in the woods as soon as the assailants appeared, and from behind trees or ravines, to take off by a sure and steady fire, any enemy that should approach them.
The next morning, in company with Shingiss, and a few of his warriors, Washington, and his whole party proceeded to the Loggstown, which was about sixteen miles farther westward. Here a number of the chiefs had already assembled, among whom he distributed the presents he had brought from Virginia, for that purpose. These presents were received graciously, and Washington was assured, that he had nothing to fear for his party, as all the chiefs present wished to be on friendly terms with the English. A large wigwam was constructed for him and his men, around which, some of Shingiss' warriors assisted in keeping guard, for fear of any surprise during the night.
The next morning, several other chiefs, and sachems, among whom were those of the Wiandots, and Caughnewagoes, who were hostile to the English, arrived. These hostile chiefs, however, on being informed that Washington had come to
the council for the purpose of making peace with the French Indians, after which, he was to proceed to Le Boeuf, to make peace with the French themselves, accepted of his presents, and promised to listen to his proposals without molesting him.
A council feast was now prepared, at which Washington and his party, were invited to partake; after which, all the chiefs smoked the calumet with him, except those of the hostile tribes, who said that they could not do so until they knew the terms of peace he should offer; and until their allies, the French, had accepted of them, and ratified a treaty.
At length, the council was organised, and Kustaloga, the chief sachem of the Mingoes, being declared its president, he addressed Washington as follows:
"Brother---You are welcome to our assembly. Our father, the governor of Virginia, has shown his wisdom in sending you to make peace with the red nations, and their white allies. I shall rejoice when I hear that you have prevailed on them to bury the hatchet, and, as you are a prudent man, I doubt not that you will be successful.
"Brother---For my part, I have been always friendly to your nation. I did not approve of the French building forts in our country, without our consent. But, brother, hear me. I will speak my mind freely, concerning both your nation, and that of the French.
"There was a time---brother you cannot deny it---when neither the French nor you, made any pretensions to our lands, nor disturbed us with your disputes. We then lived in peace, where our fathers had lived, for more than a hundred generations, and every man hunted the deer and
the buffalo, without danger from the encroachments and attacks of strangers.
"At what time, brother, either you or the French obtained a right to our lands, I cannot tell; but I believe never. If you were then, honest men, you would withdraw into your own bounds, and not attempt to usurp our property. Is not this right?
"Brother, I have not heard so much complaint against your nation as against the French. I have, therefore, generally sided with you, although many of us think that if you were not afraid of the French, you would encroach upon us as much as they have done; and, as to the enemies you have among our red brothers, they say that your people to the east, in New-England, have been more bitter against us than even the French were. This may be true, but you yourself no doubt know whether or not.
"But, attend me, brother, I do not like the French; I speak with sincerity; and I say it, although the Wiandots and the Caughnewagoes, their allies, hear me. But the French themselves know it.
[1]
"Brother, listen to what I told the French commanders lately at Le Boeuf, when I was sent by my tribe and the Delawares to dismiss them off our land.
"Fathers! said I, I am come to tell you your own speeches; what your own mouths have declared. Fathers! you in former days set a silver basin before us, wherein there was the leg of a beaver, and desired all nations to come and eat of it, to eat in peace and plenty, and not be churlish to one another.
"Now, fathers, by the edge of this dish I lay
down a rod, that if any person be found to be a disturber, you may scourge him therewith, and even if I should get foolish in my old days, I desire you not to spare me. And if you should be in fault, fathers, should not the rod in justice be used upon you as well as upon others?
"Now, fathers, it is you who are the disturbers in this land, by coming and building your towns in it, and taking it away unknown to us, and by force. Now is it not you who should bear the infliction of this rod?
"Fathers, we kindled a fire a long time ago, at a place called Montreal, where we desired you to stay, and not come and intrude upon our land. I now desire that you may despatch back to that place, for be it known unto you, fathers, that this is our land, and not yours.
"Fathers---I desire you may hear me in civilness. If not, we must handle that rod which was laid down for the use of the unruly. If you had come in a peaceable manner like our brothers, the English, we would not have been against your trading with us as they do. But to come, fathers! and build houses upon our land, and to take it by force, is what we cannot submit to.
"Fathers---both you and the English are white--- we live in a country between you, and the land belongs to neither of you. But the Great Being above allowed it to be a place of residence for us; so fathers, I desire you to withdraw, as I have done our brothers, the English---for we will keep you at arm's length. I lay this down as a trial for you both, to see which will have the greatest regard for it, and that side we will stand by, and make equal sharers with us. Our brothers, the English, have heard this, and I now come to tell it to you---for I am not afraid to discharge you off this land.
"I then gave him back his wampum, that our friendship might be at an end.
"Hear me, brother---you will see why I dislike the French---Their general made me this reply.
"Now, my child, I have heard your speech. You spoke first, but it is my time to speak now. Where is my wampum that you took away, with the marks of towns in it? This wampum I do not know, which you now give me to discharge me off the land. But you need not have put yourself to the trouble, for I will not mind it. I am not afraid of flies or musquitoes, and Indians are no better than these. I tell you, down that river I will go, and build there as I have been ordered. If the river was blocked up, I have forces sufficient to burst it open, and to tread under my feet all who oppose me, together with their allies; for my force is as the sand upon the sea-shore. Therefore, here is your wampum---I fling it at you.
"Child! you talk foolishly. You say, that this land is yours, but there is not so much as the black of my nail of it yours. It is my land, and I will have it; let who will say against it. You may buy and sell with the English, as you please---but the land shall be mine. If your people will be ruled by me, they may expect kindness, but not otherwise."
I then asked him what he had done with the English prisoners that the Chippeways had taken last year. He replied,
"Child, do not concern yourself about this matter. You think it a great hardship that we took those people. But we sent them to Canada to inform the governor of what the English intend against us.
"Brother, I have told you all. Take this wampum and let me hear you."
Washington received the wampum and replied---
"Brother---I am glad to meet my brothers here in council. I thank you for this wampum, and for the good-will you have manifested for my nation. I have been ordered by your brother, the governor of Virginia, to acquaint you, that I must proceed, with all possible despatch, to visit the French commandant, and to deliver to him a letter of very great importance to your brothers, the English; and, I believe, also to you, their friends and allies.
"I was desired, by your brother, the Governor, to call upon you, the sachems of the nations, to inform you of my errand, and to ask your advice and assistance how to proceed by the best and nearest road to the French. You see, brother, I have got thus far on my journey.
"His honour also desired me to apply to you for provisions, and for some of your young men to conduct us on our way, and to be a safe-guard against the French Indians, who have taken up the hatchet against us. I have spoken thus particularly to you, brothers, because his honour the Governor wishes to treat you as his friends and allies, and holds you in great esteem.
"To confirm what I have said, I give you this string of wampum."*
Massakeukas, the chief of the Wiandots, now addressed the presiding sachem.
"Brother---if you will hear one who speaks plainly---one who flatters no person, you will attend to me. I approve not of these proceedings; this low submission to an English emissary who is sent here to sow dissention between us and our French allies.
"Brother---did you think I would listen to your abuse of my friends, and not rise to reply? I knew the French commandant---he is now dead. I heard so but yesterday, and while his memory is
yet green in my mind, I will not hear it traduced, unanswered.
