CHAPTER XXVIII.[1]

On the River Raisin, August, 1846.

Michisawgyegan is the Indian name for the state of Michigan, and the

meaning of it is the Lake Country. It is my native state, and as I have

recently visited it after an absence of more than a dozen years, and as

it is not yet entirely redeemed from its original state of nature, it is

meet, I ween, that I should, while within its borders, wind up my echoes

of the wilderness. This is the country where I spent the morning of my

days;—the theatre where my future character in the drama of life was

formed and first acted out. Remote from the glitter and noise of the

great human world, I used to wander alone through its dark forests, and

bathe in its pure streams, without a care or thought to mar the

peacefulness of life. A thousand words, now full of meaning, and

familiar to my ear, were then but unmeaning sounds. Those were the days

when I sported on the lap of nature, feeling it to be a luxury to

breathe. Will they ever return? Ask that evening breeze whether it will

ever again cool the fevered brow of that dying man? But very dear to me

are my recollections of Michigan, and I would not part with them for the

treasures of the world.

The character of its scenery and people is as original as its situation.

Almost surrounded by water, it possesses all the advantages of an

island, while at the same time it is but a small portion of a vast

whole. Its streams are numerous and clear, but generally sluggish. A

portion of the extreme north is uninhabited by human beings, owing to

its barrenness. Huge granite mountains here loom upward in eternal

solitude; sometimes presenting the appearance of having been severed

asunder, and scattered around by some mighty convulsion of nature. On

the borders of the cold and desolate lakes thus formed, the crane and

bittern rear their young. Occasionally, on the brow of some jutting

crag, may be discovered the meager hut of some poor Indian. Perhaps a

barbarous anchorite, to whom the voice of his fellow man is a grating

sound, and to whom existence is but a mist, a dream; or it may be some

disgraced warrior, who has been banished from friends and home, to dwell

in this dreary solitude, with no companions but a half-starved dog,

rugged pines, and frowning rocks. But this section is said to contain

the richest copper mine in the known world.

The surface of the western half is destitute of rocks, and undulating;

and it is here that the loveliest of lakes and streams and prairies are

to be found. Lake Michigan, the second in the world, is its western

boundary. The eastern portion is entirely original in its appearance,

possessing many beauties peculiarly its own. It is so level and low that

a stranger approaching it from Lake Erie is often surprised to find

himself in port, while in the act of looking out for land. This shore is

watered by the Huron, St. Clair, and Erie.

No one, who has never witnessed them, can form any idea of the exquisite

beauty of the thousand lakes which gem the western part of Michigan.

They are the brightest and purest mirrors the virgin sky has ever used

to adorn herself. Their banks are frequently dotted by human dwellings,

the humble though comfortable abodes of a sturdy yeomanry. That one

which takes its name from an Indian called Baubeese, and which is the

outlet of the St. Joseph river, I will match against any other of its

size in the world.

Notwithstanding what has been so often said by the artificial

inhabitants of cities, concerning the hardships and ignorance of the

backwoodsman’s life, there is many a stout heart, exalted mind, and

noble soul, whose dwelling-place has been for years on the borders of

these very lakes. I know this to be true, for I have slept beneath their

roofs, and often partaken of their johnny-cake and fat quails. No,—no. I

love these men as brothers, and shall always frown upon that cit or

dandy who sets down aught against them,—in malice or in ignorance.

Some of these little lakes smile in perpetual solitude. One of them is

before me now. It is summer. The sun is above its centre. Deep and dark

and still are the shadows of the surrounding trees and bushes. On the

broad leaf of a water-lily a green snake is curled up, with his head

elevated, and his tongue gleaming in the sunlight. He is the enemy of

all flying insects and little birds, and if you watch him a little

longer you will see one of them decoyed to death by the power of his

charm. Hush! there is a stir among the dry leaves. It is but a lonely

doe coming to quench her thirst. Is she not the Queen of Beauty? There

she stands, knee-deep in the water, looking downwards, admiring the

brightness of her eyes and the gracefulness of her neck. How Leigh Hunt

would enjoy a ramble here! His favorite flowers,—the rose, the violet,

the lily, and the sweet-brier, would each sing him a song more sweet and

delicate than their first. What bright hue is that in the middle of the

lake? It is but the reflection of

“——a vapor in the sky,

Thin, white, and very high.”

A great proportion of Michigan is covered with white-oak openings.

Standing on a gentle hill, the eye wanders away for miles over an

undulating surface, obstructed only by the trunks of lofty trees,—above

you a green canopy, and beneath, a carpet of velvet grass, sprinkled

with flowers of every hue and form.

The prairies are another interesting feature of Michigan scenery. They

meet the traveller at every point, and of many sizes, seeming often like

so many lakes, being often studded with wooded islands, and surrounded

by shores of forests. Their soil is a deep black sand. Grass is their

natural production, although corn, oats, and potatoes flourish upon

them. Never can I forget the first time I entered White Pigeon Prairie.

Sleeping beneath the shadows of sunset, as it was, the effect upon me

was like that which is felt on first beholding the ocean,—overpowering

awe. All that the poet has said about these gardens of the desert, is

true.

Burr Oak Plains. The only difference between these and the oak openings,

is the character of the trees and the evenness of their surface. The

soil is a mixture of sand and black loam. They have the appearance of

cultivated orchards, or English parks; and, on places where the foot of

the white man has never trod, a carriage and four could easily pass

through. They produce both wheat and corn.

The wet prairies have the appearance of submerged land. In them the

grass is often six or seven feet high. They are the resort of

water-fowl, muskrats, and otter.

But the best and most fertile soil in Michigan is that designated by the

title of timbered land. It costs more to prepare it for the plough, but

when once the soil is sown it yields a thousand-fold. And with regard to

their beauty and magnificence, the innumerable forests of this state are

not surpassed by any in the world, whether we consider the variety or

grandeur of their productions.

A friend of mine, now residing in western Michigan, and who once spent

several years in Europe, thus writes respecting this region:

“O, such trees as we have here! Magnificent, tall, large-leafed,

umbrageous. Vallombrosa, the far-famed Vallombrosa of Tuscany, is

nothing to the thousand Vallombrosas here! A fig for your Italian

scenery! This is the country where nature reigns in her virgin beauty;

where trees grow, where corn grows; where men grow better than they do

any where else in the world. This is the land to study nature in all her

luxuriant charms, under glorious green branches, among singing birds and

laughing streams; this is the land to hear the cooing of the

turtle-dove, in far, deep, cool, sylvan bowers; to feel your soul expand

under the mighty influences of nature in her primitive beauty and

strength.”

The principal inland rivers of Michigan are, the Grand River, the

Kalamazoo, the St. Joseph, the Saginaw, and the Raisin. The first three

empty into Lake Michigan, and are about seventy miles apart. Their

average length is about two hundred and fifty miles, and they are about

thirty or forty rods in width. At present, they are navigable about half

their length for small steamboats and bateaux. Their bed is of

limestone, covered with pebbles. I was a passenger on board the Matilda

Barney, on her first trip,—the first steamer that ever ascended the St.

Joseph, which I consider the most perfectly beautiful stream that I ever

have seen. I remember well the many flocks of wild turkies and herds of

deer, that the “iron horse” frightened in his winding career. The Indian

canoe is now giving way to the more costly but less beautiful row-boat,

and those rivers are becoming deeper and deeper every day. Instead of

the howl of the wolf, the songs of husbandmen now echo through their

vales, where may be found many comfortable dwellings.

The Saginaw runs toward the north and empties into Lake Huron,—that same

Huron which has been celebrated in song by the young poet, Louis L.

Noble. This river is navigable for sixty miles. The river Raisin is a

winding stream, emptying into Lake Erie, called so from the quantity of

grapes that cluster on its banks. Its Indian name is Numma-sepee,

signifying River of Sturgeons. Sweet river! whose murmurs have so often

been my lullaby, mayest thou continue in thy beauty for ever. Are there

not streams like thee flowing through the paradise of God?

Notwithstanding the comparative newness of Michigan, its general aspect

is ancient. The ruin of many an old fort may be discovered on its

borders, reminding the beholder of wrong and outrage, blood and strife.

This was once the home of noble but oppressed nations. Here lived and

loved the Algonquin and Shawnese Indians; the names of whose warrior

chiefs,—Pontiac the proud, and Tecumseh the brave,—will long be

treasured in history. I have stood upon their graves, which are marked

only by a blighted tree and an unhewn stone, and have sighed deeply as I

remembered their deeds. But they have gone,—gone like the lightning of a

summer day!

