As the man, whom I instantly knew to be Rugg, attempted to pass, the

toll-gatherer swung the gate across the road, seized Rugg’s horse by

the reins, and demanded two dollars.

Feeling some little regard for Rugg, I interfered, and began to

question the toll-gatherer, and requested him not to be wroth with the

man. The toll-gatherer replied that he had just cause, for the man had

run his toll ten times, and moreover that the horse had discharged a

cannon-ball at him, to the great danger of his life; that the man had

always before approached so rapidly that he was too quick for the rusty

hinges of the toll-gate; “but now I will have full satisfaction.”

Rugg looked wistfully at me, and said, “I entreat you, sir, to delay me

not; I have found at length the direct road to Boston, and shall not

reach home before night if you detain me. You see I am dripping wet,

and ought to change my clothes.”

The toll-gatherer then demanded why he had run his toll so many times.

“Toll! Why,” said Rugg, “do you demand toll? There is no toll to pay on

the king’s highway.”

“King’s highway! Do you not perceive this is a turnpike?”

“Turnpike! there are no turnpikes in Massachusetts.”

“That may be, but we have several in Virginia.”

“Virginia! Do you pretend I am in Virginia?”

Rugg then, appealing to me, asked how far it was to Boston.

Said I, “Mr. Rugg, I perceive you are bewildered, and am sorry to see

you so far from home; you are, indeed, in Virginia.”

“You know me, then, sir, it seems; and you say I am in Virginia. Give

me leave to tell you, sir, you are the most impudent man alive; for I

was never forty miles from Boston, and I never saw a Virginian in my

life. This beats Delaware!”

“Your toll, sir, your toll!”

“I will not pay you a penny,” said Rugg; “you are both of you highway

robbers. There are no turnpikes in this country. Take toll on the

king’s highway! Robbers take toll on the king’s highway!” Then in a

low tone, he said, “Here is evidently a conspiracy against me; alas, I

shall never see Boston! The highways refuse me a passage, the rivers

change their courses, and there is no faith in the compass.”

But Rugg’s horse had no idea of stopping more than one minute; for in

the midst of this altercation, the horse, whose nose was resting on the

upper bar of the turnpike-gate, seized it between his teeth, lifted it

gently off its staples, and trotted off with it. The toll-gatherer,

confounded, strained his eyes after his gate.

“Let him go,” said I, “the horse will soon drop your gate, and you will

get it again.”

I then questioned the toll-gatherer respecting his knowledge of this

man; and he related the following particulars:--

“The first time,” said he, “that man ever passed this toll-gate was

in the year 1806, at the moment of the great eclipse. I thought the

horse was frightened at the sudden darkness, and concluded he had run

away with the man. But within a few days after, the same man and horse

repassed with equal speed, without the least respect to the toll-gate

or to me, except by a vacant stare. Some few years afterward, during

the late war, I saw the same man approaching again, and I resolved to

check his career. Accordingly I stepped into the middle of the road,

and stretched wide both my arms, and cried, ‘Stop, sir, on your peril!’

At this the man said, ‘Now, Lightfoot, confound the robber!’ at the

same time he gave the whip liberally to the flank of his horse, which

bounded off with such force that it appeared to me two such horses,

give them a place to stand, would overcome any check man could devise.

An ammunition wagon which had just passed on to Baltimore had dropped

an eighteen pounder in the road; this unlucky ball lay in the way

of the horse’s heels, and the beast, with the sagacity of a demon,

clinched it with one of his heels and hurled it behind him. I feel

dizzy in relating the fact, but so nearly did the ball pass my head,

that the wind thereof blew off my hat; and the ball embedded itself in

that gate-post, as you may see if you will cast your eye on the post. I

have permitted it to remain there in memory of the occurrence,--as the

people of Boston, I am told, preserve the eighteen-pounder which is now

to be seen half imbedded in Brattle Street church.”

I then took leave of the toll-gatherer, and promised him if I saw or

heard of his gate I would send him notice.

A strong inclination had possessed me to arrest Rugg and search his

pockets, thinking great discoveries might be made in the examination;

but what I saw and heard that day convinced me that no human force

could detain Peter Rugg against his consent. I therefore determined if

I ever saw Rugg again to treat him in the gentlest manner.

In pursuing my way to New York, I entered on the turnpike in Trenton;

and when I arrived at New Brunswick, I perceived the road was newly

macadamized. The small stones had just been laid thereon. As I passed

this piece of road, I observed that, at regular distances of about

eight feet, the stones were entirely displaced from spots as large as

the circumference of a half-bushel measure. This singular appearance

induced me to inquire the cause of it at the turnpike-gate.

“Sir,” said the toll-gatherer, “I wonder not at the question, but I am

unable to give you a satisfactory answer. Indeed, sir, I believe I am

bewitched, and that the turnpike is under a spell of enchantment; for

what appeared to me last night cannot be a real transaction, otherwise

a turnpike-gate is a useless thing.”

“I do not believe in witchcraft or enchantment,” said I; “and if you

will relate circumstantially what happened last night, I will endeavor

to account for it by natural means.”

“You may recollect the night was uncommonly dark. Well, sir, just

after I had closed the gate for the night, down the turnpike, as far

as my eye could reach, I beheld what at first appeared to be two

armies engaged. The report of the musketry, and the flashes of their

firelocks, were incessant and continuous. As this strange spectacle

approached me with the fury of a tornado, the noise increased; and

the appearance rolled on in one compact body over the surface of the

ground. The most splendid fireworks rose out of the earth and encircled

this moving spectacle. The divers tints of the rainbow, the most

brilliant dyes that the sun lays in the lap of spring, added to the

whole family of gems, could not display a more beautiful, radiant, and

dazzling spectacle than accompanied the black horse. You would have

thought all the stars of heaven had met in merriment on the turnpike.

In the midst of this luminous configuration sat a man, distinctly to

be seen, in a miserable-looking chair, drawn by a black horse. The

turnpike-gate ought, by the laws of Nature and the laws of the State,

to have made a wreck of the whole, and have dissolved the enchantment;

but no, the horse without an effort passed over the gate, and drew the

man and chair horizontally after him without touching the bar. This was

what I call enchantment. What think you, sir?”

“My friend,” said I, “you have grossly magnified a natural occurrence.

The man was Peter Rugg, on his way to Boston. It is true, his horse

travelled with unequalled speed, but as he reared high his forefeet,

he could not help displacing the thousand small stones on which he

trod, which flying in all directions struck one another, and resounded

and scintillated. The top bar of your gate is not more than two feet

from the ground, and Rugg’s horse at every vault could easily lift the

carriage over that gate.”

This satisfied Mr. McDoubt, and I was pleased at that occurrence; for

otherwise Mr. McDoubt, who is a worthy man, late from the Highlands,

might have added to his calendar of superstitions. Having thus

disenchanted the macadamized road and the turnpike-gate, and also Mr.

McDoubt, I pursued my journey homeward to New York.

Little did I expect to see or hear anything further of Mr. Rugg, for

he was now more than twelve hours in advance of me. I could hear

nothing of him on my way to Elizabethtown, and therefore concluded that

during the past night he had turned off from the turnpike and pursued

a westerly direction; but just before I arrived at Powles’s Hook, I

observed a considerable collection of passengers in the ferry-boat,

all standing motionless, and steadily looking at the same object. One

of the ferry-men, Mr. Hardy, who knew me well, observing my approach

delayed a minute, in order to afford me a passage, and coming up,

said, “Mr. Dunwell, we have a curiosity on board that would puzzle Dr.

Mitchell.”

“Some strange fish, I suppose, has found its way into the Hudson.”

“No,” said he, “it is a man who looks as if he had lain hidden in the

ark, and had just now ventured out. He has a little girl with him, the

counterpart of himself, and the finest horse you ever saw, harnessed to

the queerest-looking carriage that ever was made.”

“Ah, Mr. Hardy,” said I, “you have, indeed, hooked a prize; no one

before you could ever detain Peter Rugg long enough to examine him.”

“Do you know the man?” said Mr. Hardy.

“No, nobody knows him, but everybody has seen him. Detain him as long

as possible; delay the boat under any pretence, cut the gear of the

horse, do anything to detain him.”

As I entered the ferry-boat, I was struck at the spectacle before me.

There, indeed, sat Peter Rugg and Jenny Rugg in the chair, and there

stood the black horse, all as quiet as lambs, surrounded by more than

fifty men and women, who seemed to have lost all their senses but one.

Not a motion, not a breath, not a rustle. They were all eye. Rugg

appeared to them to be a man not of this world; and they appeared to

Rugg a strange generation of men. Rugg spoke not, and they spoke not;

nor was I disposed to disturb the calm, satisfied to reconnoitre Rugg

in a state of rest. Presently, Rugg observed in a low voice, addressed

to nobody, “A new contrivance, horses instead of oars; Boston folks are

full of notions.”