"Brother! He was a man of truth. He often told me that the designs of the English were to engross the west, as they have already engrossed the east, for their people. I believed him; for I have seen enough of the English on the banks of the Genessee and the Mohawk not to know their intentions against us.
"Brother---the general no doubt told you the same. Why did you not believe him? Why will not king Shingiss nor queen Alliquippa believe him? Because your minds are full of the stories of the English traders who come down the river. And who are those English traders? What kind of men are they? Are they not spies upon our country? Have you not found them out, and have you not often acknowledged them to be cheats, impostors, and liars? Brother, have you ever found truth in any of them! No---I will answer for you; and I will say that sooner will you find the waters of the Ohio flowing back over the Alleghany mountains to mix with the great sea on the east, than find honesty in any of their traders that come among you.
"Brother---I do not think we should grant an escort to send the enemies who are now in our power, in safety to the French. The French are tender-hearted, and will not put them to death. These men will be only burthensome to our allies---who will not thank us for sparing them.
"Let us, therefore, act wisely, and not be timid-hearted in the matter. Let us teach the English to send no more of their emissaries as spies among us, under the pretence of friendship. I know their nation too well not to suspect that there is some treachery in the pretensions of this man---whom, if you do right, and act prudently,
you will, with all his companions, immediately put to death. If not, you will at least, order them to return, at once, to their own homes.
"Brother, you have heard my proposal---is there not wisdom in it?"
This proposal, in its most murderous tendency, was warmly supported by several orators of the Wiandols and the Caughnewagoes---one of the latter of whom fiercely exclaimed---
"What, brothers! when the serpent is in your bosom, will you fondle with him till he sting you! Will you, like children, sport with the glittering of his scales, till he infuses his destructive venom into your hearts, when at a single stroke you might crush him to death, and free yourselves from danger, and the reproach of folly!
"Brothers---Let us sieze these men, and sacrifice them to our wrath. It will gratify our allies--- it will strike terror into our enemies, and save ourselves from many future calamities."
Kustaloga, Shingiss, and their party, opposed these violent councils to the utmost of their power, but as the Shannoah chiefs had not attended the assembly according to expectation, they were likely to be overcome by the weight and fury of the French party. The followers of the latter, therefore, who wished for the destruction of the white men, conceiving that it would be inevitably determined on, attempted to surround them, and beat off the Delawares, who firmly kept their ground as their protectors. A considerable clamour and confusion took place, and blows would, no doubt, have soon been exchanged, the consequence of which would, in all probability, have been the destruction of Washington and his followers, as their enemies appeared far more determined to carry their point, than their friends, when
the approach of the prophet Tonnaleuka was announced.
He hastily entered the area, which might be called the council ring, with fire flashing from his eyes, his hair streaming in the wind, and his hands and his awful wand extended forward, as if he were rushing to arrest the vengeance of heaven ere it burst upon their devoted heads. Silence and order had taken place the moment he was announced, and now all eyes were immoveably fixed upon him, and the boldest in the council perceiving that displeasure and wrath were marked in his countenance, sat aghast and breathless to hear the annunciation of his errand.
"Brothers, brothers!" he exclaimed---"What were ye about to do? Thank the Great Spirit that he has in mercy arrested your impious hands. What! would you destroy the favourite of heaven! would you slay the chosen of Maneto! for, know! short-sighted mortals that ye are, this very man whom ye have denounced, and were going to sacrifice as an impostor and a spy, has been born to fulfil destinies which will benefit all mankind. The whole of this waste wilderness will yet bloom and flourish, in consequence of his great deeds and heroic virtues.
"Shrink, brothers, and shudder at the thought of what you were going to do!---for had you done it, it would have brought a terrible perdition, the unutterable pangs inflicted by the wrath of the Great Spirit upon you. Repent for your intended crime, be thankful for your providential escape. I will pray for you, and you will be forgiven.
"Oh, Maneto!" he cried, directing his looks, and lifting his holy wand towards heaven---"Oh, Maneto! Thou who hast graciously preserved these people from the crime of murdering him whom thou hast selected from among men to
execute the benevolent designs thou hast in view for the world, they repent that they intended it; and they implore thee for forgiveness. Oh! assure us that thou hast forgiven them. What sign shall we ask from thee that they are forgiven? Oh, Maneto! let this be the sign! Shew the enemies of this, thy chosen one, that he is so especially under thy protection, that thou canst turn the hearts of even his worst enemies, in his favour. Let a message come from the French to their allies in this council, ordering them to forbear from injuring him or any of his companions during their present sojourning in this country! Grant this now to take place, oh Maneto! so that all who see it, and all who may hear of it, may see that he is under thy care, and that it will be both impossible for any one to harm him, and criminal to attempt it."
At this moment, to the astonishment and conviction of every one present, Paddy Frazier entered the council ring, with a written paper addressed to the chiefs and warriors of all the nations in alliance with the French, desiring them to "respect, and hold sacred, the person and effects of George Washington, and those of his suite, so that neither shall be in any manner annoyed or injured, while employed in either proceeding on, or returning from their present mission to the officer commanding the fort and forces of his most Christian Majesty at Le Boeuf, on pain of any infringement upon this order being considered as a breach of whatever treaty or treaties may exist between the offender and his most Christian Majesty aforesaid." This document was signed by Le Gardeur de St. Pierre, commanding officer at Le Boeuf.
It may be here mentioned, that Paddy had accidently met this officer at Venango, and obtained from him the above passport without difficulty.
Maskakeukas, and the other hostile chiefs now expressed their sorrow for their rashness, and withdrew all further opposition to the friendly intentions of Shingiss and Kustaloga in favour of Washington.
The council then broke up, and our adventurers remained for the night at Loggstown, enjoying the hospitality of Kustaloga, and the protection of his tribe.
Footnotes
[1]
From this to the asterisk in page 248, is taken nearly verbatim from Washington's Journal of this mission.
Danger is glory's fancied world,
Whose golden sands and amber seas
To dastards are unknown;
Where nevertributary breeze
Their banner has unfurl'd,
And to that wild and brilliant zone,
Which vulgar souls can never know,
The sons of glory call their own,
T'is theirs, and theirs alone to go,
Till through long years of pain and toil,
They reach its shore---they tread its soil;
Then on their native land, its splendours they bestow.
Basket of Scraps.
Several circumstances, chiefly owing to some difficulty which Kustaloga had in finding certain strings of wampum that he wished to return to the French, as an evidence of his withdrawing from all dependence upon them, occurred to detain Washington some days, very much against his inclination, at the Loggstown.
At length, on the last day of November he and his whole party proceeded on their journey, attended by several Indian chiefs in the character of companions, rather than protectors, as it was believed that no protection was at present needed. They took the way to Venango, which was then the nearest French station to the Ohio, and arrived there on the fifth day, without meeting with any thing particularly disagreeable, except bad weather; a circumstance, which formed indeed but a small obstacle to so resolute a mind, and so healthy a frame as Washington's, in the performance of his duty.
Here he was politely received by a Captain Joncaire, who commanded at this station, but who did not possess sufficient authority to treat on the
subject of governor Dinwiddie's letter. From this man, who appears to have been both a free liver, and a free speaker, using wine and oaths in equal abundance, Washington became fully apprised of the intentions of the French, in respect to the country in dispute.