It is a traditionary land. For we are told that the Indian hunters of

old saw fairies and genii floating over its lakes and streams, and

dancing through its lonely forests. In these did they believe, and to

please them was their religion.

The historian[2] of this state thus writes, in alluding to the olden

times: “The streams rolled their liquid silver to the lake, broken only

by the fish that flashed in their current, or the swan that floated upon

their surface. Vegetation flourished alone. Roses bloomed and died, only

to be trampled by the deer or savage; and strawberries studded the

ground like rubies, where the green and sunny hillsides reposed amid the

silence, like sleeping infants in the lap of the forest. The rattlesnake

glided undisturbed through its prairies; and the fog which hung in

clouds over its stagnant marshes spread no pestilence. The panther, the

fox, the deer, the wolf, and bear, roamed fearless through the more

remote parts of the domain, for there were none to dispute with them

their inheritance. But clouds thickened. In the darkness of midnight,

and silence of the wilderness, the tomahawk and scalping knife were

forged for their work of death. Speeches were made by the savages under

the voiceless stars, which were heard by none save God and their allies;

and the war-song echoed from the banks of lakes where had never been

heard the footsteps of civilized man.”

Then followed the horrors of war; then and there were enacted the

triumphs of revenge. But those sounds have died away; traced only on the

page of history, those deeds. The voice of rural labor, the clink of the

hammer, and the sound of Sabbath-bells now echo in those forests and

vales. The plough is making deep furrows in its soil, and the sound of

the anvil is in every part. A well-endowed University, and seminaries of

learning are there. Railroads and canals, like veins of health, are

gliding to its noble heart. The red man, in his original grandeur and

state of nature, has passed away from its more fertile borders; and his

bitterest enemy, the pale face, is master of his possessions.

The French were the first who settled in Michigan, and at as early a

date as 1620, and for many years, they and the Indians, were the sole

inhabitants. Here it was that the far famed Jesuit missionaries first

pitched their tents in (what is now) the United States. Now, people out

of every civilized nation dwell within its borders. Detroit, on the

superb river of that name, and Frenchtown, on the river Raisin, were

both founded by the French. The former of these is a city, a flourishing

city, of fifteen thousand inhabitants, where are to be found all the

elegances and luxury of the most polite society. Its principal street

would be an ornament in any city; its elevation is some fifty feet above

the water, and from its docks, the eye wanders over a scene not unlike

that visible from the North River side of the Empire city. Like most

cities, it appears to the best advantage in winter. Then it is that you

may often witness the beautiful Detroit River frozen like marble, and on

its surface hundreds of sleighs and skaters gliding in every direction;

while a chorus of bells comes faintly and sweetly to your ear. Monroe,

is the modern name for Frenchtown. It is situated about two miles from

Lake Erie, and is also a flourishing town, containing some four thousand

inhabitants, a goodly portion of whom are the descendants of the early

settlers. Detroit and Monroe, are two of the best wheat markets in the

western country. Ann-Arbor on the Huron is the New Haven of Michigan,

and possesses many attractions in the way of intelligent people,

picturesque scenery, and handsome buildings. Niles, on the St. Joseph,

is a most difficult place to pass _through_, for the traveller always

feels an irresistible impulse to remain there for ever,—it is so

charmingly situated, on such a charming stream, and inhabited by such

charming people. But I might sing this song under the head of Kalamazoo,

Ypsilanti, Tecumseh, Adrian, Pontiac, Grand Rapids, Jackson, Battle

Creek, and twenty other thriving villages, which are all surrounded by a

fine agricultural country. I cannot now dwell upon such themes.

Numma-sepee is ringing in my ear, and my thoughts are with my body, on

the river, and in the village, where I was born. Here, I am, after an

absence of many years, a visitor, and to half the people a stranger, on

the very soil where I spent my wild and happy boyhood. I will not touch

upon the improvements that meet me at every turn, nor upon the troops of

friends that surround me; my heart is with the village of other days,

not with the business city of the present time; and as to my friends, I

thank them for their kindness, but they are not of my kindred; they are

changed, and I can only look upon them as strangers. Reader, as you love

to remember the sunny days of your own life, I invite you to listen to

my words, as I attempt to summon from the past an array of my most

dearly cherished recollections.

Judging from the many accounts I have heard, the spot now occupied by

Monroe must have been, before the last war, one of the most delightful

nooks in the wide world. Its original name, as before stated, was

Frenchtown, and its only inhabitants were French, who had emigrated

thither from France by the way of Canada. The families did not number

more than about fifty, and the names of the most conspicuous were

Navarre, Duval, Beaubien, Bourdeaux, Couture, Nadeau, Bannac, Cicot,

Campau, Jobien, Godfroy, Lasselle, Corsenau, Labadee, Durocher, Robert,

Lacroix, Dausette, Loranger, Sancomb, and Fourniet. They inhabited what

might be called an oasis in the wilderness. Their farms all lay directly

upon either side of the river, and though principally devoted to

agricultural pursuits, they were content with but a few acres of cleared

land, and beyond these, on either hand, stood the mighty forests in

their original solitude and luxuriance. Along their doors glided the

ever-murmuring Raisin, whose fountain-head was then among the things

unknown, and its waters mingled with those of Erie, without being

disturbed by the keel of any steamboat or white-winged vessel. Comfort

and beauty characterized their dwellings, and around them grew in great

abundance domestic trees, that yielded the most delicious fruits. In

their midst stood a little chapel, overgrown with ivy and surmounted by

a cross, where the Jesuit missionaries or Catholic priests performed

their religious duties. The soft-toned bell that summoned them to

worship, was not without its echoes, but they dwelt far away upon the

sleeping lake or in the bosom of the surrounding wilderness. Here the

tumult of the great human world was never heard, and money and fame were

not the chief desire of the secluded husbandman, for he was at ease in

his possessions. Indians, the smoke of whose wigwams ascended to heaven

on every side, were the only people with whom the early settlers had

intercourse; from them they obtained valuable furs, by barter, which

they sent to Montreal, receiving in exchange the necessaries and many of

the luxuries of life. They maintained the habits which were brought from

the provinces whence they emigrated. The gentleman preserved the garb of

the age of Louis XIV., while the peasant wore a long surtout, sash, red

cap, and deer-skin moccasons. Their knowledge of agriculture was very

limited, and the policy of the fur trade was calculated to keep down the

spirit of improvement in that respect. Of corn and wheat they were

anxious only to raise enough to last them during the year. A surplus of

any thing but furs they did not desire, and never possessed. Their grain

was ground in windmills, whose picturesque features added to the poetry

of their scenery. Their amusements were confined to the sound of the

violin, at their unaffected assemblies.

The forest afforded them an abundance of game, which constantly led them

to the hunt, and their beautiful stream abounded in fish, which they

captured with the net, the hook, and the spear. A dreamy summer

atmosphere seems to rest upon this region, when viewed in the light of

the olden times. There was poetry in every thing which met the eye: in

the priest, with cowl and satin vestments, kneeling before a wooden

cross, on his way to the place of prayer; in the peasant, as he

performed his rural labors, attended by his wife and playful children;

in the rude Indians, with fantastic costumes, who were wont to play

their uncouth games on the green-sward, or perform their dexterous feats

in the bark canoe; in the sky, which smiled perpetually upon the virgin

wilderness; and in that wilderness, whose peculiar features verily

blossomed as the unplucked rose. And there was poetry in all that fell

upon the ear: in the lowing of the cattle and the tinkling of their

bells; in the gentle flowing waters, and the sound of the summer wind,

as it sported with the forest trees, and wandered away, laden with the

perfume of nameless flowers; in the singing of unnumbered birds, which

ascended to the skies in a perpetual anthem; and in the loud clear laugh

of French and Indian children, as they mingled together in their simple

games. But those patriarchal days are for ever departed! In another part

of the country Tecumseh and Pontiac were beginning to figure in

successive battles against the United States, and their hostile spirit

soon manifested itself upon our frontier. The Indians upon this river

became the enemies of the settlers, which turned out to be the prelude

to a storm of war that scattered death and desolation along its path.

But many years have fled since then, and the blessings of peace and

prosperity are resting upon our country.

The poor Indians have almost withered from the land, and those French

inhabitants, like all things earthly, are on their way to the land of

forgetfulness. Another race of men succeeded here, and can be numbered

by thousands; and where once extended the dominion of the wilderness, a

business city now looks down upon the river, which river has become an

adopted servant of commerce.