It was plain that Rugg was of Dutch extraction. He had on three pairs

of small clothes, called in former days of simplicity breeches, not

much the worse for wear; but time had proved the fabric, and shrunk one

more than another, so that they showed at the knees their different

qualities and colors. His several waistcoats, the flaps of which rested

on his knees, made him appear rather corpulent. His capacious drab

coat would supply the stuff for half a dozen modern ones; the sleeves

were like meal bags, in the cuffs of which you might nurse a child to

sleep. His hat, probably once black, now of a tan color, was neither

round nor crooked, but in shape much like the one President Monroe

wore on his late tour. This dress gave the rotund face of Rugg an

antiquated dignity. The man, though deeply sunburned, did not appear

to be more than thirty years of age. He had lost his sad and anxious

look, was quite composed, and seemed happy. The chair in which Rugg sat

was very capacious, evidently made for service, and calculated to last

for ages; the timber would supply material for three modern carriages.

This chair, like a Nantucket coach, would answer for everything that

ever went on wheels. The horse, too, was an object of curiosity; his

majestic height, his natural mane and tail, gave him a commanding

appearance, and his large open nostrils indicated inexhaustible wind.

It was apparent that the hoofs of his forefeet had been split, probably

on some newly macadamized road, and were now growing together again; so

that John Spring was not altogether in the wrong.

How long this dumb scene would otherwise have continued I cannot tell.

Rugg discovered no sign of impatience. But Rugg’s horse having been

quiet more than five minutes, had no idea of standing idle; he began

to whinny, and in a moment after, with his right forefoot he started a

plank. Said Rugg, “My horse is impatient, he sees the North End. You

must be quick, or he will be ungovernable.”

At these words, the horse raised his left forefoot; and when he laid

it down every inch of the ferry-boat trembled. Two men immediately

seized Rugg’s horse by the nostrils. The horse nodded, and both of them

were in the Hudson. While we were fishing up the men, the horse was

perfectly quiet.

“Fret not the horse,” said Rugg, “and he will do no harm. He is only

anxious, like myself, to arrive at yonder beautiful shore; he sees the

North Church, and smells his own stable.”

“Sir,” said I to Rugg, practising a little deception, “pray tell me,

for I am a stranger here, what river is this, and what city is that

opposite, for you seem to be an inhabitant of it?”

“This river, sir, is called Mystic River, and this is Winnisimmet

ferry,--we have retained the Indian names,--and that town is Boston.

You must, indeed, be a stranger in these parts, not to know that yonder

is Boston, the capital of the New England provinces.”

“Pray, sir, how long have you been absent from Boston?”

“Why, that I cannot exactly tell. I lately went with this little girl

of mine to Concord, to see my friends; and I am ashamed to tell you,

in returning lost the way, and have been travelling ever since. No one

would direct me right. It is cruel to mislead a traveller. My horse,

Lightfoot, has boxed the compass; and it seems to me he has boxed it

back again. But, sir, you perceive my horse is uneasy; Lightfoot, as

yet, has only given a hint and a nod. I cannot be answerable for his

heels.”

At these words Lightfoot reared his long tail, and snapped it as you

would a whiplash. The Hudson reverberated with the sound. Instantly

the six horses began to move the boat. The Hudson was a sea of glass,

smooth as oil, not a ripple. The horses, from a smart trot, soon

pressed into a gallop; water now ran over the gunwale; the ferry-boat

was soon buried in an ocean of foam, and the noise of the spray was

like the roaring of many waters. When we arrived at New York, you might

see the beautiful white wake of the ferry-boat across the Hudson.

Though Rugg refused to pay toll at turnpikes, when Mr. Hardy reached

his hand for the ferriage, Rugg readily put his hand into one of his

many pockets, took out a piece of silver, and handed it to Hardy.

“What is this?” said Mr. Hardy.

“It is thirty shillings,” said Rugg.

“It might once have been thirty shillings, old tenor,” said Mr. Hardy,

“but it is not at present.”

“The money is good English coin,” said Rugg; “my grandfather brought a

bag of them from England, and had them hot from the mint.”

Hearing this, I approached near to Rugg, and asked permission to see

the coin. It was a half-crown, coined by the English Parliament, dated

in the year 1649. On one side, “The Commonwealth of England,” and St.

George’s cross encircled with a wreath of laurel. On the other, “God

with us,” and a harp and St. George’s cross united. I winked at Mr.

Hardy, and pronounced it good current money; and said loudly, “I will

not permit the gentleman to be imposed on, for I will exchange the

money myself.”

On this, Rugg spoke,--“Please to give me your name, sir.”

“My name is Dunwell, sir,” I replied.

“Mr. Dunwell,” said Rugg, “you are the only honest man I have seen

since I left Boston. As you are a stranger here, my house is your

home; Dame Rugg will be happy to see her husband’s friend. Step into

my chair, sir, there is room enough; move a little, Jenny, for the

gentleman, and we will be in Middle Street in a minute.”

Accordingly I took a seat by Peter Rugg.

“Were you never in Boston before?” said Rugg.

“No,” said I.

“Well, you will now see the queen of New England, a town second only to

Philadelphia, in all North America.”

“You forget New York,” said I.

“Poh, New York is nothing; though I never was there. I am told you

might put all New York in our mill-pond. No, sir, New York, I assure

you, is but a sorry affair; no more to be compared with Boston than a

wigwam with a palace.”

As Rugg’s horse turned into Pearl Street, I looked Rugg as fully in the

face as good manners would allow, and said, “Sir, if this is Boston, I

acknowledge New York is not worthy to be one of its suburbs.”

Before we had proceeded far in Pearl Street, Rugg’s countenance

changed: his nerves began to twitch; his eyes trembled in their

sockets; he was evidently bewildered. “What is the matter, Mr. Rugg;

you seem disturbed.”

“This surpasses all human comprehension; if you know, sir, where we

are, I beseech you to tell me.”

“If this place,” I replied, “is not Boston, it must be New York.”

“No, sir, it is not Boston; nor can it be New York. How could I be in

New York, which is nearly two hundred miles from Boston?”

By this time we had passed into Broadway, and then Rugg, in truth,

discovered a chaotic mind. “There is no such place as this in North

America. This is all the effect of enchantment; this is a grand

delusion, nothing real. Here is seemingly a great city, magnificent

houses, shops and goods, men and women innumerable, and as busy as in

real life, all sprung up in one night from the wilderness; or what

is more probable, some tremendous convulsion of Nature has thrown

London or Amsterdam on the shores of New England. Or, possibly, I may

be dreaming, though the night seems rather long; but before now I

have sailed in one night to Amsterdam, bought goods of Vandogger, and

returned to Boston before morning.”

At this moment a hue-and-cry was heard, “Stop the madmen, they will

endanger the lives of thousands!” In vain hundreds attempted to stop

Rugg’s horse. Lightfoot interfered with nothing; his course was

straight as a shooting-star. But on my part, fearful that before night

I should find myself behind the Alleghanies, I addressed Mr. Rugg in a

tone of entreaty, and requested him to restrain the horse and permit me

to alight.

“My friend,” said he, “we shall be in Boston before dark, and Dame Rugg

will be most exceeding glad to see us.”

“Mr. Rugg,” said I, “you must excuse me. Pray look to the west; see

that thunder-cloud swelling with rage, as if in pursuit of us.”

“Ah!” said Rugg, “it is in vain to attempt to escape. I know that

cloud; it is collecting new wrath to spend on my head.” Then checking

his horse, he permitted me to descend, saying, “Farewell, Mr. Dunwell,

I shall be happy to see you in Boston; I live in Middle Street.”

It is uncertain in what direction Mr. Rugg pursued his course, after

he disappeared in Broadway; but one thing is sufficiently known to

everybody,--that in the course of two months after he was seen in New

York, he found his way most opportunely to Boston.

It seems the estate of Peter Rugg had recently fallen to the

Commonwealth of Massachusetts for want of heirs; and the Legislature

had ordered the solicitor-general to advertise and sell it at public

auction. Happening to be in Boston at the time, and observing his

advertisement, which described a considerable extent of land, I felt

a kindly curiosity to see the spot where Rugg once lived. Taking the

advertisement in my hand, I wandered a little way down Middle Street,

and without asking a question of any one, when I came to a certain

spot I said to myself, “This is Rugg’s estate; I will proceed no

farther. This must be the spot; it is a counterpart of Peter Rugg.”

The premises, indeed, looked as if they had fulfilled a sad prophecy.

Fronting on Middle Street, they extended in the rear to Ann Street,

and embraced about half an acre of land. It was not uncommon in former

times to have half an acre for a house-lot; for an acre-of land then,

in many parts of Boston, was not more valuable than a foot in some

places at present. The old mansion-house had become a powder-post,

and been blown away. One other building, uninhabited, stood ominous,

courting dilapidation. The street had been so much raised that the

bed-chamber had descended to the kitchen and was level with the

street. The house seemed conscious of its fate; and as though tired

of standing there, the front was fast retreating from the rear, and

waiting the next south wind to project itself into the street. If the

most wary animals had sought a place of refuge, here they would have

rendezvoused. Here, under the ridge-pole, the crow would have perched

in security; and in the recesses below, you might have caught the fox

and the weasel asleep. “The hand of destiny,” said I, “has pressed

heavy on this spot; still heavier on the former owners. Strange that

so large a lot of land as this should want an heir! Yet Peter Rugg, at

this day, might pass by his own door-stone, and ask, ‘Who once lived

here?’”