Having become pretty mellow over his cups, while he treated our party with a flowing and jovial hospitality, he told them without reserve that it was the intention of his government to take possession of all the country round the Ohio.
"We are resolved to do it," said he, "and by G---d! we will do it. We know that you English can raise two men for our one, but you're so d---d slow in your motions that you never can make head against us. We hear that some of your families design to settle at Shanapin's town in the spring; but we'll soon pick them up, by heavens, and then to Quebec with them, to ease their consciences of the job!"
[2]
As no business could be done at this place, Washington re-commenced his journey as soon as possible, for the fort at Le Boeuf, to which Joncaire ordered a small party of soldiers to escort him. The fort was about sixty miles distant, and the difficulty of travelling, owing to the excessive rains and snows that had fallen, and the numerous mires and swamps over which they were obliged to pass, in order to avoid the creek, which had become so high and rapid as to render its passage impassable, was so great that they were upwards of four days in reaching it.
The commander at Le Boeuf had very shortly before assumed that station, upon the death of the late general. He received Washington with great complaisance, but declined taking his business into consideration until he should consult the
commander of the neighbouring fort, who was immediately sent for. It was four days before the affair was settled, and an answer to governor Dinwiddie's letter received. This answer, we are informed by the history of the times, was far from being satisfactory, containing no indication whatever on the part of the French, to withdraw from the contested country; but the whole management of Washington in the arduous and hazardous enterprise of thus ascertaining, in an official manner, their real sentiments and intentions, merited and obtained from all classes of his countrymen, the warmest approbation and praise.
Having obtained this document, which was to be decisive of the question of peace or war between the two crowns, he lost no time in commencing his return homewards, as he knew the public mind anxiously waited to learn the result of his enterprise.
The disappointment of his hopes in securing peace to his country, preyed greatly upon his mind, for, unlike the generality of young men possessed of high military ardour, his heart sickened at the contemplation of these calamities, which war, and especially war with savages, never fails to inflict upon humanity. In the present instance, in particular, he could not help feeling an agony of soul at the idea of the evils to which she, whom he loved better than the whole world, would, during the approaching troubles, be peculiarly exposed.
"Oh! may heaven protect her from the calamities with which she will, too soon, be surrounded!" he mentally exclaimed; `alas! that, for her own sake, she would consent to be mine, that I might transplant her to a more secure abode. But if she will not consent, may I have power to watch over her safety, and protect her, even should it be
unknown to herself, from misfortune. Sweet, sweet will be the employment, if I can only make it comport with my public duty. My country, my country! yes, thy welfare must be the first object of my solicitude. Oh Maria! my dearly beloved maiden, forgive me, if even to thine, I prefer my country's happiness. Oh heaven! I feel, alas, that I am scarcely sincere in saying so; but thou wilt pardon my weakness, if I am insincere; for thou knowest that I love that maiden more ardently--- alas! grant that it may not be more ardently than I love my country."
In this state of mind, agitated by both love and patriotism, Washington bade adieu to Le Boeuf, and descended the creek, on the banks of which it was built, in a canoe accompanied by another containing the baggage and two or three of his people, the horses, being almost worn out with fatigue, having been sent, unloaded, under charge of his other companions some days before, to proceed at easy journeys to Shanapin's town, and there await his arrival.
Snow and rain, frost and thaw, had alternately for many days rendered the weather extremely disagreeable, and his passage down the creek, in consequence of its swollen and rapid state, was both dangerous and fatiguing. Several times the canoes were almost staved against rocks; and frequently becoming fixed upon shoals, all hands were obliged to get out and remain in the water for an hour at a time, struggling to drag them over. Often the ice had become solid from shore to shore, and they had either to break their way through it with immense labour, or carry their canoes over land to where they might again float. In all these labours, Washington performed more than double duty, and set an example to his followers, not only of mental perseverance, and
fortitude, but of indefatigible and astonishing personal exertions.
At length, on the sixth day after starting from Le Boeuf, the canoes reached Venango at the confluence of the creek with the Alleghany river. Here meeting with their horses, for weakness, and the badness of the roads, had prevented them from getting any further, Washington thought it prudent to abandon the canoes, lest they should become fixed in the ice, which was now every day threatening to lock up the river. The horses were therefore loaded with as much of the baggage as they could well carry, and every man also with a pack, in order to get along with as little delay as possible. The weakness of the horses, however, rendered their progress so slow, that Washington, impatient once more to see Maria, and forward his despatches, and conscious that there was no use in personally waiting on the slow motions of his party, delegated to Vanbraam the charge of bringing them to Frazier's house, where he intended to remain till they arrived.
He then threw off his usual clothes, wrapped himself in a watch coat, slung a pack upon his back, in which he had secured his necessary papers and provisions, and with his rifle in his hand and a dagger at his side, hastened onwards, accompanied by Paddy Frazier, equipped and armed in a similar manner. They journeyed briskly and boldly amidst woods, through thickets, over morasses, and swollen rivers, and deep ravines, for two days, when they fell in with a party of three French Indians, who had laid an ambush for them. These fired at our travellers when only about twelve yards distant, but miraculously missed them. Paddy immediately killed one of these men, and Washington gave chase to another, whom he soon overtook and made prisoner. This fellow
acknowledged that he had taken a deliberate aim at Washington, and could scarcely believe his senses when he saw that he had missed him, for, he said, "it was the only aim he ever recollected to have taken at six times the distance without striking his object."
Paddy catching at this idea, resolved to work upon the superstitious feelings of the Indian, and boldly asserted that Maneto had made Mr. Washington's body impenetrable to any ball that should ever be fired with gunpowder; and that the Indians might as well aim at one of the stars, with the expectation of piercing it, as at him. As this prisoner was set at liberty the next day, he circulated Paddy's information through all his tribe, from whom it soon spread among the neighbouring nations; and that Washington possessed such a miraculous property is to this day believed by many of them.
Two days after escaping the foregoing peril, they encountered another, from which it required more dexterity, and infinitely greater presence of mind to extricate themselves. They had gained the Alleghany river about two miles above Shanapin's town, nearly opposite to an island, now called Wainright's Island. From the cold they had endured, they expected to find the river so completely frozen, that they would have no trouble in passing over. But instead of this, they found its waters greatly raised, and carrying down, in a rapid stream, large masses of ice, which passed along with so much velocity as to threaten every thing they should encounter with destruction.
Pass the river, however, they knew they must, otherwise the chance was, that they would soon be discovered by bands of the hostile Indians, whom they had every reason to suppose were now pursuing them; and there was no way for it,
but by a raft, to make which they possessed no other tool than one very indifferent hatchet. To men like them, however, no difficulties are insuperable. To work they set, and in something less than a day they had a raft constructed of logs fastened together with hiccory withes, on which they ventured to commit themselves to the flood.