I cannot refrain from here quoting the following passage from

Charlevoix, descriptive of the scenery as it existed when he passed

through this region in seventeen hundred and twenty-one:

“The first of June, being the day of Pentecost, after having sailed up a

beautiful river (the Raisin) for the space of an hour, which has its

rise, as they say, at a great distance, and runs betwixt two fine

meadows, we passed over a carrying place of about sixty paces in

breadth, in order to avoid turning round a point which is called Long

Point. It is a very sandy spot of ground, and naturally bears a great

quantity of vines. The following days I saw nothing remarkable, but

coasted along a charming country, hid at times by disagreeable

prospects, which, however, are of no great extent. Wherever I went

ashore, I was enchanted by the beauty and variety of a landscape,

terminated by the noblest forests in the whole world. Add to this, that

every part of it swarms with waterfowl. I cannot say whether the woods

afford game in equal profusion. Were we all to sail, as I there did,

with a serene sky, in a most charming climate, and in water as clear as

that of the purest fountain; were we sure of finding every where as

secure and agreeable places to pass the night in; where we might enjoy

the pleasures of hunting at a small expense, breathe at our ease of the

purest air, and enjoy the prospect of the finest of countries; we might

be tempted to travel to the end of our days. How many oaks represented

to me that of Mamre! How many fountains put me in mind of that of Jacob!

Each day a new situation, chosen at pleasure, a neat and commodious

house built and furnished with all necessaries in less than a quarter of

an hour, and floored with a pavement of flowers, continually springing

up on a carpet of the most beautiful green;—on all sides simple and

natural beauties, unadulterated and inimitable by art.”

In this region I spent my wild and wayward boyhood. In the prime of

summer I have watched for pigeons on the margin of the forest springs;

in the strangely beautiful autumn and Indian summer I have captured the

squirrel and partridge; and in the winter the turkey and the deer.

Reader! have you ever, while roaming in the woods bordering a prairie,

startled from his heathery couch a noble buck, and seen him dart from

you, “swift as an arrow from a shivering bow!” Was it not a sight worthy

of a purer world than ours? Did you not hail him “king of the beautiful

and fleet”?

There is one hunting incident which I met with when about fourteen years

of age, that I can never forget. I had entered upon a cow-path, and as

it led through so many and such beautiful places, I forgot myself and

wandered on until the shadows of evening warned me of my situation.

Great oaks and hickories, and walnut trees were with me wherever I went.

They cast a spell upon me like that which is wrought by the old of other

days. The black night came at last, and there I was, alone, and lost in

that silent wilderness. Onward still did I continue, and even in my

great fear was at times startled by the flapping of an owlet’s wing or

the howl of a wolf. The stars were above, shining in their brightness,

but invisible to me, so closely woven were the tops of the trees.

Faintly glimmering in the distance, I saw a firelight, and on coming

near, found a party of Indians encamped. My breast panted with excessive

fear, and yet I could not speak—could hardly breathe, and still my mind

was free and active. I stood and listened to the faint sound of a

distant waterfall. Would that I had power to express the emotions that

came like a flood pouring into my soul. Covered by a blanket, and

pillowed by a mocuck of sugar, each Indian was asleep upon his rush-mat.

Parents, children, and friends, promiscuously disposed, though all of

them with their feet turned towards the expiring embers. The dogs too,

looking ferocious and cunning as wolves, were all sound asleep. I stole

softly into the midst of the wild company, and covering myself with an

odd blanket, strange to say, I slumbered. When morning was come, and the

Indians discovered a pale-faced boy among them, their astonishment can

be more easily conceived than described. I at length informed them by

signs that I was lost, and that my home was in the village of Monroe. I

partook with them of a hearty breakfast, composed of venison, hommony,

and water, and ere the sun had mounted high, was on my way homeward,

with an Indian for my guide. As we parted on the outskirts of the

village, I offered to pay him for his trouble, but he declined receiving

any thing. I turned around, and the thick forest shielded him from my

sight. Of course my friends were much concerned at my absence, and the

majority of them insisted upon my having been drowned. For one whole

week after this adventure, I was compelled to stay at home; but after

that, it was forgotten, and I was in the forests again.

But my heart-song of other days is just beginning, and I cannot yet drop

my pen. My father’s residence was upon one of the old French farms, that

were once so famous for their Arcadian beauty. The hand of improvement

has despoiled them of their original glory, and the strange, gaudy

scenes that I now behold, only tend to oppress my spirit with gloom. The

city dwellings around me I cannot see, for my mind is upon the village

of my birth. The farm alluded to above, was about half a mile in width,

and extended back to the distance of nearly two miles. Leaving the river

and going back, you first pass through an orchard containing four or

five hundred trees. Here a row of splendid pear-trees, and there a

regiment of old black apple-trees, staggering under their weight of

fruit. Entering a little enclosure behind a barn, you might see fifty

small light-green trees, with an innumerable number of rosy-cheeked

peaches under their leaves. And now we pass the great cider-press, where

I was wont to imbibe the rich American wine through an oaten straw. A

little further on, we come to a green pasture, where there are cows,

oxen, sheep and horses grazing; onward still, and a wheat-field, yellow

as gold, bowing before the breeze. Then our path lies across a pleasant

meadow, watered by a sparkling stream; and after a brief walk we find

ourselves in the forest, dark and gloomy. And such was the spot where I

spent the morning of my days. Is it strange, then, that a deep and holy

love for nature should be rooted in my heart?

That description reminds me of another hunting expedition, of which I

would merely give an outline. It is early morning, and the latter part

of spring. Breakfast is ended. My cap and buckskin shirt are on, the

latter gathered round my waist by a scarlet worsted belt. My powder-horn

and shot-pouch are filled with the nicest kind of ammunition, and in my

hand is my valued little gun, (bought expressly for myself,) polished

bright as a sunbeam. I have kissed the baby, and am now on my winding

way. At the mouth of the river, I borrow a canoe of some old Frenchman

who resides there. If I were to offer him pay he would not accept it;

for the interesting reason that he “knows my father.”—All the day long

have I been hunting, and revelling in a dream-land of my own. The sun is

in the west, and I am hungry. I have paddled around many a green and

lovely island, and explored many a bayou and marsh, and outlets of

creeks; frightening from her lonely nest many a wild-duck and her brood.

My shot-pouch is now empty, although the bottom of my canoe is covered

with game. There are five canvass-backs, three teals, three plovers, two

snipes, one wood-duck, and other kinds of waterfowl. The canoe is drawn

up on shore, and with my thanks I have given old Robert a couple of

ducks. My game is now slung upon my back, and I am homeward bound, proud

as a young king. While passing through the village, (for I have to do

so,) I hear a voice exclaiming, Lally! Lally! I approach, and find my

father and several other gentlemen seated at the post-office door

talking politics. Each one in turn gives me a word of praise, calling me

‘quite a hunter.’ I pay them for their kindness on the spot, by the

donation of a canvass-back, and pass on.

That evening my supper is a rare enjoyment, for some of the ducks have

been cooked under the especial charge of my mother. A little longer, and

I am in the land of dreams. Many, very many such days have I enjoyed,

but now they are far from me. Oh! that I were an innocent, laughing,

happy boy once more! Come back! Come back! joys of my youth!

Fishing is another art in which I was considered an adept. When the

first warm days lured the sturgeon and muskalounge from their deep home

in the bosom of the lake, to ascend the Raisin, I was always among the

first on the large platform below a certain milldam, (now all washed

away,) with spear in hand and heart to conquer. Many a noble sturgeon,

six and seven feet long, have I seen extended on the shore. As for _me_,

I never _aimed_ only at the smaller ones. Once, however, my spear

entered the back of a “_whapper_,” and my determination to keep hold was

nearly the cause of my being drowned. It must have been a thrilling, yet

a ridiculous sight, to see me a-straddle of the fellow, and passing down

the river like lightning. I think if Mr. William Shakspeare had been

present, he would have exclaimed,—“Lo, a mer-_man_ on a _sturgeon’s_

back!” If I could enjoy such sport now with the feelings of my boyhood,

I would willingly risk such a ducking every day. But I am now a

struggler amid the waves of life. O, how many long and

never-to-be-forgotten Saturday afternoons, have I mused away on the

margin of my native stream. How many perch, and bass, sun-fish, and

pike, and pickerel, have I brought from their pure element to place upon

my father’s table! But those days are for ever departed, all and for

ever—gone into their graves, bearing with them all my dreams, all my

hopes and fond anticipations. Desolate indeed does it make my heart, to

look upon the changes that have taken place in the home of my boyhood.