The auctioneer, appointed by the solicitor to sell this estate, was

a man of eloquence, as many of the auctioneers of Boston are. The

occasion seemed to warrant, and his duty urged, him to make a display.

He addressed his audience as follows,--

“The estate, gentlemen, which we offer you this day, was once the

property of a family now extinct. For that reason it has escheated

to the Commonwealth. Lest any one of you should be deterred from

bidding on so large an estate as this for fear of a disputed title,

I am authorized by the solicitor-general to proclaim that the

purchaser shall have the best of all titles,--a warranty-deed from

the Commonwealth. I state this, gentlemen, because I know there is

an idle rumor in this vicinity, that one Peter Rugg, the original

owner of this estate, is still living. This rumor, gentlemen, has no

foundation, and can have no foundation in the nature of things. It

originated about two years since, from the incredible story of one

Jonathan Dunwell, of New York. Mrs. Croft, indeed, whose husband I

see present, and whose mouth waters for this estate, has countenanced

this fiction. But, gentlemen, was it ever known that any estate,

especially an estate of this value, lay unclaimed for nearly half a

century, if any heir, ever so remote, were existing? For, gentlemen,

all agree that old Peter Rugg, if living, would be at least one hundred

years of age. It is said that he and his daughter, with a horse and

chaise, were missed more than half a century ago; and because they

never returned home, forsooth, they must be now living, and will some

day come and claim this great estate. Such logic, gentlemen, never

led to a good investment. Let not this idle story cross the noble

purpose of consigning these ruins to the genius of architecture. If

such a contingency could check the spirit of enterprise, farewell to

all mercantile excitement. Your surplus money, instead of refreshing

your sleep with the golden dreams of new sources of speculation, would

turn to the nightmare. A man’s money, if not employed, serves only to

disturb his rest. Look, then, to the prospect before you. Here is half

an acre of land,--more than twenty thousand square feet,--a corner

lot, with wonderful capabilities; none of your contracted lots of

forty feet by fifty, where, in dog-days, you can breathe only through

your scuttles. On the contrary, an architect cannot contemplate this

lot of land without rapture, for here is room enough for his genius

to shame the temple of Solomon. Then the prospect--how commanding! To

the east, so near to the Atlantic that Neptune, freighted with the

select treasures of the whole earth, can knock at your door with his

trident. From the west, the produce of the river of Paradise--the

Connecticut--will soon, by the blessings of steam, railways, and canals

pass under your windows; and thus, on this spot, Neptune shall marry

Ceres, and Pomona from Roxbury, and Flora from Cambridge, shall dance

at the wedding.

“Gentlemen of science, men of taste, ye of the literary emporium,--for

I perceive many of you present,--to you this is holy ground. If the

spot on which in times past a hero left only the print of a footstep

is now sacred, of what price is the birthplace of one who all the

world knows was born in Middle Street, directly opposite to this lot;

and who, if his birthplace were not well known, would now be claimed

by more than seven cities. To you, then, the value of these premises

must be inestimable. For ere long there will arise in full view of the

edifice to be erected here, a monument, the wonder and veneration of

the world. A column shall spring to the clouds; and on that column will

be engraven one word which will convey all that is wise in intellect,

useful in science, good in morals, prudent in counsel, and benevolent

in principle,--a name of one who, when living, was the patron of the

poor, the delight of the cottage, and the admiration of kings; now

dead, worth the whole seven wise men of Greece. Need I tell you his

name? He fixed the thunder and guided the lightning.

“Men of the North End! Need I appeal to your patriotism, in order to

enhance the value of this lot? The earth affords no such scenery as

this; there, around that corner, lived James Otis; here, Samuel Adams;

there, Joseph Warren; and around that other corner, Josiah Quincy. Here

was the birthplace of Freedom; here Liberty was born, and nursed, and

grew to manhood. Here man was newly created. Here is the nursery of

American Independence--I am too modest--here began the emancipation of

the world; a thousand generations hence millions of men will cross the

Atlantic just to look at the north end of Boston. Your fathers--what do

I say--yourselves,--yes, this moment, I behold several attending this

auction who lent a hand to rock the cradle of Independence.

“Men of speculation,--ye who are deaf to everything except the sound

of money,--you, I know, will give me both of your ears when I tell you

the city of Boston must have a piece of this estate in order to widen

Ann Street. Do you hear me,--do you all hear me? I say the city must

have a large piece of this land in order to widen Ann Street. What a

chance! The city scorns to take a man’s land for nothing. If it seizes

your property, it is generous beyond the dreams of avarice. The only

oppression is, you are in danger of being smothered under a load of

wealth. Witness the old lady who lately died of a broken heart when

the mayor paid her for a piece of her kitchen-garden. All the faculty

agreed that the sight of the treasure, which the mayor incautiously

paid her in dazzling dollars, warm from the mint, sped joyfully all the

blood of her body into her heart, and rent it with raptures. Therefore,

let him who purchases this estate fear his good fortune, and not Peter

Rugg. Bid, then, liberally, and do not let the name of Rugg damp your

ardor. How much will you give per foot for this estate?”

Thus spoke the auctioneer, and gracefully waved his ivory hammer. From

fifty to seventy-five cents per foot were offered in a few moments. The

bidding labored from seventy-five to ninety. At length one dollar was

offered. The auctioneer seemed satisfied; and looking at his watch,

said he would knock off the estate in five minutes, if no one offered

more.

There was a deep silence during this short period. While the hammer

was suspended, a strange rumbling noise was heard, which arrested

the attention of every one. Presently, it was like the sound of many

shipwrights driving home the bolts of a seventy-four. As the sound

approached nearer, some exclaimed, “The buildings in the new market are

falling in promiscuous ruins.” Others said, “No, it is an earthquake;

we perceive the earth tremble.” Others said, “Not so; the sound

proceeds from Hanover Street, and approaches nearer;” and this proved

true, for presently Peter Rugg was in the midst of us.

“Alas, Jenny,” said Peter, “I am ruined; our house has been burned, and

here are all our neighbors around the ruins. Heaven grant your mother,

Dame Rugg, is safe.”

“They don’t look like our neighbors,” said Jenny; “but sure enough our

house is burned, and nothing left but the door-stone and an old cedar

post. Do ask where mother is.”

In the mean time more than a thousand men had surrounded Rugg and

his horse and chair. Yet neither Rugg personally, nor his horse and

carriage, attracted more attention than the auctioneer. The confident

look and searching eyes of Rugg carried more conviction to every one

present that the estate was his, than could any parchment or paper

with signature and seal. The impression which the auctioneer had just

made on the company was effaced in a moment; and although the latter

words of the auctioneer were, “Fear not Peter Rugg,” the moment the

auctioneer met the eye of Rugg his occupation was gone; his arm fell

down to his hips, his late lively hammer hung heavy in his hand, and

the auction was forgotten. The black horse, too, gave his evidence. He

knew his journey was ended; for he stretched himself into a horse and a

half, rested his head over the cedar post, and whinnied thrice, causing

his harness to tremble from headstall to crupper.

Rugg then stood upright in his chair, and asked with some authority,

“Who has demolished my house in my absence, for I see no signs of

a conflagration? I demand by what accident this has happened, and

wherefore this collection of strange people has assembled before my

door-step. I thought I knew every man in Boston, but you appear to me a

new generation of men. Yet I am familiar with many of the countenances

here present, and I can call some of you by name; but in truth I do not

recollect that before this moment I ever saw any one of you. There, I

am certain, is a Winslow, and here a Sargent; there stands a Sewall,

and next to him a Dudley. Will none of you speak to me,--or is this all

a delusion? I see, indeed, many forms of men, and no want of eyes, but

of motion, speech, and hearing, you seem to be destitute. Strange!

Will no one inform me who has demolished my house?”

Then spake a voice from the crowd, but whence it came I could not

discern: “There is nothing strange here but yourself, Mr. Rugg. Time,

which destroys and renews all things, has dilapidated your house, and

placed us here. You have suffered many years under an illusion. The

tempest which you profanely defied at Menotomy has at length subsided;

but you will never see home, for your house and wife and neighbors have

all disappeared. Your estate, indeed, remains, but no home. You were

cut off from the last age, and you can never be fitted to the present.

Your home is gone, and you can never have another home in this world.”

JAMES HALL

1793–1868

Judge Hall gained eminence in the early Middle West at both law and

letters. His law studies in Philadelphia, where he was born, were

interrupted by the war of 1812. After soldiering along the Niagara

he went sailoring with Decatur in the Mediterranean (1815). Then

completing his studies at Pittsburgh, he emigrated to Shawneetown,

where he became public prosecutor. The office of state treasurer

bringing him to Vandalia, he edited there, with Robert Blackwell, the

_Illinois Intelligencer_. _The Western Souvenir_, projected, edited,

and largely written by him, was published at Cincinnati in 1829; the

_Illinois Magazine_, at Vandalia, 1829–1831, then successively at

Cincinnati, St. Louis, and again at Cincinnati. Following himself

its last remove, Hall continued it there, 1833–1835, as the _Western

Monthly Magazine_. _Letters from the West_, which appeared first,

1821–1824, in the _Portfolio_, were printed collectively in London,

1828. His scattered observations were brought into more consistent

form: _Sketches of the West_, Philadelphia, 1835; _Notes on the Western

States_, Philadelphia, 1838. A collection of his tales, entitled

_The Wilderness and the War Path_, appeared in Wiley and Putnam’s

“Library of American Books,” 1846. A uniform edition of his works was

published in four volumes, 1853–1856 (a list is given in the American

Cyclopedia). Some details of his life not compiled in the cyclopedias

were published by Hiram W. Beckwith of Danville, in the fifth of the

papers entitled “The Land of the Illini,” Chicago _Tribune_, 8th

September, 1895.