In pushing it across the stream with their poles, they had great difficulty in keeping clear of the large fragments of ice that were rolling down with appalling fury, as if they would dash the frail structure to which they had now committed their safety, to pieces. In defiance of all their efforts, it at length became entangled with a huge mass, which got underneath its edge, and drove it onwards. Washington with his pole made a violent effort to clear it from this mass, by using his whole strength to push it aside, when, unfortunately, the pole slipped from under him, and he fell into the flood in a depth of more than twenty feet of water. He struggled for several minutes with the stream and the blocks of ice that were passing around him, and sometimes over him, but his efforts would have been fruitless, and he would have been lost to a truly bereaved world, had not his companion, with great dexterity and considerable risk, contrived to introduce under his breast one end of his pole, which Washington instantly seizing, drew himself within reach of the raft, and immediately sprung upon it. At that instant it broke asunder, and Paddy Frazier was in a moment under one of its logs in the water. The impulse of the stream, however, soon moved the log from above him, and he arose to the surface; but unable to stem the current with the same strength that Washington had exerted, it was fast driving him away, when his heroic companion, forsaking the log on which he floated, sprang after him, with his pole in his
hand. He fortunately caught him just as the current was carrying him under the edge of a large sheet of ice that jutted out from a point in the island. Here he held him upon the surface, by the assistance of his pole, while he broke away the edge of the ice until it became thick and strong enough to bear his weight. By an astonishing effort of activity he then placed himself on it, and assisted Paddy to follow. In a moment more they were both on the island.
"We are safe now, thank God!" cried Paddy, as soon as he came in contact with the solid earth. "I never got such a cold dip in my life before. But I hope, sir, I didn't hurt you by striking the pole under your breast."
"Thank God, indeed, for such an escape!" said Washington, "it has been truly miraculous; had we missed driving upon that ice, we should have been both lost. As to my breast, there is no injury done. The stroke hurt me a little at the time, but I feel nothing of it now. But I am glad that you have kept your senses so well. I expected that you would have altogether swooned away on reaching the shore; you have really a stout heart, Mr. Frazier."
"Not so stout as you, sir," replied Paddy, "it has undergone but one dipping; had it, like yours, undergone two, I think it would now have been as cold as the ice we have just left. But our difficulties are now over, and I expect we shall be comfortable at my father's fireside in a couple of hours."
"Then let us walk swiftly," said Washington, who indeed longed much to be there. "Brisk exercise will keep us from freezing, in spite of our wetness."
They accordingly hastened onwards, and found no difficulty in getting off the island, as, on its
eastern side it approached very near the land, from which it was then only separated by a narrow and strong bridge of ice.
As they walked fast, and as Paddy knew the best and nearest road, they were seated at his father's fireside in a shorter time than he had predicted. Refreshments, and a change of raiment for each, were soon produced; and Washington, having ascertained that the papers contained in the pack which had been securely fastened to his shoulders, had suffered no damage, felt himself, after the dangers and difficulties he had undergone, more than usually disposed to enjoy---thankfully to enjoy, the happiness of being under the same roof, and in the presence of the sweet mistress of his affections. He had even the satisfaction to hear her express her fervent gratitude to heaven for his escape from the perils that had surrounded him; and he could not help blessing her in his heart, for her sympathy and kindness, and congratulating himself for having excited them in a bosom so pure, so intelligent, so tender, and so lovely.
"Ah!" thought he, "this indeed is happiness worth having suffered something for. Surely she must feel for my welfare an interest warmer than mere friendship could inspire, when she has so little hesitation in expressing it. If, indeed, she were the child of artificial cultivation, I might have some reason to distrust the sincerity of this manifestation of her sympathy for me; but she is altogether the child of nature, and of truth, and I must believe that she feels all, perhaps more than she expresses. At all events, I will indulge the idea of her affection for me, for it is comfort, it is solace, it is happiness!"
Thus it is, that love can blind minds of the most acute and accurate discernment. The very
easiness and freedom from embarrassment, with which the beloved object expresses an interest in our concerns, are often fondly mistaken for marks of passion, when they denote nothing more than friendship and respect; and the smiles of the fair one of our hearts, when only excited by humanity, or politeness, often deceive us into a belief of a reciprocal affection, which only increases our disappointment, when we discover the unhappy mistake.
Washington, indeed, did not, on this occasion, assure himself so fully of the nature of Maria's feelings towards him, as to be without doubt that they were of that tender description, he would fondly have believed; neither did he break through the resolution he had formed, of not at this time making a formal declaration of his own feelings for her, so that he voluntarily deprived himself of the only means he could have of ascertaining hers. But he acted so from motives of delicacy towards her; and also from a wish to make his public duty now the chief, if not the only object of his attention; although he felt that he could not make it so of his solicitude.
The next day this resolution met with a trial of its strength and firmness, to which, had it not been formed in such a mind as Washington's, it must have yielded.
The day, though cold, was considerably more calm and settled than any that had for some weeks preceded it; when, shortly after breakfast, the beloved of his soul invited him to take a walk. Yes, reader---this was temptation! Maria invited him to walk in company with her to Alliquippa's. How did his heart beat at the idea! Did he refuse? No---he could not. But to keep his resolution of not disturbing her with his passion, if it should be in the least disagreeable to her, he was
determined; and he had fortitude enough to withstand any temptation to do at present, what he was conscious could with more propriety be done at another period.
"Sir," said she, as they walked along, "the Indian Queen we are going to visit, has from my infancy, been one of my most disinterested friends, and greatest favourites. She is attached to the cause of your nation, and when she heard of your business at the Loggstown, and at Le Boeuf, she felt a little mortified that you did not visit her on your way to those places. She has conversed with me several times about you, and desired me, as soon as you should return, to accompany you to her residence. I promised I should, and I now go with you in consequence of my word. As I believe you do not speak Indian, I will, if you have no objection, be your interpreter."
"Objection to your being my interpreter! Miss Frazier. My delight will---but pardon me, I must restrain the expression of my feelings---I do not, indeed, speak Indian, and shall, of course, be glad of your assistance. As to this queen, your brother has given me an account of her partiality for our cause; and I should think myself deficient in my duty, if I did not call upon her to pay her my respects, and confirm her favourable sentiments towards us; for I fear we shall soon require as many friends in this quarter, as it is in our power to make."
"I hope," said Maria, "that your people will not push matters to extremity, for war is a shocking calamity; and I trust the Indians will be more guarded for the future, not to provoke your people, since they see you are about to take it up seriously. Indeed, Mr. Washington, if the French had only let them alone, half the excesses they
committed last summer, would not have taken place."
"We blame not the Indians," observed Washington, "so much as the French. The designs of the latter are not perceived by the poor deluded savages. It is their schemes of political ambition and aggrandizement, which will drive us into war. Oh, Maria! ere the nations draw the sword, I wish you were safe out of this Wilderness."
"And why do you wish so?" observed Maria, affecting a tone of simple surprize. "Here live my parents, and to run away from them, you could not suppose either pardonable, or practicable."
"I only speak the simple wish of my heart," returned Washington, "and that too without having any rational or excusable grounds, on which to explain it. The time may come---but pardon me, I will not trouble you with my anticipations. You might not feel them agreeable---and alas, they may never be realized!"
"I do not wish to inquire into any of your views, whether personal or political, that you may desire to conceal," observed Maria. "But that they are all rational, and not only excusable, but laudable, I have confidence enough in your wisdom and integrity, to believe without any explanation. None, therefore, is necessary. But yonder is the queen's residence. She will, I expect, be waiting our arrival."