Kind words do indeed fall upon my ear, but I _feel_ myself to be a

stranger or as one forgotten. O, I _am_

“A homeless wanderer through my early home;

Gone childhood’s joys, and not a joy to come!”

_Dana._

But let me, while I may, recall a few more bright visions from the past.

Aye, even now into the chambers of my soul are entering an array of

winter pictures, associated with the times of the days of old.

True as memory itself, by every thing that meets the eye of my fancy, I

perceive that winter has asserted his empire over my native village.

Once more am I a bounding and happy boy, and planning a thousand

excursions to enjoy the merry season. The years, between the present and

that happy time, are vanished into forgetfulness, and it seemeth to me

that I am even now panting with the excitement of a recent battle in the

snow.

Last night, so my fancy tells me, there was a heavy fall of the white

element. This morning, while walking along one of the streets of the

village, a snow-ball hit me on the back, whereupon I jumped into an

attitude of defiance. Partly hidden by a neighboring fence, I discover a

group of roguish boys, whom I immediately favor with an answer to their

salute. Eight is the number of my temporary enemies, and as they leap

the fence and come into full view, my heart begins to quail, and I feel

a scampering sensation in my _heels_. Just in the “nick of time,”

however, half a dozen of my friends who happen along, come to my relief,

when a couple of shouts ascend to heaven, and the battle commences.

Round, hard, swiftly thrown, and well-aimed are the balls that fly.

Already, from many a window, fair and smiling spectators are looking

upon us, and each one of us fancies himself to be another Ivanhoe. The

combat deepens. One fellow receives a ball directly in the ear, and away

he reels “with a short uneasy motion,” and another has received one in

his belly, probably making still flatter the pancakes that are there.

And then, as a stream of blood issues from the smeller of one, and the

eyes of another are made to see stars, a maddening frenzy seizes upon

the whole gang—the parties clinch,—and the “rubbing” scene is in its

prime, with its struggles and sounds of suffering. One poor fellow is

pitched into a snow-drift, heels over head, while his enemy almost

smothers him with hands-full of soft snow, causing his writhing

countenance to glisten with a crimson hue; another, who had been yelling

at a tremendous rate over a temporary triumph, is suddenly attacked by a

couple of our party, who pelt him furiously, until he cries out most

lustily—“I beg, I beg,” when he is permitted to retire with his laurels.

One chap receives a stinger of a blow between his peepers, accompanied

by an oath, whereupon we know that there is too much passion in the

fray, and while the victims enter upon a regular fisticuff, we find it

necessary to run to their rescue and separate them. Thus the general

battle ceases. After coming together, declaring ourselves good friends,

and talking over the struggle, we collect our scattered caps, mittens,

and tippets, and quietly retire to our respective homes.

Time flies on,—we have had a protracted rain, the streets have been

muddy, the people dull,—but now fair weather cometh out of the north,

and the beautiful River Raisin is again sheeted in its icy mail. For a

week past great preparations have been made by some two dozen boys for a

skating excursion to a certain light-house on Lake Erie, situated about

ten miles from Monroe. We have seen that our skates are in first-rate

order, and Tom Brown (an ancient negro who was the “guide, counsellor,

and friend” of every Monroe boy) has promised to awaken us all, and

usher in the eventful morning by a blast from his old tin horn; so that

when bedtime comes, we have nothing to do but say our prayers and enjoy

a refreshing sleep. Strange, that I should remember these trifling

events so distinctly! But there they are, deeply and for ever engraven

on the tablet of my memory, together with thousands of others of a

kindred character. Their exalted mission is to cheer my heart amid the

perplexities of the world.

It is the break of day, and bitter cold. The appointed signal hath been

given;—the various dreams of many a happy youth are departed; each one

hath partaken of a hearty breakfast, and the whole party are now

assembled upon the ice “below the bridge.” Then follows the bustle of

preparation. While some are tardy in buckling on their skates, others

slap their hands together to keep them warm, while some of the smartest

and most impatient _rogues_ are cutting their names, or certain

fantastic figures, as a prelude to what we may expect from them in the

way of fine skating. Presently we are drawn up in a line to listen to

the parting words of “Snowball Tom.” At the conclusion of his speech, a

long and loud blast issues from the old tin horn, which we answer by a

laugh and a louder shout, and like a band of unbroken colts, we spring

to the race upon the icy plain. Away, away, away. Long and regular are

the sweeps we take, and how dolefully does the poor river groan as the

ice cracks from shore to shore, as we flee over its surface “like a

rushing mighty wind!” Keen, and piercingly cold is the morning breeze,

but what matter? Is not the blood of health and happy boyhood coursing

through our veins? Now we glide along the shore, frightening a lot of

cattle driven to the river by a boy, or the horses of some farmer who is

giving them their morning drink; now we pass the picturesque abodes of

the Canadian peasantry, partly hidden by venerable trees, though now

stripped of their leafy honors; now we give chase to a surprised dog

returning from the midnight assassination of some helpless sheep; now we

pass the last vestige of humanity upon the river, which is the log cabin

of an old French fisherman and hunter; and now we pass a group of little

islands with a thick coating of snow upon their bosoms, and their ten

thousand beautiful bushes and trees _whispering_ to the air of the

surrounding silence. Already have we more than measured the distance of

two leagues outside of Pleasant Bay, and our course is now on the broad

bosom of Lake Erie, with an unbroken field of solid ice before us far as

the eye can reach. The frozen pavement along which our skates are

ringing is black as the element beneath, and so transparent, that where

the water is not more than ten or twenty feet in depth, we can

distinctly see sunken logs, clusters of slimy rocks and herds of various

kinds of fish, balancing themselves in sleep or darting about their

domain in sport. But these delicious pictures are for some other

time,—we are speeding with the breeze and cannot tarry.

Away,—away,—away!

But what means that sudden wheel of our leader, as with his voice and

upraised hands he summons us to halt? Half a mile on our lee, and about

the same distance from the shore he has just discovered an assembly of

men, with their horses and sleighs at a stand, as if preparing for a

race. Without a moment’s hesitation we decide to be “on hand,” and in a

few minutes are cutting up our capers in the midst of a hundred

Canadians who are about to enjoy what we predicted. Beautiful and

fantastic carriolles are here, drawn by sleek and saucy-looking Canadian

pacers, and occupied by hard-fisted men enveloped in their

buffalo-robes, whom we recognize as friends. Here we notice one Beaubien

with his pony of glossy black, which has never yet been beaten, and are

told that the race is to be between him and an entire stranger who has

accepted a recently made challenge. To the stranger we turn, and find

his horse to be a beautiful bay, and of a more delicate build than the

Canadian champion. The race is to be two miles in length and the amount

of the bet five hundred dollars. All things being ready, the competitors

move slowly to the starting place with their witnesses, while the

concourse of people await in breathless anxiety the result of the race.

Hark! hear you not the clattering of hoofs, resounding far over the

plain, as if in search of an echo? Aye, and with wondrous speed they are

coming! How exciting is the scene! In three minutes more the contest

will be ended. See!—Beaubien is ahead, and the victory undoubtedly his!

But now the stranger tosses up his cap, and as it falls, the flying

pacer understands the signal—he increases his already almost matchless

speed, he passes the Frenchman with a look of triumph in his eye,—one

minute more,—and the unknown is triumphant. Most unexpected is the

result. The people are bewildered and perplexed, but when Beaubien

delivers up the lost money, not a word escapes him, and he seems to be

broken-hearted. His darling steed has been eclipsed, the _swiftest_

pacer in all the country does not belong to him, and he is miserable.

The sport ended, and not caring for the jabbering of a band of excited

Frenchmen, we come together again, and continue on our course.

Another hour do we while away along the lake shore, now pausing to get a

little breath, and now gazing with curious eyes into the gloomy forest

(which comes to the very water’s edge) as we glide along. At twelve

o’clock we have reached the desired haven, our feet are gladly released,

and we are the welcome guests of mine host of the light-house. By some

the peculiar features of the lonely place are examined, while others,

who have an eye for the grand in nature, ascend to the top of the

light-house for a view of the frozen lake—reposing in unbroken solitude.