A writer of tolerable verse and historically valuable descriptive

sketches of the frontier, Hall gave much of his leisure also to

embodying the history, legend, and local color of the Mississippi

valley and the prairies beyond in tales. These are often removed from

our present taste by the magniloquence then considered literary; but

they keep the interest of close observation and have their flashes of

enduring human import. The local truth of Hall’s tales is commended in

the _Western Monthly Review_ for November, 1828 (volume ii, page 367).

Unless the reference be to some of the early _Letters from the West_,

the tale printed below may have appeared earlier than the date of its

incorporation in the _Western Souvenir_. (See also pages 5, 9 and 12 of

the Introduction.)

THE FRENCH VILLAGE

[_From the “Western Souvenir,” 1829_]

[A long introduction and a concluding summary of the effects of

American development have been omitted as not essential to the

narrative; and certain obvious corrections have been made in the

text.]

* * * * *

This little colony was composed partly of emigrants from France,

and partly of natives--not Indians, but _bona fide_ French, born in

America, but preserving their language, their manners, and their

agility in dancing, although several generations had passed away since

their first settlement. Here they lived perfectly happy, and well they

might, for they enjoyed to the full extent those three blessings on

which our declaration of independence has laid so much stress--life,

liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Their lives, it is true,

were sometimes threatened by the miasm aforesaid; but this was soon

ascertained to be an imaginary danger. For whether it was owing to

their temperance or their cheerfulness, their activity or their being

acclimated, or to the want of attraction between French people and

fever, or to all these together, certain it is that they were blessed

with a degree of health enjoyed only by the most favoured nations. As

to liberty, the wild Indian scarcely possessed more; for although the

“grand monarque” had not more loyal subjects in his wide domains, he

had never condescended to honor them with a single act of oppression,

unless the occasional visits of the Commandant could be so called.

He sometimes, when levying supplies, called upon the village for its

portion, which they always contributed with many protestations of

gratitude for the honor conferred on them. And as for happiness, they

pursued nothing else. Inverting the usual order, to enjoy life was

their daily business, to provide for its wants an occasional labor,

sweetened by its brief continuance, and its abundant fruit. A large

tract of land around the village was called the “common field.” Most

of this was allowed to remain in open pasturage; but spots of it

were cultivated by any who chose to enclose them; and such enclosure

gave a firm title to the individual so long as the occupancy lasted,

but no longer. They were _not_ an agricultural people, further than

the rearing of a few esculents for the table made them such; relying

chiefly on their large herds, and on the produce of the chase for

support. With the Indians they drove an amicable, though not extensive,

trade, for furs and peltry; giving them in exchange, merchandize and

trinkets, which they procured from their countrymen at St. Louis. To

the latter place they annually carried their skins, bringing back a

fresh supply of goods for barter, together with such articles as their

own wants required; not forgetting a large portion of finery for the

ladies, a plentiful supply of rosin and catgut for the fiddler, and

liberal presents for his reverence, the priest.

If this village had no other recommendation, it is endeared to my

recollection as the birthplace and residence of Monsieur Baptiste

Menou, who was one of its principal inhabitants when I first visited

it. He was a bachelor of forty, a tall, lank, hard featured personage,

as straight as a ramrod, and almost as thin, with stiff, black hair,

sunken cheeks, and a complexion a tinge darker than that of the

aborigines. His person was remarkably erect, his countenance grave,

his gait deliberate; and when to all this is added an enormous pair

of sable whiskers, it will be admitted that Mons. Baptiste was no

insignificant person. He had many estimable qualities of mind and

person which endeared him to his friends, whose respect was increased

by the fact of his having been a soldier and a traveller. In his

youth he had followed the French Commandant in two campaigns; and not

a comrade in the ranks was better dressed, or cleaner shaved on parade

than Baptiste, who fought besides with the characteristic bravery of

the nation to which he owed his lineage. He acknowledged, however, that

war was not as pleasant a business as is generally supposed. Accustomed

to a life totally free from constraint, he complained of being obliged

to eat and drink and sleep at the call of the drum. Burnishing a

gun, and brushing a coat, and polishing shoes, were duties beneath a

gentleman; and after all, Baptiste saw but little honor in tracking

the wily Indians through endless swamps. Besides he began to have some

scruples as to the propriety of cutting the throats of the respectable

gentry whom he had been in the habit of considering as the original and

lawful possessors of the soil. He therefore proposed to resign, and was

surprised when his commander informed him that he was enlisted for a

term, which was not yet expired. He bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and

submitted to his fate. He had too much honor to desert, and was too

loyal, and too polite, to murmur; but he forthwith made a solemn vow to

his patron saint never again to get into a scrape from which he could

not retreat whenever it suited his convenience. It was thought that he

owed his celibacy in some measure to this vow. He had since accompanied

the friendly Indians on several hunting expeditions towards the sources

of the Mississippi, and had made a trading voyage to New Orleans. Thus

accomplished, he had been more than once called upon by the Commandant

to act as a guide, or an interpreter; honors which failed not to elicit

suitable marks of respect from his fellow villagers, but which had not

inflated the honest heart of Baptiste with any unbecoming pride. On the

contrary there was not a more modest man in the village.

In his habits he was the most regular of men. He might be seen at any

hour of the day, either sauntering through the village, or seated in

front of his own door, smoking a large pipe formed of a piece of

buckhorn, curiously hollowed out, and lined with tin; to which was

affixed a short stem of cane from the neighboring swamp. This pipe was

his inseparable companion; and he evinced towards it a constancy which

would have immortalized his name, had it been displayed in a better

cause. When he walked abroad, it was to stroll leisurely from door to

door, chatting familiarly with his neighbours, patting the white-haired

children on the head, and continuing his lounge, until he had

peregrinated the village. His gravity was not a “mysterious carriage

of the body to conceal the defects of the mind,” but a constitutional

seriousness of aspect, which covered as happy and as humane a spirit

as ever existed. It was simply a want of sympathy between his muscles

and his brains; the former utterly refusing to express any agreeable

sensation which might happily titillate the organs of the latter.

Honest Baptiste loved a joke, and uttered many, and good ones; but his

rigid features refused to smile even at his own wit--a circumstance

which I am the more particular in mentioning, as it is not common. He

had an orphan niece whom he had reared from childhood to maturity,--a

lovely girl, of whose beautiful complexion a poet might say that its

roses were cushioned upon ermine. A sweeter flower bloomed not upon

the prairie than Gabrielle Menou. But as she was never afflicted with

weak nerves, dyspepsia or consumption, and had but one avowed lover,

whom she treated with uniform kindness, and married with the consent of

all parties, she has no claim to be considered as the heroine of this

history. That station will be awarded by every sensible reader to the

important personage who will be presently introduced.

Across the street, immediately opposite to Mons. Baptiste, lived

Mademoiselle Jeannette Duval, a lady who resembled him in some

respects, but in many others was his very antipode. Like him, she was

cheerful and happy, and single; but unlike him, she was brisk, and fat,

and plump. Monsieur was the very pink of gravity; and Mademoiselle was

blessed with a goodly portion thereof,--but hers was specific gravity.

Her hair was dark, but her heart was light, and her eyes, though

black, were as brilliant a pair of orbs as ever beamed upon the dreary

solitude of a bachelor’s heart. Jeannette’s heels were as light as her

heart, and her tongue as active as her heels, so that notwithstanding

her rotundity, she was as brisk a Frenchwoman as ever frisked through

the mazes of a cotillion. To sum her perfections, her complexion was of

a darker olive than the genial sun of France confers on her brunettes,

and her skin was as smooth and shining as polished mahogany. Her whole

household consisted of herself and a female negro servant. A spacious

garden, which surrounded her house, a pony, and a herd of cattle,

constituted, in addition to her personal charms, all the wealth of this

amiable spinster. But with these she was rich, as they supplied her

table without adding much to her cares. Her quadrupeds, according to

the example set by their superiors, pursued their own happiness without

let or molestation, wherever they could find it--waxing fat or lean,

as nature was more or less bountiful in supplying their wants; and

when they strayed too far, or when her agricultural labours became too

arduous for the feminine strength of herself and her sable assistant,

every monsieur of the village was proud of an occasion to serve

Mam’selle. And well they might be, for she was the most noticeable lady

in the village, the life of every party, the soul of every frolic. She

participated in every festive meeting, and every sad solemnity. Not a

neighbor could get up a dance, or get down a dose of bark, without her

assistance. If the ball grew dull, Mam’selle bounced on the floor, and

infused new spirit into the weary dancers. If the conversation flagged,

Jeannette, who occupied a kind of neutral ground between the young and

the old, the married and the single, chatted with all, and loosened

all tongues. If the girls wished to stroll in the woods, or romp on

the prairie, Mam’selle was taken along to keep off the wolves and the

rude young men; and in respect to the latter, she faithfully performed

her office by attracting them around her own person. Then she was the

best neighbour and the kindest soul! She made the richest soup, the

clearest coffee, and the neatest pastry in the village; and in virtue

of her confectionery was the prime favourite of all the children. Her

hospitality was not confined to her own domicile, but found its way in

the shape of sundry savoury viands, to every table in the vicinity. In

the sick chamber she was the most assiduous nurse, her step was the

lightest, and her voice the most cheerful--so that the priest must

inevitably have become jealous of her skill, had it not been for divers

plates of rich soup, and bottles of cordial, with which she conciliated

his favour, and purchased absolution for these and other offences.

