Come to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away--
The sounds of weeping cease.
Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling--of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove,
Through the celestial air.
--MRS. HEMANS.
It is now more than thirty-three years since the last war with the
English terminated, and about thirty-six to the summer in which the
events recorded in this legend occurred. This third of a century has
been a period of mighty changes in America. Ages have not often brought
about as many in other portions of the earth, as this short period of
time has given birth to among ourselves. We had written, thus far, on
the evidence of documents sent to us, when an occasion offered to
verify the truth of some of our pictures, at least, by means of personal
observation.
Quitting our own quiet and secluded abode in the mountains, in the
pleasant month of June, and in this current year of 1848, we descended
into the valley of the Mohawk, got into the cars, and went flying by
rails toward the setting sun. Well could we remember the time when an
entire day was required to pass between that point on the Mohawk where
we got on the rails, and the little village of Utica. On the present
occasion, we flew over the space in less than three hours, and dined in
a town of some fifteen thousand souls.
We reached Buffalo, at the foot of Lake Erie, in about twenty hours
after we had entered the cars. This journey would have been the labor of
more than a week, at the time in which the scene of this tale occurred.
Now, the whole of the beautiful region, teeming with its towns and
villages, and rich with the fruits of a bountiful season, was almost
brought into a single landscape by the rapidity of our passage.
At Buffalo, we turned aside to visit the cataract. Thither, too, we went
on rails. Thirty-eight years had passed away since we had laid eyes on
this wonderful fall of water. In the intervening time we had travelled
much, and had visited many of the renowned falls of the old world, to
say nothing of the great number which are to be found in other parts of
our own land. Did this visit, then, produce disappointment?
Did time, and advancing years, and feelings that had become deadened by
experience, contribute to render the view less striking, less grand, in
any way less pleasing than we had hoped to find it? So far from this,
all our expectations were much more than realized. In one particular,
touching which we do not remember ever to have seen anything said, we
were actually astonished at the surpassing glory of Niagara. It was the
character of sweetness, if we can so express it, that glowed over the
entire aspect of the scene. We were less struck with the grandeur of
this cataract, than with its sublime softness and gentleness. To water
in agitation, use had so long accustomed us, perhaps, as in some slight
degree to lessen the feeling of awe that is apt to come over the
novice in such scenes; but we at once felt ourselves attracted by the
surpassing loveliness of Niagara. The gulf below was more imposing than
we had expected to see it, but it was Italian in hue and softness, amid
its wildness and grandeur. Not a drop of the water that fell down that
precipice inspired terror; for everything appeared to us to be filled
with attraction and love. Like Italy itself, notwithstanding so much
that is grand and imposing, the character of softness, and the witchery
of the gentler properties, is the power we should ascribe to Niagara, in
preference to that of its majesty. We think this feeling, too, is more
general than is commonly supposed, for we find those who dwell near the
cataract playing around it, even to the very verge of its greatest fall,
with a species of affection, as if they had the fullest confidence in
its rolling waters. Thus it is that we see the little steamer, the Maid
of the Mist, paddling up quite near to the green sheet of the Horse-Shoe
itself, and gliding down in the current of the vortex, as it is
compelled to quit the eddies, and come more in a line with the main
course of the stream. Wires, too, are suspended across the gulf below,
and men pass it in baskets. It is said that one of these inventions is
to carry human beings over the main fall, so that the adventurer may
hang suspended in the air, directly above the vortex. In this way do
men, and even women, prove their love for the place, all of which we
impute to its pervading character of sweetness and attraction.
At Buffalo we embarked in a boat under the English flag, which is called
the Canada, This shortened our passage to Detroit, by avoiding all the
stops at lateral ports, and we had every reason to be satisfied with our
selection. Boat, commander, and the attendance were such as would have
done credit to any portion of the civilized world. There were many
passengers, a motley collection, as usual, from all parts of the
country.
Our attention was early drawn to one party, by the singular beauty of
its females. They seemed to us to be a grandmother, in a well-preserved,
green old age; a daughter, but a matron of little less than forty; and
two exceedingly pretty girls of about eighteen and sixteen, whom we took
to be children of the last. The strong family likeness between these
persons led us early to make this classification, which we afterward
found was correct.