Her Shannoah majesty received Washington very graciously, although she gave him a slight reprimand for not visiting her, as he had formerly passed so near her residence.
"But brother," said she with a smile, "I suppose you thought a woman's friendship of very little consequence to your nation."
Washington assured her that he had a high respect for her character, and a sincere desire to cultivate her good will on behalf of his countrymen.
"When I before passed this way," said he, "I did not know that your wigwam was so near me; besides, I had not then, as I now have, an interpreter to enable me to converse with you. But as a proof of my regard, I hope, mother, that you will accept of some presents I shall send you, as soon as my baggage, which I expect daily, shall arrive at Mr. Frazier's. In the mean time, receive these few rings, in token of my personal regard, and this string of wampum, as a cement to the amity between you and my nation."
The queen, on her part, presented him with a wampum, thanked him for the rings, and the presents he had promised, and assured him that she had always felt a high regard for his countrymen; and that, on his account, that regard should for the time to come, be still higher. Washington took his leave, and returned to Frazier's with Maria, much pleased with the result of his visit.
Footnotes
[2]
See Washington's Journal.
How dear is the heart-warming throb of delight,
When after long seasons of absence and pain, The maid he adores greets the fond lover's sight,
And close to his bosom he clasps her again. Savelabour.
When they were about midway on their road towards Frazier's, they perceived a company of apparently thirty or forty men, and as many horses laden with baggage, winding slowly down the bank of the river. Washington immediately conjectured them to be a second party which he had heard the Ohio company contemplated sending this season, to make another attempt to take possession of their territory. There was, at least, no doubt of their being English, and Maria and he, somewhat quickened their pace to approach them, which they perceived they could soon do, as the road on which the strangers travelled, joined theirs at no great distance before them.
When Maria had advanced so near as to be able to distinguish their persons, she suddenly stopped, and, by her change of colour, betrayed considerable emotion of mind. She however, recovered instantly, and although Washington had noticed her confusion, he did not consider it any thing extraordinary, as he ascribed it to the timidity natural to so secluded a female, when approaching so large a company of strangers.
"Fear nothing, Miss Frazier," said he---"these are friends, and will offer us no injury."
"I fear nothing," said she, "I know they are friends, and that---" she here suddenly held her peace---as at that instant, she saw that the person who appeared to act as the leader of the company, had perceived them, for he had turned his horse, and was riding swiftly through the brush towards them.
She assumed all her self-command, and said in a low voice to Washington---"This is Mr. Adderly, who commanded the Ohio expedition last year. I am glad that he has arrived before you left us, so that you may become acquainted with each other."
"I am glad of it too, for I have heard much in his praise," replied Washington.
By this time Charles had approached, and alighted from his horse, and Maria, with great effort, assuming the appearance of an unrestrained but composed cordiality of manner, shook him by the hand and welcomed him. She then added,
"This, Mr. Adderly, is my friend---Mr. Washington, from Virginia."
Charles, with an involuntary coldness in his manner, saluted Washington, and drily observed--- "that he should always be glad to meet with any friend of Miss Frazier."
Washington's manner, however, in a moment dispelled this coldness, as with great sincerity and even warmth, he said---
"Mr. Adderly! I am really rejoiced to meet with you, for, by both public and private report, I have had the means of ascertaining the worth of your character; and I trust that, as the affairs of the west have attracted the attention of us both, we will be able to render each other assistance in protecting it from the enemy, and promoting the views of our country in effecting its settlement."
"Mr. Washington!" replied Charles, "the testimony of the public voice in your favour,
since you so gallantly embarked in the arduous mission to Le Boeuf, is too flattering for me to repeat in your presence, but is, in reality, I believe, still short of what you deserve. I shall, indeed, rejoice in your friendship! and now, Miss Frazier, may I ask how it has fared with you---and---and--- your father's family since I saw you. I mean---I mean---no matter," said he, with a smile, for he perceived his own emotion, and hastily threw it off. "How have all your friends been---Nancy--- and Paddy, and Doctor Killbreath?"
"None of us," she replied, "have met with any serious accident; although I must confess that we passed the last summer in great alarm and anxiety on account of the Indian outrages that were committed on the border-settlers."
"But I trust your family has nothing to fear," observed Charles: "Is not Tonnaleuka still your friend?"
"Still as firmly as ever," she replied; "but even he, you know, cannot always control the unruly dispositions of revengeful men."
"Happy would it be for this region if he could!" observed Washington. "The calamities our borders suffered last summer would not then have stained its annals. But, Mr. Adderly, may I ask, what is the object of this present enterprise of which, I presume, you are the leader?"
"I am, indeed, intrusted with its management," replied Charles; "for notwithstanding my former misfortunes, the Ohio Company have ventured again to place confidence in me. They supposed, I believe, that I had learned wisdom by experience; but I confess, Mr. Washington, that if I did not know that the hostile Indians are retired to their winter abodes, I should feel almost as awkwardly fixed with the handful of men, I now have, as I did last year."
"The company ought to have furnished you with a force adequate for the designs they contemplate," returned Washington. "What number of men have you?"
"I have about forty, pretty well furnished with arms and stores, it is true; but if it had not been that I calculated, when I started, upon the season being favourable for our operations, by keeping the great force of our enemies at a distance, I acknowledge, I should not have been willing to venture here with fewer than ten times as many. As to our intentions, they are pretty much the same as they were last year---namely, to take possession of the country in the name of his Britannic Majesty, and on behalf of his good cousins and loving subjects, the Ohio Company."
"You intend, of course, to fortify yourselves?" replied Washington.
"Of course," returned Charles; "and if we can only manage to effect that before the French or Indians attack us, I believe we shall do pretty well; otherwise our success may be the counterpart of last year's. But we have daring hearts and stout hands, few as they are; and we will do our best, and providence may favour us."
"I sincerely pray that it may," said Washington. "But could not the company have raised a stronger force for the occasion?"
"No, sir, it was with difficulty we could collect the followers we have. Few are at present willing to embark personally in a warfare against warlike and barbarous savages, who treat their prisoners with such horrible cruelty; and had it not been supposed that your mission was likely to have the effect of preventing opposition to our measures, at least, from the French, who were at the root of the disasters of the last season, we could not have mustered our present number."
"Have you concluded where to build your fort?" asked Washington.
"Not absolutely," replied Charles; "I am at this time left much to my own discretion in the matter---last year the ground was prescribed to me. If you have examined the country, Mr. Washington, I should be glad to have your advice in this particular."
"For various reasons," replied Washington, "I would prefer the forks at Shanapins to the height at Chartier's creek, where you made your former attempt. But this is too military a subject of conversation to be relished by Miss Frazier. If you have no objection, therefore, to postpone it, I shall, on a more convenient occasion, give you, at full length, my reasons for this opinion."
"I was myself beginning to think," said Charles, "that we had unfortunately fallen upon a subject that could not afford much entertainment to Miss Frazier. I therefore approve of your hint; but shall be glad to hear you upon this matter at any other time that may suit you."
"Gentlemen," observed Maria, "a useful topic of discourse can never be disagreeable to me; and I beg you not to change your subject on my account."
"It would be more becoming at present," said Washington, "to converse on matters on which you can join us; and you cannot but suppose that we feel the impropriety of two young men engrossing to themselves the conversation when there is a lady present."