Baptiste and Jeannette were the best of neighbours. He always rose at

the dawn, and after lighting his pipe, sallied forth into the open air,

where Jeannette usually made her appearance at the same time; for there

was an emulation of long standing between them, which should be the

earlier riser.

“Bon jour! Mam’selle Jeannette,” was his daily salutation.

“Ah! bon jour! Mons. Menou,” was her daily reply.

Then as he gradually approximated the little paling which surrounded

her door, he hoped Mam’selle was well this morning, and she reiterated

the kind inquiry, but with increased emphasis. Then Monsieur enquired

after Mam’selle’s pony and Mam’selle’s cow, and her garden, and

everything appertaining to her, real, personal and mixed; and she

displayed a corresponding interest in all concerns of her kind

neighbour. These discussions were mutually beneficial. If Mam’selle’s

cattle ailed, or if her pony was guilty of an impropriety, who was so

able to advise her as Mons. Baptiste? And if his plants drooped, or his

poultry died, who so skilful in such matters as Mam’selle Jeanette?

Sometimes Baptiste forgot his pipe in the superior interest of the

“tête à tête,” and must needs step in to light it at Jeannette’s fire,

which caused the gossips of the village to say that he purposely let

his pipe go out, in order that he might himself go in. But he denied

this, and, indeed, before offering to enter the dwelling of Mam’selle

on such occasions, he usually solicited permission to light his pipe

at Jeannette’s sparkling eyes, a compliment at which, although it had

been repeated some scores of times, Mam’selle never failed to laugh and

curtesy, with great good humour and good breeding.

It cannot be supposed that a bachelor of so much discernment could long

remain insensible to the galaxy of charms which centered in the person

of Mam’selle Jeannette; and accordingly it was currently reported that

a courtship of some ten years standing had been slyly conducted on his

part, and as cunningly eluded on hers. It was not averred that Baptiste

had actually gone the fearful length of offering his hand; or that

Jeannette had been so imprudent as to discourage, far less reject, a

lover of such respectable pretensions. But there was thought to exist

a strong hankering on the part of the gentleman, which the lady had

managed so skilfully as to keep his mind in a kind of equilibrium,

like that of the patient animal between the two bundles of hay--so

that he would sometimes halt in the street, midway between the two

cottages, and cast furtive glances, first at the one, and then at the

other, as if weighing the balance of comfort, while the increased

volumes of smoke which issued from his mouth seemed to argue that

the fire of his love had other fuel than tobacco, and was literally

consuming the inward man. The wary spinster was always on the alert

on such occasions, manœuvering like a skilful general according to

circumstances. If honest Baptiste, after such a consultation, turned on

his heel and retired to his former cautious position at his own door,

Mam’selle rallied all her attractions, and by a sudden demonstration

drew him again into the field; but if he marched with an embarrassed

air towards her gate, she retired into her castle, or kept shy, and by

able evolutions avoided everything which might bring matters to an

issue. Thus the courtship continued longer than the siege of Troy, and

Jeannette maintained her freedom, while Baptiste with a magnanimity

superior to that of Agamemnon, kept his temper, and smoked his pipe in

good humour with Jeannette and all the world.

Such was the situation of affairs when I first visited this village,

about the time of the cession of Louisiana to the United States. The

news of that event had just reached this sequestered spot, and was but

indifferently relished. Independently of the national attachment, which

all men feel, and the French so justly, the inhabitants of this region

had reason to prefer to all others the government which had afforded

them protection without constraining their freedom, or subjecting them

to any burthens; and with the kindest feelings towards the Americans,

they would willingly have dispensed with any nearer connexion than

that which already existed. They, however, said little on the subject;

and that little was expressive of their cheerful acquiescence in the

honor done them by the American people, in buying the country which the

Emperor had done them the honor to sell.

It was on the first day of the Carnival that I arrived in the village,

about sunset, seeking shelter only for the night, and intending to

proceed on my journey in the morning. The notes of the violin and the

groups of gaily attired people who thronged the street attracted my

attention, and induced me to inquire the occasion of this merriment.

My host informed me that a “King Ball” was to be given at the house

of a neighbour, adding the agreeable intimation that strangers were

always expected to attend without invitation. Young and ardent, I

required little persuasion to change my dress, and hasten to the

scene of festivity. The moment I entered the room, I felt that I was

welcome. Not a single look of surprise, not a glance of more than

ordinary attention, denoted me as a stranger, or an unexpected guest.

The gentlemen nearest the door, bowed as they opened a passage for me

through the crowd, in which for a time I mingled, apparently unnoticed.

At length a young gentleman adorned with a large nosegay approached me,

invited me to join the dancers, and after inquiring my name, introduced

me to several females, among whom I had no difficulty in selecting a

graceful partner. I was passionately fond of dancing, so that readily

imbibing the joyous spirit of those around me, I advanced rapidly in

their estimation. The native ease and elegance of the females, reared

in the wilderness, and unhackneyed in the forms of society, surprised

and delighted me, as much as the amiable frankness of all classes. By

and by the dancing ceased, and four young ladies of exquisite beauty,

who had appeared during the evening to assume more consequence than

the others, stood alone on the floor. For a moment their arch glances

wandered over the company who stood silently around, when one of them

advancing to a young gentleman led him into the circle, and taking a

large bouquet from her own bosom, pinned it upon the left breast of his

coat, and pronounced him “KING!” The gentleman kissed his fair elector,

and led her to a seat. Two others were selected almost at the same

moment. The fourth lady hesitated for an instant, then advancing to the

spot where I stood, presented me her hand, led me forward and placed

the symbol on my breast, before I could recover from the surprise into

which the incident had thrown me. I regained my presence of mind,

however, in time to salute my lovely consort; and never did king enjoy

with more delight the first fruits of his elevation; for the beautiful

Gabrielle, with whom I had just danced, and who had so unexpectedly

raised me, as it were, to the purple, was the freshest and fairest

flower in this assemblage.

The ceremony was soon explained to me. On the first day of the

Carnival, four self-appointed kings, having selected their queens, give

a ball, at their own proper costs, to the whole village. In the course

of that evening the queens select, in the manner described, the kings

for the ensuing day, who choose their queens, in turn, by presenting

the nosegay and the kiss. This is repeated every evening in the week,

the kings for the time being giving the ball at their own expense, and

all the inhabitants attending without invitation. On the morning after

each ball, the kings of the preceding evening make small presents to

their late queens, and their temporary alliance is dissolved. Thus

commenced my acquaintance with Gabrielle Menou, who, if she cost me a

few sleepless nights, amply repaid me in the many happy hours for which

I was indebted to her friendship.

I remained several weeks at this hospitable village. Few evenings

passed without a dance, at which all were assembled, young and old; the

mothers vying in agility with their daughters, and the old men setting

examples of gallantry to the young. I accompanied their young men to

the Indian towns, and was hospitably entertained. I followed them to

the chase, and witnessed the fall of many a noble buck. In their light

canoes I glided over the turbid waters of the Mississippi, or through

the labyrinths of the morass, in pursuit of water fowl. I visited

the mounds where the bones of thousands of warriors were mouldering,

overgrown with prairie violets and thousands of nameless flowers. I saw

the moccasin snake basking in the sun, the elk feeding on the prairie;

and returned to mingle in the amusements of a circle, where, if there

was not Parisian elegance, there was more than Parisian cordiality.

Several years passed away before I again visited this country. The

jurisdiction of the American government was now extended over this

immense region, and its beneficial effects were beginning to be widely

disseminated. The roads were crowded with the teams, and herds, and

families of emigrants, hastening to the land of promise. Steamboats

navigated every stream, the axe was heard in every forest, and the

plough broke the sod whose verdure had covered the prairie for ages.

It was sunset when I reached the margin of the prairie on which the

village is situated. My horse, wearied with a long day’s travel, sprang

forward with new vigour, when his hoof struck the smooth, firm road

which led across the plain. It was a narrow path, winding among the

tall grass, now tinged with the mellow hues of autumn. I gazed with

delight over the beautiful surface. The mounds, and the solitary trees,

were there, just as I had left them; and they were familiar to my eye

as the objects of yesterday. It was eight miles across the prairie,

and I had not passed half the distance when night set in. I strained

my eyes to catch a glimpse of the village; but two large mounds and a

clump of trees, which intervened, defeated my purpose. I thought of

Gabrielle, and Jeannette, and Baptiste, and the priest--the fiddles,

dances, and French ponies; and fancied every minute an hour, and every

foot a mile, which separated me from scenes and persons so deeply

impressed on my imagination.