The curiosity of all being satisfied, we assemble in the comfortable

parlor of our entertainer, Mr. Whipple, and await the dinner-hour. A

jolly time then follows;—many a joke is cracked, and many a twice-told

legend of the wilderness related; a sumptuous dinner is enjoyed; the

evening hours approaching, we begin to think of home, and by the time

the heavens are flooded with the light of the moon and stars, we have

taken our departure, and are upon our skates once more. Without meeting

with a single accident, elated by many a gay song on our way, and with

our thoughts mostly bent upon the “spacious firmament on high,” we glide

over the frozen wave, and at the usual hour are in our warm beds,

anticipating a dream of those things, for which our several hearts are

panting.

Hardly a week has elapsed before we have another heavy fall of snow, and

the principal topic of conversation among the young people of the

village is a sleigh-ride. The boys, about this time, are making

themselves wonderfully useful in their fathers’ stables, taking good

care of the horses, examining the sleighs, collecting the buffalo-robes

and polishing the bells; while the girls are busily engaged upon their

hoods, cloaks, muffs, and moccasons, and wondering by whom they will be

invited. The long-wished-for day has arrived. Farewell’s Tavern, ten

miles up the River Raisin, is our place of destination. The cheerful sun

is only about an hour high, when there is heard a merry jingling of

bells in the village streets. Our cavalcade numbers some half dozen

well-filled sleighs, and one single-seated carriolle occupied by Abby

Somebody and the Chief Marshal of the expedition,—the writer of this

rhapsody.

My black trotter was never in finer spirits, and it is as much as I can

do to hold him in, as with his neck beautifully arched he bears upon the

bit. He seems to know that his youthful master has but one dearer friend

upon earth, who is the “bonnie lassie” at his side. Many and tender are

the words then spoken, and the wide world before our youthful fancies is

the home only of perpetual pleasures. Far, very far from our minds are

all the stern realities of life. We hear the flail of the industrious

farmer in his barn, but do not dream of the great truth that mankind are

born to labor and grow old with trouble. We look upon a poverty-stricken

and forsaken Indian, with his family trudging across the snowy

landscape, and gratefully reflect upon the comforts of our own homes,

and sigh for the miseries of the poor. Youth makes us forgetful of the

_real_ future, and the dawning of love opens our hearts to every tender

influence, and we resolve, hereafter, to be very kind to the

unfortunate. The shades of evening are descending upon the earth, and

with thoughtfulness we gaze upon the quiet pictures of the road, the

season, and the hour. We pass a wooden cross with its covering of snow,

which was planted by Jesuit Missionaries a century ago, and think of Him

whom we have been rightly taught to worship and adore. Farmers are

foddering their cattle, boys are carrying in huge armsful of dry hickory

for a roaring fire, and cheerful lights are gleaming from the windows of

the farm-houses as we pass along. Finally the comfortable dwelling where

we would be meets our gaze, seeming to smile upon us, with its various

lighted windows, and clouds of smoke ascending heavenward, when, with a

few flourishes of whips, and a terrible din of bells, the sleighing

party comes to a halt before the tavern of friend Farewell.

The upper rooms of the dwelling are all ready for our reception, and

while the girls are ushered into them, the boys are attending to the

comforts of their faithful horses. In due time, after we have arranged

the preliminaries for a supper, we join the girls again, and in solid

body make our appearance in the spacious ball-room. A musician is

already there, in the person of an ancient negro, who tells us that his

fiddle is in prime order. But _dancing_ is an idea of which we had not

dreamed, for we are utterly ignorant of the polite accomplishment. But

music we are resolved to have, and doubt not but it will greatly add to

our enjoyment of the various games which we purpose to play. Now have

the happy voices of the party risen to a noisy height, as we take hold

of hands and commence the game of Drop the Handkerchief, while many a

race around the slippery floor is run, and many a sweet kiss is given

and returned. Then succeeds the play of Button, wherein the forfeits are

redeemed by making “wheelbarrows,” “measuring tape and cutting it off,”

and by “bowing to the wittiest, kneeling to the prettiest, and kissing

the one we love best.” Then the stories of the Stage-Coach have their

turn, which create a perfect tumult of laughter. After which we have

Blindman’s Buff, and one poor creature after another is made to grope

about the room in Egyptian darkness. Such are the plays, with many more

of like character, which we enjoy, while our sable friend is straining

away at his old fiddle, as if determined to be heard above the

surrounding clamor of talking, laughing, and singing voices.

The supper hour having arrived, a general adjournment takes place, when

the unnumbered good things of the table are appropriated to their

legitimate use. Half an hour is then allotted to the young ladies to get

ready, and by nine o’clock the sleighs are at the door, and after a

delightful ride of an hour in the clear moonlight, we are at our village

homes, and the memory of our sleigh-ride commencing its existence.

One, two, and perhaps three weeks have I been confined at school, when

the notion pops into my head that I must go a-hunting, for my sporting

friend, Francis Bannac (a Frenchman), has told me that game is now quite

abundant. My father has granted me his permission, and Bannac tells me

that I may be his companion on a tramp of nine miles to the head-waters

of Plum Creek. A pack of wolves, of whose depredations we have heard,

are the principal game we have in view. Having finished the usual

preliminaries of a winter hunt, and arrayed ourselves accordingly, we

seize our rifles, whistle to our greyhounds, and with the sun midway up

the heavens start upon the tramp. A walk of twenty minutes brings us to

the edge of the forest, where we strike an ancient Indian trail and

proceed on our way. A gorgeous landscape-panorama is that through which

we are passing, and ourselves, I ween, the most _appropriate_ and

_picturesque_ figures that could be introduced. Foremost is the tall and

sinewy person of Bannac, with a snugly-fitted buckskin garment tightened

round his waist by a wampum belt, cowhide moccasons on his feet,

coonskin cap on his black head, pouch and powder-horn, together with

knife and tomahawk at his side, and in his right hand a heavy rifle.

Next to him trotteth the deponent, who might be looked upon as a

miniature Bannac, with variations,—while a little in our rear are the

two hounds playing with each other, or standing still and looking among

the trees for game. All around us is a multitudinous army of forest

soldiers, from the youthful maple or ash, to the rugged and

storm-scathed oak or bass-wood; and marvellously beautiful to my mind is

the tracery of their numberless branches against the blue sky, though my

friend would probably liken those very tree-tops to the head of some

“loafer” that had never made use of a comb. The earth is covered with a

thick coating of dead leaves, with here and there a little island of

snow. Now we perceive a beautiful elm lodged in the giant branches of an

old walnut, like a child seeking consolation in the arms of its father;

and now we come to a deformed beech-tree, prostrate upon the earth, with

its uncouth roots wasting to decay, and the idea enters my mind that

such will eventually be the destiny of all Falsehood. The woods in

winter are indeed desolate. The green leaves are no longer here to

infuse into our hearts a portion of their happiness, as they “clap their

hands in glee,” and the joyous birds of summer are not here to make

melody in their own hearts, as well as ours. True, that mosses of varied

hue and texture are on every side, and in their love enveloping stumps,

rocks, trunks, and branches, yet they remind us of the pall and shroud.

What footsteps do we hear, and why do the hounds start so suddenly? We

have frightened a noble buck; but a moment has elapsed and he is beyond

our reach. The hounds, however, are close behind him already, and the

three are bounding away in splendid style, illustrating to perfection

the poetry of motion. We fancy that the race will be a short one, and

therefore start in the pursuit, managing to keep in sight of our game.

Heavens! what a leap that was over those fallen trees! but the hounds

have done their duty, and the course is once more clear. A lot of ravens

far up in the upper air seem to be watching our movements, as if hoping

for a meal of venison,—and a gray eagle flies screaming across our path,

as if to mock us for being without wings. Glossy black squirrels peep

out of their holes in wonder at the commotion, and a flock of wild

turkeys which we have alarmed, are running from us in great confusion,

like a company of militia before a cavalcade of horsemen. But see! the

buck has turned upon his pursuers, and while they are battling together

we have time to approach within gun-shot. Quicker than thought Bannac

raises his rifle, a sharp report follows, a bullet has dropped the

forest king, and he must die. We skin him, secure the two hams, and

after examining our compass, and finding that we are near our place of

destination, shoulder our plunder as best we may, and make a bee-line

for the log cabin of our intended host, where we arrive in due time, and

exchange friendly congratulations.