By occasional remarks, I gathered that the girls had been to an
“Eastern” boarding-school, that particular feature in civilization not
yet flourishing in the Northwestern States. It seemed to us that we
could trace in the dialect of the several members of this family,
the gradations and peculiarities that denote the origin and habits of
individuals. Thus, the grandmother was not quite as Western in her forms
of speech as her matronly daughter, while the grandchildren evidently
spoke under the influence of boarding-school correction, or like girls
who had been often lectured on the subject “First rate,” and “Yes, sir,”
and “That's a fact,” were often in the mouth of the pleasing mother, and
even the grandmother used them all, though not as often as her daughter,
while the young people looked a little concerned and surprised, whenever
they came out of the mouth of their frank-speaking mother. That these
persons were not of a very high social class was evident enough, even in
their language. There was much occasion to mention New York, we found,
and they uniformly called it “the city.” By no accident did either of
them happen to use the expression that she had been “in town,” as one of
us would be apt to say. “He's gone to the city,” or “She's in the city,”
are awkward phrases, and tant soit peu vulgar; but even our pretty
young boarding-school eleves would use them. We have a horror of the
expression “city,” and are a little fastidious, perhaps, touching its
use.
But these little peculiarities were spots on the sun. The entire family,
taken as a whole, was really charming; and long before the hour for
retiring came, we had become much interested in them all. We found
there was a fifth person belonging to this party, who did not make his
appearance that night. From the discourse of these females, however, it
was easy to glean the following leading facts: This fifth person was
a male; he was indisposed, and kept his berth; and he was quite
aged. Several nice little dishes were carried from the table into his
state-room that evening, by one or the other of the young sisters,
and each of the party appeared anxious to contribute to the invalid's
comfort. All this sympathy excited our interest, and we had some
curiosity to see this old man, long ere it was time to retire. As
for the females, no name was mentioned among them but that of a Mrs.
Osborne, who was once or twice alluded to in full. It was “grandma,” and
“ma,” and “Dolly,” and “sis.” We should have liked it better had it been
“mother,” and “grandmother,” and that the “sis” had been called Betsey
or Molly; but we do not wish to be understood as exhibiting these
amiable and good-looking strangers as models of refinement. “Ma” and
“sis” did well enough, all things considered, though “mamma” would have
been better if they were not sufficiently polished to say “mother.”
We had a pleasant night of it, and all the passengers appeared next
morning with smiling faces. It often blows heavily on that lake, but
light airs off the land were all the breezes we encountered. We were
among the first to turn out, and on the upper deck forward, a place
where the passengers are fond of collecting, as it enables them to look
ahead, we found a single individual who immediately drew all of our
attention to himself. It was an aged man, with hair already as white as
snow. Still there was that in his gait, attitudes, and all his movements
which indicated physical vigor, not to say the remains, at least, of
great elasticity and sinewy activity. Aged as he was, and he must have
long since passed his fourscore years, his form was erect as that of
a youth. In stature he was of rather more than middle height, and in
movements deliberate and dignified. His dress was quite plain, being
black, and according to the customs of the day. The color of his face
and hands, however, as well as the bold outlines of his countenance, and
the still keen, restless, black eye, indicated the Indian.
Here, then, was a civilized red man, and it struck us at once, that he
was an ancient child of the forest, who had been made to feel the truths
of the gospel. One seldom hesitates about addressing an Indian, and we
commenced a discourse with our venerable fellow-passenger, with very
little circumlocution or ceremony.
“Good-morning, sir,” we observed--“a charming time we have of it, on
the lake.”
“Yes--good time--” returned my red neighbor, speaking short and clipped,
like an Indian, but pronouncing his words as if long accustomed to the
language.
“These steamboats are great inventions for the western lakes, as are the
railroads for this vast inland region. I dare say you can remember Lake
Erie when it was an unusual thing to see a sail of any sort on it; and
now, I should think, we might count fifty.”
“Yes--great change--great change, friend!--all change from ole time.”
“The traditions of your people, no doubt, give you reason to see and
feel all this?”