At length I passed the mounds, and beheld the lights twinkling in the

village, now about two miles off, like a brilliant constellation in

the horizon. The lights seemed very numerous--I thought they moved;

and at last discovered that they were rapidly passing about. “What can

be going on in the village?” thought I--then a strain of music met

my ear--“they are going to dance,” said I, striking my spurs into my

jaded nag, “and I shall see all my friends together.” But as I drew

near, a volume of sounds burst upon me such as defied all conjecture.

Fiddles, flutes and tambourines, drums, cow-horns, tin trumpets, and

kettles mingled their discordant notes with a strange accompaniment of

laughter, shouts and singing. This singular concert proceeded from a

mob of men and boys, who paraded through the streets, preceded by one

who blew an immense tin horn, and ever and anon shouted, “Cha-ri-va-ry!

Charivary!” to which the mob responded “Charivary!” I now recollected

having heard of a custom which prevails among the American French of

serenading at the marriage of a widow or widower, with such a concert

as I now witnessed; and I rode towards the crowd, who had halted before

a well known door, to ascertain who were the happy parties.

“Charivary!” shouted the leader.

“Pour qui?” said another voice.

“Pour Mons. Baptiste Menou. Il s’est marié!”

“Avec qui?”

“Avec Mam’selle Jeannette Duval--Charivary!”

“Charivary!” shouted the whole company, and a torrent of music poured

from the full band--tin kettles, cow-horns and all.

The door of the little cabin, whose hospitable threshold I had so often

crossed, now opened, and Baptiste made his appearance,--the identical,

lank, sallow, erect personage with whom I had parted several years

before, with the same pipe in his mouth. His visage was as long and as

melancholy as ever, except that there was a slight tinge of triumph

in its expression, and a bashful casting down of the eye, reminding

one of a conqueror, proud but modest in his glory. He gazed with an

embarrassed air at the serenaders, bowed repeatedly, as if conscious

that he was the hero of the night, and then exclaimed,

“For what make you this charivary?”

“Charivary!” shouted the mob; and the tin trumpets gave an exquisite

flourish.

“Gentlemen!” expostulated the bridegroom, “for why you make this

charivary for me? I have never been marry before--and Mam’selle

Jeannette has never been marry before!”

Roll went the drum!--cow-horns, kettles, tin trumpets and fiddles

poured forth volumes of sound, and the mob shouted in unison.

“Gentlemen! pardonnez moi--” supplicated the distressed Baptiste. “If

I understan dis custom, which have long prevail vid us, it is vat I

say--ven a gentilman, who has been marry before, shall marry de second

time--or ven a lady have de misfortune to lose her husban, and be so

happy to marry some odder gentilman, den we make de charivary--but

’tis not so wid Mam’selle Duval and me. Upon my honor we have never

been marry before dis time!”

“Why, Baptiste,” said one, “you certainly have been married and have a

daughter grown.”

“Oh, excuse me sir! Madame Ste. Marie is my niece. I have never been so

happy to be marry, until Mam’selle Duval have do me dis honneur.”

“Well, well! it’s all one. If you have not been married, you ought to

have been, long ago--and might have been, if you had said the word.”

“Ah, gentilmen, you mistake.”

“No, no! there’s no mistake about it. Mam’selle Jeanette would have had

you ten years ago, if you had asked her.”

“You flatter too much,” said Baptiste, shrugging his shoulders; and

finding that there was no means of avoiding the charivary, he with

great good humour accepted the serenade, and according to custom

invited the whole party into his house.

I retired to my former quarters, at the house of an old settler--a

little shrivelled, facetious Frenchman, whom I found in his red flannel

nightcap, smoking his pipe, and seated like Jupiter in the midst of

clouds of his own creating.

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

“Eh, bien! Mons. Baptiste is marry to Mam’selle Jeannette.”

“I see the boys are making merry on the occasion.”

“Ah Sacré! de dem boy! they have play hell to-night.”

“Indeed! how so?”

“For make dis charivary--dat is how so, my friend. Dis come for have d’

Americain government to rule de countrie. Parbleu! they make charivary

for de old maid, and de old bachelor!”

* * * * *

ALBERT PIKE

1809–1891

Albert Pike was a pioneer and a free lance. From school-teaching in old

Newburyport he broke away in 1831 to the new Southwest. Successively

explorer, editor, and lawyer in New Mexico and Arkansas for some

fifteen years, he found time also to gratify a strong literary impulse.

On his journey out he sent to the _American Monthly Magazine_ (1831)

both prose and verse, and to the same journal five years later his

_Letters from Arkansas_. Meantime (1834) he had published in Boston the

thin volume from which is taken the following tale. _Hymns to the Gods_

appeared in Blackwood for June, 1839 (volume xlv, page 819; see also

volume xlvii, page 354), with a letter dated at Little Rock, August 15,

1838. (The American Cyclopedia puts the original publication of these

at Boston, 1831.) After serving against Mexico and in the Confederacy,

he gave himself mainly to the practice of the law. But he edited the

_Memphis Appeal_, 1867–1868, published volumes of his verse in 1854,

1873, and 1882, and wrote extensively, as an adept, on freemasonry.

Though Pike has more narrative directness than Hall, he is usually

loose in narrative structure. Plot seems of smaller concern to him than

setting. The abundance of vivid detail and some nervous force in the

phrase make his sketches permanently convincing as description.

THE INROAD OF THE NABAJO

[_From “Prose Sketches and Poems written in the Western Country,”

Boston, 1834. The preface is dated Arkansas Territory, May, 1833_]

It was a keen, cold morning in the latter part of November, when I

wound out of the narrow, rocky cañon or valley, in which I had for

some time been travelling, and came in sight of the village of San

Fernandez, in the valley of Taos. Above, below, and around me, lay the

sheeted snow, till, as the eye glanced upward, it was lost among the

dark pines which covered the upper part of the mountains, although at

the very summit, where the pines were thinnest, it gleamed from among

them like a white banner spread between them and heaven. Below me on

the left, half open, half frozen, ran the little clear stream, which

gave water to the inhabitants of the valley, and along the margin of

which I had been travelling. On the right and left the ridges which

formed the dark and precipitous sides of the cañon, sweeping apart,

formed a spacious amphitheatre. Along their sides extended a belt of

deep, dull blue mist, above and below which was to be seen the white

snow, and the deep darkness of the pines. On the right, these mountains

swelled to a greater and more precipitous height, till their tops

gleamed in unsullied whiteness over the plain below. Still farther to

the right was a broad opening, where the mountains seemed to sink into

the plain; and afar off in front were the tall and stupendous mountains

between me and the city of Santa Fé. Directly in front of me, with the

dull color of its mud buildings contrasting with the dazzling whiteness

of the snow, lay the little village, resembling an oriental town, with

its low, square, mud-roofed houses and its two square church towers,

also of mud. On the path to the village were a few Mexicans, wrapped

in their striped blankets, and driving their jackasses heavily laden

with wood towards the village. Such was the aspect of the place at a

distance. On entering it, you found only a few dirty, irregular lanes,

and a quantity of mud houses.

To an American the first sight of these New Mexican villages is novel

and singular. He seems taken into a different world. Everything is new,

strange, and quaint: the men with their pantalones of cloth, gaily

ornamented with lace, split up on the outside of the leg to the knee,

and covered at the bottom with a broad strip of morocco; the jacket of

calico; the botas of stamped and embroidered leather; the zarape or

blanket of striped red and white; the broad-brimmed hat, with a black

silk handkerchief tied round it in a roll; or in the lower class, the

simple attire of breeches of leather reaching only to the knees, a

shirt and a zarape; the bonnetless women, with a silken scarf or a red

shawl over their heads; and, added to all, the continual chatter of

Spanish about him--all remind him that he is in a strange land.

On the evening after my arrival in the village I went to a fandango. I

saw the men and women dancing waltzes and drinking whiskey together;

and in another room I saw the monti-bank open. It is a strange sight, a

Spanish fandango. Well dressed women--they call them ladies--priests,

thieves, half-breed Indians--all spinning round together in a waltz.

Here a filthy, ragged fellow with half a shirt, a pair of leather

breeches, long, dirty woollen stockings, and Apache moccasins, was

whirling round with the pretty wife of Pedro Vigil. I was soon

disgusted; but among the graceless shapes and more graceless dresses

at the fandango I saw one young woman who appeared to me exceedingly

pretty. She was under the middle size, slightly formed; and, besides

the delicate foot and ancle and the keen black eye common to all the

women in that country, she possessed a clear and beautiful complexion,

and a modest, downcast look not often to be met with among the New

Mexican females.

I was informed to my surprise that she had been married several years

before, and was now a widow. There was an air of gentle and deep

melancholy in her face which drew my attention to her; but when one

week afterward I left Taos, and went down to Santa Fé, the pretty widow

was forgotten.