"When young gentlemen suppose that their gallantry may be doubted," returned Maria, "they may, with propriety enough, be anxious to show it off by their pointed politeness to our sex. But, in the present instance, this anxiety is
unnecessary, for I do not harbour the slightest suspicion against either of you in this respect."
"Your generosity then gives us credit," said Washington, "for what in reality we did not lately appear to possess; and it would be the height of injustice to you if in return for such generosity we should exclude you from our conversation--- nay, let me add, Miss Frazier, it would be cruelty to ourselves."
"I perceive," replied Maria, "that you now want to make up for your supposed deficiency in politeness; but since you are gallant gentlemen, and this is the course of gallantry, I must submit. You may, therefore, go on in a full stream of compliment. I will listen to you."
"You will also forgive us, I trust, Miss Frazier," replied Washington, "if in wishing to pay that respect which we owe to your sex, we express ourselves so that you may wrongfully imagine us insincere; I protest, on my own part, and I think I may with safety say, on the part of Mr. Adderly, that we have neither uttered, nor intend to utter, any thing concerning you but with sincerity. Compliment I beg leave to remind you is often truth; nay, to deny it, is sometimes to deny justice."
"And Miss Frazier, will surely admit," observed Charles, "that in the present instance, we have offered her no more civility than both as a friend and a female she had a right to expect."
At this moment they came up with the Ohio Company's party at the junction of the roads, and Charles had to express the last words of his remark in rather an under voice. He had scarcely finished it, when Peter M`Fall approached Maria with his hat off, and making a low, but very respectful bow, addressed her:
"Now, by the powers! mistress, but I am glad to see you living again; for I thought the savages had killed every soul of a christian in the Wilderness."
"We are not all killed yet, you perceive, Peter," she replied. "But you are welcome back to the woods, and I am really glad to see you looking so well."
"Looking well," returned Peter, raising his frame to an erect attitude, and putting on what he supposed to be one of his most agreeable looks. "Ay, by my troth, and Peter M`Fall was born to look well. Sure, didn't my own mother tell me so when I was no bigger than your knee, may it plase your ladyship."
"I mean that you look healthy, Peter," said Maria.
"Healthy," replied Peter, somewhat disappointed. "And is that all! But by my sowl, I think doctor Killbreath would be a better judge of that than your ladyship. It would be a devilishly different matter as to my looking well. But does your ladyship know whether the doctor be living, or roasted by the Indians yet?"
"He is still living and well," replied Maria, "and I believe is just now to be found at no great distance."
"Then, by the holy piper! I suppose he's at our father's house---I must run to see him;" exclaimed Peter,---"Master, it is only to give me leave for a minute or two, that I may get on before these lazy turf drivers, and shake the doctor's ould bone for him---master, just say the word now, and let me off---a wink will do it."
"There is no use for such haste," said Charles, "you will see the doctor presently."
"Och! now just give me the wink, master," persisted Peter, "my heels are so itchy to run,
and my hand so itchy to shake the doctor's fist for him, that, by my faith! the devil a step can Peter wait longer on the company, that may crawl after after me through the woods as slow as a hangman's march, if they please!"
Peter was about starting off at full speed, for he perceived, or what to him was the same thing, he imagined he perceived, an approving glance twinkle in Charles's eye---when he received a heavy thump upon the shoulder, which made him exclaim---
"Blood and thunder! who's that?" and turning round, he seized Doctor Killbreath in his arms.
"By the holy Bridget! doctor!" he cried, lifting him fairly off the ground, and swinging him round him with great exultation---"but I see you have life in your ould bones yet! The savages, bad luck to them! haven't fried the grease out of you yet. By my sowl, I thought when you were such a fool as to come back to them here, that they would have made you into a cinder long ago; for, I knew, if they took you again, you wouldn't have Peter McFall to stand at your back, and whisk you through a kennel like a half-drowned cat, out of their reach. Arrah, doctor, Saint Kenan be praised! you have flesh and blood on you yet!"
When Peter had finished this rhapsody, he relieved the doctor from his grasp, and placed him again on the earth.
"Faith, Peter!" cried Killbreath, when he had recovered wind enough to articulate---"the Indians would have spared me to little purpose if you had kept me much longer squeezed up in those horrible clutches of yours. It would have been only exchanging burned bones for broken ones---or being calcined to a cinder, for being crushed to a mummy!"
"Why, sure now, doctor," returned Peter
sympathizingly, "I didn't hurt your ould carcass. The devil take me, if an Irishman at the fair of old Wicklow would have thought any thing of such a hug."
"Hug!" cried the doctor, rubbing and twisting his sides, which still ached from the pressure of Peter's grasp; "why, the hug of a bear would be but a trifle to such squeezing. I would as soon be crushed in a cider press."
"Och! now, doctor, be asy, and give me your fist for ould times," cried Peter; "never mind the squeezing; it was only an Irish welcome for your Pennsylvany bones. Och! botheration to it, if I would give the toss of a ha'penny for these cold dish-water meetings between ould friends, that scarcely touch the skin of each other's fingers." So saying, he gave the doctor's hand such a squeeze as made him roar out, and absolutely brought tears to his eyes.
"By the great Columb!" continued Peter, somewhat sorry for his rashness, "but I thought, doctor, that you were made of better stuff. I really believe I have splintered your knuckles for you. Arrah, now! if you would live more on potatoes instead of apples, you would have stouter bones, dear doctor. But tell me now, how is your sweetheart, the pretty, plump, black-eyed lass of the woods here, that you used to toast at your oyster suppers in Philadelphia?"
"Hush!" cried the doctor, in an under voice, "say nothing, dear Peter, say nothing about this matter; you'll see her shortly, but be mum. I'll tell you again all about it."
He then caught Peter's arm, and they set off together for Frazier's house, where the whole party soon arrived, and Gilbert and Nelly had once more the pleasure, of which they did not fail
to inform their guests, of beholding some of the blood of Maughrygowan under their roof.
Towards the evening of the following day, Vanbraam arrived with Washington's baggage, and the rest of his followers. The presents promised to the Shannoah queen were given over to the care of Paddy Frazier, who immediately proceeded to her residence, and delivered them to her majesty; and Washington prepared to leave Maria and the Wilderness, which was now to him the dearest spot in the world, the next morning. Before he set off, however, Charles Adderly had proceeded with his party to take possession of the forks at Shanapins, where Washington's reasoning had convinced him of the propriety of erecting the contemplated fort. These two young heroes took farewell of each other, impressed with the strongest feelings of mutual respect, but little knowing that they were each other's rivals in a matter on which each felt, at that time, that his whole life's happiness depended. It is true, that Charles, on meeting Maria and Washington together in the woods, as we have seen, had permitted a transient suspicion on this subject to alarm his mind, which his manner had almost betrayed; but his confidence in her fidelity, on a moment's reflection, returned, for he knew she had once loved him, and he believed what the prophet had told him, that whom she loved once she would love for ever; and this confidence was fully confirmed by the ease, candour, and cordiality of Washington's manner of addressing him. The subsequent conversation which he held with this eminently gifted young man, inspired him with a respect for his talents and judgment almost approaching to reverence, and he resolved to follow his advice in every thing he had suggested to him for the management of his present enterprise.