The predominant expression of this red man's countenance was that of
love. On everything, on every human being toward whom he turned his
still expressive eyes, the looks he gave them would seem to indicate
interest and affection. This expression was so decided and peculiar,
that we early remarked it, and it drew us closer and closer to the old
chief, the longer we remained in his company. That expression, however,
slightly changed when we made this allusion to the traditions of
his people, and a cloud passed before his countenance. This change,
nevertheless, was as transient as it was sudden, the benevolent and
gentle look returning almost as soon as it had disappeared. He seemed
anxious to atone for this involuntary expression of regrets for the
past, by making his communications to me as free as they could be.
“My tradition say a great deal,” was the answer, “It say some good, some
bad.”
“May I ask of what tribe you are?”
The red man turned his eyes on us kindly, as if to lessen anything
ungracious there might be in his refusal to answer, and with an
expression of benevolence that we scarcely remember ever to have seen
equalled. Indeed, we might say with truth, that the love which shone out
of this old man's countenance habitually, surpassed that which we can
recall as belonging to any other human face. He seemed to be at peace
with himself, and with all the other children of Adam.
“Tribe make no difference,” he answered. “All children of same Great
Spirit.”
“Red men and pale-faces?” I asked, not a little surprised with his
reply.
“Red man and pale-face. Christ die for all, and his Fadder make all. No
difference, excep' in color. Color only skin deep.”
“Do you, then, look on us pale-faces as having a right here? Do you
not regard us as invaders, as enemies who have come to take away your
lands?”
“Injin don't own 'arth. 'Arth belong to God, and he send whom he like
to live on it. One time he send Injin; now he send pale-face. His 'arth,
and he do what he please wid it. Nobody any right to complain. Bad to
find fault wid Great Spirit. All he do, right; nebber do anyt'ing bad.
His blessed Son die for all color, and all color muss bow down at his
holy name. Dat what dis good book say,” showing a small pocket Bible,
“and what dis good book say come from Great Spirit, himself.”
“You read the Holy Scriptures, then--you are an educated Indian?”
“No; can't read at all. Don't know how. Try hard, but too ole to begin.
Got young eyes, however, to help me,” he added, with one of the fondest
smiles I ever saw light a human face, as he turned to meet the pretty
Dolly's “Good-morning, Peter,” and to shake the hand of the elder
sister. “She read good book for old Injin, when he want her; and when
she off at school, in 'city,' den her mudder or her gran'mudder read for
him. Fuss begin wid gran'mudder; now get down to gran'da'ghter. But good
book all de same, let who will read it.”
This, then, was “Scalping Peter,” the very man I was travelling into
Michigan to see, but how wonderfully changed! The Spirit of the Most
High God had been shed freely upon his moral being, and in lieu of the
revengeful and vindictive savage, he now lived a subdued, benevolent
Christian! In every human being he beheld a brother, and no longer
thought of destroying races, in order to secure to his own people the
quiet possession of their hunting-grounds. His very soul was love; and
no doubt he felt himself strong enough to “bless those who cursed him,”
and to give up his spirit, like the good missionary whose death had
first turned him toward the worship of the one true God, praying for
those who took his life.
The ways of Divine Providence are past the investigations of human
reason. How often, in turning over the pages of history, do we find
civilization, the arts, moral improvement, nay, Christianity itself,
following the bloody train left by the conqueror's car, and good pouring
in upon a nation by avenues that at first were teeming only with the
approaches of seeming evils! In this way, there is now reason to hope
that America is about to pay the debt she owes to Africa; and in this
way will the invasion of the forests, and prairies and “openings,”
of the red man be made to atone for itself by carrying with it the
blessings of the Gospel, and a juster view of the relations which man
bears to his Creator. Possibly Mexico may derive lasting benefits from
the hard lesson that she has so recently been made to endure.
This, then, was Peter, changed into a civilized man and a Christian! I
have found, subsequently, that glimmerings of the former being existed
in his character; but they showed themselves only at long intervals, and
under very peculiar circumstances. The study of these traits became a
subject of great interest with us, for we now travelled in company the
rest of our journey. The elder lady, or “grandma,” was the Margery of
our tale; still handsome, spirited, and kind. The younger matron was her
daughter and only child, and “sis,” another Margery, and Dorothy, were
her grandchildren. There was also a son, or a grandson rather, Ben,
who was on Prairie Round, “with the general.” The “general” was our old
friend, le Bourdon, who was still as often called “General Bourdon,”
as “General Boden.” This matter of “generals” at the West is a little
overdone, as all ranks and titles are somewhat apt to be in new
countries. It causes one often to smile, at the East; and no wonder that
an Eastern habit should go down in all its glory, beneath the
“setting sun.” In after-days, generals will not be quite as “plenty as
blackberries.”