Among my acquaintances in Santa Fé was one American in particular by

the name of L----. He had been in the country several years, had much

influence there among the people, and was altogether a very talented

man. Of his faults, whatever they were, I have nothing to say. It

was from him, some time after my arrival, and when the widow had

ceased almost to be a thing of memory, that I learned the following

particulars respecting her former fortunes. I give them in L’s own

words as nearly as I can, and can only say that for the truth of them

he is my authority. True or not, such as I received them do I present

them to my readers.

“You know,” said he, “that I have been in this country several years.

Six or eight years ago I was at Taos, upon business, and was lodging in

the house of an old acquaintance, Dick Taylor. Early the next morning I

was suddenly awakened by Dick, who, shaking me roughly by the shoulder,

exclaimed, ‘Get up, man--get up--if you wish to see sport, and dress

yourself.’ Half awake and half asleep, I heard an immense clamor in the

street. Cries, yells, oaths, and whoops resounded in every direction. I

knew it would be useless to ask an explanation of the matter from the

sententious Dick; and I therefore quietly finished dressing and, taking

my rifle, followed him into the street. For a time I was at a loss to

understand what was the matter. Men were running wildly about, some

armed with fusees, with locks as big as a gunbrig, some with bows and

arrows, and some with spears. Women were scudding hither and thither,

with their black hair flying, and their naked feet shaming the ground

by their superior filth. Indian girls were to be seen here and there,

with suppressed smiles, and looks of triumph. Men, women, and children,

however, seemed to trust less in their armor than in the arm of the

Lord and of the saints. They were accordingly earnest in calling

upon _Tata Dios! Dios bendito! Virgen purisima!_ and all the saints

of the calendar, and above all, upon _Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_,

to aid, protect, and assist them. One cry, at last, explained the

whole matter,--‘_Los malditos y picaros que son los Nabajos_.’ The

Nabajos had been robbing them. They had entered the valley below, and

were sweeping it of all the flocks and herds; and this produced the

consternation. You have never seen any of these Nabajos. They approach

much nearer in character to the Indians in the south of the Mexican

Republic than any others in this province. They are whiter; they raise

corn; they have vast flocks of sheep and large herds of horses; they

make blankets, too, and sell them to the Spaniards. Their great men

have a number of servants under them; and in fact their government

is apparently patriarchal. Sometimes they choose a captain over the

nation; but even then they obey him or not, just as they please.

They live about three days’ journey west of this, and have about ten

thousand souls in the tribe. Like most other Indians, they have their

medicine men, who intercede for them with the Great Spirit by strange

rites and ceremonies.

“Through the tumult we proceeded towards the outer edge of the town,

whither all the armed men seemed to be hastening. On arriving in

the street which goes out towards the cañon of the river, we found

ourselves in the place of action. Nothing was yet to be seen out in

the plain, which extends to the foot of the hills and to the cañon.

Some fifty Mexicans had gathered there, mostly armed, and were pressing

forward towards the extremity of the street. Behind them were a dozen

Americans with their rifles, all as cool as might be; for the men that

came through the prairie then were all braves. Sundry women were

scudding about, exhorting their husbands to fight well, and praising

‘_Los Señores Americanos_.’ We had waited perhaps half an hour when the

foe came in sight, sweeping in from the west, and bearing towards the

cañon, driving before them numerous herds and flocks, and consisting

apparently of about one hundred men. When they were within about half

a mile of us, they separated. One portion of them remained with the

booty, and the other, all mounted, came sweeping down upon us. The

effect was instantaneous and almost magical. In a moment not a woman

was to be seen far or near; and the heroes who had been chattering

and boasting in front of the Americans, shrunk behind them, and

left them to bear the brunt of the battle. We immediately extended

ourselves across the street, and waited the charge. The Indians made a

beautiful appearance as they came down upon us with their fine looking

horses, and their shields ornamented with feathers and fur, and their

dresses of unstained deer-skin. At that time they knew nothing about

the Americans. They supposed that their good allies, the Spaniards,

would run as they commonly do, that they should have the pleasure of

frightening the village and shouting in it and going off safely. As

they neared us, each of us raised his gun when he judged it proper,

and fired. A dozen cracks of the rifle told them the difference. Five

or six tumbled out of their saddles, and were immediately picked up by

their comrades, who then turned their backs and retreated as swiftly

as they had come. The Americans, who were, like myself, not very eager

to fight the battles of the New Mexicans, loaded their guns with

immense coolness; and we stood gazing at them as they again gathered

their booty and prepared to move towards the cañon. The Mexicans

tried to induce us to mount and follow; but we, or at least I, was

perfectly contented. In fact, I did not care much which whipped. The

Nabajos seemed thus in a very good way of going off with their booty

unhindered, when suddenly the scene was altered. A considerable

body, perhaps sixty, of the Pueblo of Taos, civilized Indians who are

Catholics, and citizens of the Republic, appeared suddenly under the

mountains, dashing at full speed towards the mouth of the cañon. They

were all fine looking men, well mounted, large, and exceedingly brave.

[Here is omitted a digression upon the Pueblos, which, though very

interesting historically, is irrelevant to the story.]

“Upon seeing the Pueblo of Taos between them and the mouth of the

cañon, the Nabajos uttered a shrill yell of defiance, and moved to meet

them. Leaving a few men to guard the cattle, the remainder, diverging

like the opening sticks of a fan, rushed to the attack. Each man shot

his arrow as he approached, till he was within thirty or forty yards,

and then wheeling, retreated, shooting as he went. They were steadily

received by the Pueblo with a general discharge of fire-arms and arrows

at every charge, and were frustrated in every attempt at routing them.

Several were seen to fall at every charge; but they were always taken

up and borne to those who were guarding the cattle. During the contest

several Mexicans mounted and went out from the village to join the

Pueblos, but only two or three ventured to do so; the others kept at a

very respectful distance. At length, finding the matter grow desperate,

more men were joined to those who guarded the cattle, and they then

moved steadily towards the cañon. The others, again diverging, rushed

on till they came within fifty yards, and then converging again,

charged boldly upon one point; and as the Pueblo were unprepared for

this manœuvre, they broke through and again charged back. Drawing

them together in this way to oppose, they drove nearly two thirds

of the cattle through the line, goaded by arrows and frightened by

shouts. Many of the Nabajos, however, fell in the mêlée by the long

spears and quick arrows of the Pueblo. In the mean time I had mounted,

and approached within two hundred yards of the scene of contest. I

observed one tall and good-looking Spaniard, of middle age, who was

particularly active in the contest. He had slightly wounded a large,

athletic Nabajo with his spear; and I observed that he was continually

followed by him. When this large chief had concluded that the cattle

were near enough to the mouth of the cañon to be out of danger, he gave

a shrill cry; and his men, who were now reduced to about sixty, besides

those with the cattle, gathered simultaneously between the Pueblo and

the cañon. Only the chief remained behind; and rushing towards the

Spaniard who had wounded him, he grasped him with one hand and raised

him from the saddle as if he had been a boy. Taken by surprise, the

man made no resistance for a moment or two, and that moment or two

sufficed for the horse of the Nabajo--a slightly made, Arabian-looking

animal--to place him, with two or three bounds, among his own men.

Then his knife glittered in the air, and I saw the Spaniard’s limbs

contract and then collapse. A moment more sufficed for him to tear

the scalp from the head. He was then tumbled to the ground; and with

a general yell the whole body rushed forward, closely pursued by the

Pueblo. In hurrying to the cañon, the Nabajo lost several men and more

of the cattle; but when they had once entered its rocky jaws, and the

Pueblo turned back, still more than half the plunder remained with the

robbers. Fifteen Nabajos only were left dead; and the remainder were

borne off before their comrades. The Pueblos lost nearly one third of

their number.

“It was this fight, sir, this inroad of the Nabajos, which brought me

acquainted with the young widow of whom we have spoken before. She was

then an unmarried girl of fourteen; and a very pretty girl too was La

Señorita Ana Maria Ortega. I need not trouble you with descriptions of

her; for she has saved me the trouble by appearing to your eyes in that

sublime place, a fandango--when you first saw the charms of New Mexican

beauty, and had your eyes ravished with the melody and harmony of a

Spanish waltz--I beg Spain’s pardon--a New Mexican waltz.”

“Which waltz,” said I, “I heard the next morning played over a coffin

at a funeral; and in the afternoon, in the procession of the Host.”

“Oh! that is common. Melody, harmony, fiddle, banjo, and all--all is

common to all occasions. They have but little music, and they are right

in being economical with it; and the presence of the priest sanctifies

anything. You know the people of Taos?”

“Yes. The people were afraid to get drunk on my first fandango night.

I was astonished to find them so sober. The priest was there; and they

feared to get drunk until he had done so. That event took place about

eleven at night, and then _aguadiente_ was in demand.”