Just before Washington set off, he seized a favourable occasion for a short private interview with Maria.
"Miss Frazier!" said he, "I must now bid you farewell for a time. Permit me, before I depart, to present you with a small volume of poems, one of which is with me, next to some of the passages of your admired Thomson, the most favourite piece of poetry in our language. This copy has for many months past been my constant companion. Its author was one who was greatly enamoured of that sylvan seclusion which you here enjoy in such perfection. He was also one who keenly felt, and sweetly described the tenderest and sweetest of all passions. I have marked with a pencil those passages of my favourite poem; which I shall often recall to mind when at a distance from you; and oh! may I request that, for my sake, you will frequently read them. They will depict to you the feelings which, until I see you again, will strongly agitate this bosom. Farewell! and may heaven protect you from all dangers!" So saying, he pressed her hand gently, and departed.
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. Here I can sit alone
unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes. Oh! thou that
dost inhabit in my breast, Leave not the mansion tenantless; Lest growing ruinous, the building fall, And leave no
memory of what it was. Shakspeare.
The book which Washington left with our heroine was a handsomely bound copy of Shenstone's Poems; and the passages he had marked for her attention she found in that most tender and simple of all poetical effusions, the Pastoral Ballad. The reader, I trust, will have no objection to peruse them. They were as follows---
"Now I know what it is to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire."
"When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart! I thought---but it might not be so---
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew,
My path I could scarcely discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
"The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine, If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go."
Had not Maria been before convinced from the conduct of her illustrious visiter that he loved her, these stanzas, combined with his manner of bidding her farewell, would have left her no room to doubt on the subject. The circumstance grieved her. She respected, she esteemed, she almost revered those talents and virtues which she perceived that he possessed in such an eminent degree; but love was what she could not afford him. Another object engrossed all her passion and tenderness exclusively and unalterably; and to Washington--- to him, whom she believed to be possessed of every quality that could ennoble man, and whose warmest affections, she doubted not, were now devoted to her, she could only spare ardent friendship and heart-felt admiration. Yes---she could, and did also, yield him pity---for loving passionately as she herself did, she could easily imagine how miserable she must have been, had she loved in vain. Much, therefore, much did she grieve for one so worthy, whom she knew must be wretched from the same cause.
"How rejoiced I should be," she would say to herself, "if this excellent, this admirable young man could place his affections on some one who had affections at her own disposal to give him in return. I know, alas! how much the happiness of life depends on this; and if ever man deserved happiness, it is he. But he is now gone; and I trust absence, change of scene, and the bustle of
business, may weaken the unfortunate attachment he has here imbibed; and providence, I hope, will throw in his way one worthy of him, and both capable of exciting in his bosom the tenderest feelings of love, and of returning them. Oh Charles! thou object of my first and only love! it is my study, it is my duty, it is my delight to be true to thee. Thou art the chosen of my heart---a heart that never, never will choose another."---
Charles having encamped his men at Shanapins town, and marked out the ground for the fort, returned the next day to visit his Maria.
Sweet, sweet is the intercourse between two young and virtuous lovers, who are aware of possessing, unchangeably and entirely, each other's affections. But although such intercourse be sweet to them, the detail of the conversations by which it is carried on is seldom so to others. It is the presence of the beloved object, the thousand nameless charms which each sees in the other, and which no other can see, much less describe, or even if described, could feel, far more than the sentiments or language which they utter, that constitute the delight, the ecstasy of their private interviews, and their solitary rambles.
For this reason I will refrain from relating to the reader the many conversations that now took place between Charles Adderly and his Maria, at their secret and confidential meetings. There was one, however, which I shall relate, because it touched upon a topic, of which the reader may require some explanation, namely, the cause of that nuptial ceremony, for which Charles so ardently sighed, not taking place, although, with a secret view to its accomplishment, he had brought with him, as chaplain to the expedition, a person qualified for its performance.
"Why delay my happiness, my love?" said he. "There is now no obstacle to its accomplishment--- there is no reason for its delay. You talk of my father's sanction. Tonnaleuka has infused the idea into your mind that it is necessary. But, Maria, believe me, it is not. When the vows are once uttered, you are then my wife in defiance of human power or opposition."
"I know." replied Maria, "that by the institutions of your country, your father could not dissolve our marriage. It is not that which I dread; but I dread the displeasure he would manifest, and justly too, at its taking place without his knowledge and consent. No; I never will become the wife of any man who, by making me such, will displease his relations."
"But I have no reason to suppose that my father would be displeased, at least if he knew you as I do, I am persuaded he would not, at your becoming his daughter."
"But, Charles," said she, smiling, "do you not remember that he does not know me? or, if he did, how are you sure that he would estimate me as highly as you have been pleased to do? No--- he might look upon, what you have thought proper to call my worth, in a very different light; and in place of being an acceptable daughter-in-law, if we were to marry under present circumstances, the probability is, that I should be considered by him as an intruder into his family, and treated, and perhaps deservedly so, as such."
"Believe me, Maria," he returned, "that I know my father well. I am his only son; and he has ever been the kind consulter of my happiness. When the sacred knot is tied, he will not seek to dissolve it, not so much because he would know the thing impossible, as because he would know
that it would make me miserable, permanently and supremely miserable!"
"But, suppose even this indulgence," she replied, "or rather, this forgiveness on his part to take place, in consequence of parental tenderness, even after you had acted disrespectfully towards him, by marrying without his knowledge---think of it, Charles!---would not so much goodness be a high aggravation of your offence, in being guilty of such disrespect to so kind a father? No, Charles, I cannot bear, I will not consent, that you should act so unworthily, so little like yourself---"
"Ah! too rigid, too austere girl!" he exclaimed; "you place too much importance upon this matter of my father sanctioning our nuptials. It is but a trifling consideration---"
"How, Charles!" she said, interrupting him; "O do not let me hear you call behaving disrespectfully to your father, and such a father as, I doubt not, yours is, a trifling consideration. Surely your good sense and filial affection have yielded, in this instance, to your wishes."
"Oh Maria! understand me before you condemn me. I respect, I honour my father, as much as ever son did a parent. But surely, in comparison to spending, perhaps, another long year of privation from the bliss of calling you my own, the taking of this step without his knowledge, under circumstances so difficult to procure it, if it be at all an aberration from duty, is but a trifling one. O consent, my love! Depend upon my assurance, that you have nothing to fear from the measure."
"Were I to be so weak as to comply with your wishes," said she, "it might indeed happen that your father would not be absolutely inexorable. He might not for ever cast you off from his affections for our fault. But still, Charles, we would
have committed a fault. We would have given a kind and tender parent cause of offence; which would ever afterwards be, at least to me, and let me say, I believe also to you, a source of uneasiness. He might forgive our error; but I am convinced that we ourselves never should forget it. O! let us not commit it, if we want to be truly happy with each other. Let not impatience cause us to do wrong. Providence may yet remove all obstacles to our union. We may yet be happy without being guilty; or, if we should not, let us at least never be guilty, and then we never will be thoroughly unhappy."