No sooner did Mrs. Boden, or Margery, to use her familiar name, learn
that we were the very individual to whom the “general” had sent the
notes relative to his early adventures, which had been prepared by
the “Rev. Mr. Varse,” of Kalamazoo, than she became as friendly and
communicative as we could possibly desire.
Her own life had been prosperous, and her marriage happy. Her brother,
however, had fallen back into his old habits, and died ere the war of
1812 was ended. Dorothy had returned to her friends in Massachusetts,
and was still living, in a comfortable condition, owing to a legacy from
an uncle. The bee-hunter had taken the field in that war, and had seen
some sharp fighting on the banks of the Niagara. No sooner was peace
made, however, than he returned to his beloved Openings, where he had
remained, “growing with the country,” as it is termed, until he was now
what is deemed a rich man in Michigan. He has a plenty of land, and that
which is good; a respectable dwelling, and is out of debt. He meets
his obligations to an Eastern man just as promptly as he meets those
contracted at home, and regards the United States, and not Michigan, as
his country. All these were good traits, and we were glad to learn that
they existed in one who already possessed so much of our esteem. At
Detroit we found a fine flourishing town, of a healthful and natural
growth, and with a population that was fast approaching twenty thousand.
The shores of the beautiful strait on which it stands, and which, by a
strange blending of significations and languages, is popularly called
the “Detroit River,” were alive with men and their appliances, and we
scarce know where to turn to find a more agreeable landscape than that
which was presented to us, after passing the island of “Bobolo” (Bois
Blanc), near Maiden. Altogether, it resembled a miniature picture of
Constantinople, without its Eastern peculiarities.
At Detroit commenced our surprise at the rapid progress of Western
civilization. It will be remembered that at the period of our tale, the
environs of Detroit excepted, the whole peninsula of Michigan lay in
a state of nature. Nor did the process of settlement commence actively
until about twenty years since; but, owing to the character of
the country, it already possesses many of the better features of a
long-inhabited region. There are stumps, of course, for new fields are
constantly coming into cultivation; but on the whole, the appearance is
that of a middle-aged, rather than that of a new region.
We left Detroit on a railroad, rattling away toward the setting sun, at
a good speed even for that mode of conveyance. It seemed to us that
our route was well garnished with large villages, of which we must have
passed through a dozen, in the course of a few hours' “railing,” These
are places varying in size from one to three thousand inhabitants. The
vegetation certainly surpassed that of even West New York, the trees
alone excepted. The whole country was a wheat-field, and we now began
to understand how America could feed the world. Our road lay among the
“Openings” much of the way, and we found them undergoing the changes
which are incident to the passage of civilized men. As the periodical
fires had now ceased for many years, underbrush was growing in lieu of
the natural grass, and in so much those groves are less attractive than
formerly; but one easily comprehends the reason, and can picture to
himself the aspect that these pleasant woods must have worn in times of
old.
We left the railroad at Kalamazoo--an unusually pretty village, on the
banks of the stream of that name. Those who laid out this place, some
fifteen years since, had the taste to preserve most of its trees;
and the houses and grounds that stand a little apart from the busiest
streets--and they are numerous for a place of rather more than two
thousand souls--are particularly pleasant to the eye, on account of the
shade, and the rural pictures they present. Here Mrs. Boden told us we
were within a mile or two of the very spot where once had stood Castle
Meal (Chateau au Miel), though the “general” had finally established
himself at Schoolcraft, on Prairie Ronde.
The first prairie we had ever seen was on the road between Detroit and
Kalamazoo; distant from the latter place only some eight or nine miles.