Well, now that we are here, I must give a brief description of the man

whose guests we are, and of the lonely place which he inhabits. Like my

bachelor friend, Bannac, Antoine Campau is a Frenchman and a hunter, but

a widower, and the father of two little girls, and a strapping boy of

fifteen. A singular love of _freedom_ first prompted him to leave the

settlement where he once lived, and to locate himself in the woods,

where, between a little farming and a good deal of hunting, he manages

to support himself and family quite comfortably. His dwelling is a

rusty-looking log house, situated on a pleasant little stream, in the

centre of a dead clearing some three acres wide. The live stock of this

embryo farm consists of a cow, one yoke of oxen, a pony, a few sheep,

about three dozen hens, and a number of foxy-looking dogs. And now that

the long winter evening has set in, and as the whole family is present,

I will picture the interior of our cabin. The only room, excepting the

garret, is an oblong square twenty feet by fifteen. The unboarded walls,

by the smoke of years, have been changed into a rich mahogany brown. The

only light in the room is that which proceeds from an immense fireplace,

where nearly a common cart-load of wood is burning, and hissing, and

crackling at its own free will, so that the remotest corners are made

cheerful by the crimson glow. The principal articles of furniture are a

bed, one large table standing in the centre of the floor, and some half

dozen rush-chairs, while in one corner stands a number of shot-guns and

rifles, and a ladder leading to the loft, and from the rafters above are

hanging pouches, powder-horns, leggins, a brace of wild ducks, one or

two deer-hams, and a bundle of dressed skins. The dogs of the family,

numbering only four, together with their dandy visitors, are scattered

about the room,—one lying upon the hearth and watching the fire, one

playing with his shadow, another walking thoughtfully across the floor,

and the other sound asleep. A bountiful supper having been prepared by

the daughters, the whole family, with their guests, are seated at the

table, and all past sorrows and future anxieties are forgotten in the

enjoyment of the passing hour. Bannac and Campau have all the talking to

themselves, as they have to relate their manifold adventures and

wonderful escapes, wherein they make use of no less than three

languages—bad French, broken English, and genuine Potawattomee. The

leisure hour following supper is devoted principally to the cleaning of

our rifles, the moulding of bullets, and other matters preliminary to

the capture of a few wolves.

For the novel mode which we are to pursue on this occasion, we are

indebted to our friend Campau, and he tells us it will positively prove

successful. From his account it appears that only a few evenings ago his

sheep were attacked by the wolves, and before he could run to their

rescue, one of them was killed, but the thieves were compelled to part

with it, or run the risk of losing their lives. To-day Campau has built

a large pen, wherein he has placed the dead sheep as a kind of bait. His

idea is that the wolves will of course revisit this spot to-night, and

when they are in the act of climbing over into the pen, we, who are to

be hidden within gun-shot, will give them the cold lead. Behold us then

at the midnight hour in our treacherous ambush.

Listen! Hear you not the dismal shriek of an owl? Our enemies must be

coming, for their footsteps have disturbed the feathered hermit, as he

sat upon a limb with a red squirrel in his claw. Yes, there they are,

the prowling thieves, just without the shadow of the wood, dodging along

between the blackened stumps of the clearing. There are five of them,

and see! with what activity they leap into the fold! Now is our time to

settle them. We rush forward with a shout, when the villains commence a

retreat, and as they mount the high enclosure, we succeed in shooting

three, while the other two escape unharmed. The dead culprits having

been stripped of their hides, their carcasses are carried away and

exposed for food to the vulture and eagle. We then return to our cabin

and sleep until late in the morning, when we are surprised to find that

a regular snow-storm has set in. Our sporting for to-day, which was to

have been of a miscellaneous character, is given up, and Bannac thinks

it better that he and I should turn our faces homeward in spite of the

storm. Whereupon, after a good breakfast, we take leave of our

hospitable friends, and through the falling snow, enter the forest on

our return.

Snow, snow, snow,—above us, around us, and under our feet, to the depth

of some half dozen inches. In large feathery flakes it floats downward

through the still air, and it also muffles our footsteps as we tramp

through the pathless and desolate woods. Every thing that meets the eye

is enveloped in a downy covering: not only the prostrate and decayed

tree, but the “topmost twig that looks up at the sky.” Slowly and

heavily, without game, or a single adventure, we are compelled to trudge

along, and when we come in sight of the pleasant village, not a penny

care we for any thing else in this world, but a roaring fire and a warm

supper,—both of which in my father’s dwelling are we presently permitted

to enjoy—and thus endeth another portion of my heart-song.

Among the peculiar characters which I remember, while thinking upon my

early days, none do I dwell upon with more pleasurable feeling than an

old Indian. My first acquaintance with him took place when I was about

twelve years old. It was the pleasant summer-time. At an early hour of

the day I had launched my little birch canoe from the sloping bank

behind our orchard, and, accompanied by Rover, started on a duck hunt

down the river Raisin. I would here remark, that the mouth of this

beautiful river is studded with islands, and has been, from time

immemorial, celebrated for its abundance of game. As I paddled along, I

watched with an inward joy the progress of the morning. The farm-houses

that had been long sleeping amid the silence of night, were now

enlivened by their inmates, who had sallied forth to perform their

allotted duties. At one moment my ears were saluted by a chorus of

voices from some neighboring poultry-yard, mingled with the lowing of

cows and the jingling of bells in the sheepfold. And then I heard the

singing of larks in the open fields, the neighing of a horse, or the

shout of some happy boy. The mists, frightened by the sunbeams, were

rising from the river, and from the trees on either side the dew was

falling. I looked upon the changing landscape, smiling in its freshness,

and felt my heart swell within me, for I beheld the glory and goodness

of God, and I “blessed him unaware.”

The ducks were very shy that day, and the few that I did shoot were

taken on the wing. I was about making up my mind to return home, when I

beheld a single canvass-back rise from the water in the distance, and,

seemingly unconscious of my presence, fly directly over my head. I fired

at it, and the feathers flew. Slowly but surely the bird descended, and

at last fell upon an island a quarter of a mile away. This was soon

reached, and a long hour did I search for my game among the bushes and

grass, but I sought in vain. This island was about two furlongs in

length and one in width. At one end was a group of lofty sycamores, and

at the other three black pines stood together, like robbers plotting the

destruction of an enemy. Between and beneath these, the dark-green and

luxuriant foliage of less ambitious trees formed to all appearance a

solid mass. Here the light-green ivy encircled some youthful ash, from

whose top it wandered among the limbs of other trees; and there, the

clustering fruit hung in great abundance from the brown grape-vine.

While rambling about this island, I discovered in its centre a little

clearing or miniature prairie, on which stood a single wigwam. A wreath

of smoke rose from its chimney between the trees, gracefully curling

upward to the sky. I entered the hut, and beheld the form of an Indian,

who was engaged in cooking his noonday meal. At first he was surprised

at my presence, but when I told him I was merely on a hunting excursion,

his countenance changed, and he manifested much pleasure. His kindness

and my boyish familiarity conspired to make us soon acquainted. He was a

tall, athletic, well-proportioned man, with dark eagle eyes. His long

locks of hair were now whitening with age. I will not dwell upon the

particulars of that interview. Let it suffice to know that I departed

from that “green and lovely isle,” feeling that I had a friend in the

person of that old Indian.

Many a day, during that summer and the ensuing autumn, did I spend in

his society. Many a table luxury brought I to his lonely dwelling. Many

a lesson has he taught me, in the arts of fishing and hunting. Long

years have flown since then. But the wild and pure enjoyments which I

then participated in with this old Indian, are deeply engraven on the

tablet of my memory.

We used often to enter our respective canoes and explore the neighboring

creeks and rivers, little islands of the bay, and others far out into

the lake. We would bathe together, at one time wading out from the sandy

and sloping shore, and again leaping and diving from some abrupt

headland into the clear water, so clear and pure that the shells upon

the bottom were distinctly seen at the depth of twenty feet or more. I

never troubled myself about the origin of this old Indian. His name, to

what nation he belonged, or his reasons for thus living alone, were

things that I never desired to know. I was content to be with him, and

during our various excursions, to listen to his wild legends, his

narratives of strange adventures and exploits, which he would recount in

broken English, though always with the eloquence of nature. Ofttimes I

could not comprehend his meaning, more especially when he described the

beauties of the Spirit Land, which he said existed far beyond the

setting sun; and also when he told me of its valleys, and mountains, and

forests, smiling under the influence of perpetual summer, where the

singing of birds was always heard, and where the buffalo, the horse, the

deer, the antelope, the bear, the wolf, the panther, the muskrat, and

otter, flourished and fattened for its inhabitants.