"Lovely maiden!" exclaimed Charles, struck with admiration at the purity of her sentiments, although so much in opposition to his wishes; "you are too good, too angelical in your principles, as well as in your charms, for an erring mortal like me. But I will be guided by you. If I have not virtue to resist temptation to error, I will learn it of you. You will be the monitor of my mind, as you have been the charmer of my eyes---you will instruct me, as you have fascinated me---you will excite me to virtue, as you have warmed me to love---and, in the end, make me happy in the approbation of my own conduct, as I now am in the admiration of yours!"
A day or two after the foregoing conversation, Charles retired from the camp at Shanapins to a favourite walk, for meditation, which he had discovered on the bank of the Monongahela. It was one of those days of sunshine which sometimes, even in the month of January, chequer the unsteady climate around the head of the Ohio, and make a ramble, at that usually inclement season, inviting. The air was considerably warm; and, although in hollow places that were shaded from the rays of the sun, there were still lodgements of
unmelted ice and snow, yet the general aspect of the country showed that there had been a thaw of several days continuance, as in all exposed situations the snow had disappeared, and again displayed the surface of the earth clothed with a variegated garment of undecaying herbage and withered leaves. The broad, and at this time, full stream of the river flowed majestically past, exhibiting by reflection, the reversed images of the high and headlong banks on either side, hanging pendulous, with all their woods upon them, within its glassy bosom.
Charles sat down upon a protruding fragment of stone, which formed the basement of a high rock that arose from the margin of the stream. He became soon absorbed in contemplating the charms of his Maria, and comparing the superior happiness he should enjoy in these solitudes, with her for his daily and faithful companion through life, than, without her, in the midst of all the gaieties, grandeur, pleasures, and luxuries, that ingenuity has ever invented for the gratification of social life. In such a situation, when impressed with such feelings, a romantic mind can hardly refrain from becoming poetical; and Charles, as we have seen, had already moistened his lips at the Castalian fount. He therefore, on this occasion, drew out his memorandum book and pencil, and noted down the following lines, addressed to the Monongahela.
Fair stream! though deep in forest glooms
Thou roll'st thy Indian-haunted tide, Upon thy bank a maiden blooms,
The gem of nature, virtue's pride! Let others choose the joys supplied
By art, on Thames' or Liffey's shore, Give me upon thy sylvan side,
With her to live---I ask no more. Fair stream! though never poet's lay
Hath bade the world thy name revere.
Though history's page refrains to say
What heroes fought and conquer'd here--- Than Tweed's or Tyber's banks, more dear,
Is thy unchanted shore to me; And warm'd to rapture, more sincere,
I worship charms possessed by thee! For in seclusion's peaceful shade,
Fair nature oft delights to show Some flower or gem, or beauteous maid,
Too lovely for the world to know. Thus woodland roses often blow,
To bless with sweets the desert wild, And thus, from thee my raptures flow,
Maria, nature's fairest child!
He had scarcely completed these stanzas, when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching him, and soon the form of Tonnaleuka, whom he had not seen since his return to the west, stood before him.
"Hail to thee, my son!" said the prophet. "I am glad to see thee yet safe. But thou comest in an evil hour to visit this land, for thy safety will be endangered. Thy enemies are vigilant and strong, and they will soon become active. Still thou art welcome! and I hope the great Being will protect thee from the perils thou art doomed to encounter."
"Father," replied Charles, "since my arrival, I have longed much to see you. The dangers you speak of, I have anticipated from the enemy. But if they arrive not, before we have raised our defences, I will not fear them. The season, I expect, will till then protect us."
"Do not deceive yourself," said the prophet; "the season will not protect you, neither will your defences; and your numbers are insufficient. But prepare your ramparts with what haste you can. From behind them you may at least treat for safety, if you cannot fight for victory. My
son, I came to warn you, that you may be wary, for your foe is stronger than you."
"Father," replied Charles, "you are ever kind to me. You have been my deliverer. You would now be my guardian. But oh! my soul is sad, my life is weary, and I almost wish to die. You possess the power, if any earthly being possesses it, to procure me relief from my troubles. May I crave your assistance, for alas! what good will protecting me from destruction do, if my existence is to be miserable!
"Father, I love---thou knowest it. Thou knowest how ardently, how devotedly---ah no; thou canst not know that. No one can know what I feel for the loveliest, the dearest of maidens!
"Father---on revisiting the Wilderness, I rejoiced, for I thought that she would then become my own. I brought with me one qualified, according to our custom, to join us in marriage. But alas, she, at this time, refuses to unite her fate with mine. Now, when she might make me happy, she will not, and misfortune may interfere, alas! I much dread it, to prevent us from ever again enjoying such an opportunity. You, you alone, my father, whom she reveres as a messenger of God, can alter her determination. Oh! let me implore thee to interfere. Let me beg thee, as thou valuest my happiness and my regard for life, to show her that she is unnecessarily cruel---to show her that she is too austerely scrupulous in respect to matters of but trifling moment, when compared with the privation to which she condemns me."
"Son," replied the prophet---"I know the desire of your heart. I also know her determination, and I approve of it. You are too impatient, my son, and you are wrong. She is prudent, and I rejoice that she is so. Were she your wife, think you, would she not be exposed during the
coming troubles, for alas! I see them approaching fast, to perils and calamities, from which, in her private, obscure situation, as the daughter of Gilbert Frazier, she will be exempt?"
"Think seriously, my son, and if you do so, you will, if your love be for her welfare, and not your own gratification, approve of her resolution, and attempt not to seduce her from it."
"Father," replied Charles, eagerly, and greatly agitated. "Can you---Oh, heavens! how can you torture me, by affecting to doubt the purity, the disinterestedness of my love for that angel! Prefer her welfare to my own gratification! Ah! if my heart did not tell me that I did so, I would tear it from my body, and cast it to the wolves to be devoured, or to the more cruel Chippeways, to be consumed in the flames of their animosity. But, father! could she not be my wife, and live in security?"
"No, my son---not, at least, with equal ease and propriety. If she were so connected with you, she would have responsibilities upon her, from which she is now free. Besides, I know her objection is on account of your not possessing the sanction of your father. She knows herself to be pennyless, and she is not ignorant of the value which men of the world, like your father, place upon wealth. She has a right, therefore, to anticipate his displeasure both to you, and to herself, if she should encourage you to a clandestine union.
"My son, I know all this; and can you ask me to bid her do wrong? Nay, if you solicit her with your eyes open to all these things, I must accuse you of preferring your own gratification to her welfare.
"And, hear me, my son---should your solicitations succeed, you would soon afterwards, when
the evils I predict should come upon you, severely condemn your own rashness."
"Oh, father, forbear!" cried Charles, "your words make me wretched! Tell me what I must do?"
"With respect to Maria," said the prophet, "exert patience; and with respect to your enemies, circumspection. This is my counsel."
"With respect to the enemy, I shall follow it," replied Charles, "and with respect to Maria, I shall endeavour---yes, I shall exert patience, although it should kill me."
"Then, my son, receive my blessing, and may the great father lead you safely through the perilous times, that are drawing near! Farewell! be prudent and be patient."
So saying, Tonnaleuka ascended the banks, and left Charles fixed to the spot, in a stupor of intense feeling, compounded of admiration, disappointment, and grief almost approaching to despair. In a short time, however, his agitation began to subside, and making a great effort to recover at least the appearance of serenity, he returned to the camp, in order to encourage his men to expedition in forwarding the intended fortification.
END OF VOLUME I.