The axe had laid the country open in its neighborhood; but the spot was
easily to be recognized by the air of cultivation and age that pervaded
it. There was not a stump on it, and the fields were as smooth as any on
the plains of Lombardy, and far more fertile, rich as the last are known
to be. In a word, the beautiful perfection of that little natural meadow
became apparent at once, though seated amid a landscape that was by no
means wanting in interest of its own.
We passed the night at the village of Kalamazoo; but the party of
females, with old Peter, proceeded on to Prairie Round, as that
particular part of the country is called in the dialect of Michigan, it
being a corruption of the old French name of la prairie ronde. The Round
Meadow does not sound as well as Prairie Round, and the last being quite
as clear a term as the other, though a mixture of the two languages,
we prefer to use it. Indeed, the word “prairie” may now be said to
be adopted into the English; meaning merely a natural instead of an
artificial meadow, though one of peculiar and local characteristics. We
wrote a note to General Boden, as I found our old acquaintance Ben Boden
was universally termed, letting him know I should visit Schoolcraft next
day; not wishing to intrude at the moment when that charming family was
just reunited after so long a separation.
The next day, accordingly, we got into a “buggy” and went our way.
The road was slightly sandy a good part of the twelve miles we had
to travel, though it became less so as we drew near to the celebrated
prairie. And celebrated, and that by an abler pen than ours, does this
remarkable place deserve to be! We found all our expectations concerning
it fully realized, and drove through the scene of abundance it presented
with an admiration that was not entirely free from awe.
To get an idea of Prairie Round, the reader must imagine an oval plain
of some five-and-twenty or thirty thousand acres in extent, of the most
surpassing fertility, without an eminence of any sort--almost without an
inequality. There are a few small cavities, howevers in which there are
springs that form large pools of water that the cattle will drink. This
plain, so far as we saw it, is now entirely fenced and cultivated. The
fields are large, many containing eighty acres, and some one hundred and
sixty; most of them being in wheat. We saw several of this size in
that grain. Farm-houses dotted the surface, with barns, and the other
accessories of rural life. In the centre of the prairie is an “island”
of forest, containing some five or six hundred acres of the noblest
native trees we remember ever to have seen. In the centre of this wood
is a little lake, circular in shape, and exceeding a quarter of a mile
in diameter. The walk in this wood-which is not an Opening, but an
old-fashioned virgin forest--we found delightful of a warm summer's day.
One thing that we saw in it was characteristic of the country. Some
of the nearest farmers had drawn their manure into it, where it lay in
large piles, in order to get it out of the way of doing any mischief.
Its effect on the land, it was thought, would be to bring too much
straw!
On one side of this island of wood lies the little village or large
hamlet of Schoolcraft. Here we were most cordially welcomed by General
Boden, and all of his fine descendants. The head of this family is
approaching seventy, but is still hale and hearty. His head is as white
as snow, and his face as red as a cherry. A finer old man one seldom
sees. Temperance, activity, the open air, and a good conscience, have
left him a noble ruin; if ruin he can yet be called. He owes the last
blessing, as he told us himself, to the fact that he kept clear of
the whirlwind of speculation that passed over this region some ten or
fifteen years since. His means are ample; and the harvest being about to
commence, he invited me to the field.
The peculiar ingenuity of the American has supplied the want of
laborers, in a country where agriculture is carried on by wholesale,
especially in the cereals, by an instrument of the most singular and
elaborate construction. This machine is drawn by sixteen or eighteen
horses, attached to it laterally, so as to work clear of the standing
grain, and who move the whole fabric on a moderate but steady walk. A
path is first cut with the cradle on one side of the field, when the
machine is dragged into the open place. Here it enters the standing
grain, cutting off its heads with the utmost accuracy as it moves. Forks
beneath prepare the way, and a rapid vibratory motion of a great number
of two-edged knives effect the object. The stalks of the grain can be
cut as low or as high as one pleases, but it is usually thought best to
take only the heads. Afterward the standing straw is burned, or fed off,
upright.
The impelling power which causes the great fabric to advance also sets
in motion the machinery within it As soon as the heads of the grain are
severed from the stalks, they pass into a receptacle, where, by a very
quick and simple process, the kernels are separated from the husks.
Thence all goes into a fanning machine, where the chaff is blown away.