When we looked upon the lurid lightning, and listened to the sullen roar

of the distant thunder, he would raise his hands to heaven, exclaiming,

“the Great Spirit is angry,” and kneeling down, would kiss the ground in

fear and adoration. Pleasantly indeed did the days of that summer, and

the ensuing autumn, pass away. At last winter came, and the waters of

the ever-murmuring Raisin were clasped in his icy chains. In a little

time I lost sight of my old friend, for his island home was desolate,—he

had departed,—no one knew where. Spring came, and I was sent to an

eastern city to school. Five years were flown, and I returned to the

village of my birth. At the twilight hour a few evenings after this, I

was seated at an open window with my mother, inhaling the fragrance of

blowing flowers, and at times listening to the mellow tones of the sweet

whippoorwill. All the important incidents that had transpired during my

absence, were affectionately and particularly related. Nothing, however,

interested me so much as the following brief account of my old Indian

friend, which I now write down in the words in which it was told me.

“The summer after you left us, an Indian made his appearance in our

village, whose poverty and old age elicited the kind sympathies and good

wishes of all who knew him. Nothing was known of his history, save that

he belonged to a tribe of Potawattomees, a nation at this period almost

extinct. Alas! for the poor aborigines of our country! To them the earth

is a dreary place, and their only joy is in the hope that they will soon

join their kindred in the land of spirits. One by one, like the

lingering sands of an hourglass, they are passing beyond the grave.

“As I heard you talk about an Indian, with whom you had become

acquainted while hunting, I thought this new comer might be the

identical one. While passing through the village one day, I happened to

meet him, and invited him to come and sup with us that evening. He did

so; and we were very glad to hear that he was indeed your friend, whom

you thought dead. We discovered this fact from the manner in which he

spoke of a boy hunter, who used to visit him in his lonely home. From

that day he became our particular friend, as he had been before the

friend of the whole village.

“His dress was common, but in the true Indian style. He was ever a great

favorite among the boys, in whose sports he often participated. It was

his custom in summer to sit beneath the great elm-tree on the green,

and, gathering the children around him, rehearse to them wild stories

about the red men of the forest. Sometimes he would spend a whole day in

whittling out bows and arrows for his youthful friends; and they in

return would bestow on him various little presents, both curious and

rare. He had no particular abiding place. There were a dozen houses

where he was perfectly at home. He seldom alluded to his tribe, and

never ventured beyond the limits of the county. This was indeed

unaccountable; but as he seemed to possess so amiable a disposition, no

one could believe he had ever been guilty of a crime. Rather than this,

it was thought he had been banished from his nation on account of some

failure in warlike exploits, or some similar cause.

“Perhaps, again, he was an Indian philosopher or poet, who had

unfortunately drawn upon himself the ill-will of his people, by

expressing some unpopular opinion. At times he would enter the

school-house, and listen attentively to the boys reciting their lessons.

A printed book he looked upon as a treasure, and when one was given him,

considered it a sacred gift, though its contents he could not read. He

would often enter the church on the Sabbath, and in his seat near the

pulpit, with his head resting upon both hands, would listen, with an

anxious gaze, to the preacher’s words. He always left the house in a

pensive mood. To his mind the heaven of the Christian was utterly

incomprehensible. Of all the truths that were read to him from the

Bible, the most interesting and wonderful was the history of our

Saviour. When listening to this, he would often clasp his hands in an

ecstasy of delight, exclaiming, ‘How good man! how good man!’

“On all occasions of festivity he was a welcome guest. Christmas and New

Year were always happy days with him. The little girls invited him to

their pic-nic parties. The boys on Saturday afternoon had him to keep

tally when they were playing ball. He was always the leader of the

nutting-parties in autumn, and a participator in the sleigh-rides of

winter. In fact, he was every where, and had a hand in almost every

thing that transpired.

“About six weeks ago it was reported throughout the village that our old

Indian friend was very sick, and at the point of death. The intelligence

was no less unexpected than melancholy. He had so completely won the

affection of every body, that it spread a universal gloom. In a few days

he yielded up his spirit to his Father and his God. The next day was the

Sabbath, and the one appointed for his burial. The sky was without a

cloud, and the cool breeze, as it rustled among the leaves, brought

health and refreshment to the body and soul of every one. The

meadow-lark, and woodland birds sang louder and sweeter than they were

wont to do.—A good man had died, and Nature, animate and inanimate,

seemed anxious to pronounce his requiem. A larger funeral than this I

have seldom seen. Old men and women, young men and maidens, and little

children, with tearful eyes followed the old Indian to his grave. It is

situated in the northeast corner of the burying ground, in the shadow of

two weeping-willows, that seem the guardians of his silent resting

place.”

On the following morning, an hour before sunset, I stood beside the clay

cottage of my Indian friend. Green was the grass, and many and beautiful

the flowers that flourished above his grave. I plucked a single harebell

and placed it in my bosom, and its sister flowers I watered with my

tears. Those tears, which were not the offspring of corroding grief, but

of a mournful joy, were the only tribute that I could pay to one whom I

dearly loved,—who was born a benighted heathen, but who died a

Christian. The mildly beaming and beautiful evening star had risen in

the west, ere I departed from the “Silent City;” but I felt that the

flower I had plucked, though faded, would in after hours remind me of my

friend, and I therefore came away in peace, repeating to myself these

words:

“And I am glad that he has lived thus long,

And glad that he has gone to his reward;

Nor deem that kindly Nature did him wrong,

Softly to disengage the vital cord.

When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye,

Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die.”

_Bryant._

And now comes the conclusion of my long rhapsody. The time of my

departure for my distant city home is at hand. A few more wilderness

pictures, illustrative of my native state as it was in other days, and I

will lay aside my pen.

Weary with the hunt, I lately sought the shady side of a gentle hill,

and extending my limbs upon the green-sward amused myself by watching

the sky. I gazed upon the blue canopy, and fancied it to be an ocean,

beyond which the broad and beautiful fields of heaven were basking

beneath the smiles of God. A few white feather-clouds were floating

there, and they seemed to me to be a fleet returning from their home of

peace. In the dark regions of night they had fought and conquered the

enemy, and now, laden with redeemed souls, were hastening to the haven

of eternal rest. Fancy, which had pictured this image, was gone; I saw

nothing save an eagle playing above the trees of the forest, and in a

moment I was a dreamer.

It seemed to me that I entered the forest just as the glorious summer

sun was sinking to his repose. The evening star rose in the west, and in

a little while from the zenith a thousand other bright constellations

looked smilingly down upon the earth. Something whispered me that I must

spend the long watches of that night in wandering in the wilderness; and

I departed with the silence of a shadow, and the speed of an antelope.

Strange, and wild, and beautiful, were the scenes I beheld.

The mighty trees which rose on every side seemed like the columns of a

vast temple, whose mysterious winding aisles, overhung with a

multitudinous foliage, were deserted and desolate. No moving objects met

my eye, save the fire-flies that darted in all directions, floating and

sinking like burning flakes of snow. The gloomy silence was broken only

by the chirp of the cricket, and the song of the katy-did. At intervals,

too, the clear soothing voice of the whippoorwill would echo far and

near. The huge masses of foliage above, reminded me of thunder-clouds,

and like them oppressed my spirit; and it was so still that “the

dropping dew woke startling echoes in the sleeping wood.”

My pathway was not smooth, for I was forced to leap, now over some dead

tree, and now over a pile of brush; and again over a mossy hillock, or

some gurgling brooklet. Ever and anon I caught a glimpse of the deep

blue sky; but in a moment it was lost to view, and I was in total

darkness. My vision was wonderful. I saw all surrounding objects with

intense clearness; for to me the “darkness was as the light of day.” At

times I paused to listen, startled by some distant sound; the howl of a

wolf, the hooting of an owl, or the “trumpet-tone” of a flying swan; and

as I listened, it would become a murmur, then a whisper, and at last die

into a breathless stillness.