“Yes, I dare say. That same priest once asked me if England was a

province or a state. I told him it was a province. He reads Voltaire’s

Philosophical Dictionary, and takes the old infidel to be an excellent

christian. Ana Maria was his god-daughter, I think, or some such

matter; and I became acquainted with her in that way. He wanted me to

marry her. She knew nothing of it, though; but I backed out. I did

not mind the marrying so much as the baptism and the citizenship. I

don’t exchange my country for Mexico, or the name American for that of

Mexican. Ana was in truth not a girl to be slighted. She was pretty

and rich and sensible. Her room was the best furnished mud apartment

in Taos. Her zarapes were of the best texture, some of them even from

Chihuahua; and they were piled showily around the room. The roses

skewered upon the wall were of red silk; and the santos and other

images had been brought from Mexico. There were some half dozen of

looking-glasses, too, all out of reach, and various other adornments

common to great apartments. The medal which she wore round her neck,

with a cross-looking San Pablo upon it, was of beaten gold, or some

other kind of gold. She had various dresses of calico and silk, all

bought at high prices of the new comers; and her little fairy feet

were always adorned with shoes. That was a great extravagance in

those days. Ana Maria had no mother when I first saw her; and she had

transferred all her affection to her father. When the knife of the

Nabajo made her an orphan, I suppose she felt as if her last hold upon

life were gone. She appeared to, at least.

“Victorino Alasi had been her lover, and her favored one. He had never

thought of any other than Ana Maria as his bride, and he had talked of

his love to her a hundred times. But there came in a young trapper who

gave him cause to tremble lest he should lose his treasure. Henry or,

as he was most commonly called, Hentz Wilson, was a formidable rival.

Ana knew not, herself, which to prefer. The long friendship and love of

Victorino were almost balanced by the different style of beauty, the

odd manners, and the name American, which recommended Hentz. Her vanity

was flattered by the homage of an American, and Victorino was in danger

of losing his bride. The bold, open bearing of Hentz, and his bravery,

as well as his knowledge, which, though slight at home, was wondrous to

the simple New Mexicans, had recommended him, likewise, to the father,

whose death suspended, for a time, all operations. They had each of

them made application by letter (the common custom) for the hand of Ana

Maria. In the course of a fortnight after the inroad of the Nabajo,

each of the lovers received, as answer, that she had determined to give

her hand to either of them who should kill the murderer of her father.

And with this they both were obliged to content themselves for the

present.

“Directly after the inroad, I came down to Santa Fé. The Lieutenant

Colonel of the Province, Viscara, was raising a body of men to go out

against the Nabajo, and repay them for this and other depredations

lately committed upon the people, and he was urgent for me to accompany

him--so much so that I was obliged to comply with his requests, and

promised to go. Troops were sent for from below; and in the course of

four months, the expedition was ready, and we set out upon the Nabajo

campaign. We were a motley set. First there was a body of regular

troops, all armed with British muskets and with lances. Here was a grey

coat and leathern pantaloons; there, no coat and short breeches. But

you have seen the ragged, ununiformed troops here in the city, and I

need not describe them to you. Next there was a parcel of militia, all

mounted, some with lances, some with old fusees; and last, a body of

Indians of the different Pueblos, with bows and shields--infinitely the

best troops we had, as well as the bravest men. Among the militia of

Taos I observed the young Victorino. Hentz had likewise volunteered to

accompany the expedition, and lived with me in the General’s tent.

“It was in the driest part of the summer that we left Santa Fé, and

marched towards the country of the Nabajo. We went out by the way of

Xemes, and then, crossing the Rio Puerco, went into the mountains of

the Nabajo. We came up with them, fought them, and they fled before

us, driving their cattle and sheep with them into a wide sand desert;

and we, being now out of provisions, were obliged to overtake them or

starve. We were two days without a drop of water, and nearly all the

animals gave out in consequence. On the third day Viscara, fifteen

soldiers, and myself went ahead of the army (which, I forgot to say,

was thirteen hundred strong). Viscara and his men were mounted. I

was on foot, with no clothing except a cloth round my middle, with a

lance in one hand, and a rifle in the other. That day I think I ran

seventy-five miles, bare-footed, and through the burning sand.”

“Viscara tells me that you ran thirty leagues.”

“Viscara is mistaken, and overrates it. Just before night we came up

with a large body of Nabajos, and attacked them. We took about two

thousand sheep from them, and three hundred cattle, and drove them

back that night to the army. The Nabajos supposed, when we rushed on

them, that the whole of our force was at hand, and they were afraid to

pursue us. But it is the battle in which you are most concerned. When

we attacked the Nabajo, they were drawn up, partly on foot, and partly

on horseback, in the bed of a little creek which was dry. It was the

common way of fighting--charge, fire and retreat; and if you have seen

one fight on horseback, you have seen all. I observed particularly one

Nabajo, upon whom three Pueblos charged, all on foot. He shot two of

them down before they reached him. Another arrow struck the remaining

one in the belly. He still came on with only a tomahawk, and another

arrow struck him in the forehead. Yet still he braved his foe and they

were found lying dead together. I could have shot the Nabajo with great

ease, at the time; for the whole of this took place within seventy

yards of me.

“In the midst of the battle I observed Victorino and Hentz standing

together in the front rank, seeming rather to be spectators than men

interested in the fight. They were both handsome men, but entirely

different in appearance. Victorino was a dark-eyed, slender, agile

young Spaniard, with a tread like a tiger-cat, and with all his nerves

indurate with toil. His face was oval, thin, and of a rich olive,

through which the blood seemed ready to break; and you could hardly

have chosen a better figure for a statuary as he stood, now and then

discharging his fusee, but commonly glancing his eyes uneasily about

from one part of the enemy to the other. Hentz, on the contrary, was

a tall and well-proportioned young fellow, of immense strength and

activity, but with little of the cat-like quickness of his rival. His

skin was fair even to effeminacy, and his blue eyes were shaded by

a profusion of chestnut hair. He, too, seemed expecting some one to

appear amid the enemy; for though he now and then fired and reloaded,

it was but seldom, and he spent more time in leaning on his long rifle,

and gazing about among the Nabajos.

“On a sudden, a sharp yell was heard, and a party of Nabajos came

dashing down the bank of the creek, all mounted, and headed by the big

chief who had killed the father of Ana Maria. Then the apathy of the

two rivals was at once thrown aside. Hentz quickly threw his gun into

the hollow of his arm, examined the priming, and again stood quietly

watching the motions of the chief; and Victorino did the same. Wheeling

round several times, and discharging a flight of arrows continually

upon us, this new body of Nabajo at length bore down directly toward

Hentz and Victorino. As the chief came on, Victorino raised his gun,

took a steady, long aim, and fired. Another moment, and the Nabajo

were upon them, and then retreated again like a wave tossing back

from the shore. The chief still sat on his horse as before; another

yell, and they came down again. When they were within about a hundred

yards, Hentz raised his rifle, took a steady, quick aim, and fired.

Still they came on; the chief bent down over the saddle-bow, and his

horse, seemingly frightened by the strange pressure of the rider, bore

down directly towards Hentz, who sprang to meet him, and caught the

bridle; the horse sprang to one side, and the wounded chief lost his

balance, and fell upon the ground. The horse dashed away through friend

and foe, and was out of sight in a moment. The Nabajo rallied to save

the body of their chief, and Viscara himself rushed in with me to the

rescue of Hentz. But the long barrel of Hentz’s rifle, which he swayed

with a giant’s strength, the sword of Viscara, and the keen knife of

Victorino, who generously sprang in the aid of his rival, would all

have failed in saving the body, had not a band of the gallant Pueblo

attacked them in the rear and routed them. Hentz immediately dispatched

the chief, who was by this time half hidden by a dozen Nabajos, and

immediately deprived his head of the hair, which is more valuable to an

Indian than life.

“The Nabajos sued for peace, and we returned to Santa Fé. Poor

Victorino, I observed, rode generally alone, and had not a word to say

to any one. Although formerly he had been the most merry and humorous,

now he seemed entirely buried in sorrow. He kept listlessly along,

looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, with his bridle

lying on the neck of his mule. I tried to comfort him; but he answered

me gloomily, ‘Why should I cheer up? What have I to live for? Had I

lost her by any fault of my own, I would not have thought so hardly of

it; but by this cursed old fusee, and because another man can shoot

better than I--Oh! sir, leave me to myself, I pray you, and make me no

offers which do me no good. I think I shall be happy again, but it will

be in my grave, and _Dios me perdone_! I care not how soon I am there.’

“As I fell back towards the rear, where I generally marched, Hentz rode

up by me and inquired what the young Spaniard had said. I repeated

it to him. ‘Do you think he is really that troubled?’ inquired he.

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘the poor fellow seems to feel all he says.’ Without

a word, Hentz rode towards him, and reining up by him, tapped him on

the shoulder. Victorino looked fiercely up, and seemed inclined to

resent it; but Hentz, without regarding the glance, proceeded with a

mass of immensely bad Spanish, which I know not how the poor fellow

ever understood. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘you love Ana better than I do, I

know--you have known her longer, and will feel her loss more; and after

all, you would have killed the chief if you could have done it--and

you did help me save the body. Take this bunch of stuff,’ holding out

the hair, ‘and give me your hand.’ Victorino did so, and shook the

offered hand heartily. Then taking the scalp, he deposited it in his

shot-pouch, and dashing the tears from his eyes, rode off towards his

comrades like a madman. So much for the inroad of the Nabajos.”

“But what became of Victorino?” inquired I.

“He married Ana Maria after she had laid aside the luto (mourning);

and two years ago he died of the small-pox, in the Snake country. Poor

fellow--he was almost an American.”