The clean grain falls into a small bin, whence it is raised by a screw
elevator to a height that enables it to pass out at an opening to which
a bag is attached. Wagons follow the slow march of the machine, and the
proper number of men are in attendance. Bag after bag is renewed, until
a wagon is loaded, when it at once proceeds to the mill, where the grain
is soon converted into flour. Generally the husbandman sells to the
miller, but occasionally he pays for making the flour, and sends the
latter off, by railroad, to Detroit, whence it finds its way to Europe,
possibly, to help feed the millions of the old world. Such, at least,
was the course of trade the past season. As respects this ingenious
machine, it remains only to say that it harvests, cleans, and bags
from twenty to thirty acres of heavy wheat, in the course of a single
summer's day! Altogether it is a gigantic invention, well adapted to
meet the necessities of a gigantic country.
Old Peter went afield with us that day. There he stood, like a striking
monument of a past that was still so recent and wonderful. On that very
prairie, which was now teeming with the appliances of civilization,
he had hunted and held his savage councils. On that prairie had he
meditated, or consented to the deaths of the young couple, whose
descendants were now dwelling there, amid abundance, and happy. Nothing
but the prayers of the dying missionary, in behalf of his destroyers,
had prevented the dire consummation.
We were still in the field, when General Boden's attention was drawn
toward the person of another guest. This, too, was an Indian, old like
himself, but not clad like Peter, in the vestments of the whites. The
attire of this sinewy old man was a mixture of that of the two races. He
wore a hunting-shirt, moccasins, and a belt; but he also wore trousers,
and otherwise had brought himself within the habits of conventional
decency. It was Pigeonswing, the Chippewa, come to pay his annual visit
to his friend, the bee-hunter, The meeting was cordial, and we afterward
ascertained that when the old man departed, he went away loaded with
gifts that would render him comfortable for a twelvemonth.
But Peter, after all, was the great centre of interest with us. We could
admire the General's bee-hives, which were numerous and ingenious; could
admire his still handsome Margery, and all their blooming descendants;
and were glad when we discovered that our old friend--made so by means
of a knowledge of his character, if not by actual acquaintance--was much
improved in mind, was a sincere Christian, and had been a Senator of his
own State; respected and esteemed by all who knew him. Such a career,
however, has nothing peculiar in America; it is one of every-day
occurrence, and shows the power of man when left free to make his own
exertions; while that of the Scalping Peter indicated the power of God.
There he was, living in the midst of the hated race, loving and beloved;
wishing naught but blessings on all colors alike; looking back upon his
traditions and superstitions with a sort of melancholy interest, as
we all portray in our memories the scenes, legends, and feelings of an
erring childhood.
We were walking in the garden, after dinner, and looking at the hives.
There were the general, Margery, Peter, and ourselves. The first was
loud in praise of his buzzing friends, for whom it was plain he still
entertained a lively regard. The old Indian, at first, was sad. Then
he smiled, and, turning to us, he spoke earnestly and with some of his
ancient fire and eloquence.
“Tell me you make a book,” he said. “In dat book tell trut'. You see
me--poor old Injin. My fadder was chief--I was great chief, but we was
children. Knowed nuttin'. Like little child, dough great chief.
Believe tradition. T'ink dis 'arth flat--t'ink Injin could scalp all
pale-face--t'ink tomahawk, and war-path, and rifle, bess t'ings in
whole world. In dat day, my heart was stone. Afraid of Great Spirit, but
didn't love him. In dat time I t'ink General could talk wid bee. Yes;
was very foolish den. Now, all dem cloud blow away, and I see my Fadder
dat is in heaven. His face shine on me, day and night, and I never get
tired of looking at it. I see him smile, I see him lookin' at poor ole
Injin, as if he want him to come nearer; sometime I see him frown and
dat scare me. Den I pray, and his frown go away.
“Stranger, love God. B'lieve his blessed Son, who pray for dem dat kill
him. Injin don't do that. Injin not strong enough to do so good t'ing.
It want de Holy Spirit to strengthen de heart, afore man can do so great
t'ing. When he got de force of de Holy Spirit, de heart of stone is
changed to de heart of woman, and we all be ready to bless our enemy and
die. I have spoken. Let dem dat read your book understand.”
THE END.