At the foot of a gnarled and stunted oak I saw the manly form of an

Indian, wrapped in his scarlet blanket, and extended upon a bearskin. He

was fast asleep. On one side of him, and within his reach, lay a bundle

of arrows, and an unstrung bow; on the other, a knapsack of provisions

and a wolfish-looking dog. But this guardian of the slumbering savage

was also fast asleep. As I looked upon this simple picture, the feelings

of my heart responded to my thoughts, and I exclaimed, though there was

no echo to my words: “Poor lone Indian! Is that dog thy only friend? Art

thou indeed alone in the wide, wide world? Hast thou no wife to

sympathize with thee, to love thee, in those hours of disappointment and

troubles incident to human life? No children to play around thy knees,

and make thee happy in some comfortable wigwam, when the blue and

scarlet birds make melody in summer, and the wind Euroclydon howls and

roars among the forest trees in winter? Hast thou no daughter to protect

and cherish, that she may be the bride of some future warrior? No son to

listen, with flashing eye, to thy hunting lessons; to smite his breast

with pride and anger as thou tellest him of the bravery and wrongs of

thy ancestors? O that I knew thy history! But I will not disturb thy

slumber. May thy dreams be of that land beyond the sunset clouds, where

perpetual summer reigns,—the land of the Great Spirit,—the God of thy

fathers.”

How vividly do the scenes and incidents of that night rise before my

vision! I see them now with the same distinctness that I beheld them

then. I stand upon the shore of that dark stream, rolling through the

dense woods, where the full blaze of daylight has not penetrated for

centuries. I hear that uncouth but solemn funeral hymn, and see a band

of stern red men performing their mysterious rites over the grave of an

aged chieftain.

Not less sudden than varied are the scenes I behold. On that high dry

limb, under a canopy of leaves, a flock of turkeys are roosting. They

are all asleep save one, and he is acting the part of a sentinel,

darting out his long neck, now this way, now that, as if he beheld an

enemy. Fat, sleepy fellow! There was a time when it would have been

temerity to look at me thus. I am not a hunter now, else would I bring

you down from your lofty resting-place.

My course is onward. Hark! I hear a yell, and a rushing sound. Two

wolves are chasing a beautiful doe. Poor creature! Its strength is

already lessening, its race is run. The wolves have seized it. There is

a struggle; the blood issues from her graceful neck; one gasp more and

the tender mother of two sweet fawns lies dead. Its bones will moulder

and mingle with the earth, giving nourishment to that cluster of

hazel-bushes, which stand beside her mossy death-bed. Awakened by the

scent, a croaking raven is wheeling in the distance. Its wings flap

heavily, and there are two, and still another! See! we come to a kind of

opening,—a place where the trees grow less closely together. A cloud of

thin white smoke is rising, as if from yonder pile of underbrush. It is

an Indian encampment; a dozen bark wigwams, shaped like a sugar-loaf.

But why this bustle, at so late an hour? The men have just returned from

a three days’ hunting tour, and they are now releasing their pack-horses

from their loads of spoil. The blaze from a fire gives all surrounding

objects a ruddy glow. In dire confusion upon the ground lie haunches of

venison, red and gray squirrels and racoons, turkeys, grouse, ducks,

pheasants, and many other lesser birds, mingled with guns, bows and

arrows, shot-pouches, powder-horns, skins, halters, brass kettles, and

the like. The men are busy, and the women too. Roused from a four hours’

nap, several children are coming out from their tents, rubbing their

eyes. They seem to be the only playmates of the whining dogs.

Lo! what a beauteous sight! A herd of deer reposing like a family of

wood-sprites, near yonder clump of young maples! There are three bucks,

five does, and two lovely spotted fawns. Upon that decayed “stump”

beyond, a solitary American nightingale is resting. It is my favorite

bird. Would that I knew the cause of its complainings and chastisement,

for every now and then it utters forth the cry, “Why whip poor Will?”

What silver rays are those darting down through the leafy bough? The

moon! the moon! High in the heaven she sails, in queenly beauty. The

very heart of the forest is not beyond her vivifying influence. Festoons

of creeping plants hang from the surrounding limbs; and the ivy and

grape-vine have twined themselves so closely around that ash, as

entirely to hide from view the bark of the trunk. I thrust my hand

against a bush, and a thousand dew-drops fall to the earth, glittering

in the moonbeams. If my lady-love were with me, what a gorgeous wreath

could I now weave for her beautiful brow out of the purple and scarlet

iris, the blue larkspur, the moccason-flower, the crimson and green

lichen, and other mosses, flowers, and vines, too delicate to have a

name!

A gentle breeze is stirring. The tops of the trees are moving to and fro

with the strong but gentle motion of a ground-swell. Soothing is the

music of the leaves; they seem to murmur with excess of joy. Another

sound echoes through the listening wilderness. It is but a scuffle

between a panther and bear. Let them growl and fight; who cares? How

like two hot-headed politicians they seem!

Again are the trees becoming thinner, and my steps are tending downward.

The green-sward I press is without a single stick or bramble. Here I am

upon the brink of a little lake of the very purest water! The breeze has

spent its force, and every thing is still. It is “the bridal hour of the

earth and sky!” What a perfect mirror is this liquid element! The

counterpart of two willows, a grass-grown rock, tall reeds, and beyond

all, a row of slender elms, and a lightning-shivered pine, are

distinctly seen, pointing downward, downward to the moon and stars, in

the cerulean void beneath. And in yon deep shadow a flock of ducks are

floating silently, amid the sweet perfume of the wild lotus and white

water-lily, which are growing near. One or two have wandered out into

the lake, making no ripple, but moving as if lured away by the glossy

loveliness of their shadows. The same mysterious influence which has

brought me thus far, will transport me to the opposite shore.

I am there! yet still my course is “onward.” I am come to a little lawn,

so smooth and beautiful that it seems a fit play-ground for the fairies.

Perhaps it is here the water-spirits and wood-nymphs are wont to meet,

to revel and rejoice at midnight, “the dawn of the fairy day.”

What sound is that!—so like the far-off tones of a hundred musical

instruments, faintly murmuring? Ah! I thought so. Here they are:

“They come from beds of lichen green,

They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;

Some on the backs of beetles fly,

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,

Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,

And rocked about in the evening breeze;

Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest,—

They had driven him out by elfin power,

And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,

Have slumbered there till the charmed hour.

Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,

With glittering izing-stars inlaid;

And some had opened the four-o’-clock

And stole within its purple shade.

And now they throng the moonlight glade,

Above—below—on every side,

Their little minim forms arrayed

In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!”

_Drake._

That was but a flight of fancy. I look again, and instead of the

fairies, I behold a myriad of fair flowers, peeping at the sky from the

green luxuriant grass.

But see! I have reached—surely it can be none other—a prairie! What dark

cloud is brooding over this motionless ocean?—a mighty flame bursting

from its centre? It comes! it comes! The prairie is on fire! The wind is

rising, and swift as the wind speed the flame-banners. Maddened by fear,

the buffalo, the wild horse, the wolf, the deer, birds, and other living

creatures, are fleeing for their lives. Roaring and hissing the

fire-flood rolls on, swallowing up every thing in its course. And now it

has gone, leaving behind it a wide path of blackness. The smoke obscures

the moon and stars. “Far-off its coming shone;” the incense of a

sacrifice offered to the great God by the Earth, for some enormous sin.

But it is gone; and I resume my journey.

I am now in an open country of hills and dales. A narrow but deep river

is gliding by me in its pride and beauty. Now it is lost to view by some

abrupt headland, and anon it makes a long sweep through a plain or

meadow, its ripples sporting in the moonlight. I hear the splash of

fish, leaping from their watery bed. I hear the measured stroke of a

paddle. It is an Indian in his birch canoe, passing down the river. He

has started a loon from his wavy cradle below the rapids. I hear the

sound of a waterfall. A mile away there is a precipice, where the river

gathers all its strength for a fearful leap. Now its surface is without

a ripple,—but in a moment more, and it plunges down among the rocks, and

the waves struggle, and leap, and rise and sink, like demon-spirits in

agony.

I am standing on a hill which overlooks a lovely landscape of woods and

lawns, streams, hills, valleys, and cultivated fields,—farm-houses and

church-steeples. In the distance sleep the bright-green waves of Lake

Erie. A streak of daylight is in the eastern sky. The spell is

broken;—my dream, and my book about the wilderness, are both ended.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES

[1]Portions of this chapter have already appeared in print, but as they

have been re-written, and moulded, with other matter, into a

complete whole, I trust that I shall be excused for the liberty I

have taken, in publishing them again.

C. L.

[2]James H. Lanman, Esq., uncle to the Author.

Transcriber’s Notes

--Retained the copyright notice from the printed edition (although this

book is in the public domain.)

--Created an original cover image for free, unrestricted use with this

Distributed-Proofreaders Canada eBook.

--Silently corrected a few palpable typos.

--In the text versions only, delimited italicized text in _underscores_.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Summer in the Wilderness, by Charles Lanman